AN: So, I think we're looking at two to three more chapters to go before we wrap up this story. I very recently published chapter 147, so if you missed it, please do go back and read it before you read this one.

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

111

Carol's Place was absolutely everything that Carol could ever want. She'd never felt like she could be in love with a space, but the truth was that she absolutely was. She was in love, perhaps, with what the restaurant represented to her much more than anything else.

Carol's Place was a place where Carol was earning money. Granted, she'd earned money elsewhere, especially while she'd been living and working in Liberty, but she was the boss at the restaurant. More than just earning money, she was paying the salary to her workers. Although the Judges and the Saviors had contributed to getting the restaurant up and running—and although she'd be paying them back for a while, because she was determined to pay back every cent of what she owed them—Carol owned the restaurant. Merle had been sure that it was her name that went onto everything.

Carol felt like Carol's Place gave her a kind of freedom and power that she'd never imagined having before. She wasn't in the same situation that she'd been when she'd left Ed and, taking a used station wagon she'd paid three hundred dollars for and a lucky clover keychain, headed out for some damn place where she could simply hope to survive. Now, Carol knew she could survive. She knew she could make her own money. She could pay her own way. She wasn't bound to any man or any place except by choice.

Of course, Daryl wasn't Ed—not at all—and Carol could never imagine wanting to be without him, but there was a power in knowing that she could be, if she had to be, and she wouldn't have to worry about the survival of her children.

Still, Daryl was home, and Liberty was home, and Carol loved both of them.

Now that Carol employed Madison and several of the women who worked for Negan, she felt like she could give the same kind of hope to other women that had been given to her when she'd been given the job working the kitchen at The Chambers to pick up where Teeter simply wasn't capable of keeping up. She was able to give them paychecks and a feeling of independence. She was able to give them hope and a sense of autonomy.

Carol's Place was much more than just a restaurant, and for that reason, Carol never minded getting there early or leaving late. In fact, she refused to ever leave until someone she truly trusted had taken over as a shift manager, or before she'd made sure, for herself, that everything was in order for the coming morning. More often than not, no matter what shift she worked, she would still make it a point to drop back by the restaurant around closing time to make sure that everything was as it should be.

Carol let everyone go home. There was no need for anyone to stay, after their shift, just for her. She finished up a few dishes in the back that hadn't been done, and she put away the clean ones in their organized stacks and rows so that everything was neat and ready for the breakfast crew. She moved things that wouldn't spoil from storage to the prep area so that it was already on hand for those who would make breakfast. She checked the tallies of the register since she'd left earlier, and she counted the money in the bank bag. She locked it in the safe. She'd drop by in the morning, before they opened for breakfast, to pick it up, and she'd set up the morning's register—stocked with lots of cash, since the breakfast crew was comprised of a lot of locals who liked to pay with and get their change in cash, and she'd take the rest to the bank.

Carol dawdled a bit—more than necessary really—wiping and re-wiping the bar where some people especially enjoyed having their meal or a simple cup of coffee, taking careful and measured pride in every inch of the space that was hers and so fresh that it still smelled of paint, and wood, and glue.

She almost smiled when she heard the lightest sound that suggested a step that was only just a touch heavier than the others had been. The floorboards didn't creak yet. They were so new that you could move around the restaurant almost wholly undetected if your steps were careful enough. She almost hadn't heard him at all. She'd been expecting him, though, for quite some time. She said as much, though perhaps not with so much detail.

"Somehow—I knew you'd come by," Carol said.

Crockett stopped his forward steps and stared at her.

"You didn't know a damn thing," Crockett said. Carol knew, immediately, that if he wasn't drunk, he'd at least had a few drinks to take off the proverbial edge. "You don't know a damn thing about me, Mouse. If you did—you wouldn't have sent your bodyguard home tonight."

Carol hummed and nodded.

"You're right," she agreed. "It probably wasn't the best idea to send Jerry home."

"Probably the dumbest thing you've done to date," Crockett offered.

Carol took him in with her eyes. Most of the lights were off in the restaurant. She'd left a very few of them on—just enough to see, really. From the outside, someone would know she was there, but they would also know that the bar was closed. They would know she was alone.

Crockett knew she was alone.

He was dressed as he normally was—jeans, a grey t-shirt, his cut. The only thing different, tonight, was that he was wearing gloves. Crockett didn't normally wear gloves. He seldom even wore them when he was riding, though several of the brothers preferred to wear them, saying that hands got eaten up by asphalt as easily as anything else if a bike went down.

Carol had the gut feeling that Crockett's gloves weren't for his protection against asphalt. They were for his protection against fingerprints.

She imagined, too, that if things went according to Crockett's plan, and if they found her body, there probably wouldn't be enough of her left for them to find fingerprints, but at least he wouldn't place himself at the bar, if they had any reason to suspect kidnapping.

"I don't know," Carol said with a laugh. "I've done some pretty dumb shit in my life. But—haven't we all?"

"Dumbest damn thing you did, maybe, was coming to Liberty. Second was getting tangled up with Daryl—seduced by a VP patch—and not making better choices."

Carol's stomach tightened a little. She focused a second on breathing in and out as slowly as she could. She could feel her baby moving, a response to her nerves, she was sure, and she focused on calming herself. She had faced fear before. She had faced danger. She had faced people, even, that she feared more than Crockett—despite the fact that he took a gun from the holster at his belt.

Carol stood as still as she had before, the bar between them.

"Is that what this is about, Crockett?" Carol asked. "You're mad that—I married Daryl and not you?"

"You only went with him because of that stupid fucking VP patch," Crockett said. "Just like Andrea only wanted Merle because of the patch."

"Were you even around before they got together?" Carol asked.

"Doesn't matter," Crockett said. "None of it matters. It's always the same old song and dance. Small ass town like Liberty means there's limited opportunities, you know? For every damn thing. Limited opportunities for moving up in the world. Limited opportunities for making enough cash you're not living from month to month. Limited opportunities for a piece of pussy that you don't have to pay for or that don't come with the damn necessity of a prescription to follow. They come to town, they go after patches—going so damn far, sometimes, as turning rug muncher just to latch onto a patch."

Carol swallowed against the incredulous laughter that threatened to escape her. He wouldn't appreciate it. She knew men like Crockett. She knew insecure, jealous, angry men who believed that they were somehow victims of everyone who didn't do everything to their liking.

Men like Crockett lost their mind at being laughed at. Carol swallowed it back.

"Is that what this is about, Crockett? Pussy?" Carol asked.

"You're acting self-righteous," he said, raising the gun. Carol froze. She had been mostly still. He didn't know her fingers, though, were touching the cold, but slowly warming, handle of her own gun. She was remaining casual enough that he hadn't noticed the one hand he couldn't see in the dark restaurant. She wouldn't show her cards, either—not unless she had to. She'd practiced, and she was decent with the weapon, but she wasn't good enough that she wanted to go trying to get herself into a quick-draw kind of situation. This wasn't the Wild West, and she wasn't Annie Oakley.

"I'm not," carol said. "I'm not. I just—want to understand. That's all. You seem…hurt. Angry. Frustrated. I just want to understand what happened to you, Crockett. What…upset you?"

"Now you're trying to fuck with my head," Crockett said. "You think that I won't kill you, if you talk to me, but I will."

"I have no doubt about that," Carol said. "I just want to know if—all of it's been about pussy, Crockett. Andrea…Sadie and Alice. Jo and Hershel? I want to understand, Crockett, that's all."

Crockett lowered the gun, but he kept it somewhat trained on her. It was trained on her enough that she didn't dare to move, and she didn't dare to try to draw on him. He would still kill her long before she could hit him anywhere that mattered. With his free hand, he took out a cigarette and lit it. Even with the light as dim as it was, Carol could see that his hand was shaking at least a little.

"It's about justice," Crockett said. He was angry. His voice echoed, reminding Carol of the time, not long ago, when the space had been empty of furniture and fixtures, and everything had echoed. She and Daryl had come up there, one night when Sophia was with her "grandparents," just as she was tonight, and they'd played a blindfolded game of Marco Polo in the open space before making love—christening what would become a symbol of her freedom, and her choice to be with him when there was nothing—absolutely nothing—forcing her to stay beyond her own free will and her absolute love for Daryl. The quick flash of memory warmed Carol.

"I understand the desire for justice, Crockett, but…why? Is it just you? Is it just pussy?"

"You really think anyone would try this hard just for pussy?" Crockett asked.

"You're going to kill me anyway," Carol said. "I might as well get to know. Maybe I won't haunt you if I can rest easy knowing why I had to die."

"You won't be the only one," Crockett said.

"I'm sure I won't," Carol said. "But—why, Crockett?"

"Philip Blake—President of the Devil's Order—he's been funding everything. Taking real good care of me. Putting money in the pockets of everyone that's helped us."

"Brothers from the Devil's Order have done all of this?"

"No," Crockett said. "Brothers from everywhere, like me. Brothers who are sick and tired of being shit on because they don't carry some high-ranking patch. Brothers who are tired of all the giving of patches to who you know, and who you're related to, and who's the favorite, and piss on everyone else. Brothers who are tired of not getting decent opportunities, but being expected to do every little fucking thing for presidents and vice presidents that look at them as less-than."

Carol thought she could probably contradict most of what Crockett had insinuated, but it was really a better idea not to do it.

"Brothers who miss out on relationships," Carol pressed instead.

"Because whores chase patches," Crockett said. "They're all the same."

"I don't understand, though, why this Blake guy cares," Carol said.

Crockett laughed.

"Judges killed his wife years ago," Crockett said. "Same damn time they killed Negan's Old Lady. Same damn way. She was coming home and then she wasn't. Burned to a damn crisp. No good reason, either. Some club bullshit. Drama over something nobody even remembers. He's been trying to figure out how in the hell to get back at them for a long-ass time. Told me about it years ago at a rally. Back then, Andrea was about the only thing he could think of worth taking from any of them, though, and it just didn't seem like enough—not to really hurt on the scale he wanted. I got back in touch with him, though. Let him know that—there could be more opportunity, if he wanted to take another look at things. There were more ways to take from all the head assholes what would hurt them the most. Hell—maybe even the whole damn chapter would fall, and the Devil's Order could run Liberty."

"Wow," Carol mused, feeling a little bolder, now that he'd told the story that she could sense was true. It was insane, of course, and that was what truly made her believe it. It was out now, though. Crazy or not, the truth was laid bare.

Crockett was insane—but, apparently, he wasn't the only one.

"Wow, what, cunt?" He responded quickly.

"That's a lot of shit to do, Crockett," Carol said. "Especially considering the Judges didn't kill Lucy, and I'd bet they didn't kill…whatever her name was."

"You don't know that," Crockett said.

"I know they didn't kill Lucy," Carol said. "And I know they own up to what they do—at least among the clubs. Everyone knows what happened to Rooster Dixon, don't they? If they were going to be so sneaky about things, that wouldn't be the case. I mean—I get where the Blake guy's coming from with being upset and all, but…the Judges didn't kill Lucy. And you? Crockett—you're really willing to kill people over…over pussy?"

"Blake's gonna give me a patch. When the Devil's Order comes to Liberty, who the hell do you think is going to be the president of the chapter? Huh? Me…that's who the fuck is going to president. I won't be pissed on anymore. I won't be some second-rate little peon anymore. I'm going to run this town."

"If Blake keeps his word…" Carol said.

"He'll keep his word," Crockett said. "He's kept it so far, hasn't he?"

"I wouldn't know," Carol said. "So—what? You'll have a patch. You'll get patch-chasing pussy. Will you be happy then, Crockett? Even though it's not the pussy that, apparently, you've been pining for…for…what? However long each of us has been in town?"

"What the hell you got between your legs? It ain't that good. Not as good as you think it is. Not as good as he pretends it is—every damn one of them flaunting in everyone's face what the hell they got that nobody else had a fucking chance at because there weren't damn patches except for the chosen few. And I'm'll know, Carol. Before I leave here—I'm'll know just how good what you got is…or just how good it fucking ain't."

"Even if you…have to kill me first?" Carol asked. "Because—you will have to kill me first, Crockett. I already know you plan to kill me. I already know you can't leave me alive—you can't risk that I won't tell. So—if you intend to rape me, you'll have to kill me first and desecrate my corpse, I guess. I'm sure they'll have a lot of fun with that knowledge in prison, when the catch you, and if you even make it there."

"Shut up, Mouse," Crockett said. "Or I'll kill you right here and right now."

"I'd say ain't nobody killin' nobody tonight. Or—if they are—it ain't Mouse that's goin'," Merle said.

Carol's heart was drumming hard in her chest, and she felt an overwhelming relief when he stepped out and showed himself. His gun was already trained on Crockett, but Crockett—feeling trapped and afraid, no doubt—quickly raised his to swing it in Merle's direction. The only thing that stopped him from shooting immediately, more than likely, was the loud whistle that was made to draw his attention for a second.

Daryl came from the kitchen, behind Carol, and she knew that he had his gun trained on Crockett, too, even without looking at him.

"Put it down, Crockett," Daryl said.

"Why the hell would I do that?" Crockett asked, clearly not knowing where to shoot. Daryl stepped around Carol. He put his body between her and the bar. She put her hands on his back and leaned her face against his back. She was afraid, but she wasn't going to do anything to distract anyone.

"Because you know you don't walk outta here if you don't," Merle said.

"You think I believe you'll let me live if I do?" Crockett asked.

Merle laughed.

"Well, now—all I know is you got a better damn chance if you put the gun down. But it's all up to you. Make good damn choices, Crockett—this floor's practically brand-new, and I'd hate for Mouse to have to scrub your sorry ass brains off it before the wood soaks 'em up too good."

Whether or not Crockett believed Merle would let him live, or whether he simply wanted to go on living for as long as he could, no matter how long that may be, Carol didn't know. He lowered his gun, though. Daryl held his on Crockett a while longer, and Merle walked over and cuffed him with a pair of handcuffs that he'd purchased just for the occasion. He pressed a long strip of duct tape over Crockett's mouth from a roll he pulled from his pocket, making sure that none of them had to hear the man's mouth anymore. Daryl lowered his gun when Crockett was secure and Merle had the man's gun in his possession.

The restaurant was silent. Daryl turned his body and pulled Carol into a hug. She went happily and willingly. She couldn't find any words, but he didn't seem to need them. He pulled away only far enough kiss her forehead in a long and lingering kiss, like he didn't want to take his lips away from her skin.

"Take her on home, Brother," Merle said. "I'ma call Negan. You off for the night."

Daryl hummed in agreement, slipped his arm around Carol, and started to lead her out of the restaurant. Her knees felt a little shaky, but otherwise she felt solid—more solid than she might have imagined she would.

"Mouse…" Merle said, calling back her attention. She turned and glanced at him. "You done good. Best we coulda ever asked of you."

Carol nodded.

"Thanks, Merle," she said. "I'm just glad—everyone's safe now."

"They gonna be safe as we can make 'em," Merle offered. It wasn't a perfect reassurance, but it was better than nothing.

Carol left the restaurant with Daryl. Outside, she breathed in a deep breath of air. They passed her car—the clover digging into her a bit from where she had crammed her keys in her pocket—and they passed Crockett's bike. Daryl seemed to know she wouldn't want to drive tonight. They walked on through the bushes and down the road. Daryl would have parked the truck at least a quarter of a mile away, spread out from where Merle had chosen to park his truck, so that Crockett would never pay them any attention.

Carol leaned into Daryl and took comfort in the smell of leather and aftershave. She noticed the slightly sour tang of nervous sweat.

"You scared the shit outta me back there," Daryl said. "I damn near couldn't stand waitin' on Merle's cue. But'cha done good. Damn good. And I'm proud of you."

"I was scared, too," Carol admitted. "But—I was happy to do it for everyone. For all of us."

Daryl leaned and kissed Carol's head again as they walked. Even more than kissing her lips, perhaps, she felt the affection in the long presses of his lips to her forehead.

"I love you," she said quietly and sincerely.

"I love you more'n life," Daryl said. Carol believed him. There had been no hesitation—none whatsoever—when he'd put his body between hers and Crockett at the moment when the man was most likely to shoot to kill out of fear and self-preservation.

"What'll happen?" She asked.

"Don't know," Daryl said. "And I mean that shit. It's better that way, really. Still—I'm guessin' Crockett won't bother nobody no more. Figure—he'll prob'ly leave town."

Carol accepted that and tried not to read into it any more than what had simply been said. Crockett would leave town—and she had no reason to believe otherwise.

"Daryl—can I know something…about the club?"

Daryl laughed quietly, nervously perhaps.

"Yeah," he said. "You proved tonight you're all the way loyal. This is your life now. Your home. Your family. Forever. You can know whatever you want—but, it's always a good idea to make sure you wanna know what the hell you ask. You catch my drift?"

"I do," Carol said. "Daryl—did the Judges kill Lucy?"

"No," Daryl said. "No. The Judges ain't killed Lucy. We didn't kill Blake's wife, neither, but I do remember when she died. It weren't us, though. We might never know who the hell it was, but it weren't us."

"Is all this over now, Daryl?" Carol asked.

"I don't know," Daryl said sincerely. "I like to think it is, but…you never know. If it's not one thing, sometimes it's another. That's the life, sometimes—that's our life. You sorry you came here and got involved?"

Carol smiled at him and hugged him a little more tightly.

"I never want to lose you. I never want to lose anyone, really. But—I never regret coming to Liberty, Daryl. Not even for a moment. And I'll never, ever regret you."

Daryl squeezed her gently in response. The parking lot came into view where she could see his truck just outside of the streetlight's glow, so it wouldn't be too obvious.

"I'll never regret you, either, Carol," Daryl assured her. "You're always gonna be the best damned thing that ever happened to me. And—no matter what the hell happens, you and me? We're gonna be alright."

Carol smiled at him.

"I'm holding you to that," she said.

"I swear it as solemnly as any oath I've ever taken in my life," he assured her. Reaching the truck, he opened the passenger-side door for her. "Come on, Woman. Sophia's happy for the night with her grandparents. We got the house to ourselves to do whatever the hell we want. Let's go home and fall straight into bed."

"I can't think of a thing I'd rather do," Carol said, letting him help her into the truck and close the door before he went around to his side to drive them home.