AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

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

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Daryl's body was tired, but his mind was buzzing. His thoughts were moving around at a hundred miles a minute. Throughout the past few days, he'd silently blamed Lydia for all he was trying to deal with and all he was trying to sort out, but when he was honest with himself, he knew that she'd done nothing more than point out what he was already thinking—and had been thinking, over and over again, for many years.

Lydia had excused herself to sleep in her tent early, almost immediately after having swallowed her dinner and washed her plate. She would take the early morning watch for Walkers—something they'd seen very little of since they'd made this camp—so she wanted to get in as much sleep as possible before someone roused her.

Daryl had helped Carol finish cleaning up after their food was eaten, and Carol had made a pot of root-water that they called "tea". It was, honestly, nothing more than warm water with a slight hint of flavor to it. Still, it was comforting, and Daryl appreciated the effort to make the evening nice.

It was still too early for neither Daryl nor Carol to want to go to sleep, so they were resting on the blanket spread out a short distance from their tents. Dog slept near them, rolled on his side, trusting them to keep him safe instead of the other way around.

The sun was setting low enough that Carol didn't need the wide-brimmed hat she often wore to protect her fair skin from the sun. Her hair was braided down her back, and wispy curls rebelled and escaped to frame her face. There was a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, but her skin was healed from the sunburn that had been common before she'd found the hat of which she'd become quite fond. Sitting and sipping on her tea, she was smiling to herself like the view she saw was especially pleasant.

Really, the view from here, if Daryl had been looking where Carol was looking and not at Carol herself, was the horses. Of course, Carol had a certain affection for the beasts—they all did.

They'd been doing their best to move on, and they'd covered miles each day, but mares in heat and stallions with a vested interest in those mares made things difficult. Their normally well-behaved ladies and gentlemen required actual picketing, and they required being spread out from one another, something which required a bit more effort when they were looking for decent camps where they could graze.

At this point, the stallions wanted what they wanted, but the mares seemed at least decently anxious to give things away. Each of the mares had a certain sound that Daryl supposed was their "come hither" call to their chosen mate, and those sounds had driven Lydia crazy all day. She'd probably gone to sleep earlier just to try to be in a place where she didn't have to hear Duchess making that sound of approval any time that Goliath decided that his enormous ass was going to break free from the restraints of responsibility and expectation to go courting.

Still, picketing them to a stob driven deep into the ground—along with their previous training—was enough to hold them. Most of them.

"Skip is tied good, ain't he?" Daryl asked.

"Hmmm?" Carol hummed. She looked at him. She'd been daydreaming. Even now, though, there was a half-smile on her face. Since they'd left, that hint of a smile never seemed to leave her features. With every mile, Daryl's heart beat out its gratefulness that they'd decided to take this trip so that he could watch Carol dropping her worries like flower petals along the road.

There were plenty of worries, of course, when they focused on winter, supplies, or even just establishing themselves once they picked a place in Wyoming, but it was clear that Carol had left something behind—something she'd found monumentally heavy.

"Skip," Daryl said. "He's the only one liable to really test the constraints of them picket lines. Is he tied good?"

"I think so," Carol said, wrapping her hands around her mug like they were cold and she was warming them. The night was mild, so Daryl doubted she was actually cold. She was probably just enjoying the comfort of it. He leaned forward, brought the kettle over that she'd used for the tea, and used it refill her mug. "I tied him myself," she finished, offering Daryl a soft smile as he refilled his own mug and put the kettle to the side. "Thanks."

"Nothin' but a thing," he said. In his movements, he'd shifted closer to her. Their bodies were nearly touching on the blanket now. Had that been an accident? "He's gonna drive us crazier'n any of the others."

Carol laughed to herself.

"He's just enthusiastic," Carol said. "He knows what he wants, and he doesn't want to hear no for an answer. Besides—if he got loose, the farthest Skip is going is over to where Mindy's tied to try to make some little baby Skips. Some little Skippies."

She snorted and pinched her nose. Her own amusement had surprised her.

"Try—you don't think he'd figure it out?"

"Oh—he'd figure it out," Carol said. "Maybe not right away, but…he'd get there."

"Mindy ain't exactly playin' hard to get right now," Daryl said, laughing to himself. "Prancin' around with her tail up in the air. She's showin' off for him."

Carol hummed.

"At least he's paying attention," she said, raising her mug and drinking from it. Daryl thought there was a heavy pause there. He wondered if he was making it up. He wondered if she could hear his pounding heart. "She knows how to get Skip's attention."

Daryl hummed. It wasn't a hum of agreement, really. He just made the noise to acknowledge that he'd heard her and that he was listening. He was wondering, too, if he heard more than what she said, or if he was simply hearing what he wanted to hear. Was he making things up because he'd been practically drowning in his own feelings and thoughts all day?

He gulped down a too-large mouthful of tea and was thankful that the kettle didn't keep the liquid scalding hot for too long and, luckily, had been moved away from the dying fire for a while now.

"I was thinkin' about…"

Daryl stopped when Carol turned, giving him her undivided attention. She licked her lips, drawing in a drop or two of the warm liquid that had remained there. It was a simple, everyday motion, and Daryl was immediately distracted by the fact that it caused a rush of blood to head southward in his body.

Lydia had been right. He was no damn better than Skip, Goliath, or Hook—except he was even less fucking adept at making his desires known.

If he'd been better at it, maybe he would have said something years ago. Maybe all of this would have come to something on Hershel's farm or, if not there, at least on the road. Maybe he could have tested how their bodies fit on those tiny ass cots in those suffocating prison cells. Maybe they could have been warm and comfortable every night that they hadn't been—maybe it would have all gone differently.

Maybe they could have had some kind of life by now, and maybe they would have moved on years before—before others, who had been good at expressing their thoughts, had gotten Carol's attention, and before Daryl had felt like he had nothing to do but to try to let her go…something he knew, now, he never could do with any success at all.

His stomach ached. His heart pounded. And still, he was a chicken shit that backed out of saying anything that was swirling around in his mind and driving him crazy.

"The horses," he croaked out.

Did Carol look disappointed? Had her shoulders just dropped, slightly? It was impossible to tell if it was real or a figment of Daryl's imagination. Almost as soon as he thought it was gone, the sweet hint of a smile returned to her lips and she raised her eyebrows at him in question—making her interest clear.

"Maybe we oughta breed them," Daryl said. It wasn't a lie. He'd been thinking about that. He'd been thinking about other things, too, but at least he wasn't lying to Carol.

"I thought—you didn't want to have to worry about them," Carol said.

"We're makin' good time," Daryl said. "Damn good time. They're young. Energetic. We gonna make Wyomin' in damn near half the time I estimated when we first set out. But they won't keep goin' into season. Not this year. That means that, if we don't go ahead and give 'em a shot? We're gonna have to wait 'til next year to breed 'em, and then we'll have to wait a whole year for foals. If we breed 'em now, we might have some foals in a year." He shrugged his shoulders, relaxing into the conversation since Carol looked like she was genuinely interested in having it at this moment. "If they don't make, then they just don't make this time around. It's liable to happen any time we cover 'em, but at least it gives us a shot."

Carol laughed to herself.

"And it gives them some relief," she said.

Daryl's whole body ran burning hot. That relief, he was sure, would be welcomed and sweet. There had been plenty of times that he'd taken imaginary relief from his sufferings. He could, at least, conjure up the image of Carol's face at will and fill in the rest of the details with his imagination. He could sympathize with the horses, though, in their longing—even if the details of his suffering were a little different.

"What'cha think?" He asked.

"This is a nice camp," Carol said. "Clear enough that nothing's sneaking up on us. I wouldn't mind a chance to wash a few more things. Some blankets need scrubbing. We could stay an extra day or two. Do our best to breed them in that time."

"Suits me," Daryl said. "We'll figure the rest out as we go."

Carol laughed quietly to herself. Her tea was cold, no doubt, but she drained the rest of the mug.

"We always do," she said, putting the mug to the side and leaning back on her hands as she stretched them out behind her—elongating her body and crossing her legs at the ankle. They were still close enough to touch. They were barely brushing against each other. She hadn't moved away from Daryl even as she'd stretched out to relax. He could feel the warmth of her body heat beside him. The voices in his head that had been buzzing like angry bees for a few days—stirred up beyond even their normal noise—reminded him of how much he craved the chance to feel the heat of her body against him in different ways.

He wondered if parts of her would feel especially warm as rested parts of him against them…

His blood ran cold and for a split second, and his heart felt like it went from wildly racing to a screeching halt, as he realized that Carol had spoken and he'd simply failed to hear her words at all.

"Hmmmm?" He hummed. "Didn't hear ya," he forced out, realizing that she'd probably prefer if he spoke instead of simply humming at her.

"I said maybe Skip will stop biting Mindy," Carol said with a laugh.

"Maybe, but he bites her anyway," Daryl said. "Heat or not."

"Because he wants her attention," Carol said. "If he had thumbs? It's like—Skip would pull her hair and run away. Instead, he just bites her and then stares at her to see what she'll do." Daryl laughed, and Carol laughed quietly, too. She wasn't angry that he'd been distracted and missed his words. She was just relaxed there, with him. She was happy with…this. The life they were living, and the life they were working toward.

Daryl daydreamed about a life with Carol—a real life with Carol. He daydreamed about a full life with Carol, and he imagined everything that could possibly be, and what it could look like. He wondered just how much happier they both could be if it were more than a daydream.

"He's worse about it now than he usually is, though," Daryl said. "You gotta admit that."

When she looked at him, she looked at him with that intense stare—the kind where she seemed to be searching everything out. She could, he imagined, see through him when she looked at him like that. She could see what he was thinking.

"Most of the time when he's nipping her," Carol said, "he's trying to tell her play with me. You're my best friend, right? That's what he's saying. But it's just different now. Now, he's trying to tell her…I want something else, and I think…you want it too."

"She's still his best friend," Daryl said.

Carol hummed and smiled softly.

"Maybe—for Skip and Mindy—the two aren't mutually exclusive? Maybe—he's trying to tell her that."

"He don't change what he does, though, no matter what he's sayin'. Still—it always gets her attention."

"She seems to understand his meaning," Carol said. "Maybe figuring it out is part of whatever it is they have together."

With every ounce of courage that Daryl could possibly muster, and with the thought that he might actually die after he expended it, Daryl leaned toward Carol. She stiffened. Even though he couldn't feel her body, he could sense the tension. He dipped his head near the crook of her neck. This close to her, he was aware that her breathing was ragged—suddenly irregular. She didn't move away from him. He could smell the earthy, natural smell of the lingering soap scent from her bath, the smoke from the fire, and the faint smell of sweat from the evening's exertions.

He could smell Carol. He closed his eyes, and he breathed it in for a half-second before he gathered up his courage and, just barely opening his mouth lest he let himself get too carried away and hurt her, he caught her skin between his teeth and nipped her, tasting the salty flavor of her skin against his tongue—something he'd only dreamed of tasting—as his teeth held her flesh and gently tugged. The sound she made in response was quiet—not a sound of displeasure, but he feared reading too much into it. As he released her and pulled away, he dared—since he felt likely to die of this anyway and, therefore, ought to live the moment to the fullest—to let his lips kiss the spot he'd just tasted, and to soothe any pain he might have caused.

Daryl didn't want to meet Carol's eyes, mostly because he didn't want to see disapproval there, but he honestly thought, in that moment, that if he died from the embarrassment of realizing that he'd dared to do what he'd just done, at least he'd die knowing that he'd finally done something and, if he had nothing else, at least he'd tasted Carol's skin once and felt the softness of it against his lips.

He couldn't really ask for more, after all, than that—even if he was hungry for so much more.