Chapter Text
A week passes: seven sea pebbles in a row, each distinct from the next. The aimless drift of their first days at the beach is replaced, for Carol, by a sense of purpose. But it is not a purpose she has felt before; it is not about caregiving or pleasing others or working until she is exhausted. She must let the days wash through her, keep herself loose and open, resist her habit of pushing down everything that has floated to the surface. It is not hard here, the murmur of the sea a constant reminder, Daryl and Sophia the only witnesses to her sudden bouts of weeping. She cries herself to exhaustion some days, reminded of something Ed said, or the way Hayley’s lashes curled against her cheeks as she slept. Daryl holds her when she wants him to, anchors her as she succumbs to her grief, and though he does not ask, she knows he will listen if she wants to tell him. Sometimes his eyes are damp when she steps back from his embrace. Sometimes he holds on a little longer, taking comfort from her.
For the first few days, he does not want to leave her alone at the cottage or on the jetty, but at last, he and Sophia fall back into their habit of adventuring during the afternoons. Carol goes with them every couple of days, listens to Sophia tell her everything they have learnt about the best spots to fish and the best places to prise mussels off the rocks. On other days, she stays behind, wandering the beach or sitting in her spot on the jetty. There is an avidness to her engagement with this place that was missing before: she wades into the shallows, crouches over the tiny mounds of mud where snails have burrowed, learns the different textures of seagrass and kelp against her ankles. One clear day, she makes a cooking pit on the beach, lighting the fire early enough for it to burn down to coals by evening, and they simmer a seafood stew over it as the stars come out. The night smells of brine and fish, of the sweetness of carrots—a lucky find in a nearby garden—melting into gravy.
Even Sophia gets used to Carol’s crying jags after a few days, grasping, perhaps, what it was Carol tried to explain to her. She slips away mostly, leaving her mother and Daryl alone, but sometimes she embraces Carol, hugging her hard, as though to squeeze all the sorrow out of her more quickly. Carol worries that she is drowning the child in her sadness, but instead Sophia seems sensitive to the growing relief in her mother, to how present Carol is in the happier moments as well as the difficult ones. The child seeks Carol out more, and Carol begins to understand how afraid her daughter has been to burden her for all these years; how Carol’s determined stoicism has shaped Sophia’s. She’s young, Daryl tells Carol when she worries about it. She’s changin’ already, jus’ from watchin’ you.
Christmas approaches without any plans being made. An assortment of people will likely arrive in time for the celebration, but other than scavenging for food in some of the other houses, most of which have been cleaned out already, Carol doesn’t spend much time worrying about it. There will be fish, and shellfish, perhaps lobsters if Daryl and Sophia’s current experiments work. And there will be a cottage full of people Carol loves.
xxxx
He feels her easing in his own body, the way she uncoils, begins to take up more space in the world. He cannot stand to see her cry—that does not change. But there is something different now, a force to her tears that she has always suppressed before. Here, at the end of the jetty, or in the cottage beside the open bedroom window, she surrenders to the grief, and he holds her, his muscles jelly, his throat aching as though the sobs were his own. Afterwards, she does not apologise, and he is proud of her for this small thing, this claiming of his comfort as her right.
Two days before Christmas, he leaves Sophia asleep on the couch in the afternoon sun and goes down to the beach to find Carol. She is knee deep in the water a little way down the beach, leggings pushed up, bending over to examine something, and he admires her ass as he approaches. They have not made love for days: she has needed him in other ways. She straightens up as the sand crunches under his feet, and turns, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Her smile is sweet and crooked.
“Clams,” she says. “Don’t know how I didn’t notice them before.”
He rolls up the bottoms of his jeans and wades out to her.
“Sophia sleeping?” she asks. Her hands are wet, her curls tangled by sea-spray and the breeze. He nods. The water tickles his shins, dampening the edges of his pants.
“How you feelin’ ‘bout Christmas?” he asks. She glances at him.
“Good.” She dries her hands on her thighs. “It’ll be good to see whoever comes down. But I’ve enjoyed it just being us.”
He grunts, and she touches his bicep just below his sleeve, her fingers light. Even that sends a jolt of desire through him, and he clears his throat, curling his toes into the sand. Carol looks behind her, at the cottage, her palm warm against his skin, and then she reaches down and starts to lift her shirt.
“Come on,” she says, grinning. “Swim with me.”
He has been into the ocean during his hours with Sophia, positioned lobster traps among the rocks. He wears a T-shirt and cut-off jeans on those afternoons, because although the child has seen his scars, he does not want to display them. But as Carol pulls her shirt off, and then her bra, tossing them onto the sand above the tideline, he takes his T-shirt off without hesitating.
Her breasts are white in the sunshine, her nipples soft and pink, and there are tan lines on her arms and chest. Golden freckles are scattered across her collarbone, new ones, the skin glowing beneath them. She places her hands on his chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” she breathes. He glides a tentative hand over her ribs, the curve of her waist, and she shivers, her nipples puckering. “Come.”
They strip off their pants and underwear, and she takes his hand, leading him into deeper water, the bottom cold where the sun cannot reach it. He follows meekly, transfixed by the sight of her, droplets gleaming in the dip of her spine, the dark cleft between her buttocks blurring below the ripples. There is a playfulness in her manner to which he is unaccustomed, and which enchants him—a grin on her face when she glances back at him, an eagerness to the way she pushes forward against the tide.
Releasing his hand as the water reaches halfway up her chest, she lowers her shoulders beneath the surface, gasping, turning to face Daryl as she does so. Her breasts bob to the surface, pale and slick, and his cock stirs despite the cold water. Gritting his teeth, scowling at her glee, he sinks down to his shoulders and then further, immersing himself and coming up with a flick of his hair out of his eyes. They gaze at each other, face to face, and he cups one of her breasts, weightless in the water, fitting perfectly in his hand.
“I said a swim, Daryl,” she murmurs. But there is hunger in her expression, and when he reaches down with his other hand between her legs, stroking her slit, there is warmth there, and a thicker moisture. He raises an eyebrow, resting his thumb at the apex of her labia where her clit is hidden.
“Sure that’s all you want?” he asks. She blinks slowly, her eyes dark, and he kisses her, a salty, slippery kiss, his hand cupping her mound as he squeezes her breast gently. As she parts her lips, her tongue darting along the seam of his, her hand closes around his shaft, and she smiles against his mouth when she feels how hard he is already. He grunts, nipping at her lower lip, and pushes a finger past her labia, into the soft heat between them: a clumsy sweep across the inner folds, a thread of fluid clinging to his skin as he moves his hand to her ass.
They can still stand here, and she straightens up as he kneads her ass cheeks, bringing him with her. He tugs her against him, her stomach muscles tightening as the length of his cock presses her belly, and her mouth moves to his neck, kissing the whiskered skin along his jaw, her tongue tracing a tendon. He shifts his fingers between her ass cheeks, his middle fingertip finding the ring of muscle there, teasing it as she sucks with sudden strength at his collarbone. Her teeth graze the skin. The water between them is warmed by their bodies, his erection trapped, his head falling back as she licks the hollow at the base of his throat. Her breasts shift against his chest, and he cups her buttocks and lifts her, her legs wrapping around his hips.
She digs her fingers into his shoulders, grinding against his length, her labia opening over the thick, veined shaft. The glide of her moisture, the unfolding of her flesh followed by the heat of her entrance rubbing over him, send a shudder through his limbs. The sea rocks around them, and Carol kisses him, open-mouthed, needy, using his shoulders to lift herself so her face is above his. He tilts his head back, surrendering to her: the scrape of her teeth over his bottom lip, the push of her tongue deep into his mouth.
Her hips jerk, her slit bumping the head of his cock. She is moaning now, soft and frantic. Grasping her ass cheeks, Daryl separates them and guides her entrance to the head of his cock, lowering her onto his erection. Inside her, there is water, his cock displacing it as he pulls her down. It chafes, her moisture rinsed away, her walls resisting his entry. But she locks her ankles around his lower back, yes, dropping herself onto him until he hits her limit.
They cling to each other. The tide washes in, and Daryl is weightless for a moment, his feet unsteady in the sand; but then the water recedes, restoring to him his weight and Carol’s. She is panting, cold and slender in his arms, the saltwater making her skin both slippery and sticky at once. Inside, her body gives way to him a little more with each breath, a low groan in the back of her throat as pressure builds between the head of his cock and her cervix.
“Fuck me,” she whispers. “Please. Please.”
He turns for shore, then, carrying her, stumbling towards the beach until he reaches the damp sand, and then he drops to his knees, laying her back. His cock slides out of her, and she whimpers. Beneath him, she is brighter than she has ever been—sun-bleached silver hair and golden skin, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. Her eyes crinkle in the corners, bright blue, and a lump forms in his throat.
“Turn over,” he says roughly, and she obeys, touching his face with forgiving fingers as she gets onto her hands and knees. The sight of her open before him makes his breath catch, his cock weeping precum before he has even touched her again. He strokes his hands down her back, over the globes of her ass, parting them so he can see both her holes, and she pushes back into his hands, lowering her face to the sand.
She tastes of the sea when he licks between her buttocks. He cleans the salt off her, circles her anus with the tip of his tongue. He can smell her arousal: when he pauses to look at her again, her labia are engorged and glistening with more than water. He brushes her clit with his thumb and watches both her openings contract as she shivers. Burying his face between her ass cheeks again, he licks until she is warm and wet, until the ring of muscle loosens enough for him to push his tongue past it, into the earthy, impossible heat of her insides.
The head of his cock is purple, the skin tight and pulsing, and he fists it as he curls his tongue inside her. When he pulls back, her pussy is soaked, and he drinks from her, his chin nudging her clit, his mouth greedy for the sweet-salty taste of her. She moans, her hands clawing the sand, and thrusts back at his face, wanting more.
He notches his cock at her anus first, slicking it, pushing against it enough to stretch the muscle. She seems to stop breathing for a moment, motionless, her eyes wide, and he nudges forward, his tip inside her, the rim of her hole straining around it as he seeps precum into that narrow passage. He caresses her hips, soothing her, watching the head of his cock whiten from the tightness of her body, and he rocks a little further. With one hand, the fingers sandy, she reaches between her legs and he hears the slick sound of her touching her clit as he rests, the head of his cock partially lodged in her ass. The constriction is painful, but the sucking softness of her body is irresistible, and with one more thrust, his head is inside her, her body opening and closing around him like a sea anemone.
He could finish like this, barely any of him in her; he wants to fill her with his release, feel her shape herself to the pulsing of his head. Her walls clutch at him, her ring stretched smooth. The hand between her legs has fallen to the sand, and her mouth is open, breathing on a quiet vocalisation, her eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with desire. If he pushes further, he will come, and so instead, reluctantly, he withdraws, her body fighting him, clinging to him. He does not wait for her anus to close, but pushes two fingers into the reddened hole at the same time as he buries his cock in her pussy.
She cries out, lifting her head and then dropping it to the sand again, her brow pressing the ground. He strokes his fingertips against the membrane separating them from his cock, and she cries out again, growing wetter around his shaft, the sound of her voice travelling through him. He rests his other hand on her hip and starts to thrust, her buttocks firm and full against him each time his hips snap forward, and he leaves his fingers deep in her ass. She whimpers softly every time he pushes into her, and when she starts to come, he exclaims as her body ripples and tightens around both his fingers and his cock. Her hips buck, her ass jerking against him. Her sounds turn into sobbing breaths.
The sea washes up the sand behind them, further now, wetting Daryl’s knees. As Carol trembles, he slides his arm under her belly and bends over her, holding her up as her limbs quiver. He is close to his own release, but he wants this moment to be hers, and so he holds back, his jaw clenched with the effort. She sags towards the sand, and he withdraws from her, first his cock and then, slowly, carefully, his fingers. She is red and open, her eyes closed as the tide reaches for her.
He spreads her legs, ready to finish inside her. But as she moans, drawing her knees up a little, he thinks of the smile on her face as she led him into the sea earlier, the light in her eyes as she teased him. And he feels suddenly bereft, looking down at her waiting form, her head resting on her forearms, her face hidden from him.
Hesitantly, he strokes her side, urging her onto her back. She does not register the signal at first, and when she does turn over, her face flushed and her hairline dusted with sand, she looks up at him with faint confusion. He leans forward, over her, until her nipples brush his chest and his forearms rest beside her face, his hips tucked against hers. She is beautiful in the way she always has been, in the way that he finds so difficult to bear when he is inside her. But he keeps his eyes on her as he finds her entrance with his cock, watches her eyelashes flutter as he slides into her. She sighs, bending her knees and placing her feet on the sand, and he gives a long, leisurely thrust. Her hands settle on his sides, the muscles shifting beneath her palms as he moves.
He does not rush. That moment of sadness before he turned her over has delayed his release, and he takes his time building back to it. Carol gazes up at him, her face soft, her breasts jolting each time he buries himself in her. He is afraid that when he comes, something will break, some fragile thing inside him that has fought for months to withstand the strength of his love for her. What for, he thinks as she smiles up at him. If he breaks, she will hold him together.
She comes a second time from his leisurely movement inside her, surprising him, breathing his name as she arches her back, her nails scraping his sides. He kisses the column of her throat, thrusting faster, and pleasure comes crashing over him, blinding him, the push and pull of her body around his leaving him dizzy. His head drops to her collarbone, her mouth against his ear as he shakes: I love you I love you I love you, the words shoring him up.
She is waiting for him when he drags his head up, her pupils blown, her expression tender, and she wipes sweaty strands of hair off his face. He swallows, close to overwhelm, and her fingers dance down his cheek, her head tilting.
“Daryl,” she whispers. “I’ve got sand in my ass.”
There is a moment just before he begins to laugh, a moment in which the tears building behind his eyes recede. Near the cottage, a seagull cries; the sea whispers, the jetty creaks in answer. Carol smiles up at him. Her eyes are clear and kind and fixed on him, her body holding his, the sun warm on his back. We’re happy, he thinks with amazement as the laughter bubbles in his chest.
xxxx
They spend Christmas Day in one of the larger houses along the beach. The Grimes family drives down, and Dale and Merle, the two of them sharing a beat-up Dodge and apparently finding common ground in a discussion of Shane’s many flaws. The visitors bring extra food, and an air of celebration that matches Carol’s mood—though it is not the holiday that makes excitement fizz inside her. Rather, it is being unburdened by grief for the first time in years, the whole world coming into sharper focus as a result.
They eat meat from home for the feast, and fish pie, white fillets and fresh herbs topped with instant mashed potatoes. Merle has brought beer, but he behaves himself well despite drinking most of the alcohol himself—the only time Daryl is visibly annoyed with him is when he hugs Carol a little too close and a little too long upon arrival. The older Dixon removes his prosthesis and leaves it off, inviting Sophia to consider the strength of the blade and compare it to that of her knife.
Judith is plump and full of smiles for everyone, and Lori, though tired, looks smugly satisfied with her family, cuddling up to Rick on the couch, the baby napping in her lap. Carl stares at Sophia as though he doesn’t recognise her—the windswept hair and new freckles, the rash of sunburn across her nose and cheeks. She is a little taller than him, growing just in these two weeks away, and Carol is worried, for a second, that things will be awkward between them. But after they assess each other, Sophia grins and says, “Wanna see the fishing rod Daryl made me?”, and Carl nods eagerly, following her outside.
Dale dominates the dinnertime conversation, holding forth with an easy cheer that takes Carol back to nights in the quarry, firelight glowing on the faces of the group. This time, though, she is sitting with the others, not isolated by Ed around their own fire. Daryl, who has been quiet, but relaxed all afternoon, holds her hand under the table when no one is looking their way, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.
It is dark by the time they return to the cottage with Sophia, leaving the others to bunk down in the larger house. Merle, tipsy and sentimental, attempts to kiss Carol goodnight, but is intercepted by Daryl and returned firmly to an armchair. Rick walks them over, Judith in his arms as he updates Carol on the last two weeks of council doings, and when they stop outside the cottage, he looks wistfully towards the sea.
“Seems real peaceful here,” he says.
“It is,” Carol replies. “We’ve barely encountered any of the dead, and no living except you.” She sighs, and leans against Daryl’s side. “We’ll come back, I think. I hope.” She glances up at Daryl. His eyes are already on her, and he nods. Sophia yawns audibly, and Rick smiles at them.
“Best take this one back to Lori. Just about time for her next feed.”
He disappears into the darkness as Daryl opens the door, moving ahead of them to light the lamps. Carol follows him to the kitchen, hugging him from behind as he lowers the glass of the hurricane lamp on the windowsill. He grunts, turning to face her, kissing her suddenly and deeply, his fingers buried in her hair.
“Ugh. Guys.”
Daryl breaks the kiss, his cheeks flaming, and Carol chuckles as she looks over her shoulder at her daughter. Sophia looks back at her with an expression of delicate distaste.
“I came to find a snack,” the girl says dryly. “But now my appetite…”
Daryl clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably, and Carol suppresses further laughter.
“Soph,” she says with gentle reprimand. “It’s perfectly normal for us to—” She blushes.
“Sardines,” Daryl says loudly, and turns back to the windowsill for a second. “If you ain’t sicka fish, we got sardines an’ some stale crackers.”
Sophia shrugs, and Daryl dumps the box and can on a wooden chopping board, carrying it past the girl and into the living room. Carol catches Sophia’s eye and smirks at her, shaking her head. The child rolls her eyes and follows Daryl.
Carol stays where she is a little longer, leaning back against the edge of the counter, the lamp a small spot of warmth behind her. The tide is lapping at the bottom of the dunes, and a breeze rustles the grasses, sand hissing through the blades. She is tired, and sated, and she basks in her contentment, listening to the voices from the living room.
“These always make me think of the basement.” Sophia says. The smell of canned fish drifts into the kitchen. “So the taste makes me kinda sad.”
“Thought I was okay company that night, all things considered,” Daryl says, mock offence in his voice. Sophia laughs softly.
“I was scared,” she admits.
“Yeah, I know.” The packet of crackers rustles. “Soon as you saw me, you looked behind me like you were hopin’ Rick or someone was there.”
In the kitchen, Carol closes her eyes, her chest aching at the memory of that Daryl—belligerent, brave, mortified by his own compulsion to find her missing daughter. Sophia murmurs something inaudible, and Daryl’s voice is scratchy as he replies.
“Nah, I get it. Got it back then, too.” He coughs. “Here.”
Silence as they eat. Carol fetches a glass from a cupboard and opens the bottled water on the counter, pouring herself some, her gaze shifting from the flame in the lamp to the salt-streaked windowpane. She should go to bed, but she does not want to disturb the pair in the living room.
“I thought I was gonna die in there.” Sophia’s voice is light, casual. The nights that still haunt Carol no longer have any power over the girl who went missing.
“Didn’ think I was gonna find you alive,” Daryl admits, and in his words there is a weight Carol feels in the pit of her stomach. “Couldn’ stand to think of goin’ back to your momma an’ havin’ to…” He trails off. Carol’s eyes sting.
“You didn’t even know her then.” Sophia’s voice is bemused. “Or me.”
The can scrapes on the wooden board.
“Knew she loved you a whole lot,” Daryl says after a moment, the words effortful. Carol blinks down at the water in her glass, remembers bathing her child after Daryl brought Sophia back. The flesh and bone of her seemed a miracle, the familiar fall of her hair, the timbre of her voice.
“If anyone other than you had come to find me,” Sophia says pensively. “I don’t think I’d be here.”
Daryl gives a soft snort. “Yeah you would. Even back then you were tougher than you thought.”
“Even crying on that dirty couch?” Sophia’s laugh is shy, and Daryl’s next words are too quiet for Carol to make out. The substance of them hardly matters, she thinks, as she stands silently in the kitchen. Because in his voice there is a gentleness quite different to that which he has for Carol, a tenderness which is only for Sophia. In his rough intonation, he holds out kindness and pride and love to her like handful of sea glass: dull brown melting into gold as it tips towards the light.