AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I had company last weekend, I've been super busy, and I haven't been able to write or even think about stories. It was tough getting anything out, so I hope I did this chapter justice.

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

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Some of the places they stopped were picked through down to practically bare shelves. Other places stood like time capsules that seemed practically untouched since the clocks had stopped, marking the end of life as they'd once known it—a life that seemed so distant, now, it might have never truly been real. The picking-clean of the towns reminded Daryl of the way that a tornado hops along, swallowing up three houses in a row and leaving one in pristine condition with even their windchimes still intact. Clearly, as survivors moved out of the area or succumbed to the virus, they found some places more desirable than others.

They'd been on the road a while, and they were starting to get pretty good at predicting what spots were going to be worth visiting, and which ones weren't.

In Daryl's opinion, Lydia was, in many ways, equal parts young adult and child. Her ability to survive some things stood in start contrast to her lack of knowledge about just as many things as those which she understood deeply. Every conversation with her—every day spent watching her, working with her, and counting on her as a part of their unit—changed Daryl's perspective of her, in one way or another, until he sometimes felt like it was a pendulum.

She was almost ready to be independent, but still she had a lot to learn before she was fully prepared to spread her wings. And each new thing she did learn gave Daryl a warm sensation in his belly.

Maybe, he figured, this was what being someone's daddy was like. At least, sometimes, he liked to imagine it was. He had always imagined that, maybe, that would be something he would enjoy.

Once, Carol had said something like it—something about how Lydia saw Daryl. Daryl didn't remember her words. For whatever reason, his brain hadn't held onto her exact words, but it remembered the way her words made him feel. It could bring to mind her face. They'd been sitting close together around a low burning fire of the barely lit remains of their larger fire. Her eyes had glittered in that light, and her smile had been the crooked kind—the soft kind—that was equal parts teasing and equal parts something else…something that Daryl didn't like to think about too often because letting his hopes get too high only brought him physical discomfort, and sneaking away to get enough privacy for any relief wasn't something he could do often. This wasn't a world where you wanted to get caught, alone, with your pants down all too often.

Daryl saw a tenderness from Carol toward Lydia, and from Lydia back to Carol. Carol was that way, though. She was maternal, and if someone needed a mother, Carol had always seemed to be there to offer up what they needed. She'd been the kind of mother to Sophia that Daryl had admired—dedicated, loving, and ever-present. She hadn't deserved to lose her daughter the way she had.

She hadn't deserved, either, to lose the two little girls that she'd inherited upon their father's death. She'd shared the story, once, with Daryl. She'd been afraid he would judge her. She had failed them. She'd failed to give them what they both needed to survive in this world. At least, that's what she'd told Daryl. He'd had to tell her what she hadn't believed—she'd failed nobody and, really, skills could be taught but the world wasn't fair or logical. It never had been.

Carol hadn't deserved, either, to see her son's head on a pike.

Daryl understood that she must have suffered an indescribable amount of pain for each of those hurts alone, and to compound them? He could forgive her any of her irrationality—no matter how angry or hurt it made him in the moment—when he thought about how shredded and raw her mother's heart must be.

Good mothers, Daryl knew, loved their children dearly, and they suffered greatly when their children suffered—and more when they lost them. And Carol, Daryl knew, was a good mother.

So, when he saw her softening to Lydia the way that she had, and when he witnessed stolen touches where she hugged the girl or smoothed her hair back from her face, he kept quiet. Carol could tease him, but he wouldn't tease her—about other things, yes, but not about this. Her heart, he was sure, was still quite raw and tender from her losses. And, after Henry, she had been ready to bolt at the mention of a child. She feared loving as much as she did, and she was so much a mother-at-heart that she knew that she would have no choice but to love if someone required that of her.

Not everything that happened needed to be commented upon, and it was sometimes best to let things simmer quietly for a while.

There were certain things that needed to be done regularly as they travelled. There was hunting and fishing to be done and water to be acquired. Their water tanks, carried under the frame of the wagon, had to be refilled for the livestock—since there were places where they would run low on finding water—and their own water containers needed to be filled. When water was in abundance, clothes needed to be washed. The livestock needed to be tended to and, when they had a good area for doing so, Carol liked to bake an abundance of what they called biscuits, but which were more like hardtack than her normal fluffy biscuits, for packing. Those biscuits would keep a while, were good while they kept riding, especially with leftover meat from the night before, and they were good when they were in an area where Walkers seemed thick and a fire seemed like a bad idea.

In addition to what they needed to do just to keep moving, they were picking homes and stores clean as they went, building up necessary supplies for Wyoming.

Daryl and Carol were taking turns doing everything. Though each of them could accomplish every task that needed to be done, they were able to admit that they each had strengths, so there were some things that each of them did more frequently than the other. They were also taking turns teaching Lydia their own particular ways of doing each of the things that needed to be accomplished so that she might find a way of doing everything that suited her best.

Today, Carol was keeping the camp under control, and Daryl was clearing out a place that they'd hoped would be one of those that the proverbial tornado skipped. And, today, it was Daryl's turn to take Lydia out.

The place wasn't too bad, and they'd already packed away a few small bags of items into the back of the little wagon they'd brought with them. In addition, they were piling things up, just outside the door, to load up all at once. Skip and Mindy would let them know if there was any trouble at all with Walkers—and Mindy would let them know when it was time to go because Skip got annoying and started nipping at her neck to get her attention. Mindy could ignore him for a while, but eventually she'd start to make her annoyance known.

"Stop it, Skip!" Lydia admonished when they came out with their second load of goods—some to store until Wyoming, and some to help get them that far.

"We about to be in trouble again," Daryl commented, as much to himself as to Lydia. Mindy's behavior was a little different than her normal annoyance with Skip. "She's comin' into season again. The whole damn mess of 'em is. We're about to play hell keepin' 'em apart when they aren't hitched, and keepin' 'em focused when they are. And it won't stop for a while now before they settle down for the winter."

"It'll stop?" Lydia asked.

Daryl hummed, rearranging things in the back of the wagon as she passed up what they'd gathered and stacked just outside the store's front door to load.

"Won't be long. Fall, so this might be their last cycle. It'll start back up when it gets warm again."

"Why?" Lydia asked.

"Circle of life or whatever," Daryl said. "Natural. Need to breed. Create more of their species. Same for every animal, I guess. It's hardwired into 'em to look for a mate and do what they do."

Lydia stared at him and Daryl wondered how much she really knew about all of it. She was old enough to know about nature and natural urges and such—even if the thought of it made his face run hot. He knew she was well and plenty old enough to get her period, since he knew about the load of rags that she and Carol both had—the one thing that Carol never asked Daryl to wash out when he helped with laundry, no matter how busy they were or even though he would have. When Carol emptied her own laundry bag, the bloodied rags affected him, honestly, no more than her underwear did. He wasn't squeamish about blood, and he wasn't squeamish about things that were simply as nature intended them to be.

"We want them to mate," Lydia said. "So—why don't we let them?"

"Don't wanna drive 'em too hard if they get pregnant," Daryl said.

"They can't work then?" Lydia asked.

"They can work. And they will. They'll have to. We won't have a choice. But—not as hard. And I don't wanna slow down our progress. We're movin' good. Movin' steady. Better than I could have dreamed we would. Sooner we get to where we're going—stop moving and start settlin'—the better." The wagon shifted dramatically and Daryl caught himself to keep from losing his balance. Lydia nearly lost hers as she fell into a sort of dance to keep from dropping the box she was holding or falling over her own feet. Though she was on the ground, the movement of the wagon had startled her pretty well.

"Easy, Skip!" Lydia barked. She passed Daryl up the box and went around. Daryl continued his work while she soothed Mindy and admonished Skip. Skip was a cocky-ass little stallion that, as Daryl joked, could damn near convince you he had a streak of jackass in him a mile wide—in spirit, if not in actuality. Mindy's presence was starting to drive him crazy. They were pretty young, and Daryl was almost certain that neither had ever been bred before—at least not as far as he could remember from back in the community—and Skip was clearly anxious for his first time out.

All their stallions were, and it was playing hell for all of them when one mare or another slipped back into heat. Every evidence of the weather cooling down as they made their way toward Wyoming was something of a blessing—though Daryl had toyed with the idea of trying to cover a mare or two before their season passed to guarantee some offspring in the coming year.

"We better get on back soon," Daryl said when Lydia brought him another box. "Let them burn off some steam. Besides—Duchess was a bit too froggy this morning, and I'd hate to know we left Carol tryin' to get shit done and keep fuckin' Goliath from goin' where the hell he's bound ass an' determined to go."

Lydia seemed genuinely amused by the image conjured up of Goliath—who came by his name honestly—being stopped from doing anything he pleased. The truth about the gentle giant was that they were lucky that his temperament made him very agreeable and, therefore, simply inclined to do what the hell they wanted him to do. His size meant that he would be difficult to control if he wasn't simply content to do anything asked of him in exchange for some very good grooming, a small excess of pats and scratches, and the occasional treasured sugar cube or juicy snack.

"This is the last box," Lydia assured Daryl. "We got a pretty good haul, don't you think?"

"Not bad," Daryl said. "We ain't seen much for a while, so there was bound to be a decent haul somewhere around. Come on—let's go." Daryl took his place to drive and waited while Lydia climbed in beside him. It took little to no urging beyond a click of his tongue to get the wagon moving. Mindy was anxious to go, and so was Skip. Going wasn't the problem at all. In fact, Daryl had to stay hard on the reins to keep them from going too fast for a while.

"Daryl…" Lydia said, after they'd been riding in silence for a few moments. She dragged his name out and left it hanging in the air. He hummed, accepting that there was more to come, but she needed him to ask for it. "The horses have…cycles. Do people?"

Daryl felt like the temperature of his whole body instantaneously rose about fifty degrees, and he briefly wondered if this was how people spontaneously combusted.

"You know about that shit," Daryl said. "And if you don't? It's Carol you ought to ask about…women shit. It ain't me."

"I know about that," Lydia said. "Kind of," she added after a moment.

"Still ain't me you oughta ask," Daryl mumbled at her. "That ain't changed."

"I mean—about men shit," Lydia offered. "Like Skip—or Goliath or Duke. Do men…you know…go after…a mate?"

The way she strung the words together, slow and halting, it sounded like she was choking on them. Of course, those very same words burned in Daryl's ears, leaving his whole body still feeling close to being hot enough to ignite.

Carol and Daryl hadn't talked a great deal about Lydia's future—they knew no more about what she would see in the future than they knew about their own future—but the one thing they'd absolutely agreed upon was that they had to teach her everything she needed to know to survive, with or without them.

Maybe, Daryl figured, this kind of hot feeling was part and parcel of being someone's Daddy. And he'd always thought that was something he wanted, after all. Maybe he couldn't be a chicken shit about it now, just because the things she wanted to know made him feel like he'd reached the same temperature as the face of the sun.

"Don't you know all this? Yeah, they do," Daryl said. "Man sees somethin' he wants…a mate that…he really wants? He's goin' after it."

"Same as the horses?"

"Not quite. Different approaches, I guess. I guess…I guess…some's like Skip—go after shit fast and determined. Some's like Goliath. Slow, steady, and fuckin' unphased by any damn thing that gets in the way."

Lydia giggled, probably more at the reminder of Goliath and his bored ass expression as he plowed through anything that he didn't think ought to be located in his path—no matter what he was doing.

"The horses don't get married, though, to their mates," Lydia offered.

"Some people don't neither," Daryl said. "Still—Goliath don't seem to care too much when Dolly comes in season, but you'll notice that we can't keep Hook near him when they're not hooked up and Duchess is in heat because Goliath don't appreciate Hook's presence at them times if he's out of the harness. So—maybe there's something there. Some kind of territorial something or other…a bond."

"But—some people are more like…forever people."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Yeah," he said. "Some people are more like forever people.

"Daryl…" Lydia said after a moment longer, her voice trailing off in that same way that it had before, begging Daryl to ask her the rest of her hanging inquiry.

"Shit," Daryl responded, half-laughing. "Whatever else you got, I'm tellin' you it's…better if you ask Carol."

"It might not be," Lydia challenged.

"What the fuck is it?" Daryl asked.

"Just—I mean Skip…he's got to get Mindy's attention by biting her. And Goliath and Duke…like Skip…they can't talk. They can't say what they're…you know…thinking."

Daryl went for a cigarette and, helping him out, Lydia cupped her hand around it and offered him a flame to light it. He mumbled his thanks when it was lit.

"They got their own way of sayin' what they thinkin'," Daryl agreed.

"But men can just say it," Lydia said. Daryl hummed in agreement. "So—why don't you just…say it? To Carol, I mean?"

Daryl eyed her. His stomach, he was certain, was somewhere down around the floorboards of the wagon. Lydia was looking at him out of the side of her eyes. Her shoulders hunched forward so that he could tell that she was nervous—afraid of how he would respond to her flat-ass calling him out like that. He recognized the tightness in his own shoulders, and knew that it wasn't owing to the driving now. The horses, now that they were moving, were behaving well enough.

Daryl consciously relaxed. Lydia seemed to follow suit.

"Some men ain't good at sayin' things," Daryl said.

"I bet—if you say it—she feels the same," Lydia offered. "But—if you can't say it…maybe she'd understand you biting her like Skip does or…you know…just sort of being Goliath about it…"

"Head down, plowing through shit…" Daryl said with a laugh.

"Doesn't seem to bother Duchess," Lydia offered with a shrug and a more relaxed smile.

"Shut up," Daryl said. "You got no business stickin' your damned nose in the business of grown-ups."

He hadn't been able to put any bite behind the words, and she hadn't heard any bite.

"I'm just saying, Daryl…"

"Well…your ass can stop sayin' it now…"

"Do you still—want me to ask Carol my questions?" Lydia asked.

Daryl raised an eyebrow at her with the best warning he could muster, especially since he was half-tempted to tell her to ask Carol…and to report back.

She laughed at his expression, and Daryl allowed himself to laugh, too.

But his stomach still seemed to ride back to camp in the floorboard of the wagon.