Here's some semi-fluff to make ya'll smile as we all suffer withdrawals.
Credit for inspiration goes to mypatronusisdaryldixon on Tumblr!
I disclaim TWD, as always.
Enjoy!
She shivered desperately, wrapped in a sweater and a sheet, silently cursing herself for being jealous of Lori's extra blanket.
But her friend needed it. God help them if her core temp dropped too low.
Hershel pegged the date around mid-December.
A cold front had blown through, bringing lots of cloud-cover and a freezing, constant breeze.
Carol clutched herself on the floor of the old shack's bathroom and curled up in the darkness, a small flashlight in her pocket, a rifle behind her in the tub, and the rest of the group scattered randomly in the two tiny rooms outside the door.
Things had become rather tense between Rick and Lori earlier that day, and, coupled with the general dreariness of the weather, the mood of the group was collectively one of gloom and anxiety.
So Carol tucked away from the rest of them that night, content to be alone with her thoughts but still finding, as she struggled to find a comfortable position, that she was somewhat lonely…
The door creaked open and she jumped, sliding an arm up behind her to dive into the tub and grasp her weapon—
In the dim lamp-light coming from the den she could make out the silhouette of the Daryl, his crossbow poking up over his shoulders. He hovered in the doorway a moment, looking down at her, before stepping inside and closing it halfway,
"Off watch for the night. You cozy in here or-?"
Carol straightened when he hesitated, tilted her head to peer up at him. Smiled as his hand gripped the doorknob and looked back behind him with uncertainty.
She gestured with her head, moving to curl back under the sheet,
"Come on in. I was getting tired of freezin' alone anyway."
He nodded and took another full step into the room, pushing the door back to its original cracked position.
Sliding the bow from his back he set it on the gritty sink, settling down to his butt against the wall next to her, adjusting to avoid kicking the toilet. Their legs haphazardly criss-crossed and she laughed, heard him grunt and almost chuckle in response.
For a long few minutes, they sat quietly in the dark, listening to the wind outside the old home as well as the occasional snore from Hershel in the other room. Carol gripped the sheet and forced back the chatter of her teeth, focused instead on the movement of Daryl's legs shifting near hers.
Finally she moved, reaching out to lay a blind hand on the thick cloth of Daryl's new poncho,
"Warm enough? I could share this—"
"I was about to ask you the same thing."
They chuckled again, and Carol felt the ease in her chest as they did so. Sometime since leaving the farm this had happened-their strengthened friendship-and she found it to probably be the most precious thing life had given her, second only to Sophia.
"I'm good."
"Me too."
She pushed away the twinge of disappointment at not sharing a semi-cuddle to keep warm, but Carol knew when to break Daryl's physical comfort level and when not to.
Tonight, they were all a little miserable.
Tonight was definitely a night not to.
She settled instead for nudging his knee a bit with her own and chewing on her tongue as she considered whether or not to attempt sleep.
For what felt like twenty minutes she sat silently with Daryl in that bathroom, listening to him breathe and trying to order her body not to shiver.
When she finally released a betraying teeth-chatter, she heard him exhale heavily nearby, and suddenly he moved, scooting closer and sliding the thick cloth down from his shoulders.
"Daryl, no—"
"Hush. We'll share."
When his side bumped hers in the corner of the bathroom, she felt him slide the poncho across both their laps.
In turn, she moved to slip the sheet halfway over his shoulders, and they both found just a tiny bit more warmth. She smiled and hummed in thanks.
Heard him sniff quietly in response.
Several more minutes passed.
Carol could feel the tension in Daryl's muscles the entire time, his uneasy tolerance of their closeness. She felt bad for making him feel duty-bound to curl up with her.
But god, she didn't feel bad for the warmth.
Finally feeling him shift consciously next to her she concluded that he was still very much awake, and, exhausted and desperate to distract him, she opened her mouth to casually converse:
"My name is Caroline."
When Daryl jerked against her she wanted to laugh at both him and herself.
Shaking her head she wondered at what avenue of honesty her frostbitten brain was taking her. Daryl sat silently in the black shadow of the bathroom, suddenly still and his breathing no longer clearly audible.
Unsure but undeterred, she continued,
"I never really liked it much. Always thought it made me sound…fancy. But that's the name my parents gave me. Caroline Rose."
He stiffened next to her. Exhaled sharply.
She looked at the shadow of his profile in the darkness but could not make out his expression.
Finally, after a minute of awkward silence, his head turned to look at her and she felt his breath puff against her cheek.
"Middle name's James."
She smiled up at him.
Knew he couldn't see it.
"I like it."
"….same here."
He seemed to attempt another chuckle as he spoke, his muscles relaxing against her.
She grinned, encouraged,
"Can I call you that sometime?"
"Hell naw."
She followed behind as he led her to the pile, a rifle over her shoulder and a gas can in her hand.
The busted wood from the ruined towers formed a perfect pyre on which to burn the dozen or so Walkers they'd killed over the past two weeks. With a few new (weaker) additions to their little family, keeping the Dead near the prison grounds thinned out was becoming a regular priority.
Daryl watched as Carol circled the mound of scrap and corpses, steadily dousing it with the little gas they had to ration for such things.
She made her way back around to his side, stepping back and offering a playful pop to his shoulder.
"Light em' up, James."
Daryl flinched.
Looked back at her and glared, even as a grin betrayed his lips.
He lit the old cloth and tossed it onto the pyre, listened to the air suddenly shift and crackle before the pile of dead erupted in a steady stream of flames.
Turning swiftly, he caught up to her as she began backing away, a wickedly taunting look to her eyes.
Reached out to poke her in the ribs, a half-hearted resentment in his voice,
"Watch yer tongue there, Caroline."
He spent the rest of their trek back to the front gate side-stepping her retaliatory shoulder-bumps every time he remarked about how "goddamn fancy" she was.