AN: I guess we're in this now. LOL I apologize.

I hope you enjoy the chapter! If you do, please do let me know!

111

Máible fell into helping in the kitchen quite naturally and without a single protest from any of the people who were crowded into the space and each doing their part to put together a meal for everyone to share—evidence that she was no stranger there.

If the end of the world had taught Daryl anything, it had taught him a great deal about humans as a species—even if all of his knowledge, really, was nothing more than his observations and interpretations of the behaviors of those around which he'd managed to spend his time.

Humans were, by nature, social creatures. Many of them enjoyed solitude, but there was a marked difference between chosen and controlled solitude, and the empty, sucking, lonely solitude that everyone seemed to feel when it was thrust upon them, and they found themselves robbed of any hope of meaningful connection.

Whether or not everyone in the group preferred to always spend their time with the group, Daryl had noticed that nearly every human being had the need to belong somewhere and among some group. Even himself, as a self-professed loner of sorts, needed someone—even if he wouldn't have admitted that to most.

In a group, there were necessary hierarchies, even if they were the simple ones that tended to form in groups where the members of the group were mostly interested in equality. Someone had to be in charge. Ultimately, every group needed someone to make the "final" decisions and to help keep things on track when they might easily go in more than one direction.

What had bothered Daryl, as he'd observed so many groups, was that the old adage was true—power corrupted. At the very least, he'd noticed, it very often corrupted. It could be kept in check, but that was really only if the one who led truly had more interest in the group than in their own position of power.

As captain, it was clear that Máible was in a position of power. She called the shots, and that was evident. Daryl had noticed, though, that she directed more than demanded. She told the group the base-level expectations, and she left them free to govern themselves, for the most part, when it came to deciding how to accomplish what was best for the good of the group.

It took him no time at all to realize that people did what Máible wanted—not because Máible was the captain and they feared her in some way, but because what Máible wanted seemed to genuinely be what was best for everyone.

Daryl saw that very clearly evidenced in the kitchen—the galley.

And he saw what that kind of benevolent leadership did for Carol, and it made his heart swell, because Carol's happiness and peace was his happiness and peace.

He delivered the eggs and stood, arms crossed across his chest, and watched from something of a distance, staying out of the way so as to not disrupt what was the very clear rhythm of everyone involved.

The kitchen was Carol's domain. It had been for what seemed like forever, but it felt different here. She didn't have the frantic air of someone who was spread too thin. She didn't seem burdened by her work. She didn't appear to be taking out frustrations on the food that she was preparing. She was laughing, and directing others in the kitchen area to keep down the chaos, and she looked like she was enjoying the preparation of the meal.

When she noticed Daryl, she smiled at him over her shoulder, and she winked at him, and his heart had fluttered in his chest.

She was happy. She was in the kitchen because she liked to be in this kitchen, helping to prepare the meal that everyone would enjoy—not because someone had put her there, not because someone had said it was the only place she could be of any real use, and not because she needed the cover to keep herself safe.

Daryl was surprised to find that his body felt heavy, and his throat felt tight. Carol was happy, and she was relaxed, and he'd found her.

Whether or not this boat ever left port, he realized, mattered very little to him in the moment.

And when Máible leaned and whispered in Carol's ear—both women standing still for a moment as Carol listened to whatever instructions or information she was being given—Daryl saw Carol smile a soft and sincere smile. She nodded at Máible, whispered her response in the woman's ear, and then she washed her hands and walked in Daryl's direction, gesturing that he should follow her—and follow her, he did.

If Daryl thought that he was going to ever truly feel that he had a strong grasp on the layout of the ship, he was wrong—at least for the day. He had followed someone, to this point, every time he went anywhere. He hadn't, admittedly, paid a great deal of attention to his surroundings, distracted by the newness of everything and the dizzying dreamlike feeling of having finally found Carol when he'd wondered, many times, if such a thing would ever happen.

He wasn't getting a great understanding of the ship tonight, either, and he didn't mind that one little bit.

As soon as she'd ushered him out into one of the seemingly abundant corridors—though, Daryl had to admit that, for all the attention he'd been paying, there might have only been one corridor that he kept travelling on his way from one location or another—Carol had stopped, turned to him, smiled, and met him with a kiss that had driven her to press her body against his and press his body against the wall.

He would have been content to spend the whole evening there, his arms holding her close to him, while they gave into the hungry desire to taste each other's mouths.

They didn't stay there the whole night. They did stay for some time, though, and they were both somewhat panting for breath when the kiss broke. Wordlessly, Carol moved her hand to touch Daryl's. He felt her fingers curl around his—cool and softer than his.

She tugged his hand and he followed her. He followed her to the sound of his breathing seeming to echo in his ears, along with the pounding of his heart. He followed her to the seemingly distant sound of laughter and conversation, and the sound of life happening around them.

He followed her to the busy murmur of thoughts in his head, running endlessly.

She had taken his hand like this before—several times. She had found a place for them—somewhere quiet and private—always different and always somehow seeming simply "good enough" once Daryl had seen the place with clear eyes that weren't practically clouded over with desire for her.

She had given herself to him a number of times before, never criticizing. She hadn't criticized the first time—his very first time—when he'd made an absolute mess of her practically the moment that his dick had even touched the warm, wet part of her that she'd offered him. She hadn't criticized the second time—not too many minutes, really, after the first—when she'd whispered to him praise and reassurance that everything was normal, and wonderful, and she wouldn't have it, or him, any other way.

She hadn't criticized the third time when, angry at the world around them, perhaps, he'd been positive that he'd accidentally hurt her, at least a little, though truly not intentionally, as he'd accepted her offer to use her for relief of his frustrations. She had lost, and so had he, and the world had always seemed to be cruel to both of them. Maybe it had been fitting that they hurt together—and she hadn't criticized when Daryl had wept for his accidental transgressions and had slipped away, refusing to even speak to her for a day in his shame.

Time and time again, it seemed, they'd come together in their own sort of fire and chaos. They'd crashed into each other. They'd clung to each other. And, every time, Daryl had left—running from feelings that felt too big to be handled.

Every time, Carol had forgiven him, sometimes making light of the situation in a way that made Daryl feel horrible, and other times meeting him with a soft, sweet absolution that made him feel just as bad.

"It was just sex," she would say, flippantly, when she wanted to make light of things. She seemed to forget that he could read her. He could hear the cracks in her voice as surely as he could see the cracks in the façade she created. "It doesn't mean anything, Daryl."

It was a reminder that too many times her body had been used in ways that she hadn't necessarily enjoyed. It was a reminder that her body had been used to hurt her mind and her heart. It was a reminder that she had used her own body, at times, as a means to an end.

Daryl wanted to do none of those things, but he understood that he sometimes did—despite his intentions.

Carol deserved for her body to be loved and worshipped—and that's what Daryl desperately wanted to do, when he wasn't being his own worst enemy.

"You enjoyed it, didn't you? So did I. You made me feel good…I wanted you to feel good, too," she'd say, other times, in the sweet voice that always seemed to calm Daryl, on the one hand, while still managing to make his stomach hurt, on the other. He knew that he was to blame for many of his feelings, and for many of the after-effects of those times together, when he found himself alone because he'd run away from her, but he'd always felt helpless against himself.

He left her bed the morning that he'd last left her alone—the day she'd refused to come with him, but he'd left her anyway—and his own words had haunted him since then.

"You know I gotta go."

The worst damn part of it was, she did know. Even when he asked her to stay with him, in the past, she knew—she knew. She knew the staying always came with unspoken limitations. Stay—stay close to me—but know that I will always go just far enough away from you to feel like I won't get burned.

In reality, he'd been burning for her for years—practically since he'd first seen her.

"It's different," he said, the next time she pressed him against the wall in a tight little room, both of them swallowed up in darkness. "It's gonna be different," he breathed out with what breath he could manage to catch after another round of kissing.

"I know," she responded.

"Mean it this time."

"I know."

"Please know…please know I'm tellin' the truth. I love you. I meant it, Carol."

Laughter—sweet, tinkling laughter. It made him feel desperate for her. She pulled away from him. A light came on—a lamp that offered just enough light, but certainly not too much. The room was small and cramped. It felt like a nest. He felt an aching appreciation for the room and his thoughts. He wanted a nest. He wanted a nest with Carol.

"I know you meant it," Carol said. "I meant it, too."

"I'm never leavin' you again," Daryl said. "Never. Not for any damn reason. I don't care about a damned thing else, Carol, except that…I ain't leavin' you. But—don't you never leave me, either. You understand? I don't leave you, and you don't…you don't leave me."

"I sailed across the sea for you, Daryl," Carol said, starting to unbutton the shirt she was wearing and smiling at him in a way that made his throat ache. "I'm not letting your ass go again." She laughed quietly.

"What?" Daryl asked, prompting her to explain her laughter.

"You know what the worst damn thing is, Daryl?" Carol said, taking off her shirt, and moving to untie the string that was attached to her pants. "No matter how many times you've asked me to stay, it's always been you that…that ended up leaving first. Off to save the world…and I was just supposed to stay and wait until you came back to me."

"You've done your share of running," Daryl said.

Carol hummed, knowing that she couldn't refuse the truth of what he'd said. They were both guilty, in their own way and in their own time.

"There aren't a lot of places to run on a ship, Daryl—out at sea," Carol said.

"Lookin' forward to it," Daryl said. "I mean it. We'll rehash the past for the rest of our lives, if it'll make you happy, but…I ain't leavin' again."

"I don't want to talk about the past," Carol said. "Hurts too much, and it's done anyway. There's no changing the past. But—I'm here, and you're here…and neither of us is going anywhere else."

Daryl heard an uptick in her voice. He saw the rise of her eyebrow. He understood—not that she was playing coy in any way. He started to shuck his own clothing, understanding that there was no need for a more explicit invitation to do so. She watched him, even as she lost everything she had left to take off.

Her body was beautiful to Daryl.

It was marked in so many different ways—but it was a map to who she was and how she got to where she was. Daryl hated that so much of life had hurt her—that he had hurt her—but he was happy that it had gotten her to where she was, because now she was here, soon to be in his arms, and she would stay that way forever.

"Past hurts," he agreed. "But—I'ma spend the rest of my life tryin' to keep you from bein' hurt again, Carol. Might not be any damn good at it, but…I'ma try."

"I can appreciate good intentions," Carol offered. She held her arms out, and Daryl came to her. He wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her again, feeling her body pressed against his. She laughed at him as one of their kisses broke. "Mmm…somebody missed me a lot," she teased. Although he felt his face grow warm, he appreciated the teasing. It helped him relax, and she knew that. She knew him—and he knew her.

"Both of us…wanna make you feel good," he said, his face burning a bit warmer. He wasn't good at that kind of talk, and it always felt embarrassing to him, but she liked it, and so he'd do his best to do it for her—at least a little.

"We'd better hurry, then," Carol teased. She winked at him. "It's been a while, after all…and I know how he gets when he's anxious."

Daryl laughed.

"Asshole," he whispered in her ear. He felt her shiver, and he tightened his hold on her slightly. "It's OK. Neither one of us is goin' anywhere, so…we got time."

"We've got time," Carol agreed. "But—just the same, let's not waste anymore of it."

111

Daryl laid in the bed, absolutely spent but more relaxed and calmer than he could ever truly recall being. The room was small and cramped, but he didn't feel claustrophobic at all. He felt safe and content. He was there with Carol, and there he would remain. And, when life took them somewhere else, at least he knew they would go together.

He wasn't running. He wasn't even leaving the bed. They had little need to go far, at any rate, since any business they had to take care of would involve the bucket in the room, as Carol had shown him on a quick tour of their nest, which took place as soon as the desire to use the bucket had come upon her. They had, at least, enjoyed a few minutes of lounging the proverbial afterglow—something that Daryl had often denied them, in the past, in his urgency to try to outrun his own feelings.

Now, he was enjoying his feelings—and he let them come and go as they pleased.

He was enjoying, too, the easy feeling of being there, at the moment. It was easy to imagine that this could be awkward—every last bit of it—but it wasn't.

Beside the bed, Carol stood naked and poured water into a bowl. He watched her dip a cloth into it and begin to clean the evidence of what they'd done from her thighs.

"Everybody empties their own buckets?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed at the question and hummed.

"Each person's bucket is their responsibility," Carol said. "Unless—someone is really sick or injured, of course. It's one of the first rules that Máible explains to you when you're given a place to sleep—and a bucket."

"Didn't say shit to me," Daryl said.

"I think she knew where you'd be sleeping," Carol said. "And that I would handle all the…grittier details."

"This boat's pretty damn big. How many beds on this ship?" Daryl asked, accepting the rinsed rag from Carol so that he could clean himself.

"A lot," Carol said. "The man who owned it wanted to run something of a private touring company. He had ideas that he'd create something like a…I don't know…a pirate escape or something. A different kind of cruise experience, I guess. Something more intimate. From what Máible says, he and his wife were going to start the business together. They designed the ship, built it, and then she died. A couple of the rooms are private, but most have been converted into bunks that people share, and there are crew quarters, too, that are extra…close."

"How'd you get private quarters?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled.

"I'm in good with the boss," she teased. She offered no further explanation, and Daryl didn't press for it. The fact of the matter was it didn't matter to him. It seemed to work out well enough, and nobody appeared to really be complaining, so that was good enough for him.

"Are you going to watch me the whole time?" Carol asked, starting to dress again. "Or are you getting dressed?"

"We had somewhere to be?" Daryl asked. "Hell—whole damn place got quiet a while ago. I figure…every damn body either left or went to bed."

"They are probably in bed, or…this is the time of night when everyone kind of…finds something quiet to do," Carol said, putting on the bra she'd discarded. "But, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. I'd like my plate."

Daryl laughed and sat up.

"Yeah, OK," he said, reaching for his own clothes. "You got a point." He laughed to himself as a thought flitted across his mind when Carol moved and reached over him, going for the shirt that she'd tossed aside somewhat haphazardly.

"What?" She asked.

"Been watching everything," Daryl said. "Tryin' to figure out for myself if everything was on the up and up, you know? Not that I don't trust you, but…just like to see for myself."

"And what did you decide?" Carol asked, pausing in her dressing.

"Shit here looks a lot fairer than in most any other group that I've been in," Daryl said. "Lotta shit's comin' onto this boat, and I get the feelin' from all that's still left to go out, that a lot more's comin' in. But I don't get the feelin' that your captain is keepin' all the shit for herself."

Carol laughed quietly and shrugged.

"No," she said. "Not at all."

"That's good," Daryl said. He pulled his shirt on, but paused before buttoning it, running his hand through his hair. "Hell—least I know she's feedin' your ass."

Carol pulled her shirt on, but she stopped, no more buttoning hers than Daryl had his.

"What does that mean?" She asked.

"Just—hell—you know how it's been in the past," Daryl said. "Barely enough to go around. And admit it, you've always cut corners. Give food out your own damn mouth for everyone else. Been worse when…there were people that felt like they were more entitled to shit than those they figured weren't as deserving." He shrugged. "Just mean to say—it's clear you're eatin' here. She ain't holdin' out on you."

Immediately, Daryl's stomach clenched. He knew he'd said more than he should have. As his brother would have once joked, he had the distinct taste of foot in his mouth.

He swallowed, not sure how to back out of the spot into which he'd put himself.

"Are you—saying I'm fat, Daryl?" Carol asked, starting to button her shirt.

His heart pounded in his chest.

"No," he said. "I ain't sayin' that."

"Just that—I eat a lot," Carol said. He heard the challenge. Hell—he felt it.

"No—didn't say that," Daryl said. He gathered up the courage and the determination to back himself out of the hole. "Hell—much as you've skipped meals over the years, Carol…you couldn't never be fat…but if you were…I mean…you ain't but…" He stopped. She was buttoning her shirt. She was steady and there was a smirk on her lips—the slightest hint of it. He wasn't sure if it made him feel better or terrified him even more. He didn't dare to button his own shirt, lest she see that his fingers would, very likely, tremble. "You ain't fat," he said, finally and definitively. "Only—you look…healthy."

"Healthy," Carol said. She looked at him.

"Healthy," he said, deciding he liked that word best. He nodded to confirm that he'd chosen the best word that he could.

She laughed. He tensed slightly, but then he relaxed. She didn't look angry. She looked genuinely amused.

"I hope to hell I'm healthy, Daryl," Carol said. "In fact—I've been praying about it every day. Morning and night. Because—I'm also pregnant."