A/N: I think this is the chapter most of you have been waiting for, so I'm gonna shut up and let you get to it!
Chapter Nine: Dance of The Firecrackers
Not for the first time, Carol wondered how she managed to get herself into these messes.
The parcel had been delivered that morning, even before the milkman had come with Carol's daily order of milk, eggs and cream. The deliverer had been polite and almost too cheerful for that early, introducing himself with a cheeky grin as Theodore Douglas and giving Andrea's name as he passed her the pile of elegantly wrapped boxes, letting Carol know he would also be the one picking her up that night at eight to take her to The Five O'Clock Club at Andrea's request. The day had stuttered by in a blur, her thoughts tied up with the tangled web she'd somehow found herself in. Now it was six, the house was empty and she had two hours before this Theodore was supposed to return. She knew she should be getting ready, but instead she was standing in her robe, fresh from her bath and letting her hair drip water over her shoulders as she stared, slack jawed, at the dress Andrea had sent.
It was gorgeous, a thousand times nicer than anything she'd ever owned, all silk and taffeta in a dark, sultry midnight blue with a dash of rhinestone sparkle at the hip of the sarong-style drape of the skirt. The bodice was a delicate halter with a sweetheart neckline, the boned structure designed to highlight every curve of her body and show off lots of skin - skin Carol wasn't sure she'd ever shown to anyone but her deceased husband. Skin she was now expected to flaunt in public in front of the most dangerous men she'd ever met and one seriously twisted blonde? Andrea was completely insane.
She was also incredibly thorough. The parcels had also included a beautiful pair of black peep toe heels that shimmered with crystals, a delicate silver silk clutch, silk elbow length evening gloves dyed to match her dress, finely crafted crystal earrings and a soft, white fur wrap. It was all top of the line couture the likes of which she'd only seen in pictures of movie stars. She wasn't even sure Lori Greene had anything as nice in her well stocked closets.
It wasn't just the dress that had her on edge. The knowledge that Merle Dixon was going to be furious when she showed up nearly had her knees knocking together. She'd barely slept last night, the image of Merle's form towering over Andrea seared into her brain, the absolute certainty that he could have have killed them both leaving her mouth sour. Carol knew it had been obvious something was wrong with her all day. More than once she'd glanced up from her work to see the silent figure of Daryl Dixon watching her. He knew something was going on, but as always, he said nothing. It was an unspoken agreement between them that she would go to him if she felt she needed intervention, like she had with Jackson; otherwise, she was expected to handle things.
Incredibly, her first instinct had been to tell Daryl what happened with Merle, something she'd warred with all day. She trusted Daryl to run interference with the lesser members of the gang, but Merle… Merle was his brother. He was also higher on the totem pole, Carol knew this instinctively, and any complaint she had would do her no good. There was something about Daryl that settled her, make her skin warm and tingle every time she felt his eyes on her. She knew what he was, knew there was untold blood on his hands, that his long absences from the house were proof of black work afoot, and yet… Carol almost felt like she could trust Daryl.
She just wasn't sure if she should.
Carol glanced at the clock and was shocked to see fifteen minutes has passed while she'd stared at the couture and let her mind drift. She needed to make her choice and fast.
Oh God, I'm really going to regret this.
Daryl lounged against the long, polished red oak bar and surveyed the Friday night crowd. Where the hell is T? It was almost eight-thirty and the party was on; people everywhere, eating, drinking, talking, dancing or just listening to the thump and wail of the band in full swing. Michonne was at the microphone, a sparkling, sleek vision of glitz and glamor with the white tuxes of the band behind her glowing in the bright stage lights. He was only half listening to the constant stream of jibber jabber coming from Jackson and Randall, focusing the rest of his attention on the ebb and flow of the crowd. He spotted the richly dressed figure of Lori Greene, holding court at a booth near the stage with several of the "hens" - the debutantes and Junior League members that made up her circle of high class society ladies. He picked out Andrea, scorching as ever in a tight red dress, in the center of a sea of dark suits, at least ten men working to get a smile or a laugh from the curvacious blonde.
He could just make out the figure of Thom Crowley, standing guard by an unassuming door tucked into the far corner of the room; the door lead to the upstairs offices where the old man occasionally held private meetings. It was the meeting happening right now that had Daryl's teeth on edge. Mr. Blue was here, which had all of them jittering in their seats. He was upstairs with Greene and Merle, a regular rainbow of unholy terror happening above this hall where trumpets sang and people danced the night away, unaware as ever of the machine at work to control their lives above their heads. He'd yet to catch a glimpse of the mysterious financier and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to.
Daryl was exhausted, the result of a long week of preparations for Mr. Blue on top of his normal routine and sleep riddled with dreams of sweet blue eyes. He kept telling himself firmly it was only his proximity to the widow that had him this way, if he kept his distance it would stop. It hadn't worked yet.
There was still no sign of T, which worried Daryl. Old man is gonna spit nails if T turns up late tonight of all nights.
"What can I get you tonight?"
Daryl turned and nodded his head at Glenn Rhee, looking crisp and perfectly pressed despite the flurry of activity.
"Scotch 'n soda," Daryl replied. He wasn't normally a highball kind of guy but tonight was a night he couldn't afford to get drunk. To his credit, the bartender didn't respond to the unusual order, simply nodded and got to work. Daryl leaned further onto the bar, angling himself towards Rhee. "How's the new boss working out?"
"Jenner? Not too shabby," Glenn answered, tilting the glass to allow the foam from the soda to settle. "It's only his first day. Shame it had to be on a busy day like today, but nothing like a trial by fire to see what a person is made of." A quick stir and the large tumbler was sliding across the red oak bar to Daryl's hand
Daryl smirked. Smart kid. "Keep me posted, yeah?" Rhee was nosey as fuck, but Daryl figured it worked out to his advantage to keep the kid on his side.
"Always, sir."
A tap on Daryl's shoulder had him turning. Jackson nodded his head to the far corner, rolling his eyes before turning back to continue his mindless chatter with Randall. Daryl heaved a sigh of relief as he spotted Theodore Douglas in the shadows by the stage and held up a finger, signaling the driver to wait a minute.
"Glenn," Daryl called. "Grab me a Blue Ribbon, will ya?" The beer bottle appeared in a manner of seconds. Might be time to give the kid a raise. Daryl snatched up both drinks before weaving his way through the crowd. The clear, brassy sound of the horn section going to town made speaking almost impossible by the time Daryl made it to T, passing the dark man the beer without a word and nudging them both back into the green room behind the stage. The noise was muted here, with a thick wall between them and the hall itself. The room was wide, couches and armchairs scattered everywhere. A pile of black instrument cases teetered precariously next to the men's dressing room door. A smaller door along the far wall led up the same staircase that Crowley was guarding from the hall. A thick cloud of musk, shoe polish and perfume pervaded the room and tickled Daryl's nose.
"Cuttin' it a little close, ain't ya?" Daryl asked. The old man's instructions were for the car to be ready by eight-thirty; by his watch T had made it with seconds to spare.
"Cool your jets. I'm here, ain't I? Got caught up running another errand," T smirked. Daryl arched an eyebrow as the driver swigged half his beer in one go. Daryl knew he wasn't privy to every detail of the operation, but he was usually aware of what the drivers were doing. As far as he knew, T only had one assignment tonight. Must have been somethin' last minute from Merle. Before he could ask, the second door cracked open and Thom Crowley poked his head in.
"Thank fuck," he muttered. "They're ready for you."
"A chauffeur's work is never done." T slapped Daryl on the shoulder and pushed by Crowley to get out the door, shoving the still half full beer into the big man's paw on his way out. Crowley grimaced, dropping the bottle into a nearby trash bin.
"Come on, I need a drink."
They made their way back to the bar amid the bass and thump of the band mingling with the cheers and chatter of the crowd. The joint was definitely full, every table occupied with people desperate to see and be seen, to have a drink and a smoke, maybe a dance and forget about their troubles for an hour or two. Daryl knew if he chanced a look outside he'd see a line of folks winding 'round the block waiting for a chance to enter Atlanta's most exclusive club. Some life.
Merle had arrived by the time they found Jackson and Randall again, accompanied by a leggy brunette in a slinky dress of green satin and wearing about a pound of makeup on her face in what was surely an attempt to be sophisticated beyond her years, but to Daryl it just served to make her look garish.
"Fellas," Merle drawled as they approached, "take a minute to say hello to Maggie here."
"Hi, there." Maggie greeted them with a flutter of her lashes and a well-practiced smile. Daryl held back a snort; she was clearly used to boys falling at her feet. Ain't no boys here tonight, duckling.
"Evening," Crowley replied stiffly. Daryl just nodded, wondering what the hell the girl was doing with Merle.
"Randall," Merle ordered. The young button man leapt to his feet, startled at the rare occurrence of being addressed directly by Merle and knocking over his drink in the process. Rhee was on the scene in seconds, silently mopping up the spill. "Why don'tcha show the lady around for a minute."
"Me?" Randall's mouth gaped open like a fish on a hook, casting an anxious look at Jackson while Maggie rolled her eyes, sipping at her martini. Daryl bit the inside of his cheek trying not to laugh; he could tell Crowley was in a similar state. Fucking moron. Randall was nothing more than a waste of space, a two-bit wannabe who did nothing but follow Jackson Lachtrie around like he was a god and jumped at every shadow.
"Yeah, you," Merle bit out impatiently. "Step to it." He nearly shoved Randall into Maggie to get them out of the way; with a glare Maggie wrapped her arm around Randall's and led him to the dance floor. Daryl spotted Glenn Rhee from the corner of his eye watching the girl leave with a dreamy expression on his face.
"So what's the scoop on the floozy?" Jackson asked nonchalantly. "She's a nice piece." Daryl sighed; Jackson had never met a dame he didn't think was a nice piece. He'd fuck The Banshee herself if he thought she'd open her legs for him, just to say he did it.
"She's Blue's daughter," Merle replied tersely. He grinned at the stunned silence that followed his statement, knowing he'd shocked all of them. "She apparently travels with her pop, though she doesn't have the first inkling of what he actually does. Treat her nice, show her a good time and for fuck's sake, Jackson, don't dip your wick in that candle."
"Yes, boss," Jackson laughed. He turned his back to the Dixons and sauntered off towards the dance floor.
"Cocky little motherfucker," Merle grumbled. "'Bout time I showed him the business end of my fist."
"You won't hear me arguing," Daryl said. Merle was tense, his jaw clenched and eyes darker than normal thanks to the sunken shadows under his eyes. He hadn't been around the house much lately, Greene's list keeping him hopping the past week as they all prepared for the arrival of the mysterious money man. He also knew the weight on Merle was twice what his own was, but he usually thrived on that kind of pressure. This was different for Merle. "What's the score with you, anyhow?"
"Don't fuckin' worry about it," he growled. "Just keep an eye on the joint, eh? I gotta go to the can."
Daryl watched his brother stomp off and sighed, rapping his knuckles twice on the bar and ordering another drink. He swirled the scotch around in his glass, side-eyeing Crowley, who was standing a silent sentinel at his side. Hell of a night already and it ain't even nine o'clock yet. Randall was back, obnoxiously crunching a mouthful of pretzels.
"Where's the dame?"
"Over with the Banshee," Randall garbled around his food like a cow chewing cud, spraying Daryl with crumbs. Daryl snarled, brushing the bits of bread and salt off his black jacket impatiently. "Making good with the soo-ciety ladies."
"That'll be an interesting conversation," Crowley laughed.
"Can this night get any more cracked?" Daryl asked quietly. Crowley didn't answer, just lit a smoke stick and leaned back on the bar. Randall was chomping on more pretzels, pulling them out from his pockets like a kid at the movies. What a dope. They listened as the band wrapped up their number and Michonne purred into the mic that they were going to take a short break. The stage lights dropped as Michonne and the boys made their exit, making the rest of the hall seem brighter. In that one moment, that moment where the whole crowd held its breath as everyone adjusted to the drop in volume, just a second where Daryl swore you could hear a pin drop, he saw her.
She was a vision of creamy skin wrapped in inky midnight blue with just the right amount of sparkle to set it off, gorgeous gams and a body of sweet curves his fingers instantly itched to touch. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman and the craving for her slammed into him like a freight train, making his breath catch even though he hadn't even seen her face yet.
"Holy hell," Crowley muttered next to him. "I think you just jinxed yourself, Daryl."
The vision turned, just enough that Daryl could see what Crowley had already spotted and he grimaced, shock dropping into his stomach like a bucket of ice water. His vision was the widow, Carol Peletier, who was standing just inside the door with a slightly nervous, sweetly innocent expression on her face that made Daryl's insides squirm. What in the hell…?
"What the fuck is she doin' here?" Daryl hissed.
"Maybe she's just out for a night on the town," Crowley said.
"Carol Peletier? A night on the town? Don't be such a jackass."
"Listen," Crowley said soothingly. "You know the old lady took a liking to her after Eddy P's wake. Looking at those spiffy duds of hers. She's gotta be here as The Banshee's charity case."
That actually made sense to Daryl. He slowed his breathing, counting to four with each inhale and exhale as he desperately tried not to look at the sweet curves being flaunted in front of him. The fuck is wrong with you? Thankful she hadn't spotted him ogling her, he was almost calm again when her face broke into a smile as she greeted the blonde who'd run up to welcome her.
"Oh, fuck," Daryl said.
"Oh, fuck," Crowley and Randall echoed.
She's here with Andrea? How the fuck does she even know… shit and shinola. I sent her to the fucking house. Clearly, the women had met and mingled long enough to get friendly. How the hell Andrea had wrangled the widow into coming to the club, he had no idea.
"Of all the nights," Crowley muttered.
"Tell me about it." The whole thing was a goddamn powder keg about to explode. Daryl watched as the women made their way back to the passel of men who'd been holding Andrea's attention all night and wondered if he was going to be the one who popped first.
"Sweet baby Jesus." Goddamnit. Jackson was back, sidling in between Daryl and Crowley with a wolfish grin. "That's what she'd been hiding under those housedresses? Reminds me of a kid eating ice cream for the first time."
Daryl whirled before he could think, grabbing Jackson's collar and slamming him against the bar so hard he could hear the rattle of glass all up and down its length, heedless of the gasps erupting around them as he jammed his fist against the weasel's throat. Arms were pulling him back before he could speak, the stocky figure of Crowley pushing himself between them as Randall came speeding up to hold Jackson back.
"Simmer down now, firecracker," Merle growled in his ear. "Not here."
Daryl wrenched himself free, running a hand through his sandy hair and turning away from the annoyance of Jackson with an angry huff. The fuck is wrong with you? Merle still had a hand on his back, ordering the others out over his shoulder as he led Daryl away from the bar and into the shadows.
"The fuck got your goat, baby brother?" Merle was furious, a controlled fury. Daryl knew it was only because they were in public he wasn't getting a sock in his kisser right now. "You know better than to fly off like that here." Daryl didn't say anything, just glared at the men who surrounded Andrea and her unexpected friend. Merle followed his gaze, picking up the source of the ruckus and narrowed his eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me," Merle said flatly. "I'm gonna kill Andrea."
"You knew?" Daryl asked, surprised.
"Caught them gossiping in the kitchen like a couple of wet hens last night," Merle growled. "Blondie gets up in my face about how the widow was just bein' nice and she ain't a 'prisoner' and shit."
Daryl side-eyed his brother, catching the dark glare in his eyes. The thing about working for Hershel Greene was, none of them were good men. They all had blood on their hands, every last one of them. Merle, though… Daryl had limits - limits that, for the most part, Greene had respected. Merle didn't.
"Merle, what did you do?" Daryl asked carefully.
"Ain't nothin' compared to what I'm gonna do," Merle snarled. "Come with me."
He was off into the crowd like a flash and Daryl struggled to keep up, jostling people aside as politely as possible as they made their way to Andrea's crowd, huddled around a table close to the stage. Andrea saw them first, a devilish grin twisting her lips as she took in Merle's face.
"Good evening, gents," she said smoothly. Merle didn't even blink at her, pushing his way through the crowd and turning his back at her to glare at the men.
"Scram," he ordered. In a flash, the dozen or so men had vanished, scattering to the far corners of the club to seek out less dangerous game, leaving the Dixons with Andrea and Widow Peletier.
"That was rude," Andrea sniffed. "Something wrong, Merle?" Her eyes flashed as she jutted her chin out at the older Dixon. She's enjoying this. To her credit, the widow was keeping her cool, watching the exchange with a measured look on her face. The lingering fear that had been so prominent for weeks was gone, replaced by a spark reminiscent of the woman who had been so brazen at the wake. Daryl realized he liked it.
The stage lights kicked back on, blinding them all for a moment as the band and Michonne made their entrance to thunderous applause again.
"Daryl," Merle said firmly, "take the lovely widow for a spin around the dance floor while I talk to Andrea here." Holy hell. The woman in question opened her mouth to protest.
"I don't-"
"It's ok," Andrea cut in. "Go ahead." She gave an encouraging nudge, pushing the woman at Daryl as he sighed, taking her cool hand in his and leading her out to the center of the floor.
The band hadn't started yet, still getting settled into their positions, so for a long moment they were the only ones out on the dance floor. Their joined hands dangled limply between them as they waited for the music to start. Daryl could see Michonne, who was clearly watching them with interest. He gave her his best squint, silently telling her to get a move on, already. She grinned and went to whisper at the piano player, who immediately struck up a familiar riff as Michonne sauntered back to her mic. Daryl pulled the widow close, placing his other hand on her waist, and started moving along to the slow, sultry rhythm.
Sometimes I wonder why I spend
The lonely nights dreaming of a song
She was stiff in his arms, her movements unsure. She wasn't looking at him, casting her eyes down at their feet. It gave him a chance to admire her dainty features up close; the tendrils of auburn waves that framed her face, her long lashes dark against her pale cheek, the gentle curve of her jaw and sweet upturned tip of her nose, the soft pink of her lips that he just knew would feel like velvet if he touched them.
The melody haunts my reverie
"See anything interestin' down there?" Daryl asked quietly. Her eyes jerked up and locked with his as a blush tinted her cheeks. She was absolutely breathtaking.
"I'm not…" she started slowly, her voice low and soft. She gave a little laugh that shook its way down her body. Daryl found himself tightening his arm around her, sliding his hand across the smooth fabric to rest at the small of her back. "I can't remember the last time I danced."
"Me either," he admitted. "I won't tell anyone if you step on my feet."
And I am once again with you
"Well then, I won't tell anyone when you step on mine." She gave him a saucy grin that he had to fight not to return as he felt her body finally relax in his arms. 'Atta girl. They moved together, letting the piano and Michonne's silky smooth voice weave its spell around them. Daryl chanced a quick glance around and his belly started to churn as he realized he couldn't see either Merle or Andrea anymore. He couldn't take it; he had to know what happened. He leaned into her a bit, not wanting to risk being overheard by the other dancers that now littered the floor.
"What happened last night with Merle?"
Dear god, but her eyes were beautiful, the same blue of a bluebird's wing. He could see the wheels turning as she tilted her head just so. He wondered what she thought of him, what she would tell him.
"Don't worry about it," she finally said.
"Listen, Mrs-"
"Oh, God," she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and dropping her head with a grimace. His heart clenched in his chest the second he lost sight of those gorgeous blues. Look at me. Look at me! "Can you not… I don't want to spend the rest of my life as Mrs. Peletier or Widow Peletier. I know that's not appropriate, but I don't care. If you insist that I'm supposed to just call you Daryl…" The sound of his name from her lips made his breath catch in his throat. What the hell is wrong with me? "... Can I just be… Carol?"
Though I dream in vain
In my heart it will remain
The one thing he'd tried not to do. He'd pushed himself to think of her as Mrs. Peletier or, more simply, the widow, firm in his belief that keeping that distance between them would make his weird fascination with her cease and his dreams would settle down. Now, confronted with the very thing he'd been trying to avoid, he found himself helpless to refuse her.
"Okay, Carol," he said. Good Lord but her name on his tongue was sweet, rolling through him like warm honey. "What happened with Merle?"
"Don't worry about it," Carol said again, just a shade more determined this time.
"Are you-"
"I'm sure," she cut in again. "Let it go, Daryl. I'm all right."
He could see it in her, her resolution to stop being afraid, to grab whatever bits of life she could with the hand she'd been dealt and knew that whatever had happened last night, it had pushed her over this edge. There'd be no stopping her now. Andrea may have had her own reasons for bringing Carol here, but she was determined to twist it to her own purposes now.
"Good girl," Daryl murmured. He couldn't pull his eyes from hers anymore and he let it go, content to drown in those depths and never surface. She looked as lost as he felt, her pupils blown wide as her hand slid its way up his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her burning his skin through the silk of her glove and all his layers. He realized his thumb was gently caressing the knuckles of her hand, held close against his chest now, but he couldn't stop himself.
They were barely moving now, certainly weren't dancing anymore, just rocking together on the balls of their feet and Daryl wondered just when he'd pulled her so flush against him he could feel every curve of her beneath her dress. He had the sudden urge to know what she'd feel like under his hands, if her skin was as smooth as it looked in all the places he couldn't see. He could feel her breath on his face as she gazed up at him with those eyes of hers he'd been dreaming about for weeks. All it would take is a small nudge of his head, just a little closer, and he'd be able to taste her mouth for himself. Daryl licked his lips, angling his head down and breathing her in as her eyes started to close…
He was knocked sideways just enough to jolt him back to reality, the schmoe in his off-the-rack suit apologizing with a pale, sweat drenched face before turning back to his partner. The thump of the drum was heavy and insistent; Daryl had no idea when the hell the music had even changed to the upbeat swing number blasting through the hall. Christ, he'd been just standing in the middle of the dance floor with Carol in his arms, about to kiss her, with half of Atlanta watching them. He was still holding her, his arm loose around her as he clasped her hand to his chest while people danced enthusiastically around them. Carol's eyes were blown wide, her face pale under the light layer of makeup.
"I, uh… thank you... for the dance," she stammered before pulling herself from his arms and hurrying off the floor, up the steps towards the ladies powder room. Daryl felt suddenly cold watching her run from him. He actually took a step forward, intent on going after her before a familiar blonde blocked his path and he came to his senses. The look on Andrea's face was nothing short of stupefied; she'd obviously caught the end of whatever the hell had just happened on the dance floor. Daryl wasn't even sure how to describe it himself. He felt punch drunk, his head spinning with thoughts of Carol and stardust and oh shit Merle.
"Where's Merle?" he spat at Andrea, storming up to her in a panic.
"He's outside with the boys waiting for Theodore to come back," Andrea replied. "Little girl Blue got herself drunk as a skunk already, so they're taking her home to daddy before she makes a scene." Thank Christ Daryl didn't even want to know what would have happened if Merle had caught a glimpse of him and Carol. He shook his head, trying to focus his attention back to Andrea.
"Ya all right?" Daryl asked the blonde. She just smiled at him, cool and composed as she ever was.
"Big Brother isn't anything I can't handle," Andrea replied. "So are we going to talk about what I saw or-"
"NO!" Daryl almost shouted. Calm down. "It wasn't anything. I don't… " He desperately wanted to ask Andrea to go check on Carol. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted a drink. He could tell everything was plain as day on his face despite his best effort because Andrea looked like she was about to die trying not to laugh. I surrender. "God, Andrea, don't make me beg."
"All right, all right, I'm going," Andrea said. "But rest assured, we are going to discuss this later, Mr. Dixon!"
"There ain't nothin' to discuss," Daryl insisted. "It was just a dance."
"Keep telling yourself that," Andrea called over her shoulder as she left him at the edge of the dance floor. Daryl groaned and buried his face in his hands. The room was too hot and he snapped, bolting through the crowd, through the empty green room and out the back exit before anyone could stop him. He leaned against the rough brick wall, his chest heaving with each gasping breath.
I am so fucked.
Carol slammed the door to the powder room behind her, ignoring the startled looks from the few other women scattered about as she sank down on a plush blue velvet settee. Her skin felt flushed, stretched too tight over her bones and she let her head drop, avoiding everyone as she fought to steady her breath. What. Just. Happened?
She'd been nervous as hell coming to the club, her belly full of butterflies. She'd managed to down half a martini with Andrea before the Dixons had appeared from nowhere, Merle full of his typical bullish anger, Daryl quiet and watchful as always. Before she knew it, she'd been dancing with Daryl Dixon, somewhere in there she'd asked him to call her Carol and then… Lord, she didn't even know how to explain what had happened, the crackle of electricity between them, the feel of his hands on her body through the thin material of her gown, the deep ocean blue of his eyes drowning her. Just thinking about it sent a gush of feeling swimming through her that made her clench her thighs together and her breasts ache beneath the constricting boned top. She couldn't remember the last time she'd desired a man so much and she half swore he'd wanted her right back. It wasn't possible, was it? God, no, this was such a bad idea.
"Well, that was fun."
Andrea was suddenly there, as if she'd materialized from thin air, settling down next to Carol with a smile.
"I don't want to talk about it," Carol moaned. Not here, not in this place where the walls have ears. Maybe not ever. She wasn't sure, too dizzy from the drink and the smell of smoke and woodsy scent of Daryl's cologne that lingered in her nose.
"Right." Andrea was giving her a measured look. Carol squirmed under the scrutiny. "You, my friend, need another drink."
"Actually, I think I've had enough excitement for one night." Carol precariously pushed up to her feet, her legs unsteady both from the heels and the damp heat pooled in between.
"Well, you certainly made quite the impression, little firecracker," Andrea purred. "I've never seen him like that."
"Really?" Carol asked before she could catch herself, groaning at Andrea's triumphant look.
I am so fucked.
A/N: The song Carol & Daryl dance to is, of course, 'Stardust' by Hoagy Carmichael. In my head, it's the version sung by the divine Ella Fitzgerald.
