Chapter Text
it starts
with our eyes well acquainted
with the darkness
the mind was made to illuminate the heart
Overture, Sleeping at Last
week one.
Fuck, his rough grunt is muffled against the side of her neck, the vibrations humming through her body from the tip of her toes all the way up to her skull, raising the small hairs at the back of her neck. His fingertips are digging into the bared skin of her hips deftly, holding her still against him. Lips skimming along her pulse point where it rages.
Briefly, Carol wonders how they ended up like this, entangled, sweaty, panting against each other, but then he slides into her, and all thought evaporates. He pushes forward slowly, much too slowly for whatever this is they are doing. Savoring the moment. It does not seem right, not when the edge of her kitchen table is digging into the back of her thighs, not when her sundress is bunched up at her waist, underwear pulled almost lazily to the side.
It feels too good though, the way he moves with purpose, and when he is finally all the way inside her, Carol can feel him trembling. She clutches his arms, mirroring the rough pressure of his fingers on her hips, allowing a raspy moan to break free.
He remains still for too long, breathing raggedly against her oversensitive skin, dampening it with each exhale that causes her to shudder. Every nerve ending in her body seems raw and exposed, and she knows he needs to move, needs to ease the tension that is coiling inside of her so tightly she begins to fear the moment it snaps and releases.
Daryl, she encourages him, her voice husky, and that seems to flick a switch. His lips find hers as he starts moving, still tasting like the lasagna she had basically force-fed him earlier. Carol gives it no second thought, not when his lips are soft and warm, not when he moves inside of her – a little sloppy, a little too rough and then a little too slow again, a mess that burns and blazes.
There is no room for thought in her mind when his hand moves from her hips to slide between them, a calloused palm ghosting over her until his fingers find their goal. She moans into his mouth, grips him around the waist, ankles crossing behind the small of his back, pulling him so close that her still covered breasts are pressed into his chest, and so deep that she feels herself rocking backwards on the table.
This is not like her. And something tells her that this is not like him, either. But as his finger begins to circle her, her name falling from his lips in a breathy groan, she only holds on tighter. If he suddenly came to his senses now, if he stopped for any reason at all, Carol decides she would run him over with her car a second time, and properly this time.
I'm so, so sorry, Carol repeats for what feels like the dozenth time, hands fumbling across his arms and shoulders, fingers ghosting across his marred cheek as she pushes him towards her front door.
'm fine, he insists, turning his face away from her slightly as she reaches out for his cheek. Carol quickly drops her hand, feeling like she stepped over an invisible line. The thought almost makes her laugh, if it weren't for the panic that settles deeply in her guts. The last thing she needs right now is for him to press charges.
It is just her luck. Coming home from an early shift at work, Sophia over with the Grimes for a log overdue sleepover. Her back aching, arms tired, temples suffering from a dull throbbing pain. All day, she had been looking forward to an evening for herself, curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of iced tea, maybe even daring to spread out a blanket in the back yard and allow the early summer heat to kiss her pale skin.
Her mind had been filled with the promise of the chance to unwind, completely distracting her. Pulling onto her street, she had hummed along to the song on the radio, a cheery tune that felt foreign to her. Being happy was not something she took for granted, it was not an emotion she had been very familiar with over the last few years. The last decade, really.
But to hum along to some mindless tune, fingers drumming against the wheel, she had felt happy. The blue house she called her own came into view, white shutters pulled open, and she could not wait to let the afternoon breeze flood through all the rooms, watch the curtains dance in the wind.
And then she had turned the wheel, pulling into her gravel driveway, and her heart stopped beating. Right there in front of her was a man, eyes wide in terror, and within a mere breadth of a second, she pulled the wheel in the other direction, hearing the angry crunch of pebbles beneath the tires, and from her peripheral vision, saw the man leaping out of the way.
Of course this would happen to her. Now that her life is finally settling down, that she is beginning to maintain a routine that works for her and, most importantly, for Sophia, she goes ahead and kills some poor soul enjoying an afternoon walk.
Only it is not just any poor soul. As she scrambles out of her car, ignoring the trenches in the grass where her tires have dug into the earth, she sees the man she almost hit. He is struggling back onto his feet, clearly having jumped in the opposite direction. Beneath dark, shaggy hair, she can see blood on his cheek, and she crosses the distance in what feels like two strides.
Oh God, I am so sorry, she blurts out, her heart still beating furiously, and she can only imagine how awful the poor man must feel. Then, as she comes to a skittering halt before him, she recognizes him.
Out of all the people she could have nearly killed, she chose Daryl Dixon.
Now, despite his protests and reassurances that he is fine, that the scratches on his cheeks are nothin', Carol insists on taking him inside to clean the wound, to allow him to sit down and catch his breath. Her hands fumble with the keys as she opens the front door, and she smiles kindly at Daryl, nodding in the direction of the small hallway.
He sighs, apparently tired of evading her efforts to make right of her mistake, and steps inside, dutifully dusting off his shoes on the doormat, the once brightly colored balloons now fading away.
You can sit over there in the kitchen, I'll just get my things, Carol explains, pointing vaguely towards the small kitchen as she kicks the front door shut behind her. Daryl only nods, his hand rubbing his neck, and Carol feels the panic inside her stirring even more.
With trembling fingers and knees that threaten to turn into liquid fear beneath her, she walks over to the bathroom to grab some supplies.
She can not say that she knows Daryl Dixon very well. This is a small town, and everybody sort of knows everybody. And everybody especially knows the Dixons.
Will Dixon, the town drunk. He is dead, she thinks, vaguely remembers some hunting accident that made the papers years ago. His wife, also too keen on alcohol, burned away to nothing in a house fire she can still recall. Merle Dixon and all his various run ins with the police. Carol has no idea where he is, has not heard of him being in town for at least four years.
And then there is Daryl, the youngest. They went to school together, all those years ago, but she barely remembers him actually being there. He always kept to himself. She guesses he does the same now, keeping a low profile in the shadow of his family's reputation. As far as she knows, he has been working in Horvath's Garage since they graduated. Once, years ago, she had taken Ed's car there after a fender bender that had not been her fault. That had not spared her the punishment, though. Thinking back on it, she remembers seeing Daryl there, quiet and concentrated.
Mr Dixon, right? she asks carefully as she walks into the kitchen, dropping the contents of her medical cabinet onto the table. Daryl avoids direct eye contact, she notices, sitting on the very edge of the chair. Ready to bolt.
Daryl, he replies, looking down at the pile of medical supplies. You a doctor?
She smiles at that, and it does not matter that he can not see it. Nurse, she corrects him, feeling a miniscule flicker of hope blooming inside of her. He does not seem angry at her, and she will take that as a positive sign. I'm Carol.
Yeah, I know, he looks up at her then, and she guesses she must look a little baffled because he quickly adds Remember from school. She smiles then, feeling more and more at ease that he might not press charges.
I really am sorry, I wasn't looking, she apologizes again, suddenly feeling awkward standing in front of him with empty hands.
We're good, he states, waving his own hand.
The scratch on his cheek is very superficial, but she still takes her time, cleans it meticulously, working in a silence that is much more comforting than she would like to admit. The clock on the wall ticks, and she notices Daryl's feet tapping along to the rhythm, his hands grabbing his thighs. He looks almost nervous, she muses, carefully tucking strands of unruly hair behind his ear to give herself more space.
Didn't know ya had a kid, Daryl says nonchalantly as Carol throws blood-stained cotton into the trash, and she turns towards him. He's pointing at the framed pictures on the opposite wall, Sophia's face beaming from almost every single one of them.
Sophia, she tells him with the proud grin she can never contain. She's going to be six next month. He smiles, and she is surprised when she catches herself thinking how much softer he looks when he does it. Taken aback by her own thoughts, she quickly concentrates on washing her hands, scrubbing away and watching the soapy water run down the drain.
She is not blind. Something about him is oddly intriguing, and she can not quite put her finger on what it is. Drying off her hands, she watches him for a brief moment, standing there in the middle of her kitchen like a lost dog, eyes roaming the place, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans.
You should eat something, she suddenly suggests, not quick enough to stop herself from speaking. I have some lasagna left over, I could warm it up for you.
For a moment, he stares at her with a confused expression on his face, then he shakes his head. Don't have t' bribe me. I won't go to the cops. He underlines his statement with another smile, but he makes no move towards the door, either.
Carol feels a heavy weight lifting off her shoulders, and Daryl chuckles when she can not stop herself from sighing rather loudly. Thank you, she manages to breathe out, dropping the kitchen towel onto the counter.
But then Daryl nods, turning towards the door, and something akin to panic begins to rouse inside her chest against her better judgment. It wasn't a bribe, though. You should still eat, she calls after him, and he stops halfway through the door. I make an excellent lasagna.
Talking to Daryl turns out to be a lot easier than she might have thought. Not that she has wondered about it much. He is pleasant company when he warms up, she notes, even though he barely gives away anything about himself. Despite the occasional quip about work, he keeps himself closed off. So, eventually, they reach Carol's least favorite subject of all: Ed.
Remember back in senior year? Daryl chuckles, dumping his empty plate on top of hers in the sink. We were paired up for some project, an' he was there watchin' us the whole time.
The memory, one that had been buried so deeply that Carol did not even know she still had it, is suddenly sharp and vivid in her mind, and she can not help the small burst of laughter that escapes her. A much younger Daryl sitting awkwardly on her parents' living room floor, worn school books and brightly colored papers all around them, blushing furiously when her mother had offered him a slice of cake, barely talking unless asked a question. And Ed. Lounging on the couch as they worked on their project. Keeping an eye on them. On her.
In hindsight, Carol recognizes that that had been around the time Ed had begun to change. Back then, she had brushed it off, as she had done with so many things, explaining them away or ignoring them entirely. He had been charming, a good match, and she had been so tired of being alone. Retracing the debris of her marriage back to that time, their last year in high school, she finds so many clues, so many hints at what was to come. It had not been until after their wedding that he had begun to show his true colors, her first bruises the only souvenir she got to take home from their honeymoon.
But she does not want to waste another heartbeat thinking about Ed. Not when she had, after so many years and so much blood and pain, finally stepped up, finally gathered the courage to leave him. He is no longer a part of their lives, having moved halfway across the country after the divorce. Out of sight, out of mind, and he deserves not even the grain of a thought.
Oh God, I forgot all about that, she confesses, grinning brightly. It was for English class. Daryl nods, leaning against the counter. Do you remember how furious Mr Gimple was when we didn't have the handouts ready on time?
Daryl barks out a laughter that sounds almost too genuine to be real, and Carol tries to spot the shy teenage boy in him, weary from a home that she, only now, really begins to question.
That's cause ya' didn't write 'em, he states, pointing his finger at her with a grin.
No way. Hands propped into her hips, Carol gives him a mock stern expression that last for only a brief second before she feels the corners of her mouth lifting. You were supposed to write them, I remember now. I was so mad at you.
Hell yeah, ya were.
I had to sweet-talk Mr Gimple into extending the deadline!
Figured ya did, Daryl chuckles, and slowly, their laughter fades into silence. Carol eyes him carefully, the way he leans against her counter, one hand flat on the smooth surface, the other hidden in his pocket. She feels an unfamiliar lightness washing over her, the memories awakening something she has long deemed lost. The young woman she was back then, before her life became an avalanche, burying her. Maybe, deep down, that young woman is still there, eager and curious and soft.
I really forgot all about that, she mutters quietly, fingers trailing along the edge of the counter, but her eyes not straying from Daryl's face. He looks timid, assessing her.
Had other stuff on ya mind. He looks down then, towards his boots, missing her slow nod. He has no idea how true his words are. Or maybe he does. I should go.
His words feel like a punch in the gut, a feeling she is all too familiar with, but she understands. This, whatever this afternoon has been, is nothing solid, nothing real. Just a brief interlude in their lives, soon to be forgotten. Can I drive you anywhere?
He laughs at that, but she does not miss the blush on his cheeks. No offense, but I ain't trustin' ya drivin' skills that much.
Crossing the distance between them, Carol lightly slaps him on the shoulder, a smug grin on her face. I'm a good driver. His eyebrow raises at that, and she cocks her head. Most of the time.
Sure. He looks down at her, and suddenly Carol realizes just how close to him she actually is. Her hand still rests on his upper arm, and from this distance, she can see the blue speckles in his eyes. As her own breathing suddenly seems to become strained, the day's heat pouring in through the walls and beneath her skin, she can see him swallowing hard. Neither of them moves to step away, but something tugs inside of her, and she does not know in which direction.
It nearly overwhelms her, the desperate need to be a different version of herself. A better version, the woman she once was, the type of person who she feels she should have been allowed to be and grow into. She does not know Daryl, but in a twisted way, he is the representation of everything she has lost since those blurry days of high school.
When she breaches the small distance and presses her lips against his, her only thought is that there might be a small part of her old self tethered to him, a memory she can steal from him. It belongs to her, after all. She belongs to herself.
He freezes beneath her touch, and then almost instantly pulls away. Just barely, though, she notices. Only his head, only far enough so he can look into her eyes. Mirrored in his, she sees the reflection of her own curiosity.
Told ya I ain't going to the cops, he mutters faintly, eyes flickering down to her lips. She wants to laugh, because he is a fool for thinking she would do this to bribe him. But the laughter turns to ash deep in her throat, and instead she moves her hand away from his arm, slides it up the side of his neck to curl into the the hair at the base of his skull.
This time when she kisses him, he does not fight it.
There is a thrill to it all that is unfamiliar and new. The shiver that runs through her veins when he cups her face in his hands to deepen the kiss. The urgency of her own fingers as they sift through his hair, coaxing a groan from him that she can feel against her lips. His eagerness surprises her, soft moans her only reply when he pulls her closer, flush against him, and the heat that radiates off him has her panting.
She has only ever been with Ed, and even back in school, back when she had actually craved to be with him, it had never been like this. At least, she can not remember ever feeling this consumed. Her skin is already flushed, a deep tint of red gleaming beneath pale skin, but she knows she would blush even more furiously at the way her hands fumble with Daryl's belt buckle. The sound of the metal clicking in the otherwise quiet room seems obscenely loud.
Daryl ends the kiss then, and she groans in disappointment, fingers curling into his belt loops, pulling his hips against hers. She can feel him hard against her stomach, and it fills her with pride to know that she did this. That someone still wants her.
She has not felt wanted or desired in so long, but the way he skims his lips down the side of her neck, nose brushing against the tender spot beneath her ear, hands ghosting over her breasts – she feels like the last woman left on Earth.
They are both setting a fast pace, although she wishes this would last longer. Still, she can not convince herself to slow down, her hand slipping inside his jeans the same second as his own squeezes her breasts through the thin cotton of her dress. His groan vibrates against her shoulder, his hips jolting forwards. Electric currents shoot through her when his thumbs brush over her nipples, and it only encourages her to curl her hand around him, her slow strokes accompanied by his heavy breaths against her.
I ain't got anything, he mutters as his hand finds her thigh, bunching up the hemline of her dress, fingers ghosting up her leg. The sensation is overwhelming, and she feels her hand stuttering against him for a moment, her brain too clouded to immediately understand what he is talking about. It dawns on her when his hands grab her hips and begin to steer her away from the counter. Protection. That's what he is talking about. Right.
The kitchen table presses into her thighs after only a few steps, her dress still bunched up in Daryl's hand. We're good, she moans as he quickly lifts her up to sit on the edge of the table, the cold wood against her bare thighs raising goosebumps across the planes of her skin. Talking takes up too much effort, and so she hopes he won't inquire any further. You clean?
Yeah, he nods, pressing a kiss against her pulse point, his fingers brushing deftly and unceremoniously across the damp fabric of her underwear. He does not really seem to know what to do, and if Carol was not as tightly bound as she is right now, she might have found it endearing. It hardly matters, though, the way he fumbles and grazes at her skin along the edge of her underwear. Nobody has made an effort to make her feel this good in so long, every single touch sends a flutter of excitement through her entire system.
Me, too, she rasps, tightening her grip around him, and it seems to be too much for him. Deftly, he curls his free hand around her wrists to pull her hand out of his pants. He drops it almost immediately, pushing down his pants instead, just enough.
Carol bites her lip as she looks down between them, her thighs exposes, pressing into the sides of his hips, cradling him so tightly that he can not move away.
Quickly, his fingers resume their work, and Carol moans so loudly when he pulls her underwear to the side that she worries the neighbors might hear, suddenly remembering the open window. But then his fingers ghost over bare skin, and she stops caring about who might hear. Her hands grip his arms, anywhere she can reach, hips pressing forward.
It is all too much and not quite enough. She wants him to never stop, but this is not all she needs, and the indecision is tearing her apart, her breath catching in her throat when he slips one fingers inside of her, muttering words against her neck that she can not make out.
Not enough. Not enough. Her heart drums a violent rhythm against her ribcage when she reaches down between them to tug his hand away, his finger slipping out of her, the loss immediate, but she bites back the whine that tickles her throat. Instead, she lets go of his hand, uses the cradle of her thighs to bring him closer, and she has never been this grateful for wearing a dress.
Ed had never allowed her to wear pretty clothes, let alone dresses, and now that he is gone, she takes every opportunity to wear whatever comes her way. The blue sundress that is now bunched up around her hips seems like divine intervention.
Daryl seems to understand what she wants, taking a tentative step forward, hands digging firmly into her hips now. Whether to touch her or simply for leverage, she neither knows nor cares. When she feels the tip of him brushing against her, her breathing ceases entirely while Daryl’s dampens the side of her neck.
Fuck.
Carol. Her name is a breathy moan on his lips, painted against her own, and she swallows the sound, traces the curve of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. It comes naturally when she winds her arms around his waist, fingers splaying against his back, the rough fabric of his vest cool to the touch, and she pulls him closer.
His movements become erratic, uncoordinated, and when she parts from him far enough to open her eyes and watch him, she can see that he is close. Sweat is glistening above his lip and at his temples, his eyes hooded, dark and almost frightfully honest when he meets her gaze.
He drops his forehead against hers without ceremony, their breaths mingling, and she cherishes the soft groan that erupts from his chest when she moves her hips in tandem with his. The fingers that circle her just above where they are connected pick up the pace, almost painfully now, and Carol briefly considers patting his hand away. Instead, she removes one of her hands from his back, slides it down his heaving chest, feels his muscles jump when she smooths her palm down his stomach, and eventually rests it on top of his own, gently steering his movements.
He curses against her lips once more, dropping his head to her shoulder as he pushes into her so strongly that she fees the table rocking backwards beneath them, screeching against the rough stone tiles.
I can't, he groans against her shoulder, fingers moving desperately beneath her guiding hand, the other hand wrapping around her middle, and she knows that this is it. She pulls him up for a kiss, curls her hand around his neck, hums against his lips, and then he thrust a few more times, her name disappearing into her mouth, pulling her flush against him as he stills with a sudden force and a groan that sends shivers down her spine.
Somehow through it all, he has managed to keep up the rhythm of his fingers, and the sound of his groan, the warmth that spreads through her and the mingled beating of their hearts where their chests are pressed together, send Carol over the edge. She did not expect it, and it hits her completely out of the blue, all tension snapping, white heat flooding her veins and fogging her brain, hands clinging to Daryl as he presses wet kisses along her jaw, down her throat and across her exposed collarbone.
Eventually, she has to tug at his hand and pull it away from her overheated flesh, pleasure quickly morphing into pain as he continues gentle circles with trembling fingers. His forehead once more comes to rest against hers, labored breaths filling the silence. Slowly, the ticking of the clock and the rush of bypassing cars begin to flood back into her consciousness, but Carol can not bring herself to move an inch.
Daryl is still inside her, hands now smoothing up and down her bare thighs, his thumb drawing patterns against the soft skin there. Part of her wants to open her eyes and deal with this, whatever this is. Perhaps they should talk, she wonders. But the other half of her, the one that is winning at the moment, cups his cheeks gently in her palms, mindful of the scratch there, and holds him against her until his lips find hers again.
This time, the kiss is gentler, all the heat drained and replaced with a soothing warmth that awakens a flutter in the depths of her stomach. Carol does not have the slightest clue what to make of it.
Whatever this is.
When she finally dares to open her eyes, she finds him gazing at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern that haunts her even after he has gone. Not another word spoken.