Disclaimer: Don't own, never will.
A/N: This is all Shipperwolf's fault. And Norman's. Because he says things about Daryl's reactions to someone making a move on him and we all go FIC FIC FIC. Plus I needed something small to get me back into the writing thing. You guys know I'm the worst about leaving you hanging, mucho apologies. Please accept this as a down payment on more fic and updated "Staking Claim" (hopefully soon).
Denial
If anyone asks, it never happened.
Not that anyone would know; it's not like they were in the middle of the fucking cell block or anything. But just in case, Daryl plans on full and complete deniability.
Actually, he'd give anything for a fifth of whiskey to try to obliterate this humiliation from his memory permanently. Or he'll just ignore it. Ignoring has worked for him in the past. Out of sight, out of mind.
Except she's never out of his sight, and he's not sure he wants to change that. Even now. He's just too damn used to keeping one eye on her whereabouts at all times, even though she's pretty damn good at looking after he own ass these days.
Daryl lets a breath out through clenched teeth at the thought of Carol's assets because, well fuck, isn't this how it all started in the first place?
Daryl rotates his shoulder under the weight of his quiver, checking for the umpteenth time that his bolt is seated correctly. If it's cockeyed at all, it'll jam, and since there are still plenty of walkers stalking the sidelines of the fence looking for a way in, you'd best be on guard.
Rick might think the place is secure, but Daryl knows better than to get caught with his pants down.
Except, well… right now. Walking the endless parameter checks takes a toll on a guy's bladder and he finds a corner behind the guard tower to take a leak. Piss, shake, eyes on the shadows at all times.
How that wisp of a woman manages to sneak up on him just as he's tucking himself back in his pants, he'll never know. But she does, and it's just a soft clearing of the throat is all the warning he gets.
"Shit, woman," he growls, not fully turning around because, well, he's not completely back in his pants yet. "I'm'ah have to get a bell for your neck."
Carol smiles. "What can I say? I had a good teacher."
Daryl can't really argue with that. When she wasn't learning doctoring from Hershel, Rick had been working with her and the target practice. She'd become a fair shot, but Daryl taught her how to stalk through the crisp, dead Georgian underbrush without spooking what little game was left.
Wasn't so much about hunting as avoiding being hunted.
"I wanted to thank you," she says softly after a moment of studying him.
Daryl blanked for a moment, just stares. "For what?"
Carol looks away, smiling a private smile. "For the massage," she says and rolls her shoulder for emphasis. "It helped."
Daryl's eyes track the movement of her slender shoulder, the play of muscle under pale, dirt-stained flesh through her tank top. He licks his lips, drags his eyes back to hers.
"That's, uh… that's good."
He can barely make out her eyes in the gloom, but it's like he can feel them actually touching his flesh as she watches him, a soft expression on her face. Daryl's skin tingles with an anticipation he's unsure of, but feels a hellova lot like the moment just before he pulls the trigger on his crossbow.
When everything in his world narrows to that pinpoint of clarity, and his muscles quiver and hold until bidden release. Now, he feels none of that control, and as Carol takes a step into his space, her scent fills his nose, her body heat seeps into his shirt and Daryl feels like right now he could fly apart at the seams.
Carol seems bolstered by his stillness, if she only knew the war raging in his gut and mind she'd probably tuck tail and run like hell. But she doesn't. She just keeps coming, never taking her eyes off his, and suddenly their bodies brush together.
Daryl is barely able to contain the full-body jerk that wracks his system when Carol reaches out, all halting and unsure, slender fingers coming closer to his jaw.
He eyes them like a snake angling for his jugular, because what the hell? What is she thinking? And more importantly, why can't he fucking move?
Heart hammering in his chest like a freight train, breath coming in ragged gaps, Daryl feels Carol's hand slide tentatively over his jaw, rasping in the stubble there and sending electric sparks straight down his spine. When she speaks, her voice is low and soft but it echoes like thunder in his soul.
"You don't have to be afraid, Daryl," she says, eyes concentrating on his mouth now.
Daryl's chest stutters and nearly caves. Carol, of all people, telling him to be unafraid. This whole world was made for fear and they were just rushing blindly through it, trying to stay ahead of the monster's teeth. And here, this woman was telling him not to be afraid of her touch.
It undoes him.
It also reminds him of why he's drawn to this woman and suddenly his pants are way too fucking tight. Daryl feels like he's on fire; his skin is too tight and if he doesn't do something very soon, he'll burn this whole place down.
Then, sweet mother of fuck, her lips are on his and everything, his entire universe goes pinprick small and then explodes outward in a supernova of feeling. He's wanted this, God how he's wanted this, he just never knew how to go about getting it. Carol's soft body is against his front, he can feel every goddamned inch of her. Especially the way her hipbone presses into his crotch and her lips slide over his and…
Carol moves against him, just the tiniest bit of friction right fucking there, his cock seems to do a back flip in his pants and Daryl whimpers out the most unmanly moan he's ever heard, short of a man dying in agony.
Carol pulls back because she probably thinks she's killed him and damn, maybe she has. Daryl sags against the fence for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe again because his brain has shorted out and then, oh god, there is a spreading warm, wet spot on the front of his filthy pants that he prays she won't notice.
Hands scrambling for purchase, Daryl pushes himself to rights against the fencing and his crossbow clatters to the ground, scaring the shit out of both of them. After another mortifying jump, he fumbles to the ground for his weapon, spitting curses.
He spares Carol a small glance as he gathers his shit together and runs like a world class sissy. She's looking at him like she's scared she's broken him, but he doesn't care.
Daryl high-tails it down the fence line to a utility shack and goes inside. It had been cleared of anything useful when they arrived and now it was little more than an empty room. Perfect for him to hole up in and die of humiliation. He doesn't think one could turn walker after dying of embarrassment, but he's willing to take his chances.
He shifts uncomfortably in his sticky pants, rubbing his hands over his face and pacing wildly. What the fuck just happened? Carol kisses him and he comes his pants like a 12 year old after his first porn dream!
A few more muttered curses, and a few swift kicks at the wall, and now Daryl has a sore foot and a wounded ego to match and isn't that just fucking perfect? He's too much of a fucking coward to go after what he wants and the moment she takes the reins, he shoots his load for a fucking kiss.
Daryl leans his forehead against the dirty wall and breathes out a few harsh breaths, gnawing his lip until he can taste blood.
It's not fair. Probably never will be. His one good thing in this shit world and he's probably gone and fucked it all to Hell.
Something wet slides down his cheek and no way Daryl Dixon is crying over this. No fucking way. He has dust in his eyes, that's all.
If anyone asks, he'll deny everything. Like it didn't happen.
Fin~
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