This was supposed to be a fun little fluff piece, a ficlet really, but it grew legs. Multiple sets of legs, lol.
Set sometime before the 4th Season premiere, a little missing moment between our babies before everything went to Hell.
P.S. I couldn't remember if Daryl still had the Triumph or not. For the purposes of this story, he does.
P.P.S. This story is told in non-linear form. Hope you still enjoy it anyway.
xxx
Inspired by this dialogue prompt: "Car sex looks so much easier in the movies."
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Even If
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Daryl ain't sure how they got here—her sassy mouth silent for once, pressed against the sweaty curve of his neck while she twists his collar between her hands, his hand shoved down the front of her open pants, two fingers curled in the wet hot slick of her—but fuck if he's complainin'.
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It's hot outside, literal Hell on Earth, flies buzzing in the stagnant air, the ever-present scent of rot and decay hovering.
Ain't no different than any other day, Daryl thinks as he rolls his bike across the cracked asphalt, his crossbow hanging heavy against his back. 'Cept it is.
Beside him, Carol steps softly, deftly avoids the weeds that snarl around his boots. Her blue eyes are fixed ahead and alert, her knuckles clenched white around the knife that never leaves her belt these days, and still. There's a smile licking at her lips, one she doesn't even try to hide, and when she feels his eyes straying to her, it grows a little wider. She hums with pink-cheeked amusement as she teases him. "Shouldn't you be watching the road, Pookie?"
Daryl scoffs at her admonishment, snaps his eyes straight ahead. She's right about one thing. He'll give her that, but. "Ain't no road." Used to be, in some other lifetime. But the path they're following, deeper and deeper into the little abandoned town, looks like it got reclaimed by nature long before the end of the world. Maybe, he muses as he glances around at the quaint, historical looking buildings—some mere burned-out shells, others seemingly untouched by time or ruin—it did.
"Oh, it's a road," she rebuts (course, she does), taking a second to peer over at him with a damn twinkle in her eyes.
Daryl drops his head to hide his smirk, focuses on avoiding the glass that crunches and scrapes beneath the Triumph's tires. Woman's stubborn, he muses. Pretty good at keeping him on his toes. Most days he feels like he's walkin' on a tightrope without a net 'round her and it scares the shit out of him. But sometimes. Sometimes, he wants nothin' more than to walk in her shadow, soak up the warmth of her goodness, and it's exhilarating, the way his heart pounds in his chest when his eyes gravitate to her when she's not looking. It's a rush, even bigger than that initial taste of freedom on his first bike—the wind whipping in his hair and all those miles full of hope and promise, the way his hands ache to touch her when she does notice and gives him that fuckin' smile, the one he can feel beamin' at him right now. "Stop," he drawls. "Shouldn't you be watchin' the road?"
"One of us should."
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The Woodbury folks were noisy as fuck, had been since Day One.
Today, though, Daryl pays them no mind. His attention is elsewhere.
Curled up all peaceful in her bunk, Carol was sleepin' in for once, her hands folded beneath her cheek where it rest on her pillow, the morning sun paintin' her in golden light.
It's a rare and pretty sight, especially with all the growin' the Prison's been doin' in these months since the Governor's disappeared, and he don't want nobody disturbing her, not even AssKicker babblin' to herself in her crib. Too bad Rick don't feel the same. Their friend's brow creases when Daryl makes a split-second decision and heads him off right outside him and Carol's shared cell, stops him with a hand on his arm and a shake of his head. "Not today."
Rick frowns. "She alright?"
Daryl reassures him with a dip of his chin. "Just restin'." Judith gives him a gummy smile when he tickles the arch of one chubby foot, and he can't help himself. He grins back. "Thought Beth could take 'er."
"Beth, hmm?"
"Yeah. Might convince that boy that's been sniffin' 'round her to keep his hands to himself."
The former sheriff's deputy's lips twitch and he rubs a hand over his chin. "I see. You and Carol got plans?"
"Matter of fact…"
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They find a little drug store tucked out of sight. The green and white awning that shades its windows is faded and in tatters, but all of the windows are intact and the door gives easily beneath Daryl's hand. Walking inside is like stepping back in time, and his eyes are drawn to Carol's face when a tiny gasp escapes her lips.
Sinking to one of the red-topped stools lined up in front of a long, thin counter, she twists it from side to side like a little girl and her eyes grow soft and wistful.
It's no wonder, he realizes. When he hears her speak, a slight tremble in her tone, his palms itch to comfort her but they don't. Turns out it's a good memory, though. It's the kind he has trouble picturing 'cause shit like that just don't sound real, not even now when the dead walk the earth and Mother Nature's making her stand, and he just listens, tries futilely to conjure up some half-assed sitcom version in his head.
"There was an old-fashioned soda fountain like this in the town where my grandparents lived. Every summer when I visited, my papa would take me there at least once a week and let me pick whatever I wanted off of the menu. I swear those sundaes were half as tall as me."
That draws a smirk out of him and a sunny smile from Carol, and suddenly, he can see her, clear as day. With her blue eyes big and round and her hair curling around her face, that same splash of freckles dotting her nose and dimpled cheeks.
"What?" she curiously inquires.
He shakes his head. "S'nothing." Sweat slithers down the curl of his spine then, and he mumbles around the thumb that has found its way to his mouth. "Just…could use a nice tall one right now."
"Me, too."
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Beth sees them off with bottles of water and bags of jerky, the baby perched happily on her hip with one tiny fist crammed in her drooling mouth. The boy's nowhere to found.
Ain't til Carl closes the gate behind them that Carol brings it up, her pale fingers clutching at the worn leather of his vest. The bike purrs steadily beneath them as Daryl navigates them around the few walkers not fooled by the other's racket at the fences, and her voice is at his ear, all-knowing and on the verge of laughter.
"I see you, Daryl Dixon."
Anything else is lost to the wind, the deep rumble of the Triumph. The trees are nothing more than an emerald blur as Daryl weaves them in and out of the sun-dappled shadows, and Carol's arms slink around his waist and hold on tight. He feels the phantom press of her cheek against his wings and he just goes faster, his heart racing the wind.
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S'not like he's never thought 'bout it, tasting that smile, breathing some of that sassy courage into his own lungs. Naw. He might lie to himself 'bout a lot of things. But not that.
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The drug store doesn't yield much, just a few random odds and ends. Not that Daryl expected it to, and that's okay. This run ain't 'bout that no way. Carol realizes it, too. She proves it when she strides up alongside him, playfully bumps his shoulder with her own.
"Thank you."
Her soft murmur makes him blush. Daryl hopes she writes it off to the heat, figures it's not a faulty assumption because Christ. The path ahead of them, broken and beaten down by time and the thoughtless demands of this new world, shimmers like a mirage. Perspiration slicks the hair at the back of his neck, and he keeps having to adjust the strap of his crossbow where it slides from his shoulder. "Ain't nothing," he finally shrugs.
She curls her fingers around his wrist briefly and gives it a gentle, grateful squeeze. "Say you're welcome, Pookie."
Flustered and more than a little worried she can feel his heart taking flight right beneath her fingertips, Daryl blurts, "You're welcome, Pook-Fuck."
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Her laugh sounds like hope.
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Her fingers dig into his shoulders as she climbs off the back of the Triumph. He can feel the barest brush of her breasts against his back as she leans into him slightly and places both legs solidly on the ground. Gruffly, he asks, "You got it?"
"I don't know. I'm not used to that much power between my legs."
"Pfft." He quirks a brow at her as he stands and grasps the handles to the bike, shakes his head at the wicked gleam in her dancing blue eyes. No matter how much he wants to look away—and he does, there's heat singing along his veins and it has everything to do with her and that damn grin she ain't even tryin' to hold back—he don't. He just keeps starin', and it's like lookin' into the fuckin' sun, s'what it is.
Gleefully, she informs him, "I'm not going to stop." Shrugging her pack onto her shoulders, she tugs her shirt free from her pants and rests it behind the knife at her belt, just like he taught her. "So you might as well save your breath."
If she notices the way his thirsty eyes are drawn to that hint of pale skin as she walks away from him, she doesn't make mention of it and Daryl's thankful. Small miracles and all that. "Didn't ask," he grumbles. When she looks back over her shoulder at him, she's making that damn duck face at him, though, and there's no missing the effect that has on him. He can't help but cover his face with his palm, stifle a groan against his own skin.
"I know you."
"Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that."
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She sees it before he does (ain't the first time his eyes have been drawn to her ass in those cargo pants, won't be the last), the unassuming little building with the tall and fancy as shit marquee that looks like something out of, well, the movies. Just stops in her tracks, quiet as the little mouse she used to be at the Quarry. Doesn't say a blessed word, but then her shoulders start to shake, and confusion washes over Daryl, followed quickly by worry. His hand closes around her upper arm and his heart stutters in his chest when he sees the silver track of tears down her cheeks, but she raises her finger and points and sonuvabitch. She's fuckin' vibrating with suppressed laughter and he can see why as his mind supplies the missing block letters up above their heads.
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD.
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He sucks the chocolate from her tongue when he finally nuts up and kisses her, cups her pretty face in his rough hands and whimpers desperately against her soft and giving mouth.
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There's a walker behind the counter inside the theater, a sad sack of snarling skin and bones wearing an usher's uniform.
Daryl's arrow finds its mark and embeds in the poor bastard's forehead long before Carol's hand even makes it to her knife, and there's gratitude in her voice, yeah, but a wry sort of smile twisting her lips when she looks back at him, props a hand on her hip.
"Am I just here to stand still and look pretty? Hmm, Pookie? That it?"
He don't say nothing because he knows fuckin' better. He knows her, too. Woman's got a legitimate beef, but Daryl's only half-listenin'. Raising up with his arms and hopping the counter with a grunt, he retrieves his bolt and discovers a bonafide gold mine. Her tune changes a little bit when he holds up a bouquet of chocolate bars, and for once, he's the one teasing. "You say something?"
"My hero."
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It's rumbling when they emerge from the darkness and step back outside, thick black clouds rolling in from all directions it seems.
They haven't run into much trouble, just a few stragglers put down between them, but Daryl don't feel like chancing it. Not with her. Naw. The dead are already enough of a nuisance without Mother Nature being a fickle bitch, and the bike? Well, without the benefit of a weather man giving them a complete forecast, they're better off seeking shelter in place. Fat rain drops have just started to fall when he sees the first car, smells the first hint of ozone in the air. Catching her eyes, he admits, "We ain't gonna make it. Not 'fore the bottom falls out."
"The drug store?"
"S'too far." She glances back at the theater, seems to steel her shoulders and her resolve, but he's shaking his head before she even gets the words out, pointing out the car. "Over there." He really should have known, should've seen it comin' 'fore that ear-to-ear smile stretched across her face.
"You asking me to go parking with you, Pookie?"
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They share a pack of peanut butter cups and sparse conversation inside the small projection booth that overlooks the auditorium, the thick window of glass separating the two rooms allowing them a glimpse of the shambling shadows moving aimlessly about without subjecting them to the now-familiar associated groans and growls. It's not much, but a welcome mercy nevertheless.
It's cooler but only marginally, a higher rung among the circles of Hell, but Daryl ain't blind. He ain't stupid neither because he can tell she ain't comfortable. It's easy to read in the way she wraps her arms around her knees and makes herself small. Mind made up, he makes a move to stand but her hand grabs his own, fierce and tight.
"Don't."
Earnestly, he tells her, "You don't have to."
"I know. I just…"
He cuts her off, uses her hand to tug her into his side. Without thought, he raises his arm to curl around her and sighs into her hair. "Alright."
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It takes four fuckin' cars 'fore they find one unlocked. Four.
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There's a vending machine in the lobby, all busted up and turned over on its side, glass and stuffed animals scattered everywhere. One of those damn money traps.
Confused, Daryl watches Carol bend to snag one of the toys in her hands and turn it over.
"For Judith," she explains.
He don't see the need for it. Clearly, she does, and she's quick to make one of her sassy quips that never fail to get under his skin.
"You ever tried snuggling a red Solo cup?"
"AssKicker loves them cups." For a moment, she just quirks a brow at him, but Daryl can feel it coming. He can already feel the blush licking at the back of his neck and creeping on up to the tips of his ears, and she ain't even said anything. But that wicked twinkle in her sky eyes tells him all he needs to know.
"I love my vibrator. Doesn't mean I don't miss the real thing."
Fuckin' hell.
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The rain's been drumming on the roof goin' on least an hour, best Daryl can tell. It shows no sign of lettin' up, falling in thick silver sheets that blur out the outside world, and he's not entirely convinced they won't be swept away in some kind of freak tsunami any minute now. Carol, though? Seems she's got other ideas, judgin' by the look on her face. "What?"
She bites down on her lip, shakes her head as she hugs that damn stuffed tiger to her chest. "Nothing."
"Ain't nothin'."
"You saying it's something?" she teases.
It's a sorry excuse for a joke, but Daryl supposes she deserves a pass. Because they've been trapped here a fuckin' hour in what amounts to a tin can and they're both soaked to the bone and shivering despite the heat that still lingers even now. "Know it is. Go ahead."
"It's lame."
"Don't care. Spit it out."
"I feel like I'm trapped inside a car wash. The longest one in the history of mankind."
Daryl just groans, tosses a bottle of water and a Hershey bar her way.
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"Sophia used to love going to the movies."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
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They find a bottle of Jack beneath the seats, crack it open as the second hour crawls by and the thunder rolls around them.
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The box of condoms looks like it's from the turn of the century, is ripped open and half empty, but Daryl snatches it up anyway, stuffs it in his pack while Carol ain't lookin'. Least he tries to. Woman never misses anything.
"Hot date?"
With a shake of his head, he mutters a denial and takes the tubes of toothpaste she looks so over-the-moon 'bout, throws them in his bag, too. "World ain't ready for a bunch of little Greene-Rhee's."
She smirks, crosses her arms across her chest. "The world or you?"
With a Herculean effort, Daryl manages to keep his eyes from dropping below her neck and staring. Fuck if they don't drift to her mouth, though, and she notices. For a change, she don't say nothin', just changes the subject and plunges him into a whole other layer of Hell and damn, if this ain't his luck.
"What do you think about Zach?"
"Who's Zach?" She ain't fooled. Not like Daryl expected her to be either. He was tryin' to buy himself some time, and she knows it.
With gentle exasperation, she rolls her eyes. "Beth's new boyfriend. What do you have against him?"
"Don't have nothin' against him."
"Could have fooled me."
"Girl's still a kid. Not much older than..."
Her blue eyes grow bright then, and her lips tremble. She knuckles away tear and offers him a shaky smile. "You can say her name, Daryl. Sophia. She lived and she died. Not saying her name doesn't make it any less true, and it doesn't make it hurt any less. Say her name."
"She ain't much older than your girl. Than 'Phia. Just don't want her to get hurt, is all."
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This close, he can count the freckles across her fuckin' nose, the eyelashes that flutter and kiss her cheeks before her eyes open and stare at him, and they're so goddamn blue, so soft and trustin', he can't stop the groan that rumbles from deep within his chest. No more than he deny his fingers this chance to thread through her silver hair.
She sighs against his lips when his forehead leans against her own and smooths her fingertips across the worn cotton of his shirt. His name is a question that tumbles from her parted mouth. "Daryl?"
"C'mere."
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Her mouth is sweet, but Daryl finds Heaven between her thighs. She's warm and slick and tight all around him, and her arms cradle his head to her breasts as she rocks in his lap, breathy moans painting the shell of his ears. She shivers and shudders around him when he rubs his rough cheek against the silk softness of her skin, tongues the constellation of freckles that have begged for his mouth for so long now, and all he feels is heat and this unbearable lightness as her body brings him to completion. It's too much. Too fuckin' much, and he muffles his whimpers against the salt-slick curve of her neck and holds on.
She holds on, too.
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He wants to lay her down, stretch her out and love her the way she deserves, but there ain't room. It's too close to how it used to be, echoes of a past he'd rather forget, and she must read it in the way he touches her because she lifts her face from his neck and nuzzles his cheek.
"It's okay." Her hips still and her hands leave his collar. She cups his face and smiles at him, drops a kiss against his brow, then both closed eyes and the corners of his mouth until he's whining and pushing at her pants in the cramped, heated space. Tearing at his own belt buckle and making her laugh. "No rush, Pookie."
He growls.
"We've got time," she soothes.
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She falls asleep on the ride home, sweet and heavy against his back. Daryl covers her hands with one of his, takes it slow and easy. He doesn't let go, not until the Prison gates are closed behind them.
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"Just so you know…I liked you first."
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I'm such a sap, lol. Just thinking about the tiniest possibility that something like this could have happened in those months we didn't see and then Rick banished Carol and the Prison fell?
Ugh, my heart.
Because there's never enough time. Even if you think there is. Especially in the (fictional) world these two broken people inhabit.
Feedback is love.
Thanks so much for reading.