AN: So this little "scene" is from the Tumblr prompt that wanted Caryl and Daryl meeting online. As always, I took some liberties.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Carol sat down in front of the computer at her kitchen table. She readjusted the laptop a little so that it was centered in the middle of the table. She'd had something of a crash course in technology since she'd gotten the thing. Of course, her teachers had been Andrea—a new friend that she'd met since she'd gotten settled in—and her daughter who happened to have picked up a little something here and there at school about computers and was already angling for a laptop of her own instead of the shared one that they now had.
Any computer, really, was more than what they had before. In fact, Carol was overwhelmed with all the new technology in her life. Her phone was smart, she had a laptop, and everything she owned, she felt, was online.
Ed would've never let that happen in his home. That was a way, he said, of letting nosy people be even nosier. It was letting them right on into your home and right on into your life.
And the thought of that, honestly, did make Carol a little nervous. The whole thing made Carol a little nervous. But she was a single woman now. She was independent. She wasn't going to be left behind in what Andrea called the "Dark Ages" any longer. Besides, Ed had his own reasons for not wanting people prying about in their lives and those particular reasons were no longer of any concern to Carol.
The very first thing that Carol did, after turning on the laptop, was to click on Sophia's "profile" and go in to check, according to the steps that Andrea had given her, Sophia's browsing history. There wasn't much there to speak of and there was nothing that Carol was very concerned with. There was some little singer that Sophia was always talking about and there were at least two dozen searches done about the boy, but other than that? There really wasn't anything that raised Carol's eyebrows. So she signed out of there and back into her own profile that brought up an entirely different technological world to her.
The next thing she did was get up and fix herself a glass of wine.
Tonight? She was alone. Sophia was spending the weekend with one of her new little school friends—a luxury never afforded to her when Carol had been with Ed—and Carol was trying to keep herself occupied with the silence and with the new knowledge that she was entirely alone.
Once back at the computer, the wine untouched, Carol opened the browser to the page that Andrea had bookmarked earlier. The profile, though entirely void of information, was made. The login information was jotted down in the little flip "Notebook of Technology" that Carol was keeping.
The directions, too, for what she should do now that she was alone were jotted there. Carol read them twice to herself before she followed any of the instructions.
Andrea assured her this was fun. She assured her that it was just like dating at a bar or something. She could look through guys, read all she wanted about them, study their pictures—and then? She could either sent them a message to let them know she was interested—the new equivalent to sending a drink or even giving some gesture of notice—or she could move right on to the next and leave them none the wiser that she'd even been there.
The good thing about this, of course, was that she didn't have to be face to face with them until she was ready. As soon as Anna's mother had picked Sophia up that afternoon, Carol had let Andrea "doll her up" and the pictures had been taken with her phone. Somehow, though Carol still hadn't learned how, they were now on her computer. Those pictures would "speak for her". It was the new age of dating. She could chat with men while wearing her old pajamas and they'd be browsing pictures of what she'd looked like at just after four in the afternoon with fresh makeup.
Carol followed the directions to load those pictures into the site. She filled in the information on the profile—answering all the prompts beyond the ones she felt were simply too personal to put out there all at once—and then she froze over the area where she was supposed to type some paragraph or something about herself.
Carol wasn't good at talking about herself. She didn't feel comfortable doing it. She assumed, at least with a little help, she could change it later. So for now, she settled for the basics.
Carol McAlister. Mature woman. Divorced. Thirteen year old daughter. Nurse.
She left it at that. She didn't know what else to say. There wasn't much else to put there about herself. So she left it as it was.
Before she could settle comfortably in her chair, her phone went off. She jumped at the sound of it, a sharp car horn noise that she hadn't chosen, and looked at it.
"Really? No medical history? All that's missing is that you have good teeth. Where's your creativity?"
Carol smirked to herself. It was Andrea.
"Are you watching me?"
Carol sent the message back immediately.
"Marked your profile. Be creative. Be personal. It's your space to talk about yourself."
Carol sighed and put the phone down. She didn't respond to Andrea and she didn't change the practical list that she'd made. She didn't have anything to say about herself. Her life, until now, had hardly been her own. It simply didn't make for interesting reading material. There was no need in false representation.
Carol sipped her wine, opened another browser, and started to peruse pages about do it yourself projects that she was interested in. She already loved the little house that she and Sophia were sharing, but there were things she wanted to do to make it better. There were things that needed to happen, at least in her opinion, before she could really feel like it was her house and, more importantly, like it was her home.
While she was sitting there, though, looking through information about how she might go about redoing the kitchen floor, there was a ding from the other browser that made her jump. She went back to it and found that she had a message. She swallowed and clicked on it.
His name was John and he was "online". He wanted to know how Carol's night was going. It was fine, and she told him as much. He wanted to know where she lived. She wasn't sharing that. He wanted to know how old she was. She was old enough to know that a lady never revealed her age. Carol started, at that point, to smile to herself. This was new to her, but she was enjoying it. John was interested in her. John wanted to talk to her. It was certainly a lot different than Ed's speeches, during their marriage, about how she'd never find anyone because no man but him would even look at her.
John wanted to know what she liked to do. Carol chewed her lip and considered it. She liked, and she told him as much, do it yourself projects. She liked reading and cross stitching. She liked sewing. She liked photography—at least now that she had a phone that could take pictures.
She might have expected some follow up from John about what he liked to do. She might have even expected him to name some activity or another—perhaps boating or horseback riding—and ask if she was interested in that. What she didn't expect was what popped up and left her staring at the screen for a moment.
"Do you like oral sex?"
Carol stretched her fingers and resisted the urge to respond with the obvious—giving or receiving? It was, after all, a loaded question. And though she'd given, and hadn't enjoyed it, she had never received. She'd heard enough about it, though, that she thought it might be nice to try—it might even be worth the "trade".
She didn't say anything like that to John, though. Maybe if the question had been asked at some other time? Maybe if she had some interest in him? But this? This wall wrong. Dating had certainly changed since Carol had first done it.
She ignored him entirely. She went back, instead, to her paragraph and amended it.
Interested in taking things slow and dating. Call me old fashioned.
She smiled to herself at her addition. That should do it. That would deter John and all the other Johns of the world.
Her phone went off and she glanced at it.
"Old fashioned? Really?!"
Carol ignored Andrea. Right now, it was more important to get her point across than to impress. There was, after all, no need in putting on some false face to attract attention when it was attention that she didn't want. There was no need making promises and playing games when she had no doubt that, face to face, she would have less than zero ability to make good on them.
Carol went back to her do it yourself website and focused on her wine a little. She could do this. She could redo the floor. All she needed was a skill set or two that she didn't yet possess—but that was no problem. And the more wine she sipped, the more she became almost certain that she could redo everything in the house that needed to be redone in a matter of hours.
The other site dinged again and Carol squeezed her eyelids shut. This was probably going to go badly, but she'd signed up for it. She wanted to meet someone and, as Andrea pointed out, she hardly left her house when it wasn't for work. She needed some help.
Carol saw the message. It was from one Daryl Dixon.
He wanted to know how her night was going. She'd seen this before. But she responded that it was just fine. He wanted to know what she was doing tonight. She answered honestly.
"Drinking wine and planning to redo my kitchen floor."
"Tile?"
Carol was surprised. That wasn't where she saw that going. She was pleased.
"Linoleum now. Tile when I'm done."
"I'm good with my hands, I could help."
Carol felt her pulse pick up in frustration. Before she thought about it, she'd responded and she immediately regretted it. Still—he needed to know what she thought.
"I'm really tired of that kind of thing already. I just met you. I haven't even met you. I don't want to talk about your hands. I can tell you what you can do with them, but it won't be with me."
Daryl didn't respond. A tick longer in time and he still didn't respond. Carol felt sheepish as she typed another message to send to him.
"I'm sorry. I met John. Things didn't go so well. I'm old fashioned. I don't believe in going from introductions to sexual innuendo."
Daryl finally responded then.
"I meant I'm good with my hands. I do household repairs. Sometimes I work with a small construction crew. I lay tile. I tinker with cars and motorcycles. I'm good with my hands."
Carol really felt apologetic now.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to jump to conclusions."
It was alright. She was forgiven. Daryl immediately told her so. It was a simple mistake, after all, and anyone could make it. He was old fashioned too. He hadn't really dated too much, but it was because he was waiting for the right woman.
And even when he kicked it up a notch, and Carol's pulse kicked up right along with his words, she didn't mind his flirtation because it was flattering.
The right woman, he said, might have a smile like hers. The right woman would have beautiful eyes—and did she know that she had very beautiful eyes?
It was flattery, but it was working. Carol relaxed into the conversation—though it was a simple exchange—as much as she relaxed with the wine. While they chatted, she flicked through his pictures. Most of them showed he was a man that didn't particularly care to have his picture taken, and more than one was taken seemingly without him knowing it, but he wasn't bad to look at. He was rugged. He was rough around the edges, perhaps. But Carol didn't particularly mind that.
And by the time she bid him goodnight, and he wished her a goodnight and pleasant dreams, Carol had been weaseled into giving him the phone number that he requested so that the next day they could hear each other's voices for the first time. For the first time in longer than she could remember? Carol was almost giddy about a man. And even if it was just flattery? She was going to enjoy it for what it was.
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Merle went to the fridge for a beer, chuckling to himself. He stood by the sink and drank it slowly as he watched the green numbers on the microwave slowly change from one time to another, marking minutes that always passed more slowly when they were being watched.
He was on his second beer, and fifteen quiet moments had passed, when the door opened and his younger brother stepped in.
"Need a shower," Merle said to Daryl.
"Hell you tellin' me for?" Daryl asked. "Reckon I know."
Merle chuckled and got a beer out that he offered to Daryl. Daryl accepted it and sat down at the kitchen table for a moment to drink it and cool off before he went to take the discussed shower. He was working late, putting final touches on some new home down in a new little development just on the edge of town. Merle had the day off. And Merle always made good use of his days off.
"You ain't gone out?" Daryl asked.
"You see me standin' here," Merle said. "Been meetin' the ladies online. New thing."
"Shit ain't new," Daryl said. "You just ain't knowed nothin' about it. You don't know shit about—physics or whatever—either. Don't make it new."
Merle chuckled.
"Don't know shit about physics," he said, agreeing with Daryl's statement. He wasn't even sure what kind of science physics was, though he knew it was a science. "But I know plenty about chemistry and biology."
He wagged his eyebrows at Daryl and Daryl sucked his teeth at him. They couldn't have fallen farther from each other when they dropped off the tree. Daryl ran scared from women because every one that he'd ever been around—just right for Merle but all wrong for Daryl—was a little too intense and a little too fast for Daryl. Daryl was never even the kind of kid that cannonballed off the dock. He preferred to dip his toes in first, get used to that, and ease down a little more.
He felt the same about women, but not too many women seemed to feel that way about men.
Except—of course—some did.
Merle pulled out his phone, flicked through it and found one of the pictures that he'd taken a picture of. It wasn't as good as it was on the screen, but it would do for the moment.
"What'cha think about this one here?" Merle asked.
Daryl looked at the picture that Merle held out to him. He took the phone, moved it closer to his face to study her, and then he passed the phone back to Merle.
"Looks nice," Daryl said. He smirked. "Looks too damn nice for the likes of your ass."
Merle looked at the picture and hummed. Then he laughed to himself.
"She do," Merle agreed. "Old fashioned. Likes takin' it slow. Lookin' for—picnics and some walks and some damn dinners 'fore she even kisses, I bet. Gotta reel this one in nice and slow—not too fast or she'll spit the hook bigger'n shit."
Daryl stared at him. Merle smirked.
"That's why the hell I pretended I was you. Got'cha a phone date tomorrow, lil' brother. Number's by the phone—you gonna call her right around lunch. Play your cards right? Might even get to eat lunch with her—no touchy, touchy—and you can thank my ass later."
Merle didn't leave Daryl a chance to fuss about it. Instead, he simply opened the picture back up, passed it back to Daryl, and let that pacify him for a moment while he stewed over it.
"Darlina?" Merle said. "Don't fuck it up."