This is the last chapter.

Set the night after they bring the bus of refugees from Woodbury.

Disclaimer: The Walking Dead and all related characters do not belong to me. I do this for love, not money.

He was in the woods, stepping softly through the underbrush on the trail of a large animal with tracks he didn't recognize, eyes alert for any sign of danger. He started to think something wasn't right when the leaves of the trees stirred up in a breeze he couldn't feel. On he went, following the creature, wondering what it could be. There was never anything different in this corner of Georgia. Nothing in these woods he didn't know like his own heart.

As he approached a wide clearing, he could see movement on the far side of it, but couldn't tell what it was. The light was strange, casting odd shadows over everything, making familiar things seem off somehow. Sticking to the trees, he worked his way around the field, keeping downwind so the mystery creature couldn't smell him coming. The closer he got, the more reluctant his feet were to continue on. He hated that he didn't know what it was. It was unfamiliar, and that made him uneasy and a little afraid. He stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't want to know what it was. But when he turned to go back, he wasn't in the woods anymore, but a house.

His gut clenched as he glanced around the dingy room, the tattered furniture and smoke stained walls just as he remembered them from childhood. The stink of stale tobacco and old beer made him queasy. But he could tell the house was empty and had been for a while. Even in a house as run-down as this one, he could feel the neglect in the stagnant air. The knot in his belly relaxed a little at finding himself alone.

The musty room was stifling, so he went to open the windows. But when he went to put down his crossbow, it wasn't in his hands. Shrugging, he went around the rooms, opening as many windows as he could, though some of them were stuck and wouldn't budge. Suddenly he heard a noise coming from somewhere in the house. Maybe it wasn't completely empty after all.

Wondering where the hell his crossbow had gone, he went silently from room to room until he found the source of the noise. There was a mouse in the kitchen, scurrying and scratching, and nosing into everything. He pushed open the outside door and picked up a broom. It was just a mouse being a mouse – no need to kill it. Gently, he shooed the little critter with the broom until it scampered out the door, but when he turned around, it was back, running along the base of the kitchen cupboards.

He frowned and herded it back out the door, pushing it off the rickety porch before turning back into the house. But there it was again, gnawing at the corner of a case of shitty beer. This time he swept it out and slammed the door closed before it could possibly run back in, but when he turned around, it was there, sitting directly in the center of the room, nibbling on a crumb of something it had found. Its little black eyes seemed to be focused right on him, and its whiskers twitched and shivered as it regarded him.

"Get lost!" he growled, pushing it out the door with more force this time.

Anger flared when he turned to find it right where it had been moments ago, staring at him with those bright little eyes. It ran the other way this time when he went after it with the broom, leading him on a merry chase around the house before he managed to toss it out the front door this time.

And when he went back to the kitchen for one of those beers, that fucking mouse was there again, on a grubby countertop this time, watching him and washing its face with its paws.

"Why the fuck won't you leave?" he shouted. It was pissing him off to no end, but he had no desire to hurt it. As he stepped forward to sweep it out of the house one more time, a voice from behind stopped him cold.

"Well, hey there, little brother!"

His stomach dropped. This wasn't right. Merle was dead. The Governor had killed him, and Daryl had had to put him down.

"The hell you doin' with that broom, brother? Shouldn't you be prancin' around squealin' on the tabletop with your skirts rucked up around your knees?" The voice jumped up to a falsetto. "Eeek! A mouse! Oh, oh! Saaave meeeeee!"

Daryl spun around, but Merle wasn't there. His skin prickled. "Where are you?"

"Now why ain't you just put that varmint outta its fuckin' misery, boy? Why you tryin' to run it off? You gotta end that shit 'fore it gets outta hand. Mighty hunter gone all bleedin' heart over an itty bitty mouse?" There was mocking laughter under the words.

Daryl could sense his brother's presence, but couldn't quite see him – just a creeping shadow in the corner of his eye. "Where the fuck are you, Merle? Quit fuckin' around!"

"Mouse'll just come back, dummy! Don't you know nothin'? I guess you is as stupid as daddy always said ya was."

"Goddammit, Merle, I know you ain't here. You're dead!" He craned his head, trying to find where the voice came from.

"You can't just chase off a critter like that, little brother."

It came from right behind him this time. He spun and jerked back in horror. Merle was there, but it wasn't his brother. It was the creature he'd found at the granary – the monster that had been feeding on torn flesh and would have done the same to him if it'd had the chance. Blood drooled from the bullet hole in its chest. Its face was pulverized, as it had been after Daryl had stabbed it. But still it spoke, words coming crisp and clear from the ruined face.

"Little mouse will always find her way back. Always gonna be here."

And then it lunged, tearing into his neck and shoulder, ripping chunks of flesh by the mouthful. Daryl fell back, hitting the ground with a grunt, scrambling backward to get away from the thing biting him. It kept coming and coming, and though he kicked and shoved, he couldn't get rid of it. He screamed at it, begging it to stop, but it took piece after piece until there was almost nothing of him left.

Then its head turned, its attention focused on the mouse that had come running. It reached a hand out to catch the little squeaking thing, bringing it up toward its mangled mouth.

"No!" Daryl shouted. "NO!"

Carol crept along the walkway toward Daryl's cell carrying her blanket and a little wooden chair. She strained her ears, but the rustles and sighs she heard were from other places in the cell block. There was nothing from the cell at the end, so she moved a little closer and listened some more.

Worry chewed at the edges of her mind. There hadn't been time to talk with him in the last two horrible days. So much had happened yesterday. The Governor. Andrea.

Merle.

And today had been chaos with trying to provide water, food, and places to sleep for the thirty-two Woodbury refugees. In the few moments she'd been able to speak with him, Daryl had seemed outwardly unaffected. He'd been cranky and snappish, but that wasn't anything unusual. After Merle died he'd immediately fought for the prison and then run off to Woodbury to try to end the threat of the Governor for good. And today, he had worked like a man possessed, helping to get their newest residents squared away. He was acting perfectly normal, and that was unsettling.

Maggie had told her once that he was like that the day he thought Carol had died. He'd thrown himself fully into whatever needed to be done then, too – keeping himself busy so he couldn't think too much.

Around the time everyone started crashing into bed, she went by his cell to check on him and say good night. He barked at her to go away – he was tired. So she'd returned to her cell and listened to the prison's inhabitants settling in for the night. They were all exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. After everything seemed quiet, she'd picked up the chair from her cell, her blanket, and a small flashlight and started making her way quietly toward Daryl's cell. He didn't want her hovering, but she needed to be nearby. She couldn't explain why – not even to herself – but she couldn't stay away. Not tonight.

When she finally reached his door, she listened for a good five minutes, but heard nothing but steady, even breathing. Certain he was asleep, she placed the chair on the walkway just outside the door and sat, wrapping her natty blanket around her shoulders. She listened to the soft rustles and snores that echoed in whispers through the cell block and thought about those they'd lost yesterday. She cried for Andrea who had suffered such a terrible death after putting her trust in the wrong man. And she cried for the loss of Merle. Though she didn't really know him, he was Daryl's brother, and he'd proven himself to be a better man than most had given him credit for. His death had bought them a chance to survive. He died, and they lived. For now, anyway.

Wiping her cheeks with the edge of her blanket, she glanced into Daryl's cell. In the darkness she could only make out the general shape of him on his bunk. She leaned her head back against the wall and must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, she was on her feet looking around wildly with her blanket in a heap at her feet, and her heart pounding.

"NO!" The rough cry came again.

Relief washed through her as she realized what had startled her. Slipping in to the dark cell with her little flashlight, she tried to wake him as she had a week ago.

"Daryl, you're dreaming."

As before, he didn't wake, but twitched and shifted in his sleep. She sat on the end of the bunk by his feet, well out of his reach. She tried again, putting a hand on his foot and shaking gently. "Come on, it's time to wake up. It's just a nightmare."

He jerked halfway upright and scrambled away from her touch, thumping into the wall at the head of the bed. "Merle, don't!"

"It's okay," she murmured, trying not to spook him again.

"Stop! Merle!" he yelped, slapping at something that wasn't there. Then his movements wound down as though he realized there was nothing to strike. "Merle?"

"It's just me." She moved up to sit closer, but didn't touch him.

The confusion in his eyes changed to pain, and it ripped out her heart. His voice sounded more like that of a little boy than of the man she knew. "Merle's dead. He died."

"Yes."

His face crumpled, and he hung his head, eyes squeezed tight against the tears that pushed their way out. He shook with small, silent sobs, and Carol was torn, unsure of how to offer comfort, or even if she should. But then it didn't matter, because he crawled forward and curled up into himself with his head on her thigh. He still shook, and she could feel his hot tears soak into the loose cotton pants she wore. For an instant, she was too shocked to move, but then she had to do something. Anything. She couldn't let him suffer like that alone.

She stroked his hair, tentatively at first, but when he didn't flinch away, she combed her fingers through, smoothing it back away from his face. Her other hand made soothing circles on his shoulder and upper arm while she murmured to him, tears rolling down her own cheeks for the pain he was in. She kept talking to him softly, hoping that even if the words weren't comforting, they would let him know she was here for him.

Eventually, his tears subsided, but he didn't pull away, so she kept up the gentle touches, but fell silent. After a while, she felt him breathe a deep sigh.

"Ain't right he's gone. I just got the bastard back." She felt his shoulder begin to tense up as he spoke. To keep things from getting too uncomfortable for him, she eased back a bit and moved her hands back to the mattress, letting him choose where he wanted to be without feeling pressured. He left his head resting on her thigh and brought one hand up to pluck at the soft material of her pant leg. The dark wet spot from his tears felt cold against her skin now. She shivered and broke into goosebumps.

"Stupid fucker had to go and get himself killed doin' that shit. 'f he was here, I'd kick his fuckin' ass."

She looked down at him for a moment. "He did what he did because he loved you."

"Asshole didn't love nobody but himself." His voice was raw with anger and pain. "He always was a selfish prick, stompin' through life like fuckin' Godzilla, doin' whatever he wanted and fuck anybody else. And I followed his ass around like a goddamn lapdog lettin' him drag me into all kindsa trouble and treat me like shit. All he ever cared about was gettin' drunk, gettin' high, and gettin' his dick wet. He never gave two fucks about me!"

"I don't deny that Merle was an asshole, but that doesn't mean he didn't love you."

"Well, fuck him."

"No, thank you. He's not my type," she said with a soft smile.

For a split second, Daryl didn't react, but then with a huff that might have been laughter, the tension bled from his body. She brought one hand back to his head, rubbing the long hair at the back of his neck between her fingers. Her stomach churned while she tried to decide whether or not to speak. Even though she didn't want to talk about it, she forced the words out.

"I know it's not the same at all, but when Ed died...I was confused. It was like feeling everything at once. I was so relieved he was dead and grateful that Sophia would be safe from him. I was even happy that he'd suffered. I felt guilty for wanting him gone and for wishing he'd suffered more. I was angry. I was scared. But what blindsided me was that I grieved for him. He made my life a living hell. He was a monster. But he was my husband – I hated him, but I'd loved him once, too, and all of that was still in there somewhere."

She realized her fingers were shaking as she spoke, so she pulled her hand away from him again, hoping he hadn't noticed. "So even though what you're going through is different, I understand how confusing it can be. Just know that whatever you're feeling is okay. It won't get better, but it'll get easier to live with over time."

He was quiet as he chewed over what she said, stilling the fingers that had been plucking at her pant leg.

There they sat, thinking their own thoughts together. After a time, Carol's leg started to go a bit numb. She shifted a little under him trying to relieve the pins and needles, and he immediately pulled away and sat up, not looking at her. Taking that to mean he was done with their conversation, she tamped down her bruised feelings at his retreat, and got up to go fetch her blanket from the walkway where it had dropped. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she came back and paused in the middle of the cell.

"Do you want some water? Or tea? Something to eat?"

He shook his head, eyes hiding behind his long hair.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, since he still seemed to be waiting for something.

This time he nodded, so she perched on the end of his bunk. He pulled the pillow out from behind him and tossed it over to her. "Stay here?"

Her face warmed. "Of course."

After she kicked off her boots, the two of them shuffled around, both ending up more or less curled up on their sides – each squashed at their own end of the bed, trying to make more room for the other, which left a big gap in the middle. Carol pressed her cheek into the pillow and closed her eyes. It smelled like him, which caused a little flutter in her belly. He'd asked her to stay, but she wasn't sure she would be able to sleep.

Once they were settled, they were quiet for a while. But then Daryl said, "It wasn't all about Merle. The dream."

With her eyes closed, she felt cocooned – his scent and his velvety voice wrapping around her. It felt good. Safe. If he was willing to talk, she wouldn't interrupt.

"Don't remember it all, but I dreamed about a mouse, too. Stubborn thing. Didn't matter what I did, I couldn't chase it off. It always came back, that little mouse."

"Doesn't sound like too much of a nightmare," she said softly.

"It wasn't. Not that part."

She waited a bit, but he didn't add anything more. Before long, she felt sleep creeping up on her in her cozy cocoon.

After a peaceful night, she drifted awake feeling warm and safe. They'd both moved during the night, stretching out of their cramped corners. Daryl had sprawled flat on his back, and she found herself still mostly at her end of the bed, curled on her side about a foot away from him. One of her hands lay flat against the side of his hip. One of his rested lightly on the back of her head. She closed her eyes again and kept still so as not to wake him. But she felt his fingers curl against the back of her neck and knew he'd already been awake.

Since he wasn't pulling away, neither did she. "No nightmares?"

"Nope."

"Did your little mouse come back?"

His fingers brushed her neck again. "She never left."