AN: I couldn't help but write this. It came to mind and I just needed to jot it down.

I own nothing from the Walking Dead.

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

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She was new in town. She was new on the job. She was new at not being Mrs. Ed Peletier. She was newly independent, and not-even-completely divorced, and she was the soon-to-be ex-wife of a man incarcerated for his actions against her—at least until some asshole lawyer got him off for what he'd done, which she had no doubt would happen. The system was stacked against women like her—women who were stupid enough to have loved men that turned out not to be worth it all.

The miles that Carol had put between herself and everything she'd ever called home before were her best insurance policy, really, against the asshole that she daydreamed would rot in prison—the asshole that would have killed her, she was sure, if she'd stayed even a year longer.

She was new to trying to support herself, she was new to trying to build a life for herself, and she was new to a place where she didn't have to be who she used to be at all. She'd picked the town half out of intrigue over the signs along the highway that advertised a beautiful future at a new housing development that was being built—one where she couldn't afford to live now, but…maybe someday—and half out of the fact that she'd coasted into town on fumes and the crumpled bills in her pocket were only going to go so far when she needed food, a place to sleep, and gas.

Carol was flat-ass broke. The only thing she'd really left the marriage with were a few personal belongings, her life, and a car she got secondhand…or fourth-hand, really, so that her soon-to-be ex-husband couldn't possibly trace it back to her. Her lawyer, too, was handling all their business through her office address and acting as a middleman, so that Ed Peletier couldn't even accidentally get his hands on the address of wherever the hell it was that Carol ended up.

Woodson, Georgia, population 3000 – give or take a few.

Carol's home wasn't one of those fancy-ass houses in the future housing development. It was a singlewide trailer in a mostly empty trailer park on the outskirts of the proper downtown of Woodson. Being a small town where it seemed that everybody knew everybody else, and being an outsider, Carol had a tough time trying to find a job.

But she was desperate, hard-working, and flat-ass broke, and any kind of pride took a back seat when that was the case, so she'd travelled all over town asking around for any semi-respectable work that anyone was willing to give her a chance to do for money. That's how she'd gotten the job that hadn't even been advertised yet.

She was bussing tables and serving food at a greasy-spoon diner—guaranteed to be on her feet for hours at the time—but it was steady work, and it was going to at least cover the rent on her trailer if she stuck to it. For someone who had never been on her own before, and who hadn't been allowed to work for the whole of her married life, it felt like a step up in the world, and she could dream of climbing at least a little higher someday.

That was, in essence, what she'd said to the semi-chatty customer that came in nearly every day, sat in the same booth, and ordered nearly the same thing. She'd dropped off his two loaded chili cheese dogs, side of fries, and offered to refill his Dr. Pepper with a smile—because he tipped well, even if he called her Sugarlips on occasion.

She never felt threatened by his nickname of Sugarlips, anyway, and she was thankful that his tip was usually far over the recommended gratuity—which most people never even got close to in the diner. Most of the time, he called her "Mouse," attributing it to the fact that he said she seemed shy and a little mousy. She never addressed his choice of nickname, or her personality. Instead, she simply smiled at him and served him as best she could to keep on his good side so that he'd always ask for her over any of the other waitresses working there. She needed his tips.

As she was refilling his drink, the day after she'd let herself ramble on for a moment or two about her dreams of becoming something more than just a waitress here, he'd started up a little conversation with her that extended beyond her appearance and seeming personality.

"What if—I knew of a way for you to make some cold, hard cash?" He lowered his voice. "Under the table, if you wanted, because I could connect you up personally…help you make a deal."

Carol stared at him.

"What are we talking about?" Carol asked. "I don't want…" She hesitated, lowered her own voice, and looked around. "I don't want to do anything illegal. And I'm not…that kind of woman."

The man, Merle was his name, laughed quietly at her response.

"Mouse, I know you ain't that kind of woman. It's why the hell I even brought shit up to you. You got a—lunch break comin' or a…cigarette break or some shit?"

Carol nodded.

"Half an hour," she said. "I get an hour off to eat."

"Perfect," Merle said. "That'll give me time to eat my food. Then—why I don't I take you somewhere to get somethin' served to you? We'll talk about it then. Don't worry. You don't like it, you ain't under no obligation. I'm just offerin' to let you hear the terms and such of the agreement."

Carol simply nodded at him and got back to work before Shirley could fuss at her for dawdling too long with one customer and, therefore, neglecting someone else.

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Carol hadn't eaten out since she'd moved to Woodson. It was an unnecessary expense. She bought a few groceries to occasionally have something fresh in her diet, and she ate whatever Shirley let her take home at the end of a shift.

They'd wanted privacy, so Merle had suggested the Dairy-O in town, and Carol sat in the truck with him, eating a burger that was large enough she'd cut it into fourths in the basket it had come in, with a plastic knife, to keep from making a mess and embarrassing herself.

"I ain't even dropped this off by the newspaper office yet," Merle said. "Soon as I read it, I thought…Mouse. Wanted you to have first shot at it. If you're interested, of course."

Carol opened the piece of paper. She read the information printed there. It was an advertisement of sorts.

The headline caught her attention immediately: "Wanted: A Future."

"This is pretty vague," Carol said, starting to skim the words.

"Legality or—just not bein' sure exactly how far to push things," Merle said. "My lil' brother figured if anybody was interested, they'd give him a call so they could tell him to fuck off in person." Merle laughed to himself. "You want an ice cream cone or a chocolate sundae?"

Carol shook her head.

"I didn't mean for you to buy me lunch anyway," she admitted.

"I didn't ask," Merle said. "You don't tell me what'cha want, I'ma just get you a hot fudge sundae. So, you better say if you got your heart set on somethin' else."

Carol felt her face burn warm. She hadn't eaten this well in a while. The things she took home from the diner, she tried to stretch as far as she could, and even those things were whatever happened to be left over at the end of the day—messed up orders that were, usually, cold and hadn't gone home with anyone higher ranking than Carol who got first choice.

"That's fine…thank you," Carol said.

Merle hummed at her, clearly a man not pleased with thanks.

"Just read the whole thing," he said, reaching for the door handle to let himself out of the truck so that he could purchase their desserts. "When I get back—I'll explain it to you. Best as I can, anyway."

Carol turned back to the advertisement, still chewing on the last of her burger and fries, and she wondered about Merle's brother, and the kind of man who would feel compelled to write something such as this to send to the paper.

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Carol was sure of only one thing, and that was that the man she was expecting—Daryl Dixon—better turn up soon or she was going to leave. With each passing minute, it felt like her entire body was straining and urging her toward the door. She was questioning herself more and more. Why was she here? Was she crazy? Was he crazy?

Maybe the answer to both of those questions was a resounding "yes."

Carol was just about to leave—she had her hand on her purse, and she was already starting to rise up out of the booth at the restaurant where they'd agreed to meet—when he approached the table. She sunk, immediately, back down into her seat.

"You—Mouse?" He asked. He was ruggedly handsome. She noticed that immediately.

Carol smiled.

"Carol," she said. "Daryl?"

He nodded and sat down across from her.

"You don't mind Mexican?"

"I picked it," she said. "Merle asked me what I wanted. You don't mind it?"

"I'll eat just about anything," Daryl said. "You order?"

"I was waiting on you," Carol said. "But—chips and salsa. I don't…double dip or anything."

She pushed the basket of chips and the bowl of salsa toward Daryl as he raised his hand to get the attention of the waiter.

"You know what you want?" He asked. Carol barely had time to nod before their waiter was asking for the order. Carol placed her order, and Daryl followed suit. When the waiter walked away, he dipped a chip in the salsa, ate the whole thing in one bite, and then wiped his hands together before he looked at Carol.

Her stomach ached with nerves, but he looked equally as nervous.

"I read your…advertisement," Carol said, not sure what to call it.

"Merle said," Daryl said. "So…"

"So?" Carol echoed back, pressing him.

"You got—questions or…you interested?"

"From the advertisement, I wouldn't have known much," Carol said. "Merle kind of explained things to me, but…"

"He said he talked to you," Daryl said. "The advertisement was, I guess, to just—get someone to call, maybe. You can't just put shit out there in the paper. There's legal red tape and all kinda shit that I'd just as soon not deal with."

"I can understand that," Carol said. "I'd rather not have to deal with legal things, either."

Daryl somewhat perked up across the table.

"That mean you're interested?" He asked.

"There are things that I—don't understand," Carol said.

"You got questions, ask 'em," Daryl said.

"The money…"

"Forty grand," Daryl said. "That's negotiable. Forty grand, in cash, to you. Under the table. That don't include expenses. I'll cover…whatever the hell you need. Bills and food…whatever it is you need. I don't know all of that, but…I got it."

"That's a lot of money," Carol said.

"I been savin' a long damn time," Daryl said.

"You must—make a lot," Carol said.

"I do body work," Daryl said. "But I'm good, and in my free time I work out our back yard shop. I flip classics for a hobby. Buy 'em run down. Trash. Fix 'em up. Make a profit. I don't got shit to do with my money, so I save it. Been savin' it for a future. Does that satisfy your questions about where I get my money?"

"I didn't mean to put you on trial," Carol said apologetically. Daryl visibly relaxed a little.

"It's OK," he mumbled to the chip in his hand. "Here—eat," he said, pushing the bowl more in Carol's direction. At the moment, she didn't want the chips and salsa, but she took some anyway to satisfy him and, hopefully, to soothe him a bit. "Well," he asked after a moment. "What else you wanna know?"

"Why?" Carol asked. "I guess—I want to know…why?"

Daryl stared at her, obviously considering his response. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Why what, exactly?"

"Why—all of it?" Carol asked.

"I want a future," Daryl said. "And—I ain't gonna get that shit by just sittin' around waitin' for it to happen. I figured that out already. It ain't comin' to me, but…I can be proactive about some of it."

Carol didn't expect to understand, but she did.

"Then, why not…find a woman, date her, get married?" Carol asked. "You know—the traditional route?"

Daryl laughed.

"You make it sound so simple," he said. He had a nice smile. His smile made Carol's heart drum a little faster in her chest—or maybe it was just the anxiety of the situation.

"Isn't it?"

"I'm no good with women," Daryl said frankly. He stopped talking for a moment when their food was delivered, but he immediately started talking again when the waiter was some distance away. "I'm just not good with women. And you can't control how the hell a woman's gonna feel with you. Takes years and shit…and then, what? Do you know how many marriages end in divorce?"

"No," Carol said. "But—mine ended in divorce, so."

"You see? I can't control that. Some woman. I can't guarantee that happens. But this? I want this. I've wanted this shit since I was damn near eighteen. Figured— it was somethin' I wanted to do. Could do. I could be somebody's old man. I could be good at it. I could be a hell of a Daddy."

Carol smiled at the thought. Her stomach fluttered, oddly and unexpectedly.

"I believe you could," she said. She was surprised to find that she meant it. She had no actual frame of reference, but it was just something like a gut instinct that told her that the man across the table from her meant what he said. Daryl smiled softly at the words, but that was the only acknowledgement he gave of them. She could practically feel his anxiety across the table, and she wished she had some way to soothe it. "So—why this way? Why not adopt?"

"Looked into it," Daryl said. "You got all this legal red tape. It's expensive, and it ain't no sure thing. Besides that—they're real picky about who they let adopt. They won't let some damn body like me adopt. Some single dad? That ain't what the hell they're lookin' for. They'll look at me—my life, my job. They'll judge me comin' out the damned gate. Figure I won't be no good for a kid. Won't even find out that—I want it so damned bad, I'd figure out how the hell to be the best damn Daddy that any kid ever had." He looked apologetic for growing slightly heated over his answer. He cleared his throat, drank some water, and chewed halfway through a bite of food before he continued talking. "This way—they can't take my flesh an' blood."

Carol's stomach twisted a little more violently than it had before. The food, she realized, wasn't going to settle well until the conversation was, at least, somewhat over.

"That's just it," Carol said. "For you to get your…flesh and blood? Someone else has to give theirs up. What about…the mother?"

Daryl considered it. He frowned and shrugged.

"Didn't think about it," he said. "Guess I thought—maybe she'd just be in it for the forty grand and the expenses paid, you know? She'd just—you know—have the baby. Hand it over. Walk away with the cash. No hassles. No questions asked."

"What if—she can't walk away?" Carol asked.

"This mean you're—interested?" Daryl asked. Carol couldn't tell if he looked hopeful or nauseous.

"I might be," Carol said. "But—I don't think I could walk away. So that means the question is, really—are you interested in a woman who, if she does this, can't just walk away?"

"How would that work?" Daryl asked.

"Shared custody?" Carol asked. "It's worked for people for a long time."

"How do I know you don't just—take the money, take my kid, and…cut me outta his life?" Daryl asked. "Court system's prob'ly always gonna favor a Mama over a Daddy."

"You don't know," Carol said. "You'd—have to trust me, I guess. But—if we're talking about creating a child together…a whole life…couldn't you trust me to do what's best for it? I'd have to trust you, too, after all. We could draw up a contract. We'll be like business partners, I guess, for lack of a better way of putting it."

"That feels kinda—scary…" Daryl said.

"And it didn't before?" Carol asked.

"Before I was just—bein' a Daddy. Plain and simple. No complications."

"I think, with children, there are always going to be complications," Carol said. "Look—I'm just saying, I could use the money. It could go along way toward changing some things for me. And—I think what you're trying to do, and what you want to do? It's noble, Daryl. You want to be a father and, I think you should be."

"You wanna do this?" He asked. "You wanna—help me with my future?"

Carol smiled.

"My stipulation stands," Carol said. "I don't think I can just walk away. Not entirely."

"I got a question for you, then," Daryl said after a moment.

"Go ahead," Carol said.

"Same as you asked me. Why you want to do this?"

"I didn't know I did," Carol admitted. "Not when I walked in here. At least—not entirely. But…I want a future, too."

"Like you said—what about some traditional route?"

Carol smiled at him.

"I make bad choices," she said. "My ex-husband isn't even my ex-husband, but…if he's any indication? I'm not real good at this. But—I wouldn't mind being a Mama…especially if I felt like I could afford it."

"You ain't like me," Daryl said. "I need a woman to have a kid. You could just—get knocked up. Not tell him shit about it. Have the kid."

"Maybe I like the idea of my child having a Daddy," Carol offered. "And there's that whole…you know…money thing."

"My brother said I was crazy to do this shit," Daryl mused.

"He might be right," Carol agreed.

"That would make your ass crazy, too," Daryl said.

"I think—I might be," Carol admitted, laughing quietly. Her stomach was positively swimming with butterflies. But these butterflies, unlike the ones that had been fluttering around in there before, felt like they were doing some kind of happy dance instead of some sort of Mamba of Doom. "What do you say? Your call."

Daryl didn't say anything, but he offered his hand across the table. Carol's pulse picked up, her heart pounded rapidly, and she reached her hand out and shook his.

She didn't know what the future would hold, exactly, but she realized she'd just started it with a man she'd just met—a man with a nice smile named Daryl Dixon.

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AN: So, I hope you enjoyed. I may, someday, do something else with this. It just came up, and I had to write this, so I thought I would share it with anyone who is interested.

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