AN: Thanks to shimmershae on Tumblr for this prompt.
It's just a fluffy, fun, little prompt to get the juices going because I'm having a hard time getting going right now, so don't take it too seriously. If anyone has anything else they'd like to see for a one shot, don't hesitate to ask! I'll see what I can do!
I own nothing from the Walking Dead.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Daryl narrowed his eyes at the yapping little Taco Bell dog as it trotted toward him at a full tilt, his normal "hopping" gait only barely noticeable when he ran.
Carl had nicknamed the damn thing Taco, but Carol called him Winston. In Daryl's opinion, Winston sounded too damn dignified for the yappy dog that came up no further than his ankle unless it was dancing around on its back legs like it was auditioning for the circus.
The dog was partially Daryl's fault, and he accepted full responsibility for it.
He and Carol had been out on a basic supply run when they'd heard the godawful racket of crying puppies whining and yelping. They'd tracked them down out of curiosity, though they'd masked their curiosity by saying that they didn't want the animals drawing more Walkers near them. They could have just left them, of course, but honestly they'd both been drawn to help them.
There were three of them. None of them were bigger than hamsters. Two of them were blonde, but the third was piebald. And the piebald one, already odd man out for his color, appeared to be the runt of the litter and was avoiding the use of one of his front legs almost entirely because of some injury that he'd suffered.
They'd looked for the mother and found her four or five feet from the puppies. For her size, she'd died a valiant death, it appeared, in an attempt to save her children. Whatever had killed her, though, hadn't been interested in eating her so Daryl figured it might've been a person that had felt, somehow, threatened by the small dog. He'd carefully loaded the two blonde pups into a box in the foot of the truck—one for Judith and one for little Hershel—but he'd thought that the third was as good as gone. He might not recover from the probably broken leg. It might simply be more humane to end it for him and bury him in the small grave they dug for his mother.
The minute that Daryl had seen Carol hugging the little thing to her face, though, nuzzling it like it was the most precious thing she'd touched in years, he hadn't had the heart to take it away from her.
Winston had ridden home, lovingly wrapped in an old shirt that Carol found, held like he was a precious newborn baby and not a runty, injured, Taco Bell dog with little chance of survival.
Carol had nursed the damn dog back to health with as much care as she'd ever nursed any human. She spent day and night with him. It was almost embarrassing the way that she doted on the dog. But Alexandria was at peace—and she could afford such a luxury as unconditional love.
And, really, Daryl couldn't complain too much. It was Winston who had earned him something he'd never expected to have. At least, he'd never expected to have it for real. His very own supply of unconditional love from Carol.
It was one night, under the guise of worrying about the dog and wanting to make sure he was alright, when Daryl had stopped by Carol's house, that she'd first kissed him. It was a kiss that had gotten quickly out of control. Daryl had woken up the next morning in Carol's bed with the puppy tucked lovingly and purposefully in the bend of his arm. Carol had brought him a cup of coffee wearing nothing more than a slip that was almost threadbare and she'd told him how sweet he looked with Winston.
And Daryl had woken up every single morning since then in that same bed, greeted equally by Carol's kisses on his lips—which he greatly enjoyed—and Winston's cold nose on his ass—which he could've done without.
But he tolerated the dog because Carol loved him. He made her seem happy in a way that seemed to belong to only Winston. Even the happiness that Daryl brought her, and she swore that he brought her a great deal of happiness, was different than the happiness that the little yappy animal brought.
So Daryl tolerated Winston, because Winston made Carol happy. And Carol's happiness made Daryl's life seem like it was worth living.
Coming home from working today, though, Daryl found that there was something different about Winston. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on for a second, but it didn't take him long to figure it out.
"The fuck is he wearing?" Daryl asked, pushing Winston back with his foot and shutting the door behind him.
Carol smiled at him from where she was walking toward him from the kitchen.
"Isn't he adorable?" Carol asked. "Michonne found it!"
"The fuck is it?" Daryl asked.
"It's a sweater, Daryl," Carol said. "You know he gets cold. We think it was for a doll or something, but it fits Winnie perfectly."
Daryl frowned at the dog that had now begun its circus dance around his feet to request that he pick him up. The dog spent more time with his feet off the ground than he ever spent with them touching it. To stop the dance, though, that was accompanied by a series of loud and sharp yelps, Daryl reached down and picked the tiny rat-dog up.
He held Winston out at arm's length and turned him around twice while he took in the green sweater that the dog was wearing.
"I'm so sorry, buddy," Daryl muttered to the dog. "You got no pride left, do you? Not a damn lick."
"Stop it!" Carol declared. She closed the distance between herself and Daryl to smack him on the arm first and then she leaned in to kiss him. Daryl closed his eyes, enjoying the kiss every bit as much as he'd enjoyed every one she'd ever given him. She smiled at him when she pulled away. She looked so damn happy that her eyes were smiling. "He looks adorable," Carol repeated. "And this way he's not as cold."
"He don't shake 'cause he's cold," Daryl said. "He shakes 'cause he's too damn small for his nervous system."
Carol raised her eyebrows at him.
"We're an expert on dog nervous systems now?" Carol asked.
"I'm just saying, Carol, that dogs don't wear clothes!" Daryl responded. "He don't need no sweater!"
Carol frowned at him. He wished he could take it back. If the dog wearing the sweater was that important to her, he'd go out and find a toy store just to strip all the dolls naked and bring her back a whole wardrobe for the rat.
Carol reached and took Winston out of Daryl's hands, hugging the dog against her chest. She loving caressed its head and the dog—asshole that he could be sometimes—closed his eyes to show Daryl just how much he enjoyed the love he was getting. Dorky ass sweater or not, Winston was as happy as ever a dog had been.
"I'm sorry," Daryl offered.
"It's fine," Carol said. "Maybe you're right. I know you're right. Dogs don't wear clothes. He never would've worn a sweater out there if we'd left him to grow up alone and unloved."
Daryl didn't point out that Winston, if they'd left him where they found him, wasn't likely to have survived at all. Instead, he decided to save face as best he could.
"Sweater's a good idea," Daryl said. "I mean—he shakes 'cause he's so little. But—he's prob'ly cold 'cause he's little too. Don't got that much meat on his bones. Close to the ground and—heat rises. Sweater's prob'ly a good idea for him." Daryl searched Carol's face to see if she was forgiving him. It looked like she might be forgiving him a little. He decided to try to continue. He hadn't quite hit the mark yet, but he was getting closer. "Good color on him," Daryl said. "I mean—the green. It—uh—it goes good with his, ya know, with his fur."
Carol smiled at him. She broke and she smiled. And Daryl's chest loosened at the sight of it. He let himself smile at her, relieved that she wasn't going to hold his initial scolding over something that didn't matter at all against him.
"I know you don't mean it," Carol said. "But it's sweet of you to say it."
"I mean it," Daryl said. "If Winston's cold? I want him to wear the sweater. No reason to be cold if he don't gotta be. We're nice and comfortable here now. Safe. Warm. He might as well be too."
Carol's smile broadened a little more. She leaned forward and offered Daryl another kiss before she transferred the dog back to him. He took the dog and held it against his chest, determined to treat it like royalty until he was certain that she was completely unbothered by his earlier comment.
"He should be safe," Carol said. "And warm too. And I think—he's both."
"He's both," Daryl agreed. For good measure he stroked the rat-dog's head with two of his fingertips—since that was all that would fit on the head of the animal—and he was sure the damn thing smirked at him. Carol liked the sight of it, though. "Safe. Safe and warm. And spoiled damn rotten."
"He's not spoiled," Carol said. "He's very well behaved. And you need to take him for a walk so he keeps that title and doesn't tinkle on the floor."
Daryl laughed to himself.
"Aye aye," he said. "Lemme just go get the shoelace I usually use for his leash," he teased. Carol gave him a warning look, but it was clear that she didn't mean it. She was teasing him now. Daryl laughed to himself. "I'll walk your damn dog," he assured her.
"Our dog," Carol said. "And you should go ahead and do that. Before you take your boots off. I've got a casserole in the oven and it should be done by the time you get back."
"What kind?" Daryl asked.
"Chicken and vegetables," Carol said.
"The good crust?" Daryl asked.
"For you?" Carol responded. "Always the good crust. As long as you don't insult Winston's clothes anymore."
She put her hands on her hips to illustrate the sincerity of her warning.
Daryl chewed his lip to hold back his smile and nodded his head.
"Yes ma'am," he said. "I'm just sayin' you treat this dog like he's a kid. That's all. And he ain't no baby, Carol. He's a dog. A kinda—almost not even a dog. You don't gotta—feed him with a spoon and dress him up in clothes. That's shit you do with a baby, not with a dog."
The corners of Carol's mouth twitched a little, but she obviously swallowed back her smile.
"You didn't give me a baby," Carol said. "You gave me a dog. So—Winston gets the full treatment." Daryl's stomach did an odd sort of flutter. "Don't pet him so hard, Daryl."
Daryl realized he was absentmindedly petting the dog's head with a great deal more force than was necessary. Winston wasn't protesting, but he was drawing himself up into the best ball he could in Daryl's clutch. Daryl stopped petting him so hard and simply held the animal against his chest. He swallowed against the feeling in his stomach.
"Did you—want one?" Daryl asked.
"A dog?" Carol asked. "You know I love Winnie."
Daryl shook his head.
"A baby," Daryl said.
Carol shrugged her shoulders. She tightened her lips together in consideration until they almost disappeared. She looked around the room like she was searching for the answer painted on the walls. And then she finally brought her eyes back to Daryl.
"I didn't know if it's ever really been on the table," Carol said. "You've been hoarding condoms like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. Rationing them out. I just thought—it wasn't something that we were, you know, going to try. With—the world the way it is right now."
"Safe in here," Daryl said. "Rick and Michonne are doing OK. She's due, what? Next month? Jude and Hershel. They're alright."
"Is it something you would want to try?" Carol asked. "It might not happen, but would you want to try?"
"Would you?" Daryl asked.
"I asked you first," Carol pointed out.
Daryl realized he couldn't respond either way. Not verbally. His throat had gone dry and his tongue felt firmly stuck in place. He nodded his head.
Carol smiled softly and nodded her head in response.
"OK," she said.
Daryl raised his eyebrows at her.
"OK like we're doing it?" Daryl asked.
"OK like we'll try," Carol said.
Daryl laughed to himself. The fluttering in his stomach picked up, but he wasn't altogether sure it was a bad thing.
"Like right now?" Daryl asked.
Carol smiled at him. She laughed quietly to herself.
"Like maybe after dinner?" Carol asked. "The crust is better fresh. And right now? You need to take Winston out. Having an accident on the rug embarrasses him."
Daryl nodded. He stepped toward Carol and she freely gave him the kiss he requested.
"Fine," Daryl said. "I'll take your dog out."
"Our dog," Carol corrected. "If we have a baby, I'm not going to like it if you're constantly referring to it as my child. I can tell you that right now. It's a bit of a sore spot for me."
Daryl nodded his head quickly, catching her drift and checking himself. He would never refer to the kid as her kid. And, for the sake of not reminding her of anyone from her past, he'd never refer to the rat-dog as her dog, either. Never again. Some habits he could change.
"I'll take our dog for a walk," Daryl said. "Winston. In his sweater. And—just to prove how good I am at this shit? I'ma walk him all the way around the neighborhood and make sure everybody sees that he got him a brand new, green sweater—so his ass don't gotta be cold no more."
Carol laughed to herself.
"He'll never make it around the neighborhood," Carol said. "You know his little feet get tired."
Daryl laughed to himself.
"Then I'll carry him," Daryl said. "Be good practice," he ventured.
To his relief, Carol smiled broadly.
"Yeah," she said. "It'll be great practice. Get outta here. I've got to check the casserole."
Daryl kissed her again and took the dog outside with him. Winston didn't need a leash. He'd follow closely at Daryl and Carol's heels when they took him out. As soon as Daryl put the dog's feet on the ground, he fixed the sweater he was wearing so that it wasn't rumpled up and looked more presentable. Winston looked at him, waiting for permission to start his walking tour.
"Yeah," Daryl said. "Come on you lil' smug-ass sweater-wearin' asshole. Enjoy it. You might be first in command right now. But before long? We're both movin' down a peg on the ranking of importance around this house. And you know what? I ain't gonna care—not one damn bit."