Carol rose from where she knelt amid the rows of beans and stretched, pressing her hands to the small of her back and flexing backward, grimacing slightly as her spine popped and cracked from the awkward position she'd been holding. Across the prison grounds, a movement caught her eye - in the early morning sun, Daryl Dixon strode toward the guard tower, barefoot, boots in hand. His hair was dripping, and his sleeveless shirt swung open over his flat stomach, displaying how his unbelted cargo pants hung low over his hipbones. He moved with unconscious grace, like a big hunting cat. A thought shot unbidden across Carol's mind: My God. He is beautiful. A wave of something hot and almost painful washed across her lower belly.
As Daryl approached the base of the tower, he paused and raised his head, turning it slightly from side to side as though he were scanning for something. Carol could swear she could see his nostrils flare, and thought, He's hunting... me. As his eyes began to turn her way, some primal alarm went off in her gut and she found herself crouching behind the bean trellises. Carol Ann Peletier!, she thought. What on earth has gotten into you? That's just Daryl! She prayed he hadn't seen her dive for cover, or if he had, that he wouldn't come looking: how could she ever explain why she was hiding in the garden?
The trouble was, she would have to stand up eventually. Maybe by now he was up in the tower and he wouldn't notice. Right, Carol. Because he's so unobservant. The sheer ludicrousness of the scene made her giggle softly, and then again, and if she wasn't careful she would get a giggle-fit; wouldn't that be just fine! She raised her head a few inches, trying to see between the plants. Then she heard a tiny rustle in the weeds at the garden's edge. "Caught you lookin'," he rumbled, right behind her.
She jumped to her feet and spun to face him, her cheeks stained scarlet in embarrassment. "Want to tell me what you're doin' sneaking around in the veggies, Carol?" he teased. "Um. I was. Weeding," she said, blushing even harder, holding out the twist of grass she clasped in her fingers. Smooth, Peletier, she chided herself.
He tilted his head, half-closing one eye and raising the opposite brow (how did he manage that, anyway?), and gave her a wry grin. Nodding toward the guard tower, he said, "come up and see me, why don't you? after you're done weedin', that is." He chuckled softly to himself and shook his head before turning away.
He must think I'm a complete idiot, Carol thought. I am a complete idiot. She watched him stroll away, again admiring the careless ease with which he moved. Daryl exhausted, injured, and on his last ounce of strength was still more graceful than most people on their best day. She took full advantage of the opportunity to observe him without his knowledge - except that, unless the man was completely oblivious, he had to know she was watching him go.
She would not go rushing after him, though. Whatever sass he was going to give her over her odd behavior would just have to wait until she was done with this chore. She went back to plucking unwelcome growth from between the rows, but she just couldn't find any enthusiasm for the task. The job needed to be done, and usually she found it a good time to do some thinking, but she had already been at it for two hours, and the sun was getting hotter, and by God she felt like she'd put in as much time as she cared to that morning. And it had not a thing to do with an itch of curiosity about why a certain Mr. Dixon wanted her to come and visit him in the guard tower.
She dusted off the knees of her pants, threw the last few handfuls of weeds onto the compost pile, and headed off to the tower for what was probably a well-deserved round of razzing. Honestly, she couldn't imagine what had possessed her.
The door to the guard shack hung open, and out on the balcony she could hear the quiet ksss, ksss of his knife against a whetstone. She hung back for a few moments, though, gazing out over the prison grounds and the fields beyond the fences. A few walkers stumbled through the high grass outside the outer fence, but overall it was about as quiet as it had been in months. She knew that made Daryl uneasy; he worried that all their defensive skills would rust if they didn't have to use them, and he kept them drilling on weapons more frequently than anyone else felt necessary. Lots of people told him to relax, that they had earned a respite after the Governor was routed out of Woodbury, but there was really no such thing as a Relaxed Daryl - although, compared to Highly Agitated Daryl, a Constantly Alert Daryl was a day at the beach.
Carol snorted to herself at the image, wondering, and when will any of us ever see a day at the beach again?
"What's so funny, miss?" He'd done it again - snuck up on her while she wasn't paying attention.
She wouldn't let him get to her this time, though. "Semantics," she said, tartly.
"Beg pardon?"
"Oh, nothing. Just one of those funny phrases that you don't even think about until… until the world comes to an end and it doesn't make any sense any more."
"Like…?"
"Like…," she thought carefully, "like, 'If I had a nickel for every time...', except no one gives a damn about nickels, or dimes, or dollars any more." It was the best example she could come up with on short notice, because she sure as hell didn't want to explain the earlier one.
"Deep thoughts for this early in the day, woman." He wasn't even giving her a hard time about the garden yet, and he was already making her cross.
"You might as well get on with it, Daryl Dixon. Make fun of me for skulking around in the garden like a skittery doe. Might as well call everyone else out here so they can hear it, too. Give everyone a laugh, lord knows we all could use it." She didn't know what had her so out of sorts, but suddenly she just wasn't in the mood for Mr. Dixon's idea of funny, and she turned toward the stairs, intending to leave his company this very instant.
His hand caught her wrist before she could even take a step.
"I could smell you, y'know."
Her heart thumped erratically. What was he talking about?
"That lavender soap you been using. It blew right up on me before I took ten steps outside... Think I could have tracked you for miles, just on that scent." She shivered. The thought of Daryl slipping silently through the woods, following her trail… made her belly flutter. Like being stalked by a mountain lion.
"I had to come find you." He was right in her ear, his breath ghosting over her neck, raising gooseflesh all over her arms, her shoulders… her nipples were as hard as little gumdrops. His hands came up to cup her waist, and he dropped his nose into the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply, like a drowning man gasping for air.
What was this? She pulled away from him, turning to look him in the face. He wore an uncertain expression, like he wasn't sure if she was going to slap him, call him a fool, or… Her eyes narrowed. It didn't seem like he was teasing any more, but this was… such very un-Daryl-like behavior.
As she hesitated, his face suddenly went closed, all his thoughts going back behind the shutters of his eyes. He turned back to the guard shack door, saying, "yeah, well, I'm sure you got things to do, and I gotta keep an eye on the treeline." And like that he was gone, and she knew that even if she stayed and tried to talk to him, they might as well be in different rooms.
Ah, the changing weather of Daryl Dixon - hot and cold, and no warning when a storm front was coming through.