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. * 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.
Warnings: Contains some minor season two and three spoilers, references to Daryl's past, allusions to domestic abuse/violence, sexual imagery, adult language and mature content.
Lady in Red
Chapter 6
Her nerve endings went electric as she watched him throw back the rest of his drink. Eyes catching on the way his throat worked. Highlighting the odd mole or fading scar as he ran his hand through his hair, pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
She didn't say a word as she led the way towards the stage. Having to trust that he was still following as she put a sway into her step and made her way through the maze of couples already scattered across the dance floor.
The dance was both everything she hadn't expected it to be and everything she didn't know she'd even wanted until he was suddenly just there - curling his arm around her waist and pulling her close as the scent of expensive whiskey, old leather and an honest day's sweat overwhelmed that of stale beer and dusty pine.
They didn't do much. Mostly just swaying from side to side, sweet and graceless like a high school dance as the music filtered through the ancient speakers and the usual loudness of the bar became somehow muted. Deciding not to comment when the hands that had once been barely resting on her hips, eventually strayed towards the small of her back - awkward in a way that was endearing and rather than disappointing as he ducked his head into his chest and tried his best to stare at nothing.
She was half expecting him to trip over his own feet, but he didn't. In fact he was surprisingly graceful, in a surly sort of way. There was a surety in his steps that wasn't there when he was at rest, like he knew every muscle, every tendon and ligament all but intimately and wasn't afraid to use them accordingly. He played his body like a finely tuned instrument, turning the smallest gesture into an inadvertent performance that even he didn't seem aware of.
After all, it wasn't the dancing that had him on point. It was the closeness, the contact. Because ironically enough, even now there was conflict there. She could feel it. Mind and matter warring between discomfort and longing as his palms grew bold but his muscles remained tense. He seemed torn and uncertain when her fingers skimmed down his sleeves and tangled in his belt loops - keeping the movement slow and easy as he cleared his throat and angled them deeper into the shadows.
His reaction to her and the people whirling around them was like watching a wounded animal trying to choose between a fight or flight response. And as wrong as it was too admit, she couldn't quite deny that as heartbreaking as it was to behold, it was also equally as intriguing. Contrasting more than it explained as the muscles under her hands turned jerky and tense.
He held her like she was made of braised porcelain, like she was liable to be ripped away at any moment. Treating her like she was someone precious rather than an overly forward stranger he'd only just met.
His hands were calloused, that much she could tell through the thin material of her dress. Hyper aware of the faintly sweaty texture as his hands dipped south, flirting with the seams of her dress as he leaned forward. Chin ghosting across the top of her head in a way that made her pause. Nudging a few of her long, auburn curls with the roughness of his stubble before retreating.
She got so caught up in the sensation that when he directed them through the next turn she lost her footing, caught off guard as they turned sharply to avoid bumping into another couple. But in mid-stumble, without even so much as a hiccup in the rhythm, he was suddenly just there. Hoisting her up like she weighed next to nothing as her heels caught on the uneven hardwood and pitched her forwards.
The move forced him to take the bulk of her weight as he tightened his hold and crushed her to his chest. Wicked fast and instinctive as fireworks sparked down the length of her spine and her dress got yanked up to mid-thigh. - It was an action that was gentle but left nothing to chance as whatever space had been left between them abruptly vanished.
Hell, it'd happened so fast that she hadn't even had time to blink.
She dug her fingers into the curve of his shoulders and laughed. All but main-lining the acrid tang of singed chemicals, old sweat, and cured tobacco as his scent rose in the air around her. Making her nervous and giddy as both the near miss and his sudden closeness hit her like a shot of tequila to the nervous system.
"…Sorry," She giggled, voice hitching and nearly breathless as she tipped back her head and caught his gaze. Dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the near miss as his nails accidentally raked across the small of her back.
"S'alright," He muttered, voice rough and pitching as his grip slackened. Baulking a bit, like a nervous horse when she made no move to pull away - almost as if he'd expected her to recoil and didn't know how to react when she didn't.
She could feel his hesitation as their bodies pressed together, something that was felt more that expressed. Heralded by a tightness in his shoulders and a tic in his jaw as he fixed his eyes on the ground. Looking anywhere but her as his arms slowly loosened their strangle hold and uncurled from around her waist.
And all else considered, she probably should have let him.
She probably should have kept her distance and left well enough alone. After all, whatever issues he had and however much either he or the world was to blame was his business. Not hers. But at the end of the day, she couldn't. She couldn't just stand idly by and let him miss out on something he deserved. Something she was more than willing to give him when it all came down to it.
…Something good with no strings attached.
Because instead of backing off. Instead of loosening her hold and giving him his space, she went a step further. Drawing him in with the crook of her arm until their lips were only inches apart and her arms were wrapped around his neck. Telling him without words everything he didn't have the courage to ask.
And despite the fact that his spine arched, trying to both shy away and hunch in on himself all at the same time, he let her. Allowing her to take the lead as she swayed to the rhythm, inches apart and slightly breathless and they tried to ignore the fact that he was half hard and she was flushed and aching.
And for a long moment, time seemed to slow.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Sorry about the short chapter, I reached a natural pause in the flow and decided to make it short rather than force it. Hopefully I will have a second chapter ready by Friday as well, no promises, but I will try!
"The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew and act anew." - Abraham Lincoln.