AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

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

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Daryl didn't know old Agnes Wheeler was, exactly, but he guessed that she was somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred years old. In appearance, she had the look of an apple doll, and her body was rail thin. Her skin and clothing hung off her like age had simply worn the stuffing out of her. Agnes Wheeler was one of the happiest people that Daryl knew, though, and she got around well despite her age. She lived on her own and, by her own admission, had no close family to speak of. Her husband—George—had passed away many years before, and they'd never had any children. Everyone she was related to lived scattered across various distant states. In some ways, Daryl found her mind to be quite sharp, but in others, he could notice a pretty obvious decline with the passing of time.

Daryl liked Agnes Wheeler, who had long ago requested that Daryl simply call her Agnes, and he was good at tolerating how chatty she was when it bothered others. She would talk the ears off corn, as the saying went, but it was a habit to which she readily confessed. Daryl assumed that she was simply lonely, and it didn't bother him to wander through her house fixing things and tightening screws while she told him stories about her life—be they true or otherwise.

Agnes wasn't originally from Living Springs, though her cadence and drawl didn't exactly mark her as someone who was completely foreign to the southern United States. Agnes had actually been born in South Dakota and she claimed to have met the famous Dora DuFran, in Deadwood no less, before the woman's demise. Agnes had come to Georgia with her husband, who was transferred through his work with a mill, and they'd settled in Living Springs after his retirement.

She lived in a nice little house that had been built in the early forties and, although she kept it in good shape, really, there was frequently a need for a quick visit from a handyman—especially since George had passed away. Agnes was the only client that Daryl would regularly work for, after hours, without charging her after-hours fees. She had his personal number, and that wasn't something that Daryl handed out too readily.

"You can just give it to me straight, Daryl," Agnes said, hovering close enough that she could practically have stepped on Daryl's legs. He eased his way out of the awkward position where he was stuck with his head in her bathroom cabinet. "I can take it."

"I just about got this fixed enough to hold you," Daryl said. "A couple more minutes and it'll get you through until after lunch, no problem. I can run down, after I eat, and pick up the supplies at the hardware store to stop the leak."

"And that's it?" She asked.

Daryl knew what she was asking. He chewed his lip. He was straightforward with everyone he got assigned to do a job for, and Agnes was no exception.

"Worst part ain't the leak," Daryl said. "It's the damage the leak's already done down here."

"I knew everything in that cabinet kept feelin' damp," she mused.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"More'n feelin' damp, Agnes, I got a good feeling that your stuff was gettin' soaked," Daryl said. "But—it's up to you if you just want me to fix the pipe, or if you want me to try an' fix the inside of the cabinet, too."

"Can you do that?"

"I can do minor construction," Daryl said. "But there are people that are better at it than I am, I'm sure. It's what they do for a living. Nothing but construction. For me it's just a—side trade."

Agnes smiled widely and then she narrowed her eyes at him.

"A jack of all trades," she teased. Daryl laughed to himself and nodded.

"But a master of none," Daryl finished. "I can give you some numbers. People I'd recommend. You decide what you want to do. You ain't gonna hurt my feelings, Agnes. Neither way."

"I just want you to fix it," Agnes said.

"You sure? I mean—you can think about it," Daryl said.

"I don't want someone else bumpin' around in my house," Agnes said. "You just fix it."

Daryl laughed to himself at the woman's clear distaste over the thought of having someone else come out and fix her problems. That distaste was one reason that Daryl was regularly there. He knew that, for a while, Tyreese had tried to give her jobs to others, but she had simply taken to telling Tyreese, right off the bat, what she expected for her money—and she expected to choose who she wanted to do her service. After a while, Tyreese hadn't even tried to redirect things.

"I'ma wrap this up," Daryl said. "Get you through so it don't cause no more damage. After lunch, I'ma go to the store. Get what I need to fix this. Then I'll figure out what I need to fix the cabinet and check with Ty about workin' my schedule around to get this cabinet done soon as I can."

"You take your time," Agnes called as she walked off to do something else within the house. "It's been leakin' for some time, and I didn't see fit to think of it as urgent before. I don't suppose the floor'll fall through in a day or two."

Daryl snorted as he swallowed back his amusement at the old woman's assessment of things—her voice fading, as she spoke, thanks the distance she put between them. He ducked back under the cabinet and finished jerry-rigging the sink so that the leak wouldn't cause anymore damage in the meantime. It wasn't perfect, but it was just about as perfect as a temporary fix ever got.

Daryl texted Tyreese before he even left the bathroom floor to ask him if he could start shifting his schedule around and passing some hours and jobs off to others. Daryl was already late for lunch and the job for Agnes, as he told Tyreese, was a lot a bigger than one of the minor knob-tightenings that Daryl had imagined it might be.

When Daryl left the bathroom, he found Agnes in the kitchen. She was holding a plastic sandwich baggie full of cookies in her skinny hand—which almost appeared to be some kind of talon thanks to the fact that it was practically nothing but bone—and she was clearly waiting on Daryl.

He smiled at her to mirror the smile that she wore on her face.

"You ain't gotta feed me," Daryl said. "I'ma go get somethin' to eat now. I'll be back in about an hour—hour and a half—to fix that pipe. I'm leavin' my toolbox here, if you don't mind." The request to leave his tools there was hypothetical. Agnes didn't care. She was the kind that had already given him a key to her house. He probably could have simply moved into one of her empty rooms, if such a thing had interested him.

"Here," Agnes said, forcing the cookies on Daryl. He tried to wave them away again, though they both already knew that he often gave up the game after a bit and took whatever treats Agnes had on offer. She smiled at him, narrowing her eyes. "They aren't for you. They're for your wife."

"My wife?" Daryl asked with a laugh, finally accepting the baggie. He figured that Agnes had gotten him confused—as she sometimes did, especially lately—with someone she'd known in what practically seemed to be a past life. She confused details about his life with those she got from cousins, nephews, distant relatives, and even, sometimes, with people from the soap operas she liked watching on television.

Agnes smiled broadly. She wagged her eyebrows at him and the bony hand that had held the baggie—cold despite the unusually warm temperatures that she tended to prefer in her home—wrapped around Daryl's arm.

"You didn't tell me she was so pretty," Agnes said.

"Agnes—what'cha talkin' about?" Daryl asked. "Where do you—think you've seen my wife?"

"I just come to the window to watch the birds," Agnes said. "You know I got two woodpeckers now that come to eat every day?"

"You alright?" Daryl asked, suddenly concerned that the woman might be suffering from some kind of episode. Her smile renewed, but it was softer.

"She's waiting on you," Agnes said. "Probably because I kept you late for lunch with my silly leak. You better go on, Daryl. The leak'll keep."

Agnes practically pushed Daryl out the door, baggie of cookies in hand, and Daryl was shaking his head to himself at her antics as he stepped out the door and fished in his pocket for his keys. He looked up, practically blinded by the sun, to see that he wasn't alone. Only his truck was parked in Agnes' driveway, given that she parked her old car in the garage, but there was a small SUV on the curb that wasn't normally parked there.

Leaning against the vehicle—as beautiful as if she'd been posing for a picture in a magazine—was Carol.

Daryl couldn't help but smile.

"What are you doin' here?" He asked, steering his steps away from his truck and toward Carol's vehicle. She took a bag that was sitting on her hood and started toward him. She was smiling broadly, and it made Daryl's heart pick up its rhythm.

"Does that mean I shouldn't have come?" Carol asked. "I debated with myself all morning."

"No—I mean…I just…wasn't expectin' to see you here," Daryl said.

As they reached each other, Daryl could see the anxiety on Carol's features. She hid it well, but it was evident around her eyes.

"It's Wednesday," Carol said. "And—I just wanted to surprise you with lunch." She offered him the bag and he took it before he could really fully digest what she'd said. "I stopped by the office. I thought you might be there. Tyreese gave me this address, and…Oh, God…I shouldn't have done this, should I?"

For a second, Daryl digested everything, but then he smiled and tried to relieve a little of Carol's concerns.

"You didn't commit a mass murder, Carol," he said. "You just—brought me lunch. And—I appreciate that. More'n you know."

She blushed. Either that, or she was getting sunburned from having stood outside Agnes' home and waited on him.

"You mean that?"

Daryl hummed and nodded.

"You gonna—eat with me?" Daryl asked. Carol checked her wrist. She frowned at him.

"I can't," she said. "It's already twenty after. I left at a quarter 'til. I told Jacqui I'd be back in time to help with the rush—we're usually crazy from twelve thirty to one. I'm sorry!"

Daryl swallowed down his disappointment. He was surprised at how sharply he felt it. He hadn't even expected to see Carol in the middle of the day, and now he felt like he'd swallowed a lead weight at the sheer thought that she really needed to get back to her job for one of her day's biggest rushes.

Daryl pushed his irrational sadness aside and forced a smile to relieve Carol's concern.

"Hey—it's good," he said. "It's OK. You didn't have to wait out here all this time. You coulda left."

"I wanted to give you lunch," Carol said. "I wanted to see you. I thought—we'd have a few minutes but…"

"But I'm late," Daryl said, nodding his understanding. "And that's on me, OK? It ain't on you. I wish I wouldn'ta been late, but…I appreciate the lunch."

"It's a wrap," Carol said. "A Greek chicken wrap. Sort of. They're pretty popular. Plain chips because I didn't know what you'd like and a slice of apple pie." She glanced at his hand. "Though I see you already have cookies."

Daryl cleared his throat.

"Those are for you, actually," Daryl said.

"For me?"

"For—uh—my wife," Daryl said. Carol raised an eyebrow at him. Daryl laughed to himself. "I swear—Agnes saw you out here and jumped to her own conclusions. That's all it is. Here—take 'em. They pretty good."

"You keep them," Carol said.

"You don't eat cookies?" Daryl asked.

"Everyone eats cookies," Carol said.

"Then take 'em and eat 'em," Daryl said. "Closest we get to lunch today is—swappin' lunch. It ain't much of a trade, but it's all I got on me. Besides—I bet you Agnes is watchin' us right now to make sure I give you these cookies."

Carol smiled to herself and took the baggie of cookies.

"Are you—busy tonight?" Carol asked.

Daryl's heart drummed hard in his chest.

"You askin' me not to be?" He asked.

He could see her chest moving at a faster pace than it normally did.

"I could make something," Carol offered.

"You askin' me to come over?" Daryl asked.

"If you didn't—have any other plans," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself and quickly swallowed it back.

"I can think of a lot of ways to pass an evening," Daryl said. "In the past couple days—hell, I've even googled a few. Just gettin' ideas for like—you know—if I was tryin' to think of ways to spend an evenin'. Are you askin' me to spend this one with you, Carol?"

She hesitated a moment and stared at him. He stared back at her, making it clear that he wasn't going to budge on this one.

"Will you come over?" Carol asked, the words coming out in a burst like she'd snatched off a particularly painful Band-Aid and was dealing with the smart that followed.

"That hurt a lot?" Daryl asked with a laugh.

"Asshole," Carol said, laughing to herself. It was clearly nervous laughter. Almost immediately, though, her breathing seemed to start slowing down.

"I am," Daryl said. "The dough's set, though, so I don't think that's liable to change. Up to you to decide if—you can tolerate it."

"I've got to get back to the café," Carol said. "So—yes or no, Daryl?"

Daryl raised his eyebrows at her.

"Wow—ask me to come over once, and then you get down right demanding," he teased. Quickly, though, he stopped teasing. He didn't want to push her too much, too fast. "Off at five. Gotta shower. Six?"

"Are you—allergic to shellfish?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head. She nodded.

"OK," she said with a smile. "OK—then I'll…have something nice. At six."

"And I'll think about…how we can pass an evening," Daryl offered.

Carol stepped awkwardly toward him in the lawn, closing the last little bit of space between them, and Daryl's pulse picked up again when he realized what she wanted—what she was seeking. She accepted the kiss, barely more than a peck, and gave Daryl a smile in exchange for it.

He tossed thanks at her, again, for the lunch as she turned and walked quickly back to her vehicle. She had turned her car around, and had turned at the stop sign, before Daryl was buckled into his truck.

And he didn't miss the fact that, even though he was going to see her at six, the involuntary ache in his stomach let him know that he already hated to see her leave.