AN: So this was built off of a request on Tumblr. I don't know if the requester wishes to remain anonymous, so I'll leave it at that. It's just a one-shot and it's simply meant to be a little fluffy piece of happy. Therefore, here's the whole "blah blah" disclaimer that it isn't supposed to follow the show and isn't making any commentary about how things did go or should have gone or even will go. It's just for entertainment purposes.
I own nothing from the Walking Dead. But if I did, the show would go quite differently.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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It was sunlight that woke Daryl. Sunlight that streamed in through the window, penetrated the almost threadbare curtains, and bled across the bed woke Daryl from the deepest and sweetest sleep that he'd known in some time. Daryl couldn't remember the last time he'd been woken by sunlight. He was usually up before the sun and his sleep was usually so fitful and disturbed that he never would have been able to remain in bed until dawn if he'd even tried. He hadn't tried this morning, though, it had simply happened. And he woke, bathed in sunlight, feeling more rested than he could recall feeling since the whole thing had started.
The bed wasn't anything special or mythological in itself. It was hardly anything worth mentioning. It was an old, metal-framed bed that creaked and groaned with any shifting of weight. The springs were even noisier than the frame itself and any significant movement made them cry out loudly.
Daryl had barely paid them any attention the night before, though, because their crying out had held far less interest for him than hers had.
The sound of her crying out to him, and the knowledge that he was the one doing something that merited that much response from her, had been more amazing to Daryl than the sex itself. He'd gone into it honestly fearing failure, but feeling like he had nothing left to lose. He'd come so close, so many times, to losing everything that he couldn't imagine that things could get much worse. Losing her, after all, was the worst thing that could happen. And she'd assured him, with cheeks tinged slightly pink and eyes that were begging him to say "yes", that he wouldn't lose her—no matter how badly things went. So he was surprised, more than anything else, to discover that things went the exact opposite of how he'd predicted they might. Instead of being disappointed in the night—disappointed in him—she'd acted like it was the best night of her life. She'd acted like he was the best thing to ever happen to her.
She'd certainly been the best thing to happen to him.
And he'd slept so soundly afterward that he'd managed to be woken by sunlight for the first time in...it was too long to count. He hadn't heard her leave the bed, but she was gone now. Her pillow was bare, though it still retained the indention of her head. Daryl stretched his back against the slightly scratchy sheets that she had on the bed and moved his legs from side to side as they soaked up the cool softness of the blanket that covered half his body. He rolled to his side and gathered her pillow in his arms, pulling it to him. He pressed his face against it, near where hers would have laid, and he smelled it.
Her scent was faint, but it was there. Just the smell of her brought her near to him again.
Finally, Daryl decided to relinquish the comfort of the ordinary little bed that had all but been converted into some kind of amazing relic to him. He pushed back the old quilt that covered him and got out of the bed, hearing the croaking groan of the springs and frame alike. He looked around the room and found that she'd moved his clothes. They were folded on an old chair in the corner. He put on his pants and stood there contemplating his shirt.
Finally, he left his shirt off. She'd seen all there was to see of him. She'd seen his scars and she'd accepted them. All she'd asked in return was that he accept hers too. There wasn't any reason to cover himself—not from her eyes.
Daryl walked out of the bedroom and into the living room of the little house. There was no need for a fire, but a fire was burning. The crackling flames, Carol told him, calmed her. She enjoyed them. She liked their sound and she liked the feeling that the fire gave her—a feeling of calm. It was a fire that she controlled. She tended it. It wasn't the kind of fire that she feared, the one she felt like consumed her and burned her away—leaving her as nothing but ashes.
They weren't ashes.
Neither of them were.
They may have both been burned down to nothing more than once, but they weren't ashes.
Still, Daryl would let her keep the fire for as long as she needed it. If controlling the small fire that burned day and night in the fireplace gave her some sense of control and some feeling of peace, Daryl could deal with the extra heat in the room. It was a little stifling, but an open window combatted it well enough and the fire did, if he was honest, create something of a peaceful atmosphere that made it easy to forget the world outside.
After all, that's what she wanted. She wanted to forget the world outside. For as long as she'd let him, and for as long as he dared to stay, Daryl would forget the world with her. And when he left, because he knew that he would, and she'd accepted that he would—he had to—he'd remember that the little house was a place that he could return to forget the world again.
It would be a strange and wonderful feeling for him to leave knowing that there was a place to which he couldn't wait to return.
The door to the little kitchen was open and Daryl made his way in there. The window was open and it let in a bit of cool breeze that contrasted with the warmth of the room. Carol stood at the stove with her back to the door. She was wearing nothing more than an oversized shirt and Daryl stood a moment and marveled at how natural she looked—bare feet and bare legs—standing at a stove and preparing breakfast for them.
She looked like it was just where she was meant to be.
She looked like this was just where Daryl was meant to be.
He felt an odd sense of still and calm inside himself—a feeling that he couldn't recall feeling before. It was a feeling that he didn't want to lose. He wanted to hold onto it, tight, with both hands. But holding onto a feeling was a lot more difficult than holding onto the one thing that he'd found in the world that was capable of giving him that feeling.
Daryl stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He lowered his head and rested it in the crook of her neck. He breathed in her scent. She leaned back into him, pressing her body against his, and he heard a light sound of laughter come from her.
"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up," Carol said. She didn't try to pull away from him and she didn't ask that he relinquish the hold that he had on her. She fit so naturally in his arms. She fit so easily. He didn't want to ever let go of her.
The only reason he felt like he could ever let go was because he knew that he was always welcome to return. He was always welcome to return to her.
Daryl hummed at her and stood there a moment longer, relishing the feeling of her there.
"Breakfast?" Daryl asked.
"Mmm hmmm," Carol hummed.
"This is nice," Daryl said. There wasn't any sarcasm in his tone because there wasn't any in his meaning. The breakfast was nice. She hadn't held back in any way. Daryl smiled to himself and buried his face once more in the crook of her neck before he rested his chin on her shoulder. "This looks like a breakfast fit for a king," he said. "You ain't, by chance, cooked it for no king before, have you?"
Carol rewarded him for the comment by playfully moving her elbow back like she meant to introduce it into his side. He laughed to himself and finally released the hold that he had on her.
"I haven't cooked a breakfast like this since...I don't know when," Carol said. "Not like this. Not because I wanted to."
Daryl swallowed and ignored all thoughts of when she might have last cooked a breakfast like this, who she might have cooked it for, or why she might have felt compelled to do so. The past was gone. For both of them, it was gone. It was better left there as much as it possibly could be.
"I had to ask," Daryl said, choosing instead to return to his own teasing comment. "He seems mighty comfortable with you."
"Ezekiel invites himself wherever he wants to go," Carol said. "I can tell him to leave me alone, but I can't be too rude. He does make sure that I have all that I could possibly want to eat and...he's a good man, I think."
"Good men'll still take advantage of kindness," Daryl commented.
"He doesn't get that much kindness from me," Carol said. "Sit down. It's time to eat."
Carol fixed a plate from all the food that she prepared and brought it over to the table where Daryl sat. She'd already put out silverware for him and water to drink. She put the plate in front of him and sat down across from him, her chin on her hand, watching him.
"You ain't gonna eat?" Daryl asked.
"I'll get something eventually," Carol said.
Since he'd known her, Carol had been apt to skip her own meals. She watched others eat like she got nourishment from what they took in. Daryl knew that she'd watched him eat more than once. She'd watched him eat the night before—though he couldn't recall her tasting a bite of the stew herself.
"Get a plate," Daryl said. "Sit. Eat. You don't? I ain't eatin' no more."
Carol looked at him, slightly amused, but she did get up from the table and make a plate for herself.
"I don't know how good it'll be," Carol said. "I hadn't used the gas for the stove yet and—it was a little hard to regulate. I think I might've cooked the eggs too dry."
"Eggs are good," Daryl said. He reached a hand out and tapped the table with his finger. At his instruction, Carol returned to the table with her plate and sat down. She took up her fork and watched him a moment more before she finally felt motivated, under his stare, to raise a bite of her own food to her mouth. Daryl watched her chew it. "Perfect," Daryl said. His cheeks ran warm when he realized he'd said the word out loud when he'd only meant to think it.
Carol smiled at him.
"I didn't realize you were such a fan of eggs," Carol mused.
Daryl didn't point out to her that he'd forgotten entirely about the eggs. Instead, he just returned to eating. Sitting across the table from her, sharing breakfast, felt just as surreal and wonderful as everything else that had happened.
On the whole, the entire night and the morning in which they were currently living felt like a dream. It felt almost dizzying. It would be easy to lose himself there. It would be easy to lose himself in her entirely. Each moment that he spent there made it harder for him to imagine leaving—even though they both knew that was what he intended to do.
"I won't be gone long," Daryl said to himself as much as he said it to Carol. "Couple days. You'll stay here. Watch out for yourself. Stay safe."
Across the table, Carol smiled to herself.
"Nine lives," she said softly. "Though—I think I've spent most of them."
Daryl shook his head at her.
"Then you save at least one," Daryl said. "For when I get back."
Carol turned her face at him. Her eyes were big and there was a hint of a smile in them that hadn't been there before. But the heaviness was still there, too, lurking just underneath—the heaviness that was the reason that Daryl wouldn't tell her, until he returned, what had really happened. He'd tell her eventually, but not until he knew that it was all over with the Saviors and she was safe. Not until he knew that he could be there to help get her through whatever followed—because she would get through it.
That's what they did.
"You're sure you're coming back?" Carol asked. She smirked at him coyly. "This wasn't just a—one night stand?"
Daryl's face burned warm.
Carol knew it wasn't a one night stand. Their conversation about the whole thing had been rushed and stunted, but she'd heard enough from him to know that when he took her to bed—it was the first time he'd ever done such a thing before. She was the first, and old-fashioned as his belief might be, he felt like that meant she ought to be the last.
At least, that's what his heart intended, though he wasn't sure how clearly his failing words had communicated that to her between her attempts to calm every fear that came bubbling out of him the moment he'd given any of them the freedom to escape.
"Stop," Daryl warned. "You know it," he added.
Carol nodded her head.
"Finish your breakfast," Carol said. "It won't be good when it's cold."
Daryl stared mournfully at his plate.
"When I finish it," he said. "I gotta go."
"And the sooner you leave," Carol offered, "the sooner you'll come back. And—I'll be here."
Daryl swallowed.
"Promise?" He asked.
Carol nodded her head.
"You promise me you're coming back," Carol said. "And I promise you that—I'll be right here. Waiting."
Daryl nodded at her and lifted another forkful of food to his mouth. She mirrored him, eating her own breakfast without his prompting this time.
When he finished his breakfast, there would be time for one more hug. One more embrace and one more kiss. One more promise that she'd be there and he'd return to her. Then he'd leave. But this time, quite unlike so many times in his life, he'd know that he had something to come back to. Unquestionably, he had somewhere to return. Whether they stayed there or they moved on, it wouldn't matter. The feeling wasn't in the structure of the little house. It never had been. The feeling that he felt came directly from her.
This time when he left, he'd have that feeling to hold onto. And when he came back? He already knew he'd hold onto her for the rest of his life. He knew what it was, now, to hold her. He wasn't ever letting her go.