Carol stirs the stew on the stove and checks the time. She didn't start cooking until six fifteen, even though she told Daryl dinner would be at six. She may have to keep his dinner warm. Or pack it up and put it in the fridge and reheat it later. There may not even be a date night tonight if something went wrong on this supply run. She tries not to worry about the possibility.

Her heart sighs when she hears Daryl coming down the ladder from up top, and then it seizes again like a clamped fist when she sees how thoroughly he's covered in walker blood and guts.

"Ain't bit," he says. "Jackson's fine."

She sighs like she's blowing out smoke from a cigarette.

"Better get freshened up before dinner."

"I'll say. What happened?" When he opens his mouth, she says, "Never mind. You can tell me over dinner." She looks down at the socks on his feet, which are dirty, but not bloody. "Thank you for taking your boots up off up top and not tracking blood in the house."

"Well, you nagged me enough."

"Throw out that shirt," she tells him. "It's old anyway and you have plenty. Put the rest of your clothes in the trash-bag hamper, including the vest, and I'll see what I can do later to clean them up."

"But this is my second favorite shirt!"

"You have three more that look exactly like it."

"Fine," he grumbles. His eyes flit up and down her. She's wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeve, salmon-colored, button-down blouse. "Thought you'd wear your dress tonight."

"Are you planning to put on a suit and tie for me?"

"Ain't got one. Just…like you in that dress is all."

Carol's blue eyes twinkle. "Well, maybe you'll find you like undoing buttons, too."

He flushes. Then he smiles boyishly – hopefully. "Gonna take one of my two weekly showers now."

"Well don't jerk off in there," she teases. "There's no time for that when we have to conserve water."

His back to her, he says, "Don't worry 'bout it. You know how quick I am."

[*]

When Daryl comes out of his room later, in a clean pair of charcoal Levis, torn at one knee, his hair wet, and a drop of water still dripping down his neck beneath his black Motörhead's short-sleeve t-shirt, he's carrying a pink, plastic rose in his hand. He sets it flat on the counter where she's scooping the stew into bowls.

"Is that for me?" she asks.

"Yeah. Flower. Ain't real though. Sorry."

She smiles and plucks it up. There are three spots of blood on the stem, and one on the pink of the rose. She feels a rush of affection for him, for his effort, however bumbling. "Where'd you get it?"

"Old folks home. Had 'em on the tables."

"It will look great on my nightstand. Thank you." She kisses his cheek, and then his lips before pulling away. "We should eat."

Over dinner, he tells her how he shot and stabbed and kicked his way out of the hallway of the assisted living facility and how, after killing slightly over half the walkers, he managed to retreat into an open room and shut the door before the rest could overwhelm him. By then, Jackson had pried open the front doors. "He came in handgun blazing. That thing didn't have a silencer. His ears must still be ringing. Squeezed off ten rounds, easy, and killed eight. Then finished the last couple with his knife."

"Hope you found some replacement ammo."

"Not this time, but we got a lot of good loot. Cleaned out the nurse's station there. Didn't look at any labels, but there's bound to be antidepressants for Lori."

"Any food in the kitchen?" Carol blows on her spoon to cool the stew and takes a bite.

"Think they just reheated frozen meals shipped in daily from somewhere. Prepared off sight. Whole bunch of 'em were rotting in the defrosted freezer. But we got bottled water, a dozen big ass jars of apple sauce, and some snacks. Looted some vending machines at the library, too."

"You went to the library?"

"Got something special for you. Show you later." He takes a big bite of stew. "This is fantastic," he murmurs.

"There's wine," she says. "I filled a bottle from the tapped barrel. But I figured we'd save it for the movie. What movie did you get us?"

"Got a dozen. You choose."

He's clearly hungry. He quickly shovels his bowl clean and then scrapes the sides with the cornbread. After he pops that in his mouth, he licks his fingers one by one, in that maddening way that makes her think of him touching her intimately…or doing the same thing with his tongue to her.

"Do you want seconds?" she asks.

"Yeah, thanks."

When she sits back down with his refilled bowl, there's a little bit of awkward silence. Silences have never been awkward between them before, but they weren't dating before either. Finally he says, "So…uh…how was your day?"

He's not used to these kind of exchanges, she knows. It's likely no one asked him how his day was when he was growing up.

"I did the laundry. Then I went fishing with Michonne and Andrea. Andrea was hoping to catch a few before the descend so far for warmth there's no point in trying."

"Any luck?"

"We got three. Andrea got three, that is. Michonne and I weren't getting any nibbles. But she and I had a good talk. We have something in common."

"You're both beautiful?" he asks.

"You think Michonne's beautiful?"

Daryl's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows down hard on his soup.

Carol smiles. "I'm teasing. She is beautiful. I'm glad to hear you think I'm beautiful, too. It's not something I got to hear much in the past…twenty years. But the commonality I discovered between us today is not so pleasant." Now she swallows hard, but there's nothing in her throat. "We both lost children toward the start."

Daryl's spoon hovers frozen over his bowl. It's clear he doesn't know how to react.

"It was good to talk about it with someone who's been through it." She nods. "Cathartic."

Daryl relaxes. He settles his spoon his bowl and leaves it there. "'Chonne had a kid?"

"A little boy. Andre Anthony. Barely three years old." Carol sighs. "I didn't think anything could be worse than the way I lost Sophia…but…it was worse."

Daryl clenches his teeth.

"At least I had support."

"I was shit support," Daryl mutters and looks down at his hand on the table. "Things I said to you after. Wish I could take 'em back. 'M sorry."

"When I said I had support, I meant you. The whole time she was missing, I took comfort knowing you were looking. And then when she came out of that barn, and I just collapsed…" She steadies her shaking voice. "You held me. You were there. What you said after…" She shakes her head. "You were angry. At yourself."

"Turned it on you though."

"I know. But you were hurt, too. Sophia was part of the group. You may have said she wasn't yours…but you lost her, too. And I think that's why you said that. Because you lost her, too. And you didn't want to feel that."

His nostrils flare and he nods. He raises his eyes to her, and they're a little moist. She swipes at her own. "Should I…" he asks. "What should I do?"

"Come here."

He pushes back his chair and walks over to her, and she turns in her own chair and buries her faces against his stomach where she sits, hands around his waist and on his back, and he lets arms fall around her. He stands like that, holding her, until she pulls back and wipes the last tear from the corner of her eye. "Go on and finish your stew," she tells him.

When he settles in his chair again, she says, "Michonne didn't have a Daryl Dixon to lean on. Or any other friends. She didn't have a group. She was alone. She'd left to go on a supply run, and left Andre in their camp with his father and his father's best friend. And while she was out providing for them? You know what they did?"

"Know it wasn't good," he says slowly.

"They got high. And they were so high, when three walkers came, they couldn't fight them off. They devoured her little boy first. Mike, Michonne's boyfriend, the father, he just ran. So did the friend. Terry. They didn't get very far. They were too high. When Michonne got back, the walkers were eating them. She beat them off, killed them, but both Mike and Terry were badly bit by then. They died. She waited for them to turn. And then she killed their walkers. Broke their jaws. Cut off their arms, and put them on chains."

"Jesus! Remind me not to cross her."

"It wasn't just revenge. Well, it was at first. But apparently, leading them around like that made it possible for her to pass through walker packs undetected."

"That works?"

Carol nods. "She said so."

"What happened to 'em then? Why didn't she keep 'em?"

"Andrea convinced her to let go and kill them, that it was unhealthy to keep dragging that memory around. Sorry. This is terrible date conversation."

"Nah. If I'm gonna be your boyfriend, should be able to talk to me 'bout heavy shit, right?"

Carol smiles. "You're going to be my boyfriend?"

"Uh…mean…I just…"

"- I'd like that."

He laughs. It's short, and relieved. "Yeah?"

"Yes, I would. Could I ask you, though…what does that mean to you? To be my boyfriend?"

Now he looks considerably less relieved. His hand closes in around his water glass. "Whatever you want it to mean."

"What do you want it to mean?"

He swallows. "That you don't go on any more dates with T-Dog."

She chuckles. "I was never interested in him that way, you know."

"Nah. Didn't know."

"But we are friends. T-Dog and I." She sighs. "Ed was a jealous man. I couldn't have male friends. I couldn't even be friendly to another man without him getting angry. I'm not going down that road again."

"Don't care if he's your friend. Just don't want you to fuck him."

"Anything else?"

"Or kiss him. On the lips. Mean, friendly peck on the cheek, guess I could live with that."

"I mean is there anything else you want it to mean? Being my boyfriend?"

"Sex," he blurts, and then looks like he wishes he hadn't.

"How often?" she asks.

"Uh…Every time."

Carol's brow crinkles. "Every time what?"

"Every time you want."

She smiles. "Well, how convenient for me." She takes the last bite of her stew, finishes off her muffin, takes a sip of water, and then asks, "And what about affection? If you're my boyfriend, you know, you're allowed to touch me. Hug me. Kiss me. Even when we aren't having sex. Even when I don't directly ask you to. Even when I'm not upset about something."

Daryl shifts a little uneasily in his chair.

"I'd like it if you did," she states. "More often."

"A'ight. Try to."

"What if I want it now?"

"A hug?"

She smiles. "No. Sex. What if I want it right now?"

He laughs. "You joking, or…"

She stands from the table, walks to him, and trails a hand across his back and shoulders as she walks on toward her bedroom. From behind herself, she can hear the kitchen chair scraping back abruptly and toppling over on the floor.

[*]

He didn't even have to crack out the Denim Dreams books. Or the DVDs. Or the microwave popcorn and peanut M&Ms. She didn't even know about any of that, and here he is, naked and satisfied, lying on his back, catching his breath, her body still half entwined with his, her head settled on his bare shoulder, her pert breast pressing against his side.

She's satisfied, too. He knows that from the way she shouted his name when she came, preceded by an Oh God. But she only came the once before he completely lost it. Merle used to brag about he'd make a woman come three, four, five times a session. Of course, Merle could have been full of shit, but Daryl heard other guys talk about it, too, as if any man who got a woman off less than twice in a row didn't know how to use his dick. Well, he can't use that right now – probably not for another half an hour. "Can still make you cum again," he says.

"Hmmm?" she murmurs.

"Can touch you." He slides a hand between her legs.

She puts her hand over his and moves it up, so that his arm is around her. "I'm good."

"Sure? I can – "

"- I'd like to cuddle."

"A'right."

Daryl's not sure how to cuddle. He keeps his arms resting on her, a bit awkwardly. She runs a finger over his ribcage, and he squirms. That makes her chuckle. "You're ticklish."

"Only when someone's trying to tickle me."

She kisses his shoulder and rolls on her side away from him, which puts her at the absolute edge of the tiny bed. There's really not room for two in this bed unless they're pressed together. "Spoon with me," she says.

Is that some kind of sex thing? Does it involve a sex toy? A spoon-shaped sex toy? What would that do for her? That sounds uncomfortable to Daryl. "Spoon?"

She has to explain to him what she wants, but he rolls on his side and she curves back into him, fits her body into his like a nestling spoon. It's a more comfortable position than the one they were in, given the width of the bed. "You like this?" she asks.

"Yeah," he replied, but really, he feels a little claustrophobic, with his back to the wall, and a wall of flesh in front of him. She likes it though, clearly, and that's what matters.

After a while, he starts to feel less awkward. He thinks maybe he could even get used to this cuddling thing. She's warm. Soft. And blissfully naked.

After a little while more, she falls asleep, and something in the gentle sound of her measured breathing makes him feel a surge of protective affection. He lies there with his arm around her for another fifteen minutes or so before he ever so carefully eases out of the bed, trying his damn-most not to wake her. He scoops his clothes from the floor and creeps quietly out of the room. He dresses in the dining area and glances at the anchor-shaped clock on the wall, where black hands tick between Roman numerals. It's only a little after eight. Maybe he should be proud of himself for knocking her out. Or maybe he should be ashamed that they aren't still going, bumping and grinding, and it's over already. He's not sure, so, instead of thinking about it, he clears the dishes from the table, puts away the leftover stew, washes the bowls and spoons and glasses, and settles them in the drying rack. The pot he just leaves full of water and soap on the stove top. It's a trick he's learned, that if he says he's leaving something to soak, she'll eventually clean it.

Then he settles on the couch and begins cleaning and sharpening the bolts he used today. Thirty minutes later, he can hear Carol's bare feet padding toward the couch, and he turns. "Thought you weren't going to have to put in the time and watch a movie with me tonight, huh?" she asks.

"You fell asleep."

She smiles, "Well, I'm up now, and I still want my movie."

"Seem to like this order of things," he says. "Thought it was supposed to go dinner, movie, then sex."

"But if we do it in that order, then all we're both thinking about the entire movie is sex. This way we can enjoy the movie."

He snorts. He stand and takes his bolts back to his bedroom and brings out his backpack, which he left in the truck when they busted into the assisted living facility, so it's not coated in blood. He sits down next to her on the couch and unzips it. "Gift." He hands her the two Denim Dreams books.

"You found them!"

"'Cept number five. And I got you this." He hands her a pack of M&Ms on top of the Act II popcorn. (He'll save the others to packages for later.)

She lets out an excited squeal that makes him draw back and smile. Then he pulls out seven DVDs and spreads them across the coffee table. "You pick."

She said she hadn't been to a movie since Sophia was born, so he tried to pick only films that came out in the last twelve years. Three of them are romantic comedies Jackson suggested, that he's watched because his sister used to pick them for family movie night. Two are romances Daryl gambled on. And one is the fourth Die Hard movie. He got that for himself. He doesn't expect her to pick it, but she does.

"You sure?" he asks.

She nods. "I'm sure."

Carol pops the popcorn and pours them wine from the bottle she's filled from the barrel. When she curls her feet up on the couch and leans on his side, she doesn't have to explicitly ask for an arm around her this time. He remembers.