AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

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

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Daryl knew that he was taking a chance, but the old adage of "nothing ventured, nothing gained," continued to circle around in his mind. He knew where she lived now. When he'd left her house, the one time he'd been there, he'd been too drunk to remember where she lived exactly. With the dinner date set for Friday, though, he'd already asked for her address, and he'd already entered it into the notes on his phone so that he would be able to find it.

It was Wednesday night, and there was a good chance that she'd tell him to go to hell, but Daryl parked in front of the curb in front of her house.

He vaguely remembered it. Somewhere he had some blinking, staticky remembrance of stumbling down the little brick walkway to her door. He had some blurry recollection of kissing her against the heavy wooden door. He could remember her searching for her keys—almost seeming like another person entirely through the foggy glaze that coated his memories.

He was sober, tonight, and that was probably why his stomach was tight, his lungs were pulling in less air than they normally did, and his knees felt wobbly when he asked them to carry him up the brick walkway.

Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barked. Another dog responded. Someone yelled out the door to silence one of them. The sound of Daryl's truck door closing seemed to be the loudest noise he'd ever heard. He expected it to draw the attention of everyone in the whole neighborhood—maybe, even, someone would call the police for such a rude noise disturbance.

He realized, though, halfway down the brick walkway that had seemed to grow to be several miles long, that his anxiety had only heightened his senses and put every nerve on end. Stepping up the steps to the front door—behind which the house seemed to stand still and silent, with the glow of light behind white curtains giving the only indication that anyone was home and awake—Daryl paused a moment to breathe.

She could tell him to go to hell, especially if she didn't like surprises, but God he hoped she wouldn't.

Maybe Merle was right. Dixons didn't appeal to the lap cat variety—and Daryl felt sure that Carol, behind the wall she'd built for herself, was the lap cat variety. Merle, though sopped in negativity and guilt for sins he'd never actually committed, was usually right.

And maybe Daryl, like Merle, was simply made to be a stray—a scraggly, war-wounded, flea-bitten old Tom. But hell, if he didn't want to be a lap cat.

He gathered up his courage. He steeled himself—prepared to hear one thing, but hoping for another. He raised his hand, ignoring that he knew it shook slightly, and hoping she wouldn't notice—hoping the shake wouldn't travel to his voice—and he pushed the button. Inside he heard the shrill noise of the doorbell and he wished he hadn't pressed it. He wished he'd knocked. The harsh and unnatural sound of the doorbell seemed unwelcome. It seemed like a cruel way to break the sanctuary of silence that she'd created inside.

He didn't expect a "who's there?" as he heard the sound of her approach to the door from the inside. Instead, he stood back and offered a somewhat nervous smile to the peephole where he was sure she was examining him—and he was happy to know that she was doing such a thing. It was dangerous, after all, to simply open the door.

Daryl heard the sound of a deadbolt disengaging, and Carol opened the door. Instead of feeling insulted, he was happy to see the chain between them.

He couldn't help but smile at her furrowed brow.

"Daryl? What are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you, too," Daryl teased. He could see by her expression that she wasn't in a teasing mood, though. Perhaps showing up, unannounced, was a little too much for her. Daryl cleared his throat and fought against the growing uneasiness in his gut. "I was out—givin' Merle some space. Figured I might head down to the Dairy-O. Get an ice cream. Thought—you might want to…get some ice cream."

"It's the middle of the night," Carol offered.

"It ain't even eight," Daryl said with a laugh.

"It's late for ice cream," Carol said.

"That means you don't want none?" Daryl asked.

"I haven't eaten ice cream this late since…" Carol said, letting the thought trail. She sighed.

"All the more reason to go hog wild," Daryl said, his confidence growing as he heard the hitch in her voice—an audible catch in her argument. "Throw caution to the wind. It's just ice cream."

Carol held a finger up, asking him to wait, and she closed the door. He heard the chain slide off. She opened the door again, wide this time.

Daryl's heart drummed in his chest to see her. She was beautiful. She was beyond beautiful. And she was even more beautiful than she normally seemed with the soft light of a few lamps in the otherwise darkened house creating a warm backdrop behind her.

Her silver hair stuck out in odd directions—clearly left to do what it wished after being washed. She was wearing a white nightgown that looked soft, and Daryl flicked his eyes away when he realized they were looking at how it hugged on her clearly bra-less breasts. The white fabric fell just halfway down her milky thighs, and Daryl was almost ashamed to meet her eyes again when his had settled on her bare feet and he realized that he hadn't been at all discreet—which he'd meant to be—with his exploration of her body.

Something of a light smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth when he dared to look at her, and his face burned fire-hot in response. He smirked back at her, hoping to draw attention away from his accidental blunder.

"Just ice cream," Daryl offered.

"I'm a woman," Carol said. The comment struck Daryl, hard, and he couldn't help but laugh. He shook his head, even before speaking, because he already knew that he shouldn't say what he dared to say.

"Sorry for sayin' it, but…shit, don't I know that?"

"At my age? Daryl—ice cream at this hour sticks. It goes straight to fat."

"I don't think you've got anything to worry about," Daryl offered. "If—I'm allowed to say that." Carol's expression changed—either she wasn't sure if he was allowed to say that or not, or she hadn't considered it before. Daryl's stomach churned. It was uncomfortable not having an answer, and he wanted one—one way or another. "It's just an ice cream, but if you don't want to, that's cool, too. I can eat ice cream by myself. I've done it before."

"Give me time to change?" Carol asked after a second.

"All the time you want," Daryl offered.

"Come in," Carol urged, ushering him inside. "Do you mind—blowing out the candles? While I change?"

Daryl looked around the house. He didn't really recall it, though there were pieces of it that felt familiar—lingering bits that his mind had held onto despite his intoxication. Carol's house was warm—temperature-wise, but also simply in the way that it seemed to wrap around him and welcome him inside. It wasn't one of those perfect houses where Daryl might have been afraid to touch anything because he'd fear messing something up. Instead, everything seemed perfectly placed for comfort. He could imagine himself, without hesitation, sinking down into the couch, which looked soft and comfortable, for a nap.

Daryl blew out the candles on the coffee table and noticed the book that was flipped over, open. He smiled to himself. It was clearly one of those cheesy porn-type novels.

"I guess I'm ready," Carol called coming back from her bedroom.

"I didn't interrupt your reading, did I?" Daryl asked. He turned to take her in. She was casual—and he appreciated how casual she actually looked. She looked like she was at ease, and that made his stomach respond in a much more positive way than it had when he'd been waiting for some type of response from her. She had slipped into clearly well-worn jeans and a simple button-down shirt that was slightly over-sized for her small frame. She'd slipped her bare feet into sneakers. She hadn't bothered to do anything to her hair and, from what Daryl could tell, she wasn't wearing any make up.

He couldn't imagine a more beautiful ice cream date.

"I read every night," Carol offered.

"Me too," Daryl said. "Now. If you got them books for me—I could take them, too."

Carol smiled to herself.

"As a matter of fact," she said. She finished that statement by stepping toward her dining table. There was a small stack of books waiting there, and she offered them over to Daryl when she walked back toward him. He flipped through the stack quickly.

"Anywhere I oughta start?" He asked.

"I like them all," Carol said.

"Then I'll just pick one," he said. "You ready?"

She nodded, and she let Daryl lead the way out of the house. He waited for her to lock the door, and he offered her an arm to walk down the little brick pathway that wasn't nearly as long as it had been on the trip to the door. She smiled to herself when he opened the truck door for her, and he thought he could practically smell her anxiety. He took note of the fact that she was nervous. It was good to know, he decided—nervous animals, and Daryl was a firm believer in remembering that people were simply animals with opposable thumbs and some possibly advanced reasoning skills, sometimes acted in ways they wouldn't otherwise act. They had to be forgiven, sometimes, for things beyond their control.

Daryl gave Carol space with the silence in the cab of the truck while they drove for a bit. The Dairy-O was on the opposite side of Living Springs from Carol's house. While Daryl drove, he rolled down the window and took out his cigarettes.

"You care?" He asked.

"No," Carol said, pulling her eyes from staring straight ahead only long enough to see to what he was gesturing.

"You want?" He asked, shaking the pack at her.

She sighed and reached for one.

"Yeah," she said. "Actually—I do."

"You smoke much? Don't matter, just askin', really," Daryl said as she took one.

"I don't with any—regularity, I guess. I guess it's better to say that I don't feel really like I have to smoke. But I have one now and again."

"I feel like I have to," Daryl said with a laugh. He flicked the lighter and offered it in her direction. She accepted the light before she rolled down her own window. He didn't light his immediately. And when he flicked his eyes in her direction, he saw that she was staring hard out the windshield once more. Her anxiety was palpable, and she was smoking to relieve it.

Daryl waited a second, and decided to try to throw her a bone to help distract her from whatever worst-case scenario she might be stewing over in her mind.

"I'm nosy," he said. "But—what are you thinking? What do you want?"

Carol hummed to herself. There was a sigh, as well. Daryl bit the inside of his cheek. The decision-making process could be difficult, he knew. He didn't want to laugh at her—no matter what—because he didn't want to accidentally make her uncomfortable about anything.

"That's a hard question," Carol said after a long hesitation. Daryl hummed at her, leaving her to finish as she felt was best. She sighed again. "If I'm being honest? I want a lot—and, maybe, the problem is that I've always wanted too much. That's really probably especially true, now." Daryl's stomach tightened. He was pretty sure his question had been misinterpreted. But Carol was working through something, and he wasn't going to interrupt that. He quickly lit the cigarette he'd been holding between his lips, decided to take a slightly longer way to the Dairy-O than was necessary, and slid the pack of cigarettes and lighter closer to Carol—just in case. "It's not one of those things that you want to say, you know? Because it feels reasonable but—when you say it? It's a lot. And it's a lot of pressure, and I don't mean for it to be pressure." Daryl hummed at her. Just barely. Just enough to reassure her that he was there and listening.

"Just a thought," he added quietly, practically whispering it. He wanted to urge her on, but he didn't want to speak enough to interrupt the stream of thoughts.

"I never wanted more than I thought everyone else wanted," Carol said. "A job—a good job. That I enjoyed. I don't want to be rich, but I don't want to worry all the time, you know?" Daryl barely hummed. "Enough to—be secure. Especially—as I'm getting older. I wanted a husband. I wanted to get married—I thought…I'd be a certain kind of wife." She laughed insincerely to herself. "I was the wrong kind of wife. Bad at it. Or, maybe, I picked the wrong kind of husband for what I wanted. I wanted children. A family. A whole life." She stopped. Hesitated. A few beats of silence fell between them. "Shit—I'm sorry. It's too much to even say that. I guess…now? I just want peace. I want—to salvage whatever there is to salvage, with whatever time there is left. As depressing as that sounds. But, I guess, more than anything? I want peace."

Daryl's heart thundered hard in his chest. He thought his palms might be sweating slightly. The one gripping the steering wheel seemed to slip a little. The hand holding the cigarette trembled, and he could only pretend that it was from low blood sugar or having waited too long between cigarettes.

"Say something?" Carol said. "It's too much, and I shouldn't have…said it."

"I was—askin' about ice cream, really," Daryl said. "Meant—did you want a Buddy bar, or soft-serve, or even a banana split?"

"Oh God! I'm so embarrassed!" Carol declared. Daryl could hear in her voice there was no put-on dramatics. She'd been stewing on everything she'd said. She'd blurted it out like a confession. It had taken a great deal of bravery, on her part, to share something that intimate with him—especially when she required him dragging everything out of her. She was truly embarrassed and it made her voice shake. That made Daryl's heart squeeze.

He finished his cigarette, flicked it out the window, and switched hands on the wheel so that he could reach a hand out and gingerly touch her shoulder.

"Nothin' to be embarrassed about," he said. "I'm happy to hear—whatever you got to say. Really. Any time."

"You didn't want to know all that," Carol said. "It's overwhelming."

"I wanna know everything," Daryl said. "And I'm not overwhelmed. But—since I can tell you're feelin' a little overwhelmed…why don't you just tell me…you know…if you want a banana split or somethin'?"

Carol laughed quietly to herself. Daryl felt her shoulder shake under his hand. It was welcomed since he'd feared she might actually shed a couple of tears. He squeezed her shoulder again before dropping his hand. He didn't want to take too many liberties and make her uncomfortable.

"I haven't had a banana split since I was in high school," Carol mused.

"All the more reason to have one tonight," Daryl said.

"Do you know how many calories are in a banana split?" Carol asked.

"No," Daryl said. "And I don't care, neither. Calories don't count when you're in high school no way."

"And I'm hardly in high school anymore," Carol said. "Neither are you, for that matter."

Daryl swallowed against the churning in his own gut. Her anxiety filled up the truck. There wasn't much room for his and he didn't want the two competing for space. He stilled his mind a moment. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"I've missed out on—on a lot of shit in my life. Sounds like—like maybe you have too. If either of us…maybe…if you want to and if this lasts, you know, long enough for all that shit to happen…if either of us wants to recover any of that? Well, it seems like we gotta start somewhere. Might as well start—with a high school banana split at the Dairy-O."

"A lifetime is a lot to recover," Carol mused.

"Let's just start with the banana split," Daryl offered. "What'cha say, Carol? I didn't hardly date in high school. Sure as shit didn't date—shit—didn't date someone like you. Will you have a banana split with me at the Dairy-O? Calorie-free, and all, of course."

The sound that escaped Carol's lips wasn't exactly a sigh, but it was somewhere in the same family. A hand drifted over the middle of the seat—over the stack of books that Daryl had rested there to peruse at his leisure—and long, cool fingers found his hand and wrapped around it. Daryl smiled to himself and squeezed Carol's fingers, somewhat surprised at how much he appreciated the simple gesture. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers when she didn't tug her hand back immediately, and he chose the route that, at this point, would take them almost directly to the Dairy-O, no longer feeling that he needed to pick a meandering route to buy time.

"I'd like to have a banana split with you, Daryl," Carol offered. "Calorie-free, of course."

Daryl laughed to himself. They'd work on the rest—but an impromptu banana split would do for now.