A/N: This is an edited rewrite of my first ever TWD fic, "Playing House." I initially wrote this story between seasons, so it's cannon through season 6 and then AU from there. In this version, Negan beats Aaron to death (not Glenn and Abraham), and the attack is stopped by a third party. Eugene never left Alexandria, and Morgan brought Carol back before she made it to the Kingdom.

[*]

"Your task is not to seek for love,
but merely to seek and find
all
the barriers within yourself
that you have built against it."
- Rumi

[*]

Carol eased down onto the front steps where Daryl sat skinning a squirrel. "How's the shoulder?" she asked. "Giving you any pain?"

Daryl's shoulder was fine. It was his ego that was still bruised. He'd lost too much blood from the gunshot wound, and when Negan started beating Aaron with that baseball bat, Daryl had fainted. Like a goddamn girl. He awoke later to the sound of gunshots, rolled on his back, and saw a monk dropping out of a tree with a longbow in one hand and a sharpened crucifix in the other. He thought he was dreaming when that monk drove the crucifix straight into Negan's eye while screaming, "Where is she?"

There were other monks, some with guns, and three with Medieval-looking weapons: a broadsword, a mace, and a battle axe. They were killing Saviors right and left and then tossing guns to Rick and the others. The Alexandrians had been told there were other camps, but they hadn't known about the monastery twenty miles southwest, or that Negan had abducted their doctor, Nadia Yenin, after beating her brother, a monk, to death. Dr. Yenin saved Maggie and the baby inside her. She saved Daryl too. Aaron she couldn't save.

Rick formed an alliance with the monks, and, together, they put an end to the Saviors. The monastery was burned down during the war. Afterwards, the remnants of the monastery camp – eight monks, six women, and three children - moved to Alexandria. The monastery's underground storage cellar had escaped the fire, and so the refugees brought with them canned food, bags of yeast, wheat, and flour, and sixty gallons of beer the monks had brewed themselves.

Alexandria's houses were full now. There'd been some redistribution of room assignments, and Daryl was in a house with Carol, two of the monks, and the doctor they'd rescued. Nadia did her job well, but she was jumpy if you tried to touch her – not that Daryl had, but he'd seen Brother Lawrence try it once, in a comforting way.

"Shoulder's fine," Daryl answered. He flayed the back of the squirrel in one long stroke and tossed the pelt to the ground before turning the half-skinned thing over. "You?"

Morgan had found Carol alone on the highway and had talked her into returning to Alexandria, and she'd laid her crisis of conscience aside long enough to fight in the war. After it was over, for a while, none of them had stopped to feel any of it. They'd pressed on. But it had been weeks with no threat, other than a few stray walkers and some holes in the defenses that had to be patched. They'd had time to let it all settle. "I didn't get shot."

Daryl muttered, "Meant your man." Tobin had died in the war.

"You can't get too attached to anyone in this world." Daryl couldn't quite make out the faint sound in her voice. There was a hitch, but it didn't sound quite like grief. "Besides, I'm not the only one who lost someone. You lost Aaron."

"I ain't never swung that way, you know."

"He was your friend, Daryl."

"Yeah," he muttered. And Aaron's loss hurt more than Daryl wanted to admit. He'd sat at that man's dinner table. He'd walked the woods side by side with him. They'd dreamed of breaking a horse together.

After the war with the Saviors, nine more people were buried in Alexandria's growing cemetery – four monks, four of the original inhabitants of Alexandria, including Tobin, and one of the family – Rosita. Rosita had died saving Abraham. Daryl wondered what Abraham thought of that. He'd just walked away from that woman. Daryl couldn't imagine doing something like that if he had a woman who loved him. Did Abraham have any idea how goddamn rare a woman's love and loyalty was? Daryl wasn't even sure his own mother had loved him.

After all those graves were covered, the monks had chanted a dirge, deep-voiced and solemn, and it had pissed Daryl off, the way that haunting, sorrowful sound made him want to cry. He doubted that anyone would sing for him when his time came. "But y'all were together," he reminded Carol. Is this how she would act when he died? With nothing but a shrug? They weren't together, not like that, he knew, but…she was something to him. And he thought maybe he was something to her too.

"Tobin and I were playing house," she said. "And for a while…it felt good."

Daryl never understood what Carol had seen in that man. Tobin treated her well enough, he guessed, which was all that mattered to him. But Tobin was no match for Carol. He was a match for the woman Carol sometimes pretended to be.

Daryl dropped the skinned squirrel on the porch. "You gonna take that and make us a stew?"

"Sure, Pookie," she said, pursing her lips into that fake smile that annoyed the shit out of him, even while it made him want to laugh. He didn't laugh, though. He pressed his lips into a stern line and pulled himself up into a standing position. She looked up and asked him, "Are you going to set the table?"

"I hunt. I skin. Ain't settin' no table." He held out his hand to her.

"Guess I'll ask Brother Lawrence," she said, sliding her hand into his and pulling herself up. Her hand was somehow soft and calloused all at once - a worker's hand, a killer's hand, but with a woman's skin. "I can watch him bend over the table while he sets it," she said. "He does have a nice ass."

"Pffft."

Carol smirked. "Brother What-a-waste. Still honoring his vow of celibacy."

Daryl plucked up the skinned squirrel and grunted. "Wish he'd taken a vow of silence."

He wished it even more when they were all at the dinner table later. Brother Stephen was busy eating, but Brother Lawrence was as chatty as ever. The doctor, Nadia, was silent and barely eating. She'd lost some weight since they'd rescued her. Daryl had seen Brother Lawrence urging her to eat on more than one occasion.

"I can show you how to use the longbow, Daryl," Brother Lawrence was saying. He was always talking to Daryl about how much better the longbow was than the crossbow, like he was comparing dicks. "We've got that range set up now. I'm training Carl, some of the other boys and men. I'm surprise you've managed to keep that crossbow in shape as long as you have, without a decent press. Where did you even find replacement strings?"

Daryl slurped his stew off his spoon. "Places."

"The thing about the longbow," Brother Lawrence continued, "is that it's easier to maintain. And, as I told you before, it's a more effective weapon. Did you know, in the Battle of Agincourt, when the English forces -"

" – that world don't matter," Daryl interrupted him. "That world's gone."

"Au contraire," Brother Lawrence said. "That world's back."

Daryl sipped his beer. He had to admit, it wasn't bad, this batch the monks had brewed. He wondered if they could set up another brewery here in Alexandria when they ran out. "Why do you still wear that damn hassock?"

Carol snorted. "Cassock. It's called a cassock."

Daryl glowered.

"It's more practical than you might imagine in a medieval type military environment," Brother Lawrence answered. "You know, the origin of clerical clothing is tied to – "

"- Don't wanna know," Daryl interrupted him. "And I already know how to use a longbow just fine."

"Well, what are you bringing when you and I go on our supply run tomorrow?" Brother Lawrence asked. "Are you bringing that inefficient, modern crossbow of yours?"

"Bringing Carol," Daryl insisted. "Ain't bringing you."

"Rick said – "

"- Rick will be fine with the change," Carol assured the monk.

"It's turning to winter," Brother Lawrence warned them. "Dress warm. Virginia winters aren't like Georgia winters."

Daryl grunted. He hated the way Brother Lawrence was always telling him shit he already knew. He knew it was cold. He could feel it already. Hell, he'd even put on a button-down flannel shirt over his wife beater. Carol had called him "handsome," and then laughed, like he was puppy who'd just been forced into a fuzzy sweater.

"You sure you don't want to take me?" Brother Lawrence asked. "I know where that Cabela's is."

"Draw me a map," Daryl grumbled. He wasn't even sure they should bother with the Cabela's. "Probably been picked over by now anyhow."

"Maybe not the storage rooms," the doctor suggested. They all looked at her with surprise. Nadia said fewer words than Daryl, usually, unless she was diagnosing you or telling you how to stop the bleeding. "I want to go with you."

"No," Carol told her. "We're not letting our doctor leave the gates. You're too valuable."

"So I'm a prisoner here, too?" she asked. "Just as I was with Negan?"

"Nothing like that," Brother Lawrence said softly. "These are good people."

"Negan thought he was good people too," Nadia said. "We all do what we have to, don't we, for our own people?"

Carol's eyes fell into her soup bowl. She'd killed seven Saviors in the war.

"We don't all do it the same way," Daryl said quietly, willing Carol to raise her eyes to his, to see her own goodness reflected in them.

"No we don't," Brother Lawrence agreed. "Some of us trade rather than extort. Some of us woo rather than rape. It's not the same. We're not all the same. The world is not all one shade of black."

Nadia pushed her bowl away and stood. "I'm going back to the infirmary. I have things to do."

As Brother Lawrence watched her go his hazel eyes flickered with worry and quiet anger.

[*]

Brother Lawrence brought Carol the last bowl and set it by the sink. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. He had broad, muscular shoulders, but also a bit of a beer gut, and some of the Alexandrians had taken to calling him Friar Tuck, which he took in good humor. "Nadia hardly talks since we rescued her. I wish someone would talk to her."

Carol turned off the water and rested her hand on the stainless steel outer rim of the sink. "If you think someone should talk to her, shouldn't it be you?"

Brother Lawrence looked out the window. Carol followed his gaze and saw a few large, fluffy, white snowflakes wind their way down, a lighter shade against the darkening sky. "She can't seem to stand me anymore," he said. "Or any man who might want to...be near her." He sighed. "You should take me with you tomorrow. I know where I'm going."

"You're pretty restless for a monk. How did you stay cloistered all those years?"

"I didn't. I went out doing service work all the time. Will you take me along?" he asked.

"I'll talk to Daryl about it."

[*]

Daryl needed to walk. He didn't know where. He never knew where. He didn't even think about the fact that he was going in the same direction as the doctor until she slowed, turned, and cast him a suspicious glance.

He wanted to bark, "Hell you lookin' at?" but he didn't. He guessed she had reason to be on edge. Maybe she thought he was following her. For some reason, he found himself saying, "You didn't eat much."

"Squirrel's not my thing."

She had a slight accent. Daryl didn't know what it was. He didn't much care. Merle had joined the Aryan Nation for a while, preached to Daryl all sorts of racist shit, but he'd never understood why anyone cared about where a person was from or what he sounded like or looked like. There were only two kinds of people in this world: the ones you could half trust, and the ones you couldn't trust at all.

Daryl had no idea what Nadia's background was, with that skin that was dark but not quite black, and the thick lashes, and the brooding brown eyes, and a body that probably used to be voluptuous but was beginning to waste away. She'd come into the monastery after everything went to shit because her brother – her biological brother – lived there. But he was beaten to death by Negan, and she was taken. Negan had assumed the monks would submit and start turning over half of their beer and crops. He'd been wrong, obviously.

Daryl fell in step beside the doctor. "Listen," he muttered. "Never said thanks. For getting the bullet out. Stoppin' the bleeding. The transfusion. Ya don't expect yer doc to give you her own blood."

"That is the virtue of being a universal donor in a world of murders, I suppose." She brushed a soft flake of snow from her shoulder-length black hair. "And we are all murders now."

"Nah."

"Brother Lawrence used to urge restraint and charity in the monastery's dealings with all men. He used to preach, Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, I will repay. But do you know what he said to me the night he brought me back to the monastery? He said…I wish I had killed Negan more slowly."

Daryl looked down at the toe of his boot. It was black from old blood stains.

"Let me go on this run," she said. "We need more medicines. I know where they are. You do not."

He looked up again. "Then draw us a map and make us a list. Carol's right. You don't let your doctor out your gates." That was why Rick and Glen had been trying to bring Maggie to Jesus's camp after all, instead of trying to send for the doctor. It was why he should never have taken Denise on that run. Doctors were more valuable than guns. "Why you want to go so bad anyhow?"

"Have you ever been to a zoo?" Nadia asked.

"My folks weren't exactly the type to take us."

She gestured about Alexandria, her delicate fingers fluttering. "This is like one of those natural habitats. It's not a cage exactly. But it's a poor imitation of something real. And the animals know they aren't free. But they're also not going to bite the hand that feeds them."

Over her shoulder, Daryl spied Rick approaching. He slowed to a stop while Nadia walked on. Rick turned to look at her as she passed, and then came to a stop in front of Daryl. The sun had set, but porch lights still cast a dim glow on the street. The snow fell intermittently, not quite sticking to anything, but Daryl could feel it melt into his hair.

"How's she doing?" Rick asked Daryl. "She looks like she lost a lot of weight."

"Not eating much."

"She's our doctor. We've got to keep her alive."

"Ain't my job. Ain't no shrink."

Rick fished in his jeans pocket and handed him a piece of folded paper. Daryl opened it and read the list. "That last one's just if you happen to see it," Rick said. "Michonne likes it."

"85%?" Daryl asked. "Pretty damn specific."

"Or 75%. She just…she likes her chocolate dark." Rick smiled. "So do I."

Daryl groaned.

"Shouldn't quit my day job and become a stand up?" Rick asked. "Is that what you're suggesting?"

"Look, I ain't losing a shitload of supplies again because some girl likes something."

"I know. Just, if you happen to see it and you don't have to break a vending machine to get it," Rick said.

Daryl tucked the list in his front shirt pocket. "You're already gettin' laid. Hell you need chocolates for?"

"Daryl, sometimes a man gives a woman gifts just because he likes her. Not to get laid. Haven't you ever done that?"

He'd given Carol a Cherokee rose once. That certainly wasn't to get laid. It was because he couldn't stand to see her pain. "Dunno."

"Well, try it some time."

Daryl's hands were cold. He should have worn his leather jacket. He could see his breath making clouds in the air. "Chocolate," he muttered. "Ridiculous."

"Are you telling me you wouldn't bring something back for Carol, if you happened to see something she liked?" Risk asked him.

"Carol's goin' with me."

"Good. I've been saying groups of three are safer. We can't keep making the same stupid mistakes."

"Just Carol," Daryl insisted.

"Brother Lawrence knows that part of Virginia a hell of a lot better than any of us do. He's done runs from the monastery around there."

"He never shuts up. "

Rick chuckled. "I've noticed that. But I really think you should take him along."

"He's worse than Eugene."

"You can handle it. Take some of those orange ear plugs."

"Rick, man, don't make me take him."

Rick shook his head. "I can't make you do anything. But I'm strongly advising it." He clapped Daryl's shoulder. "Come back alive."

"Well I sure ain't comin' back dead. Carol'll see to that." She was maybe going to have to shoot him one day. Or him her. That last one he didn't want to think about. Carol was right. You couldn't let yourself get too close to anyone in this world. And he was already too close to her.

Daryl walked the perimeter of Alexandria for a while, looked up at the scaffolding where Abraham and Sasha stood half watching, half flirting. They noticed him and nodded down. He nodded back. They turned and lowered their heads close to one another, laughed, and paced in separate directions, looking over the wall.

Daryl walked to the cemetery, fished in his pocket, and lay a small cross on Rosita's grave. Seeing Abraham laughing like that made him want to do it. Brother Lawrence had given him this cross, pressed it in his palm when he was lying recovering from his gunshot wound on a cot in that monk's cell. Brother Lawrence had said some prayer, too. Daryl hadn't heard much of it, but he'd heard enough to suspect the monk believed he was dying. He hadn't died. Maybe it would be better if he had.

He wasn't feeling sorry for himself. He didn't have time for that self-pity shit. But...if he was being honest? He still blamed himself for getting captured and shot, for not being the one to save his own people. Maybe that's why he really didn't want Brother Lawrence along for the ride. The man reminded him of his own failure.

He paced the ten steps to Aaron's grave next. He put a hand on the cross that marked it. "Thanks for the spaghetti," he said, and turned and made his way home.

Home.

This is our home, Carol had told him once, when he'd returned to that prison cell, their third long-term camp in a long line of stops along the way to nowhere in particular. He'd called it a tomb back then, but he hadn't entirely meant it. No place was really a tomb if Carol was there.