AN: Zehiiro on Tumblr asked me for an imagining of what might happen with the Caryl reunion. I was looking to get back into the mood for my Caryl writing, and I needed something to get that going. I didn't realize how much I would enjoy coming back here or how much like "home" it would feel like.

I have not watched Daryl Dixon, and I don't intend to watch it until Carol is back. I have "spot watched" a few things, but anything that I reference about it is, really, straight from imagination. That means that this is not going to go with canon at all, and I'm writing Laurent, but he's probably entirely OOC. My apologies.

This will be a couple of chapters, at least, but I'm going to see what happens before I determine exactly how many.

Before you even start to read, I know how some of you are because of the fandom behavior of some other writers in the past. I am not, and have never been, that writer, but I know that some of you are triggered by certain things. Out of respect for that, I would like to say that there is a female character in this chapter/fic, but she is NOT a threat to Caryl. I repeat…she is NOT a threat to Caryl. She is not even going to be kind of a maybe threat to Caryl. She's not a tool to make them jealous. This is not a trick, and I'm not going to surprise you. She is simply another female who has not succumbed to the Walkers and who is going to be part of the story. I enjoy writing female characters, and therefore I feel like I don't want to be limited to male characters just to make it clear that there's no threat to the ship that the story is about. I promise that she is not a threat. She's just a woman. I hope that I'm clear enough that everyone can relax.

I own nothing from The Walking Dead or any of the spin offs.

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

111

"Takes some getting used to…that's all…You never have to worry about me, Daryl."

"I'll tell you all about it when I see you. Just gathering up some fuel. I'll be there in about a week."

There were moments in Daryl's life that he relived a thousand times—a billion times—even more than that, but Daryl didn't like to waste time contemplating useless shit like how high numbers could go, when it wouldn't change a single thing.

There were words that he could practically draw up, just inside his ears, like recordings.

The last time he'd talked to Carol was one of those such moments that he played and replayed in his mind. Some nights, the thought of it helped him sleep. He remembered her voice—everything about it. He imagined her face as she said the words. He imagined the way her mouth moved. He couldn't see her even when she'd spoken, and her voice had been slightly distorted by the crackling of a radio reaching over all those miles, but he'd still felt like he was there with her.

If he closed his eyes, now, he felt like he was there with her.

Maybe, he dared to think from time to time, that's what love really was—a feeling that allowed you to always be with someone, even if you feared that you may never see them again.

He had told her once that he loved her.

Too little, too late. Wasn't that what the hell they said about things like that?

He wasn't even sure she believed him. At least, he wasn't sure that she realized that he meant it. He truly meant it. He meant it with every fiber of his being. He meant it like he'd never meant it before—not that he'd ever really been in the practice of using the words.

And it had been longer than a week since he'd talked to her.

Was she worried about him? Did she think he was dead? Or did she simply think that he'd just up and moved the fuck on, leaving her behind completely? That would make him just like his old man, and maybe she figured the proverbial apple didn't fall too far from the termite infested tree.

Daryl had been haunted—and haunted was the only way he could think to explain what he felt—by that last conversation since it happened. He felt haunted. He felt like he could hear things knocking around inside him. He could hear whispers of what he should have said—what he wished he had said. He could see vision of how things should have happened—what he would have done differently, if he only had the chance to go back and do things all over again.

Like a haunted house collapsing and falling in on itself after it had been abandoned to its fate, Daryl's body ached with regret and longing.

The conversation that he played over and over in his mind—focusing on Carol's voice and the nearness that he felt to her, when he thought about her saying those words—had a fifty-fifty chance of keeping Daryl up when he tried to sleep, tossing and turning and aching with regret, or lulling him off into a peaceful dreamworld where she was waiting for him.

No matter what, though, the morning always dawned with the same realization. She wasn't there, and he hadn't made it back to her.

But he was fucking trying.

And he would keep trying until the moment that he drew his last breath.

Nothing else mattered to Daryl quite like Carol mattered to Daryl, and it was only now that he fully realized how true that was—how true it had always been.

111

The best way to get back was to go to where the hell they were coming in and going out. That was what Daryl figured. It was a last-ditch effort, really. Every damn thing else seemed to just turn to a dead end—or an end with people who were more dangerous than the dead.

There were, Daryl had learned, several "ports of entry" where people went in and out of France on boats. They headed in different locations, but America wasn't an uncommon destination. He had learned enough—often leaving what might be called "informants" with a knife wound to remember him by, since they usually turned out to be people with "ulterior motives"—that human trafficking was a sport all its own in a world turned absolutely upside down.

Beyond that unsavory practice, it seemed there were some "sailors" or "pirates" who travelled from place to place with other motivations—adventure, profit, or whatever the hell else drove them.

All that Daryl cared about was a boat that would get him back to America and back to Carol.

In one of the few not-so-negative encounters that he'd had, Daryl learned there was a self-proclaimed "pirate" going by the theatrical name of "Captain Mables" who sailed their ship regularly between different ports of the United States—most often, Maine— and a small port town in France. Unlike the human traffickers who were known for transporting people for disgusting experiments or other such business of which Daryl could not approve, Captain Mables seemed to be one who dealt mostly in the "collection and distribution" of goods. However, this Captain Mables apparently accepted new crew members on a somewhat regular basis, and was happy to move those crew members from proverbial port to proverbial port in exchange for work and goods.

Daryl hoped that Captain Mables would be willing to accept one halfway-fucking handy redneck and his 12-year-old tag-along as crew, willing to work off their passage back to the states.

The worst damn thing that could happen, Daryl figured, was that they arrived to find that Captain Mables had just left—in which case the wait might be a while for the good captain to return.

Daryl had wasted so much damn time, that he was willing to wait however long it took to finally get back to Carol and tell her the truth—demand that she listen to it, all of it.

"Just dropped anchor." That was what the last person that Daryl had talked to had said—a person with an accent that, though it wasn't clearly identifiable to Daryl, who didn't think of himself as too much of a linguist, had to come from some Southern state—when he'd discerned that they were approachable enough to ask for information. "Captain Mables' got a good tendency to stay a while—week or two at least. Gotta unload and all."

Daryl didn't know what exactly Captain Mables liked as cargo, but he'd at least learned it was goods and not people. He wasn't about to blame the man for whatever way he'd found to make some kind of life out of the shitshow that surrounded them. Hauling whatever the hell he was hauling wasn't costing possibly innocent lives, so Daryl was happy to heft a few crates of shit to earn his keep and get back across the ocean to Carol.

Daryl had thanked the man, and he'd booked it as fast as he could to the place where he was sure to find the ship of this Captain Mables.

It wasn't hard to find the place. It was right where Dary was told it would be. It was a small port town with a lot of buildings and apartments that might've been even picturesque once upon a time. The shit here was built to last in a way that it hadn't always been over in the states, and most of the places still stood just fine, looking ready to stand the test of time, despite the fact that everything had probably been pretty neglected for a while.

Still, the place could have used some TLC if someone wanted to make it a permanent home again.

Daryl didn't give a shit about making anything here a permanent home, though. He had a home, and he was headed to it—or, at least, he hoped he was.

"I'll be damned," Daryl said, noticing the ship and the hustle and bustle of the people around it that he figured were probably crew members and whoever came to this "port" for business with Captain Mables.

"What is it?" Laurent asked, his voice giving Daryl the indication that he'd accidentally spiked the boy's anxiety.

It was good to be aware, and it was good to be careful. Daryl was proud of Laurent for learning, as he was, even more about how to keep his eyes open for danger anywhere and everywhere—goodness knows they ran into enough of it—but he didn't sense anything particularly alarming at the moment.

"It's a real damn ship," Daryl said.

"What did you expect?" Laurent asked, sincerely. Daryl laughed quietly in response.

"You know—the hell if I know," he admitted. He looked around, found a place that he thought was suitable, and gestured. Without knowing exactly what he was gesturing to, Laurent followed Daryl's lead. Daryl pushed him into the entryway of a building. It was covered, and it would keep him hidden, but it was close enough to the ship that Laurent could peek out and satisfy his curiosity and, more than that, his anxiety. He would know that Daryl hadn't left him, but he wouldn't have to be close enough at hand that Daryl had to worry about him until he'd found this Captain Mables and gotten things squared away.

"Stay here," Daryl said. "I mean that. Don't you come outta this spot 'til I come for you."

Laurent nodded his head.

"I mean it," Daryl said. "Don't you move. Not one step. Not unless—somethin' is after you. You understand?"

Laurent nodded again. Then, he smiled at Daryl—it was as smirk. It caught Daryl off-guard, simply because his mind registered a thought that he wasn't sure he was comfortable with just yet.

Laurent was beginning to pick up some of his mannerisms.

"Would you like a blood oath?" Laurent asked.

Daryl bit back a wave of amusement.

"Alright, you little asshole," he said. Laurent clearly wasn't offended. He knew, as well as Daryl did, that he hadn't really meant it.

Daryl left Laurent where he figured that he'd be safe, not that he sensed any immediate danger, and he walked openly toward the ship. He kept one hand on the knife in his belt, and he kept his other hand somewhat raised in mock surrender. He wanted anyone who saw him to know that he wasn't opposed to whatever violence they might choose, but he wasn't out to start it—not right now.

The ship was a ship—a real fucking ship. Daryl hadn't expected that. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it simply hadn't been what he saw now. Still, the people milling about weren't dressed as stereotypical pirates, so he didn't feel like everything was too theatrical.

Of course, if anything, he'd learned that you could see just about any damn thing these days.

He went mostly unnoticed. A few people glanced in his direction, but most seemed entirely unbothered by him. He decided to steer his steps toward a place where there was a crate sitting open while two people had a conversation over it, and a third carried items from the crate over to a van that stood with its back doors open.

"Hey—maybe you could help me find someone," Daryl called out as he approached.

There was a man on one side of the crate—a man who looked to be pretty old for what Daryl knew of the survivors in this world, but who might have simply been aged a bit dramatically by what it had taken for him to survive—and there was a woman on the other side who looked to be somewhere around her late fifties.

"Be with you in a minute," the woman responded, dismissing Daryl. The man barely gave him more than a passing glance.

They returned to their conversation, as though he wasn't even there, and the man continued describing a person to the woman.

"It's a tall order," the woman said. "You realize—we do the best we can, but…"

"I know," the man said. "But—you will try?"

The woman smiled and nodded her head.

"We'll try," she said.

"You will have the goats by tomorrow," the man said. "And half of what we brought in."

"A third," she said. "That's what we agreed on."

"If you find Marcel…" The man said.

"If we find Marcel," the woman said, "then you can serve us all at your table to celebrate. Take the rest of this, but leave the crate."

The man nodded, thanked her a bit profusely, and then turned to give a command in a very thickly accented French to the younger man that was moving things to the van.

At a glance, the crate seemed to hold a variety of things—most of which looked like tools and other fairly innocuous things to Dary.

The woman started to walk off, much like she'd forgotten Daryl entirely, and he started after.

"Hey! Hey!" He barked.

She stopped short and turned on her feet.

"Sorry," she said. "You wanted something? Most of what we brought was already spoken for before we even set sail, but…if you need something important, I'll see what I have. Otherwise, I'll have it for the next trip, if I can."

"Not lookin' for goods," Daryl said.

"Oh?" The woman asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Lookin' for people," Daryl said.

The woman's countenance darkened a little.

"I'm not in that line of business," she said. "Keep looking. You won't find what you're looking for here."

"No—no!" Daryl said, reaching out for her as she started to walk off. She turned back, but she looked at Daryl's hand on her arm and then she looked at him with an expression that he couldn't question in the least. "Sorry. I mean it. Listen—I ain't lookin' for people like that. That's not what I meant. Hell—been lookin' for this port for a little while, and I've seen all that shit you thought I was talkin' about. It's disgustin' and the people who do it…"

"Don't deserve the air they breathe," the woman said. "Not when others…better people…have need of it."

"You're right," Daryl said. He noticed the woman visibly relaxing, but he knew she wasn't letting her guard down just yet.

He could respect that.

"Your accent," Daryl said. "It—uh—it's…it's…"

"Irish," the woman said quickly.

Daryl felt his stomach sink.

"So—you ain't from the states," he said.

"No," she said. "Not originally. I was born in Dublin."

"Person I was looking for goes back and forth to the states," Daryl said. "Said he sets sail out of Maine more often than other places."

"I don't know who you're looking for," the woman said, "but there's a fair amount of ships on the sea these days, and they're going just about everywhere. Good luck to finding whatever it is you're looking for."

"Wait," Daryl said, grabbing her arm again. She turned back and her eyes gave him the same warning as before—softened a bit. "Sorry," he said. "You don't like to be touched. I see that. I get it. I just—don't walk the fuck off until I'm done talkin' to you, OK?"

The woman stared at him, and then her expression broke with humor.

"Fine," she said. "Say your peace. I sail to Maine on a regular basis—and I sail back again. We make a few stops along the way. We don't have limits."

"We?" Daryl asked.

"The crew of O'Malley's Secret and myself," the woman said, nodding her head toward the ship.

"If you're goin' to Maine," Daryl said, "then it don't matter to me if I find that man or not. I just got to get to Maine, one damn way or another. I came here looking for Captain Mables, but—whether I find him or not, it suits me just fuckin' fine as long as I make it to Maine."

The woman smiled. It was that kind of smile that went all the way to her eyes. Her amusement at whatever was genuine.

"Captain Mables?" She asked.

"I was told he sails a ship outta here," Daryl said. "People been directin' me this way." He cleared his throat. "You know him?"

She shook her head.

"No," she said. She offered him a hand. "But—I'm Captain Máible. Pleased to meet you."

"Not Mables?" Daryl said.

"Not if you want me to answer," she said.

Daryl laughed nervously.

"Can you take me to Maine?" He asked. "I've got a boy with me. He's 12." The woman looked a little hesitant and he added to his request quickly. "We're willing to work for our passage. Do whatever you need. Hoist the mainsails or mop shit or…swab the deck…or whatever the hell you want."

She laughed quietly.

"I've got a few who won't be going back with me," Máible said. "It was a one-way trip for them. I suppose we've got room for a couple more. You'll have to earn your keep, though."

"Absolutely," Daryl said.

"And you'll have to tell me—what's so important about getting back to Maine?"

"I didn't come here of my own free will," Daryl said. "I got family back there that I gotta get back to."

"Family?" The woman asked. Daryl nodded.

"People I've been with since this started," Daryl said. "More'n that, though—there's this woman."

She smiled. She raised her eyebrows.

"A woman? A wife or…something else?" She asked, shifting her weight, clearly entertained and waiting for a touch more entertainment. Daryl figured that it probably got boring sailing back and forth—trying to keep alive on the sea. If she was hungry for a bit of something like gossip, Daryl could give her that in exchange for a one-way trip back to Carol.

"Somethin' else, I guess. But—if I'da had any damned sense, I'da married her years ago. I gotta get back to her," Daryl said. "I never meant to leave her. Not like this. Hell—not at all. Now that I've had enough time to get my head out my ass and figure out…well…it don't fuckin' matter. All that matters is, I've got to get back to Carol, and I'm willin' to do whatever the hell it takes to do that."

"Carol?" The woman asked. Daryl nodded. She furrowed her brow at him. "What…does Carol look like?"

Daryl was caught off-guard by the question. Still, he remembered her listening to the old man's description of someone called Marcel. She'd listened like she was taking an order for the man—clearly meaning to try to help the old man find him, somehow. Perhaps, she was merely thinking ahead to the fact that she and her crew might be able to help Daryl find Carol.

"Uh—pretty," Daryl said. She looked bored.

"You're going to have to tell me more than that," she said. "I can think of plenty of women who fit such a profile."

Daryl laughed quietly, appreciating the humor.

"Asshole," he muttered. Immediately, he was sorry for it, but she didn't look offended.

"I believe you might understand the phrase—takes one to know one?" She said. "Back to Carol—and quickly. There are only so many hours in a day, and I'm a busy person."

"About your height," Daryl said. "About your size. Small…petite, I mean…I guess that's the word. Blue eyes. Real pretty eyes. Gray hair. Cut short—was the last time I saw her, at least, and it hasn't been long enough for it to grow too much."

The woman stared at him, clearly processing what he was saying. Then, she smiled and shook her head.

"Why didn't you just say so?" She asked.