Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when they were going from house to house. Focusing on the scenario of: What if Daryl and Carol had met once before, decades before the virus and their escape from Atlanta to the quarry camp? * Just to clear something up, this could be construed as an AU – however the way I plan to work it into the plot makes it virtually cannon compliant. Just in case that is an issue for some.

Warnings: Contains some minor season two and three spoilers, references to Daryl's past, adult language, sexual imagery, mature content, and adorableness.

Lady in Red

Chapter 2

She let the low buzz of conversation wash over her. Picking up Rick's slow tones as they melded together with Carl's lighter ones, pitched high with youth and excitement as Lori's soft, almost lyrical chuckle echoed throughout the room in response. She closed her eyes, mind still trying to place it. Trying to label,organize, and catalogue the strange feeling that was only growing stronger by the minute.

Dammit, it was right there! Right on the tip of her tongue, but she just couldn't seem to reach it!

Frustration and anxiety rose up her throat like bile. Forcing her to swallow hard and breathe deep as she tried to distance herself from it. She shook her head. Anxious? And over something as harmless as a feeling? Christ, maybe she was overtired. It didn't make sense anyway. She'd never been here before; she'd never even been east of Atlanta. She was as sure of that as she was breathing and yet-

It wasn't long after she slid into a booth at the far end of the bar, the only one with a decent view of the stage that dominated the back wall that she heard Daryl's quiet footsteps coming up behind her. The muted swish and squeak as frayed cuffs rasped across the floor seconds before boot sole met with dusty hardwood. She had her back to him, but she knew, perhaps even instinctually that it was him. She'd recognize that sound anywhere.

She was still looking around the room when Daryl slid in beside her. Awkwardly humping his way across the bench and settling deep into the cushions as he got comfortable. Apparently not in the mood for any distractions as he flicked a stack of coasters off to the side - blowing somewhat futility at the dusty menu sitting in front of her before that too was shoved aside. Poncho fanning out behind him like some sort of banner as he shoved his crossbow across the table. Scratching long scores into the uncured wood as he pushed it down the table to make room, apparently oblivious to the discomforting screech as it grated across the varnish like nails on a chalkboard.

She snorted into her drink. All in all, it was very Daryl.

The man seemed to be in good spirits, obliviously enjoying the rare chance to wind down as he held a bottle of Southern Comfort by the neck. Looking particularly pleased with himself as he sent her a small smile from behind the fringe of his hair. It was one of the rare ones that went all the way up to his eyes, softening the lines around his mouth in a way that shaved five, maybe ten years off his age in a single glance.

She smiled back. After all, with a look like that, how could she not?

"…Yah look distracted." He commented finally, taking a drink straight from the bottle in lue of a greeting. Pointedly ignoring the spare glass that sat rim down on the table as his fingers flexed around the neck, all awkwardly sure, and brashly confident as he eyed her down from behind the fan of his lashes. Suddenly hyperaware of the way the muscles in his arms had started bunching and releasing as he spoke, forcing her to bite her tongue as even that observation seemed strangely familiar.

"It was a close call." She replied, "If T-dog hadn't gone out to get more wood we might not have noticed the herd before it was too late. And finding this place? Well, it just makes me think that we might not be so lucky next time." She finished, eyes downcast as she drummed her fingers against her glass and avoided his eyes.

"That's not what I meant." Daryl replied, tone heavy with significance and a thickening southern drawl as his fingers trailed through the dust. Tracing a long streak through the grime before wiping his hand on his pant leg, his expression closed, almost as if he wasn't waiting for her to reply as he picked at the corner of the table - slowly peeling off the tape that covered one of the edges, apparently set on waiting her out as the moment grew long.

She smiled ruefully; the man never missed a trick. She didn't know how he did it, but it made her wonder what it meant when Daryl could tell what she was thinking better than Ed ever could - better than Ed had ever wanted to if she was being honest. Because when it came down to it, that was the difference, Daryl had always cared. He'd cared about her, about Sophia, and most of all he'd always been there when it'd mattered. He'd been there in a way Ed never had. Even on his best days.

"Deja vu." she murmured, more to herself than anything as she raised her eyes and met his gaze. Feeling something settle inside her as the words aired out, as if saying it made it real somehow - made it more than just her mind playing tricks on her. More like a real possibility than a complete shot in the dark.

She wasn't ashamed to admit that it scared her, the idea that she was missing something. That some part of her life remained a mystery to her, something so important, so deep that it was being dredged up by a place like this. A place she'd never even been in let alone driven past.

But Daryl just raised a brow, clearly waiting for her to explain as he grabbed the bottle and topped up her glass, filling it all the way to the brim before he leaned back in his seat. Clearly enjoying himself as he swirled the amber liquid around in the bottle, looking like one of those professional wine tasters you used to see on TV – smelling the bouquet before sipping.

"Have you ever felt like you've been somewhere before? …I mean, not just feel it, but know it, only deep down you also know you haven't?" She asked, struggling to put her thoughts into words as she leaned back in her chair, watching out of the corner of her eye as Daryl cocked his head and frowned.

"…No." He replied, side eying her like she was talking in riddles or there was some sort of punch line he was missing. Once again gracing her with that blunt brand of honesty she'd come to rely on in the months since the world had fallen apart. They were words that were often hard to swallow, but worth far more than the empty platitudes people were more likely to voice when the going got tough. Daryl had never lied to her. Not once, and that was something she valued above all else.

She sighed, tapping her nails against her glass before pushing it away in frustration. Hell, for all she knew, maybe she was. Maybe she was just talking herself in circles. Maybe the whiskey was going straight to her head and she was reading too much into a feeling that could just as easily be put down as exhaustion or stress rather than the strange sort of familiarity that had settled deep in the pit of her stomach.

She didn't know what to think anymore. She was a contradiction of numbness and warmth, flighty and indecisive as she looked around at a place that reminded her of another. She just couldn't seem to place it. She couldn't seem to make the connection between where they were and where she'd been and it was driving her mad!

Confusion and uncertainty warred with stubborn pride as Daryl sat silently beside her, his posture easy but unflagging as he let her work through it on her own. Blunt fingers restless until he dug into his pack for his sharpening stone and oil and started sharpening his buck knife beside her - letting her know, in his own roundabout way, that he was there for the long haul.

It was on the sixth stroke that her limbs grew bold. Inching a few centimeters closer so that her arm brushed against his sleeve, inhaling the slightly metallic scent of dried sweat, crushed pine, and old leather as their arms touched and goose bumps spread across her skin. Suddenly feeling hyper sensitive and decidedly greedy as Daryl shifted awkwardly in his seat.

The buck knife glinted in the low light, reflecting the odd flicker of firelight as her eyes caught on a muddy swath of dirt that had been smeared across the front of his leather vest. Almost as if he'd wiped his hands on his vest before coming to eat or after helping load one of the vehicles.

It spoke of a sort of thoughtlessness that made her smile. It was something she'd picked up on more than once during the past year and a half. Daryl was always so careful, always so precise and deliberate when it came to almost everything he did. Everything he put his mind to was meticulously weighed and planned out. …Except for when it came to his clothes.

Hell, she was half convinced he'd be running around in a bed sheet styled as a god damned toga if it wasn't for her keeping tabs on his things. Darning and patching his jeans and shirts whenever they needed it and giving them a good scrubbing whenever they were in one place for more than a night. Doing what she could when he was off hunting or busy with other things. Knowing well enough by now how he got when he caught her doing his washing.

Perhaps this particular addition had occurred when Daryl had helped her down from the loft in the safe house or when he'd skidded in the gravel as he, T-dog, Rick, and Glenn had lifted his motorcycle into the back of Hershel's truck the day before. Catching himself on the bumper as the muscles in his legs had bunched and strained, working double time to keep both his balance and his momentum moving forward as they'd tipped Merle's old bike on its side and piled their gear on top of it. - They were small little moments that didn't mean much on their own, but when viewed together, and coming from him might as well have meant the world.

It could have happened during anyone of those moments, each one as innately appealing as the next. Each one showing how far he'd come and how the end of the world might have even been good for him considering the hand he'd been dealt. - She'd never say it to his face, but it was in his flaws that she found perfection. It was his quirks and hang ups, his brashness and unpredictability that continued to reel her in.

Hook, line, and sinker, as the man would probably say.

Her fingers were already itching to wipe it away when he paused, taking a long drag from the bottle before turning back to his work. Saying nothing about her closeness as bare skin brushed against bare skin.

And for reasons beyond her, that only made her want more. It only made her want to reach out and run her hand down his arm. It made her want to linger as she imagined his reaction when she scratched a line down the length of his thigh. Feeling the tremor in his muscles and the hiccup in his heartbeat as her arms curled around his neck. Fingers ghosting across his scalp as she dug her fingers into his hair and tugged, relishing in the scent of him as his stubble rasped across her skin.

Because believe it or not, but the thrill only increased when he let her. Grunting into his next swallow as the muscles in his arms slowly began to relax. Letting her sit beside him, so close that she could make out the thrum of his pulse as she thought about all the things she'd like to do, but wouldn't. …At least not yet.

The only thing was, that even as her thoughts strayed more towards him than the matter at hand, the more convinced she was that she'd been here before...

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! At this point is likely going to be a four chapter story, but that could certainly change depending what happens in terms of the coming chapters.

"The past is never dead. It's not even past." ― William Faulkner, (Requiem for a Nun)