AN: This is just a little something fluffy and silly, inspired by TheRealSonia.
I own nothing from the Walking Dead.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Carol sat on one of the folding tables and flipped through a magazine that someone had left after their clothes were done. She could probably be done with the laundry quicker if she didn't wait until absolutely everything that the three of them owned between them was dirty, but that would mean that she'd have to make more trips. As it was, she was in charge of the laundry and she had doing it down to one day off every two weeks. She could stretch Sophia's clothes that far and she and Andrea could figure out how to make do. Besides, spending more time at the laundromat meant more days that Andrea had to watch Sophia, and though the woman didn't mind babysitting, it didn't mean that Carol wanted her to feel like she was taking advantage. After all, they were already living in her house and using her income to supplement Carol's meagre earnings.
Eventually they would buy their own washer and dryer. It was on their list of things to save up for, but it seemed that something else was constantly getting in the way. Neither of them earned enough to simply have the money to spare without concern, and there were bills that had to come first. And, it seemed, there was always something going wrong with one of their cars—and the cars definitely came first, because the cars were their way to work to earn the money they needed to spend.
For the time being, every two weeks Carol loaded up the car with all of their dirty clothes and she made the pilgrimage to the laundromat. She loaded as many machines as she could with the first load—which usually weren't all that many since other people had to wash their clothes too and most of the time the machines were busted—and then she went from there.
With work, Sophia, and her duties around the house, it had become the only time that Carol could think of as really "her" time, and she hated to admit that she'd actually miss it if they ever did come to own a machine of their own.
The laundromat was beginning to empty out. As the day rolled on, and as it neared lunch time, there were fewer and fewer people in there. The early crowd was the most common. It was comprised more of older women and they always came in, got their laundry done efficiently, and got out. The day, after all, was being wasted if they were in there doing laundry and not outside doing one of the other hundred things they might have to accomplish. Carol would soon be the only one in there. She'd be left alone with her magazine, something bought from the vending machine to constitute as lunch, and the rumbling of machines that held nothing but the clothes she'd brought with her. Usually, in the afternoons, the only people that interrupted her were the occasional people who wandered in, dumped their clothes into a machine, and abandoned them for a number of hours until they returned to see if, in their absence, the clothes had managed to get clean.
Carol was surprised, then, when the place had just cleared out and a man came in. He didn't say anything to her. He brought in a large garbage bag, dropped it on the floor, and left the building. He returned, moments later, carrying another equally large bag over his shoulder and dragging a smaller one behind him.
Carol laughed to herself. Maybe she wasn't the only one who put the laundry off too long.
The man looked to be about her age, but he was a little more aged, perhaps, by having spent more time outdoors than she had. His hair was shaggy and in need of a trim. He looked like he'd forgotten to shave for a day—and then he'd just given it up altogether.
Without saying anything, he walked over to the row of washing machines and paced up and down the line of them, staring at them like he didn't really understand what they were or what he was supposed to do with them.
"The three on the end," Carol offered.
He looked at her. At first he looked at her like he might kill her for speaking to him. He seemed annoyed that she'd interrupted his strange study of the washers. Then his features softened.
"They're all open and they all work," Carol said.
He mumbled something Carol didn't understand, but she took it as a thanks for giving him direction. Then he went for his bags and dragged them down the short distance of floor to the three machines that she'd indicated were available for his use. He opened the lid on one of the machines, picked up the bag, and tipped it to dump a mass of clothes into it from the bag. Towels, jeans, and other items all tumbled in together and Carol clucked her tongue.
The man stopped what he was doing, the bag still resting on the edge of the machine, and he turned to look at her.
"You got some kinda problem?" He asked.
Carol hummed and unfolded her legs, helping herself down off her perch on top of the folding table. If she'd heard right, one of her loads had buzzed and she could move it to one of the working dryers.
"I don't," Carol said, "but you're going to, if you wash all that together."
The man stared at her.
"It's all dirty," he said.
"You still have to separate it," Carol said. "Or else you'll end up with a mess. You can't wash all that together."
He looked back at the machine and then back at her. Carol laughed to herself.
"Haven't you ever done laundry before?" She asked.
The look on his face told her that if he had done it before, he'd done it all wrong. He probably had a whole drawer full of pink clothes that he still hadn't figured out. Carol shook her head at him and laughed. She abandoned her efforts to go after her own laundry and walked toward him. She reached for the bag and he almost looked like she might steal his dirty laundry. Carol raised her eyebrows at him.
"Can I help?" She asked. "Show you?"
He let go of the bag and she took it, lowering it to the floor. She opened the lid on the other two washers.
"Carol," she offered.
"Daryl," he responded.
"Your wife usually do your laundry?" Carol asked.
He snorted.
"I ain't married," he said.
Carol half shrugged, not quite knowing how to back out of her own faux pas at the moment. She pointed to one of the machines.
"Put your whites in here," she said. "Colors—in there. Sheets and towels? Try putting them in the last one? We'll see how far you get. You may have to another load or two. You've got a lot here."
Daryl stared at her, frozen in his spot seemingly, and then he finally moved and started to sort the clothes he'd already dumped into one machine into the places she'd designated for him to put things. Carol moved enough to lean on a machine close to him that was knocking around with her clothes—close to being done.
"Your mother?" Carol asked.
"What?" Daryl asked, stopping what he was doing for a moment.
"Does your mother usually do your clothes?" Carol asked.
"Not since I can remember," Daryl said. "Dead."
Carol swallowed.
"I'm sorry," she stammered.
"Don't be," Daryl said. "Been dead a long time. I'm pretty sure you didn't have nothin' to do with it."
Carol stifled her amusement at his words. It wasn't appropriate to laugh about something like this man's mother dying, but the way that he'd responded to her was humorous. He looked at her and humor spread across his lips, giving her permission to find it funny.
"I just keep putting my foot in it," Carol said. "I just—didn't know how you couldn't know how to do laundry."
He hummed.
"Well, if you gotta know," he said, "it's usually because my brother's got some chick or another that he suckers into washing shit. Brings 'em home, lets 'em stay a couple days, gets 'em to do some shit like wash the clothes. Then we don't see 'em no more."
"Eventually caught up with him?" Carol asked, raising her eyebrows at him again in amusement.
Daryl laughed and shrugged, continuing his efforts. Sorting the clothes into the machines, instead of having them balled up willy nilly in the bags was actually reducing the amount of stuff that he had. As he sorted them, Carol was growing confident that they'd actually fit into three loads. It wasn't as bad out of the garbage bags.
"You could say that," Daryl said. "But Merle—he'd just say it was a dry spell. It'll pass. One damn way or another, though, the clothes had to be washed. I don't mind wearing a pair of pants a couple days in a row, but I draw the line when I'm outta clean drawers."
Carol snorted.
"We all have lines," she said. "Mine is when I've washed at least two pair out in the sink. When Andrea and I have—things—hanging over everything in the bathroom? It's time to make a trip down here."
Daryl hummed.
"Your sister?" He asked.
"What?" Carol responded.
"Andrea's your sister?" He asked.
Carol shook her head.
"Girlfriend?" Daryl asked. Carol gave over to her amusement there too.
"Not yet," she teased. "No. Andrea's just my friend. My best friend. My daughter and I live with her. We've been there for—six months now? It's—it's just nicer than getting my own place and it's easier on the both of us if we can split the bills."
"You don't gotta explain to me," Daryl said. "I've lived with my brother forever. Sometimes I have nightmares that we're gonna be like a hundred years old and still fartin' around together in the same damn little hole in the wall."
"Detergent?" Carol asked.
"What?" Daryl asked, looking at her like she'd just said something absolutely absurd.
"Where's your detergent?" Carol asked.
Daryl looked around. He even patted his pockets like he might have a bottle of it hidden in there.
"Soap? For washing the clothes?" Carol urged.
"Yeah. Yeah. I know what the hell it is," Daryl said. He sighed. "Guess I forgot about that." He continued to look around. As soon as he spotted the machine that advertised itself as a vending machine for detergent and fabric softener, he started toward it, but Carol called him back.
"That machine is empty," she offered. "It has been for months. They never refill it. The food—if you were wondering—is stale too. Everything here is pretty much at your own risk."
"Shit," he muttered.
Carol sighed and turned back to her table where her few belongings were piled. She grabbed her own detergent bottle and walked over. Without waiting for him to ask for instruction or to receive it, Carol opened the detergent bottle and doled out a lid full of the liquid into each of the machines. She closed the lids and put the top back on the bottle, leaving it resting on her own machine.
"Quarters?" She asked. She didn't have to wait for a response because she could tell by Daryl's facial expression that he wasn't prepared with that either. She shook her head. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I can spot you that too."
"Shit..." Daryl muttered again. He laughed at himself and his own ill-preparation even as Carol returned to her table for the small bag of quarters that she carried with her. She came back and put the required amount in each machine before she turned the knobs and started them up. She turned around, leaned against the machines, and crossed her arms across her chest.
"That's how you'd do it," Carol said, "if you had everything you needed."
Daryl chuckled.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't—know how the hell I come down here without all that shit. I just figured that you brought your clothes down here and they had everything you needed."
"It's a laundromat, not a charity organization," Carol said.
"Lemme make it up to you," Daryl said. "Lemme buy you lunch?"
"I've gotta put my clothes in the dryer," Carol said. "And then? I have to be going home..."
"Without your clothes?" Daryl asked, raising his eyebrows at her. Carol felt her cheeks burn warm. Talking to him in the laundromat? Helping him with his clothes? It seemed a lot different than going out of the place and going somewhere in his company. It seemed a lot different than agreeing to have lunch with him.
"No," she said. "But as soon as they're done."
"They gonna finish in half an hour?" He asked.
Carol sighed and eyed the dryers in the place. They weren't in any better condition than the washers. She'd been coming there long enough to know that they took at least two rounds to get even the lightest load of clothes dry.
"No," she admitted. "An hour at least."
Daryl smiled.
"Then put your clothes in the dryer and we'll go get some lunch. Diner's just across the street. It's the least I can do—pay you back your quarters," Daryl said. "Get some for dryin' my own shit."
"I don't know..." Carol said, realizing she had no good reason to turn down the offer.
"I'm talkin' about eatin' food," Daryl said. "You done seen my dirty ass drawers. Figure we could eat together. Unless you just had your eye on some expired somethin' in that machine?"
Carol smiled to herself. He was persistent. She might not have expected it from him, but he was persistent—still, it was an innocent kind of persistence and she found it oddly flattering. And, besides that, she found it strangely unthreatening. It was unusual for her, given her past experiences with men, but it was welcome. She sighed and finally nodded.
"OK," she said.
"OK?" Daryl asked.
"OK," she repeated. "Just—let me get my clothes in the dryers? Get them going?"
Daryl nodded and gathered up his garbage bags. He piled them on the table with Carol's stuff while she transferred her laundry to the dryers and got the machines running. While she was carrying the last load over, almost ready to go, Daryl leaned against one of the machines and watched her, his arms crossed over his chest this time.
"Need some help?" Daryl asked.
Carol smiled at him.
"No," she said. "Just because I've seen your underwear—doesn't mean I'm ready to show you mine."
He blushed a slight pink and nodded at her, laughing nervously to himself.
"That's alright," he said. "Got plenty of time and...got a feelin' I'ma be washin' a whole lotta clothes."