It wasn't that he didn't like Tobin. It wasn't like he didn't understand what the Alexandria Safe Zone had built, and how the people here hadn't walked the miles in his boots he'd walked. He got all that. And he respected the way they attempted to bring in new blood. Had they not, would he be sitting on his stoop, rolling cigarettes and watching the lights go off, room by room, at Tobin's house? No. They'd be running ragged, same as always, same as he'd always done before the Turn.
But now his clothes were soft, clean. The collar of this shirt he wore wasn't crunchy with salt sweat and dirt. His boots that had carried him - and others - for all these miles now had new laces, and he could clip his fingernails over a sink with something besides his knife.
The light on the second floor went on now. He saw a shape of a person at the window, pushing up the sash. Carol. Same as the night before, and the night before that, too. She liked to sleep with the window open. Had she before? They had never lived in a place where that could be possible.
He counted his cigarettes and then slipped them in his rucksack. Tomorrow he and Aaron had recon, a special trip that Rick had asked him to make. Aaron was tasked with readying a vehicle; earlier, Daryl had cleaned and sorted out what ammunition and weapons they were allowed. He'd sharpened his knives, packed his bolts. He liked making runs with Aaron.
Now the light went off and a smaller light - maybe a candle? did Tobin have candles in his bedroom - glowed as the curtain from the room sighed in and out of the window. He swore he could see Tobin sitting up in the bed. Probably watching Carol as she undressed.
He wasn't jealous. It wasn't that. No. Tobin was a good man and Carol was safe with him. Actually, the main concern should have been if Tobin was safe with Carol, when you thought about the woman's lethality and her ability to deceive about it. But Tobin didn't even seem aware that the lady he walked around with, took meals with, held hands with, could hurt him and many others in the blink of an eye.
It couldn't be jealousy. That would mean he was losing. Had lost. And he couldn't stand to think like that. About what he'd lost. It was the kind of calculation that kept a man up at night, blinking at the wide blank ceiling. Listening for trouble, because he could never stop doing that. Wondering. Imagining... No. He wasn't jealous.
The next afternoon, he and Aaron returned after dinner time. The light was thick and still, raining sweat down the inside of his shirt. He and Aaron walked back toward the main garden, where Abraham and Rosita were sitting and drinking some whiskey while others picked at leftovers. He scanned the group: Carl with his little sister, toddling on the grass; Father Gabriel hunched over his Bible, Rick and Michonne with their heads close together, whispering, Michonne's face lit up with laughter. He didn't see Tobin or Carol.
"Daryl? Hungry?"
There she was. Holding a bowl full of tomatoes. They grew tomatoes here. Tomatoes, okra, snap beans, cucumbers, weird witchy herbs that Denise thought might help in her infirmary. A whole lot more he was ignorant about; gardening wasn't his thing, never had been.
"Naw."
"Come on," she said. "I'll make you a sandwich."
"With tomatoes?"
Then she smiled. Almost laughed. He was suspicious of this; when she tried to do that home-maker shit, it always prickled at him.
"Where's Tobin?"
"He went to bed. Threw his back out fixing a fence."
Daryl didn't want to smile. Didn't, really. Injury was something that worried him, even from people like Tobin who had to be taught how to clean a weapon, load it properly. How he'd grown up in the state of Georgia made no sense.
"I'm gonna hit the rack," he said. "I'll get something at my place."
"Okay," she said, hugging the bowl toward her waist where she kept her knife. "Suit yourself."
Suit yourself.
If he wanted to suit himself, he'd not be sitting here on the porch again, smoking and staring at the dark house where Tobin and Carol lived.
If he wanted to suit himself, he'd have stopped her bullshit and her pretending. Grabbed her arm and knocked those tomatoes on the ground and said, "This isn't how it's going to be." Then...then what? He had no game, no moves, no ploy to get her to stay and talk to him. To sit with him. To walk to his house, where he rarely turned on the lights, and pull her up the stairs with him, to the bed he slept in now, a bed softer and bigger than any he'd ever slept in before.
He put out his cigarette. Lit another.
He'd push her down on that soft, rich man's bed and he'd kiss her until her face lit up like Michonne's smile. He'd take off those same worn clothes she always wore and he'd push himself inside her until she cracked and moaned...
Fuck. What did he know about it all. What did he know besides his rough calloused hands on his dick. Every night since she'd gone to live at Tobin's house. Every night he put off sleep until the last moment, when it was clear and certain it would be only him, only his own hand, only him and his scattered dreams floating on that bed like a cloud.
The next week went by; there were arguments and plans. There was Abraham shouting at Rosita, Sasha standing aside, her face blank but her body trembling with fear. There was Michonne standing behind Rick while he tangled over what should have been basic common sense with Deanna. There was Carol, watching him as he stood apart from it all, his nerves on fire from the conflict. So much goddamn conflict in this life. He couldn't imagine life without conflict before but now he had a house, with two floors, and a bed, soft as silk, and clean clothes, and people who trusted him, for once.
Did Carol trust him? Did it even matter if she did? This place needed him, yes. But now he was just a soldier again, a strong body, a willing deputy ready to step to and do as he was told. That Carol lay down beside that broke dick with the aching back...no. He couldn't be jealous. She had what she needed. Finally. A man who wouldn't raise his hand to her. A man who valued her. A man who would eat her food, her tomato sandwiches, and rest easy beside her every night.
He stood up, stretched out his muscles from crouching over on his porch. He refused Tobin's offer of a rocking chair. He had fixed the spindles of one, offered it up to Daryl, but he couldn't take it. Tobin knew how to build things, fix things. That was good. That was what Carol needed. All he'd ever been concerned about before was getting what Merle needed, what Merle wanted. Then it became the group. What Rick wanted, what Rick needed. What Carol needed and wanted. What she deserved.
He didn't like to think about what he himself needed, what he himself wanted. What he deserved. That was another recipe for a sleepless night, staring at the heavenly white ceiling above his soft, clean bed.
Taking the steps quickly, he shook out his hair from his eyes.
What do you need, you silly motherfucker?
A haircut. A whetstone. A dog, maybe? A dog would be good. For hunting. For company.
He walked along the asphalt, feeling a faint breeze shudder through the treetops beyond the walls. He could smell the flowers that grew in front of the houses he passed and the deep savory scent of the vegetables growing in pots and twining their ways up spindling posts so they could get more sun. What do I need? What do I want?
A good hard fuck, that's what.
He thought of the women here. Some of them paired off, some of them not. Some of them liking other women, some of them too old or too young for him. All of them representing more hills to climb, more obstacles, impossibilities. He was not a charmer, he was not a man who was good with words. He couldn't stand manipulation. There was nothing coy about him. Dixons weren't built to be coy or blushing. Merle could sell sand in to a woman in the desert and then stand by and watch her eat it and laugh. He didn't know what he was, except that he wasn't completely Dixon. Not like his daddy or brother. If there was a will to be bent, it was his.
"Can't sleep either?"
He turned. It was Carol. Of course it was. Some part of him knew it would be her, that she would be here, turning these empty paths, feeling itchy in her suspicions and worries. She wore a t-shirt, a long one, and nothing else but her boots, unbuckled. Like a woman taking out the trash. Except she held a knife in her hand.
He didn't answer her, just stared at the knife, glinting in feeble light right by her left thigh that disappeared up the cotton of the shirt. Was it Tobin's shirt?
"Daryl?"
Then he did not think, he did not speak, he did not look at her. He reached for her knife and for her and then she was shoved against him. No bra underneath; he could feel the warm mounds of her breasts. He put his mouth down on hers and he felt her knife against his back. Kissing him like she wanted it too.
"Not here," she said, pulling away.
"Where, then," he choked, feeling her body on the brink of running. Running away or running with him? With him. Please, God, let her stay. Let her choose this. Let her say yes to this, yes to him.
She turned away and he followed as she clipped toward where he'd come from. Back to his house. Of course. They couldn't tussle about like teenagers in the gardens. With what he had in mind, he'd be liable to knock over the tomato plants, crush the snap beans. He followed her up the steps of his house and then he slammed up to her again, her back to the front door, her knife again cool and hard against the plane of his back, her mouth devouring his mouth. She was gasping and his hands were everywhere. Shoulders, arms, stomach, chest, the plushness of her breasts under the t-shirt. Her thighs widening to let him press his groin between them. That sweetness, soft as the rich man's bed.
It didn't take long. He felt her rummage around, unlatch his belt, pull his cock out and sample it with a cool palm, squeezing it like a pile of coins. And then her panties were a web between her knees where the buckles of her boots trembled and tinkled, and she was leaning back against the door, pushing him into her, her hands on his ass driving him exactly where she wanted him. Where she needed him. Where she was wet and juicy and delicious-feeling, wrapping his cock in that beautiful familiar warmth he'd not felt in so long. The feeling of being home, that's what pussy felt like. Or what it should feel like. What he wanted it to be, even if it was just a quick fuck in the bathroom at a bar, or a drunken hump against the side of his truck.
"Goddammit, Carol," he whispered, as he pushed into her again and again. She sighed and pressed him in further, further, further, until he thought he might knock the door off the jamb, and then she said, "shhh, shhh, people will hear." He glanced toward Tobin's house, which was dark as a tomb, and thought, "Too late. Too late to give a damn about that." And then she bit down on his lower lip and he came like lightning, the door squeaking against its hinges.
He expected her to leave. He expected her to maybe use his toilet and then find a way to let the silence fill up between them, and return to Tobin's house, where he slept on, oblivious, his busted-out back soothed by the medicine Daryl'd found on his last recon with Aaron. He expected her to apologize, or to need him to apologize, or to say it was a mistake, she was sorry, she didn't mean it, it just happened, an accident.
A part of him even expected to be caught, and they almost were, as the guard shift change signaled voices and footsteps up the lane.
But she simply clutched her knife and pulled up her panties and then she opened the door.
"Well then," she said. "Can I get a glass of water, please?"
He gave her a glass of water. Two glasses. Then gulped one himself. The glasses in this rich man's house were cut crystal, heavy enough to kill a squirrel. She set them in the dishrack and took his hand.
"We're not done here," she said. Then ran, giggling, up the stairs, the buckles on her boots clinking as she went. He stood at the counter of this rich man's house - his house, for now - and listened to her footsteps above him.
For a moment, he was stood there frozen, the gleam of the rich man's granite counters stretching into this kitchen he had never used. He imagined her waiting for him. Wondering if he'd follow. His dick was slick under his unbuttoned pants. Slick with her and him. The idea of having another chance to do it again with a woman: he'd never had that before. Maybe that was being rich, too. A kind of wealth. A beautiful wet willing woman waiting for him. He let the idea of it fill up his pockets for another minute or two. And then, slowly, he walked up to find her.
She was naked but for her boots when he found her, standing at the side of the wide, soft bed. There was the lamp beside the bed, turned low, a pile of motorcycle magazines he'd borrowed from Aaron in a stack. He'd not read them. He'd been too distracted the last few weeks.
Not anymore.
He took off his shirt, button by button, watching her watch him. Her knees trembled inward as he pulled the shirt off, then his t-shirt. He saw her breasts bounce as she stepped out of her boots, one, then the other, and then he was on her, his dick already hardening again.
"Ow, careful," she said into his neck, as he pressed into her, kissing her breasts.
"What?"
"Take off your boots, you'll get the bed dirty." She laughed, sat down, the bed lowering without even a creak beneath her naked ass.
"Did I hurt you?"
"Your belt poked my leg."
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," she said, leaning back, making room for him as he sat down and took off his boots, the new laces slippery between his thick fingers. Then he stood and tossed his boots into the darkness and dropped his pants on the floor, where they clanked from the weight of his belt and his knives.
Now she was naked, and he was naked, and miles of the rich man's bed belonged only to them. He cupped his palm over her pussy and felt the warmth slide between his fingers. He liked the idea that she was wet, that he'd made her wet, that it was something they'd both done, together.
"Let's make this good, huh," he said, murmuring into her breasts, her stomach, his mouth finally finding the curling hairs of her pussy, his tongue slipping into her, licking her shyly. He'd never known how to make a woman come; it hadn't been something he'd much opportunity for, though he knew full well that going down on a woman was the best bet for making it happen. Not many had given him the chance and he'd been too timid to insist.
Now, here, on top of the heavy quilt with the ring patterns of silver and blue, he tasted her, spread her open so he could see everything. It was beautiful, her pussy wet and pink and darker red, on the inside, the little knot at the top growing bigger as he sucked and kissed.
"Can I touch you, too?" he asked, and she didn't answer, just opened her thighs more and he thrust two fingers deep inside her and pressed up, hard. Over and over. Kissing her clit, then sucking when she pulled at his hair and groaned.
"Oh my god," she said. "Yes."
He took that as a sign he was doing right by her, and kept at it. His face was drenched and his cock was ready to go again. Hard as iron, leaking from the tip.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, yes. Oh my god." And then she squeezed her thighs around his ears until he thought she'd crush his skull. He was three fingers deep now and the first ripple came, the spasm and contraction and she whispered, "Yes, don't stop, harder," and he didn't stop, and he went harder and then it happened, her pussy flowering and pulsing around his mouth and fingers until her legs went rigid and he swore he heard bones crack.
"Can I...?"
"Fuck yes," she said, and he struggled to get in position, her hands reaching for his cock full of greed to point him in the right spot. He swore he could feel her pussy still contracting around him and it was the best feeling in the world, the main feeling, really. Her legs open and wrapped around his hips as he fucked her, again and again, until he was sweating everywhere and his chest felt like it might burst from it.
He brought her another glass of water at her request. Naked, he ran up the stairs now, worried he'd find her dressed and buckling her boots. But she lay on the bed, wet and open as when he'd left her.
She sat up and drank the water, then set it atop the pile of motorcycle magazines. He stood there, hesitant. She looked at his body, all of it scarred and beaten by the life they'd spent together. All those months on the road, the mileage stacking up between them.
What now? he thought. What does she need now? What does she want?
He couldn't imagine this being over. He couldn't imagine having all this one minute and the next it being swept away, hidden and forgotten. A shamed part of himself would take it, he knew, if that was all she required. A few sneaky fucks here and there.
I would take it. It wouldn't be enough, but I would take it all the same.
"Daryl?"
"What?"
"Aren't you going to...? Come lay down. It's late. It's almost dawn."
He stared at her, warm and wet and open, full of his come, on this rich man's bed. She was all limbs and arms and muscle. Her knife was on the floor beside her boots.
"I'm not jealous," he said, lying beside her, feeling her hand palm over his hip and knead the tight muscles of his lower back. Her nipples brushed against his chest hair, sweet and full.
"I know," she said, sighing into the crook of his arm, yawning.
"I'm not," he repeated. "I wasn't. I won't be. If you have to...when you have to go back to him. I mean, I'm..."
"It's okay, Daryl," she said. "I'm not going anywhere." She kissed his cheek and the bristle of his jaw, her hair fine and feathery under his chin.