Scooch

"How'd she take it?"

"Fine...well, a little too fine if ya ask me."

"No tears?"

"Nope. Just asked how I was doin' and then practically bowled me over in a hug."

"Oh she did, did she?" Carol asked archly.

"Stop!" Daryl said, as he pulled off his leather vest and draped it over the back of the chair next to the bed and toed off his boots. "Now scooch over-s'cold out'chere."

"Why Daryl Dixon, are you anglin' for an invite into my bed?" Carol asked, batting her eyes at him.

"Our bed, woman! Now scooch!" he ordered. Carol grinned, moved closer to the wall and then lifted the covers for him to slide in beside her. He burrowed in, taking her in his arms and she curled into him, laying her head on his chest.

"I'm sorry about Zach, he was a good kid." She said quietly, knowing how hard it was for him to lose anyone on a mission he led.

"He saved me-took out a walker I didn't see comin' up behind me-then he saved Bob-but he got caught at the last worst second as we were runnin' from a fuckin' Huey droppin' through the roof. Christ-when those things started comin' down on us like some hell rain I almost lost my shit..."

He'd been afraid-truly terrified for the first time in a long time. Daryl hadn't thought anything could get to him anymore, that he'd seen the worst this god damned apocalypse could shove down his throat and had come out on the other side, but today...well, today had reminded him how easy it still was to die.

They'd scouted the site, had made two previous trips there to secure it and they'd still gotten their asses handed to them and had lost a man for the first time in a month.

"There's no way you could've known—" Carol told him, worried that he would beat himself up over this, see it as emblematic of his self perceived failings as a leader, "No way anyone could've known that would happen."

When Rick had stepped down as leader, they'd all had to step up, no one more than Daryl. He'd changed so much in the last three years, more so in the last six months that they'd had here in the relative safe haven that the prison provided. At first he was tentative and uncomfortable with giving anyone orders, preferring to patrol the woods and hunt on his own, like always, but then he began bringing them back—the new people—survivors from places other than Woodbury. Rick had already found a few while out on runs with Michonne, and they'd come up with the test, the three questions, how many walkers have you killed, how many people and why?

These people had never known the old Daryl, the short fused hot head who had little time for anyone other than his brother, or even the closed off and belligerent but heroic man who had saved T-Dog on the highway and almost died looking for Sophia. They knew the Daryl who had become a much loved member of a close knit family with ties forged in death and war. This Daryl was more open to the possibilities around him, though still uncomfortable with anyone acknowledging what all he contributed to the group.

And then there was Carol.

She'd changed as well of course. From abused housewife to sharp shooting bad ass, she was confident and capable of taking on just as much responsibility as him. The entire group relied on her, looked to her for the necessities of everyday living—she organized everything from the mess hall kitchen and laundry to the shift schedule for fence clearers, scavenging runs and the school. They were both leaders now, had a high status in the new little community, and were looked up to by everyone. And so the gossip followed.

The new people had noticed how easy they were with each other; their old friends saw how Daryl often looked to Carol for cues in dealing with his new social obligations. When the C & D cell blocks had been cleared and cleaned, giving everyone a bit more breathing room, Beth had decided she wanted her own space and had moved out of the cell she had been sharing with Carol.

Daryl had taken to walking Carol back to her now private cell after dinner or watch duty, often lingering to talk over a cup of coffee or tea, especially if she'd saved him a biscuit or cookie to go with it.

One night about two months ago, after he'd gotten back very late from a run, he'd found her sitting on her bed, sewing by the low light of a battery powered Coleman lantern. He'd looked like hell—walkers had blocked the entire road and he'd been forced off his bike—it was a pretty damn hairy and he'd only been saved by the fact that the rest of the group had jumped out of their vehicles to wade into the small herd, coming to his rescue. The entire right side of his body was bruised from where he'd laid the bike down, that side of his pants ripped and gravel road rash ground into his knee, but his vest and leather sleeved jacket had saved his upper body and the side of his face when he'd thrown his arms up protectively. He'd been lucky he'd been able to slow and almost stop before actually running into or over any bodies.

He toed off his motorcycle boots, still covered in mud and blood so he wouldn't track it into her cell and then stood in the doorway looking at her, angelic, the soft light making her pale skin and silvered hair almost glow.

"That my shirt?" he asked softly and she smiled, her head still down concentrating on her work.

"Pants-I'm just patching the rips in your knees." she told him.

"I meant the one yer wearin'" he clarified, and she blushed, touching the front of the blue plaid flannel shirt he'd left the other day for her to repair, that she'd put on for warmth as she sewed. She looked up at him with a smile. He stepped into the room, into the light and as soon as she saw the state he was in she dropped her work and rose, coming under his left shoulder to help him sit on her bed.

"So that's why you were late." she said without intonation as she knelt in front of him, gently pulling aside the fabric at his injured knee to check the extent of his injury. She reached over and picked up her scissors, intending to use them to extend the rip.

"Just gonna have to sew it back up again." he said with dry amusement, picking up the dungarees she'd been working on and looking at the repair. She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Do you have any idea what a thin edge I am on here?" she told him angrily. He blinked at her and frowned. "You could've died! Every time you go out there that's what I have to live with—the fact that you might not come back!" She rose up and shoved at him, her hands on his chest, furious.

"Hey! Hey—stop..." Daryl soothed, grabbing her upper arms. Shit, she was crying. "Ah, sweetheart, don't..." her head came up at the endearment, her liquid blue eyes meeting his. "I'll always come back," he told her and she shook her head at him, denying the pretty lie. "I'll always come back..." he repeated, but then finished his statement, "...to wherever you are." she frowned at him, afraid to believe what he was telling her. "First thing I did when we got back—didn't go see Dr. S or Hershel like they were tryin' to make me do—came here, to you—had to see you. Not just so's you could fix my bumps and bruises neither," he told her, sliding his right hand up over her shoulder to her neck, his thumb finding her pulse point there, fluttering rapidly, his long fingers wrapping around her nape.

"Why, Daryl? Why did you come here?" she asked him searchingly.

"Coz you're the person knows me best, person I trust most in this world." he told her, but her frown deepened and her eyes seemed to become even more guarded, almost sad. She looked down, away from him, breaking eye contact.

"I'm glad you trust me." was all she said, in that same calm monotone and then she tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn't release her. "I need to look at your knee." she told him. He let go of his hold on her and she stood.

Daryl's brows drew together as he studied her, his eyes wary, hopeful. Carol moved her hands to the neck of his jacket, pushing it off of his shoulders and then found the cuff zipper pulls and worked them open so she could tug the sleeves down and finish removing it, hanging it off the back of the chair next to the bed. He sat very still, frozen in place by the fact that she was undressing him, waiting to see what she'd do next.

"You trust me?" Carol asked him, coming to stand before him, her eyes searching his face. He gave her that small smile she'd seen before, just the barest upward tilt of one side of his mouth, as he nodded, his chin dipping down just once. She moved to the cell door and untied the scarf that held the sheet hung as a curtain open and it fell, voluptuously slow, to cover the outside world's view of the inner space they occupied.

Daryl felt his mouth go dry and his heart speed up as she walked back towards him, removing the oversized flannel shirt—his shirt—that she wore. Under it she had on her usual russet tank top and a pair of thin black sleep pants, her feet covered by grey cotton socks with red heels and toes, the kind out of which people made sock monkeys.

"What the hell you got on yer feet?" he chuckled in surprise, some of the tension leaving his body.

"You don't like my socks?" Carol came over to stand in front of him, raising her leg up on her tip toe so he could see the two tone socks better, "Michonne brought them back from her last run for me."

"I think she meant for ya to make toys outa 'em..." Daryl said with a little catch in his voice, "Fer all the little ones." He cleared his throat, "You know—them sock monkey things."

"You think?" she said.

"Well, yer always sewin' on somethin'..." he said, "helpin' with the kids... fixin' someone...uh...I mean ...somethin... so I suppose-"

"Daryl?" she interrupted.

"Huh?"

"I need you to take off your pants." she said, and he blushed, but she sighed and added, gently, "So I can take care of your knee."

Daryl frowned. He had hoped it was for an entirely different reason that she had removed his jacket, closed the curtain and taken off the long sleeved shirt that had hid her lovely form from him. He'd learned to school himself not to stare at her long legs and perfectly curved ass as she moved around the prison precinct, remember to avert his gaze when she worked at the fences, punching through the heads of walkers, because of the way her breasts bounced with her graceful movements. If the woman didn't learn to wear a bra more often it might just kill him...even now, as she stood in front of him, tapping her foot impatiently as he absorbed her request, he was mesmerized by their soft sway under her ribbed tank. As he watched, her nipples peaked and he swallowed hard again.

"Daryl." she said, "your knee?" and she stepped closer to him.

"Don't give a shit about my knee," he groaned, snaking his right hand out and grabbing her wrist to drag her to him, so her chest was even with his mouth, burying his face between her breasts.

"Daryl?" she choked out and he found the hem of her little shirt with both hands and burrowed them underneath it.

"Please? Gotta..." he begged, in a low gravelly voice.

"I trust you." she whispered and he sighed in relief, pulling the garment up and over her head and tossing it to the floor. And then he saw them—the scars another man's cruelty had left on her body. He leaned in and pressed a chapped lip kiss to the curve of her left breast, under the nipple, the two curved rows of puckered indentations there that would conform to a man's teeth horrifying him for her sake. Other bite marks and small white circles which he knew from personal experience had been left by the red hot end of a burning cigarette were scattered over both breasts. He lifted her then and laid her down on the bed so he could move over her and kiss every one, healing them for her the only way he knew how, with his tender acceptance.

Her breath hitched and she lightly held the back of his head to her, amazed at his gentleness. When he reached the center of her right breast, he let his tongue sweep out to taste her then, the hard nub sweet as he drew it into his mouth and sucked down. Carol sighed audibly and her fingers tightened on his long dark hair and she curled her body down so she could place a kiss on the top of his head.

Daryl realized then that he'd gotten ahead of himself...he raised his head and looked up at her... and she was smiling that indulgent smile she gave him when he had done something right...

"Shoulda kissed you first." he murmured, chastened.

"Don't hear me complaining." she told him, "but you could do it now, if you like." she smiled, reaching down to push his long bangs back so she could see his eyes, pupils wide, deep blue with desire.

He moved to lie down beside her, but the narrow prison bed didn't have much room and she was smack dab in the middle of it, leaving no place for his bigger muscular body to fit.

"Scoot over." He said, and nudged her right hip.

"Scoot? You mean scooch." She admonished, smiling up at him impishly.

"Whatta ya on about now?" he raised an eyebrow at her-just like this damn woman to be correcting his English when he was trying to make love to her...

"Scooch-it means move your butt over a little." She said, with her eyes crinkling as her smile broadened. He shook his head and tilted his head to the side, looking at her consideringly.

"That selfsame ass you been teasin' me with?" he purred, calling her on all of the times she just happened to be bending over or up on a ladder when he was walking by. He'd pretty near ran into Rick's back and had stepped on the man's heels just the other day he'd been so busy lookin' at her behind in a pair of tight jeans as she climbed the stairs to the second floor cells.

"Why Mr. Dixon, I didn't think you noticed such things." She pouted prettily, sticking her lower lip out.

That did it.

Daryl slid both hands under her back and bodily lifted her, making room for himself on the bed, facing each other side by side, his arms around her, one hand on her butt and the other in the middle of her back.

"There-I scooched you." He muttered; his mouth only an inch or two from hers. Her hands moved to his nape, drawing his mouth to hers, sharing the same breath.

"I'm glad." She whispered and touched her lips to his.