She wakes to warmth.

A dream of a man driving her relentlessly into concrete dissolves, and she wakes slowly to find herself pressed to Daryl, the heat of his body beneath their shared blanket like fire.

Cal is curled against his back, one hand clutched almost reverently into the fabric of his shirt. She stares at him - at the soft rise and fall of his breath, at the quiet of his body. Wherein day to day he carries a feral tension, he now resides in the gentleness of a deep and encompassing sleep.

She doesn't move, entranced by his stillness.

However, his peace does not last long. As if a spell has been unwound, his muscles coil with tension, his breath becoming the imperfect concert of wakefulness.

He stiffens when he realizes her closeness.

He glances over his shoulder, brow knitted as he takes in Cal's careful expression. Still weighed down by a deep and restful sleep, Cal takes a moment longer to unwind her hand from his shirt and pull away, the blanket slipping from around her shoulders.

The chill of the night descends. She hisses at the sudden cold.

Daryl watches her, brow knitted.

Cal hovers at the edge of reach, blinking away a sleep she has not felt in months. Safe, she realizes, her sleep had felt safe. As foreign and strange as his warmth had felt - but welcome all the same.

For a long moment they consider one another, both still blinking at the remnants of a deep sleep. Cal is still with the fear of having intruded into his space – of having gotten too close. Daryl is frozen with the indecision of allowing her this closeness – of allowing her closer still.

Cal draws in a rattling, almost fearful breath.

Daryl huffs, lifting the blanket at his back.

"Well, c'mon."

Tentatively, quietly, she slides under the blanket and curls against his back.


Daryl blinks awake.

A dream of Merle fades, already falling through his fingers like sand. He pushes it away – he's already mourned his brother, he has no use for grief.

Cal is pressed to his back, fingers still coiled in the shirt of his lower back. Her breath is a soft patch of warmth between his shoulder blades, her face pressed against him in sleep more desperately than he could ever imagine her in waking. Cal is a careful woman, though he isn't sure if her care is for her own sake or his.

He doesn't move for what feels like hours, until the pre-dawn light softens the hard edges of shadow. He's staring at the wall when a movement at the entrance of the fort draws his attention – Rick kneels down.

"Cal?"

"She's sleepin'," Daryl mutters.

"I wanted to head into town and pick up the rest of the supplies," Rick explains, his eyes on Cal wrapped protectively against Daryl's back.

Daryl chews on his lip, glances over his shoulder at the woman still pressed against him. She is still deeply asleep.

"Let 'er sleep. I'll come with you," Daryl rasps.


Rick is relaxed behind the wheel, as if the driver's seat is a throne he has not enjoyed in decades. His hands hang over the wheel as he reclines in his seat. He grins, a devilish mirth in his eyes.

"What?" Daryl narrows his eyes at him. Rick was not a man to smile idly.

"Nothing. Just thinkin' 'bout you and Cal."

"What about me an' Cal?"

"Jus'... You two."

Daryl grimaces and looks out the window. "We're jus' keepin' an eye on each other."

"Good."


The hay fort is cool with his absence.

Cal doesn't know how long she lies in the stillness of the morning, only that she listens to the silence of sleep slowly break – she hears the rustles and creaks as the others wake around her, she hears soft murmurs turn to soft voices.

Loathe to leave the warmth of her sleep behind, Cal shuffles out of the fort with the blanket tucked around her. She joins the others where they sit around the fire, sipping on weak coffee and chewing carefully on warmed beans. She looks around for someone, frowning only when she realizes his absence.

"Daryl went with Rick," Maggie offers. "They left just before dawn."

Still foggy from her over-long sleep, Cal blinks.

"To clean out what's left of the store," Maggie clarifies.

"Oh."

"They'll be back before noon."

Cal nods.

She sits near the fire and arranges herself beneath the blanket. A can of watery coffee and a can of watery instant oatmeal are passed to her. She eats slowly, grimacing whenever she takes a sip of the coffee, unused to its flavour.

"It's instant," T-Dog clarifies from her left. "Which is only part of the reason it tastes like shit. Dale made it."

"I heard that," Dale's disembodied voice calls out.

A sly grin stretches across T-Dog's face. "Good."


After breakfast she decides to make herself useful.

"What are you doing with that?"

The pointed question gives her a moment of pause; Cal looks up to find Carl staring at her, leaning over the roof of the hay fort, wide eyed and brimming with curiousity. He stares at the map laid across her knees.

"Isn't that Glenn's map?" Carl asks, crawling down from the hay fort to take a seat beside her.

Cal looks back at the map, at the red and black illustrations detailing the path of several herds they had nearly crossed paths with. She smooths her hands over the paper, fingers sliding towards a small area before she taps it crossly.

"That doesn't look like anywhere," he notes a near empty section of map, surrounded by nothing but lame green and lines.

"It's the house down the road."

Carl glances at her, unsure. "What's there?"

"Hopefully something worth bringing back."


It takes twenty minutes to walk east, the length of the field and through a border of trees, to a fenceline. She stands at the wire, staring across a field of dead, folded grasses towards a house backed into a heavy treeline.

She ducks under the wire and makes for the house, hand idle on the hilt of her knife. The home reminds her of Betty and Graham's house – and of a time when a mad man had been her only companion in the entirety of the world.

The house itself sighs when she opens the door, breathing softly of neglect. She stands in the doorway for a long moment, listening to the silence, beholding a kingdom long dead.

She shuts the door behind her and draws her knife, tapping it against the wall. The sound echoes through the house, but there is no rattling groan in reply, no whispered fear of the living – only the silence remains, at once inviting and haunting.

Slowly, rhythmically, she searches the house, moving from room to room with quiet steps and searching eyes. Her fingers ghost over dusty ornaments, her hands tuck picture frames face down – she admires the immaterial, but turns away from the sentiment of smiling photographs and grinning families. Their presence tells her enough to know the family that lived here was gone – dead or undead or pushed into madness.

The door to the backyard, open, the threshold dusted and muddied from weather, causes her to pause – and there she finds them. The family.

She sighs.

Dead then - or rather, once undead and made dead a second a time.

They had died as walkers, still dressed in their pajamas, their black blood long since dried to syrup. They had been made dead-again a month at most. Their heads sliced in half by something beyond sharp – a machete maybe, or a sword.

Cal shuts the door, sealing herself inside.

She knows before she opens the first drawer that anything and everything of use is gone. Whomever had samurai'd the walker family had undoubtedly drawn them from the house, killed them, and looted the place. Sure enough, the drawers are filled with useless knick-knacks - even the duct tape is gone. The only thing she finds is a small assortment of seeds tucked atop the fridge, bound together by an elastic.

Cal turns to look over her shoulder.

"You can come out now," she says evenly, tucking the seeds into her pocket.

Carl rounds the corner, eyebrows drawn tight. "How'd you know I was here?"

She turns back to the kitchen, drawing the next cupboard open. "You smell."

Carl gapes at her, indignant. "I do not-"

"Could have fooled me," she shrugs.

Carl scowls.

"Check under there," she waves her hand flippantly.

He approaches the section of cupboards she indicates, sighing indignantly as young teens are often want to do. After checking a few cupboards and drawers, Carl glances at Cal running her fingers over the edge of carving knives.

"Your mom know you're here?" Cal asks without looking up.

Carl lies. "Yeah."

"Sure," Cal narrows her eyes at him. "Well... You're here now. We need to check the rest of the house."

They work silently for several minutes, until Carl shoves a can of dog food back into its place with a disgusted grunt.

Cal glances at him sharply.

"There's nothing here," he bemoans.

"No," she says, jerking her chin towards the can of dog food he had replaced."That's a meal to a starving man."

Carl eyes the can warily.

She doesn't offer him an argument. "Come on. We have to check upstairs too."

They do.

Carl sticks close to her, an awareness to him that lends a sad truth to the reality of their lives – despite his youth, he has already witnessed unspeakable violence. His steps echo her own, soft and careful; she feels no trepidation with him at her back, but an understanding that he too is a survivor.

The rooms upstairs prove empty. Cal leaves Carl poking through a box of old comic books in a room filled with boxes. She winds her way through the rooms, stepping carefully across discarded laundry, wayward shoes, forgotten stacks of books. She doesn't touch anything, instead her eyes drag across what has been left behind, searching – she only digs into closets, tugging and pulling and digging her way to the back.

"What are you looking for?" Carl asks, a handful of comics tucked under his arm.

Cal glances over her shoulder at the boy, reaching further and further into the recesses of the closet with prying hands. "People tuck weird shit in the back of their closet."

"Weird shit?"

"Stuff," she corrects. "Weird stuff."

Carl rolls his eyes.

"Hey," she growls, tugging out a cardboard box. "Don't roll your eyes at me."

He flushes and looks down, his eyes drawn to the box Cal pulls free of the overflowing closet. "What's that?"

Cal blinks and opens it, staring down at an amalgamation of knick-knacks and sentimental items. She pulls out a cigar cutter, snips it between her fingers, and tosses it over her shoulder – it cracks against the floor, deafening in the near-silence of the house.

"Don't stick your finger in that; it is not a magic trick," she mumbles. The cigar cutter clatters against the ground a second time.

She sifts through the box, tossing items of no use over her shoulder and setting others aside. A handsome hunting knife, a silk scarf, a half-used drum of lip balm creates a small pile.

She's prying open a tin can of hair pomade – only to confirm it is, in fact, a can of hair pomade and not some hidden treasure –, when Carl sets back from a drawer overflowing with socks and underpants.

"Look!"

In his hands, a cylinder – black and cool. It smells like gun oil.

Cal stares at it in disbelief, entirely surprised – and somewhat offended – by the unoriginality of its hiding place.


They walk back to the farm carrying a sheet between them – it's filled with odds and ends, items that the looter had overlooked. Carl doesn't complain about the weight, something which Cal is grateful for. The boy has a look of stubborn determination – it reminds her of his father.

"Can I come with you tomorrow?"

"Are you asking?"

Carl blushes and looks away.

"Does Rick let you go on runs?"

"He did," Carl offers, hopeful.

Cal glances at him. "Oh really?"

"Yeah. Once."

"How'd that go?"

"Okay, I guess," Carl shrugs. "I saw a deer."

Cal makes a sound – it is almost a laugh. "Your dad told me it ended a bit differently than that."

By the time they walk the length of the field, Lori has moved to greet them. She takes the end of the sheet Carl holds, pushing him towards the barn with a stern look and a quiet word. He leaves with a single backwards glance. Cal offers him a tight smile – something more akin to a grimace –, she can feel Lori's eyes on her.

The two women stand in silence until the boy is gone, and Lori finally turns her hawk-like gaze on Cal.

"I appreciate what you're doin'," she nods towards the items between them. "But I'd appreciate it more if you left my son out of it."

There are a thousand words she wants to say, but only one slips past her tight-lipped smile.

"Sure."

They return to the barn together, the sheet straining between them. Carl watches them from the hayloft as the two women approach Carol and Maggie, depositing the bundle of items near the fire. Lori quickly excuses herself to find Carl, hurrying offer calling his name.

Cal casts the boy in the hayloft a quick glance and a wink.

"Where'd you find all of it?" Carol asks, eyeing the strange ensemble of items with an almost-reverence.

"Not a whole lot," Cal corrects.

"No, no, this is just what we need. Simple things," Carol reassures her.

"Is that -?" Maggie points at the dog-eared cover of a novel: a bare-chested man bent low over the breasts of a woman.

Carol glances at her, a coy smile tugging at her lips. "It's a Harlequin romance," she murmurs, dragging the book into her lap. "It'll be great for kindling."

Cal doesn't say anything when Carol tucks the book into her jacket pocket.


A long time ago he woke up to a shattered hand – something Annette hadn't pitied him for. He had broken it while drinking, from some escapade he couldn't remember the next morning let alone forty years later. The only thing the broken hand was ever good for was telling him when the weather was going to turn south – it would pulse and ache, a soft drumming that made him quiet and somber.

Annette hadn't allowed him to be surly about his own folly.

"You best not impose the consequence of your own stupidity on us, Hershel Greene. I will not allow it," she had said, yielding only enough to tuck a few pills and a glass of water in his not-aching hand.

That had been the only kindness she had afforded him. Annette had no patience for him, his alcohol, or the product of his alcoholism.

The familiar ache of his hand is what rouses these thoughts now - of Annette. He fingers the pocket watch tucked into his coat; he tries to shake the stiffness out of his right hand. There isn't enough pain medication to afford him relief, and so he commiserates in silence – as Annette would tell him to do.

"You too?" Dale asks, his dark eyes brimming from beneath his bucket hat. "Dislocated my elbow back when I was twenty – I get a twinge every time the weather goes south."

Hershel nods. "I broke it – years ago."

"Maybe they'll find some Tylenol," Dale muses.

Hershel doesn't say anything.

For a long moment the two men stand in silence. Hershel stares down at the accumulated junk inherent in all farms, tucked beneath an open sided garage.

"What're you thinking?" Dale asks.

Hershel blinks and glances at the other man. He looks back at his hand, aching and stiff in the cold.

"The weather is going to turn," Hershel offers. "I think we best prepare for an extended stay."

"What about the house?" Dale asks, glancing across the field towards the farm's quaint little house.

Hershel shakes his head. "Maggie and Glenn checked it yesterday. The family died in there."

Dale nods and eyes the pile of metal, rolled chicken wire, stacks of wood both rotted and new. "Well," he says, rubbing at his chin. "We can reinforce some of the barn's weaker points instead -"

"How about the house across the field?"

Both men startle. Cal stands behind them. She stares, unblinking, from beneath her cap.

"What house?" Hershel asks.

Cal glances over her shoulder – the browned field stretches on and on until they can see nothing but the sky. "There's a house over there," she turns back to them. "The family died outside. It's dusty but okay. Back from the road. Tucked in the trees."

Dale glances at Hershel, Hershel holds Cal's eye. "We'll have to talk to Rick."

She nods, and as an afterthought tugs something from her pocket.

"I found these." She passes a small handful of packets to Hershel. "Figure you'd keep them safe," she whispers, and then she's gone – she leaves as quietly as she had arrived.

Dale glances at Hershel.

"What is it?"

Hershel blinks, and looks after Cal's retreating back. Joy steals into his eyes.

"She found seeds."


Rick and Daryl return just before noon, the SUV filled with boxes of food and items that had survived the fire. Before they can unload the boxes Lori approaches Rick, murmuring quietly to him about Carl's misadventure with Cal.

"You sure he didn't follow her?" Daryl asks, defensive – protective.

Lori turns her back to him, refusing him his voice. Daryl glowers, heaving a box of goods into his arms and shouldering past them to the barn.

Rick watches him go before he turns to his estranged wife. "I'll have a word with her."

Lori nods, eyeing him from beneath the fringe of her bangs. "Rick-"

"Rick," a voice calls out.

Hershel approaches, shadowed closely by Cal. At their interruption Lori moves away, drifting past the pair without a glance.

"Before you unload the car, hear me out. We need to move on from here, find somewhere more permanent for the winter," Hershel proposes.

"Alright." Rick glances between Hershel and Cal, "If you have a suggestion, I'm open to it."

"Maggie and Glenn checked the house down by the road – it's filled with bodies." Hershel's voice, slow and methodical, juxtaposes the content of his words.

"But... there is a house to the east," Cal interjects.

"East?" Rick turns, searching the same horizon.

"There is a farm just over the ridge," she offers. "Someone looted the place. It's dusty, but it's back from the road, tucked into some trees."

Rick considers her and Hershel. "The barn will only last us so long."

Rick nods, "then we'll move."

Hershel flexes his hand. "I'd recommend sooner than later."

"Today then."

"I'll let the others know," Hershel nods and takes his leave.

Rick turns to Cal, Lori's fear rearing in his mind. "Heard Carl went out with you today."

"Yeah," Cal doesn't deny it – but, he notices, her eyes ice over.

He can feel the familiar anxiety – a deep fear for his son growing up in a world set to ruin. His instincts tell him to shield the boy, but his rational, logical mind demands he let him grow – grow in a way to survive this new and dangerous world. He can taste the coppery bite of his own fear at the back of his throat. Not for himself, he notes, but for his son, and what he is about to say.

Rick breathes a laugh. "Good."

Cal blinks at him.

Rick nearly smiles at her surprise. "He followed you, didn't he?"

Cal stares at him long and hard – and then she shrugs.

He takes it as an affirmation for what he already knows. "'Course he did." Rick stares down at the earth, at the sky, at Cal and her careful manner. "Hope he wasn't much trouble."

"He's a good kid. Good finder," Call offers. She tugs a black cylinder from her pocket and passes it to him. The suppressor shines with an unholy light.

Rick turns it over and over in his hands – reverent. "Where'd you find this?"

"I didn't. Carl did. In the house. Tucked away in a closet."

"This could change things."

"Only if we find more."


They move that afternoon. They tuck what they can away into the trucks and drive down to the main road, from there they find the access road to their new home.

They pour from the SUV and truck, eyes wild as they scan the dark and dead forest surrounding them. They are quick to ensure the house is still secure from Cal's last visit, and the house's two outbuildings are free of threat. Everyone feels better at the idea that there will not be a repeat of Wiltshire Estates. When all is said and done, they breathe.

The first thing she notices is that the house breathes too. It sighs as if its been waiting for them, she realizes. It sighs as if it is changed. It isn't as daunting as it had been when she first approached. It isn't as reminiscent of Betty and Graham's house, or Merle and his promise of violence. It feels like the start of something – it feels like it could be their home.

Their home.

Cal feels a strange sort of warmth at the idea.

They unload the vehicles, and stow items wherever they can. The lower level of the house becomes a haphazard maze of stacked boxes and leaning towers of beans.

Night comes quickly thereafter, and they arrange themselves in the living room where Dale has lit the fireplace. They poke holes in the tops of their chili cans and set them on the hearth, watching with wide eyes as they slowly heat up and burp with steam.

Cal huddles under her blanket, watching the others finish their cans of chili.

"I think tonight deserves a celebration."

Hershel opens a can of watery peaches, passing it to Carl with a gentle smile and laugh as the boy drinks the sugary syrup.

"Don't make yourself sick," Lori muses, brushing her hands through the boy's hair. He grins wildly around a mouthful of sugar, pleased with himself.

Rick smiles – his wife looks away when their eyes inadvertently meet, her smile dying.

T-Dog holds open his hands, eyes ravenous at the sight of something sweeter than nothing at all. Lori plucks the can from Carl's hands – despite his mumbled protests –, and passes it to T-Dog. The can moves from hand to hand, everyone taking a slice before passing it on. There is a quiet as they savour the sweetness.

"You ain't gonna eat any?" His voice is at her ear, his breath slides across her neck. She turns to find Daryl settling beside her.

"I was going to eat yours, actually."

Daryl scoffs.

"Where were you?" She asks.

"Claiming a bed."

"Really?"

"Gotta mark my territory."

She stares at him, a smile begging to be shared. "Sure."

A smile tugs at his lips.

"Thanks for going with Rick this morning," she murmurs.

"Ain't nothing."

"No. It is something," she repeats words she has said to him before.

It reminds him of the conversation he had had with Rick, brief as it was.

"Jus' keepin' an eye on you."

Cal smiles, tentatively, slowly. She finally looks away.

He breathes when her eyes leave him – he hardly noticed he was suffocating.

"Guys."

A voice interrupts them. Glenn is holding the can towards them, his tentative smile reaching his eyes. "We saved you both a slice."

She takes it, holding it in both hands. Daryl is watching her – not the way she covets the can of peaches, just her.

She holds it out to him. "Want one?"

He doesn't look away. "In a bit."

"Okay." She doesn't eat hers either.

They talk quietly to one another in the small room, surrounded by people, their attention so acutely trained on the other that they hardly recognize when the conversations shift and fade and people drift to bed.

In the end, it's them, only them in that small room.

"I have watch next," Cal murmurs at some point in the night. The fire has burned to embers. "After Maggie."

Daryl makes a sound.

They finally eat their peach slices, and lick the syrup off their fingers with satisfied sighs.

"My grandmother would kill me," Cal's voice nearly breaks with a laugh. The can rolls from her hand, twirling on the ground. "She grew peaches in her yard. She insisted hers were the best."

Daryl looks at her in surprise. She has never spoken of anything from before. But, despite his curiousity, he knows better than to pry.

Silence breathes around them after that.

They watch the embers burn until they crumble to ash.

"Can I stay with you?" She whispers.

Daryl knows she doesn't mean this once.

"I'll be waitin' for you," he whispers back.