A/N: Um. Ok, guys. So, you're all awesome, but I think you might have to take leap of faith with me for a few chapters. I am really, really enjoying exploring these characters in this way, and the theme of this story is opportunity, those we miss, those we take, and, even, realizing that there IS one available (and what we choose to do with this knowledge). Also, this chapter is a bit dark. But…don't panic. I promise Caryl is safe. Even if it doesn't seem so, at this moment. ~CeeCee

NB: I try very hard to reply individually to each and every one of my fabulous reviewers. I am behind, alas, due to a busy weekend. I have read and cherished each and every one. So thank you, thank you, thank you.

Lyrics from "The Chain" used herein ©Ingrid Michaelson.

She wakes with a start in the early morning hours on her cot, covered with the thin sheet. She doesn't really remember falling asleep. Yesterday was all work, and strain, and encouragement for Marie. Cleaning off David's impossibly tiny, vulnerable form. Stumbling on instinct back to her room. Then Daryl, and food, and those little girls, who'd gotten their facts all jumbled. Like we all do sometimes…she thinks, rolls over onto her side. She must have drifted off while they were sitting here. She knows that's okay, that he hadn't minded.

She sits up, looking out the high windows at the gibbous moon. It's early, and she is still aching with the physical and mental stress of yesterday, but she is alert. She glances over at the small table next to her bed. Next to the book Tyreese picked up for her is a smaller, rectangular item. Curious, she leans over and picks it up. The familiar scent reaches her before she can discern what it is.

She grins, exams the pretty but grimy wrapper, brings it up to her nose, sniffs. Squeezes it, to confirm it's real. A gift, left when she was unawares. She looks over at the crime novel again, then at the soap sitting cupped in her gore-stained hands. One man had brought her exactly what she'd asked for. The other had left a piece of himself, unable to share it with her directly.

David and Marie will need her attention and care the next few days. She stands up, clutches her soap, and grabs a towel. It's time to start the day.

oooOOOooo

Marie dies five days after giving birth to her son.

Carol and Hershel, and Maggie, and Donna, one of the elderly women from Woodbury whose aunt had been a midwife, do everything they can. It is not enough. Marie burns with a fever that gets hotter and hotter, her face dry and her eyes listless. She stops asking for the baby after the third day.

"Sepsis," Hershel sighs.

"Childbed fever," echoes Donna, touching Marie's now peaceful face tenderly, before pulling a sheet over it.

Carol doesn't care what it's called. All it is, is another dead mother. Another orphan. She stands, her back and knees popping angrily. She gazes down at the sheeted figure and knows she just needs to get away from this little cot, which has seen birth and death in less than a week. She turns walks, runs, then sprints into one of the fenced-in side yards in the back of the prison. Her momentum brings her to the chain-link fence, which she gripes hard enough to hurt. The pain goes perfectly with her anger.

Maggie's breathless voice behind her. "Carol, Carol," she feels the other woman's hand on her shoulder spinning her around. Carol holds her in a fierce embrace, her heart thudding, her eyes dangerously dry. She doesn't have any tears left, it seems. Maggie clutches her back, like a drowning woman. She, too, is dry-eyed, but shaking violently. They stand there for endless minutes, just hanging onto each other.

"I'm pregnant," Maggie murmurs against Carol's shoulder.

Something icy drips into the pit of Carol's stomach. She collects her feelings, tries a smile on, before leaning back to look the younger woman in the eye. "That's wonderful. And everything is going to be fine, for you and the baby."

"Promise?" Her eyes are enormous, begging, in her pale, tired face.

"Promise," Carol responds with a conviction made of paste and dreams. A bit of song pops into her head, a woman's mournful but hopeful voice:

"So glide away on soapy heels, and promise not, to promise anymore…"

"Promise," Carol whispers again, stroking her hair. "Promise."

oooOOOooo

She remains at the fence after Maggie returns to the prison. Carol knows Glenn is on a supply run with Daryl, Michonne and a few of the Woodbury folk. She wonders distractedly how long she'll think of them as "Woodbury folk". They are allies and friends, but not quite like the tatter remnants of the group from the farm. Or even Michonne. They are still, for all intents and purposes, friendly strangers who happen to share close quarters.

Speaking of which, she thinks as Tyreese and his sister come into the yard, bearing grave-digging tools. They see her, raise their hands simultaneously in solemn greeting. They consult for a moment, and Sasha takes a large shovel from her brother. With a last thoughtful glance at Carol, her tall, slim figure turns and walks towards the makeshift graveyard in front of the prison. Tyreese jogs slowly over to where she is.

"Marie," he says. His big shoulders sag with the weight of the name.

"Yes," Carol sighs. "Yes. Here I was worried about the baby –"

"That kid? Have you heard him the past few days? He'll be just fine," Tyreese interrupts, grinning a little. She grins back, though it hurts to do so.

"Without his mother, his father…" she replies, trailing off. "Marie told us that David – big David, the baby's father – died last winter. It was right before they got to Woodbury. Got attacked in a car, got trapped. He told her to make a run for it. She didn't even know she was pregnant yet."

"It's sad," Tyreese says, and she can tell he means it. "It's sad. We forget, don't we? All of us, we have our own sad stories, our own tragedies. We sometimes forget, so does everyone else. All of us." He looks at her again. "We're all just tryin' to pick up the pieces, and muddle through."

"You're right," Carol shakes her head, grins hesitantly up at him. "I have to keep that in mind, when I start feelin' especially sorry for myself."

"There's no need for a woman as fine as you to feel sorry for herself," he replies softly. Her heart flutters beneath her ribcage, jumps up and out. Towards him? She's not sure. "And I mean 'fine' in every sense of the word." He finishes, holding her gaze, holding a door open. Waiting for her. Like a true gentlemen. He moves slightly close, so she can feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"I'd like to kiss you, Carol, if you are alright with that?"

She stifles a burst of nervous, terrified laughter. Kiss her. This man. This strong, good, good-looking, calm man wants to kiss her. She, who hasn't been touched sexually in nearly two years. Who hasn't been properly kissed, with passion and kindness, since she was in high school.

She nods. She is afraid. She is excited. Here we go, she thinks wildly. Nearly laughs again.

One arm circles her waist, and then, he is kissing her. With affection, with desire, and, she realizes, with skill. She sighs, allows herself to enjoy it. And she is enjoying it. Carol doesn't feel like laughing at all anymore. They break apart after a few minutes. Her hand flies to her mouth. It almost forgot that kissing was one of its jobs.

He regards her, grins a little. "Thank you, for trusting me, with that." Something on his face makes her realize he knows something about her. About her own sad story.

"Who told you about Ed?"

"Rick, but not more than he needed to get the point across," Tyreese replied. "I hope you don't feel like I was prying."

"I – I don't, not really," she pauses, looks up. He takes her hand. "I guess, I guess, I just – why?"

"Because, Carol," he replies. "Because I think, I believe, we could be very good to each other, if that's something you want. And I'm all about grabbin' the good when I see it nowadays."

"I have no idea what I want," she answers, the truth smacking her in the face. "No one's ever asked before."

He assesses her. "Now that's a real shame." He kisses her again, briefly. Something in her, deep in her gut and loins, responds with a loud voice, More, more, me, me, I want more…

"Think on it," he says. "I'm not going anywhere, 'less the walkers have other ideas for me." He smiles one last time, runs to join his sister in their grim task.

More, that little fire in her stomach is clamoring. Tyreese woke something up inside of her. She leans against the fence, completely spent, with an absurd mixture of grief and lust bubbling inside of her. More…

"Oh, shut up, a second," she says out loud, pressing her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips. And there, alone, talking to herself in the prison yard, Carol finally does begin to laugh.