AN: So this is for the tumblr prompt of "fake relationship" for Daryl and Carol. I'll go ahead and admit that this one will, more than likely, end up having at least a few more chapters to it eventually. It'll be marked one shot until I get around to adding more.
I own nothing from the show.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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He wasn't sure what had possessed him to tell the lies that he had told. Even as he was telling them, he'd felt like he was listening to himself with half his brain and trying to figure out who had taken possession of him to make him keep going. The lie, in itself, might not have been too bad—not if he'd just left it at a basic, little, white lie. But he hadn't done that.
No. He hadn't done that at all. The very moment that he'd begun to tell the lie, he'd found it impossible to stop. He'd just kept building it and building it, one layer at a time, until a simple white lie had become something monumental. He' hadn't been able to stop himself. It had just kept rolling off the tip of his tongue until he had finally had to come to a screeching halt because, before he even fully realized what he was doing, he'd accepted an invitation.
Now there was no backing out of it.
He'd told the lie because it seemed so important to Hershel and Jo Greene. They wanted the lie to be true. They'd wanted to hear him say all the things that he'd said. And those two old people were, in the short amount of time that he'd known them, more parents to him than his own parents had really been at times. He'd told the lie because he'd wanted to see the look on their faces that they gave him while they listened to him.
He wanted to see how happy they looked. He wanted to see how proud they seemed. They were so pleased for him.
Of course, if the lie had been truth, there would be a great deal to be pleased about—even for him.
There was no getting out of the invitation now, though. If he told them that he'd been lying, then they would think—he didn't even want to imagine what they might think. They would think that he was no better, probably, than they'd thought he was when he'd first shown up begging for work. They'd think the same thing about him that people had thought about him his whole life—he wasn't worth anything. He was dishonest, and if he was dishonest about this? There was plenty of reason to question if he was every honest about a single thing.
There wasn't time to end it, either. Not with roughly twenty-four hours to spare. He'd spoken so fondly about things and he'd put so much effort into making them sound wonderful that there was simply no way to even create a convincing lie—since another lie was surely what he needed in his life right now—as to what had happened to destroy so much happiness in such a short amount of time.
And then, of course, there was the farmer's daughter to consider and yet another reason that he wasn't ready to let go of his lie just yet.
In short, he had a major dilemma, and it was one that he needed help solving.
Somehow, in less than twenty four hours, he had to find someone that would go along with his lie. After that? Dinner done and out of the way? He could buy himself some time to consider his next step and he could figure out how to simply get away from the tangled lie that he'd told. Making the dinner would keep them from knowing it was a lie, and it would keep them from finding out, too.
All he needed was a willing woman that fit the bill of the imaginary woman that he'd created. That was the only reason that Daryl was hunting down at the Lobo on a Thursday night. And suddenly? He wished he hadn't been so descriptive—or so idealistic.
The Lobo had a decent sized crowd of women to offer, but pickings were still slim. None of the peroxide blondes or the women who looked like they came with any variety of STD known to man were going to work. He'd described this woman as wholesome. He'd described her as practically the Frankenstein monster made of Mrs. Brady, Mrs. Cleaver, and Sandra Dee. She was down to Earth. She was pretty. She was feminine and delicate and lady like.
She was the kind of woman that Hershel Greene might have, in a different time and place, fallen in love with and the kind of woman that Jo Greene wanted her sons to marry.
She baked cakes and knitted things and probably led a Sunday school group. She secretly planned their wedding, named their children, and decorated their home.
In short? Daryl was pretty sure that the woman didn't even exist—which was why he'd made her up, of course, instead of having a real life copy of her to show around to everyone he saw—and he was even more sure that, if she did exist, she wasn't in the Lobo on a Thursday night.
But desperation made for a great motivator.
Daryl made his way around the bar, ticking women off as he went, in a slow and steady search for someone who might pass for this dream woman. Of the women that he found who might have passed physically, none of them convinced him at all that they could pass the test otherwise. This was going to require some acting and a woman who couldn't seem to carry on a three minute conversation was probably not up to the Oscar worthy performance that he'd beg from her.
He'd all but given up, and sat down at the bar to have a drink of defeat for last call, when he found her.
Of course, at the moment, she had no idea that she'd been found.
"See if you can't start herding some of them out," she said to the other woman that was working with her—a peroxide blonde that had been ticked off the list fairly quickly, "and I'll start wiping down the tables?"
Daryl didn't even hear what the blonde said to her beyond her name. That was really all he needed at this moment anyway. And her name was Carol.
They were trying to close—now that it was the early morning—and would likely be anxious to leave. Any interference from Daryl would simply irritate everyone there and make him much less likely to get what he wanted. Therefore, rather than harass her too much while she worked, Daryl downed the shot that he had ordered, put far more money than was necessary on the bar, and walked over to where Carol—one knee in the booth for a better reach—was wiping down tables.
Daryl leaned on the table.
"Can I talk to you for a second?" He asked.
She glanced at him, looked a little frustrated, and then pasted on her "customer friendly" smile.
"What you need?" She asked. "Andrea's handling last call. She'll help you out."
Daryl shook his head.
"Isn't about that," he said. "It's about a..."
He hesitated, trying to figure out how to open with this so that it would sound like something that was far more flattering and desirable than what it actually was. If he got her interested, then he had a much better chance of begging her to go along with it.
"An acting opportunity," he said.
She froze, furrowed her brows, and then she stood up from her leaning position in the booth and threw the wet rag at the table. Her hands immediately went to her hips.
"I'm not acting in some kind of—I'm not that kind of woman!" She spat.
Daryl was thoroughly confused, but all he could do was shake his head. Somehow he had been terribly misunderstood, even if he didn't understand what the misunderstanding was all about. He sputtered out a response to try to let her know that, but apparently she didn't hear him.
"How dare you! Just because I work in a bar? Because I wait tables? You think I'm going to act in your—in your—nasty videos?" Carol spat.
Daryl felt his own eyes go wide and he shook his head with more enthusiasm than before.
"You got me wrong," he said. "You got—you got me all wrong! Ain't nothin' like that. No—nothin' nasty! I promise!"
She opened her mouth, but she didn't say anything. She looked more confused now than she had earlier.
Daryl continued to shake his head.
"Nothin' nasty," he repeated. "Nothin' illegal. Nothin' even—bad. Nothin' like that. Just—a nice thing. You wearin' more clothes than you wearin' now."
She continued to look at him with a baffled expression on her face, but he'd earned that. He sighed.
"I ain't no good at this," he declared. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have even had to ask you. Can I just—when you get off work? Can I just—talk to you a minute? You can say yes or no then but—gimme a chance to explain?"
She looked around, but there was no one paying them any attention. Between trying to sneak in another "last call" after last call and trying to work up some last minute loving for the night, everyone there was occupied. The other woman that worked there was herding drunks toward the door as fast as she could—a pretty good feat considering several of them were trying desperately to take her home with them—and she was paying Carol no attention whatsoever.
Finally, Carol reached for the rag again.
"Yeah," she said. "Whatever. I'll listen to what you got to say, but I'm telling you—I don't do that kind of thing."
"Understood," Daryl said. "Heard loud and clear. I'ma go—have a smoke. Meet you in the parking lot? Ten or fifteen minutes?"
"Twenty," Carol said. "I have to count the money."
Daryl smiled to himself.
"Twenty it is," he confirmed. And then, just as he'd promised himself he'd do, he left her to her work and managed not to bother her at all again during her rush time to get out of the bar.
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Carol would've left the man standing in the parking lot—chain smoking Marlboros and spouting out ridiculous stories—if he hadn't seemed so absolutely sincere in everything that he was saying. The fact that he was attractive to her, too, might have had something to do with it. And the fact that he was sober—and therefore this wasn't the incoherent babbling of a drunk—certainly helped. But really? It was his sincerity that she found endearing enough to keep her standing there, arms crossed across her chest, long enough to hear the absolutely insane story that he had to tell as an explanation for the bizarre request that he was making.
He wanted her to meet his parents. No. Bigger than that. He wanted her to meet the people that he respected more than he did his own parents. He'd told them about her—or rather about the woman who she was expected to pretend to be—and he needed her to "appear" with him at dinner the following night.
It would be a nice, quiet dinner. There would be "family" time in which they'd get to know her in the role that she'd be playing. She'd impress them with her ability to be the perfect woman in Daryl's mind and then, when it was all said and done, they'd call it a night.
As far as his "family" knew, since she had no better way to think of them, they'd break up after that. Maybe it would be a week later. Maybe they'd last another month or two. It wouldn't matter to her because it was really all make believe. She wouldn't have to play the game any longer. He'd break up with her before they could ask to see her again and he'd give them the terrible news of his broken heart—even if Carol had no idea how she was destined to break it.
One night. One dinner with nice people. A genuine acting job. That's what he was asking from Carol. In exchange? He'd do whatever she wanted—the favor could be asked now or asked later. As long as it was equally innocuous—and wouldn't land his ass right in the county jail—he'd be good on it. He was a Dixon, whatever that meant, and Dixons didn't renege on their promises. He was good for it.
"So I don't have to—do anything?" Carol asked.
"Well, you gotta convince them," Daryl said. He sighed. He was growing more and more frustrated as he explained himself. "I didn't mean to say it all. I just wanted them to think I was doin' alright. I wanted them to think—I could find that kinda gal. Ya know? So they don't think I'm..."
But he didn't finish saying what he didn't want to be thought of as. He shook his head instead.
"Don't matter," he said. "I didn't mean for it to go this far, but it did. I can't tell 'em I was lying. I just—can't. Will you do it? Because, I gotta be honest, I'm running outta time. And if you ain't gonna do it? I gotta find somebody and quick."
"It's the middle of the night," Carol pointed out.
"That's why the hell I need an answer," Daryl said. "And—quick like."
Carol sucked in a breath, considered it, and then she shrugged.
"Why not?" She asked. "Sure," she said, this time with more assurance behind her words. "Sure. I'll—I'll go to dinner with your parents or friends or whatever. It's—not that big of a deal."
He looked genuinely pleased. And he looked very relieved. He was, Carol couldn't help but notice, even more attractive when he was overcome with relief and a certain amount of happiness.
"You gonna do it?" He asked.
Carol smiled and nodded.
"I'm going to do it," she said. "Just—I'll give you my address? You can pick me up?"
He nodded.
"Absolutely," he declared. "And—you can wear whatever but just..."
"Remember the role I'm playing," Carol said, nodding her head. "Got it. Besides—this is my work uniform. This isn't how I normally dress."
"I didn't mean..." he stammered.
Carol shook her head and cut him off before he could even begin.
"Don't worry about it," she assured him. "I'll be dressed for the role. You got some paper? I'll give you my address and you can—write down some of the stuff that I should remember? Give me something to study? I need to know what I'm supposed to be if you want me to be it."
Daryl nodded his head enthusiastically.
"Sure I got some receipts or somethin' in the truck," he said. He gestured toward the only truck left in the parking lot and Carol followed after him. When they got there, he opened the door and burrowed around in the glove box until he came up with a pen that—after more than a few tries—actually worked and a few scraps of paper that he could part with.
Carol scribbled her address on one of the pieces of paper and then she stood, looking around at the nothing besides the few passing cars on the road out in front of the bar, and waited on Daryl to finish writing a list for her. On the bottom of the list, he wrote a phone number.
He smiled at her when she looked at him.
"In case you—you know. In case you need to ask me something," Daryl said. "I ain't gonna ask you for yours. I—asked you for enough. I ain't gonna ask you for your number."
Carol smiled at the sentiment, but she bit it back quickly.
"You owe me one," she said. "This isn't just a favor done for nothing."
Daryl nodded and looked as serious as he could for the moment.
"Absolutely," he said. "It's a favor. But—whatever you want? If I can do it? I'll make it up to you."
Carol nodded and looked him over once more. He was handsome. He seemed clean enough. He wasn't a drunk or he'd never have been able to be in a bar without being more intoxicated than he was right now. He evidently cared about people that were important to him. And—in his own way—he'd already proven himself to be more of a gentleman than most men that she knew. Honestly? Carol couldn't imagine why he'd ever need to make up a fake girlfriend and then find a woman who was willing to act out the part for him.
But that wasn't her place to ask that question, and it didn't matter anyway.
"Goodnight, Daryl," Carol said. "Pick me up tomorrow. At five."
Daryl smiled a half smile at her and nodded.
"I'll be on time," he promised.
"You better," Carol said. "Don't leave me waiting. After all—I'm the one doing you a favor."
One last glance at the man that had come into her life in the strangest way—already promising that his exit was just a short time from now—and Carol turned and headed toward her car.
Daryl, she noticed, got into his truck, but he didn't pull out of the parking lot until after she'd already pulled onto the road—just making sure that nothing might happen before she was safely on her way home.
She really didn't mind doing him a favor, and pretending to be whoever she needed to be, but she couldn't help but wonder a little bit more about who he really was and why a man like that would ever need such a favor from a woman like her.
But it wasn't her place to know that. At least, not yet.
