AN: I have nothing to say for myself beyond the fact that it was bound to happen. I am only mildly ashamed (except, not really…not at all…we knew this was coming, there's no need for any of us to kid ourselves).

I own nothing from the Walking Dead.

This story takes place post-show.

I hope you enjoy! Don't forget to let me know what you think!

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The sun felt good on Carol's skin. The breeze stirred up by forward movement felt cleansing. The wagon moved as smoothly across the road as could be expected, given that the roads hadn't been cared for in quite some time. Still, the lack of traffic on the road meant that it was easy to navigate the large vehicle around the worst of the potholes and cracks in the asphalt.

The wagon was hand-built, and it was practically brand new. Rather than being a car or truck converted to a wagon, it was a traditional type of Conestoga wagon—specifically requested and built smaller than some patterns that they'd found—and the four draft horses, two males and two females, had no problem moving it at a rather quick speed without even seeming to strain themselves at all.

Of course, even though they'd packed everything they really had that was reasonable to load into the wagon, they had packed relatively lightly. They were seeking a new start. A new life. That meant leaving things behind them—literally and figuratively. Literally, it was easy to shuck off the burden of physical things, but figuratively, they both knew it would take time for each of them to truly leave the past behind. And, honestly, they knew that neither of them would ever be without it entirely.

Still, Carol felt like she was breathing easier already, and that was with only six or eight miles behind them.

In the back of their neatly packed wagon—loaded with food, clothes, other essentials, and the few items that they truly held dear—the Belgian Malinois, Dog, rode with his tongue lolling out in a way that resembled a large, goofy smile. He stood, for now, with his head just looking over the seat between them, seeming to be just as excited about the possibilities that stretched on before them as Carol felt.

Beside her, Daryl controlled the reins to drive the wagon, and he sat silently in the seat. Carol's life had taught her to be a pretty solid judge of body language. Daryl's body language told her he was relaxed, even though there was a furrow running right between his brows that suggested he was deep in thought.

Carol watched him a moment before she decided to break his concentration on whatever it was that he was chewing over.

"Regrets?" She asked.

"Hmmm?" Daryl hummed, snatched from his thoughts.

"Are you—having regrets?" Carol asked.

"Are you?" He countered.

"Don't answer every question I ask with a question, please. I asked because I'd like an answer. I want to know."

"No," Daryl said. "You?"

Carol's stomach did an odd little twist. Clearly, she'd been more concerned that Daryl would change his mind than she'd even been willing to admit to herself.

"No," she said. "I had to go. It was time. I needed…this. To get away. To have a fresh start."

Daryl hummed and nodded.

"That's what you said," he confirmed.

"I didn't mean that you had to come with me," Carol said.

"You wishin' I didn't?" Daryl asked.

The truth of the matter was that Carol couldn't be happier that Daryl was there with her. Walking away from him would have been nearly impossible. She would have only done it to save him, honestly, from the turmoil that she seemed destined to bring to everyone's lives.

Daryl was the only one, really, who never seemed to mind the turmoil. Or, even if he did mind it from time to time, he accepted it. He didn't hold it against her—not for too long.

"Never," Carol said. "You're…" She stopped. She hesitated. If she told him everything she felt—everything she thought—he might very well turn the wagon around and send her off on her own the next day. "You're my best friend, right?" She said, choosing terminology that Daryl, himself, had used for their relationship that had spanned over a decade. She smiled when she saw the corners of his mouth turn upward, practically involuntarily. "We've got the bracelets and all. Unless—you're telling me that the promises we weaved into this twine don't hold the power and meaning that they once did."

"Stop," Daryl said, laughing quietly.

Carol leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder affectionately. In a quick movement, he tipped his head to the side and brushed her head with his own. He couldn't leave it there while he drove, but it was enough. She understood the gesture. She felt the affection in it. She longed for more, but it was enough—if there was never more, anything Daryl could offer her was enough. When she straightened up, Daryl looked at her with that little line back in place between his brows.

"What's wrong?"

"Just an awkward angle," Carol said. He nodded gently, clearly accepting that explanation. "You know—if you only came because you're worried about me, I can take care of myself…"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I guess I know you can," he offered.

"You didn't have to come to look out for me."

"I know it," Daryl confirmed.

They'd had some variation of this conversation since the day that Carol had said she was leaving—really, truly leaving—and Daryl had asked if there was room enough for him in the new life that she needed to start. That was exactly how he'd phrased it—was there room enough for him in her new life?

There was always room for Daryl in her life. In many ways, she couldn't truly imagine her life without him. Even when she'd left—and even when he'd left—throughout the years, she'd always simply believed that they'd come back together. They'd always be part of each other's lives. There was no life, in her imagination, that had either of them truly living without the other. Even if she didn't see him, for whatever reason, Carol simply needed to believe that Daryl was in the world and, maybe, he felt the same about her.

Where they were headed now, they were about to become the entire world to each other.

Of course, in some ways, maybe they already were. Daryl was the last person that Carol looked to when a fight was about to start, and the first she looked for when it ended. She never said it out loud, but she'd noticed that his eyes had always found hers at those same times.

She was afraid to say it, though. She feared being wrong. She feared losing what they had—what they'd worked so hard to keep and rebuild through any and every conflict and misunderstanding. If Daryl didn't think of her like that, and if she made him think she had expectations…well, Carol hated to imagine anything that might make him have the regrets he'd told her he wasn't carrying with him.

"It was me who asked, you know…" Daryl said.

Carol realized she'd gotten quiet. She realized she'd fallen into her thoughts in the same way that Daryl had earlier, lulled, perhaps, by the motion of the wagon. She hummed.

"It was me who asked," Daryl said. "To come with you. Remember?"

"I do," Carol confirmed.

"Came because—I wanted this," Daryl said. He eyed her. She searched his expression for some explanation of why he was looking at her so intently. He turned back to look over the backs of the four drafts. "This new start. This new life. I wanted it."

"I want it, too," Carol said.

"And you ain't—sorry I come?"

"I couldn't be happier," Carol said, sincerely.

She expected that this conversation, which had been had between them a thousand times, it seemed, in a variety of ways, would continue to come up between them for some time. She would forgive him, though, for his insecurities. She always had. She knew his past. She knew his story. He could be himself around her—entirely himself. She didn't expect him to be anything except what he was.

In exchange, Daryl was probably the first person in the world to fully accept Carol as who she was and to still want to be in her presence. He was the first person that she'd ever felt had fully accepted her. She could be herself around him, no matter how complicated she might be. He knew her past, too.

They shared a lot in common from their pasts and, now, their shared future lay stretched out ahead of them.

"If you want to talk about it," Carol said.

"About what?" Daryl asked.

"I know you hate losing things," Carol said, remembering what she knew about his past—what he'd told her throughout all the years they'd known each other. Daryl hummed.

"Only important things," he said.

"I don't want you to lose important things, Daryl," Carol said. "Or people."

"I came, didn't I?"

Carol's stomach squeezed at the words and she warned herself against reading too much into them.

"Everyone we left behind…"

"Got lives of their own to live," Daryl said. "Unless—you feelin' like you wanna go back."

"There's nothing there for me," Carol said. "I have to go forward."

"That's the direction we're headed."

"Lydia," Carol said, leaving it hanging like a question.

Daryl shrugged and chewed his lip. Lydia had become important to both of them. She'd been denied a childhood, almost entirely. For Daryl, that knowledge really struck something deep inside of him. He'd been denied that, as well. Like Lydia, he'd been denied the unconditional love and acceptance that he felt parents should give their children. He'd accepted, perhaps, that he'd never know all the things he dreamed about, personally, but he had liked the idea that, maybe, it wasn't entirely too late for Lydia. Maybe, too, he'd relished the idea of being able to give her some of what he wished someone had given him.

Carol had always believed herself to be one of those women who was simply born to be a mother. From the very moment she'd known she'd been expecting her daughter, Sophia, she'd felt like she was in her element. She was becoming what she was meant to be. Despite the trials of trying to raise her baby girl and keep her safe from her abusive husband, Carol had relished every sweet moment of motherhood. She had never felt shackled or burdened by motherhood the way that some women did. She'd never thought of it as some kind of societal expectation that she wished to live without. She had felt like being a mother was the greatest blessing she'd ever had—and then she'd lost Sophia, and she'd become a mother without a child.

And then she'd lost again—and again—and again.

If they had stayed longer, she would have opened her mother's heart up to Lydia. Like laces, she could feel the proverbial stitches she'd sewn in her heart, desperate to keep herself from getting hurt again, beginning to pull apart and open to the soon-to-be-woman who, in many ways, was wise beyond her years yet, in other ways, seemed so much younger than her years. Carol wouldn't have fought it much longer. She couldn't have. No matter how much Carol told herself that she didn't want to love, it wasn't true.

Lydia had chosen to stay behind, though.

"She had a choice," Daryl said. "She was invited. We asked her. We damn near begged her to come. You and me. Separate, even. But—she's gotta make her own choices. Maybe—one day…"

Daryl left it hanging, but they both knew the truth. They could say "one day" as much as anyone they'd left behind wanted them to say it, but it wasn't true. There were no phones. There was no mail. For a few days, someone could probably find them if they stayed on the road they were on. Beyond that? They were gone. They would ride off into the proverbial sunset together, and they would choose a place to build their new life. They had said maybe New Mexico, but there would be no way to find them—and they wouldn't be coming back this way again. They were moving forward, not backward. Carol hadn't even looked behind them since they'd left.

"I hate you had to leave your bike," she added, ticking off the things she feared that Daryl would regret giving up for this trip and for the life for which they were embarking.

"Weren't practical," Daryl said.

"But you loved that bike," Carol said.

"Just a bike…"

"Don't say it like that," Carol said. "I know how much that bike meant to you. How important it was to you."

Daryl hummed. He glanced at her. For a moment, his eyes held hers with that same kind of searching as she'd seen earlier. She was unsure if she should dismiss it and, if she didn't, she had no idea what to do with it.

Daryl looked back, his eyes gliding over the backs of their drafts and landing on the horizon.

"Bike was just—stuff," Daryl said. "Some things are way more important."

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AN: I feel like this story needs to come with a number of disclaimers. Most of you know me by now (maybe), so you already know all of these things and everything else about my style and my stories, but this is for anyone who needs it.

1. I have never been to Wyoming and I know relatively little about it. My depictions will be entirely fictional and possibly inaccurate. I beg suspension of disbelief. None of this is an exact science, either, and I don't really know a lot about the stuff I talk about (beyond what Google teaches me) so I beg suspension of disbelief for just about everything.

2. Along with the actual OCs that will appear in this fic, I will somewhat be OCing some of the characters. At least, I will be adjusting personalities to fit my vision. I always say this because I know some people have rigid visions of characters that are different from my own. We all see things the way we do, and sometimes our visions are different. I'll be writing from my vision.

3. That being said, Daryl speaks in my stories. Extensively.

4. I reserve the right to alter and dismiss canon as it suits me for the purposes of my story. I hope that's OK with everyone.

5. There will be lots of things in this story that are not 100% realistic, accurate, etc. This is just a fictional story for enjoyment (mine and, hopefully, yours). I beg suspension of disbelief in all areas. I hope you're able to let go of the inaccuracies, when and if they occur, and just enjoy the story.

With all of that being said, I really hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Please don't forget to let me know what you think! (Please don't forget to pay your fanfic authors with reviews and comments. Love and dopamine do wonders for us all. LOL)