million dollar man | twd

ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇs

[ appearances ]
꧁꧂

As Carol walked outside, freshly showered and dressed, and ready to play the part of a nice, innocent housewife, Daryl was sitting on the porch fiddling with his crossbow.

"Time to punch the clock and make the casseroles" she smiled.

"What?" he asked, looking up and gawking at her outfit.

"Make dinner for the older people, moms who need a break, people who can't cook," Carol said. "Get to meet a lot of the neighbors that way."

Daryl scoffed. "Alright."

"Have you taken a shower yet?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mm-hmm" he lied.

Carol's smile turned sly. "You know, if you want to make a move with Vanessa, you should at least smell nice."

Daryl looked at her, trying to act like he didn't know what she was talking about. "What're you talkin' 'bout?"

Carol chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, please. I see the way you two look at each other. It's only a matter of time."

He brushed her off, rolling his eyes. "Ain't nothin' like that, Carol. You're imaginin' things."

She gave him a knowing look but let it go. "Sure, Daryl. Whatever you say. But just remember, a little soap and water never hurt anyone. I'm gonna wash that vest. We need to keep up appearances, even you."

"Hey, I ain't starting now," he grumbled.

"I'm gonna hose you down in your sleep," Carol said, a playful threat in her tone.

"You look ridiculous," Daryl called out to her, shaking his head.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Vanessa wandered through the house, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished floors. She had decided to explore the closets of the house, hoping to find something that would help her feel more like herself. As she opened the door to a walk-in closet, she was greeted by a collection of clothes that seemed too pristine and formal for her taste.

She sifted through the clothes, eventually finding a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts that looked like they might fit. With a small, determined smile, Vanessa grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer of a nearby dresser. She headed to the bathroom, where she could work in privacy.

In the bathroom, she started cutting into the jeans. The sound of the scissors snipping through the fabric was oddly satisfying. Vanessa ripped the jeans, making them into something more worn and familiar. She worked methodically, tearing and distressing the denim until it resembled something closer to her own style—functional and rugged.

As she worked, she found herself lost in thought, reminiscing about the life she once had. It felt comforting to put her own touch on these clothes, making them feel like hers. The process was therapeutic, a small rebellion against the pristine normalcy that seemed foreign and unsettling.