A/N: For everyone who has patiently been waiting and wading through 20 chapters of sexual tension, this one is for you. To every reader, every one who has taken the time to review this story, you've won all my love.

Enjoy!

Chapter 21: … And Out of the Woods

The night was clear enough Carol could count the stars even through the cracked windshield, twinkling blithely above her without a care in the world. She barely noticed that her feet were cold or that her hair was wet. She counted out the seven stars that marked the Big Dipper. The same stars she remembered as a girl looking up at the sky between low hanging branches, where everything around her was the clean tang of oranges and she'd yet to know the blow of a man's fist against her cheek.

There's the handle and the box. From there… She let her eyes trace a path across the sky and almost smiled when she found what she was looking for: the bright shimmer of the North Star. The one fixed point in the whole sky. She stayed focused on that light as the rest of the stars started to swirl in rhythm to the white noise in her ears…

"Carol!"

She slammed into the door as the car lurched, the weight of the water spinning them even as they sank further and further down. She suddenly realized the ache in her chest was her, the sound of her own panicked gasps finally breaking through her consciousness to mingle with the gushing deep roar of the Oconee river sucking them into its depths. Water was pouring in through every crack and crevice, murky and icy cold despite the summer heat.

They weren't dead. She wasn't laying in the California orange groves counting stars. She was in a sinking car, about to drown in a river. This was real and she was here and so was Daryl. Daryl, who was talking even as the car rolled again, telling her they had to wait until the pressure was even outside and inside the car before they could get out, that she had to stay with him and he was going to get them out of there. The Chevy's metal groaned as it shifted under the growing weight of water, leaving them even and almost floating in the river. Through the wall of air bubbles escaping to the surface she could barely make out the long tendrils of underwater reeds and weeds, illuminated from the still lit headlamps and wafting with the current.

"I'm with you." Her mouth formed the words and gave them voice before she could even think. You can't swim. It didn't matter, really. What did? This, them. Him. "I trust you."

Carol reached out and laid her hand over Daryl's where it braced tight against the dashboard. His eyes were blue fire when he looked back at her. To her surprise, she realized she meant every word.

"I trust you," she said again. He nodded, his thumb brushing across her fingers. The water was up to their chests.

"You hold on." The sheer determination in his voice gave her hope even as tears sprang to her eyes. She nodded, her chin brushing the water that now lapped around her shoulders. She felt the hard clench of his fingers around her wrist and summoned all her courage to suck in one last, deep lungful of air.

She kicked against the door, pushing herself against Daryl and latching her free hand onto his shoulder as he pushed his door open and pulled them into the river.

Everything went dark and quiet, light and sound fleeing from them and leaving them defenseless in the strange depths of the Oconee. The thick slimy weeds brushed against her legs, her arms, threatening to tangle her up and drown her. Her lungs were hot balls of agony, desperate for breath, and she finally closed her eyes against the burn of the water.

You hold on.

She did, the solid feel of Daryl under her hands the only thing keeping her from panicking completely. She let him control her, pushing and pulling her as he fought back against the strong current. She kicked her legs, trying to help them along as best she could.

You hold on.

Her chest was on fire with the need for air. Up or down, she couldn't tell which way was what as her body was wrestled between Daryl and the current. Have to get out, have to get out.

You hold on.

It was endless, this alien dark. They were never going to get out. Have to get out!

You hold on.

It was too much. Her mouth opened in a silent scream and water gushed in.

The world went black.

She'd always liked the peach grove behind the house. It was the one thing she could say she truly loved about the place. She sat on the worn bench and watched Sophia dance in the clearing. The sun was cool, the light moving across them almost like (like water) a dream.

It was so good to see Sophia dance again. She never danced anymore. 'Mama I can't move my legs. Mama!'

"Carol."

"Mama." Her daughter was in front of her now, with those big blue eyes looking up at her. "You need to wake up now."

"Come on, Carol, please!"

"I am awake," she said. She reached out to brush Sophia's hair off her forehead, leaving damp streaks on the girl's skin. Her hand was wet and she looked down to see her navy blue dress was soaked (from the river the river oh can't breathe) and clinging to her like a second skin.

"Open your eyes, little bird. Please, love, open your eyes."

"Open your eyes, Mama." Sophia smiled and leaned over to give her a kiss-

-Water bubbled out of Carol's mouth as her eyes flew open. Everything was blurry, too blurry. Her stomach churned. Hands were pulling at her, turning her as she choked and emptied her stomach of bile and what felt like half the Oconee river onto the wet soil beneath her. Her fingers clawed into the mud as she heaved.

"Carol. Thank god."

Daryl was rubbing his hand lightly across her back. She was still half in the river, the cold water lapping at her thighs. Her throat felt scraped raw when she was done, her stomach sore. She wanted to sleep, to close her eyes and sleep like the princess from the fairy tale for a hundred years.

"We gotta move. Now, right now." Daryl was whispering urgently as he pulled her to her feet. She was shaking so badly she couldn't stand and fell against him as he half carried her into a copse of trees. He pushed her up against the thick trunk of a tree and pushed her hair back, his hands cradling her face. He looks so worried…

"Can ya stand?" Why is he whispering? "Little bird?"

"I'm here," she panted. It hurt to speak, to breathe, but she managed, pushing herself even as she let the tree take her weight. "I'm still here."

Daryl leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, his lips fierce and rough but so warm on her skin. It gave her a jolt, the pull to connect the circuit between them as strong as the pull of the river had been. He pulled away and gripped her shoulders tightly.

"Stay here. Don't move."

"Dar-"

The sharp crack of twigs breaking under a heavy foot pulled their attention from each other. Daryl swore and pushed her back behind the tree. Carol fell, dirt and leave smearing across her dress. Everything rushed back - the car, the shooting, going off the bridge - and she gasped as the heavy thump of bone meeting bone reached her. Daryl. The other car…

Carol scrambled unsteadily to her feet and peered around the tree. Daryl was locked in a struggle with a stranger: squat and heavy with dark skin and hair. She winced as he landed a punch to Daryl's jaw. Daryl sent an elbow into the man's gut, making him double over. A fist here, an elbow there.

There was a pistol on the ground at their feet. It was kicked again and again as they scuffled around it. You could get it. You could- She could barely move. She tried to push herself off the tree and nearly collapsed.

"Daryl!" She couldn't help it, she cried out just loud enough to be heard as she caught herself against the tree, scraping her hands on the rough bark. The stranger turned towards her, his eyes widening as he took her in. Daryl swung a roundhouse punch that knocked the man off his feet. Her gangster pounced, pressing down and pinning the thug in the dirt even as he tried to grab for the pistol that lay just outside of his reach.

"Who sent you?" Daryl snarled.

"Fuck off." The stranger groaned as Daryl sent a solid fist into his chest.

"Who sent you?!"

Carol watched the man shove, hard, hard enough to shift Daryl's balance just enough to break free, but only for a moment. Daryl was stronger, faster and had the man in a headlock before he could get to his feet.

"Start talkin'," Daryl demanded.

"You're dead," the man choked out. "Both of you, you and your bitch-"

Crack! The stranger fell in a heap at Daryl's feet, his head cocked at an unnatural angle and his eyes open right at her but seeing nothing. So that's what a man with a broken neck looks like.

She wondered who he had been. One of Blake's men; she knew that without a doubt. Still, he'd been someone. A man with a name, maybe a family somewhere, friends. Someone with a past… and no future. Daryl had done that. Daryl had killed him with his bare hands. Daryl, who had saved her life twice tonight.

Daryl, who was panting for breath and eyeing her warily, like she was about to start running or screaming. Or both.

Carol pushed herself off the tree and stumbled forward, stepping over the dead man to throw her arms around Daryl and pull him tight into her.

"Are you ok?"

He let out a surprised laugh, winding his arms around her and hugging her back just as fiercely as he buried his face in her hair.

"Me? Hell with me, are you all right?"

She nodded, clenching the sodden wool of his jacket in her fist. It didn't matter to her that they were both panting, soaked to the bone, shaking and shivering. She felt his pulse beat steadily where her cheek pressed against his neck and felt her heart thrum in response.

They were still here.

Carol looked over Daryl's shoulder and was surprised to see how far downriver they'd come. The bridge was small in the distance and she swore she could make out the faint glow of lights shining from the depths of the river. Their car. There was another car on the bridge, right by the hole in the railing where they'd smashed through. As she watched, a second car pulled up to it and several figured poured out, like clowns from a small car. She pulled herself from Daryl's grasp, missing the feel of him instantly and gestured for him to look.

"Damn," Daryl muttered. They could hear faint shouts from the bridge before the night came alive with the clatter of gunfire. They were firing into the water. For us, Carol realized.

"Time to go." Daryl reached down and snatched up the dead man's pistol before grabbing her hand and pulling her into the unfamiliar depths of the Georgian woods.

Thom Crowley sat at the dining table, chewing his way through his third apple. He liked apples. Some men likes their cigarettes or their whiskey, some needed the touch of a woman or a snort of powder to clear their heads. His needs were simple: just the tart taste of ripe apples was enough for him. It helped him think.

He had to give credit where credit was due. Daryl really hadn't done a bad job running things without Merle. The situation was just fucked as all hell to begin with. Fucking Merle taking a fucking slug to the chest. What timing.

Merle had gotten cocky, sloppy. That's what happens when you think you can run things like the boss. Money, fame, even infamy, it all went to your head in the end. Look at Capone, Luciano, Nucky. Hell, even Siegel was gone now, two months into his dirt nap. Lansky, now that was a sharp cookie, but the rest of them were schmoes. They could have had the world at their fingertips if they'd just stayed sharp.

He picked up a fourth apple and bit down, relishing the sweet, crisp taste in his mouth as he pulled the top file from the stack at his elbow, flicking it open to stare down at the black and white photograph again. Somebody else might not think a thing about this particular snap, a fella and a dame chatting it up on the streets of Atlanta. He knew better.

"Axel," Crowley called out. The man himself appeared in seconds, standing in the entryway from the kitchen. A plate piled high with the widow's leftovers was balanced in his hands. "Call Theodore. We gotta talk to the old man."

For once the Texan didn't talk his ear off, just went back to the kitchen. Crowley wasn't worried. Axel was a chatterbox but he got shit done.

"Well, Detective Walsh," he said around a mouthful of fruit, studying the photograph. "Wonder what you could possibly have to say to dear old Mrs. Greene?"

It wouldn't take him long to find out. He let the picture of Lori Greene and Shane Walsh outside the Hibernian drop to the table and grabbed up another file. He licked the apple juice from his fingers, grabbed the stub of a pencil and scribbled in the margins of the folder. Another problem, if Theodore's gossip was true.

Carol Peletier.

"Take a second," Daryl panted as they came to a stop. Should be far enough. Carol was coughing, wheezing so bad his own ribs ached in sympathy. He knew she was worse off than he was but she hadn't complained a bit since she'd come to with a gasp in the riverbed and heaved her guts out.

They'd crossed the Oconee river at another bridge and had stayed in the deep woods for several miles now. He knew it was late, so late they should have been almost home by now. His watch had stopped, the little cogs and wheels ruined by the river water. A quick glance to the sky told him it had to be past midnight by now.

He peeled his suit jacket from the body and let the soaked wool fall to the ground with a wet smack. A hundred bucks and now its just garbage. Some life, kid. He heard a groan and spun to see Carol doubled over on a log, clutching her ribs. Damn, pushed her too hard.

"Hey, hey." He knelt in front of her, pushing worriedly at her shoulders. She hadn't said a word, not a single word during their run from Blake's thugs. She waved a hand, trying to smile.

"I'll be ok in a minute," she panted. "Had worse."

Of course she had. Fuck, he wanted to kill Ed Peletier all over again. He'd make the son of a bitch suffer twice as long as he had the first time and take double relish with each blow. He wanted to hear Ed beg and plead and cry again. Dozens of deaths on his hands, by his hands, and he knew that was one of the few he'd even the men at the pearly gates could never make him regret.

"Take your time," he said softly.

"They're not…"

"Oh, they probably are, but they're a buncha city boys. Can't track for shit."

"And you can?" She was starting to sound better, less wheezy, but lord she was so pale. She'd been so close. There on the riverbed, he'd thought… Knock it off. He settled himself of the moss-covered log beside Carol and started to neatly roll up his shirtsleeves to the elbow.

"Used to trek all up and down the woods when I was a boy," he said. "My grandpappy taught me and Merle huntin' and trackin' before we could read."

"I can see that," Carol said softly. "You all bundled up and trotting after your grandfather with a big old hunting rifle."

He picked up the mess of his jacket and started rummaging through the pockets.

"Naw," Daryl said as he pulled out his flask and gold cigarette case. "Grandpappy was a real case. No guns for huntin'. Had me a lil' crossbow and some bolts he'd made. Said they were real huntin' tools."

Wouldn't mind havin' that old crossbow right about now. He pulled out the pistol he'd swiped from the corpse of Blake's chump and started to check it. Three bullets. Least its three more than we got before. His Colt was gone, hell all their stuff was gone, lost to the dreary waters of the Oconee. He had a switchblade in his pocket and a corpse's Smith & Wesson pistol with three bullets. Swell.

"You miss him."

Daryl turned and found himself almost nose to nose with Carol. She was so close he could see the pattern of freckles splayed across her nose. His belly ached, his nerves where Carol was concerned pulled too tight to stand any longer. He wanted… oh god, how he wanted…

"Yeah," he breathed. Grandpappy. Tall and white haired, always with a big straw hat on his head. Strong, so strong. People had liked Grandpappy despite his gruff nature… what they knew of him. It was Pa that had ruined that, had turned the Dixon name to mud. Daryl smirked as a thought came to him. "Poor man's Hershel Greene."

He knew, instantly, it had been the wrong thing to say. Carol blinked and jerked her head back, putting enough space between them that reality crashed over him like a wave. He couldn't begin to decipher the look in her eyes as they searched his, but he could practically hear the wheels turning in her head. He'd let too much slip, and lord help him but it was something he hadn't even realized about himself until now.

Hershel Greene reminded him of his grandfather.

"Do you know where we're going?" Carol said briskly as she turned away from him. He felt the icy wall of her resistance land between them, keeping her in a place he wasn't sure he could reach. He wanted to rail, to scream and bash down at that wall until she was looking at him the way she had before. Warm, soft, looking at him like he mattered. If she hadn't seen those men at the bridge, if they hadn't had to run for their lives… He'd have kissed her there, if he'd only had a few more seconds.

A dozen chances with Carol, and he'd screwed up every one.

"There's a safe house not far from here," he said slowly. "A few miles, less if we keep goin' cross country."

Carol reached under the hem of her dress and pulled down her ruined stockings, leaving the clear, creamy skin bare to the night breeze. If he didn't touch her soon, he was going to end up with the nutters in their straightjackets. He needed her.

He needed Greene, too. He wasn't sure which one he needed more right now.

"Tell me their names."

The girl sobbed, struggling weakly against the bonds that kept her in the chair.

"Black, it was B-Black. David and Karen Black. Th-th-that's what they s-said, I swear, that's what they said…"

Blake sat back and tuned out the receptionist's inane blubbering. He could hardly believe it, but his boys had gone through the whole damn place alongside a shaking Deanna Monroe, who swore everything was right where it should be. If they didn't take anything… He turned to Martinez, standing like the good loyal dog he was at his right hand.

"Sweep the building," he said over the girl's cries. "See if they left a present lying around."

Martinez nodded. Such a good dog. He turned back to the chubby girl, leaning forward to stroke her hair.

"Olivia, sweet Olivia," he crooned. "Where did you take them?"

"It was j-just her, just the w-wife. I gave he-her the tour, she said she w-wanted to s-see… p-p-please let me go now," Olivia sobbed.

Blake ignored her to stand and button up his brown suit, the polished professional ready to make his appearance again. He could have been a banker or a politician. He'd been both, once, in days past.

"Mrs. Monroe needs to hire a new receptionist," he said idly to Martinez.

He left the room but could still hear the rapport of the gunshot echo off the walls behind him, silencing Olivia's cries.

"It looks like snow," Carol said quietly.

Cotton fields stretched out on either side of them, gleaming in the moonlight. The bolls were thick, ready for picking. If it wasn't for the lingering heat from the summer day, he could have imagined it was snow, too. Tufts of fluffy whiteness littered the ground and floated in the air. She'd had pulled her curls free of their hairpins and now they fell in wavy tendrils around her shoulders, bits of cotton clinging to her like snowflakes. Daryl knew he was covered in his fair share of cotton as well. What a pair we make.

"Your feet doin' all right?"

He hadn't realized until she'd removed her stockings that her shoes had been taken off in the car. He wanted that Carol back, the Carol with her feet up on the dash, laughing and smiling at him. Goddamn careless fool you are. Should have left Savannah hours earlier.

Should never have taken her in the first place.

But that was another fool's dream. There had been no way to avoid taking Carol. She'd have been sent here, with or without him.

"They're just fine," she said. "You don't have to keep asking."

"Sorry." I'm sorry for everything.

They walked along the field, the backs of their hands brushing against one another but the space between them still thick with confusion, anger and a hint of despair.

"Why did you kill that man?" Carol asked suddenly. Daryl stopped and cocked his head. She's gone cracked.

"He tried to kill us?" he said, making it clear the answer was obvious. Carol sighed and shook her head, her hands on her hips only serving to remind him just how tight the navy and red dress was. His brain betrayed him, flashing on the forbidden memory of their dance at The Five O'Clock Club. The way she'd looked in that gown of hers, the aching wanting for her that had settled in his bones before he'd even properly seen her face.

But that was long ago, now my consolation

Is in the stardust of a song

"No," Carol said. "Greene would have wanted information from him, but you snapped his neck before you got anything. Why?"

Oh shit, oh fuck, oh goddammit. Sometimes he forgot just how much Carol saw. That fucking chump of Blake's had Daryl seeing red the second Carol had been threatened. He hadn't meant to break the man's neck, not then, but the words 'your bitch' had been enough to set him off.

"Out of everything that's happened tonight, that's what buggin' ya?" he asked incredulously. Please don't, not now. Don't make me say it.

He remembered them swaying together, the sultry croon of Michonne's dulcet tones all around them while they danced. The feel of those curves under his hands, pressed up against him as they breathed each other in.

Though I dream in vain

In my heart it will remain

"Yeah, that's what I want to know."

As their voices started to carry over the fields of cotton, Daryl figured it was inevitable. He supposed they were due for a fight. They hadn't had one in days and with the swirl of emotion running through him, it was either fight or leap across a line that would change everything.

The rubber band inside of him was stretched too tight, too thin, starting to crack around the edges.

"It don't matter-"

"It does matter-"

"Why-"

"-because it doesn't make-"

"-don't need to make any sense-"

"-all I'm saying is-"

"-too damn nosy for yer own good-"

"-just don't know why you would risk Greene-'

"Because he threatened you!"

Daryl's words echoed into the night, ringing out louder than he'd intended, twice as loud for the startling silence that followed.

Well, fuck. In for a penny, in for a fuckin' pound.

"There, all right?" Daryl threw his hands up in the air in utter surrender. "I killed that goon because he threatened you."

Carol's eyes were blown wide, bluer than blue in the silver light of the moon, enough to let him see he'd crack through the icy wall she'd hastily thrown between them. She cared... and she cared that he cared. There was a hint, just maybe, of the same fire he felt for her. Still damp from the river, barefoot and covered in fluffs of flyaway cotton, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"A lot of people threaten me," Carol said finally. "You shouldn't-"

Snap.

It was too fast, too hard, too clumsy. He was fucking this up so spectacularly and she tasted so sweet he didn't even care. He almost missed her mouth, but he managed to catch enough of it with his, kissing her with every inch of ferocity he had left after this exhausting, emotional day. It was worth it. His imagination had nothing on the real thing. Perfect, so perfect. He didn't want to stop, but he felt her tense up and pulled back quickly to see tears in her eyes. Goddamn stupid idiot. He started to turn but stopped when she reached out to grab at his arms.

"Daryl." No one had ever said his name the way she did. "Daryl."

"Carol."

She wound her arms around him as he slid his hand up her neck and into her curls, tilting her head back as she pulled him close. This time, he made his mark straight on and god help him, she was kissing him back, nibbling on his lower lip and opening her mouth for him. He wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing her. Everything else - Greene, Blake, the war, even the cotton floating around them like snowflakes or stardust - faded away as he lost himself in the sweet bliss of Carol's lips.

A/N 2: As always, a few end notes:

The gangsters referenced in Crowley's inner monologue are Al Capone, Charles 'Lucky' Luciano, Enoch 'Nucky' Johnson (who was the inspiration for Steve Buscemi's character Enoch 'Nucky' Thompson in HBO's "Boardwalk Empire"), Meyer Lansky and Benjamin 'Bugsy' Siegel. All of them are more than moderately famous for their antics from the 1920's-1940's. Bugsy Siegel was killed (possibly on Meyer Lansky's orders) on June 20, 1947. Throwing a little real world gangster action to help keep the timeline going in this.

The Oconee River is much shallower now, but reviewing the USGS historical records show the average depth of the Oconee during the 1930's-40's was around 30 feet. Easily deep enough to submerge a car in.

For the anon who asked in a review to Chapter 20, I dug through Georgia state maps as well as a copy of a Rand McNally road map from the late 1940's. The highway routes mentioned, as well as the terrain described in Chapter 20, as well as this chapter and the next, are accurate according to the maps I used.

I may have mentioned this before, but in my head, Thom Crowley is played by Tom Hardy. Just throwing that out there, because I can. ;)

Poor Olivia. I do feel bad about that one, but it's a mob/noir story, and it's me writing it. Nobody is safe.

We've officially reached the halfway point! Thanks for sticking with me this far, everyone. Hope you're enjoying the ride!