AN: Here we are, another chapter.

Just a warning that tomorrow I go back to work. I'll be back to updating when I can.

I hope you enjoy the chapter! Let me know what you think!

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Daryl was tired. The feeling of fatigue seemed to soak all the way to his bones. It was the good kind of tired, though. It was the kind of tired that he'd take any day over being tired from worrying about where they were going and whether or not they were going to survive even one day more. Tonight, Daryl was the kind of bone-tired that came from making what felt like four thousand trips up and down stairs carrying the most weight that his back and shoulders could tolerate.

Tonight, Daryl was feeling more optimistic than he'd felt in a long time. Things were looking up now even more than they had at the farm—before things had proven that they'd go to shit and Daryl had imagined they'd find Sophia and, perhaps, figure out how to make something work on Hershel's property. Things were looking even better, really, than they had at the CDC—before Daryl had known the terrible truth that they'd all face being blown to bits.

Daryl could relax in this feeling because it didn't take some Sherlock Holmes character to tell that this place was safe. It was functioning well. The people were living good lives. Everything around him, too, was far too complicated for it all to be a series of smoke and mirrors.

Everyone had a job, everyone did that job and, Daryl imagined, everyone slept well at night from being worn out after an honest day of work.

Daryl had hardly seen or talked to anyone all day in more than quick snatches of conversation. He'd been hauling loads of stuff, all day long, from the motel as they worked on clearing out everything they'd gathered and cleaning out a few more vehicles they'd left untouched in the surrounding area. Every time he returned with a load of stuff—even if it was a load bound only for storage—he went by the house that he would call home.

Daryl would have never imagined that he'd have a nice, four-bedroom cabin in the mountains to call his home. He didn't want to wax poetic about it because he didn't want everyone knowing what a stupid sap he could be over things that most people didn't even care about, but he liked stopping by the house with every load. He liked seeing it again—waiting there—and knowing it was designated as his home. It wouldn't take long and everyone would know it was his home. The whole community would know it, and they would simply accept it as his. Before long, after days of work that left him pleasantly tired like this one, it would become second nature to climb the porch steps of that house, step inside, and shake off the day.

Nobody was going to take it away from him. He wasn't at risk of losing it. The community was protected. Its walls had been standing since the beginning and they'd been reinforced since then. There was nobody waiting to elbow him out of the space because they found his home more desirable than their own. There was no one to shove him out the door because he shouldn't mind that he had less than they did—he was probably used to it, after all.

On one of his trips, while Carol had been out with Andrea doing something, Daryl had taken his time to walk slowly through the house. He'd take his time to appreciate all the details that someone had taken care of before the world had changed and had left behind—everything that would be part of what he would call home now.

He'd take the time, too, to appreciate the fact that Carol had lovingly unpacked the items that they had. His clothes were hanging in the closet. They were folded in drawers in the dresser. They were neatly tucked away.

Right next to hers.

Daryl knew that it was all fantasy and make believe, but he could almost believe it was real.

The two of them together, for the time being, barely had enough clothes to fill up half of one of the dresser drawers in the wooden dresser. They barely had enough hanging to fill up a couple of inches of space in the closet—and that was because Carol had been gracious with her spacing.

But what they did have was coexisting with each other—side-by-side.

Carol's preferred night clothes, stretched and ragged as they were, were next to Daryl's t-shirts. Her personal items—clothes he'd never dare to touch himself unless he absolutely had to cram everything she owned in a bag, in a hurry, like he'd done when they'd left Rick and company behind—were neatly folded and sorted next to Daryl's own underwear.

In the bedroom, on the bed, there were pillows—throw pillows and regular pillows—and the bed waited, prepared for two people. The bed waited for the two of them to climb into it, among the clean sheets that Andrea had brought for them, and sleep. This wouldn't be just the sleep that Daryl was accustomed to getting with her by his side—a few hours snatched here and there in a vehicle or wherever they could dare to close their eyes. This would be real sleep, and it would be night after night until the time came that Carol felt it was secure enough to give up the game and let everyone know the truth.

Daryl's stomach ached at the thought of it. He almost didn't dare to enjoy it now for the knowledge that it would all end soon enough, but if this life had taught him anything, it was that he better enjoy the hell out of the good things before they had the chance to turn to shit. There was no telling when, once it had all gone to hell, the good would be back again.

Tonight was a good night.

Carol wasn't done with the house. Daryl didn't know, exactly, what she was doing at the house, but he knew she wasn't done. He'd seen her a few moments on his way to dinner—since he'd come in late and ended up eating at a different time than her—but he hadn't had much time with her. He wasn't likely to have much time with her until it was bedtime. She was with Andrea, now, and they were doing whatever it was they needed to do in the house to finish things up.

T-Dog—who had worked most of the day with Daryl—was off around the fires in the community lawn. It was, apparently, a social gathering place within the community, and T-Dog had an itch to go and be social.

Daryl, for his part, was happily rocking on the porch of Merle's house, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer that had been brewed by someone within the community who had developed that specific talent as one that they could offer toward bettering the experience of living there.

Merle came out of the house from where he'd gone in to take a piss, and he moved the small table between their chairs a little closer to Daryl before he moved his own chair over and sat down again. He put one of his rolled cigarettes—apparently also an offering of someone in the community—between his lips and pointed at the lighter on the table.

"Would'ja?" He asked.

Daryl didn't hesitate. He flicked the lighter for Merle. He'd seen his brother work a lighter a couple of times throughout the day, but adjusting to life without his dominant hand meant that Merle was learning to not only accept help, but to ask for it with little things. He could do it himself, but they didn't have to do everything themselves.

"Decent beer, ain't it?" Merle mused.

"I got no complaints," Daryl said. The beer was good. It was smooth. And Daryl was already feeling a little of it going to his head. He appreciated the mellow buzz.

"You gonna tell me about my pal, Officer Friendly?" Merle asked.

"Why don't you start by tellin' me what you know, Merle," Daryl said with a laugh. "I know Andrea an' Carol been stuck together like Siamese twins today. I ain't about to believe you've got through the whole day without hearing from Andrea whatever Carol's told her."

"Maybe I just wanna hear from you, Daryl," Merle said.

"The whole story? We'd be here all night," Daryl said.

"We got hours," Merle offered.

Daryl sighed.

"Shane was fuckin' Lori," Daryl said.

"And here I thought you was gonna tell me shit I didn't know," Merle said.

"Maybe what'cha didn't know was it turned out that Lori was Rick's wife. That kid? Rick's kid. So, he gets back an' Lori fucks real good with the both of 'em."

"Damn—fuckin' both of 'em?" Merle mused.

"Mentally, I mean," Daryl said. "Whether it's—that or just the strain of everything we went through? Shane just started to lose his mind."

"His screws weren't never twisted too tight," Merle pointed out.

"Well they come loose," Daryl said. "And Rick killed him. And, hell, Rick's screws come loose. He was basically like—I'm fuckin' in charge now. You don't got no voice. I'm the leader and what the hell I say, goes. Don't ask no questions, you know the idea."

Merle laughed to himself.

"Last asshole that ran this place tried to run it like that," Merle said. "Blade through the fuckin' eyeball will put a stop to that shit. I don't do that. I run this place—'cause that's what the hell people want. They want someone to say—anything, really. They want someone that's gonna be the one that says whatever the hell needs to be said. Someone to say get the hell out or—come on in, as the fuckin' case may be. But my door ain't never really closed. I burnt up enough of my brain that—I can use their ideas. An' they got some good damn ideas…like this beer."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Well—Rick didn't think nobody had good ideas. We had a decent thing going on the farm, before we lost Andrea, but we lost the damn farm. Ended up wandering aimlessly. Day after day. Night after night. Hell—we didn't have no damn direction and Rick wouldn't hear shit about it. Said we were going to Washington, maybe, but I don't think he had a fuckin' clue where Washington was 'cause our asses was damn near goin' in circles. You could piss on the same tree damn near every week and have moved seven times between."

"Rick didn't know it was the same damn tree," Merle mused. "But—tell me more about Sister Golden Pussy."

"Who?" Daryl asked. Merle laughed.

"Olive Oyl," Merle said. "Shane and Rick's problem."

"Lori," Daryl said. "She was knocked up."

"It'll sure as shit happen these days," Merle said. "Don't always come to much, though."

"It's gonna happen," Daryl said. "Side-effect of fuckin'. Everybody knows that."

"Not too bad, as far as side-effects go," Merle mused.

"That weren't what the hell you used to say," Daryl said. "I remember more than one drunken rant where you was pissed off 'cause you was scared you knocked some bitch up."

Merle smiled to himself.

"Different when you knockin' up somebody that—that'cha don't mind bein' tied to for the rest of your damned life," Merle said. "But who the hell am I tellin'? Unless—you ain't meant to knock her up."

"Did you mean to knock Andrea up?" Daryl asked. "Or she just get knocked up?"

"Touché," Merle offered. "So, Olive Oyl gets knocked up—and you said fuck it an' hit the damned road with your woman."

"Not exactly," Daryl said. "At least—not at first. I feel like we were on the road forever. Every damn where we went, we were scroungin' like rats for food an' everything we needed. And Rick was always there—standing over us—with a hand out. Carl was a kid. He needed shit to grow. Lori was pregnant; both her kids needed shit to grow."

"That ain't a lie, though," Merle said. "I mean—we ain't got but one kid here that's made it, but we take care of that kid. And since that last asshole's gone and—some of his ways are gone? We're hopin' for more kids. A whole damn lot of 'em. You know—for a future and all that optimistic, lookin' toward brighter days shit. Put the rule right into place, though, that we gonna take care of the kids. Do all that we can to get 'em here safe an' keep 'em that way."

"But you know as good as I do that it don't do no good if you doin' that at the complete expense of all your damn people," Daryl said. "You starve your people here into weakness. Sickness. Death. What happens to them kids when they the only ones left 'cause you killed everybody else?"

"Said we take care of 'em," Merle said. "Didn't say we kill everybody else. Hell—you divide shit up, it's just—maybe you go with a little less if you gotta."

"There were fuckin' days, Merle…fuckin' whole ass…fuckin' days…that I ain't seen Carol put more'n a damn mouthful in her stomach," Daryl said. "Now? Pisses me off so damned bad I wish I could go back an' wring Rick's neck for it—and anybody else's who might've agreed with him."

"What about your kid?" Merle asked. "Why didn't it come in just as important as the other?"

"Carol didn't tell me she was pregnant," Daryl said. "The night I found out about it? Realized she was pregnant? The next mornin' I got up 'fore it was hardly past bein' night, and I stayed out there until I got a raccoon. I was set on her eatin' the whole damn thing if she wanted it. She cooked it up and I served her what the hell she oughta have. A real damn meal. Then comes Rick with his damn hand out. Merle—I seen red." He laughed to himself, now, remembering the day and imaging the story as told to someone who hadn't experienced it. "I pulled a damn knife on him. Meant it, too. I was ready to cut a man's throat over a bowl of coon's meat."

Merle chuckled.

"I'd be pissed if you weren't," Merle said. "Sharin' is one damn thing. Starvin' your damned kid is another. The fucker that run this place when we got here? Hell—I was watchin' everything. Knew it'd be better for everybody if the asshole was gone. I prob'ly wouldn'ta rocked the damn boat, though, 'til the asshole thought he had a right to what the hell Andrea ain't wanted to give him. I give him somethin' instead."

"We left after that," Daryl said. "T followed us. That's when we headed this way."

"Damn good thing you did," Merle mused. "You want another? Come on…"

Daryl got up and followed Merle in the house to refresh his glass of beer. He drained the first glass and waited while Merle got one of the two pitchers of beer he'd obtained for them, and refilled his own glass.

"I do got one question to ask you, brother," Merle said.

"Just one?" Daryl asked with a laugh. He accepted when Merle offered to pour more of the beer into his glass. "I got a shit ton of questions for you, Merle."

Merle laughed.

"One for the time being," Merle said. "How the hell was it, brother, that'cha ain't knowed your fuckin' wife was knocked up?"

"You seen her, Merle," Daryl said. "Hell—she's lookin'…she's lookin' pregnant these days. But, like I said, she weren't eatin' for shit. Weren't that big."

"All the more damn reason you oughta noticed if they was anything there," Merle said. "I mean we all grab a quick fuck with clothes on if we gotta, but…damn, boy, you ain't paid no better attention than that?"

Daryl considered how he might possibly answer this question. The truth, after all, was that he'd never fucked Carol. The truth, really, of his absolute lack of sexual prowess would probably embarrass Merle on his behalf.

Daryl had never wanted the kind of women that Merle, in the absence of anything better, had always settled for. And Daryl wasn't the kind that was going to attract the kind of woman he wanted. Unlike Merle, who was at least, evidently, smooth talking enough to get a woman who had once been a lawyer to legitimately marry him, Daryl just didn't have that kind of way with knowing what women wanted to hear.

And Daryl had always been one who would rather do without than settle for less than what the hell he wanted. For that reason, he'd done without a great many things in his life.

He hoped, if he'd truly been with Carol and if he'd truly been the father of the child she carried, that he would have paid very close attention to her body. He hoped that he would have noticed the changes in her long before he noticed them through her pajamas like he had.

But to admit that he wasn't that oblivious would be to admit that he'd never seen her that way. He'd never touched her that way.

"On the road there ain't much time, Merle," Daryl said. "You don't do much more than exist. I guess—I just didn't see it until—I did."

Merle hummed at him. He drank part of his beer and refilled both glasses again—despite the fact that very little had been drunk from either of them—before he gestured toward the door. Daryl understood him and started back toward the porch.

"Don't matter," Merle said. "I mean—it matters, but…fuck…you here now. And there's more'n enough food to go around."

"I can help hunt," Daryl offered. "Good on runs. Better than I used to be, even."

"You good at a lot of shit we gonna need," Merle mused. Daryl smiled to himself. It had been a long time since Daryl could really remember Merle being off drugs. And if Merle was drinking, and already in a decent mood, what he drank only made his mood better. The brother that asked Daryl to light another cigarette for him—which Daryl did before taking one of his own—was the brother that Daryl had missed a great deal. He was the brother that Daryl had mourned for dead a long damn time before the Dead had inherited the Earth.

And Daryl was happier to see him than he imagined he could be. He didn't dare to tell Merle that, though, because Merle would tease him unmercifully for being too damn sentimental—at least until he'd had enough beer to make him just as sentimental as he pretended never to be.

"Your lil' woman ain't eat good for most the time she's been carryin' that kid," Merle said.

"No," Daryl admitted. "But she's eatin' good now."

"All the same, Daryl," Merle offered, "she's been stuck in that house most the day today. But tomorrow—maybe you oughta take her over to our lil' clinic we got set up. Let her meet some of our doctors. Wouldn't hurt to let 'em see if—you know—everything's goin' like it should."

Daryl's chest tightened.

"I'm sure it is," he said.

"Me too," Merle said. "But—the only thing better'n bein' sure about that shit is bein' extra damn sure about it."