AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Daryl made note that, at the top of the Lenora To-Do list, he was going to add buying Carol some clothes. The ones he found in the attic were very outdated, to say the least. The best thing she had going for her, clearly, in the clothing department was that it was obvious that she had never had a taste for fancy clothes—or her husband had never bought her fancy clothes, whatever the case may be. Fashion aside, though, there was the very real problem that the clothing, haven been stored poorly and for so long in the attic, was practically disintegrating. Daryl picked out what pieces had the most integrity that he could find, but he wasn't certain that most of it wouldn't simply fall apart as soon as Carol tried to actually wear it. In short, he felt like what he had to offer her from her own stores of clothing was really less useful to her than the blanket she was currently wearing.

A paltry offering of clothing tucked under his arm; Daryl returned to the kitchen. It smelled of smoke and the burned remnants of whatever it was that Lenora had used to pull Carol through the veil of time and space. It was dark, and Daryl still didn't feel daring enough to open the window. He had no reason for this feeling. Anyone who peeked in would, honestly, see all the candles and assume his probably faulty electricity had failed him for a while.

He lit a couple of candles, instead, and lit a cigarette for himself. With Carol's clothes waiting on the table, he did a quick half-ass cleaning of the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove to warm. He found the tea bags that he had, and he sat down to wait for the water to boil.

If what Lenora said was true, his soulmate was waiting upstairs—naked and wrapped in his blanket—for him to explain to her exactly what the hell was going on.

How was he going to explain to her that she'd been snatched back into life by the power, at least theoretically, of witchcraft and their undeniable connection? How could he explain to her that their souls were two pieces of the same whole and, as such, neither would ever rest without the other? How could he tell her that, even though neither of them might truly know it at the moment, they had theoretically been in love with one another since their creation?

Daryl needed a second cigarette and a reheated cup of that morning's coffee to even contemplate everything he had to say on a serious level.

He let the tea steep, grabbed a few packets of artificial sweetener, and rested a clean spoon on top of the pile of half-rotten clothes. He took his cigarettes and lighter with him when he gathered up the clothes and the tea, and mounted the steps.

It was difficult to recall the last time Daryl's stomach had felt so entirely knotted around itself. Each step seemed to twist his internal organs a little more. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he imagined everything inside of him would be reduced to a tight, little, tangled ball.

Daryl somehow survived the climb up the stairs. At the door to the bedroom, he cleared his throat, and tapped the bottom of the door with the toe of his shoe. His hands were full, and there was little else that he could do as far as knocking.

"Carol? I got some clothes for you. And some hot tea."

The door opened.

The woman who had earlier been nearly unable to stop screaming looked calm now, even though her eyes maintained signs of confusion and, perhaps, a little wild desperation. Daryl gave her the best sympathetic expression that he could.

"Can I come in? Put this down?"

Carol nodded and opened the door further. She had wound the blanket around herself so thoroughly, now, that it practically looked like it had been designed to be worn.

Daryl eased past her and put the tea down with the sweetener packets and spoon before he put his cigarettes to the side and offered her the clothing. Before he said anything else to her, he went straight to the wardrobe and rummaged through is own clothing. The best he could find was a pair of gray sweatpants he owned, which had a drawstring, a plain t-shirt, and a button-down flannel that didn't look too terribly ragged. He took those out, selected a pair of socks from his drawer, and a pair of boxers.

Blushing, he put those items on the bed. From his pocket, he produced a few safety pins Lenora had left scattered in the kitchen from her collection of odds and ends. He dropped those on the pile.

"Those are pins. For pinnin' things, you know? Your stuff is mostly rotted," Daryl said. "This ain't gonna fit you great, but you might can make it work just until Lenora gets back with the food an' shit. I'll send her out to get you some clothes."

Carol was watching him. She looked at her own threadbare clothes that she held, awkwardly, with one arm. The other was, clearly, still necessary to hold up the blanket that, though expertly wrapped around her, might still fall to the floor if she were to allow it to do so.

"Why are my clothes rotten?" She asked.

Daryl chewed his bottom lip.

"Best guess I got is because they've been in the attic," Daryl said. "And—they're somewhere prob'ly around a hundred…hundred and fifty years old."

Daryl had to give credit where credit was due. Carol didn't look nearly as horrified by that as he had expected. Instead, she simply nodded her head gently as if to say that she had suspected as such and appreciated his confirmation of the information.

"Where is your friend?" Carol asked.

"Buying groceries," Daryl said. "Food," he added. "She's comin' back."

"It's probably not proper for us to be alone," Carol suggested.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"I got all the feelin' in the world that not a damn soul is gonna give a shit what we're doin'," Daryl said.

Carol nodded her head again. She looked around the room.

"This is my room," she said. "But—it's not my room."

"I can put it back however you want it," Daryl offered. "Most of it was cleared out when I got here except the furniture and what little bit the realtor done before I bought the house."

"You bought the house," Carol said. It absolutely wasn't a question. It was simply an echoed statement. Daryl nodded. "From my husband," Carol said. It wasn't a question, either, given her tone, but Daryl decided to accept it as one.

"No," Daryl said. "He's—uh—long been gone. I bought it from the bank."

"They foreclosed?" Carol asked. "He was negligent?"

"Somethin' like that," Daryl said. "You don't—remember nothin' about what happened with your husband?"

"I remember a great deal about my husband, and my life with him," Carol said. "The problem is that I'm starting to doubt my memory entirely."

"I could see that," Daryl said. "Listen—I don't know how good your memory is or isn't. In fact, I don't even know for sure how your memory works right now." Carol furrowed her brow at him, and he lit a cigarette. "You smoke?" He asked. She shook her head and then half-shrugged her shoulders.

"I have," she said. "But—only in secret. It isn't proper, and my husband didn't approve."

"Yeah, well, he's dead," Daryl said. "And it's proper enough around here. Maybe even necessary—especially when Lenora gets back. Here." Carol accepted the cigarette, and Daryl lit it. She eyed the lighter, and he quickly tucked it into his pocket. He gestured toward the tea. "Drink that before it gets too cold. Them packets I put down is like sugar."

Carol nodded and prepared her tea. She thanked him for it as she tasted it.

"Are you going to tell me what's happening?" Carol asked.

"Best I can," Daryl said. "Maybe Lenora can shed some light on things…clarify 'em…when she gets back…"

"What you have to say will do," Carol said. "At least I'll understand something."

Daryl nodded his acceptance.

"You wanna—get dressed first?" He asked. Carol seemed to consider it, and then she nodded. Daryl told her he'd be right outside the bedroom. He let himself into the hallway and walked the short distance to the end of it. There was one of the windows that overlooked the street, and he opened it enough to let in some fresh air. Inhaling the smell of fresh air made him feel strange. It reminded him that this was real. The day was real. The world beyond these walls was real. The smell of the air was real, and it seeped in through the open window to wipe away some of the staleness that still hadn't been aired out of the old house.

The woman in his bedroom was, at least as far as he could tell, real. His stomach knotted as his heart did an odd little dance in his chest.

Daryl was unaware of how long, exactly, it took Carol to finish her dressing, but he turned when the bedroom door creaked open again. Carol ventured out of the room. She'd opted for his clothing, at least as far as he could see, and he was a little taken aback to see the woman from the painting—beautiful and delicate as she was—wearing his gray sweatpants as cinched as she could get them, with his t-shirt, flannel, and over-sized socks pulled over her feet to protect them of the cold she might find seeping through the hardwood floors.

By definition, it was probably the least attractive outfit that most people could imagine, but Daryl's body automatically stirred in response. He felt embarrassed growing hard at nothing more than the sight of Carol wearing his old clothes. He hoped his physical reaction wasn't visible to her. If she was worried about them being alone being improper, she'd certainly think that his erection, thought out of his control, was highly improper.

"Shit," he mumbled.

"Beg pardon?" She responded.

"Nothin'," Daryl said quickly, shaking his head. "You—uh—you need anything else before we like sit down and talk?"

"I could stand to powder my nose," Carol said.

"You mean you gotta use the bathroom?" Daryl asked. "You do that?" He corrected himself immediately. "You do that. Of course, you fuckin' do that…here…things have prob'ly changed. Come on."

He took her to one of the bathrooms that, he was certain, was part of the updating that had been done to the house to make it something desirable for someone to purchase. He walked her inside.

"I don't got a clue what you know or you don't," he said. "So, if I'm insultin' you, just forgive me. You gotta do your business here. There's paper. You push this and it all goes away. Sink here is for washin' hands and that soap smells good. I got it yesterday. There's a towel and…later I'll set you up to take a shower, OK?"

Wide-eyed, Carol simply agreed. He left her to do her business and paced the hallway while he waited. When she emerged, her cheeks were pink, and she looked nearly triumphant, as though she'd accomplished something at least borderline great.

"I hope you don't mind," she said. "I washed my face but…I don't have anything to make me look more presentable."

"You look real good to me," Daryl said. She looked surprised, and he felt his face run warm. "I meant to say—you look presentable," he corrected. "You look good. Pretty—but…you don't gotta worry about it…shit…" He held his hand up to her. "We'll get you whatever the hell you need. As soon as Lenora comes back, we'll make a list for her to go shoppin' or somethin'."

"Will you tell me what's going on?" Carol asked.

Daryl frowned at her.

"To be honest, I don't know where the hell to start, or how the hell to say it all," he admitted.

She gave him a sympathetic smile that was clearly meant to comfort him. He felt the irony of it burning in his gut. She was the one who had been through what was, probably, one hell of an ordeal, and she was going to try to comfort him over the struggle of trying to explain that ordeal to her.

"Let's start with—another cup of tea and…if it's not improper…another of those cigarettes?" Carol asked.

Daryl smiled, relieved.

"If you'll come with me to the kitchen, we can do that. I got coffee, too."

"I enjoy coffee," Carol assured him. "And then, maybe, you could…just begin at the beginning?"

"Sure," Daryl said, waving his hand to ask her to follow him—still too nervous to touch her, either because it might not be acceptable or because it might prove that, somehow, this wasn't real, and he wasn't ready to accept that. "Just give me a minute to figure out just where exactly the beginnin' might be." Carol followed him, padding around on sock feet. She was calm now, and her wide, beautiful, blue eyes showed curiosity and intrigue now more than genuine fear.

The look in those eyes made Daryl's insides squirm as much as anything had so far. Something inside of him made him wonder if, really, this was the beginning more than anything that had come before.