Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N - I admit it, I have a huge habit of writing English AUs across every fandom I've ever been in. But Daryl... well... I just can't make him English. That would not work in any way shape or form that I can possibly conceive. But hopefully this works enough that I can sate my need for my English AU and keep him in character.

The title and first chapter name come from The Jam's song 'English Rose.' I'd like to try and keep all subsequent chapter titles as lyrics from that as well, but I'm making no promises. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

The rain poured in a seemingly endless torrent; the grey skies emptied themselves over the grey, concreted terminal, as all around him nameless, faceless people jumped into taxis or hopped onto buses for their onward journey.

Daryl hoisted his rucksack further onto his shoulder and reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper that contained his hastily written instructions telling him where to go. Underground – Piccadilly Line was the first instruction, and there were several lines of instructions after that.

He looked around at al the available signs, and nervously started following the one that said 'Underground' with a certain amount of trepidation, unsure if this was really what he should be doing.

Part of him even considered turning round and getting straight back on the damn plane home. After all, he had no real reason to be here, on the other side of the planet, in London in the pouring rain. Only that his damn brother's dying wish was for him to expand his horizons, and get out of Georgia for the first time in his life. To see the world, and to live, not just survive, for the first time ever.

In his grief, Daryl had taken the words to heart. He'd already quit his job as a mechanic at the local garage, and had sold everything he owned to pay for the ticket and visa to get here. And for what? What essentially amounted to an extended goddamned holiday. Nothing more. And now the reality of being thousands of miles from home, with no plan at all for his future was settling heavily on his shoulders.

"Fuck you, Merle," he muttered under his breath.

He must have lost his goddamned mind to have upped sticks for this. His visa lasted a year. He had an open ended ticket so could return home whenever he wanted, but having left his life behind, he had nothing to return home to. And yet, being naturally pessimistic, he had only sorted out a week's worth of accommodation, just in case he did decide to haul his sorry ass back to Georgia.

He checked his instructions once again. Piccadilly Line… Straight down the bottom of a nearby staircase. He could hear an announcement saying that a train was due in six minutes, and rather than run for it, he hesitated in his tracks. There were plenty of nearby hotels. He could just get a hotel for the night instead of having to travel to some unknown destination and spend time with complete strangers. It was a tempting thought…

But then, it was also an expensive waste of money. He had already paid for the roof over his head for the next week, after all…

His mind made up, he quickly bought a ticket from a nearby kiosk and ran down the stairs, jumping onto the train just as the doors were starting to pull closed. No one so much as even looked in his direction as he found a seat on the cramped train and sat down, and checked the map above the travelers opposite him with his own directions once more. He still had a long way to go to his final destination, and he started to think about how he had gotten himself into this strange and discomforting situation.

One of his regular customers —a kid called Glenn with a beat up old Ford that spent more time in the shop than out of it—had spent a year traveling round Europe, and on discovering Daryl's vague, half-formed plans to travel abroad to honor his brother's memory, had told him about couch surfing. It was the cheapest way to see as many places as possible, and Glenn had enthusiastically launched into a dozen stories about the people he had met, and the places he had seen.

Daryl had been pretty put off by the idea of the forced social interaction, but Glenn had explained that it was just the way he was personally, and if you wanted to keep yourself to yourself you could. And there was definitely no cheaper way to travel. With money being such a finite resource, he had been persuaded to at least look into it, and with Glenn's patient help, Daryl had registered on the website. With a little more help and persuasion he had started actually looking for people offering up their spare rooms, and at long last, after a few exchanged emails, he had found a bed for the week in Greenwich, London. For the next seven nights, he'd be staying in the home of a Mrs Carol Peletier.

It took over an hour and two changes of trains for Daryl to reach his stop, and it was still pouring with rain by the time he stepped off his train. After just a few seconds he was drenched to the bone as he checked his directions once more.

The narrow, winding streets were such a far cry from anything he was used to, and he wondered how anyone could possibly live happily this way. After all, he may have grown up in not much more than a tiny wooden shack, but shit… at least they'd had plenty of outdoor space, and no neighbors living directly on top of them.

At last he found his way on to Mrs Peletier's street. Every house was adjoining the next, with not even an inch of space between them. Not a single one of them had a front garden, and Daryl wondered how he was going to cope with such a tiny amount of outdoor space and no greenery or trees to retreat into. He quickly reminded himself that he could give up and go home whenever he chose, and with a deep breath, started to walk down the car-lined street.

The numbered doors counted down until he finally reached number 38, and he looked up at the building he would be calling home for the next week. The red brick house was three storys tall, but it was impossible to tell where one property began and one ended.

His hand hovered over the doorbell for a second while he steeled himself for the awkwardness of meeting the family he would be staying with for the first time. He almost took himself by surprise when his finger pressed the button.

A few seconds later, the door was opened by a woman of about his own age. She had the bluest eyes he'd seen and they sparkled with friendly, smiling warmth. Her silver hair was cut short, which accentuated her heart-shaped face, and the flowing summer dress she wore clung to her slender figure. She was the prettiest damn thing he'd seen in as long as he could remember, and it took him a moment to remember to speak.

"Mrs Peletier?" he asked.

"Please, call me Carol," she said with a smile, holding her hand out towards him. He took hold of it and was surprised by the firmness of her handshake. "You must be Daryl. Come on in. It's awful out."

He stepped over the threshold and into the dry warmth of her home, taking a quick look around. Despite the outward appearance, inside it seemed light and spacious. The hallway he was in opened out into a large kitchen at the end, with a doorway to the right leading to what was presumably the living area. To the left a set of wooden stairs led upstairs. The walls were painted a soft cream, in stark contrast to the richly varnished wooden floorboards, and a series of black and white photographs were mounted along them framed in simple black frames.

He hadn't thought it was possible to feel even more out of place, but being in such a fancy-looking home set him immediately on edge. He was immensely aware of the fact that he was already dripping water all over the highly polished wooden floor, and didn't know what was worse; making a fool of himself in front of someone so well off, or making a fool of himself in front of someone so damn pretty.

"Sorry," he mumbled, nodding towards the water pooling at his feet.

"Don't worry," she said. "Kick your boots off, and I'll show you to your room so you can get yourself dry."

He nodded, and pulled them off as quickly as possible, painfully aware of the fact that he had been travelling for well over fourteen hours, and couldn't be especially pleasant to be around.

"This way," she said, walking straight up the stairs. "You're in the attic room at the top of the house. I'm sorry it's a trek, but hopefully you'll be comfortable."

"Thanks," he mumbled once again.

On his way up the stairs he glanced at the photographs on the walls. There were several of a young girl, presumably Mrs Peletier's daughter.

"How long was your flight?" she asked as they climbed the next set of stairs, and he brought his attention back to the woman in front of him.

"Nine and a half hours," he answered.

"Have you slept?"

"Naw, thought I'd try and hold out til tonight," he answered,

"Oh, you poor thing!" she said. "You must be absolutely knackered!"

"I'm…what?"

She turned back to look at him, and a pink flush and crept over her cheeks, a coy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "Tired… sorry. I'll try and keep the slang to a minimum."

"Naw, s'ok," he replied. "I just aint thinkin' too straight right now is all."

She smiled at him and pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. "Here you are," she said. "If you wanted to clean up, the bathroom is back down the stairs, second door on the right. I've only got a couple of rules while you're here. Firstly, if you smoke, not in the house. You'll need to go outside. And secondly, if you go out, please don't bring anyone back with you."

Daryl nodded and was unable to look her in the eye. "That aint a problem," he said.

"Good. So, I'll just leave you to it then. And I understand if you just want to go to bed, but if you feel like you'd like a little lunch, I'll be downstairs."

She offered him another warm smile and closed the door behind her, leaving Daryl alone. He let out a deep breath as he looked around at his home for the week. The attic room was large, but with low gabled ceilings. A double bed was at one end, with a chest of drawers and a clothes rail pushed up against one wall. All along the opposite gabled ceiling was a series of windows. He was sure that when night fell, and if the rain finally cleared up, he'd get a fantastic view of the night sky.

He dropped his bag to the floor and perched on the edge of the bed, falling back against it, utterly exhausted but determined not to sleep, and his mind was drawn to his host. They had sent each other a few cursory emails, just to exchange names, arrange what time he would be arriving, and so that he could—once again with Glenn's help—pay for the week's accommodation with .

He hadn't expected his host to be so pretty and so hospitable too. No, that was very much an unexpected bonus. But as soon as the thought began to form, he shook it away. Mrs Peletier, he reminded himself. Whoever Mr Peletier was, he was a damn lucky man.