Hey guys!

So, after some prompting by (guess who?) Alamo Girl, I decided to write something a bit...different. Inspired by my perception of how Norman Reedus sees his character responding in a possbily romantic situation (prepare for angst, fellas).

As a result, it may come across as slightly OOC to readers. I'd like to think Norm might approve, though. ^.^

Standard disclaimer applies. Please don't sue me because I don't have any money.

Enjoy and please review with thoughts!

The last of them had been cleared away that day. The entirety of the prison secured; Rick, Daryl, Glenn and Maggie had scoured every inch of the facility over the few short weeks since they had moved the group in, taking down anything and everything that moved.

Even an ex-con or two had come to meet their fate at the end of one of Daryl's bolts.

Couldn't be helped, the way he saw it…

Bastards were half-starved and desperate, practically begging to be put down anyway.

And so they'd finished their work securing the grimy fortress, the first step in preparation for settling in and waiting out what was left of Lori's pregnancy.

By Hershel's clock it wouldn't be much longer in coming; Rick for his part was reserved about the whole thing, almost too much so. Daryl didn't ask, but he figured the group leader wasn't much looking forward to seeing the patch of pitch black that would undoubtedly be sitting atop the newborn's soft skull.

Night had fallen on them by the time they were through burning the remaining bodies and sweeping out the grit of the once closed-off wing. It'd been hard work, and every body had sought to pitch in save for Lori. Beth and Carl had gone through every cell and office after they called the all clear, checked for blood or body parts. Carol had followed close behind them, her new best friend hanging from its strap across her back.

Daryl had made a point to watch her as she fingered the weapon behind her, ready to whip it around in the unlikely case they'd missed something.

He was impressed with how far she'd come over the winter, from the moment she first asked him to teach her to shoot to the first day they'd stormed the prison, standing next to him on the tower and blasting away with a precision he'd instilled in her himself.

Now, he watched her again, as they all came to regroup in the open space of the prison yard, a few small separate fires being lit to keep the lingering chill of the past winter at bay.

She was back in mother-mode again, he noticed, moving from fire to fire, person to person, ensuring everyone got a share of the sun-dried meat he'd killed himself. Couples and family members shared what few cups they had, swallowing down half-distilled creek water like it was fuckin' Dasani.

Lowering the crossbow from his shoulder, Daryl made his way to the outermost fire where Carol had finally stopped to settle down herself. She offered him her normal, quiet smile when he sat down across the fire from her, and for his part, he smiled back. It'd become custom, almost. They'd been playing this game all winter…

Most nights he took first watch, allowed the rest of the group to get the sleep they desperately needed and deserved. Most nights, he was relieved by Rick and made it a point to settle back away from the rest of them, content to watch each of them slumbering before succumbing himself.

But on the nights that Rick or Glenn or Maggie insisted on buggin' him out of watch duty, he often found himself drawn to one fire, her fire, like a fucking moth to a bright white zapper.

They always smiled at each other, sometimes shared food and her cup. They sometimes talked before going to sleep.

They always woke up closer to each other than they'd been the night before.

"Hey, did you hear me?"

The flames were small but bright, and when Daryl glanced up from them she was watching him, her face drawn in concern.

"What?"

"I asked if you wanted the rest…" She was holding the rest of her meat out to him, the cup being turned up from her other hand as she drank. She looked at him over the rim of the plastic and gestured at him, comfortable to push him tonight.

Smirking at her insistence he snatched the jerky from her and tore into it, fighting the urge to stick his tongue out at her as he did so.

They were like this now, and he didn't know what it was exactly, but he didn't mind it. She'd probably call him 'friend', if he bothered to ask what she saw him as. He'd probably call her—

Daryl swallowed the meat dryly as she stood briefly to move closer to him, coming to sit just next to him and hand him the cup.

"Thanks."

"Not much left. We need to head back to that creek tomorrow."

He turned the cup up and mumbled through the swallows,

"Sure."

He quickly downed what was left of her-his-their meal, and noticed that Carol had not moved to put distance between them. It had been several days since he'd last joined her by the fire, and he assumed she simply wanted to talk to him…

But she sat quietly, smiling into the flickering flames, as if she knew something he didn't and wanted but refused to tell him.

Daryl chewed his lip—a habit he'd thought broken over the winter-and stood from his place beside her. As she angled her to look up at him he reached down to snatch the bow, motioning for her to do the same with her rifle.

"Come on. Not tired enough yet to sleep. Let's walk the fence."

Everything was quiet around the prison, the chirping of crickets the only sound heard aside from light talking among the group. For the first time in weeks the low moan of a Walker wasn't heard on either side of the fence. Daryl stared out into the darkness as they walked, Carol ahead of him and moving with a new confidence. He glanced at her several times, watched the way she gripped the rifle properly, her head moving back and forth to scan around them at all times. They moved past tower after tower, slipped under the eye of Rick at one point, and had reached the other side of the facility, opposite the yard.

The buildings loomed high and black next to them. Daryl felt his adrenaline rush slightly as they moved into the intense darkness.

And then, as the shadows seemed to swallow them and the chirping bugs grew quiet, she spoke.

"We're not prepared enough for the baby." She whispered, as if suddenly coming to the realization of it, and when she stopped abruptly beside a concrete shed he all but pushed her over.

A quick hand grabbed her arm, keeping her balanced, and he grumbled a small "Sorry" as she straightened.

When she refused to keep walking he settled for allowing his eyes to adjust to the pervasive darkness, searching to find her face in it. He could just make out the worry on her brow and he scowled.

"We all know we ain't ready. Hell, Hershel's been gripin' about Lori's poor diet all winter and—"She cut him off, words rushed and full of a knowledge he should have expected.

"No, no…I mean, supplies, Daryl. Lori needs…she needs everything. Clean linen, newborn clothes, wraps, somewhere for the baby to sleep—even just an old carseat would do for now-we need water, clean water, and I know it's impossible, but if we don't get at least half of what she really needs that baby might not even survive the first night…" He stood and listened as she rambled on, and if he didn't know any better he'd say she was planning on helping Hershel out with the whole labor thing.

Shifting his weight he shrugged and met her eyes in the shadows.

"We just got the place secure, Carol. I'm sure Hershel's told Rick what he needs, and I'm sure Rick's got plans to try and get it. We got Lori this far—ain't no sense in frettin' tonight, anyway."

She was catching her breath and nodding at him slowly, moving to sling the gun strap across her shoulder before offering him another small smile.

"Right. I'm sorry. Just sharing some of the pre-labor stress, I think."

He huffed, unsure of how to respond when she talked about pregnancy and childbirth, and she surprised him with a laugh.

And then she was there, in his face, breath on his cheek, and his lungs were frozen when she kissed at his stubble, quick and dry and over before he knew it.

"The hell was that for?"

He watched her raise an eyebrow, her smile toothy and gentle. He blinked when she replied,

"Why do I need a reason?"

And they were breathing on each other, the smell of meat in each other's faces, and she was smiling and he was grinning back like a fuckin' schoolboy and hell, he didn't even know why she'd done it—it sure as hell wasn't because he'd been shot in the head this time—but he knew now that he'd been waiting for it, all this time, for her to kiss him again, and he felt…

And he wanted to ask her the question, because maybe she wouldn't call him a friend, maybe she'd call him…

Something else.

When she stepped back he lunged, all reaction and no thought, a picture in his head and a feeling in his chest that he couldn't get a grip on, and when he grabbed her head with his free hand she jerked away, jumped away, a familiar whimper in her throat and suddenly, the world around them wasn't so dark anymore.

Daryl froze and stared at his hand in the air, at Carol's rigid body a foot or so away from it, her wide eyes blinking in ebbing confusion and everything was bright, bright red, his face practically blistering with heat and he knew he'd fucked up.

And he didn't even know what he'd done, what he'd wanted, but he'd fucked it up, and now he knew what it was like to feel—

Awkward? Fuck, he knew awkward. Awkward was his middle name….

But not like this.

His teeth set on his bottom lip with all the force to make it bleed, and while Carol grew calm and still in front of him he was a sudden flurry of movement, rushing around the side of the shed to find something to kick…

But there was nothing but more wall, and that was just fine by him.

His foot stung, the shock of his boot meeting concrete vibrating fucking pain pain pain up his leg. With every kick it hurt more and felt better, and his world became more and more bright, more and more red, until the pain was in his eyes, like a fire, like liquid flames…

And then the tear rolled down his cheek and her hand was on his shoulder and he stopped, a growl in his throat that just wouldn't come.

Daryl stood limp against the wall and let Carol turn him to face her, and the fire stung his eyes as he let her wipe the liquid flames away. And he knew then that he was crying, crying over something as simple as scaring her with his stupid fuckin' assumption that—

And then she kissed him, at the corner of his mouth, so close that he swore he could taste the dried meat, and whispered into the dimming red around them,

"I'm sorry, Daryl. That was my fault."

He leaned against the wall and backed away from her as far against as he could, a hand holding the bow strap with weakening strength and the other at his mouth, chewing at the skin around his thumb nail.

He wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault, that he'd made a stupid-as-shit move and she should be the one pointing the finger at him. He wanted to yell at her to get the fuck away from him, and he wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around her and he wanted to do something, anything to understand what the fuck had just happened and what the fuck he was feeling and what fuck he was thinking.

He wanted to ask her what she saw him as.

Instead he ducked his head, heaved for breath, ignored the pain in his foot and wished he could turn back time.