AN #1: Last real chapter guys. :(

Disclaimer: I do not own or write for AMC or TWD, nor make any profit from this.

OoO

Michonne and Rick returned an hour or two later, stood outside the threshold silently when he scraped open the door.

Their faces were twisted with guilt and sorrow, Rick's hands on his hips and head bowed.

He turned around to check on Carol, and, sure enough, she was staring them down, eyes wide and red, face cold.

He swallowed and nodded towards the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

"Maybe... Maybe I should say something..." Rick trailed off, running a nervous hand through his hair and gesturing at the door.

Daryl shook his head, knowing, deep down, that the last thing she wanted was company, was seeing someone that had hurt her so very badly. "She ain't... She ain't real lucid," he muttered, wincing at his own words as he glanced back up at Michonne and Rick.

They both nodded quickly, and he thought back on Michonne's fabled pets, on Rick's rampage through the tombs. They knew what she was going through.

Michonne cocked a hip, held her hands there and looked at him with eyebrows drawn in. Michonne wasn't a talker, never prodded or asked too many questions, but he could tell she was about to ask about their deaths.

Their deaths. How Lizzie and Mika had died.

And, in all honesty, he didn't know if he'd have an answer for her. How had it happened? He had killed Lizzie. Lizzie - or a walker - had killed Mika.

How does one admit to a horrible crime that they don't necessarily feel guilty for? Don't feel anything about?

He knew the guilt would come later, just as it had with her. Knew it like he knew the sky was blue. The horrible, soul-crushing guilt that would plague him with horrible dreams, leave his chest aching with self-loathing at any moment during the day. How anything, anything at all, could trigger remembrance of his failing, his crime…

Michonne's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't just a walker, was it, Daryl?"

Rick was watching him, too, and he didn't know if he should say. If he should taint the little girl's post-mortem image.

But he couldn't lie. Carol wouldn't want that. She would just have to go behind him and tell the correct story to a million people, have to live through it a million times, her voice trembling and her eyes tearing...

He coughed. Shook his head. "...no. It watn't just walkers."

Michonne nodded again, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Ya did what ya had to, Daryl," Rick intoned softly.

His head shot up instantly, and in his friends' eyes, he saw such understanding that he felt a familiar burn starting behind his already sore eyes.

He nodded again, brought his hands to his face and breathed deep several times, wished away tears he didn't have a right to shed.

They weren't his. None of them were his. He didn't have a right to cry, to mourn. To feel guilt. He didn't have that right.

"I think I can track them," Michonne muttered, nodding knowingle, letting her hand drop. "Right side of the house?"

Daryl nodded, and before he knew it, she had engulfed him, held him way too right for him to even attempt to inch away from. He felt himself go ramrod straight, but she only squeezed tighter.

"Rick's right," she whispered. She patted his back, and he flinched, but she didn't let up. "There anything that Carol would want? From the bodies?"

He made himself wrap his arms around her.

"Just the ponytails. Just bring back their hair ties."

oOo

She hadn't spoken for hours, hadn't so much as looked up when Beth came in with some bowls of soup. He had tried to coax her to eat, but she had just pushed it away, shook her head vigorously.

And so he laid next to her as rain fell softly, dripping down the window in little teardrops.

This was so different, and yet so similar, to when they lost Sophia. She was shutting down again, but maybe, just maybe, if she had someone next to her, someone to remind her that there were still people here for her, she wouldn't be so bad.

"'M still here. Please don't go away. 'M still here. Please don't go away."

It was a mantra of his. He had whispered it through the night, softly against her hair, slowly running his fingers along Sophia's dingy blonde-colored ponytail, tugging at it lightly whenever she started to breathe hard again, anytime she started to shake.

It was probably midday when Beth returned, Judith nowhere in sight, stepping right through the door without knocking. She had, in some way, earned that right with them. It was different with Beth, after what they had been through together. Probably would always be different.

She smiled at him briefly before crouching in front of Carol, eyes wide and concerned.

"Hi Carol," she said softly, smiling just barely.

Carol did nothing.

Beth reached forward and put her hand on her surrogate mother's cheek.

"I'm doing real good," she whispered with a smile. "I've been takin' those herbs like you showed me. I haven't told Maggie yet, but I think I will soon. I think it was a boy. I named him... Well, I thought I'd just think of him as Zachary? Ya know?"

She smiled at Carol sadly, squeezed her hand. "Zachary Hershel Shawn. I couldn't pick, so that's his name. You know." She gestured to her heart, spread her free hand over it. "Here. That's his name here."

From his vantage point at the headboard, Daryl could see Carol's ice blue eyes actually twitch, saw her blink hard, nod.

He leaned forward immediately, looked at Beth with shock.

Her eyes flicked at him and revealed surprise, too, but her voice didn't waver in its quiet calm.

"I'm very, very sorry for what happened, Carol," she murmured, bringing her hand around to the back of Carol's head, petting the soft down gently.

Carol squeezed her eyes shut, and when she did, Beth made a pointed look at her arm, where it rested in those silver curls.

He glanced at her hand and saw two hair ties, one purple, one yellow, both sodden. One had a spot of white on it, and when he hurriedly pulled them off her hand and onto his wrist, and lifted his hand to his face, he smelled bleach.

Someone - Beth, probably, maybe Michonne or Maggie - had gone to the trouble of bleaching a hair tie of its blood spot.

Beth looked at him gravely, then plastered a careful smile back on her face and looked back at Carol as she stroked her hair. "They're with Sophia, Carol. Just remember that. They're with Sophia... And... And Daddy. And Lori and T-Dog and Andrea and Zach and little Zach."

She swallowed, squeezed her eyes shut, and he felt himself reach towards her, taking her free hand in his.

She smiled at him and swallowed, wiped her face on her shoulder and laughed a little.

"They're free, Carol. Just remember that. Wherever they are, if they're anywhere at all, they're free and they're not scared. They're not in pain. They're not sad."

Carol opened her eyes, and gave an almost perceptible nod of her head. He saw her throat bob, and then her hand reached forward and tentatively rested on Beth and his clasped hands.

She swallowed again, and he gave Beth a look, trying to tell her to be quiet, let her speak. Beth tilted her head and looked back at the older woman.

Carol swallowed again, then closed her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she croaked.

OoO

The weight of the hair bands burned his wrist.

They had to go soon. He knew it. Knew it wouldn't be long before the bodies started to smell, before their people said to-hell-with-it and buried them without her, like they had with Sophia.

Beth had been sent to tell them that the holes had been dug, the bodies covered neatly in tied sheets, and she had, with the ponytails. He knew that, but Carol did not.

He didn't know if he could make her go.

And so he hugged her to him for the next hour or so, before finally taking her wrist and silently stretching the little elastics around the pale, thin skin.

She sighed immediately, sat up abruptly. Her face was hard, her eyes set as she stared down at the little bands, three of them now. She stared and stared and his stomach clenched. Would she hate him? Would she be appreciative?

"Beth brought them to you," she breathed, her fingers ghosting over them. He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, holding his breath as she neither stiffened or melted at his touch.

She turned her head mechanically, stared out the sad and gloomy window.

"Time to say good-bye, Daryl," she whispered.

She stood up before he could react, but swayed on her feet. He leapt up to grab her, and when he had his arm around her waist, holding her steady against him, she turned.

Her eyes were still watery, still bloodshot and so horribly broken. She let her palm touch his cheek, and so he leaned forward and put his mouth where she wanted it to be.

He let his lips press against her cheek slowly, softly, afraid that if he pressed too hard she'd run, and if he pressed too light she'd cringe.

She leaned into him, a soft sob escaping her lips. His heart shuddered and he knew he wasn't worthy of her, knew she deserved so much better, but also knew that if he was all she had, he had better step up.

He wrapped his other arm around her and held her against his chest as she breathed, silent tears and quiet sobs echoing through his skin and bone and straight into his heart, his core, reverberating up and down his being until all he knew was her, this woman that he loved more than anything he had ever loved in his life, shattered into a million and one pieces once more, and still trying to pick them up and glue herself back together again.

It was him and her now, he knew that. It was him and her, and he was going to put every little part of her soul back where it belonged if it was the last thing he did.

She shuddered once more, and although he expected her to collapse against him, she seemed to strengthen. She straightened up, wiped her face. Gave him a tentative smile.

She reached up towards him and placed her hand back on his cheek, ran her thumb over his lips.

He knew what would come, and though a large part of him wanted it to, wanted to be there for her in that sense, also, so wanted to feel her against him, he knew she would regret it. Hell, he regretted even thinking about it.

So instead of leaning into her and letting her mouth connect with his, he watched her close in the eyes - something he could never have imagined doing - and grasped her hand in his. Threaded his fingers through hers, opened the door, and tugged her down the hallway.

She held his hand like an anchor as they came to the bottom of the stairs, saw their entire group sitting around in silence. She stiffened, and her hand started to shake, so he did the only thing he knew to do without attracting attention. He plucked the trio on her wrist softly, and then she was strong, tall, again.

Rick stood quickly, coughed as the group's eyes swiveled to them.

Daryl opened his mouth to speak, but Carol's voice came instead.

"I'm ready," she cracked out.

Rick nodded, and raised his hands. Daryl didn't miss the way his sleeves were buttoned up high, how his eyes were red-rimmed and the creases in his palms stained crimson.

Burying children was always the worst.

Michonne stood and walked towards them, hugging Carol long and hard before turning to go to the back door, motioning towards Sasha.

Carol gripped his hand harder. He felt her breath grow hot against his ear, tickling hairs as she whispered, "How is she?" She nodded towards her previously-ill friend.

Daryl shrugged, thought back on Sasha's ferocity in the truck. How could he tell this broken woman that one of her only friends hated her for a crime she didn't commit?

"Better," he murmured.

Carol nodded, so he left it at that.

Beth had stood, and at seeing her, he felt Carol straighten even more, could practically feel the ease that emanated from her at seeing the girl.

Beth handed Judith off to Carl, then came over and embraced them each quickly before taking Carol's other hand.

They made towards the back door by the kitchen.

"My daddy used to tell me all the time, crying don't help nothin'," she muttered wryly. Carol cracked a little grin at her, but Beth just shook her head of its smirk and kissed her cheek.

"But that don't mean it hurts nothin', neither," she finished.

OoO

It was horrible, he knew it would be, knew it would probably be almost as bad - if not worse - than Sophia's, but it didn't quite compare to being there, seeing the anguish in Carol's face as she watched her girls be lowered into the ground by himself and Abraham. Michonne and Beth held her up, Rick hovering nearby, shifting from foot to foot and occasionally offering a kiss to Judith's head.

He tried not to think about the little girls' stiff bodies beneath his fingers, how red stained in small spots where the still-liquefied blood had seeped through.

Carol stood her ground. Didn't cry. Didn't so much as gasp as they shoveled dirt onto the graves, didn't blink as Maggie and Beth each read hopeful scriptures from a weathered leather Bible that had been discovered on the living room mantle.

She was stone cold, her face a mask of quiet misery.

And so when the girls took the hand of everyone around them, leaving him being nudged roughly by a wet-eyed Abraham for his own dirt-encrusted hand, Rick took his other strongly and muttered a half-hearted prayer that everyone knew, but didn't dare say, he had no intentions of reaching God.

He shook off the men's hands immediately, found Carol staring at the little mounds of dirt, the wooden crosses peeking crookedly at the heads.

"I hate them," she intoned after everyone had left. He looked at her in quiet surprise as she nodded towards the graves, not the house where their friends had evacuated to.

He thought back on Sophia's death, how afterwards she had chucked her cross into a half-frozen pond. She had tried to throw it away a dozen times before, but each time he had waited until she had gone before traipsing after it and searching for the damned thing, before depositing it in her palm while she slept.

That last time, she had stared him down as she threw it, the shimmering gold making a high arc before splashing into the brown slush.

Her eyes had said enough.

No more.

And so as he looked to where she glared, he knew what she meant. Knew what she thought.

And not knowing how to convince her of something he hadn't been able to prove to himself in a long, long time, he said nothing.

oOo

That night, he stayed with her again, allowed himself to sleep after she had drifted off from another bout of silent tears. He knew she'd cry every night for a long time, out of grief and guilt, but he was ready for it. The more she cried, the less it bothered him.

That next morning, he awoke to kitchen sounds, something he was sure he wouldn't hear for weeks, if not months. After the initial panic of finding himself alone, and that horrible terror of what she could have done to herself while he rested, he recognized the smell. Accepted the fact that Carol was the only person he knew who made hot breakfasts anymore.

He sped down the stairs and found her alone, the living room unoccupied and the house dark. It was hardly dawn and she was cooking and crying, a bottle at the ready for Judith, pan smoking as she fried something that appeared to be meat while grits bubbled next to her.

"Hey," he called softly, leaning on the counter from where he stood.

Her eyes shot up to him, her hand flying to her mouth. She choked on a sob, then snatched a wooden spoon from her utensil jar and hurled it at him.

His hand reached out and grabbed it reflexively, but it still stung the palm of his hand.

Tears still beaded on her cheeks as she whisper-screamed at him, "Don't you ever do that again!"

He felt himself smile a little despite himself, and for his efforts he was rewarded with a shaky chuckle as she turned back to her food.

"Sorry," he answered, standing to return the spoon. She waved her hand at him dismissively, the tears on her cheeks already drying.

He turned and saw the pile of dishes at the sink.

He looked at her incredulously, then back at the dishes. Someone hadn't washed after dinner, and the pile was significant.

She gave him a look that clued him in to this being a sore spot. Once he thought about it a little, he realized this had probably set her off. Something as little as coming downstairs to do a kindness, and being greeted with other people's laziness.

She wasn't alone anymore, and if that meant something as simple as him scrubbing plates while she stirred grits, then that's what that meant.

It was him and her, from now on. Nothing else mattered. Others would come and go, but they would stay.

OoO

AN #2: Okay guys. I just wanted to offer a big, giant thank-you for all the support y'all gave me during this story. I'm fairly proud of it, being the first multi-chapter I have ever attempted, let alone completed. I would never have even tried to make it to the end without you guys. : ) So thank you thank you thank you! There will be an epilogue eventually, but until then, I bid you all adieu! Drop me a line if you have the time. :D