In Daryl's dreams, he always saved her.

He always found her by the creek, looking wonderful and warm and bright as she always did, ignorant of the impending walkers creeping up around her. He'd shout her name and charge, watching as her head snapped to him, a light smile adorning her face only to twist into uncertainty as she saw his worry, then become fear when she noticed the walkers – varying from a single walker to herds of them – crowding around her. Daryl would aim and fire like it was built into his muscles, taking out walker by walker, making Carol a little bit safer each time. In dreams, he didn't need to nock the next arrow – they were always there and waiting, and once he'd done with the walkers, he'd drag her from her kneeling position and pull her into a hug. He's kiss her, and he'd continue to kiss her until he woke up all that time later feeling an unfamiliar warmth in his stomach, a contentedness that he wasn't quite used to.

But that wasn't how it happened, wasn't how it was happening even then. The walker was drawing closer to Carol, and Daryl was being attacked from all sides. Carol was tough, but the walker had at least thirty pounds of solid weight on her, wouldn't have trouble knocking her from her feet.

"Carol!" He shouted, and Carol turned to face him, her light skin turning pale from the sight of the walkers, from the sight of Daryl trapped. He tried to make a break for it – screw the walkers, he'd deal with them next – but one appeared in his view, mouth open and guts hanging from protruding ribs.

He didn't think, just slammed the crossbow against its head and tried to bolt towards an exceedingly worried looking Carol. But before he had time to move, the walker was pulling on his leg, making him lose his balance and collapse beneath the growing crowd – he didn't have long to count, but he guessed four or five from the calloused, cadaverous fingers that pulled at his flesh.

The rough, roaming hands pulling at his skin wasn't a new sensation, however: Daryl twisted and turned, slamming his arms and legs into any part of the walkers he could reach. From what he can tell, there are four of them, and the four are equally gaunt. Thankfully, they're not as strong, but Daryl's trapped, and couldn't get the leverage he needed to pull himself away from them. He heard Carol shriek from ahead, and started struggling even more, trying to shake the walkers grasp from his body.

He wasn't worried about himself, though, but Carol. His death is an inevitable notch in the course of time, and his expectations were low before the apocalypse began. This life was one he was accustomed to – knowing that a single wrong move would end him, or leave him in such a position he'd feel the need to simply end it himself, But Carol had never been a part of that sequence: she was the single exception, the one who couldn't die because they'd crumble without Carol.

His elbows hit the ground, and he used them to pull himself forward, mindful of snarling walkers following. He'd scored lucky: one of the walkers had lost her bottom jaw, and another had his legs removed. If he could kill the 'healthy' ones, the others would fall. He turned his head to try and spot his crossbow, searched the ground for arrows that had fallen from his hands once he went down. He couldn't see it, but his knife was slightly to the left, and Daryl was reaching out for it, stretching his body beyond what was comfortable, twisting his arm until sharp pains were stabbing the muscle. He grunted at the pain, but his hand enclosed the hilt of the dagger, and Daryl was whipping it around and plunging it into the snarling walker above him.

The first one was done, but his distraction had cost him the slight distance he'd gained. The other three walkers were clawing their way up, two gaping mouths open and flapping like a fish. He wasn't the type to usually quit, but if he moved his arms from holding them back, they'd attack, and if he tried to take one out, they'd attack. He was trapped like a rat in a cage.

He sneaked a look in Carol's direction hoping, for once, she was smart enough to use it as a distraction, to get away and save herself. He doubted she would, but the alternative – the one where Carol was already dead – was something he didn't even want to consider.

He kicked out at the legless walker attempting to knock it back. It seemed winded, for a moment, and Daryl shoved the knife into the closest walker – the jaw-less woman. But the walkers were back on him in a flash, faster than he would have given them credit for. He could hear Merle's condescending voice in his head, murmuring about he deserved it for abandoning blood, for leaving him behind, for not trying anywhere near as hard to find him, but even Merle's voice was lost beneath the crazed growling of the walkers.

Suddenly, the walker straddling his chest was tipping forward, a fountain of blood spurting from an open wound in it's head. The light was in Daryl's eyes, but he could make out Carol's bloodied form, holding the knife above her like some sort of saint. She kicked the other walker, moving it away from his legs, and drove the knife into it.

"You okay?" He asked, squinting to determine if she was bit. She offered him a hand, covered in blood and shaking slightly, and he took it, letting her pull him to his feet.

"Yeah. You get bit?"

"Nah. Thought you was dead."

"Me too," she replied, a little dumbstruck.

They stood in an awe-struck silence for a moment, Carol looking like she was ready to collapse for years, and Daryl staring at Carol like she was Jesus reborn. He fidgeted with the frayed edges of his shirt, feeling the words welling up in his chest but unable to say them.

"Ain't nobody had to save me before," was the eventual choice, then he added "thanks."

Carol was smiling at him, and Daryl slowly grinned back, and was happy to know that his father would be rolling in his grave seeing him now. Seeing the glint in Carol's eye, Daryl knew it was only a moment of time before another flirtatious comment rolled off her tongue, settled on his ears like some horribly indecent dream and rattle his very bones, but he didn't expect Carol gripping his face with blood-stained, dirty hands and pulling his face down, planting her lips on his like it was some rubbish romance obvious from the beginning on who had a morning woody for who.

But Carol was kissing him and he had no idea what to do with his hands. Her lips were chapped and moved awkwardly against his (though Daryl guessed he was the one making it awkward, having no idea what he was doing), and while her grip wasn't rough, Daryl felt like he was being suffocated. She smelled like blood and that unique, pungent stench of walker. He didn't mind too much – he'd eaten raw rabbit for lunch and felt his he was wearing a second skin of walker blood. Carefully, and with feeling he was tracking some timid animal, he placed his hands on her shoulders, felt his clammy palms on the far-too-prominent bone, then moved them down: her shoulders, her face, her arms, her waist, anywhere that would feel slightly more comfortable.

She pulled back, though her face remained inches from her own, and looked him directly in the face. Daryl's gaze landed on the surrounding trees, too conscious of the threats to completely let his guard down, and a little embarrassed by his completely evident lack of experience and unwilling to face her understanding eyes.

Carol pressed her lips to his once more, much gentler this time, coaxing him to move with her. Her hands came to rest on his arms, and moved down until she was cradling his wrists. His shoulders were tense and hands shaking slightly, but it was a different sensation from before, one where he didn't feel like a trapped rat being baited to its death.

"Should we, uh, be watching this?"

Daryl's face flushed, and he pulled back, already turning side on, averting his face. Carol's eyes blew open, and she smiled at him, oblivious to Axel's head thumping against whatever Glenn happened to be holding, and the accompanying "ouch".