AN: Here we go, another chapter here. As I've said before, this is just a short fic. We have two chapters to go, by my calculations.

I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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There was an awkward "warm up" period when Daryl brought the little girl—who got a diaper change whether she really needed it or not—into the bedroom where Carol was still sitting on the edge of the bed. Carol eyed the baby, almost suspiciously, from across the room and Daryl lingered with her in the doorway for a few moments before he approached her. He was going to give her time to back out if that's what she wanted. After a few moments, though, it was Carol that approached him. She got up from the bed, took a few final swipes at her nose with the handkerchief, and then she walked over to him to get a clear look at the little girl that, though she was wide awake, seemed momentarily satisfied to just be cuddled into his arms.

"She's pretty," Carol offered quietly. Daryl hummed in response.

"She is," he agreed.

"She's—little," Carol said.

Daryl wasn't entirely certain if she was referring to the fact that the baby was very young, which she was, or if she meant that the girl was small for her age. Either way, she was correct, so he simply agreed to the statement and then filled in the rest of the information himself.

"Guessin' about three weeks," Daryl said. "Probably ain't eat as regularly as she should have. At least—not until she got here. She's been eating pretty regularly. Eats good, too. Slow, but she finishes the bottle every time."

Carol didn't respond, but she didn't back away either. And as long as the baby was OK with the fact that they were just standing there, Daryl wasn't going to push it either way. He let Carol look at the girl and, sometimes, it seemed like the baby was looking back at her instead of probably just staring off into space and contemplating how long she was going to wait before announcing some other demand that she might have for Daryl. After a short span of allowing everyone to get comfortable with each other, Daryl decided to push the envelope just a little more.

"You—wanna hold her?" Daryl asked. Carol looked concerned and Daryl almost laughed at her expression over such an innocuous question, but he held it back. "Just right here," Daryl said. "Sit with her? I'ma sit..." And he did sit. He went over to the bed, sat on the edge of it, and situated the baby so that he was more comfortable. She didn't seem to mind the change, and Carol joined them. And then, after just a few seconds more of seeing that nothing unexpected was going to happen, she looked more relaxed.

Daryl didn't know exactly how long they sat there, but it was long enough that the baby finally gave in and started the whining that Daryl had been expecting since he got her out of the crib. By his calculations, she was hungry. It was time for her to eat and she'd learned to expect that her requests would be honored by him. Maybe not in the most timely manner, but they'd be honored. He stood up with the baby, intending to take her with him while he warmed the bottle, and then he thought better of it.

"She—uh—probably wants a bottle," Daryl said. "Usually I just leave her in the crib while I warm it up, but—you wanna hold her for me? Just long enough for me to warm up what there is for her?"

Carol held his eyes a moment, but then she finally nodded her head. He didn't expect her to look thrilled about it, and she met his expectation. But she offered her arms to him and she accepted the girl when he settled her into her arms just the way he would have if he'd been passing her Maison back because he'd begun to fuss. Quietly, Daryl assured her that he'd be back as soon as the bottle was made. He slipped out of the bedroom and then he took the longest time that he possibly could crossing the short span of their house for the kitchen.

The baby's fussing grew louder and more demanding, but Daryl took his time just the same. She wasn't going to starve to death. Not even close. She'd possibly had more to eat in two days than she'd had in all her life before she came to live with them. She could hold out a little longer on getting the bottle—but this might be the only chance she got to make the impression that she needed to make. So he took his time getting to the kitchen. He took his time finding a bottle and washing it again, even though he'd washed it before, to make sure that it was clean. He took his time warming the milk from the Mason jar on the stove instead of in the microwave, and he took his time making the bottle with the milk.

And by the time that he'd taken his time doing everything he could possibly think to do, the sounds from the girl had quieted. She'd, apparently, given up on protesting her starvation. Maybe Carol had rocked her to sleep or maybe she'd succumbed to the hunger, though Daryl was banking on the first much more heavily than the latter, but whatever it was, she'd quieted and Carol hadn't called for help.

When Daryl came back with the partially filled bottle, he knocked gently at the door and pushed it open. He looked directly at the bed, where he'd left Carol, but she'd changed position. She was no longer carefully perched on the side of the bed. Instead she was sitting with her back against the headboard and she paid him no attention when he came into the room. Daryl decided, immediately, he could've taken as long as he'd desired to make the bottle because he wasn't going to be needing it at any rate.

Carol had decided that she had the power and the means to hush the little girl's cries, and she was doing just that—and the baby didn't seem to mind the new method of feeding at all in comparison to the rubber nippled bottles that Daryl had been offering her.

Daryl stayed right where he was.

"You were taking forever," Carol said, her voice low. "She was getting worked up."

It was the first indication that she was even aware of his presence, though she wasn't looking at him when she spoke. Daryl chewed his lip. Was she justifying feeding the baby to him or to herself? Either way, he figured he'd do best to respond.

"Couldn't find the bottle," he lied. "And then—watched pot. Didn't mean to take so long."

Carol glanced at him. A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. Even at this distance, she could probably tell that he was lying. But even if she could, she didn't look entirely bothered by it.

"She doesn't seem to mind," Carol said. Daryl instantly felt all his muscles relax at her tone of voice. As tired as he was, it made him want to melt onto the floor and get some of the precious sleep that he'd been denied in the last couple of nights. Instead, he finally moved his feet and made his way around to his side of the bed. He offered Carol the bottle, and he couldn't bite back his smile when she eyed it and then eyed him.

"You want it?" He asked, waving it at her again before he put it on the nightstand beside the bed without getting a verbal response from her. "She's happy," he pointed out. "You OK?"

Carol focused on the baby, and she didn't look at Daryl at all, but she hummed. At first it was neither affirmative nor negative—just a drawn out sound—but she changed her tone at the end to shift it to being affirmative.

"What if..." Carol started, just as Daryl was closing his eyes for a moment to enjoy the peace.

"What if we don't talk about what ifs?" Daryl offered quickly. He opened his eyes to find her looking at him. Maybe her eyes were a little damp. Maybe they just glittered more in the lamplight. Daryl shook his head gently at her. "We don't have any guarantees," he said. "We don't even know that you and me are gonna wake up in the morning. But—she looks pretty happy. And you look..." he broke off. He didn't want to put words, or happiness, in Carol's mouth, so to speak. "You look—good. You look alright there. So how about—we don't talk about what ifs?"

Carol opened her mouth like she might respond, and then she studied the baby again, her brow furrowed. Whatever she was going to say, she either lost it or let it go, because she never gave voice to it. She let, instead, the silence hang there.

"What are you calling her?" Carol asked finally.

Daryl hummed and leaned up enough to get a clearer view of the girl that he'd been tending.

"Just baby for now," he said. "Sweetheart," he offered. "Don't really seem to make no difference to her. Don't care what I call her, as long as I'm coming when she calls."

Carol laughed quietly and low in her throat.

"She needs a name, Daryl," Carol said. Daryl hummed in agreement.

"But I figured you'd be better at that than I would," Daryl said. "Thought you might could help."

He bit back his smile at Carol's expression. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"When you got me to give in?" She asked, teasing behind her words. Daryl shook his head.

"No," he said. "Didn't figure you'd ever give in. But—I figured that eventually I'd ask you what the hell to call her anyway."

Carol's expression softened.

"Good answer," she said. Daryl hummed.

"Yeah," he responded. "You sure do look like you got it. I'ma rest my eyes. Just for a minute. But I ain't goin' nowhere. You just—let me know when you need me."

Carol didn't tell him that he couldn't sleep, and he wasn't waiting around to see if she might change her mind, so Daryl eased himself down into a comfortable position and closed his eyes against the fatigue that he was feeling.

And Carol never woke him to let him know that she needed him.

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Daryl was jerked awake. Whether it was by a bad dream, his memory of whatever dreams he'd had fading as quickly as he opened his eyes, or it was simply by the feeling of something being different in his surrounding, he wasn't sure. He got his bearings in the room, the lamp on Carol's side of the bed was burning now, but his had been switched off. Carol was missing from the room and, gone with her, was the girl. Daryl got out of the bed with a start. He slowed himself, immediately, when he found his feet. He didn't want Carol to see him and misinterpret his concern. He wasn't worried, as she might be, that she wasn't to be trusted when left alone with the girl. He was only concerned that it might be too much for her but that she hadn't woken him to try not to disturb him.

Too much, too soon.

Outside of the bedroom, Daryl found the house dark. He navigated it, the same as Carol would, without need of lights. He steered his steps directly to the nursery and found a lamp burning in there. It was a small lamp, covered over with a soft white shade, that they'd chosen so that the light wouldn't disturb Maison, but it would give them a way to see the child while they went about fussing over him in the dark.

The room was quiet. Daryl peeked in before he brought his body into the space and announced his presence. Carol had pulled the rocking chair up next to the crib and she was sitting in the chair with a small blanket draped over her shoulders and chest. She was rocking herself with one foot while the baby slept in the crib, entirely unaware of Carol's presence.

"Everything alright?" Daryl asked, keeping his voice low. Carol looked at him like it was the first time that she'd realized he was even awake. Then she looked back at the crib.

"Everything's fine," she said, her voice equally low. "She's asleep. She's just—sleeping."

Daryl hummed.

"You coming back to bed?" He asked.

"She's just sleeping," Carol said again. "Every now and again? She has a dream, I think. She twitches. She wakes up. Not all the way," Carol laughed quietly to herself. "She sucks—something that isn't there. And then? She's just asleep again. I've just been watching her do it."

Carol continued to rock herself with the one foot, gently, and to stare at the crib where she could probably see the baby just beyond the bars. Daryl stood, right where he was, and waited on her. He didn't feel like he should interrupt. He almost felt like he shouldn't even be in the nursery. He had the strange feeling that he was interrupting something—the feeling that came over him whenever he walked into a room and it was clear that two people there were talking and would have preferred not to accommodate his presence.

For a moment, he felt like he was interrupting the conversation between the sleeping infant and the mourning mother.

So he just stood there, as still and as silent as he could be. He tried to make his presence as non-present as possible.

And, after a few minutes, Carol sighed and stopped rocking herself with her foot. She sat forward and folded up the blanket she'd covered herself with to drape it over the arm of the chair. The conversation was done. Whether or not Daryl had meant to interrupt it, he had. He'd broken the sanctity of whatever had been happening there.

"Maybe if I'd watched him a little more," Carol said. She never finished it, though. She left it hanging out there in the air. Daryl's stomach tightened, though, at the words that were left unsaid.

"Couldn't watch him twenty four hours a day," Daryl said. "Can't watch her that much neither." He hummed. "Can't nobody say that you could've done nothing even if you were watching."

"And nobody can say I couldn't have, either," Carol responded.

"I could say the same thing," Daryl said. "Shoulda been in here. Shoulda woke up. Shoulda known there weren't something right. Hell—it's my job to...to take care of you. It was my job to take care of him. It was you that even drawed me outta the bed."

"You weren't his mother," Carol said.

Daryl walked around behind her, leaned over the rocker, and put his hands on her shoulders. He squeezed them.

"No, but I was his old man," Daryl said. "And—you know the kinda old man I was gonna be. Not the kind that don't wake up for things like that."

Carol's hand came up and rested on top of Daryl's. He turned his hand just enough so that she could twine their fingers together, both of their hands hanging loosely over her shoulder.

"It wasn't your fault," Carol assured him. "You were—a perfect Daddy."

Daryl laughed to himself, ironically. He'd had so little practice at being a father, all things considered, and perfect had never been a word he'd have used to describe anything that he did for Maison. Or for the little girl that he'd settled in on calling "Baby" for the time being.

But he accepted the praise quietly for what it was.

"Yours neither," he said. "You're a good Ma. You ain't done nothing but right by—any kid—that was yours. Even for a minute."

Carol hummed her protest and shook her head, but Daryl simply tightened his hold on the fingers that he now had captured between his.

"Life is shit sometimes," he confirmed. "You and me? We both know that. Sometimes it's just shit...don't got nothing to do with us."

"You found her," Carol said. "And you brought her in here. And now...?"

"I found her in a bag in the trees," Daryl said. "Her life? Right then? Was the definition of shit. Hell—her whole damn everybody was as dead as they could be, this close to turning, and she was just above where an average height man could reach. I brought her here. She's warm. She's clean. Her belly's full. Looks like she's sleepin' alright to me. She coulda done worse. A whole lot worse."

Carol turned her body in the chair and craned her neck enough to look at him.

"I know you don't want to talk about what ifs," she said. "But—I have to. I have to talk about them because—they seem to be all that I get. So what if she..."

Daryl squeezed her hand hard and cut her off from the surprise of it. He was almost sorry that he did it because it caused his fingers to ache and he was sure that he'd hurt hers more than he intended.

"If something happens?" Daryl confirmed, feeling that he did have to face it to help Carol. "Then it happens. But we know—we done what we could. Already we done more for her than she woulda had, hanging in that bag. But—the only what if I don't hear you asking yourself, and it's just as valid a point as the one you are asking, is what if nothing bad happens? What if—she's just fine? What if she just grows up? What if it all just works out?"

Carol pulled her possibly crushed hand free from Daryl's grasp and worked her fingers. She didn't answer him. She simply got up, out of the rocking chair, and leaned once over the side of crib to carefully and closely examine the sleeping baby. From where Daryl was standing, it looked like the girl didn't even twitch. She was lost to them, for the time being, to whatever little magic land she went to when she slept. Carol switched off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness, and Daryl made out her shape of solid darker black against the darkness as she left the room. He followed her. She made her way back toward the bedroom and he followed her there, too.

He wasn't sure if she was going to answer him, but soon enough she let him know.

"She's going to have to have a name," Carol said.

Daryl bit his lip, coaxing the smile to stay out of his voice.

"You'll let me know what it is," he said. "Because I already gave you my best ones."

"Baby isn't a name, Daryl," Carol responded.

Daryl let himself chuckle then.

"Like I said," he responded. "You'll let me know."