While Carol continues to sleep, Daryl snags one of the towels and his pack and hikes to the creek he found while hunting yesterday. It's clean and free of floaters, so he strips down and washes up quickly in the frigid water, dresses in his Wranglers, his only long-sleeve shirt, and his leather vest, and then washes and wrings out his sweatpants. On the way back, he shoots a snake slithering through the knee-high grass.
Carol is awake, dressed, and making coffee when he returns. "Where were you?"
"Huntin'." He tosses the skinned snake on the table in front of her. It's not exactly breakfast in bed, but it's the best he knows how to do.
"You could have left me a note. I was worried."
Is that what it means to be more than friends? He has to leave notes now? "Didn't want to wake ya."
"I fail to see how leaving a note would have awoken me."
He can't tell if she's irritated or teasing. So he points to the snake. "'S for breakfast."
"That's a big one. What is it?"
"Eastern rat snake. Ain't usually that long."
"You sleep well?" she asks, raising her pretty blue eyes suggestively to his.
He ducks his head and smiles. "Yeah. Real well. You?"
"I was up for awhile after you conked out, but once I fell asleep, I slept really well."
He goes out onto the deck to hang his sweatpants to dry while she pan fries up the snake on the fire. Daryl looks out over the hills and thinks this place, like Monticello, would make a good camp too, if they could fence it in. Not that they need a camp. They both have homes. Different homes, but homes.
He'd move to the Kingdom, though, if she asked. He'd have to bring Dog with him, of course. The animal's sprain should be healed by the time they get back. And he'd want to go on regular trading trips to the Hilltop, to spend time with Hershel and make sure the community had enough meat. He wouldn't fit in at the Kingdom, but he's used to not fitting in anywhere. Sure, the Hilltop is more his speed, but he can plant his home base anywhere, as long as he can leave to hunt and scavenge, trade and explore.
He wonders if Carol will ask, if one day she'll want him to move in with her, if he'll be the Queen's consort. The Kingdom's subjects would probably be uneasy with a wild man hovering behind her throne. She says that this more-than-friends thing doesn't have an expiration date, but he worries things will be different when they go back. She's the head of a world where he's only a guest, and she hardly ever visits his world at all.
Daryl jumps when Carol slides her arms around him from behind and squeezes. This is what it means to be more than friends, he supposes. She gets to hug on him whenever she damn well feels like it. And maybe that means he gets to do the same. So when she slides around his side, with her arm around his waist now, he drapes an arm over her shoulders and pulls her close. They look out quietly over the slopes together, until she tells him breakfast is ready and he follows her inside.
[*]
Because the journey is downhill for miles, they make better time than yesterday. Carol, in her late-night musings, found a more efficient route than going all the way down to Lynchburg, but she assures him they'll still have several more days together, because she might want to spend an extra one in Jamestown when they get there. She says it like they're going on vacation and, in a way, he supposes they are.
He steers Freckles a little closer to her horse, scans the rural road left and right and ahead for threats, and then asks, "What kept ya up last night?"
She smiles. "I think I got a second wind from the fooling around."
He likes the way she says that, fooling around, like they're in high school and he's her first real crush. "Think it put me to sleep," he admits.
"Men and women are different like that."
Are they? Nearly every woman he's fucked went to sleep soon after. Then again, nearly every one of them was drunk or high when they were fucking and probably would have gone to sleep anyway. It was always a relief to him when they did. The worst was the few times they didn't, and he had to listen to them bitch about their jobs, or their sisters, or – worst of all - their boyfriends.
He likes listening to Carol talk, though, likes the soft sound of her voice, its even keel. He likes learning more about her, even if he doesn't always know what questions to ask. "Ya like ice cream?"
"What?" she laughs.
He flushes at his lame attempt at conversation, and for a moment he's thrown right back to junior high – to the first and last time he tried to talk to a cute, sweet girl he liked. He tightens his jaws and scans for threats again.
"I like ice cream," she says, and then, clearly trying not to laugh, "Do you like ice cream?"
"Ain't no more ice cream," he mutters. What a dumb ass question that was.
"My favorite flavor was bubble gum."
Daryl forgets his embarrassment. "Aw, that shit sucked! Why'd girls always like that?"
"Because it had those little pink pieces of bubblegum lodged in it."
"'S like eatin' that cheap ass bubble gum in the quarter machines. The chiclet shit."
Carol rests one hand on the horn of her saddle. "Well, I loved it."
"Ya know, ya swallow all that gum 'stead of spittin' it out, it'll make a ball in yer stomach 'n just sit there for days."
"That's just a lie our mothers told us."
It was actually the old lady who lived in the little house a mile down the mountain from their cabin who told him that. She used to offer Daryl cookies or candy or Coke if he rode his bicycle by her place, but in exchange he had to sit and listen to her talk for half an hour. He figured it was worth it. His mother, on the other hand, never told him much of anything, except Quiet the hell down, Daryl! Mama's trying to sleep! Which usually meant she had a hangover.
"Pfft," he scoffs. "Next thing yer gonna tell me if ya swallow a watermelon seed, ain't gonna grow a watermelon in yer stomach."
Carol laughs, and he smiles because he made her laugh. He feels like he accomplished something, like the first time he figured out how to tie a good knot.
[*]
They camp in an old, historic plantation house. Time has taken its toll on the once bright white paint. Tall columns on the portico hold up a balcony on the second floor and Carol notes it would be a nice place to have breakfast in the morning.
But they eat dinner in the old dining room, by candle light. Daryl's snagged a rabbit, which Carol has roasted rather than stewed this time, alongside more of the wild onions she collected from the ski slopes. She gathered enough for three days. There are also wild strawberries, plucked from the grounds of the plantation. They're small and naturally bitter, but she's added some sugar and cinnamon she snagged at the Monitcello café. Daryl points to them with his fork and mumbles, "Real treat."
Between bites, he tells her he found a spring house, built over the creek where the cool waters flow, creating a sort of natural refrigerator all year long. "Should do that at the Hilltop. All we got is a root cellar."
"The Kingdom isn't near any creeks."
"Ain't the best location for a camp," he says as he pops a seasoned onion in his mouth. "Too urban."
"We've done just fine, thank you. We have electricity. And heat in the winter."
The Kingdom does, thanks to the school's old vocational programs, which included green power. "Wasn't a criticism."
"Of course it was. You think the Hilltop's better. I guess that's to be expected. Everyone cheers for their own team."
Daryl chews more slowly. She sounds suddenly upset, and he doesn't have a clue why. "Ain't we on the same team?"
"We've always been on the same team," she replies. "But you know what I meant."
"Nah," he admits. "Don't."
She toys with her food for a moment and then looks across the table at him. "I know Hilltop is home for you. I know you don't get the Kingdom. But those people rely on me to lead them. And it means something to me, the Kingdom's idealism. It's home."
"Know that." He still doesn't know why she's upset, though.
"Do you think you'd ever want to spend more time there? Or do you just hate it?"
So she's been thinking about the same thing he has. Maybe she's also been worrying about what happens when they go back. "Don't hate it!" he insists. "Ya done good with it. Yeah. Could spend more time there, if ya want."
"I'd like that." She smiles, and they leave it at that, without making any definite plans.
[*]
After dinner, they check on the horses in the plantation's stable, secure the entryways from walkers, and then wash up in the cold creek – face and hands and teeth. They return to the house, where Daryl lights the fire in the living room and Carol makes a nest on the floor before it. She doesn't much like sleeping in strange beds, Daryl's realized, and it's probably smart. Who knows how many of them are infested with bed bugs by now.
She goes to another room to change into her sweats, and he changes in the living room, eagerly looking forward to the make out session he assumes is about to follow, but when she comes back, she sits down in the rocking chair with his leather vest and a thread and needle and starts stitching a loose seam on the inside liner.
"Don't have to do that," Daryl says. At least, not now. Not when they could be making out.
"You don't want it coming unraveled. It's your favorite."
"Mhmhm." Daryl plops down on the couch with the opened bottle of gin from the house in Dumfries. He takes a swig.
Carol pulls the thread through and tugs. "Are you going to be a gentleman and offer me some?"
"Ya like gin? Straight up?"
The fire crackles as she stabs the needle into the vest again. "No, but you should offer it to me."
He holds out the bottle toward her chair. "Want some gin?"
"No thank you."
"Pffft." He draws it back and sips.
She smiles. God he loves her smiles. He stretches his legs out, bare feet up on the glass-topped coffee table, and steals glances at her while she sews. He doesn't drink too much more. He doesn't want to get whiskey dick, in case she wants to make use of his dick later, and, besides, he's not the most charming drunk.
He usually doesn't mind just sitting and staring silently into the fire. God knows he's done it his share of nights alone in the woods, without hardly a thought in his head. But now it just feels like he's waiting for her to be done with her sewing, waiting he hopes, to make out again. He gets impatient waiting, swings his feet off the coffee table, twists the cap back on the gin, and says. "Gonna look 'round upstairs for loot."
No one's been living in the plantation house. It's been conserved as a historical site, and all the drawers of the dressers and desks are empty. But in one of the rooms, he finds a decent scythe hung for display on the wall. It might prove a useful farming tool once sharpened and cleaned. He brings it back down and leans it against the wall by the mantle.
Carol's done sewing, but now she's reading a book she snagged from the built-in bookcase, something leather bound that he thought was just for decoration.
Shit. How long is she going to do that? "'S getting' late, huh?" he asks.
"Not that late," she replies and turns a page.
"Yeah, but, need to get an early start tomorrow."
"Why? Are you in a hurry?"
"Nah," he says. "Just…best to start early when yer travelin'."
"Then I suppose we'll start early." She turns another page. How could she have read that page so fast?
"So, if we're startin' early…should probably….you know."
"What?" She turns another page. No way she read that page already.
"Go to bed."
"And sleep?" she asks innocently as she turns yet another page.
She's not reading that damn book.
She's teasing him.
He sees it now, the twinkle in her eyes. But he has no idea how to tease her back. He just feels frustrated. "Wanna make out," he growls.
She looks up from the book with a raised eyebrow. "Is that a question or a statement? Or a command?"
"Do ya wanna…maybe…make out?"
A secretive smile teases the corner of Carol's lips. "I thought you'd never ask." She snaps the book shut.