Taking the Long Way Around (a Walking Dead One Shot, Caryl).
So. Sorry for the completely uninspired title, lol, but I hope you enjoy this little story of mine anyway. Apparently, you're going to get lots of these while I work my way through the horrendous block I'm suffering through with my other stories. I hope you don't mind too terribly much.
Inspired by this dialogue prompt: "Take the long way around."
A post-Season 7 fluff piece. Probably post-Season 8 or 9 or Series Finale with the pacing on this maddening show, lol, but I hope it gives you the happy feels, nonetheless.
"...it’s a funny thing. Finding your soulmate at the end of the world. All the bullshit is stripped away, leaving what matters most."
“Take the long way around.”
Carol’s brows furrow. Her lips tighten.
She’s working up an argument inside that pretty head of hers, but she knows him. She keeps it short, and he’s thankful.
“What? Why?”
“You heard me.”
“Heard you just fine,” Carol mutters wryly. “Still don’t understand why.”
“Yeah, and you probably…”
“…never will,” she finishes for him.
She ain’t smiling, but she’s looking more relaxed, and Daryl knows her, too. She trusts him. Always has. Always will if he has anything to say about it, and he hopes so. He really fucking hopes so, because it’s a funny thing. Finding your soulmate at the end of the world. All the bullshit is stripped away, leaving what matters most. And what matters most? To him? Is her. And it’s been that way for a long damn time. Just a few minutes of silence between them, hearing the crunch of the fallen leaves beneath their feet, feeling the sun on their faces, and he feels compelled to blurt out a confession. “Ain’t nothing bad.”
She laughs then, looks at him with happy eyes that are crinkled at the corners, holds out her hand. Palm up. “I gathered that. You seem…nervous.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, threads her cool fingers within his own when he grasps her offered hand. “Nervous,” she repeats. “But not worried."
She’s right and she’s wrong. He’s hopeful. That’s what he is. Nervous and a little bit worried, too. Because they’ve been them for a long time, watching each other. Watching out for each other. But this? Just holding her hand, without any hesitation, without overthinking it? That’s new. Loving her ain’t. But not keeping his love for her bound up tight and silent in his chest where nobody else could touch it or mock it, dare to take it away from him? Well. They’ve come a long way since the end of the War, and still. He’s ready to travel that broken road with her a little further. Provided she’s in, and he hopes so. He really fucking hopes so. “M’a little worried.”
She smiles softly at his confession, tugs on his hand until he stumbles forward. Awkwardly enough to make her laugh into the kiss she gifts him with, gentle and soft. Searching and soothing. The fingers of her free hand slide through the dark tangle of his hair, cup the back of his head, and she nuzzles her nose against his when she finally pulls away. Leaves little lingering pecks on his lips until he whimpers and she sighs. “You have nothing to be worried about.”
Daryl lets out a cross between a laugh and a snort of disbelief.
She squeezes his hand tight, leans into him when his arms come up around her. “We’re trying, remember? You and me. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re living the best way we know how.”
“Doing pretty damn good you ask me.”
If she hears the waver in his voice, the briefest break in a confidence hard-earned, she doesn’t let on. Not at all. “Better than good.”
He loves her even more for it. Feels anxious now to get going. The light is growing long now. It dances and shimmers in the air, all golden-like, and he’s stalled long enough. So he kisses the top of her head, pulls away. But he don’t go far, never does really. Neither does she. “C’mon. Best get going.”
She plays with his fingers, tips her silver head back and smiles into the fading sun. “I don’t know. It’s pretty romantic.”
She looks like some sort of fairy goddess painted in the soft light like she is, and Daryl’s heart squeezes with happiness. So much so a rare, full-mouthed grin takes over. “Stop.”
She just grins back, squeezes his hand again before letting go. “One of these days, Dixon. One of these days that iron-clad resolve of yours is going to crack and you’re going to take me up on my offer. Mark my words.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
She tilts her head, considers him for a brief moment. “I’ll get the best of you yet.”
Daryl doesn’t tell her she already has. Figures she already knows, somewhere deep down. “Best get going,” he reminds her again. “You know how Jerry likes his cobbler. Won’t be any left.”
“There will. He likes me better.”
He can’t argue that, so he doesn’t. Just steers them along, navigates the woods he’s become so familiar with since the end of it. They walk and their shoulders brush, and Daryl’s thoughts, well. They wander. To all that has been between them and all that they’ve lost. Four little girls and his blood brother. Friends that became family and carved their names into their bruised and battered hearts. Allies that gave their all. He thinks of all of them and his heart hurts, yeah. Probably always will. But he’s found his peace. In her. And he feels lucky. Because they’re here now. Together like this. He hopes that’ll never change. Hopes she feels the same way. He thinks she does. He knows her, and so, when they reach those Kingdom gates, he takes her hand in his own. Gives her his trademark curled lip smile because her answer is a foregone conclusion. Always was.
Surrounded by their family and their newfound friends, she gives him a tearful nod. Presses her forehead to his and places her hand over his pounding heart.
Not many people left in this world can say they’ve been married by a King. Daryl likes to think Glenn would get a kick out of that. Hell. He knows Merle would.
"He's a bad kisser." (a Walking Dead drabble, Caryl).
Set between seasons 2 and 3. They got awfully comfortable around each other in those missing months. Just saying.
Beth and Carl play a little game. Carol? Well, you'll see.
It’s cold. Always is these days. Nothing between them and the dead but luck and their own wits, and Little Greene? Well, she’s a kid, so’s Carl. Still hanging on to hope, looking for distraction with kids’ games. They’re taking turns, telling two truths, a lie. Only, they ain’t doing the telling themselves. Hell, that wouldn’t be so bad. No. Carol’s doing him. Something tells Daryl he’s screwed.
