Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead." As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.

Warnings: Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

Flutter

Chapter Nineteen

He stretched out, toes curling, one foot hanging clear off the bed until he felt something in his back - some dinky little ache he hadn't realized he'd had - slot back into place. His sigh was positively indecent.

His thumbed the bars of the headrest, pawing at the antique, iron-wrought frame as he soaked in the chill. He rubbed his eyes, flaking off a few stray crusts of sleep as he tried to remember the last time he'd slept in like this.

Or, hell, if he ever had.

He yawned, drawing it out, hiking up the covers as his toes skimmed the carpet, idly trying to decide if he had to piss or not. He felt like a lush, half buzzed with heat and sleep. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but even that felt thick – slow – heady.

It was damn near dangerous.

He could get used to this shit.

Their first time had been like this, sloppy and summer-locked. It'd been real, as real as it got when you have two kids and a couple of layers of fucked up between you. It was a moment, stolen and precious somewhere between the camp and the hotel – the third one since what he'd privately come to call the 'salt-shaker incident'.

It had been desperate and just a bit stupid. Both of them had been too keyed up to think it through or spare a moment to make it last. But it had been good, dark, sweet and twisted, just like they were and at the end of the day it was hard to ask for anything more than that.

They'd both worked hard to make it work. To learn what made each other tick. And hell if it hadn't paid off. He'd learned that a soft, gentle touch could make you soar harder – longer – than a cruel one. That while the bird didn't have much experience when it came to a man doing the pleasuring, she was more than happy to let him play catch up. He'd learned what it felt like to fall asleep beside someone and wake up the same way – all tangled limbs and twisting sheets. He'd learned the planes of her curves, what she liked and what she didn't, committing every last twitch to memory. Just in case.

In time, he'd even learned what content tasted like. What it felt like to watch her fall apart against his tongue, lips slick with her juices as his palms curled around her hips, keeping her grounded as she rode out the aftershocks. And what it felt like to hold her after.

Maybe he was gettin' soft.

But then again, maybe he didn't give a fuck about it either.

They didn't talk about it - about what they had. They didn't try to define it or force it. But he figured it said something when, as the weeks passed, and their conversations shifted into phrases like "we" instead of "I," it seemed pretty clear, even to a lunkhead like him, where this was all going.

But it wasn't until they'd started talking about making tracks elsewhere and setting down roots, that shit started getting serious. They were in some trailer - a FEMA rental until their paperwork with the government could pass for their 're-housing settlement' - that she poured him a cold one and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He kept quiet during the whole thing, letting her stare him down, all grave and serious like someone had died, before she took a deep breath and laid it all out. She told him about this nursing course she'd taken, back before Wanda was born, about job offers and a promising career, something she'd always wanted to do, but never had the chance to finish.

By the time she'd wound down for the close his mind was wandering and she looked as wrung out a cotton washcloth. It wasn't until she dashed away an errant tear and took a series of shudderingly painful breaths that he finally got a word in edgewise.

"So, what's stoppin' ya?"

She cried for three hours straight, then made him the best apple pie he'd ever had in his entire god damned life.

It was a celebration from start to finish what with her dancing and singing around the kitchen, humming happily with a smudge of flour on her nose and the taste of raw pastry on her breath. He watched her, in something like awe, beer forgotten, as she took the room by storm. Pausing every now and again to sneak him a slice of apple as the tiny kitchen was transformed into an impossible hive of activity and soothing smells.

It didn't occur to him until his four slice of pie, until after the table between them had been spread thick with print outs and brochures from at least three local colleges, that he probably should have asked why she'd ever stopped her course in the first place.

It wasn't until later, until after the pie had been conquered and he was too full to really do anything more than roll himself to bed, he realized he'd known the answer all along.

He'd woken up the next morning to cold sheets and the smell of stale coffee fading into the close, summer air. He found her at the table where he'd left her, head pillowed in her arms, dead to the world and surrounded in a sea of old text books and balled up pieces of paper.

She'd been so excited she hadn't even come to bed.

Excited because he'd done something so stupidly simple as supported her when she'd-

The rage, the pure injustice of it had burned like a piece of sugar cane dipped in a vat of gasoline - high and hot until determination rose up in its wake. And he'd be god damned if he hadn't driven her to each and every late night class. Toting her books that he swore weighed more than Victor and cost about as much as his truck.

He played Mr. Mom during those nights, rolling the little twerps into bed, barking out orders for pjs and pretending to use their toothbrushes. He'd supervised reading time, pee breaks and 'just one more story, Mr. Dixon' until he wasn't sure who should be putting who to bed.

It'd been harder than he'd thought it would be, but somehow, they'd made it work.

And no matter how frustrating, it was all worth it every night she walked through the front door, the tail lights of the city bus dimming into the distance on the back of that old country road they called their own. Because call him whipped, but he lived for the moments where she'd trip through the threshold, tired but grinning, eyes bright as he put the kettle on and listened to her gab about her lessons. Forgetting about all the little shit that gets to you during the day in favor of listening to her talk smack about her professors.

He didn't usually have a lot to offer. Nodding in what he figured were the appropriate places as she went on a spiel about some sort of medical term or instrument, too excited to remember he had not a shit what she was talking about. But it didn't seem to matter either way.

He hadn't been sure what to do with the stab of pride he'd felt the day she got her diploma. But he figured, considering the kiss and smile he got when she walked off the podium and into his arms told him that just being there was good enough for her.

He woke up again when one of the floor boards creaked. He dug his face deeper into the crease between the pillows. He knew the sound like the back of his hand. Third stair, fifth board on the right hand side – also known as number six thousand five-hundred and seven-fuckin'-six on his fix-it list.

The knob turned, slow and cautious as the house settled. He smothered a small, sloppy little smile into the sheets as the bed dipped and she settled into the hollows of his spine.

"The kids?" he rasped, voice low, pitching deep with sleep and disuse as she rolled on top of him, plastering herself along his back like she wanted nothing more than to stay there for the rest of her life.

The bed-springs twanged – groaning and shifting under their combined weight.

"School," she answered, blowing out a gust of air before she dug her face into the crease of his neck, knocking her purse off the chair across from the bed as her feet flailed out for balance. "We just made the bus on time."

He grunted, figuring that was answer enough as she played with the feathers of his hair, smoothing them behind his ears as he drifted – quiet – content. Every time he breathed, she breathed with him, rising and falling together as the minutes trickled past.

Somewhere outside a bird trilled, kicking up a fuss as the sarcastic chitter of a ground squirrel made its opinions known. Probably fighting over the bird feeder again.

"You going to stay in bed all day?" she teased, laughing when one of his hands started inching out from underneath him, spidering across the mattress.

"Thinkin' about it," he mumbled, forcing his face deeper into the pillows on pure principle, until his hands found her, running a palm down her flank by touch alone, tracing the freckles he knew by heart as she made a low sound in the back of her throat – pleased.

They said nothing for a while after that, just drinking in the quiet, a rare day when they were both off and had the house to themselves. There was no excited giggling or sibling rivalry. No tripping over stray Legos or shaking glitter out of his hair. Unbelievably, the afternoon was theirs.

And sleepy as he was, his cock was definitely considering the possibilities. Call him a dirty opportunist or just practical, but he figured it couldn't hurt to turn the heat on.

He rolled them – a hitching languorous slide as he thumbed at the waistband of her skirt.

"You're over dressed, Nurse Peletier," he breathed, huffing a laugh into her skin as she fought him for it – playful and breathless as he pinned her underneath him, taking her weight when she threw her arms around his neck and clung – like a possum to a tree branch – trying and failing to make him topple over.

"And you are under-dressed, Mr. Dixon," she shot back, nipping up for a kiss while he was distracted.

"I'm in bed," he pointed out, stuttering near the end as she stroked him through the twisted ropes of sheets and comforters. "Life don't get much more under-dressed than this," he added, moving into the press of her palm as she set about investigating the truth of his claim - thoroughly.

He grunted when her hand curled around him, all skin-warmed fingers and a sinfully smooth glide. She always knew exactly what he needed.

"In fact, I am thinking of making a new rule," he added, hips following the slow, teasing rhythm of her palm as she thumbed his crown, slicking the head with an overgenerous blurt of pre-cum as he hardened further. His spine arced as her nails caught gently underneath the flare of his ridge.

"Hmm? And what's that?" she hummed, indulgent and syrupy-slow as the curtains - a whisping muslin-lace that framed the far window - flared in the early afternoon breeze.

"No clothing allowed in the bedroom."

Her laugh was a visceral thing, something overwhelming and bone-deep as he burrowed into her.

"Ground breaking," she said with a giggle.

"Yep, I'm putting my foot down, laying down the law," he returned, throwing an arm over his eyes as the sun lanced through the blinds. Trying and failing to preserve his mock-serious expression as she pressed a smile into his skin.

"Then it would appear I am in violation of this new rule," she returned, nearly making him choke on his god damned tongue when she skimmed down and licked a stripe clear up his length.

"Whatever shall I do?" she murmured, giving him the ol' eyebrow raise as his dick jerked, overstimulated but jonesing for more as she blew at the slick of saliva she'd left on his prick. Christ.

"I can think of a few things," he replied, quick on the mark as he levered himself up on his elbows and gave her a pointed once over.

"I'll bet!" she chirped, laughter muffled under the press of pillows and skin as he pounced and she tried to dive clear off the bed. Turning the entire upstairs into a hot, echoing mess of borderline indecent sounds, until their wrasslin' and teasing was abandoned for far more interesting pursuits.

When they came up for air, her mouth all wet and pink, skin red from his stubble, he kept his face buried into the curve of her neck. He breathed her in determinedly, her smell, her skin, her everything. Idly thinking about long shots and second chances as his thoughts strayed back to the day they'd met.

Somewhere outside, a pair of robins trilled.

He blamed the muted strains of the afternoon news filtering up from the radio in the kitchen for the words that eventually tumbled forth - reality shittin' on the moment or whatever.

Truth was, the conversation was probably a long time coming.

"Do you think anything like that will ever happen again?" she asked, voice careful, like she was trying to make an effort not to sound brittle as she snuggled deeper in to the crook of his arm.

Something deep in the pit of his belly twisted.

It had been a long time since she'd sounded like that.

Breakable. Worried. Unsure.

"Nah, I think there's an unspoken rule of only one near apocalypse a century," he snorted, unsure of how to deal with it other than to crack out something that made him sound like the world's biggest dick and then some.

Her smile was tremulous and small, like it was more for his benefit than anything else.

He forced himself to sober, watching as she fussed with the sheets.

He didn't have to ask what she was dwelling on. It'd been all over the news since the weekend. And it had more than a few people spooked. The entire thing seemed like a giant clusterfuck from start to finish. The Government was rocking between public relations committees and that hush-hush-everything's-fine PR bullshit that only made people realize that there was actually something to be panicking about in the first place.

People were already crying foul, hip-deep in the blame game and unsurprisingly, the Military was already coming out as the most reviled scape-goat in the running. And really, who could blame them? It didn't seem like much of a stretch to pin this on them, especially after the mist. In fact, some people were even proposing it was a direct causation – another batch of unexpected fallout from the 'Invasion from Mars' bullshit.

"But that virus," she began, unconsciously twisting at the sheets as the muffled chatter from the radio smoothed into some twangy, old-time country song that immediately put his hackles up. The kids had been fucking around with the stations again.

"Daryl, I don't know, it sounds bad. I've never heard of anything like it, no one has. The CDC in Atlanta is stumped, all the doctors are talking about it at the hospital, even the director said-"

He cut her off, determined to nip that shit right in the bud, "Maybe it is. Maybe everything goes to hell again. What happens, happens. Fuck if we can do anything about it. But if it does, at least this time I know where you'll be."

The smile he got this time was still small, but unmistakably genuine.

"You found me," she murmured, knuckling out the wrinkles she put in the sheet as he tightened his hold around her a fraction. Wondering if she knew it had come out sounding more like a question than a statement. He knew better than to ask. Recognizing the look on her face that told him she was already a million miles away, shuffling through both old memories and new, trying to decide how to react to where she figured their conversation was heading.

His stretched, coltish and warm, still languishing in that post coital smugness that seemed to permeate every limb, every muscle and sinew. It was alive in every part of him he swore he'd never known existed until she'd done the impossible and teased pleasure out from something he figured had no business feeling as good as it did. The learning curve with her was wicked, and damn him to hell if he hadn't loved every minute of it.

Her gaze was expectant now. He knew what she was waiting for. She was waiting for a fierce denial and the broad plane of his back as he turned around, uncertain of how to be anything else but annoyed with her for all her worrying. She was waiting for the handful of beats that would span out before he figured he probably owed her an apology, for the following three or four hours until the kids got home and the hours spent stewing in their own thoughts.

Personally, he figured she aught'a know better.

He'd never been one to stick to script.

"And I will again, if I gotta," he affirmed, reeling her in another impossible inch, flattening her across his chest, like if he was lucky, pieces of her would somehow absorb into his skin, strengthening him in ways he'd never realized a person could be.

It sounded cliché and awful, but he didn't care. He meant it - all of it.

"I know," she hummed, nails tracing whorls and arcs across the span of his shoulders before carding through his hair, singing some muffled little verse into his nape like an afterthought.

He just enjoyed it, bemused, content to let her think it though – processing it as the bird and the squirrel bickered somewhere outside. Rolling his eyes under closed lids as the sound of tiny, scrabbling claws ripped into the bark of the old oak, a steady accompaniment to the throbbing base as the robin paced along the laundry line, plotting his next move.

It was probably about time to go out there with his crossbow and lay down the law before they upended the feeder again. And yet, he remained where he was. Considering the circumstances, he just couldn't bring himself to move. Apparently this was the kind of shit that happened when you were only a few centimetres shy of content. You started giving half a crap about the stupid stuff. About having to rake bird seed out of the grass or limit your squirrel-cull to when Wanda and Victor were at school lest he get a repeat of what happened the last time.

"No heels," she grinned, breaking him out of his thoughts before he could get too invested in actually giving a damn.

"No heels," he agreed.

"You know that saying about birds singing after a hurricane?" she ventured after a while, drowsing in the lazy sliver of sun that'd escaped the blinds and spilled across the mattress.

"I suppose it says something that it didn't take long for the birds to return," she mused, breathing hotly into the press of his throat – worry apparently forgotten.

It seemed like far too sweet of an opportunity to waste. So when he reared up and pulled her on top him, drawing an indignant squeak as her toes fish-tailed across the duvet, he kissed her lips back into that soft, rose-bud press that'd never failed to make his blood sing. Determined to return to the sweetness that had existed between them only a few minutes before.

"So, sing for me then, bird," he rasped, looking up at her as the sunlight lanced through the auburn-red of her hair, backlighting the ruffled strands that stood up like primary feathers caught in a cross-breeze.

She laughed, soft and whole, the sheets rustling like wings as she squirmed, leaning down for a kiss, a quick peck that turned into a second and a third when both of them got greedy. More than willing to help her hit the high notes as his hand snuck between them, coaxing out a hitching breath and a gratifying moan before he rolled her underneath him.

He swallowed her giggles right up until the headboard started creakin' and suddenly there was no more breath to waste on anything but the feeling.

They ignored the daylight streaming in through the window. Ignored the news reports that were probably streaming across CNN and Fox News in searing, day-glow red. Ignored the fact that it was past mid-day and neither one of them had a clue what to make for dinner.

Instead they just basked in it.

Determined to milk whatever they had, whatever this was, all the way to the last drop.

He'd promised her that much already.

Most birds mate for life, after all.

A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! This story is now complete. – What a whirl wind! I just wanted to take a moment and thank each and every one of you for sticking with this story through my long hiatus and the span of chapters before and after. I never thought this fic would take off like it did and it was an utter joy to write. Thank you for all your love and encouragement (and poking) you all know who you are!

"Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?" – Rose Kennedy