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In the end, the Governor ended things himself, by killing off almost everyone who had come with him to the prison, and then he disappeared. Andrea, captured by the Governor, had been bitten by a walker and had taken herself out, in the presence of Michonne. And the rest of Woodbury had come to the prison.
There had been a long period of adjustment as they all grew used to seeing each other as friends and companions rather than mortal enemies, but now the prison was flourishing. A true home.
Carol hummed as she worked, glad to be back to familiar tasks, to cooking and cleaning and laundry. She had also found herself a home in the prison library, which had been bolstered by books they had scavenged from surrounding schools. She was honored that she got to teach these young souls.
But it didn't take long for her to come back to reality. To realize that every day she spent cooking and cleaning was a day the rest of the world decayed a little bit further. To remember that clean laundry was a luxury they had paid for in blood. To look at the tiny innocent faces of her students and know that they were vulnerable the way that Sophia was, that being weak and innocent and easily scared in this world was not enough.
Their present peaceful existence was lovely … but it wasn't going to last, any more than their previous world had lasted. And if they weren't prepared, if they let themselves be lulled into false security, it would take them all down with it.
And that Carol was determined she would not let happen. They had come too far, fought too many battles, lost too many people, to lose again.
So she cooked, and she cleaned, and she taught, and she hummed … but she also trained. And exercised. And occasionally taught a few lessons that hadn't been sanctioned by the prison's executive council. Because the children had a right to know how to defend themselves, and not to be eaten alive by this new world the way Sophia had been.
Daryl tried to keep himself aloof from the new people as long as he could. For all that he had chosen the prison folks, for all that they were family—as good as blood; better maybe—he was still a Dixon, and Dixons were loners. They were people at home outside, in the woods, on their own. And with the way the world was, it was hard to look at all these newcomers and not see dead weight that was sure to drag them all down, somehow, some way.
But he couldn't keep that distance and still be with the people he loved. All the other prison-ites had taken to the newcomers with open arms, helping them clear out cell blocks and get back on their feet, making the prison safe and also comfortable. He couldn't help but do the same, be drawn into the new life beginning in the prison.
And somehow, slowly, people got to know him. To like him. To speak to him when they saw him. It was the first time in his life that he'd been around a large group of people and not felt the weight of their suspicious stares, known that they looked at him and wondered what he was about to steal, or if he was on drugs. These people appeared to … trust him, and that was a new feeling for Daryl, and not entirely comfortable.
Once the prison was as safe as they could make it, people kept straggling in. New people, searching for a place to stay, looking for stability and security and peace. Daryl and Rick and Michonne did most of the runs out hunting for supplies, combing through houses and schools and stores looking for whatever was left that was usable, and so the three of them ended up bringing in most of the refugees.
He walked through the outdoor eating area one day, hearing everyone call out greetings to him, responding to them in kind. It felt … weirdly normal, and that was disturbing on many levels.
Carol was cooking breakfast, and she smiled at him as he approached.
"Smells good," he said.
She smiled. "Just so you know, I liked you first."
He frowned at her. This flirtation thing they did was fun, but also dangerous. "Stop." But then he smiled, because she was his favorite person, the best family he'd ever had. "You know, Rick brought in a lot of them, too."
"Not recently." Rick had gotten domestic; spent most of his time farming and looking after the pigs they had rescued. "Give the stranger sanctuary, keeping people fed … you're going to have to learn to live with the love."
"Right." He wasn't sure he believed her—something in him was always waiting for other people to decide he was still a Dixon and he didn't belong here.
"I need you to see something," Carol told him. She called to a kid standing nearby to take over for her.
"Uh, Mr. Dixon?"
Startled at being called that, Daryl turned to the kid.
"I just wanted to thank you for bringing that deer back yesterday. It was a real treat, sir. And I'd be honored to shake your hand."
Moments like this felt like he was about wake up in his old house again, not sure if he'd had a dream or a nightmare. He licked his fingers, then shook the kid's hand. To give him credit, the kid didn't flinch. And Carol grinned.
She took him to see the walkers gathering at the outer walls. More and more of them all the time. A unit was out stabbing them in the head, but for every one they stabbed three more showed up, it looked like.
A reminder to both of them that the world was still the way it was, and it was still closing in on them. Peace, respect, safety … they were all temporary.