A/N: Be forewarned: I make a lot of metaphors involving clothes in this chapter. Hopefully I've selvedged enough serious moments from previous chapters to make this one worthwhile. Because even though my personal writing deadlines are looming over me I like to think I still spin a pretty good yarn, hmm? Or maybe I'm just going off on a weft here.

(All yoking aside, even if we ignore the fact that I am a terribly slow writer, I actually had a really hard time writing this chapter. Please let me know what you think – I hope it was worth the wait!)

xxxx

Don't sorrow, no don't weep

For tonight, at last

I am coming home

- U2, "A Sort of Homecoming"

Rick squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to process Daryl's most recent news.

"So let's get this straight, now."

Daryl nodded. For a man so hell-bent on revenge, Rick was taking the news rather calmly.

"You think the Governor is using two little kids to get inside the prison?"

"I don't think, man, I know."

His brother had become a murderer under the Governor's orders. One of the many things that drove his hatred for Philip.

"He don't do his own dirty work. Gets others to. Treats 'em well then - "

"Kicks them out."

Daryl and Rick shot a glance over to Hershel. They'd met in the office, where Rick had found the keys to the cellblock so many weeks ago. Hershel occupied the chair in the corner of the cramped space; the other two men leaned against the desk.

Daryl nodded solemnly.

"You got it."

"So what do you think they have planned?" Hershel shifted in his chair. "Did the boys mention what their job would be, exactly?"

"They didn't know."

Rick chewed at the inside of his cheek.

"Maybe he's got them trained. You think? They'll get inside, we're supposed to let our guard down, then they'll attack. While we sleep." Rick looked at the other two men. "Something like that?"

Daryl shook his head. Things weren't adding up. The one eyed bastard wouldn't risk his life but he'd sure as hell want to be there to pull the trigger on Michonne. Rick. Everybody. Somehow, two teenage boys were supposed to get inside the prison, their prison, accomplish something the Governor would praise them for, and gain a load of respect or honour from their lunatic leader. Without even knowing what they were doing in the first place.

"These kids ain't killers," he added, "not like Randall."

Hershel nodded solemnly.

"You heard the boys talking, Daryl. Do you suppose they're an immediate threat?"

He shook his head. "Sounds like they're still scopin' the place out. We've got time yet."

Rick pushed himself off the desk, pacing back and forth in the tiny room.

"The Governor knew the prison. Tyreese already told us he drew a plan for him when they got to Woodbury. He doesn't need those kids to give him a layout of the place."

"That's 'cause he ain't gonna be there," Daryl interjected. " S'what I said before. He's sending these kids in alone."

"What, you think the Governor is spending all this time, planning, building an army of dumb kids and then letting them run with his plan? You can't tell me that sounds right to you."

Daryl slumped back against the wall. It didn't. What the hell was he missing?

Hershel cleared his throat and adjusted his fraying pant leg.

"I assume you two remember the history of World War II from school."

Daryl and Rick shared a glance. Daryl remembered more from school than he'd ever tell anyone. It wasn't in his genes to enjoy it. Damn well wasn't about to come home and start waxing poetic to his old man about schoolwork. Merle had managed to convince him it wasn't worth it, anyways.

"Yeah I remember," Rick offered.

Hershel nodded, eyeing them carefully.

"Then I assume you learned about the kamikaze."

Daryl felt like his stomach was going to drop out from under him. He could have taken the kids out. One, two bolts, they'd both be gone before the second could even realize the first one was dead. But what good would it have done? The crazy would only find two more suckers to replace them.

Rick didn't pretend to hide his shock either. He strode over to Hershel, almost uncomfortably close, resting a hand near where the old man's arm was propped up on the desktop.

"You think that's what he's planning? These brothers are kamikaze pilots?" he hissed.

Daryl winced at Rick's words; their painful truth. It made sense. The lack of preparation. Idol worship. The honour they'd acquire in doing it. They'd be dead but Daryl supposed that even the craziest ones believed they could enjoy honour in death. Then again, Jamie and Max probably didn't even know what was coming to them.

"It's only an idea."

"You think the Governor is sending two innocent kids in here to blow themselves up?"

"No."

Rick and Hershel turned, surprised, as if they'd forgotten Daryl was still in the room.

"The governor will. Probably got some real bookish types figuring out how to do it. He'll hang back I bet, wait 'til he sees 'em go in. Maybe they'll bring us out into the yard so he can watch."

Daryl scuffed his boot along the floor

"Then he'll press the button."

Ricks look softened as he seemed to consider what an attack like that would do to the prison population.

"We can't tell anyone."

Daryl glared at Rick.

"What?"

"He's right," Hershel admitted. "You said it yourself. We've got at least a week before anything will happen. Why worry everyone?"

Daryl shook his head, rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe it.

"Can't leave everyone in the dark about it."

"No?" Rick asked. "What'll they do about it if they know?"

Daryl looked out the window that looked down onto the common area. He imagined Carol at the sink, wrist deep in cold suds. She'd worry about him going out every day. She's want to help prepare. He shook his head and looked to his feet.

"Fine."

"You sure?"

Daryl looked from one man to the other, Hershel's pale eyes creased at the corners.

"Yeah. You're right."

Rick nodded and then he, too, looked out into the common area.

"Thank you, Daryl." He clapped him on the shoulder before swiftly making his way towards the cellblock.

Hershel gathered his crutches and followed soon after, giving Daryl a nod on his way out.

Daryl picked up his crossbow and made his way to the window, to the people milling about, thinking about the people in their beds he wouldn't be able to tell.

xxxx

She was thankful that Beth had found her something to do. The days were long enough as is; add in the monotonous grey of the cell walls and the dull ache in her side and Carol could almost feel her temperature rising as cabin fever set in.

The sun had set an hour ago. She hadn't seen Daryl since that morning, but she wasn't worried. He almost always found something that needed to be done.

She straightened up in bed, stretching out her neck and her fingers. A pile of recently mended clothes sat, neatly folded at the foot of her bed. Aesthetic repairs to clothing weren't exactly essential to survival, but she liked to think she was keeping alive a tiny thread of normalcy. She'd been doing that since the quarry.

Sighing, she ducked her head and got back to it, pushing the needle through a stubborn seam and cursing under her breath that, during all of their supply runs, nobody in the group had ever brought back a thimble.

"I brought you these," a voice came from the entrance to the cell.

Beth stood with her arms cradling a neatly folded t-shirt and pill-covered sweater. She paused in the doorway, waiting on Carol before advancing any further.

"I hope you don't mind. I took them from the laundry area before Maggie and Glenn went in there to..."

She trailed off just then, eyes darting around the room, cheeks flushing.

"... Finish their washing."

From her spot in the doorway she could see the edges of Carol's mouth turning upwards, just barely discernible through the look of concentration that was etched on her face. Even in the growing darkness that had settled into the prison, Beth quickly recognized the charcoal grey fabric puddled in Carol's lap. The woman tugged and pushed at the needle with a devoted dexterity, like she'd create a seam with her two hands that was stronger than the material had been when it came off the loom. Like each loop through the denim weave closed a gap, healed an open wound as she brought the two pieces of worn fabric together.

Carol glanced up at Beth, whose eyes shone brightly over the dark half-moons that had settled into her skin beneath them. Carol just knew that the girl had taken on both of their responsibilities for the day while she was holed up in bed. She hated the feeling of being useless, of creating more work for others rather than lessening their loads. Ever since the farm, she had been determined to never let that happen again.

"You're too kind, Beth. You can leave them on the chair."

Beth opened her mouth to offer Carol her help in getting dressed but closed it again when the woman immediately looked back down at the pair of faded jeans lying in her lap.

Out of the corner of her eye Carol could see Beth, arms still full of clothing, hovering in the doorway. Perhaps she had been too curt with her. She offered Beth a small smile as a polite notice of dismissal before returning her gaze to the frayed knees of Daryl's pants. Beth scurried over to the chair and set the clothes down before turning to head back out.

"Holler if you need anything," she called over her shoulder before making her way swiftly down the row of cells.

Carol shook her head and suppressed a smile, forcing the needle through the jeans one last time before winding the thread into a knot and breaking the tail ends off with her teeth. After all, she supposed, each of them had something to prove, if not to the others then at least to themselves.

xxxx

The t-shirt had been easy. She gathered it up in her hands and easily poked her head through, letting the loose cotton fall into place and slowly, carefully bringing her arms through the sleeves. The sweater, though, was trickier. She pulled her head through the opening but the rest of the garment didn't follow to her hips. Bringing one of her arms out, she got her elbow caught at the entrance to one of the sleeves. On any other day it was a trivial dilemma; hunch a shoulder, turn a torso until one hand was free. Repeat on the other side. But she was tired of the pain already, even though she'd withstood far worse in her past. She wanted to be healed, wanted to get beyond this part. She'd been a victim in her past life and hated it more than she'd realized until she stood alone in that jail cell, somebody else's old sweater trapped around her shoulders. With her other arm she tugged and tugged but the sweater resisted, another challenger in the world turned against them.

After a few more moments of vain struggle she dropped her head and reached her free arm out to the frame of the top bunk to steady herself. She drew in a steady breath and exhaled far more shakily than she was expecting. Just another tug. One more should do it. Pressing her lips together she tucked two fingers underneath her elbow and stretched the wool as far as she could. Only half an inch more. That was all she needed to release her arm, her frustration, her feeling of entrapment. Gathering the remains of her resolve, she raised her shoulder to her ear, gasping as she felt a rough, cool hand close itself around her trapped elbow, gently pushing it through the opening until it finally slipped free.

She didn't move for a moment, stunned into silence. The lumpy sweater bunched up over one of her shoulders.

"Sorry," he mumbled, taking a step away from her before she could turn to face him. She would have been close otherwise. Too close.

With one arm safely in place she hastily brought the other through its sleeve without much trouble. Smoothing the wool against her front, she spun around to look at him. Daryl held his breath, waiting for the joke, the teasing, or the scolding, which, inexplicably, would have made him feel far worse than the previous two.

"You're soaking wet."

He stared at her soundlessly. That was it?

"It's raining." His gaze flitted out of the cell and towards the window, where even in the darkness he could tell the air was calm. "Or, at least, it was."

She frowned and approached him, eyes full of concern and arms wrapped around her body, as if the cold were still getting through her layers of clothing. She carried herself stiffly but looked much stronger than she had that morning.

"You're not frozen?"

He shrugged. He was going to sock Glenn next time he saw him for keeping him from gaining access to the laundry room. Not that he would have wanted to see what was going on in there, but he liked to use it to change. Less foot traffic, fewer questions.

"It's a good thing I've been busy today or your things would still be down there."

Before he could open his mouth to reply she turned her back to him, bending at the knees to reach down and grab some of the clothes she'd folded neatly at the foot of her bunk. She kept one arm still wrapped around herself as she tossed his dry clothes at his chest. He caught them clumsily but didn't move, just watched her as she rolled up her sleeves and sat down on the bottom bunk facing him.

"Go on, before you catch a cold."

He raised his eyebrows, certain that even she didn't realize what she was suggesting. Over the course of the last winter they'd all seen each other at varying degrees of indecency. They'd stumbled around corners, happened upon the same abandoned outhouse more times than he could count. By the time spring rolled around all shades of embarrassment had worn off, each of them realizing that they'd all been caught at some point or another.

This felt different, somehow. There could be no excuses when it wasn't an intrusion. No way of ducking your head, pretending you hadn't seen anything – or as Daryl had told Glenn once, claiming you'd tried your best but realized there hadn't been anything worth seeing at all.

Carol seemed to realize their situation soon after Daryl did, and she grabbed a hold of the metal above her head to stand herself up. His eyes followed her out the door, but he could still see her as she settled against the wall outside. He felt guilty watching her go, an odd taste of dissatisfaction landing in his throat at the notion that he'd effectively kicked her out of her cell – or maybe, he thought, their cell – after she'd spent a good part of her day mending his things.

He quickly shed his vest and jacket, tossing them onto the stool behind him. It didn't make sense, this newfound guilt; little things like that didn't matter with her. She was still just outside the doorway, waiting patiently to come back in. She'd wanted to have something to pass the day; there was little to do but sew. Merle had been right. He was going soft.

His hands were quickly warming up but he still fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, finally reaching behind and pulling it up over his head before adding it to the pile on the stool. He finished changing in equal haste, pausing only for a moment to look at the dirt that stained the entire front of his pants. Evidence of the time he'd spent in hiding, eavesdropping on two teenage boys like some creep from the old world. He angrily threw it down onto the pile and ran his fingers through his hair. He hoped she wouldn't ask how he'd gotten so dirty. She'd believe what he told her. She always had. And that was the problem, time and again.

We're just gonna locate that little girl and she's gonna be just fine.

"Knock, knock."

She brought him abruptly out of his reverie, already halfway across the cell by the time he turned to face her, one hand on his hip, the other trying to rub the tension out of the back of his neck.

"You clean up nice."

There it was. Back again. He rolled his eyes and brought his other hand to his hip. Carol smirked but then her eyes found the pile of wet clothes, sloppily arranged on the stool. A shirtsleeve hung low to the ground, the water already forming a legitimate puddle on the concrete floor. She moved to grab the clothes and hang them out on the railing but Daryl grabbed her arm and pulled her back before she could get a hold of anything.

"What d'you think you're doin'?"

He released her but she stayed near him, his fingers accidentally trailing down the inside of her forearm as he brought his own arm back to his side. Carol shivered at the slight touch, the lingering of his fingertips against her palm not going unnoticed as he narrowed his eyes, waiting on her reply.

"I was planning on hanging them just outside." She gestured towards the pile with her other arm, the one he hadn't grabbed. "They'll never dry like that."

She shifted uncomfortably in place, his eyes never leaving her face as he considered her words.

"Lord knows how your clothes are so soaked," she continued, "Tyreese said it was hardly drizzling most of the day."

Daryl could feel the quickening of his heart as it beat against his ribcage. She didn't need to know the truth. Not immediately, at least. Not when they still had at least another week before the Governor would even think about sending those kids to them.

As usual, given his silence, she was unperturbed. She turned away from him and gingerly leaned over her bunk, pulling the sheets back in preparation for bedtime.

"Did you fall into a pond or what?" She asked it as an afterthought, a half-joke, another thing for Daryl to roll his eyes at before letting it rest.

But he couldn't brush it off. She was getting too close to the truth, and the idea of having to lie outright sent a wave of panic through him. He reached out again without thinking, catching her by the wrist and throwing her completely off-guard. She jumped at his touch, free hand flying to her side as she unsuccessfully tried to mask the pain.

Daryl's eyes grew wide at the sight of her, his lingering anger dissipating quickly as she bit down on her bottom lip. He swallowed hard, heart still pounding, fervour of worry and remorse. Her eyes met his and she nodded once. Water under the bridge.

After a few more seconds she looked down. Daryl's eyes followed her gaze as it trailed down the length of his arm, where, to his surprise, his fingers were still wrapped tightly around her wrist. When her eyes reached his once more they held a look of mild surprise. Amusement, almost. Daryl immediately loosed his grip and moved to shove his hand into his pocket. She caught him halfway, deftly intertwining her fingers with his and bringing his hand close to her own chest.

For a moment she held it there, stared at the dip in his collarbone. The rise and fall of his chest like the metronome, steady, keeping time. The cracked skin of his knuckles catching on old wool fibres as she pulled him closer.

He was frozen; immobile. All of the instincts that told him to run; Merle's taunting in his head – Dixon men ain't pansies like the rest – nagging in the corners of his mind. The reminder that he still held a secret from her ever-present in the dirty clothes piled in the corner of the room. But what good would it do, really? To tell her would be to go against what he and Rick had agreed upon. Didn't his word with Rick count for something, too? Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed her clean knife, innocent as ever, untouched since the previous night. It wasn't as if he was putting her in danger, after all. He'd make damn sure to keep those kids the hell away from the entire cellblock when the time came.

He shoved his free hand into his pocket and brought his thumb through one of his belt loops. Even after a day upstairs the faintest of lemon scents lingered about her. He remembered all the other times he'd been this close. He'd held her back, held her up. Carried her, even. A touch on the shoulder, a grasping of the waist when the walkers got too close. All done out of necessity; as a favour; the smallest bit of reassurance. Merle's voice getting quieter in his head as the warmth from Carol's hand transferred itself to his own. Yes, he thought to himself, that's what it was. Reassurance. Maybe that was all she needed. He could do that.

"Why?" she'd asked.

"Because I think she's still out there."

It was only the slightest of movements; so slight that even she herself didn't realize she was doing it. Without moving her feet she started to sway on the spot, placing her other hand at the nape of his neck.

Even as she moved she felt separate from herself. Like she was watching from the doorway, a passenger along for the ride.

"Daryl." Her breath was warm where his collar met his skin. "Remember when you came back?"

He cleared his throat, then cringed when he realized how loud it must have sounded, so close to Carol's ear.

"Yeah."

With Merle. That's what she meant, but didn't say it. Remember when you came back with Merle. She'd watched him leave – the camp, the farm, the prison – countless times, and she'd watched him come back hours, maybe a day later. But in her mind – in both of their minds – there was only one time worth remembering.

"I told you the prison was our home." She turned her face away from him, rested her ear on top of his shoulder. The rain had washed away the smell of his sweat and the clean shirt felt soft against her skin.

He swallowed hard and nodded into her hair.

"I meant you," she confessed.

She paused, felt his hand with hers, the sharing of warmth between them.

"You're home."

She waited another moment, knowing that if he hadn't yet pulled away he probably wasn't planning to. She lifted her head from his shoulder and brought her hand to rest against the back of his head. His hair had already begun to dry beneath her fingers.

She pulled back to see a million little thoughts flashing behind his eyes, words that he still wouldn't dare say out loud. And that was fine.

"Thank you," she said, tilting his head with her hand and bringing her forehead to rest against his.

He was careful, just then. Not because she was fragile, or weak, but because she was strong. He could make one wrong move and she'd be gone. Unlikely, a part of him said, after all of this. It's unlikely she'd go. The other part of him, the one that saw Merle making his way out the front door and down the street, knew that strong people could go. They could leave and they could move on, and still, they could thrive. And so he was careful.

He could feel a tingling in his fingers from the hand that still hid deep inside his pocket. He removed it slowly, as if she was asleep and he didn't want to wake her. It lingered in midair, hovering over her ribcage, thinking about the back of her neck but afraid of being too bold.

With nowhere else to go it landed just above her hip, the last piece of their slow-moving waltz falling into place.