Archive of Our Own

Work Text

Title:  Waltzing’s for Dreamers Rating:  PG-13?  Not really, but I'm just playing it safe here, lol.  M overall, though.   Warnings:  Adult language.  Suggestion of past sexual situations.   Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl.  Mention of Merle Dixon.

How it all began.  Aka, the morning after the night before.

He wakes with a skull-pounding hangover, a mouthful of russet curls, his dick nestled up all snug and hopeful against a world class ass, and he groans.  Freezes.  “The hell?”

“Finally.  You’re awake.  Think you can let go of my boob now?”
 
 
 
Slowly, he obeys.  Sits up.  Takes everything in.  The bright lights of Vegas are muted beneath a sun baked sky, a pair of jewel blue eyes are staring at him like he has all the answers, and shit.  “S’that a ring?”  He’s wearing one, too.  “Did we?”

“I thought it was a one-night stand…and now we’re married…”

Fuckin’ Merle.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for Dreamers Rating:  PG-13. Warnings:  Adult language.  UST or is it RST?  Hahaha.   Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl.  Mentions of Merle Dixon, Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Lori Grimes, Sophia Peletier.     They’re on opposite sides of the bed now, as far as they both can get without falling off.     Daryl’d laugh if this whole situation didn’t have him turned upside down on his pounding head, but he ain’t no dumbass.  A Dixon, yes.  But a dumbass?  That’s debatable, negating the whole agreeing to come to Sin City with his Neanderthal brother thing.  He’s going to have to claim temporary insanity on that one.  Besides, he has little reason to believe laughing right now won’t land him a knee to the nuts and wouldn’t that be just fuckin’ great?  Like his nuts stand half a chance beneath the pillow he’s got hugged to his lap.  No, he’s definitely not a dumbass.  Not in such a vulnerable position anyway.  So he keeps his mouth shut and tries not to stare, which ain’t really a hardship considering he’s having trouble looking in those pretty blue eyes that keep shying away.  Wrapped up as she is head to toe in the comforter and half the sheets, Woman’s looked anywhere but at him since connecting the all-too-likely dots and Daryl don’t blame her.  Married?  If he didn’t currently feel the foreign weight of a cheap wedding band on his finger, he wouldn’t believe it either.  Then again, he’s the one has a jackass for a brother.  Fuckin’ Merle.     “No.”    He looks up sharply when Red finally emerges from her catatonic state to mutter that single, mournful syllable.  That’s what he’s calling her in his head because hell if he can remember her actual name or where they even are.  Ain’t like she’s said much of anything else anyway since their rude discovery.  “You say something?” he queries softly, the lower register of his voice surprising him even more than her and boy does it surprise her.  He can tell by the way that confused little frown knits her delicate brows and the way she shakes her head, just barely, all those red-brown curls shifting and shimmering in the afternoon sunlight spilling in through the suite’s wall of naked windows.  And damn.  Maybe he is a dumbass.  Now all he can think of is all that pale, pretty skin beneath that butterfly cocoon she’s got herself wrapped up in and the pillow in his lap is a piece of absolute, useless shit.  His memory about how they landed themselves in this embarrassing predicament might be a little foggy—okay, a lot—but the rest of him seems to be having no such problem.  His dick’s all remember when, perking up with interest at the briefest glimpse of freckles kissing one sexy-sweet shoulder and Jesus H. Christ.  Where the fuck are their clothes?  Beamed up on some alien mother ship full of Elvis clones along with his MIA brain?  This is Vegas, after all.  Where weird shit goes down all the time.  Least according to his brother.  Fuzzy recollection or not, though, he’s pretty sure his brain wasn’t the one in the driver’s seat last night.  Hell.  He figures it’s still on vacation with the way his blood’s heating just looking at those pink painted toes peeking out at him, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on those thoughts any further because obviously the dam’s been broken and the woman wearing his wedding ring is blurting out words at an alarming rate, so fast they come out in one big, near unintelligible jumble.     “Thisisn’thappening. It’snot. I’mgoingtokillAndrea. AndMichonne. Howcouldsheletthishappen? AndjustwherethehellwasLori? I’mgoingto…I’mgoing…ohmygod.  Soph…howamIgoingtogetoutofthismess? Ihavetofindmyclothes. Ihavetogetoutofhere. Ihavetofigureouthowsomewaytofixthis. I…what?  What are you…oomph.”    Those blue eyes widen—with real fright at first, yes, but mostly surprise—when he surges across the bed, pillow forgotten, to clamp a hand over her rambling mouth and her head to toe shiver throws them both into such a state of semi-shock it takes several seconds for Daryl to recover his powers of speech.  When he does, his voice is whiskey rough and strained because he’s right there with her on the clothes thing.  The rest of it, too, but the clothes thing is a little more pressing at the moment.  “Fuckin’ hell, Woman.  Breathe.  Just.  Take it slow.  In and out.  In and…shit.”  When her cheeks flush just as cotton candy pink as her toes, he groans and scrabbles one-handed for his discarded pillow.  Clutches it to himself and swears up a blue streak that has her biting her lip and then doing the unthinkable barely a minute later:  laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all.  Putting a hurting on his male pride that’s more fragile than he’d ever openly admit.  When she’s laughed herself silly and lapsed back into a contemplative silence, he grumbles a question.  “Feel better now?”  She nods and gifts him with a soft smile that feels like an echo of a midnight memory.  “Good.  That’s good.  Listen.  M’sorry ‘bout just…and…”    “It’s okay.“    “Didn’t mean to manhandle you.  Would never…”        “I know.  At least, I feel that you wouldn’t.  Which is ridiculous.  Considering I can’t even remember your name.”    “Daryl.  Name’s Daryl.  What ‘bout you?”    “I don’t think I could actually kill anybody even if I wanted to.  Andrea included.”   Daryl smirks, a tiny corner of the mouth blink and you’ll miss it expression, but amusement lingers in his gaze.  “Not exactly what I meant.  But good to know.”  She laughs again and the stranglehold she has on that fuckin’ swaddled quilt loosens enough for a small hand to appear and wave right under his nose, causing him to grunt out a half-laugh of his own.    “Oh.  I’m Carol.  So.  Daryl.  Tell me how the hell we’re going to fix this.”   “Really ain’t that complicated.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for DreamersRating:  G, for this chapter at least. Warnings:  no real warnings, but if you read between the lines, well.  ;)Characters/Pairings:  Carol Peletier–Carol Mason here.  Beth Greene, Eric Raleigh, Eugene Porter, Tobin, Deanna Monroe, Lilly Chambler, Ezekiel.  Mentions of Hershel Greene, Maggie Greene, Sophia Peletier, and maybe somebody else.  Daryl may not be physically present, but trust me.  The man’s there.        The bell rings and the kids scatter like rats searching out higher ground, shoving back chairs and gathering up belongings like it’s the last day of school before summer instead of an unseasonably warm January day.     The realization that she just equated a bunch of 16-year-olds under her tutelage to vermin makes Carol wince inwardly, but it’s been a day, one that’s still not over, and she gives herself a pass not to feel guilty.  There are too many other things that keep her up at night anyway, she rationalizes, her fingertips detouring from the stack of ungraded quizzes on her cluttered desk to the simple picture frame that holds the ultimate place of honor.  She picks up the gift briefly.  Studies the innocent faces smiling back at her and feels that invisible link from her heart to theirs tighten almost painfully.  Her babies.     “Uh, Ms. Mason?”     “Hmm?” she hums absently.  She’s still wearing the remnants of a bittersweet smile on her lips when she sets the frame down.  Looks up to see Beth Greene hovering just a few feet away, looking as uncertain and timid as the injured animals her father has made it his life’s work to heal.     “Ms. Mason?”     With her blond pigtails and big expressive blue eyes, the girl looks like a lamb walking right into the mouth of the dreaded wolf and Carol suppresses a sigh.  Is reminded of the confiscated note that burns a hole in her pocket even now.  Rules are rules, though, and she can’t play favorites.  No matter how much she might want to.  Beth’s a sweet girl—a girl she’s watched grow up in the small town they both call home.  A girl full of dreams and romantic notions, and while Carol stopped believing in such things long ago, she’d never think of tainting someone else’s optimism.  Still.  “I realize songwriting is its own form of creativity, one that you know I greatly appreciate.  But.”  She pauses, gives herself the time to choose her words carefully and kindly.     “Ms. Mason, if you…”     “But,” Carol continues pointedly.  “I’d appreciate it even more if you honed your skills somewhere besides my American literature class.”     Beth visibly deflates and her skinny shoulders fold inward.  She chews on her lips in indecision, clearly working at gathering the courage to speak again.     Conscious of the advancing hour, Carol starts to gather up the ungraded papers and stuffs them in her messenger bag along with her phone and her keys.  She snags the bottle of water she always keeps within arm’s reach and offers the girl an additional piece of free advice that elicits a shy flicker of a smile as she herds her toward the open door.  “Just not in Mr. Porter’s class.  Something tells me he takes science very seriously.”      “He takes everything seriously.  Maggie says God forgot to give him a sense of humor.”     Laughter bubbles from her lips before she can help it and she grasps Beth’s clammy hand, squeezes it with fond reassurance.  Breaks professionalism for a moment to show the girl that she doesn’t mean her or anybody else any ill will.  Far from it, actually.  “Maybe so, but Eugene’s a good egg.”    “A cracked one.”  Beth covers her mouth with her hands, in utter disbelief of her own traitorous tongue.  With wide eyes, she blurts a panicked apology.  “I’m so sorry.  That was so mean.  I didn’t mean to…”     In the interest of saving herself time and the child unnecessary grief, Carol cuts off her rambling with a raised brow and a wave of her hand.  “You’ll get your note back next week, Beth.”    “But Ms. Mason.  That’ll be too late.”    Glancing down the emptied hallway, spying Eric lurking in the staff lounge doorway and tapping the face of his watch, Carol firms up her resolve.  “Next week.  If you’ll excuse me.”     “Next week,” Beth parrots despondently.     “Beth.”     The girl’s slight shoulders shrug off her concern.  “You don’t want to be late.”     “It’s a pretty day.  Why don’t you…”  Carol trails off.     “Yeah.  I’ll just…I’ll just go.”     One last half-hearted tug of her backpack onto her shoulders and the girl leaves her and Carol’s hustling down the hall, the last one inside the lounge full of disinterested faces.  Principal Monroe barely spares her a second glance, but her mouth is twisted in a wry facsimile of a smile that has Carol feeling like a chastised school girl all over again.  “Glad you could join us, Mason.”     “Yeah,” Eric teases.  “Just get here when you can.”     Tobin stands up to pull out the chair right next to him while Lilly offers her a wink and a smile across the table.  “Saved you a seat.”    “While you’re up,” Ezekiel intones without moving a muscle from his graceful slouch, his intelligent eyes sparkling with superior amusement when the long-legged shop teacher hesitates for the most minute of moments.     “Tobin,” Deanna entreats with a roll of her eyes.  “Close the door.  Please and thank you, so we can finally get this meeting started.”        “All right.  Okay,” Tobin nods.  “Anybody want anything while I’m up?”     “My kingdom for a drink,” Ezekiel mutters quietly.  But not quietly enough, it would seem, because Eugene’s piping up with a request of his own.     “I, too, would appreciate a drink.  But not of the alluded to alcoholic variety.  No.  Carbonation will work just fine for my buzz, seeing as I’m still on the clock.  Something fizzy.”     “We have water and, uh, let’s see.  Water.  Water then?” Tobin offers with a cheerful smirk, sending titters of tired amusement through the overcrowded room.       “I suppose it shall sustain me,” Eugene responds blandly.     Deanna interrupts, all business.  “All right, people.  We have a lot to cover.  Carol.  Your turn to take minutes since you were late.  Again.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for Dreamers.Rating:  M. Warnings:  Adult language.  Sexual situations.  Allusions to past abuse.  Angst. That little dramedy I pitched for you turns a little bit dark this chapter. Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl.  Allusions to Carol/Other.  Mentions of Sophia Peletier and Lori Grimes.       He’s freaking the fuck out.  That’s the only reasonable way to explain it, not hearing her come down those stairs.  Not feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up and pay attention when she enters the room.  Hell.  Usually, Daryl feels like he’s jammed his finger into a live electrical circuit—in a good way—just being near her.  Woman makes his blood heat and his synapses sing, but damn if she don’t sneak up on him and scare the ever-loving shit out him.  Nearly make him fall out of the kitchen chair and into the cold tile floor.  “Fuck,” he hisses. “Scared me, Sweetheart.”     “It’s three in the morning.”     “Is,” he answers vaguely and she sighs and unfolds her arms.  Pads toward him on pale bare feet that don’t even make a sound.  She’s wearing the shirt he wore to work, the long, faded denim sleeves swallowing up her small hands.  But she smells sweet beneath the mixed scents of stale cologne and motor oil and he tells her so as he offers her his hand.  “Smell good.”     Her smooth fingers slide over his rough palm and she shakes her head, her curls coppery and still damp against her slender shoulders.  “Don’t.”     “Say you smell good?”  His eyes flutter shut when she lifts her free hand and tunnels it through the shaggy, disheveled strands of his hair.  Only thing that keeps him from purring when her nails scratch lightly at his scalp is knowing she’s doing it on purpose.  Barreling through his defenses, same way she has since that first morning they woke up in bed together, nearly two years ago.       “Try to distract me.”     She’s smiling at him when he opens his eyes.  Tender and soft.  Worry making her bite her bottom lip between her pearly teeth and that just won’t do.  He nuzzles her ticklish palm until she laughs in that giddy, girlish way she and ‘Phia share and pushes back her too-big sleeve to place a lingering kiss at her pulse point.  “Taste good, too,” he teases.     “Cocoa butter,” she reveals, almost shrieking when he snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her into his lap without warning.  Lets a calloused palm travel up her thigh and disappear beneath the hem of her borrowed shirt to toy with the lacy edges of her panties.  “It’s good for stretch marks.  I used it with Sophia.”       “Doubt you needed it.”    Her cheeks hollow and her lips pucker in disbelief.  “You kidding?  I got as big as a barn.”     There’s an echo of hurt reflecting back at him from those pretty blue eyes, a measure of insecurity that strikes a chord deep within him and Daryl realizes hiding his own fears from her is only going to feed back into the ugly cycle they’re both trying to break here.  Swallowing hard, he reclaims his hand and covers the hand that’s still combing fondly through his hair.  Guides it to his shoulder and the raised, ropy ridges of scar tissue that he’s carried with him since he was nothing more than a boy.  Gravely admits something they’ve both danced around every damn day since they met.  Nods at the open laptop screen that glows in the darkness, her kid’s shy smile giving him the courage to admit his failings.  Shit.  He’s just glad she ain’t here to hear this.  Relieved Lori took her for the night and gave the two of them some privacy.  The longer he can shield that little girl from the man he really is inside the better far as he’s concerned.  “I’m fucked up.”     Instantly, her gaze shimmers with sympathy and her hand leaves his shoulder to curl around his neck.  “Daryl,” she breathes against his parted lips, their foreheads pressed together.     Her lashes flutter damply against his cheeks, like the phantom whisper of butterfly wings, and something in his guarded heart breaks away because he’s never had nobody care for him like this.  Ever.  “I’m fucked up, Sweetheart.  You can try to deny it, but we both know it’s there.”     “Daryl, what…”     “Brought this on?” he finishes the question she ain’t able to ask.  Then he shrugs, acts like he don’t know the answer when he does.  She does, too.  Can see right through him so he sighs.  Admits a truth that feels like another piece of his heart’s breaking and drifting wide.  “Told me there was a baby today.  A little piece of you and me.”     “A little piece of both of us, Daryl.  You and me like you said.  You’re not the only one scared.  If you’re fucked up, so am I.  So am…”     She whimpers into the fierce kiss he silences her with, holds on to him so tight he swears he feels blood well beneath her nails, and he groans.  Guttural and deep and tortured as he pulls back and reads her eyes.  Looks for any hint that she’s only telling him what he wants to hear.  When he finds none, he captures her mouth in another, gentler kiss that’s no less passionate and lifts her until she’s sitting on the table’s edge and their lips release, smooth thighs bracketing his upper body.     “I’m serious, Daryl.  I…”     “Shh,” he soothes, rubbing his rough palms up and down her legs and leaving gooseflesh in his wake.  “Don’t have to say it.”  Funny fuckin’ thing is?  She don’t.  Because he seen it in her from the start, way back at the beginning.  Damaged people, well.  The way he figures it, they sink into each other’s gravity.  “Know,” he tells her with a nip of her lips that has her pulling at him.  Raking agitated fingers through his hair while he makes short work of her buttons, maps out the angel’s dusting of freckles on her pale skin with his hands as he parts the worn material and works it down her shoulders.     She lets him lay her down.  Watches him peel her panties down her trembling legs with eyes that glitter with heat and too many emotions to name.     Daryl rewards her trust by being infinitely gentle with the round softness of her breasts, doing nothing more than placing kitten kisses on the erect nipples.  Rubbing the scruff of his unshaken cheek against their aching tenderness as he rests his ear to her pounding heart and lets its cadence fill him up until she’s all he knows.  All he feels in that moment as her hands cradle him close.  And when the moment passes, he looks at her with eyes as dark as a stormy sea. Cups his hands around the narrow breadth of her hips as he gives her a tug, making her curls tumble around her head like a halo.     Her teeth pierce the plush flesh of her lip in breathless anticipation when he urges her legs over his shoulders.  Her restless hands bury themselves in his hair and still.  The first touch of his tongue to her clit makes her shudder. The curl of his fingers coupled with his relentless mouth makes her scream.  Makes her back arch clear from the table when she comes the first time.     Daryl makes sure it’s not the last.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for DreamersRating:  Hmm.  Maybe PG-13?Warnings:  Adult language.  Characters/Pairings:  Daryl Dixon, Dwight, Axel, Oscar, Big Tiny, mention of the Morales family, mention of Sherry, Merle Dixon, mention of Carol Peletier and Sophia Peletier, and a couple of other little Easter eggs for those of you paying attention, lol.      “90 degrees in the fuckin’ shade out there,” Dwight mumbles around his nub of a cigarette.     Beneath the hood of the Morales’ Suzuki, Daryl inwardly sneers.  I’ll match the sweat rings around your scrawny neck and raise you a couple of stank-ass armpit rings, Asshole.  The words never leave his lips, though.  All he gifts the sonofabitch with is a noncommittal grunt.  In the interest of keeping things civil, of course.  Axel’s okay by him, handed over the keys to this Bakersfield shithole like it weren’t nothing and gave him and Merle a chance to start over when they’d up and moved themselves clear across the country trying to outrun the demons of both their pasts.  The man’s harmless, not much left knocking around in his pharmaceutical soaked brain, but his piece of shit cousin is another story altogether, and it’s really too bad they have to keep pretending to coexist peacefully because Daryl can’t really put his finger on it but something about the guy makes his skin crawl.  Oscar’s too, apparently.     “Man, put your shirt back on.  You lookin’ like some starved feral ass cat.”    Big Tiny stops swaying with the oscillating fan in the corner of garage only long enough to snicker an agreement.  “Oscar ain’t wrong.”     “Probably is,” Axel puts in his two cents, his handlebar mustache twitching with each word.  “Starved,” he elaborates, as if anybody had any lingering doubts.  “Sherry don’t like to cook.  Can’t say as I blame her considerin’ she only sees daylight from the inside of that diner.  Poor woman,” he shakes his head.  “Works her pretty little fingers to the bone.”     “Might be you should take some pointers from her,” Oscar suggests dryly.  “That wagon ain’t gonna up and fix itself and the way I remember it, those two flower children be thinking they’re getting it back first thing tomorrow.”        “Might be,” Dwight spits as he jerks his arms back through his dingy, oil stained shirt, “you can mind your own goddamn business for once.”  He skulks back to his designated corner of the shop, grumbling beneath his breath with every step.     “What bug done crawled right up his skinny ass?”     The question is drawled right into his ear, and Daryl nearly jumps out of his skin.  Swears and rubs at the bump he can already feel forming on the back of his head.  Slams the hood of the Suzuki shut and scowls at his brother, who brandishes a popsicle in his hand like it’s some kind of sword.  Or a peace offering of sorts.  “What the hell?” Daryl growls, snatching the damn thing and ripping the wrapper impatiently.  “How ‘bout a fuckin’ warning next time?”       “Used to be, you didn’t need no warning,” Merle pointedly reminds him, sucking his own orange popsicle back between his lips as only he could, in a manner bordering on the obscene.     “Got any more of those?” Big Tiny asks longingly.     “Why?” Merle leers with a wink.  “Ole Merle makin’ you hot?”      Flustered, Big Tiny groans.  “You nasty.  Anybody ever tell you that?”     “See now,” Merle trots out his trademark coat hanger grin.  “That’s all a matter of opinion.  The ladies don’t seem to think so.  In fact…”    Before he can go any further, Oscar interrupts him, “Little E on deck.”     It’s not a moment too soon, and Daryl’s grateful for the reprieve.  His brother might have come a long way, kicked his own drug habit and put his life in some sort of order.  All thanks to a little rude awakening and the kid that’s joined them, bearing a whole box of sweating popsicles like a gift from the Man Upstairs on this sweltering summer day.  But the one thing he ain’t cleaned up is his mouth, especially when it comes to women and his supposed prowess with them.  And he’s far from the only one in this establishment could grow weeds out of his mouth with as filthy as it is, Daryl’s own included.  He gives Oscar a subtle nod of gratitude and leans against the Samurai’s bumper, takes in the scene with an air of wistfulness he couldn’t shake if he wanted to, and damn.  Does he want to.     Big Tiny relinquishes his primo spot in front of the fan to lumber over to arguably one of his favorite people—and not just at the moment.  “Got one of those for me, Angel-face?”    “Grape?”     “There any other kind?”     Daryl smirks.  Watching when his niece presents the big man with his preferred flavor popsicle and he bows clumsily at the waist in thanks, getting himself a coat hanger grin in response that’s undeniably reminiscent of the one his brother wears much more often these days, although the kid’s is much harder won.  The irony don’t escape him.  Couldn’t if it wanted to.  If somebody’d told him have a dozen years ago Merle would find his happiness just as Daryl’s own life went to absolute shit, he’d have accused them of bald-face lying.  That’s what he would have done.    He don’t begrudge him, though, because God and the Devil both know.  If circumstances were different, if he weren’t such a no-good fuck-up not worth the heartache he knows he’s done caused Carol and her little girl, well.  He don’t resent his brother a moment.  Not at all.     “Thank you kindly, Little Miss,” Axel charms as he receives his own popsicle.  “Need me some of them there boots you’re wearing,” he says, openly admiring the black combat boots that are about the biggest things on the eleven-year-old’s ever-growing feet.     “Them’s ass kickers,” Merle crows proudly.  “For my ass-kicking girl.”     Daryl huffs out a laugh and crumples up his wrapper when his brother’s version of praise earns him a sassy purple tinged tongue, tosses it in the general vicinity of the trash can.       “Still like ‘em,” Axel shrugs his skinny shoulders.  “Might even go find me some.”     Oscar’s lips twitch before breaking into a grin full of shark-like teeth.  “Man, you couldn’t even kick your own ass.”     “Might be you’re right,” Axel agrees amiably.  “Just sayin’, though.  Them’s some mighty fine boots.”     “Yes, Ma’am, they are,” Big Tiny chimes in.  Holding out his mammoth paw, he bashfully bargains, “If I show you the car your uncle’s been working on, you think there might be another grape popsicle in it for me?”    “All that’s left is cherry.”     “Cherry just happens to be my second favorite,” Big Tiny tells her as his palm all but swallows up her small hand.  “It’s a ’67 Impala.  Like the one in that show you like so much with the brothers.  He’s fixing it up for the coach at the high school.  Be glad you haven’t met him, Angel-face.  Man loves to hear himself talk.”     “You look at that,” Merle remarks as the unlikely pair disappear into the back of the garage, Oscar and Axel trailing not far behind them.  “Girl’s got him wrapped around her little finger.”     “Ain’t the only one,” Daryl points out as he bends to retrieve the garbage that’d fallen just short of its mark and drops it into the can.  “Reckon you’re going to be lost without her when her and her mama move to Jacksonville come the end of July.”     “About that, Baby Brother.”     Merle scratches absently at the prosthetic on his right arm in a gesture that makes Daryl straighten and study him with a more critical eye.  “Merle.”     “I should have told you a long time ago.”     “Told me what?”     “When that girl leaves?  I’m going with her.  And I want you to come with me.  It’s high time, Boy.  High time.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for DreamersRating:  I’m going to go with PG-13 again. Warnings:  Adult language.  Allusions to past abuse. Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl, Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Lori Grimes, mentions of Carol/Ed, mentions of Sophia Peletier.            “All I’m saying,” Andrea says, holding up a hand to stave off Carol’s sputtering attempts at protest, “is that staying married to Mr. Arm Porn here—even if it’s only for a few months—might have its merits.”  “Mr. Arm Porn, Andrea?” Michonne smirks over the lip of her cocktail, not even bothering to hide her amusement in the least when her dark eyes flit over to Daryl, who’s remained largely silent since the initial round of formal introductions.  “Really?  I’m pretty sure he said his name was Daryl.”  She outright laughs, full and unashamed, when the man in question tucks his hands beneath his armpits, putting those impressive biceps of his on further display, and regards Andrea with a glint of humor in his cool blue eyes.  She watches as he gently nudges her frazzled friend with his elbow and gives her a tiny, half smile before gruffly muttering a statement that wins her over completely and melts more than a few of Lori’s reservations, she can tell.    “Can see why you might think of killin’ her.  Pretty free with her opinions, ain’t she?”  Carol bites her lip for a moment before smiling sheepishly at him.  “All of them are.” She gets a little lost in his eyes.  The crinkles at the corners of them that are revealed to her when that boyish smile of his widens just a fraction.  The mole at the corner of his mouth.  She’s fairly certain her lips have made love to that tiny imperfection, even if the details are fuzzy, and her skin still feels the phantom tingle of his scruff all over parts of her that have never been properly appreciated.  Memory or imagination, either way the realization makes her flush, and she rubs a restless hand over her nape.  Lifts her heavy curls from her neck and lets them fall loosely over her shoulder, averts her gaze and studies the napkin beneath her untouched drink.  She doesn’t look up again until she realizes Lori’s speaking.  She’s defending their sisterhood in the simplest of terms, voicing their common concern for each other, and any residual annoyance Carol feels melts away with her words.  “We want only the best for Carol because we love her.”          “Can respect that,” Daryl gruffly acknowledges.    Andrea lifts a cool, appraising brow at the comment.  “I’m sensing a but.”    “Because there is one,” he responds.  “Where was all that love and concern a couple nights ago?  Hmm?  You don’t know me from the serial killer living down the street.”    Lori frowns.  “What serial killer?”  “The hypothetical one,” Michonne explains.    “Are you a serial killer?” Andrea questions bluntly.  “Mr. Arm Porn,” she adds belatedly with a wry smirk.      “Andrea!” Carol hisses.        “He says we don’t know him,” Andrea shrugs nonchalantly.  “We don’t.  I’m just asking the questions any reasonably concerned and loving friend would.”    “No,” Michonne says.  “You’re blowing smoke up his ass.”    “I would have put it more politely,” Lori joins in, “but yeah.  You are.”   “More politely?” Andrea scoffs.  “Are you being for real?”    “They always like this?” Daryl mutters as Andrea and Lori lose themselves in an exchange of words of a more colorful nature and Michonne plays the part of long-suffering referee.   Laughing softly, Carol doesn’t even try to sugarcoat it.  “Worse.”   “Your ex sounds like a real asshole.”  She sighs and her nails press crescents into her palms because talking about Ed, even the tiniest mention of him, makes her nerves rattle and her heart threaten to take flight.  Every time she thinks about what could have been, how much worse the physical abuse could have escalated past what the verbal already was had she not escaped when she had, she gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and Andrea bringing him up like they were discussing something as frivolous as the weather or what show the four of them were going to see their last night in Vegas before going home, well.  It’s stirred up a whole hornets’ nest of emotions Carol would really rather keep under wraps, but the ugly truth has already been let out of the gate so to speak.  “Asshole is too kind a word,” she finally murmurs.  “Asshole really is too kind of a word,” Lori agrees, abandoning her discussion with Andrea to stress to Daryl just how much of a dirtbag Ed Peletier really is.    “Add a mother,” Michonne interjects.  “And a fucker,” Andrea scowls blackly.    “In front of it,” Lori picks up the thread effortlessly, “and it still would be too kind of a word.”    Daryl whistles through his teeth and picks up the drink he’d all but drained within five minutes of his arrival and subsequent unwilling inspection and interrogation, rattles the melting ice cubes left behind as he makes a visible effort to keep his reaction low-key.  Still, a muttered curse escapes him and his rough hand hovers hesitantly over hers then dwarfs it, works her fingers free of their fretful work and squeezes in gentle reassurance.  “If he manages to get custody of Sophia…”  Her voice quavers at the very thought and Michonne stretches her arm across the table to rest a soothing hand on her forearm, Lori and Andrea quick to follow her example.  “If he does…”    “He ain’t gonna.”   “If he does, though,” Carol swallows hard over the knot of emotion that’s made its unannounced visit in the well of her throat.  She feels foolish, allowing this stranger such a naked glimpse of the demons that plague her, but something deep inside her recognizes his understanding for what it is:  firsthand experience with the darkest parts of so-called love.  “You don’t know me.  You have no stake in what happens to me or my little girl.  Why are you even entertaining Andrea’s ridiculous idea?  Why are you offering…”    “To help you?”  Daryl finishes.    “Why are you offering to help me?”  “Maybe I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”    “Maybe you’re more than a piece of arm candy is more like it,” Michonne smiles.    “Maybe,” Lori muses.   “Arm Porn.  Not candy,” Andrea makes the distinction with a feigned sigh.  “Believe it or not, there’s a difference.”    He withdraws his hand and curls his fingers back around his glass, holds on to it like it’s some sort of tether to a fast-fading reality as he clears his throat and addresses the woman that had planted the very first seed without looking up from its murky contents.  “These merits.  Tell me more about ‘em.”   Andrea all too eagerly complies.  “Well, the court system operates under this antiquated notion that…”   Her reasonable mind won’t admit it for many years yet, but that moment?  Is the moment Carol’s heart started the slow slide into love for one Daryl Dixon.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for Dreamers
Rating: PG
Warnings: some language. 
Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl, Simon.  Mentions of Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Sophia Peletier.  Mention of Ed Peletier and allusions to past Carol/Ed.

“You need to leave.  Right now,” Carol insists, her arms folded across her chest and her expression fierce.  Inside though?  She’s quaking, the years of living underneath Ed’s totalitarian thumb hard to completely shake.  Especially when confronted with nosy slimeballs like her apartment manager who have no qualms butting into her personal business.  Who actually seem to relish in the very act and that’s a source of endless frustration for her.   
 
“Carol, you know I’m just looking out for you.  When I saw this stray lurking around outside your door, my only concern was your safety.” 
 
Anger on Daryl’s behalf sparks in Carol’s very nerve endings and emboldens her to stand her ground.  “Look at him, Simon.  Take a good look.  Does he look threatening to you?” 
 
Simon’s manic gaze darts to the man that has yet to cross her threshold, the man he easily has half a foot’s height advantage over, then swings back to her.  “Uh, yeah.” 
 
Cool, calm, collected—at least to the outward eye, Daryl looks effortlessly imposing, and she sighs.  Maybe Simon has a point.  Still, she isn’t going to be cowed.  Not this time.  With more confidence than she really feels, she drops a timely reminder.  “You know I have Andrea and Michonne both on speed dial.”
 
“Jeez-us,” Simon hisses in response.  “There you go again.  Threatening me with your friends’ legal ex-per-teeze.  I’m just doing my civic duty, Carol.” 
 
She suppresses the urge to groan. “Ms. Mason.“                                                                                                       
 
Finally entering her humble abode, his new home, Daryl gruffly corrects her.  “Mrs. Dixon.  And I’d appreciate it if you,” he says, staring the smarmy manager down, “stopped harassing me and my wife.” 
 
Simon’s expression is priceless, his jaw dragging the floor much like she assumes hers is.  At least in her head anyway.  Outwardly, she manages a satisfied smirk and lifts the delicate chain that’s resting between her breasts to flaunt the gold band that dangles from it.  “You heard my husband.” 
 
“Well, hell’s bells.  It would seem congratulations are in order.  I’m not going to offer them, you understand.  My civic duty doesn’t extend that far.  However…” 
 
Exasperated, Carol interrupts.  “Come off of it.  Nobody asked you to play the role of my savior.  Least of all me.”   
 
“Gratitude really is a lost art.  Goodnight, Mrs. Dixon.  Mr. Dixon.”  Spitting out the last few words like they leave a bad taste in his mouth, he turns to leave.  “Oh, and Mrs. Dixon?  Don’t forget to drop by my office in the next few days.  I’m thinking we need to take another look at your lease.” 
 
“Of course.  I hope you don’t mind if I bring along a friend.” 
 
“Sure.  Bring whoever you’d like.” 
 
Carol pushes her front door closed behind the odious man.  Locks it without conscious thought and braces herself against it, and she and Daryl are left alone, really alone, for the first time since they woke up in that hotel bed over three weeks ago, her breast cradled in his rough palm and his, well.  Now’s not the time nor the place for that particular stroll down memory lane.  Not when he looks so good in his leather vest and faded jeans, those arms that Andrea had been so fixated on in Vegas bare and on display, looking even more impressive in her tiny apartment as they hold an ancient-looking helmet to his chest.  Definitely not now when there’s neither time nor distance to separate them any longer.  That not-so-little realization sinks in and flusters her.  So much so she has trouble meeting his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time when she blurts out a handful of hushed words like an awkward teenager finally afforded a face-to-face with her longtime crush instead of her husband of twenty-three days.  Or is it twenty-four?  She’s lost count.  The whole situation has been so surreal to this point she doesn’t even feel like she’s walking on the same plane of existence as everybody else anymore and something tells her this is only the beginning.  “I hope he didn’t give you too hard a time.” 
 
“That Jim Carrey lookin’ thing?” Daryl shrugs.  “Naw.  You?” 
 
“He’s been a thorn in my side since Sophia and I moved in,” she reveals.  “A source of aggravation more than anything. Nothing I can’t handle.” 
 
“Seen that.” 
 
His simple acknowledgment fills her with a sense of shy pride that makes her stomach knot into even more awkward knots.  “So.” 
 
“So,” he echoes. 
 
“You made good time.  All the way from Austin, right?”    
 
“Roundabouts, yeah.  Made pretty good time,” he agrees, his chin dipping in acknowledgement.  “Considerin’.” 
 
The weary note in that last word makes her blue eyes snap to his face, abandon their detailed study of her socked feet.  “Oh?” 
 
“Wreck on the Bama-Georgia line,” he explains.   
 
Her brow knits in concern.  “A bad one?” 
 
“Reckon so.  Seen a couple ambulances heading the other way.” 
 
“That’s terrible,” she tells him.  And it is.  There’s no doubt about that.  But she finds herself worrying less about some strangers she’s never met and more for the one she married in a drunken lapse of judgment, and isn’t that just the oddest thing?  She doesn’t even allow herself to ponder the sheer absurdity of inviting a man she probably hasn’t even spoken a hundred words to total to share her home because she always reaches the same conclusion:  she’s boarded what Michonne likes to call the crazy train and Andrea’s taken it upon herself to act as head conductor. 
 
“Must not have been too bad, though.” 
 
“Why do you say that?”  She only realizes she’s frowning at him when he stumbles through a clumsy clarification. 
 
“Just thought, well.  Figure they would have airlifted them.  You know?  If it had.  That’s all.” 
 
Nodding to herself, Carol takes a deep breath before replying.  “You’re probably right.” 
 
“Hope so anyway.” 
 
“Me, too,” she murmurs.  His eyes draw her in.  Clear blue and unblinking, they seem to study her.  See right through her and reflect all her questions and feelings of anxiety right back at her.  “This is awkward.” 
 
“Reckon it can’t be avoided.”
 
He’s sheepish in the admission.  The tips of his ears pinking beneath the shag of his dark blond hair and his lips threatening to curl into the tiniest of smiles.  In short, he’s goddamn adorable and door at her back or not, Carol suddenly feels like a rug has been yanked right out from beneath her and all modes of support have been wrenched away, leaving her staring at a future that’s as uncertain, as unpredictable, as a roller coaster’s track.  “I can’t believe I agreed to this.” 
 
“Me, neither.  Can still change your mind.  Won’t hold it against you.  Won’t fight you if you want me to sign on that dotted line.” 
 
“I know,” she says simply.  To all of it.  Because somehow, some way, she does.  He’s a man of honor, this one.  She won’t allow herself to believe any differently because this is the point of no return and she’s not the only one that recognizes it.  She reads the same truth in his eyes.  Taking a couple of steps toward him, she offers him a tremulous smile.  “Why don’t you put down your things?  Stay awhile?” 
 
“You sure?” 
 
“Gotta be.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for Dreamers.Rating: PG if not for a bit of language.  PG-13 just to play it super safe, I guess.  Warnings:  Some adult language.  Characters/Pairings:  Daryl Dixon, Sophia Peletier, Bob Stookey.  Mentions of Carol Peletier, Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes, Ron Anderson, and Simon.    
Daryl kills the engine and the truck settles down like an arthritic old man, with a lot of hissing, groaning, and random pops that make him wince.  A quick glance at the tiny girl buckled up all snug and secure and silent on the passenger side confirms that he ain’t the only one wearing that semi-worried expression.  “Sounds a lot worse than it is,” he reassures her.   
 
 
 
Sophia’s only response is to fiddle with the zipper of her backpack.  Dance dainty painted nails over the pink feline ears, the whiskers, the handstitched letters of her name.
 
 
 
It ain’t no big surprise.  Kid’s been quiet since he pulled up in that empty school parking lot instead of her mama and found her tucked underneath the Grimes woman’s protective wing like a frightened baby bird.  Staring at her small feet like they were the most fascinating things in the modern world and shrinking away from that little shithead friend of hers every time he bounded near her like some kind of whirling dervish.  It still makes Daryl frown, the memory of that sight.  Because he might not have been a part of the little girl’s day to day life long—barely even a month, really—but he can tell something’s wrong, even though he don’t know shit-all about doing this stepdaddy thing.  “Hungry?” he tries.  “Your mama said you could have a snack before your supper.  Nothing big though.  Didn’t want you ruinin’ your appetite.” 
 
 
 
She shakes her head, the fine strawberry strands sliding across the stubborn set of her jaw. 
 
 
 
“Now I know something’s wrong,” Daryl teases with gruff gentleness.  “You and your boy Carl?  You two’s always hungry.” 
 
 
 
“M’not.” 
 
 
 
The corner of Daryl’s mouth lifts in a half-smile.  Kid’s pouty pink lips and fretful brows put him in mind of her mama.  “What’s that?  Not sure I heard you right?”  His smile falls away when she fumbles with her seat belt and pushes at the Ford’s heavy door.  “Whoa.  Hold up.  Hold up now.”  Before he’s even fully figured out what he’s doing, he’s out of the truck and rushing to her side of the vehicle.  Pulling open the door and scooping her up in his arms, setting her on the sun-warmed hood and bending to meet her downcast eyes.  Eyes that are swimming with tears.  Shit.  “Hey,” he rasps softly, curling a calloused finger beneath her quivering chin.  “Know I’m just teasin’ you, don’t you?  Would never say something to hurt your feelings on purpose.” 
 
 
 
A lingering moment of hesitation and Sophia nods, sniffs and allows him to knuckle away her tears.  Fists her yellow skirt in her hands.    
 
 
 
They’re so tiny they make his heart clench.  Both of them swallowed up in just one of his own, and he forgets himself for a moment, all these protective instincts he’s never had before there just beneath the surface.  “Was it Carl?  That little asshole say something?”  She gasps and he swears again, groans because he feels like he’s swimming upstream here.  He really and truly don’t know how to handle little girls and their tears.  Hell.  He ain’t good with tears, period.  “Forget I said that, okay?” he mutters, giving her hands an unconscious squeeze.  “Work with me, Kid.  Can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”  Sighing, he asks again, “It really weren’t Carl?  He didn’t say nothing?  ‘Cause it seems to me, way you two were acting at the school, you and him had yourselves a little fuss.” 
 
 
 
Sophia’s head freezes mid-shake and her teeth worry her bottom lip. 
 
 
 
“Which is it?”   
 
 
 
“It wasn’t Carl.” 
 
 
 
Blowing out a relieved breath, Daryl echoes her words.  “It wasn’t Carl.  If it wasn’t him…” 
 
 
 
“It was Ron.” 
 
 
 
He frowns because his world around these parts is still narrowed to his pretend wife and her kid, her friends, his boss, and Carl.  “I don’t know no Ron.” 
 
 
 
“He’s a butthead,” Sophia blurts, her freckled cheeks immediately flushing and her teary eyes going wide like she’s committed some kind of world wrong. 
 
 
 
Daryl wants to laugh but he recognizes her fragile confidence for what it is, doesn’t want to take it for granted.  With as straight a face as he can muster then, he clears his throat and invites her to reveal the rest of the story.  “So.  This butthead.  What exactly did he do?” 
 
 
 
“Laughed at me.” 
 
 
 
“Laughed at you?” he fishes. 
 
 
 
The pout returns.  Reaches epic proportions before she folds her short arms across her flat chest and huffs.  “He called me a baby.” 
 
 
 
He resists the urge to tell her she is one.  Just five years old and so innocent, she’s almost brand new.  Still, she’s shy, wary even.  But so pure in her feelings, it seeps through the cracks in his own defenses and reaches a part of him he closed off so long ago now he barely remembers it.  Makes it flicker back to painful, tingling life.  “Pfft.  He know who he’s talking to?”  He’s rewarded with an almost smile for that one and a deeper understanding of what has her upset and yet, he’s more confused than ever. 
 
 
 
“’Cause only babies wear arm floaties in the pool.” 
 
 
 
“Arm floaties?” 
 
 
 
She sniffles again.  “Uh huh.  At the Laboring Day party.”   
 
 
 
Kid wipes her nose with the back of her small fist and drags it across her skirt before he can stop her, starts babbling like a little brook now the dam has burst and fuck if he can stand to see her cry.  The sight makes him feel like somebody’s done pried open his ribcage and stabbed him dead center in his jaded heart.   
 
 
 
“Then Carl laughed too and I don’t want to be a baby no more.  I don’t.”
 
 
 
That last word’s swallowed up in a wail that earns the downstairs neighbor’s attention and Daryl waves the man off, sends him on his way with his earbuds and whistled tune.  Gathers Sophia and her backpack up in his arms with an idea percolating in the back of his besieged brain. 
 
 
 
“Where. We. Going?” she wonders wetly into the curve of his neck. 
 
 
 
“To show that butthead Ron.” 
 
 
 
“Huh?” 
 
 
 
“You’ll see.”   
 
 
 
“M’kay.” 
 
 
 
An hour later finds him waist deep in the complex’s swimming pool, his tee shirt and Sophia clinging to his back, leaves swirling in their wake as they wade a little deeper and a recruited Stookey keeps watch for that creeper Simon, cheers them on. 
 
 
 
“C’mon, Soph.  I know you can do it.” 
 
 
 
Gently disentangling her hands from their fierce grip, Daryl drops an unthinking kiss atop Sophia’s sweat-dampened hair before easing her back into the water.  Freeing up a hand to support her as she floats.  “Just trust me.  Alright?  Breathe.  I gotcha.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for DreamersRatings:  G.  Warnings:  No real warnings, unless you count fluffiness.  Implied angst, I guess. Characters/Pairings:  mild Carol Peletier/Other, Tobin, allusions to Nabila/Jerry, Sophia Peletier, original character, mentions of Daryl, Glenn Rhee, Tara Chambler, mentions of Maggie Greene.      “Looks like you have company,” Tobin remarks as he turns onto her street.      “Looks like it,” Carol muses softly.  Her fingers tighten reflexively around the strap of the purse resting in her lap and she searches his profile, looks for further signs of the faint disappointment that laces his words but they’re not there.  At least not outwardly because that hopeful smile he’s been aiming at her for much of the night remains and guilt almost compels her to blurt out a reluctant invitation when he pulls into her driveway.  Almost.  Instead, she voices a gentle reminder when he parks the car and lets it idle.  “Not for much longer, though.  It’s getting late.”   “Walk you to your door?”   “I hardly think the pizza boy’s lying in wait, just waiting to attack,” she deflects with a close-lipped smile.    “Never be too sure about those pizza boys,” he tries again, teasing her and chuckling at his own joke.  Gazing at her with simple, unfettered affection.      When his hand leaves the steering wheel and breaches the small distance between them to cup her cheek, Carol ducks her head and his incoming kiss.  It grazes her forehead instead and she gives his forearm an apologetic squeeze in response.  “Not tonight, okay?  It’s getting late and I’m tired.  It’s been such a long week with all the preparations for the dance, and I just…not tonight.”   “Not tonight.”  He finally nods.  Drops another kiss to her hair before giving her back her space.  “Say goodnight to the kids for me?”    “Of course,” Carol promises in parting.  “I’ll see you Monday.”    “Monday,” Tobin echoes.   She doesn’t actually turn around to head inside, rather watches until his taillights fade into the distance.  Stands there, arms wrapped around herself for warmth against the slight bite in the night air.  Blue eyes unfocused and teeth worrying her bottom lip until a light goes on in the house across the street and the garage door creaks open, her longtime neighbor emerging and eying her with thinly veiled concern as she approaches, only stopping when she reaches the end of her own driveway.    “Everything okay, Ma’am?”    Carol’s long since stopped trying to correct her politeness, just accepts it’s her way.  Has been her manner since they met, back when she and Daryl and Sophia first moved into this neighborhood years ago and found her and her husband on their doorstep bearing the gift of warm, sweet peach cobbler that hadn’t lasted the rest of that day.  “I’m fine, Nabila.  Really,” she hastens to add when her claim is met with a healthy dose of skepticism.  “What about you?  The kids have been gushing about the new addition to your family.  Especially Sophia.”   Nabila’s face splits into a wide grin and she bends to lift a stubby legged puppy in her arms, dodges the eager little tongue and laughs when her efforts lead the tiny ball of fluff to bark playfully at her.  “Meet Honeydew.  By Dr. Greene’s best guess, he’s a Corgi, Golden retriever mix.”    “He?” Carol smirks.  Her question is met with a shrug of the other woman’s shoulders.    “By the time we figured out she was actually a he, the name had already stuck.”   “Well, He’s every bit as adorable as Sophia claimed.”    Nabila puffs up with pride.  “Thank you.”    The opportunistic puppy uses her distraction against her, licking her full on in the mouth and wiggling its furry butt in pleasure and the sight melts the rest of Carol’s heavy thoughts from her burdened shoulders, makes her laugh and startle the puppy into yipping. Quite loudly. When her own kitchen light comes on and she sees a little face pressed up against the window framed by ten small fingers, she says her goodbyes.  “I better go.  Looks like someone’s up way past their bedtime.”  “Don’t be too hard on him, Ma’am.”   Carol purses her lips.  “How long have you known me?”   “Long enough to know not to get on your bad side, Ma’am.”    “Nabila,” she protests.   Not even a second later, the other woman’s mock serious expression cracks and she beams.  “Long enough to know that boy of yours is going to charm his way out of trouble.  Night, Ma’am.”    Nabila’s words turn out to be prophetic because all it takes is one look into her son’s big blue eyes and Carol’s sighing in resignation and overlooking the chocolate milk stains down the front of his Spiderman pajamas.  Leaving her purse on the kitchen table and bending to thumb the pizza sauce from the preschooler’s smooth cheeks.  “What am I going to do with you, huh?”       “Make me eat brushy spouts?”   “Maybe,” she says, matching her son’s seriousness even though she wants to laugh.  Because her baby boy and Sophia are night and day on the issue of food, and she knows from unfortunate experience that there’s literally nothing the falsely repentant little imp in front of her won’t put into his mouth.  In that manner and so many other heart-twisting ways, he reminds her of his father.  “Maybe we’ll just skip tomorrow’s bedtime story.”   “Mama,” he grumbles, folding his short arms across his chest.     “I said maybe,” she qualifies with a tiny, helplessly amused smile.  Tugging his arms from his chest, she scoops him up and places him on the cluttered kitchen counter in front of her.  Lifts the lid of the Gargulio’s Pizza box and frowns at finding it empty.  “At least tell me it was good.”   He nods, his dark blond bangs falling into his drooping eyes.  “The best.”    “You don’t have to brag about it,” she teases with a tweak of his nose that makes him erupt into giggles that she immediately shushes.  “Let’s use those sneaky genes of yours.  See what Glenn and Tara and Sis are up to, ‘kay?”    “’kay,” he whispers loudly.  Wraps his arms and legs around her like a sleepy monkey around a vine when she plucks him from the counter and perches him on her hip.    He’s warm and sweet and heavy in Carol’s arms when she pads toward the darkened living room in her socked feet.  She snuggles him close and breathes his little boy scent in when she reaches the doorway, lingers there and silently surveys the scene unnoticed.    Nestled amidst a sea of pillows and fleece blankets on the bay window seat, Sophia has her nose buried in her latest book of choice.  The tiny book light clipped to its corner illuminates the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks and the furrow of intense concentration between her strawberry brows.  That said, she’s not as oblivious to their presence or her surroundings as she pretends to be.   She’s ever observant, her sensitive baby girl, and the knowledge makes Carol’s throat tighten for reasons she doesn’t want to dwell on so she doesn’t.  She distracts herself with watching the pair with their heads together on her sofa, their faces lit by the glow of the muted television.  Lost in a conversation that makes her brows raise.    “I’m just saying, Tara.  I’ve been waiting a long time.”    “For two fictional people to smash?  Dude.  Me, too.”   “What?  No.  I’m talking about me and Maggie.”    “Uh, I hate to break it to you, but there is no you and Maggie.  So smashing’s kind of out of the question.“    “I want there to be a me and Maggie.”   “Duh,” Sophia interjects without looking up, an expression that’s impressively deadpan on her face.  “Everybody knows that.  Except maybe Maggie.”    There’s something else there, just beneath the surface of that look that makes Carol’s heart sink.  Just a little bit.  A shimmery shine to the eyes that never leave their page that opens a door to the future for her, gives her a glimpse of girlish heartache she wishes she could help her little girl avoid.    “Maybe she doesn’t want to know,” Tara blurts, not unkindly.  “It’s not like you don’t trip all over your feelings every time you see her.  And seriously.  Everybody knows Gargulio’s doesn’t deliver as far as the Greene farm.  Literally everybody.  It’s in the middle of freaking nowhere.”   Crestfallen, Glenn runs his hands over the cap on his head.  Squeezes the bill and moans.  “Everybody?”    Carol announces her presence with a sympathy laden agreement.  “Everybody.”    Tara straightens from her slouch.  Winces when she sees her littlest charge nodding off in his mama’s arms.  “Again?”   “Again.”    “Ninja skills must be hereditary.  Jeez.  Want me to take him upstairs?” she offers.    “Like that worked so well the first time,” Glenn comes back to himself enough to mutter.  “Everybody?” he asks again, his face falling when they all nod in response.  “I am such an idiot.  I’m stupid to even think she would notice me.  To even like me like that.”   “No, you’re not,” Sophia speaks up, immediately hiding her pink cheeks behind her book when she realizes she has their undivided attention.  “I just mean…I just meant…you’re nice.  Is all.”    “Yeah,” her little man mumbles his drowsy endorsement against her neck, making everybody but Glenn himself smile. “Best pizza.”    “Pizza.”  Glenn’s eyes brighten and he jumps up from the couch, barely even waving a goodbye as he pulls on his jacket and heads toward the door.  “That’s it!  I know what I have to do.”  “Should I stop him?” Tara asks.  “I should stop him.”  Shrugging on her own jacket, she ruffles both children’s hair before rushing after her friend.  “Glenn!  Dude, wait up!”  Ducking her pigtailed head around the door one more time before yanking it closed behind her, she holds up her phone.  “Call me if you need anything.”   Then she’s gone.  Both of them are and Sophia huffs, tosses her book aside in disgust.  Stands up and tucks herself against Carol’s other side.  “Boys are so stupid.”     The heat of her little girl’s would be tears warms her skin beneath the thin, loose sweater she wears, and her heart hurts for her when she struggles to hold her not-so-hidden feelings inside with a sniffle.  Mindful of the little boy drifting off to dreamland in her arms, Carol agrees.  Somewhat.  “Not all of them and not all of the time.  But yeah.  They are."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for Dreamer’sRating:  I’m going to say M, just to play it safe. Warnings:  Adult language.  Some innuendo. Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl, Bob Stookey, Merle Dixon.  Mentions of Andrea Harrison and Amy Harrison, Dale and Irma Horvath, Michonne, Sophia Peletier, Simon.      
“Thanks for the invite,” Bob grins.  “The leftovers, too,” he says, lifting the foil wrapped plate in his hands as they reach the foot of the stairs and near his door. 
 
 
 
Offering up a distracted nod as acknowledgment, Daryl peers out into the November night.  His expression sours a bit when he sees the orange glow of a lit cigarette and the outline of a familiar figure.  He ducks his head, attempts to piece together an apology.  “Hey.  Uh, about what my brother said…” 
 
 
The former army medic barely spares him a second glance, just shrugs the whole awkward situation off like water off a duck’s back as he fumbles one-handed for the keys in his pocket.  “It’s alright.” 
 
 
 
He shakes his head.  Sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Don’t have to say that because I know it ain’t.  Fucker was a real asshole to you and I know he ain’t gonna say sorry himself so I’m sayin’ it for him.  M’sorry.  You didn’t deserve that.”  The man’s ever-present smile freezes.  Just a moment, a blink and you’d miss it second that leads Daryl to believe he’s somehow made this whole mess worse, but then it returns slow and easy-like. 
 
 
 
“Apology accepted.  Now tell Carol I’ll wash her plate up and have it back to her in no time.” 
 
 
“Ain’t no rush,” Daryl tells him gruffly. 
 
 
 
“Tell her,” Bob insists. 
 
 
 
“Will,” he agrees, rubbing a restless hand over the scruff on his chin as his eyes gravitate again to the parking lot.  The orange glow has disappeared, but he can still make out his brother’s outline lurking around his truck and his jaw clenches.  He tenses even more when he feels a hand land briefly on his shoulder, forces himself to relax when he realizes the other man just wants to offer him a bit of friendly, unsolicited advice.  
 
 
 
“Keep it civil.  Don’t let him get under your skin.  You’ll be giving Simon the ammunition we both know he’s been looking for.” 
 
 
Daryl takes the pointed reminder to heart.  Grits his teeth and digs his blunt nails into his palms when his brother starts spewing his same old garbage, cackling like it’s high comedy instead of ignorant drivel, making him question how he ever managed to look the other way in the past.
 
 
 
“Lookin’ pretty cozy over there with Ole Buckwheat.  Hell.  Thought for a second you two’s gonna kiss goodnight.”   
 
 
“Man, fuckin’ shut your mouth,” he snaps, snatching up the cigarette Merle offers him and tossing it to the cracked asphalt below.  Grinding it beneath the heel of his shoe and anticipating the irritated slap to the back of his head, ducking just in time and making his brother grumble under his breath in response. 
 
 
 
“Takin’ it you ain’t gettin’ no so-called benefits out of this marriage arrangement of yours.  Wouldn’t be wound so tight if you was.” 
 
 
“Benef…” Daryl sputters.  Jerking his collar up against the noticeable chill in the air, he stalks off.  Avoids facing the knowing glint in Merle’s eyes head on.  “Benefits?” he scoffs.  “Ain’t like that, Asshole.  You even hearin’ yourself?”  He whirls around angrily when the sonuvabitch starts laughing like some kind of crazed hyena.  He figures he probably ain’t far off.  Expects to see his eyes bright and wild with his latest ticket to oblivion, but they’re clear.  Calculating and concerned in their own way.  “Goddammit, Merle.  What you playin’ at?” 
 
 
 
“Ain’t playin’ at nothin’,” Merle shrugs.  “Just wanted to confirm something and you confirmed it for me alright.” 
 
 
Tiredly, he asks.  Because he knows he can’t let it go.  “Yeah?  What’s that?” 
 
 
 
“This little situation you got yourself stuck in, it’s more real than you bargained for.” 
 
 
 
His words strike a little too close to the truth.  Glance off an unshielded nerve and Daryl mutters, “How you figure that exactly?”  
 
 
“You’re in love with her.  Even worse, you done tripped ass over tea kettle for that little girl watchin’ your every move with stars in her eyes.  Might as well admit it, Baby Brother.  You treading water in the deep end.” 
 
 
 
“Fuck you,” he growls. 
 
 
 
“See now,” Merle smirks.  “I bet if you ask her real nice and polite-like, your mousy little missus will let you crawl between her thighs and…”
 
 
Daryl gets up in his brother’s face, pointed finger stabbing him in the chest and voice hissing low.  “Best not finish that sentence.”
 
 
 
Holding his hands up, the elder Dixon steps back.  “All I’m sayin’ is you ain’t alone.  Know you didn’t see ‘em.  But judgin’ by them heart eyes she was givin’ you over the dinner table, you and Mouse is in the same boat.  And Ole Merle, well…” 
 
 
Daryl cuts him off, his denial vehement.  “Ain’t you.”
 
 
 
In an instant, Merle sobers.  “Never claimed you was.” 
 
 
 
“Merle…” 
 
 
“You try to apologize, I’m gonna kick your ass into the end of February.  You feel something, you stick by it.”  Cupping his big hands over Daryl’s shoulders, he looks him in the eyes.  All the jokes, all the innuendos stripped away in a rare moment of sincerity.  “Mean it ‘til somebody does something deservin’ of reconsiderin’ but don’t you dare say you’re sorry.” 
 
 
 
Caught off-guard by his brother’s serious tone, he can do no more than nod.  Look down to his feet. 
 
 
Clapping a hand against Daryl’s neck, Merle gives his hair one last obnoxious knuckling before putting some distance back between them and patting his front pocket for his pack of cigarettes.  Coming up empty, he blows out a big breath.  Launches into a whole string of rambling words.  “Headin’ back out tomorrow.  Figured I’d see which way the wind takes me.  Can’t say as to when I’ll be back ‘round these parts.  Know it won’t be no big loss to you, but I probably won’t make it to you and your girls’ Christmas.” 
 
 
 
He really lays it on thick, makes Daryl feel sorry as shit for him, and before he even recognizes what he’s doing, he’s inviting the weasel to breakfast.  Feeling like he’s just been played like a golden fiddle. 
 
 
“Always was the sweet one,” Merle drawls as he cranks up the Triumph, starts walking the idling machine backward.  “Don’t you be keepin’ Mouse up all night.  Gettin’ an early start.” 
 
 
 
Daryl’s answer to that is a middle finger salute as he turns on his heel, takes the steps two at a time until the door knob is turning under his hand and he’s letting himself back into the apartment that just hours ago had been filled to brimming with Stookey, Andrea and her kid sister Amy.  His Hawaiian shirt-wearing boss and the man’s wife, who just so happened to share an address with the youngest Harrison.  And Michonne and Merle, not to mention Carol and Sophia.  Now it’s empty.  Silent but for the absent humming that he follows to the kitchen and he lingers in the doorway, watches the woman that wears his ring.  Sleeps just down the hall from him every night and gives him a soft smile goodbye each and every morning since she first welcomed him inside her home.  “Hey,” he finally greets.  His voice rumbles low as he approaches her and a tiny shiver ripples across her slim shoulders.  One he wouldn’t have even noticed had he not been studying her so intently, and he schools his surprised expression, the very idea that Merle wasn’t just blowing smoke up his ass like always causing a seismic shift in his way of thinking.  The way he searches her blue, blue eyes when they light on him and sparkle in the low light. 
 
 
“Hey,” she murmurs.  “Your brother make it out okay?”  
 
 
 
Dipping his chin low to his chest, he steps up beside her at the sink.  Turns on the tap to start rinsing as she washes, her hands delving in and out of the soapy water.  “Asshole invited himself to breakfast tomorrow morning, though.” 
 
 
She laughs, soft and silvery at the news, flicks a foamy bubble at him as she transfers a plate into his waiting hands.  “Sure hope he likes cereal.”
 
 
 
He huffs out a laugh of his own.  “Yeah?” 
 
 
 
“Yeah,” she smiles to herself.  “I don’t cook the day after Thanksgiving.  Not since Sophia and I have been on our own anyway.  It’s strictly cereal and leftovers.” 
 
 
“New tradition?” he teases. 
 
 
 
“Something like that.  Last year it was Lucky Charms.  This year we put it to a vote and decided to expand the menu to include Apple Jacks.” 
 
 
 
“Knowing Merle like I do, he’ll eat that shit right up.  The less nutritional value the better far as he’s concerned,” he explains.   “Man’ll put damn near anything in his mouth.” 
 
 
“In my admittedly limited experience,” she shyly points out, “he’s not the only one.  Pickled pig’s feet?  Seriously?” 
 
 
 
The corner of his mouth lifts in a tiny half-smile of remembrance.  He still ain’t sure who’d been more disgusted.  The woman at his side or her girl.  “Sign of a true Dixon.” 
 
 
 
“That so?” 
 
 
Her fingers brush against his own when she hands him another plate and it’s all he can do to keep from shuddering because it’s like Merle’s offhand suggestion tripped all his circuits and his body’s stopped trying to mask its responses to her.  His heartbeat starts to pick up speed and his breath grows short.  His voice sounds a little strangled when he responds, “Yeah.  Yeah.”  He clears his throat but it does little good.    “T’is.”  He hasn’t felt this off-balance since he woke up in that bed with her, his dick all snuggled up to her backside, and he busies himself with arranging the rinsed dishes in the nearby strainer.  Gazing out the tiny kitchen window until he can trust himself not to bury his hands in all those messy curls piled up on the top of her head.  Pull her to him and kiss her ‘til she sighs and melts against him, soapy water soaking him to the skin because dammit.  This isn’t what they agreed.  This isn’t what either of them signed up for.  Already, he adores that little girl sleeping down the hall too much to fuck things up by letting his head go under.  Allowing himself to fall in love with her mama.  Anyway.  It’s too soon.  Too damn soon to even be entertaining these thoughts.  Fuckin’ Merle.  Ain’t ‘til she reaches over him, places the last of the dishes in the strainer beside his own that he realizes how lost in his head he’d been.  How his silence had worried her. 
 
 
“Hey.”  Her brows furrow and her teeth tug at her bottom lip.  “I was just teasing.  You know that, right?” 
 
 
 
“Know,” he mutters.  “Think I’m gonna take a shower.  Go ahead and turn in.  Been a long day.”  He forces himself not to react to the disappointment she can’t quite hide on her pretty face.  Covers up his own guilt by making one last half-hearted offer.  “Need any more help with anything in here?” 
 
 
 
Quietly, she reassures him.  “I’m alright.  Be sure to save some warm water for me.” 
 
 
Won’t be a problem, he thinks.  “Will,” he promises.  “G’night.”

“Good night, Daryl.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Title:  Waltzing’s for DreamersRating:  M this chapter.  Just to be safe. Warnings:  some adult language, sexual situations. Characters/Pairings:  Carol/Daryl, mentions of Sophia Peletier, T-Dog, Rick Grimes, Andrea Harrison. Mentions of past Carol/Ed. Allusions to Jerry/Nabila.    
It’s sweltering outside, the summer sun high and bright. 
 
 
No clouds to speak of in the Georgia sky and Carol’s hair is sticking to the nape of her neck in damp little curls.  Her ponytail drooping sadly and her loose tee-shirt clinging to her in a sweaty embrace that makes her grimace because she’s not the one that’s spent hours up in that sprawling oak tree, hammering all those reclaimed boards in place.  Fashioning a fairy tale hideout first with T’s help, then all on his own, and it’s been three days of this.  Three whole days and they’ve barely seen each other between work and unpacking the boxes that litter each room of their new home, falling into bed exhausted long after the sun finally goes to sleep.  It’s been three days and Sophia’s not going to be at camp forever.  Her little girl is coming home at the end of the week and she’s going to have the sweetest surprise waiting on her.  She is.  But they’re home alone now.  They both have a rare day off work and they’ve been married almost a year, but it hasn’t been long since they decided to give this whole family thing a real shot.  Fumbled their way through shy admissions that they want to give them a chance, too.  He’s kissed her since then and made her go weak in the knees.  She’s kissed him and made him groan, pull back from her and close his eyes.  Take deep slow breaths until he reined in a part of him she knows he fights hard to control.  But she wants to do more than just lie quietly beside him in that big bed upstairs.  More than just get lost in his eyes as he fits his palm to hers in the moonlight.  And though she’s not sure how to go about it, how to breach that invisible divide, she’s going to try because that’s what they agreed to do for each other:  try. 
 
 
The tree house’s trap door squeaks open and a shaggy blond head appears, then a pair of broad shoulders.  “Hey.  That for me?” 
 
 
 
She shrugs.  “Might be.” 
 
 
 
The corner of his mouth lifts and his blue eyes narrow as he eyes the glass of iced tea cradled in her hands with undisguised yearning.  “Might be?  Either is or it ain’t.” 
 
 
“Come on down and find out,” she bargains with a tiny smile.  She briefly entertains the notion of pressing the sweating glass to her fevered cheek and trailing it along her throat.  Just to cool down, although a part of her can’t help wanting to play with him a little.  See if she can’t tempt him even though she’s never been one to play the part of seductress.  Doesn’t even know how and still hasn’t fathomed what drew him to her in that desert town.  The very idea of pretending to be something she’s not after those years trapped in a loveless marriage with Ed makes her stomach feel queasy and she won’t do it.  Not even for this man.  This very good, flawed man that’s been worming his way into her heart since the moment he agreed to Andrea’s hairbrained idea.  “You’ve been up there for hours,” she says, as if he needs the reminder because there was still dew on their backyard carpet of green grass when he’d made his way up there and now, well.  Now even the flowers are starting to wilt a little.   
 
 
Both corners of his mouth curl at her last statement and he huffs out a laugh.  “Sound like you might miss me or something.” 
 
 
 
“Maybe,” she admits in a voice as soft as the breeze that’s barely rustling the canopy of leaves overhead and she doesn’t know who is more surprised by the confession.
 
 
 
“Just wanna make sure things are finished for the ladybug when she gets back.  Safe.“ 
 
 
One simple word and her eyes fill with tears and through the shimmery sheen all she can see is the concern etched into every line of his handsome face before it disappears.  Is replaced with the worn boots he wears everywhere, even in that little Nevada wedding chapel she can’t remember.  Wouldn’t even believe existed if Rick hadn’t done her a favor and somehow managed to unearth the pictures to prove it. 
 
 
 
“Shit,” he swears as he forgoes the last two rungs nailed to the tree’s trunk and hops down.  Stands just a few steps away in uncertainty.    “I say something wrong?  Hey,” he says.  Hesitates only seconds longer before walking right up to her and reaching for her hand, only to change his mind at the last second and chew on his lip in indecision.  Still, he pleads with her to explain.  “Talk to me, Sweetheart.” 
 
 
It’s the gruffly uttered endearment that completely does her in, and her fingertips are skating along his forearm before tangling with his own and tugging him close.  “Daryl.  Come here.”  Tears make their way down her cheeks as she kisses him, soft and sweet.  Her whole heart his for the taking in that infinite moment when their lips meet and cling, retreat only to meet again, and it’s tame compared to some of the kisses they’ve already shared.  Full of more feeling than the passion or desire she’s long since stopped pretending exists between them.  But much more frightening because she sees her own fears reflected back to her in his startled blue irises.  “You’ve done more for my little girl than her own daddy has in his whole miserable life.” 
 
 
Daryl ducks his head.  Tightens his grip on her hand.  “Ain’t done much of nothin’.  Kid makes it easy.  ‘Sides.  I want to.” 
 
 
 
“You really do, don’t you?”
 
 
 
“Want to do for her.  And you.  Just want you to…”  He presses the tumble of words into the cradle of her palm, tries to communicate the rest with his eyes. 
 
 
After all these months, though their comfort level with each other has surpassed anything Carol has dared dream of, he’s still uncomfortable opening himself up completely for her scrutiny.  Still braces himself during moments like this that ordinary lovers treat as commonplace.  Take for granted.  All that confidence she’d thought he’d possessed at the beginning just an act to cover up just how much he truly guards his heart.  It’s part and parcel of why she finds herself halfway down the slippery slope to love.  Might even already be at the bottom staring up, if she were more honest with herself, but she’s been pretending so long it’s hard to truly say.  So she doesn’t.  Just rises up on her toes and kisses him again, forgets the glass between them until it spills and soaks into both of their shirts, falls to the ground below.  The cold’s a welcome shock that brings her to her senses because she wants to peel his shirt from his back and slide her hands inside.  Trace her name into his skin and coax him into doing the same and they don’t want an audience for that.  No matter how nice and welcoming their new neighbors are.  “Daryl,” she murmurs against his panting mouth.  Squeezes his hand.  “Come inside.”
 
 
The house is a cool oasis. 
 
 
 
It’s still a little cluttered, still bearing the faintest traces of another family’s shared life, but it’s more hers than anything else ever has been except for her daughter.  Theirs. 
 
 
 
“Don’t have to do nothin’ you ain’t ready for,” he mumbles into her mouth when they kiss again, falling back against the wall just outside the kitchen and nearly toppling one of the many half-emptied boxes scattered all around as reminders of just how new this all is, them giving it a real try.  “You don’t.” 
 
 
She searches his eyes, thumbs the scruff on his chin and cheeks and gives him a shaky, reassuring smile.  “Neither do you.  If you don’t want to…” 
 
 
 
“Want to,” he cuts her off gruffly.  “Y’don’t know how much.  M’dirty, though.  Sweaty.  Don’t think you want me pawing at you like some kind of…” 
 
 
“Some kind of what?” She grins when his words stutter to a stop.  Her own hands have taken to wandering and they flit over the nape of his neck underneath the shag of his dark blond hair.  Mold to the impressive breadth of his shoulders before tracing over his heaving chest.  Flatten over his pounding heart beneath the damp cotton of his shirt as he braces his against the wall on either side of her head.  “Do I look like I care?” She laughs at his stupefied expression and utters a confession that makes him go even more slack-jawed.  “It’s hot out there.  Too hot even for a bra.  I’m probably just as sweaty as you are.” 
 
 
 
“You ain’t wearin’ a…you’re not…Christ, Sweetheart,” he mutters, dropping his forehead to rest against hers.  “I…” 
 
 
 
“Say it again.” 
 
 
 
 “Say it again?  What?  Oh.” 
 
 
 
“You called me…” 
 
 
 
“Sweetheart.” 
 
 
The low, husky rumble of his voice makes her shiver.  Go all liquid and hot inside and she clenches her legs together, her eyes shut as one of his hands lowers to cup her jaw.  Holds her in place while he feathers a series of kisses to her face, the tip of her nose, her fluttering eyelids.  Lingers on her creased forehead. 
 
 
 
“Y’sure?” he rasps as he reels back on his heels, gives her some space and one last chance to walk them both back from this precarious cliff they’re flirting with. 
 
 
Carol answers him by pulling her shirt over her head and letting it fall from her fingers.  Biting her pink lip between her teeth and reaching for him again.  Her hands fist his gray tee shirt and her eyes glitter at him, her bravery threatening to desert her when it takes him a few stunned moments to respond.  She lets out a ragged breath of relief when he finally does, her heart desperately thudding against its bony cage. 
 
 
 
“Fuck,” Daryl growls, his rough hands immediately spanning her ribs and sliding higher.  His thumbs dragging over the stiff pink tips of her small breasts as they fill his hands.  “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” 
 
 
 
Her heart is lodged in her throat when she shakes her head because she’s heard too many lies cloaked in pretty words.  She doesn’t need to hear them from Daryl.  But then his mouth is on her, his stubble rasping against her sensitive skin, and she loses all rational train of thought as she lets sensation take over.  He licks and he sucks voraciously, nips and bites then soothes with a gentleness that starts to unravel her.  Thread by thread and she can’t help it.  She moans, rolls her hips restlessly.  Lets her head fall back against the wall as he slides a hand around to the small of her back, propels her closer to him with a groan and helpless thrust of his own hips and some small flicker of a memory sparks.  Lights up her blood electric as his blue eyes look up at her, heated and so full of naked adoration, she sobs his name.  Tangles her hands in his hair and pulls him to her for another kiss, this one not retaining that careful edge all their others thus far have.  This one wild, no holds barred.  Breath-stealing and deep, so full of fire she feels like she’s burning from the inside out.  Melting into a quivering body of messy, terrifying need and she’s tearing at his belt with trembling hands even as he’s cupping her over her shorts.  Blunt fingers pressing in until they find her hard bundle of nerves through the fabric and rubbing.  Coaxing more wetness to dampen her panties and make her hot and throbbing beneath his hand, make her beg.  “Please.” 
 
 
Daryl’s pupils blow wide when her small hands finally manage to undo his fly and delve inside.  He stumbles into her, his weight pushing her against the wall and trapping her hands.  Forcing his own hand more solidly against her heat and eliciting a whine of his name past her parted lips.  “Easy,” he croons against her temple.  Nuzzles her red curls and drops the hand at her back to her ass, clutching her closer and holding her steady.  “Easy.” 
 
 
 
The struggle to follow his own advice is written all over his beautiful face.  In the sweat pearling in the little divot above his lip.  The darkness of his eyes and the high flush on his cheeks, and any last vestiges of doubt she feels melt away and Carol feels confident.  Truly wanted and powerful for perhaps the first time in her life and a smile curves her mouth.  Brightens her blue eyes as she curls her fingers around the smooth steel of him and squeezes, dragging a guttural groan from his very toes.  Teases him with a wicked arch of her brows.  “I think I’d rather do things the hard way.” 
 
 
He kisses her with the grin still on his mouth.  “Stop.” 
 
 
 
She doesn’t.  And the treehouse?  The unpacking?  They save it for another day.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Pull over,” Merle orders.  “Gotta take a piss.  Probably ain’t the only one.” 
 
 
A glance in the rear-view mirror suggests otherwise—E’s been playing that new game Oscar downloaded to her iPad, Temple-something or other, since the novelty of being chauffeured around in the Impala had worn off ten minutes into their hour’s long trip—but Daryl don’t say nothing.  Recognizes his brother’s stall tactics for what they are and flips on his turn signal at the intersection.  Pulls into a gas station with a Texaco sign and a towering James Dean pointing the way and parks.  “You go on.  We’ll just stay here.” 
 
“Suit yourself,” Merle shrugs as he unloads his big body from the passenger seat.  “You want something to eat, you’ll get your asses movin’.  ‘Sides,” he slaps the car’s hood, “damn thing’s hotter than hot.” 
 
 
The double meaning of his words makes Daryl grumble.  “You best be buyin’.”  Heaving his own door open, he performs the same courtesy for his niece and the preteen barely even takes her eyes off of the screen in front of her as he nudges her toward the mini-mart’s entrance.  Still enthralled with her game and happily oblivious to the back and forth bitching between him and her jackass father.  “Ever occur to you,” he hisses as the kid passes beneath his brother’s bracing arm and ducks into the air-conditioned tourist trap, wandering a few feet away from them both, “we could be arrested for this?” 
 
Merle grin falters slightly.  “Got your panties all in a twist for nothin’, Darylina.  Thought we’d turned over a new leaf, but I can see we still have a ways to go.” 
 
 
Guilt only softens Daryl up so much and the best non-apology he can manage is to keep his mouth shut.  Let the subject drop for the time being.  “Man, just hurry up.” 
 
“Fuck, but you’s straight up actin’ like a woman,” Merle mutters as he makes a beeline for the restrooms. 
 
“We ain’t here when you come back,” Daryl calls out to him, “we’re in the car.  Waitin’.”  Soon as his brother’s out of sight, he tracks down his niece.  Finally finds her clear across the store.  Standing in front of a red counter and a display case full of fudge that sets his mouth to watering.  Flipping her ponytail over one skinny shoulder, he voices a gruff reminder.  “Know you shouldn’t be sneakin’ off like that.” 
 
“I didn’t sneak.  You and Merle were just too busy fighting to pay me any attention.” 
 
 
It still throws him, her calling Merle, well, Merle.  Logically, he knows it shouldn’t when his brother didn’t know shit ‘bout her for the first eight years of her life.  Still.  When it’s all said and done, he’d been in Sophia’s life even less time than the three or so years Merle’s been in Enid’s and he’s still haunted by the memory of that little girl asking if she could call him Daddy.  By his choice to walk out on her and her mama without saying goodbye.  It’s always there, that regret.  It never fuckin’ leaves him, no matter how many times he reminds himself he only done it for their own good.  No matter how many vices he indulges in to try to dull it.  It’s always there.  Just like the wariness the kid staring up at him has never quite managed to shake completely.  Yeah, she might have let them in.  Him and Merle.  But it ain’t escaped Daryl’s notice she keeps one eye on the door, always ready to make her escape should his shithead brother relapse into the fuckin’ mess her mama kept her protected from all those years, and he can’t say he blames her.  Not one bit.  “Weren’t fightin’,” he tells her.  “Not really.  Ain’t seen us really fight.”
 
 
Those big, old soul eyes of hers narrow skeptically. 
 
“M’serious,” Daryl insists.  “You ain’t.  Hope you never do.”  Nodding his head at the display case, he unconsciously swipes his tongue over his lips.  “Shit looks good.  Want some?”  He looks up sharply when a cotton-candy sweet voice butts into their conversation. 
 
“I can give you and your little girl some samples if you’d like.” 
 
“Ain’t my…” 
 
“One of each flavor,” the cooing blonde entices.   
 
“One of each?”
 
Kid asks the question with an overkill of wonder, and Daryl has to bite back a smirk because there ain’t no DNA test needed to tell him the little con artist slipping her arm through his and tugging at the back at his shirt is his brother’s girl.  Naw, she’s a sweet and sour chip off the old block, and he knows for a fact Merle would be beaming at her right now.  Proud as a fuckin’ peacock if he weren’t taking the longest piss in the history of all mankind.  “Dunno,” he says, wincing slightly when the comment earns him a pinch to his side.  Looking back up at the woman, he explains.  “Gotta be gettin’ back on the road soon.  Don’t have time to stick around.” 
 
“I can box them up for you.  Won’t take but a minute.” 
 
Little E turns up her game, batting her lashes and pouting.  “Please, Daddy.” 
 
Choking back a laugh, Daryl gives in.  Goes all in, really.  Those years of pretending with Carol—first as a loving husband, then as a man that was walking away from one big, elaborate sham—coming in handy.  “Alright.  Really do need to get a move on.” 
 
They make out like bandits, all three of them.  End up back in that Impala, eating up the miles between Bakersfield and San Francisco before the girl’s mama can send out a search party.  Pull up in Karen’s driveway in the middle of the afternoon to find the woman herself waiting beside an idling U-haul, the concern on her face morphing into a relieved smile when she lays eyes on her daughter.  Then dissolving into a disapproving frown when she sees the kid’s chocolate smudged lips and the nearly empty box of fudge in her hands. 
 
“I’d make her ride with you and Patrick, but I’m not sure you can keep both of them alive,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes.  No, ma’am,” she says, plucking the box of sweets from her daughter and pushing them into Merle’s chest.  “I think you’ve had enough, thank you very much.  Go wash your face.  We should have been at the airport an hour ago.  We should have been in Jacksonville with Ty and the team last week.  Got the Patriots in their house in less than a week, but I digress." 
 
 
“’Member now why me and you, we never made a real go of it,” Merle tells her with a shake of his head.  “Always been a real buzzkill, Woman.  Life of the fuckin’ party.” 
 
Daryl elbows him sharply in the side.  Exchanges the bulging duffel bag in his hands for the box of candy.  “Merle.  Just shut up while you’re ahead.” 
 
“Listen to your brother,” Karen advises over her shoulder as she marches up the shrub-lined sidewalk.  Checks to see what’s taking her girl so long.  “Enid!  We still have to go through security.”  
 
“What?  Company jet not available?  Ow.  Ouch.  Dammit, Darylina,” he scowls, rubbing his already tender side.   
 
“Stop bein’ a jackass.” 
 
“Fine.  Somebody gonna tell me who the hell Patrick is?” 
 
“Kid’s pet turtle.  ‘Member?  Had him since she was six,” Daryl reminds him as he pops the Impala’s trunk and slides the girl’s back pack over his own shoulder.  “Named it after some cartoon character.  Here,” he says, looping the bag over his brother’s prosthetic when he stands in front of him again.  “She’s gonna want this with her on the plane.” 
 
“Sure you won’t come with me, Baby Brother?  Ain’t never gonna remember all this shit.  Don’t know what I was thinkin’.  Girl ain’t gonna care one way or the other if I follow her all the way to Florida.  Ain’t cut out to be no daddy.  Hers or anybody else’s.” 
 
Daryl frowns.  “Now who’s actin’ like a woman?”
 
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Karen comments as she rejoins them.  Sizes Merle up.  “You backing out?  Because if you are…” 
 
Merle clenches his jaw.  Straightens his shoulders and stands a little taller.  “Ain’t.” 
 
She stares at him, like she’s not sure if she can believe him or not, the same way Daryl catches her girl doing sometimes, and he supposes that’s fair.  His brother ain’t really done nothing in the past to earn their trust.  But the sonofabitch is different now.  Daryl knows it even if they don’t, so he comes to the asshole’s defense.  One last time, hoping he don’t make a fool out of him when all is said and done.  “He ain’t backin’ out.” 
 
A split second of hesitation and Karen nods.  “Good.  We’ve got a layover in Las Vegas.  Another one in Chicago.  I’m going to call you,” she warns as she walks toward the waiting cab.  “Check on Patrick.” 
 
“Hear that?  That’s one stone cold bitch right there,” Merle tells him with a dawning grin.  “Startin’ to ‘member how me and her got along.” 
 
Daryl’s brow furrows in confusion and the fog of memories dredged up with the mention of Vegas dissipates.  “You didn’t.” 
“’Xactly.  Made the sex…well, hey there, Darlin’.  Come to see me off?” 
 
The eleven-year-old scoffs and snatches her back pack from him, works it over her small shoulders.
 
“Enid!  Hurry up!” 
 
Daryl chucks her on the chin.  Offers her a tiny smile when she turns her back to his brother. 
 
“Bye, Uncle Daryl.” 
 
“See you ‘round, Kid.” 
 
“Hey,” Merle grouses.  “What ‘bout me?” 
 
“Try not to kill Patrick.  ‘Kay, Dad?”  Then she’s off, racing to the cab and her anxious mother.  Grinning that coat hanger grin out the window at the two of them and their stunned expressions, their jaws still dragging the ground as the cab leaves their sight. 
 
Daryl’s the first to recover.  He reckons it’s gonna take a while for his brother to come back around.  “Heard the girl.  Best protect that turtle with your fuckin’ life.  Listen.  I, uh.  I gotta get back on the road.  Square things away with Axel and the guys.  Was thinkin’…” 
 
Merle, being Merle, is impatient.  Interrupts him.  “Yeah?” 
 
“Was thinkin’ you were right.” 
 
“Ole Merle’s always right.” 
 
Daryl doesn’t even try to refute the bastard’s claim.  Doesn’t have it in him to poke holes in the natural high he’s enjoying.  “Bakersfield.  It ain’t home.” 
 
“Georgia on your mind?” Merle drawls.  Winks. 
 
“Man, could you just…what the hell’s this?” he asks, when a yellow package hits him square in the chest.  “Ass Kickin’ Beef Jerky?” 
 
“Kick your ass right back to Mouse and your girl.” 
 
He ducks his head, grips the Impala’s open door until his knuckles turn white.  “’Phia ain’t mine.  Don’t deserve that little girl or her mama.” 
 
“Yours in every way that counts, Lil Brother,” Merle says, clapping a hand over his shoulder and giving it a brotherly squeeze.  “And that woman of yours?  You don’t just up and quit lovin’ somebody the way she loved you.  I know.  ‘Cause you ain’t never stopped lovin’ her.  Been tryin’ to fool yourself for a long time, but me?  I ain’t never bought it.” 
 
“Yeah?  How come you never said anything, Asshole?” 
 
His brother shrugs.  Turns toward the idling truck, but not without a glance back.  “Figured you’d come ‘round.  In your own sweet time the way you always do.” 
 
“Things you don’t know.  Ain’t so easy as me makin’ up my mind, admittin’ I still love ‘em.” 
 
“Never was.” 
 
“Naw.  Wasn’t,” Daryl agrees.  A thought occurs to him then.  Out of the blue, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.  Sighs.  “That asshole Negan ain’t gonna be waitin’ for me, ready to take battin’ practice when I get back is he?  You sure we didn’t steal his car?” he asks.  Watching Merle climb in the U-haul after his bags, settle himself behind the wheel. 
 
Merle shakes his head, slides a pair of sunglasses on his nose, and gives him a grin full of nicotine-stained teeth.  “Just borrowed it.  He claims otherwise?  Just ask him how Amber’s doing.” 
 
“Amber?” 
 
“Cheerleader that came in with her mama last week when they dropped off the Volvo.  Real pretty little piece of jail bait I’m sure his sick wife would just love to meet.” 
 
“Dammit, Merle,” Daryl curses.  Disgusted and more than a little bit disappointed in his brother.  “Girl’s a kid.  Not much older than…”  He can’t even say it.  Feels too sick to his stomach to even think of somebody taking advantage of Sophia or Enid like that and he slaps his hand down on the car’s hood.  Swears some more.  “Fuckin’ hell.  Dirty piece of shit.  Girl’s a kid and you’d just let…”
 
 
“Ain’t just lettin’ nobody do nothin’,” Merle is quick to cut him off.  “Prick’s days are numbered, thanks to that weasel Dwight.” 
 
“Dwight?  What’s he got to do with…no.  Sherry?” 
 
“Is probably filin’ assault charges as we speak, promised to go with the kid to the police station to file her own.” 
 
“Wait a minute.”  Daryl’s frown deepens even further.  “Where’d you hear all this?” 
 
“Got eyes and ears all over the place, Baby Brother.  All over the place.  That’s why I know.” 
 
“What?” 
 
“Time for you to go home. Running out of time.” 
 
“What do you mean I’m running out of time?  Merle?” 
 
“Mean what I mean,” Merle says cryptically.  Shifting the U-haul into gear and maneuvering it around the Impala.  “Daylight’s burnin’.  ’Member what I said.” 
 
“Which par…dammit, Merle.”  He leaves, disappearing around the same corner the cab had, and Daryl can only wonder. 
 
Running out of time for what?