Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own The Walking Dead.

Post Season 3.

Daryl Dixon was, quite possibly, a robot.

He took night shifts without complaint, prowling the prison grounds and guard tower with sharp eyes. Supply runs, hunting, and the dictated list of necessities were completed with the efficiency of a machine. When others collapsed in the shade, Daryl picked up the dropped tools and reinforced the fence, gruffly shrugging off suggested breaks.

He'd shouldered the role of protector and provider, but forgot to apply some of that attentiveness to himself.

Now that they lived safely behind the fences of the prison and months had passed without so much as a sniff of the Governor, it seemed silly for the archer to not fall into some kind of regular sleep pattern.

Everyone else had established semi-normal sleep habits, even Rick.

If Daryl was protector and provider, Carol labeled herself as the organizer. Fifty people may have been a small population before the turn, but now it was a chaotic metropolis. She held the master list of chores and always had a task to pass off on to a lazy person.

Who needed what, when, and how much? Ask Carol. All looked to her for such details and she gladly accepted the role, relishing smooth operations.

Since she was always involved in the ebb and flow of prison work, Carol's ears caught gossip like a spider web. After netting more than a handful of amazed conversations about Daryl's productivity, she privately assigned herself to monitoring Daryl's sleep patterns.

After all, how could he continue to match the schedule thrust upon him if he didn't catch a wink or two? The prison needed him on his feet.

Carol needed him for reasons that went beyond fresh deer and supply runs.

It was by no means a new task for her, but it was certainly one she had let slide a bit since everyone from Woodbury had moved in.

Days into her focused investigation, she confirmed a couple of things.

One, Daryl did sleep, but in short bursts. She had already assumed this conclusion since she knew from their fleeting touches that he was, in fact, human.

Two, these short bursts came when everyone else was busy.

These facts revealed themselves to her in one productive night during and after dinner. The man in question had returned earlier with a handful of rabbits and a surprising amount of rare prizes such as hot sauce, wild garlic, and socks.

The condiment was quickly absconded by Glenn and Maggie who were on dinner duty. Hershel plucked the bucket of garlic from Daryl's hands with a nod of gratitude and an explanation to Rick that it would do well in the garden. And the socks, well, Michonne did her best to divide them up to those who needed them most.

The entire scene lasted only a handful of minutes, but Carol caught how pride relaxed Daryl's shoulders and the way he observed the group's smiles.

He'd done good.

Then came the tricky part. The outdoor kitchen was suddenly overwhelmed with the clattering of pans and pots. Benches were scooted across concrete and flames crackled and snapped in the fire pit. Smoke rushed to the sky from the lit wood, sparking a few coughing fits.

In the hustle and bustle (controlled, in part, thanks to her divvying up tasks) Carol lost track of Daryl. Peeved, she abandoned table setting to Beth and went out in search.

The kicker was realizing that he had gone; he could slide in the room and then out again like a cat. She found him easily enough though, tucked in his cell now that the entire block was empty of people scurrying around for dinner. One arm folded under his head, Daryl had conked out the second he hit the bed.

Confirmed: Daryl Dixon, did in fact, sleep.

Carol took this knowledge back downstairs, putting away her figurative Sherlock Holmes hat in the process.

Later, she prepared a plate for the slumbering hunter and once dinner had wrapped up, Carol returned to Daryl's cell. From the metal steps, she caught lines of the song Beth sang that night and Glenn's laughter. Somewhere else, Judith let out a delighted burble, the stark walls carrying even such a soft noise. She paused and listened. Who would have thought such happiness could be found behind concrete block?

By the time she reached his cell, Daryl was already sitting up and rubbing his eyes. It could not have been more than a couple of hours after his return, but there he was, stretching like it was morning and he had a whole day's worth of work to do.

And he probably did.

"Here," she passed him the plate and processed her findings while leaning against the doorway.

Even if Glenn or Tyreese offered to go on a run, Daryl stepped in to take at least one of the seats in the vehicle. The prison's growing population demanded more food, and as a primary provider of protein, Daryl walked out the gates empty-handed and arrived later with rabbits, squirrels, and sometimes a deer.

He took on more than his share. She had known he accepted the never ending list of tasks simply as his share. Carol noted the bags under his eyes, the only obvious evidence of his strain. There just weren't more than a few minutes where he wasn't being sought after by someone.

Herself included.

Daryl wolfed down the pile of spiced rabbit and gave her a gruff thanks, softened only by his briefly upturned lips.

"You're welcome." Another round of laughter from downstairs echoed. Carol shrugged herself off the wall. Patting the rough doorway, she mused, "We'll have to get something to reduce the sound."

Daryl hummed, "Next time I go out." He ran his finger through the last of the hot sauce residue on the plate and licked it clean. Simultaneously, one arm reached out with the empty plate and the other grabbed a knife to be sharpened.

She took the offered plate, shaking her head. Of course he'd take her mindless musings and make them a priority. That realization tickled her a bit, so she allowed herself to linger for a moment more to drink him in, watching his methodical strokes against the blade.

"Don't make a special trip." It came out as a warning, though there really was no consequence behind it.

He glanced up from the knife on his thigh and unconvincingly promised to not make a big deal out of it.

Determined to make sure at least one person cared for his health, (a role, she admitted, she committed to back in the day when everyone tensed up around him, said his name under their breath like a minor curse) Carol continued to bring him food and prodded him until he took sufficient catnaps.

Laundry duty gave her the perfect excuse to leave the community and tiptoe up to his cell.

"Oh, why am I here? Laundry of course!"

"Pants and shirts are folded."

"I got that blood out and now I'm returning it."

"These finally dried after that storm came through."

For weeks, Carol prepared a new excuse each day so that just in case someone asked, she didn't run the risk of stammering and giving away her true goal. Conveniently, Daryl's never-ending job list provided her never-ending pile of laundry.

But, like all things in the prison lately, Carol leaving dinner with a plate and Carol going to his cell with clean clothes became so routine, she stopped crafting excuses and accepted Maggie's knowing smirks.

Some days he slept on his side.

Others on his back, arms crossed over his chest.

Sometimes he twitched, caught up in a dream.

All the time fully clothed and with boots tied to his feet.

There was a joke somewhere in the fact that his bangs hung in his eyes like blinds; she'd seen the sun hit his eyelids without him stirring an inch. She was determined to bring it up to him, convinced that he'd turn two shades of pink. One, because of the light flirting, and two due her noticing something as mundane as his hair length.

Her quiet steps were a gift from Ed, one of the few life skills he left her. Venturing down a concrete hallway silently was a little different than a carpeted one, but the idea was the same: Light feet. Her daily observations continued for several weeks, just a peek or two a day into his cell as he slept.

In that time, the prison environment evolved. The new additions from Woodbury finally evolved from "them" to "us." Grey walls were now decorated with splashes of color, blankets, picture frames, posters. The last meal of the day could be called a banquet more often than not.

The days lengthened until the climax of summer and then started the slow dive back towards darkness.

For whatever reason, Tuesdays (somebody from Woodbury kept track) were sluggish days and Daryl usually caught an extra nap in the afternoon.

Just as the sun hit its zenith, Daryl disappeared into his cell with a groggy nod, but not before brushing past Carol close enough to tingle the hairs on her arm.

It was well into the afternoon at this point, and he still hadn't emerged.

Good.

When her hands weren't soaking clothes in soapy water, or dishing out jobs, they were occupied with Judith. She was the one bright spot in Rick's drab cell. While nearly everyone else had found small decorations to claim as their own, Rick had kept his room strictly functional: Crib along the wall, clothes on the top bunk, emergency baby food in a crate, neatly stacked, boots on the floor. His revolver rested in a drawer, lonely, but waiting.

Lil Asskicker, all curly hair and chubby arms, had finally drifted into dreamland. Carol adjusted the blankets and cast a small smile down at the girl.

Carol heard Daryl's steps approach and then the purposeful stop. From the hallway he drawled, "You creepin' on that baby?"

A quick side glance revealed his lean form taking up the door space, hands stuffed in pockets. "I don't think Judith minds."

"Yeah, well, she's only one of your victims."

Oh, she'd been caught. So much for light footsteps.

Flushing, Carol owned up to it, "I'm only checking up on you."

He snorted, "Thanks, but you can keep the sneaky stares to yourself." Dirt caught under his boots as Daryl shifted his feet. "Ain't gotta waste your time on me."

"Somebody's got to," Carol quipped, tempted to add that she wanted to waste time on him. (Maybe wiggle her hips a bit at the joke.)

He denied her claim with a shake of his head. "You got enough on your plate."

With a final pat to the blanket, Carol approached him so that their hushed conversation was less likely to wake the baby. This close, she could smell the outdoors on him, all dirt and sweat. "Says the man who hunts, is always going on runs, who brings people in,...rarely sleeps." She settled for punctuating the end of her argument with a raised eyebrow, rather than pokes to his chest. (Her fingers itched to touch him, but that was a border rarely crossed.) Carol clasped her hands behind her back while he crafted a response, hoping that they could stretch out this moment between them.

Daryl crossed his arms. "I know your busy. Always cookin', cleanin', organizin' people..." he frowned, and added, "carryin' someone else's kid..."

As if answering the call out, Judith stirred and begged to be picked up. Carol obliged and then turned back to Daryl to bat her eyelashes playfully, "I always have time for you, Pookie."

The pet name prompted a twitch in the corner of his mouth before he dipped his head. A second later, the almost-grin faded. His eyes glazed over her form and her breathe hitched just slightly under the scrutiny. "You're better off sittin' down for a second," the low response not more than a rumble through his chest.

What an idea.

At that moment the stairs outside creaked under Beth as she reached the top. "Need any help, Carol?"

"Perfect timing." Carol handed Judith to the teenager and declared, "I think I'm going to have a sit."

If he insisted that a sit was needed, then she insisted that he joined her, other tasks be damned. She was the organizer and Carol decided his next task was a sit.

She was about to plop down on the stairs, but followed Daryl to the recently swept floor and found a spot there. The extra effort to park on the ground paid off; they could sit side by side and the wall was cool against her exposed shoulder blades.

As per usual, she was the one to begin, to coax spoken moments between them, "First council meeting next week."

He answered with a non-committal huff.

"Did you change your mind about it?" The back of her head rolled along the wall so she could face him. She could practically see the gears working between his ears as he nibbled at the skin around his thumb.

Finally, "Rick should be in it."

"He felt it best if he wasn't involved," Carol regurgitated the excuse Rick had given for stepping away from a leadership role. Pigs and crops and children were what occupied his mind now.

Another rough sigh escaped Daryl, but he offered no further explanation.

They all had their duties; how long could they wait for Rick to take up his again? The Governor may be gone, but what if there was another threat?

Daryl didn't elaborate even after a few more minutes passed, but she nodded in agreement with his unspoken opinion: Daryl didn't have to like it, but he wasn't going to fight Rick on it either.

They, Daryl the provider and Carol the organizer, could hold it together until Rick was ready.

And he'd have to be, eventually.

The two of them sat until the sun turned golden and the air cooled. When the conversation never start again, Carol closed her eyes and focused on Daryl's steady breathing. She could almost pretend that the world hadn't fallen, that noisy neighbors were just mowing their lawns and that she was sitting on the porch with her . . .

At some point, she had slouched enough for their bare shoulders to touch, both sticky in the humidity. They remained that way even when Beth came down with a rested Judith and left to join the hustle and bustle outside.

Daryl was right, sitting was a good way to spend an afternoon, way better than spying on him as he napped.

Carol laced her fingers together in her lap. Judging from the sun, dinner would be served soon and it was sure to be a treat; that morning, Hershel had proclaimed the first batch of tomatoes ready.

What a wonder, sitting willingly on the floor of a prison with her mouth watering over the idea of fresh tomatoes. By old world definition, the situation was fantastical. Now, it was a blessing, these walls and the ability to grow food.

From the grounds outside, someone rang the dinner bell; an action from a bygone era that only succeeded in calling more walkers to the outer fence. But, that's where they were at this point, comfortable enough with their home that they could taunt the dead with old traditions.

Carol snuck a glance at the man beside her, thankful that they now had the time to create new ones.

Author's Note: Ugh, I miss the prison. I'm sure this has been done by a million other people, but I couldn't resist the whole "what if the prison never fell" idea.

So, there really isn't much plot here besides slow relationship development. It's kinda rambles a bit, I'm sure. I will say that this is more of the "set up" chapter. There's more fluffy interaction in the second/final part.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated.-randomcat23