A/N: This started off as a first kiss fic in TWD world, but somewhere along the way, it changed into this AU. This is Carol and Daryl as I imagine them if they were starring in their own romantic comedy. It was originally written as a one shot, but some seeds of plot are starting to grow a little. So there may be a continuation.

There's a certain point of no return, and Carol is definitely in the midst of passing it. Her hand is outstretched, and she watches in horror as this hand that is hers but seems to have a mind of its own reaches up to cup his cheek. Her head also betrays her as it draws closer to him, puckers up her lips, and places a soft kiss on him.

He seems shocked at first, frozen in place as her lips continue moving on his. Those damn lips of hers. Another Benedict Arnold.

He starts moving his lips, and his hands snake around her waist. This seems to give her a system a shock and she is finally able to regain control over her traitorous body parts. Her hand slides down from his cheek to his chest and she pushes back, her eyes watching him.

He is gazing back at her, his eyes searching her face for answers. Her heart thumps wildly in her chest, and that is the only way she knows she's still alive and hasn't dropped dead of embarrassment.

She speaks first. "Uh… mistletoe." Her voice doesn't sound like her own. It's high and she almost squeaks out the syllables.

He glances above him, and sure enough, the offending plant is hanging from the arched doorway. Nodding, he says, "I see."

The kiss over, she realizes how close they are still standing. She clears her throat and steps back from his arms. There's a strange sense of loss without the firm pressure of his hands on the small of her back, and she wonders how those same hands would feel on other parts of her body. Face flushing, she gives herself a mental kick in the ass.

"So… Merry Christmas," she says lamely.

He looks bemused. "Same to you." His voice is low, and she thinks she detects a Southern drawl.

"Thanks," she says. Lamely again. There's a split second where she doesn't know what her next step should be, but mercifully, he turns his head in response to someone calling out for him.

Daryl, she thinks she hears as she takes the chance to make her escape.

When she makes her way back to her table, Andrea is gaping at her, her eyes wide. "What the hell was that?"

"That was mistletoe."

Andrea rolls her eyes. "You went to get a drink, and you ended up making out with a stranger."

"He was standing under mistletoe."

"Hey, you don't have to defend yourself to me. I've always said you need to get laid. What you do have to explain is what possessed you to actually listen to me."

"I'm not listening to you," Carol protests. "I'm not planning on getting laid tonight. He was standing under mistletoe. And tradition calls for a kiss when you're under mistletoe. I was just… following tradition." There seems to be a certain trend in her speech tonight, and it is lameness. Of course, she has never professed to be cool, so most likely it is just her being her.

Andrea waves her off. "Don't give me that. You don't go around kissing random strangers. You haven't had a drop of liquor tonight. So what gives?"

"Nothing," Carol replies. "Can we just drop it?"

"I would, but mistletoe stranger is staring at you."

Carol turns her head and there he is across the room, eyes trained on her. He ducks his head back down, and she can see the tips of his ears redden. She finds herself chuckling softly and bites her lips.

"Oh my god," Andrea breaks through her thoughts. "You like him."

"I don't even know him."

"Knowing someone and liking someone do not have to go hand in hand. At the very least, you think he's cute and want a repeat of that kiss."

Carol shifts in her seat, her fingers rubbing together. She had never gotten that drink, and her hands feel empty. "I'm thirsty," she says, standing up.

It seems lameness isn't the only trend of the night. There's also the little matter of her head not being screwed on right and her walking into situations she normally wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

Carol realizes stupidly as she walks towards the bar for her drink that she is walking in his direction. He's watching her as he sips his beer. Oh god. He's going to think she's coming back for more. What if he tries to kiss her again, or wants to talk?

Her brain screams at her to get her butt in the bathroom. Never mind that she hasn't drank anything all night. She makes a sharp turn, and her steps quicken.

There's a pull on her hand, and she glances back. Crap. It's him. Daryl.

"Hi… drink? Me?" he grunts out. "Uh… drink on me, I mean. That's what I mean."

He stumbles over his words, and she finds it quiets the voice screaming in her head what do I do, what do I do, what do I do.

"Sure," she replies, her throat suddenly dry.

He leads her back to the bar. When they reach the counter, he seems to realize his hand is still holding onto hers. His breath catches slightly as his eyes glance downwards to their joined hands. "Sorry," he rushes out. "I didn't mean to -"

"That's okay," she says, instantly regretting how eager she sounds. She gives his hand a squeeze and lets go, bringing it up to tuck a wayward spiral of hair behind her ear. "I'll just have a beer."

He orders, and she uses the time to quell her nerves. She doesn't succeed though. The butterflies flutter even harder in her stomach, her pulse quickens in her wrist, and her chest squeezes tightly.

When their beers come, she holds on to the neck of the bottle tightly. They are silent, and she briefly wonders if they are going to share this drink without saying a word the whole time.

"I'm Daryl," he says, breaking the silence. He fidgets with his bottle, turning it around in his hands.

"Hi Daryl." She smiles, but it feels strange on her face as if she had forgotten how and her muscles were reading a Smiling 101 instruction manual. She clears her throat, forcing herself to shake off her thoughts. "I'm Carol."

He sips his beer and snorts. "Carol and Daryl. Our names rhyme."

She barks out a laugh, and it seems to break the ice. "Match made in hell."

His face breaks out in a full smile, and she can't help but notice how light he looks. They clink their beers together, sipping at it periodically as they get little details out of the way. Where they live, what they do.

There's a lull in the conversation, and his tongue darts out and licks his lips. She sits up straighter in her seat, clinking her bottle down on the counter harder than she intended. "Thanks for the drink," she mutters. "I hope you have a Merry Christmas."

Her legs cannot take her out of there faster if she tried. As she rushes out of the bar and hails a cab, she sends a quick text to Andrea, telling her she doesn't feel well and is heading home. It's not that much of a stretch.

It's Christmas Eve when she sees him again. A few days have passed, and Carol's just about forgotten the disastrous night.

She's sitting on the hard bench of the airport lounge, staring at the screen with the flight information. DELAYED is flashing bright red next to her flight number, and she curses. She had hoped to be home in time to have Christmas Eve dinner with her parents.

There's some shuffling in the seat next to her, and she turns.

Daryl.

He's sitting there, looking unsure of himself. There's a duffel bag at his feet, and his hands are fussing with his boarding pass. "Hi."

"Hi," she greets back. She smacks her lips together, her heart beat picking up. "Where you headed?"

"Atlanta. Flight's delayed."

Of course he is. She imagines there's a troll up there in the powers that be, cackling as he concocts more ways to mess with her life. "Me, too," she says, her eyes not quite meeting his.

There's a stretch of awkward silence, and she can almost hear his heart beat. Its pace seems to match her own. Too quick to be normal.

Their eyes meet, and he shrugs. "Carol and Daryl. Match made in hell."

The stupid joke breaks the ice again. She notices the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiles, and she can't help but return with a smile of her own. Away from the boozy darkness of the bar, she finds that she can at least be a little honest with herself. And with him.

"Look," she says, her voice catching, "I'm sorry about the other night."

"S'okay."

"I'm not that girl that kisses random men at bars. And I honestly don't know what came over me when I did. I guess I was just trying to do something. I know that doesn't make any sense."

"It does."

She looks at him, curious.

"I know what you're trying to say. I'm not that guy either. And buying you a drink was me doing something."

There's a lot of hidden meaning behind their words, and they both seem to understand this. She nods. "We really are a match made in hell, aren't we? Maybe we should get a theme song."

He snorts. "Stop."

She breaks out in a smile and wrinkles her nose. "If we're going to be stuck here at this airport together and sharing this flight, let's start over." She sticks her hand out awkwardly. "I'm Carol."

He takes it, and brushes his thumb along the back of her hand. "Daryl. Nice to meet you."

FIN

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