Disclaimer: I do no own The Walking Dead, or characters from The Walking Dead, or any canon/ non-AU material or dialogue. I only own my my OCs and AU material. Enjoy!

"To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow." – Audrey Hepburn.

The jingle jangle of keys drawing near uplifts my eyes. The room's not as dark, which means it must be morning. When I had opened my eyes the first time, it was still pitch black and the crickets were still shooting the shit outside, so I close them. No sense in waking up early, even if my body's still trying to after all this time.

Rays of pale light pierce through the thirty-one by thirteen-inch barred window. Not sure why the window's got bars on it, it's not like I could squeeze my ass out through it, let alone hoist myself up there.

I drop staring at the window above my cot when I hear the key slide into the lock and draw the bolt back into the door. It drags back out and then the creaking of the door opening shortly follows. More light floods in, exposing the set of stairs. I sit up, leaning my back against the wall.

His footsteps are deliberate and steady. He appears from the cave-like stairwell with a bowl in one hand and a mug in the other. He's got the same look on his face that he's always got; the look that doesn't brag, but still boasts his self-sense of superiority. The fucking "I'm better than you" look.

"Mornin," I greet as politely as I always do, "What's for breakfast?"

Rick scoffs through his nose, before walking up to the bars of the cell. He drops the bowl down, making the spoon inside it startle.

"Here." He says, before setting the cup of water down beside the bowl, then turning to leave.

"Don't you wanna stay and chat for a while?" I ask him. "Pull up a chair and read me the funnies. Has your bigger, better world gotten around to printing newspapers yet?"

"I'm busy, I don't have time to entertain you." He gruffly replies.

"You never time for me anymore," I blandly say, "It's making me feel so alone and unappreciated."

"Don't worry," He tells me as he heads up the stairs, "I'll be back later."

"Counting on it." I exhale with a dry tone.

The door shuts and I listen to the key groove in, turn the bolt, and then pull out again. I get up from my dingy ass cot and walk over to the bowl and cup. I take them both back to the cot and sit, setting the mug on the floor after I take a drink from it.

Fucking scrambled eggs with dry ass toast. It's the same shit every morning. Sometimes there's a little gristle scraped off a pan they were cooking meat in mixed in. On rare occasions, there's even a little gravy, but it's the watery crap that comes in an envelope.

But it's the eggs that really chap my asshole. Figuratively and literally. It's two parts powdered eggs, one part real egg, but it's always fucking runny as hell and it goes through me like shit through a goose. I think that's why they give me the toast.

I'd gag at the smell of the eggs, if I wasn't hungry. I eat the eggs, dipping one half of my toast in and swirling it around. I eat in silence, listening to the going ons outside.

Cars, drilling, hammering….voices, laughter. It's faint for the most part, but I can still hear it. The world.

After I'm done, I make my bed. I pour a little of the water from the mug into my hands and use it to wash my face, then dry it on my sleeve.

When that's over with, I pick the spoon from the bowl and use it to carve another tally into the brick wall. I stare at it for a second. Thirty…or thirty-one? Thirty. Thirty goddamn months.

I toss the spoon back in the bowl, take up my cup, and lay back on my cot in wait.

…

The rooster crows with all it's might. He must like the sound of his crow, because he never starts the day with just one cockle-doodle-doo.

I reach over, eyes still closed, still half in a deep sleep. "Dwight," I nudge his arm, "Dwight."

"Huh?" He finally answers, also asleep.

"Go shut the window," I tell him, "The rooster's crowing."

"Okay." Dwight says, not moving an inch.

I breathe a long, tired sigh from my nose. Another three more hearty caws disturb my sleep. "Are you gonna do it?"

"Yeah." He barely verbalizes.

"D, go close the window," I sound a little whinier than I intended, "I want to sleep in."

"Alright, I'm up." He gets out of bed and treads over to the other side, my side, of the bed, shutting the window that was cracked a little for air.

His footsteps become less purposeful as the short burst of adrenaline is gone and he can now shuffle back to bed. I feel the blankets lifted off me.

"Move over."

"Is the baby in the bed?"

"Yeah." He confirms with a rasp.

I inch over a little, enough for him to be able to lie down behind me. Dwight lets go of the covers as he settles in. He puts his arm over me and sighs against my neck. The smell of sweat and bergamot soap, hits my senses.

"When did you get her?"

"Around three a.m."

"That's a new record."

"Mhm." He agrees in my ear.

"Did she called for you?"

"Yeah."

"Gets you every time."

"I don't want her to call me and then me not show up."

"Sucker." I breathe out.

Dwight lays a small kiss on my shoulder. "You're just jealous that she called for me and not you."

"She called for you, because she knew you'd cave in and come get her."

"That's why she likes me better." He retorts. "Ow!"

"Sorry." I sleepily grin, bringing my elbow back.

"That wasn't an accident." He chuckles, taking my arm and bringing me closer his way.

"Yes, it was." I giggle with him as I rotate to be face to face with him, even though our eyes are closed, "My arm slipped."

"You're arm didn't slip." He snickers, planting a sweet kiss on my mouth.

I peck him back, letting him become more long and tender with my lips. We do so for a very brief moment, resigning to get some more sleep.

That is, until the third party in our smallish bed's legs start to stir and roam. A soft, but deep exhale escapes her little lungs. At this time, both parents open our eyes, looking at one another with the same silence in thought. We just have to keep very quiet and not move a muscle.

A tiny foot rolls clockwise by the ankle and goes still. The sheets makes a faint brushing sound as the moment of stillness is broken by more adamant movement. There's a light tug of my hair from a small hand taking it up to fiddle with it. Soon, the hand lets go, only to pin my hair to the pillow in the midst of motion, while it's accomplice is placed on my arm.

"Mommy?"

I smile at Dwight, before peering over my shoulder. "Good morning!"

Birdie smiles brightly. "G'morning!"

"Did you sleep in our bed?"

She nods her head. "Yeah."

"You did?" I ask, as if I just discovered this. "How did you get here?"

Birdie points her finger towards Dwight. "Daddy."

"Daddy brought you here?"

"Yeah," She climbs over me halfway, "G'morning, Daddy."

"Morning, Birdie." Dwight greets her with a dozy smile.

"Move, please." Birdie says to me as she wedges herself in the middle.

"Oh, yeah, don't mind me." I say, scooching over, so she can lay between Dwight and I.

"Tank you." Birdie gratefully replies, not catching the sarcasm, or including the th sound in her thanks.

She snuggles up next to Dwight, taking a strand of his flaxen hair. "Hello."

He snickers. "Hello."

"I'm hungry."

"Yeah?" Dwight says, "You want Mom to make to you some breakfast?"

"No, you make it."

"But it's Thursday," He tells her, "Mommy makes breakfast on Thursday, remember?"

"No, Daddy, you make it," She insists, "Please!"

Dwight inhales, rubbing his eye, before he exhales; "Alright, I'll make you breakfast."

"Yay!" She cheers.

"You gotta let me up, so I can go make it."

"Me, too."

"You wanna go with me?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you stay with Mom in bed for a little while?" He suggests.

"No, I go with you, Dad." Birdie softly argues.

"No, Birdie, stay with me!" I put my arm around her, hugging her to me. "Keep me warm, while Daddy makes breakfast."

Birdie rolls and lets me pepper her forehead and cheek with kisses, cackling. Both Dwight and I laugh at her laugh, because it's cute.

"Are you gonna stay with me?"

She nods, still giggling. "Yeah!"

"Good," I hold her to me, looking over at Dwight with heavy eyes, "Guess you have to make breakfast."

"Wipe that smirk off your face," He smiles, sitting up, "She wants me to make it, because I'm the better cook."

I laugh, giving his arm a playful shove. "Asshole."

"Language," He smartly retorts, "How does pancakes sound?"

"Sounds good," I prop my head up in my hand, "Can you put some oats in the mix like you did last time? That was really good."

Dwight nods his head, yawning. "Okay."

"Any requests, Bird?" I look down at her.

Her eyes wander down as she thinks. "Um…good!"

"You want 'em to taste good?" I smile, humored, "She wants them to taste good, Dad, and I second the notion."

"Seeing as I'm the one making them…" He gets out of bed and walks barefoot toward the open door.

Birdie watches him go, springing up last minute. "Daddy!"

"Yeah, baby?" He turns halfway.

"I want milk, please."

He nods, shuffling out of the room.

I exhale through my nose, still tired. "You wanna take a bath before, or after breakfast?"

"Um…after."

"Okay," I yawn closing my eyes, "Sounds like a plan."

"Mommy?"

"Hm?"

"I'm wet."

I open my eyes. "You need to be changed?"

"Yeah."

I sit up. "Alright."

After I changed her, Birdie left our bed room and went to play in her room, but, like always, brought whatever she was playing with back to Dwight and I's bedroom, where I was straightening up and then to the kitchen, where Dwight was making breakfast.

Dwight has breakfast ready in an hour. He made pancakes with oats, as promised, with some eggs and hash browns. Birdie likes peaches, so he sliced one up and gave her three of the wedges, because she'll only really eat one or two, maybe two and a half. He also brewed some coffee, bringing me a cup while I was still in the bedroom, like he usually does.

I get Birdie up in her hand me down seat that sits on a regular chair, because she refuses to use her high chair as of two months ago. "You want me to scoot you closer?"

"Yeah." She answers.

"Okay," I move the chair a few inches forward, "Keep your bib on, please."

"Why come?"

"Because I don't want your jammies getting sticky."

" 'Kay." She refrains from taking off her bib.

"You ready for breakfast?" Dwight wiping his hands on a rag.

"Yeah!"

"Alright, let me just cut up your pancake."

"I can do it." I tell him, walking over to the counter.

"It's okay, I've got it," He says, "You can sit."

I kiss his scarred cheek. "You gonna make my plate, too?"

"If you want." He replies, cutting Birdie's pancake into little squares.

I chuckle, "I think I can manage."

"You sure?" He grins a little, glancing over, "I could cut your pancakes for you."

"Don't be a smartass."

"Watch your mouth," He snickers, going back to cutting, "Bird's starting to pick up bad words."

"I know," I look over at her, "I think she might be genetically predisposed to sailor mouth."

"Yeah," Dwight exhales, "I got that feeling when she thought it was funny when we were shocked the first time she said…" He glances over his shoulder, "The F-word."

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"I want syrwup."

"Okay." Dwight pours the syrup over the cut up pancake bits and then takes it over to the table. He sets it down in front of her. "Here you go."

"Tank you."

"You're welcome. Use your fork, please."

"Okay, Daddy."

Dwight walks back to where I'm standing. "You gonna eat?"

I touch his back, kissing him again on the cheek. "Thanks for making breakfast on the one day I'm supposed to."

He kisses me back. "You can fix dinner."

I chuckle, pecking his lips. "Unless Birdie wants you to do it."

"Yeah." He admits to his tendency to be a pushover, before returning the kiss.

I touch his arm, smiling into the next one. "She's got you wrapped."

"I know." He smooches my lips.

"You're a good dad."

Dwight kisses my temple. "Want me to fill you up?"

"Language."

He looks down at me, starting to grin at my light laughter. "I meant your coffee, Nan. Jesus."

I snicker, planting one last kiss. "Yeah, fill me up."

"Hand me your cup."

I give it to him, before I pad over to the kitchen table, taking my seat on an end, next to Birdie. "Is it good?"

"Mhm." Birdie nods while she chews.

"Good."

…

After breakfast is done and all cleaned up, Dwight heads out to do a little hunting, or fishing if that doesn't pan out. He's also gonna make sure the dead are clear.

Initially, we wanted to build a wall, or sturdy enough fence, but ultimately decided against it. I know it sounds unwise and unsafe, but we came to the agreement that since we have such a small house in such a secluded area, it would feel confining to have huge borders around it. Plus, we just don't have the materials or man power between the two of us.

Dwight's set up a redirect, similar to the system we used back at the Sanctuary. Birdie's only ever seen a handful of walkers before, so it's been fairly effective.

I had my concerns, of course, in the beginning, but now I'm glad we didn't. It's peaceful here; we live quiet, happy lives. And we've done alright for ourselves, Dwight and I. Aside from the little things I pick up whenever I go to the Sanctuary or Alexandria, we're mostly independent.

Sure, we've had those rare months where we conserved a little more, but we've never been strapped and Birdie's never gone hungry.

Dwight built a little coop after we found some stray chickens, so we can gather the eggs every morning. He also cultivated the old garden and together we planted some tomatoes, strawberries, carrots, peas, green beans, and some other vegetables. There's also a bramble a little ways down that we collect from.

I'll admit, I'm not a green thumb like Dwight is. He said he learned from his grandfather and his mom. I planted a lemon tree, but it hasn't produced a single lemon, but the herbs I keep in the kitchen window above the sink have really flourished.

Yes, we've been quite the little busy bees these past two and half years. It's amazing how fast time flies when you're so preoccupied with all things that need to be done for the day, as well as raising a child. At the risk of sounding cliché, it seems like just yesterday that the war had ended and we had come to this place.

I'm twenty-nine now, almost thirty, but I don't feel any older, at least not physically. Mentally, I've grown out of most of the anxieties and insecurities that I had two years ago and years before that. I also feel more capable in the "new world" than I had previously and less afraid.

Maybe it's the change in environment, or because of and in spite of the old one. Or, maybe it's motherhood that's helped reshape me. I'm not really sure, because I must have been too busy learning how to make soap from some goat's milk that the Hilltop had traded to Alexandria when it happened.

I still call Birdie "the baby" even though I suppose she's technically a toddler now. She's growing up so fast; I never thought I'd be the one to say all these typical mom phrases, but it's true and it's always a little bittersweet. She's so independent and clever, it's no wonder she hit most of her milestones early.

Her preference for me ended when she was about seven months old. I don't know why, but she one day decided that Dwight was the greatest person alive and started wanting him to hold her and play with her. I was just a means of nourishment mostly after that. That obviously isn't to say that she hates being around me, but we all know who the favorite is.

"What color is the sky?"

"Um…blue!"

"That's right, good job," I praise as I spread some homemade chicken feed on the ground, "What color is…the chickens' house?"

Birdie looks at the little coop. "Um…brown!"

"Alright!"

" 'Nother one!"

"Another one?" I look around. "Um, okay. What color is our house?"

"Lellow!"

"That's right, it's yellow," I tell her, "Can you say yellow? Yell-oh?"

"Uh, Lellow!" She smiles.

"Good job."

" 'Nother one, Mommy."

"Okay." I think about what else I can give her that we haven't already done. I look over at her. "What color are my eyes?"

"Blue!"

"Good, now what color are Daddy's eyes?"

"Um…blue!"

"You're so smart," I smile at her, "What color are your eyes?"

"Um, hassel." She answers, meaning to say "hazel."

My smile softens as we approach the coop. "Good job, Birdie."

"Look!" She points at the rooster, who's perched on top of the coop.

"I know, I see him," I say, reaching into one of the little windows to pluck whatever eggs are in that nest, "Remember to approach them slowly, so they don't think you're chasing them."

"Okay," Birdie walks up to a hen, scratching at the ground, "Hi!"

The chicken remains indifferent as she pecks the ground. All the chickens are used to Birdie's friendliness and only ever get put off by it when she runs over to them. We started off with two hens and the rooster, but now we have six hens. We would have more, but we've eaten some of them.

Some of the chickens will let Birdie pet them, even hold them from time to time, but she often gets her fingers pecked when she's overstayed her welcome. I'm always leery of the rooster, since he tends to strut around the coop protectively, but he's never been bothered by her. Except for the one time she innocently pulled one of his tail feathers when she was about one.

He's a prideful little bird. All day, he crows and strolls around the yard, occasionally puffing his breast feathers and flapping his wings. He also randomly runs up on the hens, causing them to fret away.

"Alright," I say, putting the last egg of the day in my cloth-lined basket, "That's all of them."

"Berwies now?"

"Yep," I take her hand, "We're gonna go pick some berries."

…

The sun glares on the right side of my face, blinding me a little in one eye. It's not really all that hot today, but the woods feel like an oven as I trudge home after a long day with the sun in my face.

I've got my crossbow over my left shoulder, holding the strap, while carrying the line of four fish I caught in the other hand. Home's not far, I can see it a few yards away. It feels a little longer a journey, but that's only because I'm tired.

I spent all day at the redirect spot, luring dead ones in to kill them. They don't always come in right away, or in scores, but I keep myself occupied. I do it about two to three times a week and on all the other days, I stick closer to home to redirect any that manage to get close by. It's tedious and the hours sometimes drag on, but it's necessary, so I do it.

The backyard is quiet, except for one of the hens clucking as she scratches the ground for insects. Nan and Birdie must be inside. Hopefully, Nan's getting ready to start dinner, since I cooked breakfast on her day to make it.

I know she says she's more of a baker than a cooker, but I like what she makes when she cooks. It makes it bearable to eat all the fish we eat around here. Besides, it always tastes better when I don't have to make it.

Not that I mind really, I like doing it, in fact, it's something that just comes naturally. Being the one who does most of the cooking, I mean, not so much knowing how to cook. That, I had to learn when I was in high school, on nights when my mom worked late, and again after I married someone who could burn water.

"Fuck!" I flinch, stepping back as the rooster flies out of nowhere to chase me off from the coop. I don't know why the damn thing doesn't like me, but almost every time we cross paths, he's attacks me.

From the small four-squared window of the back door, I see the girls in the kitchen.

"Hey." I call as I walk through the door.

Nan, who's by the kitchen sink, looks over and smiles. "Look who's home, Bird."

Birdie peeks from under Nan's apron. "Daddy!"

"Hey, baby," I set down my bow and the fish as she runs towards me, "Did you miss me?"

"Yeah!" She giggles in my arms. "You're smelly!"

"I am smelly, I know," I put her down, "I had to carry all these fish home."

She gets on her tiptoes to look on the counter by the door. "Fiss?"

"Yeah, fish," I confirm, petting her head, "You gonna help Mom scale it and gut it?"

"Um, yeah." She answers, which is her typical answer for most things.

I snicker, "Go get your stool."

"Okay." She runs to the pantry, again standing on her toes to reach the handle.

"You know, she's just gonna end up following you, right?" Nan says, peeling potatoes skins into the sink. "And I'm gonna get to trip over her stool."

I sling the bow over my shoulder again and walk the fish over to her. "I'm gonna hop in the shower," I place the fish in the right half of the sink, "She'll help for that long at least."

"No, she's gonna say 'Ew!" and gasp a lot at my elbow."

I chuckle, "Well, then at least gutting the fish won't be boring."

She turns her head, pausing with a little smile. "Scale the fish for me."

"No, sorry, you have to do it."

"But I hate scaling and cleaning fish," Her shoulders lower, "And I've been peeling potatoes."

"You're the one cooking," I claim, smiling, "If you didn't want to do it, then you should've made breakfast like you were supposed to."

She scoffs in humored shock. "You told Birdie you'd do it, you jerk!"

"You could've vetoed it."

Nan laughs. "Well…I wanted to sleep in."

"That's what I thought." I lean over and kiss her on the lips.

"Hey, it's hard work watching after that little force of nature."

I laugh with her. "I'll see if she wants to play in the living room after my shower."

"Oh, you're gonna take her off my hands?" She pecks me.

"I figured I'd give you a break."

"Mm, well, what are you waiting for, then?" She smiles against my mouth. "Go get in the shower."

I put my bow away where Birdie can't reach it and then I take a shower. It normally takes me ten minutes or less, but I take a few extra minutes to stand under the hot stream. After that, I get dressed in fresh clothes and go back to the kitchen.

"Ew!"

I chuckle to myself as I hear Birdie exclaim from the hallway.

"I know, it's gross, but you don't need to poke it." Nan tells her calmly.

"The fiss's eye?"

"Yeah, that's the fish's eyes," She says, "Please don't touch it."

"Ew!" Birdie gasps again.

"Honey, you can't hold Mommy's arm like that."

"I helping."

"I know you're helping, but I can't cut it when you're holding my arm."

I lean my shoulder on the archway. "Hey, Bird."

Birdie looks over, immediately pointing toward the sink. "I helping, Daddy."

"I see that," I smile, before nudging my head to the side, "You wanna go play in the living room?"

"Um…" She looks at the sink again, "Yeah."

"Okay, come on."

"Wash your hands first, please," Nan turns on the sink, "She poked its eye."

I go into the kitchen. "Yeah, you better wash your hands."

" 'Kay." Birdie cups her hands, as if to catch the water running from the sink.

I lift her up and carefully tilt her over, so she can wash her hands. I glance over at the massacre in the sink. "How's it going, hon?"

"It's going," She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, "It might go faster if you take the little eye poker."

I snicker, shutting off the sink. "Alright, let's go, Bird."

"Okay."

I take her into the living room, setting her down on her feet. She hits the ground running, down the hall to her room. She comes back with two handfuls of wooden animals in her arms.

"Here." She says to me with a misplaced "w" in the word. She drops the block on the coffee table, before padding back down the hall. She returns with the rest of them. "Here, Dad."

"Thank you." I set 'em all up straight and in a line as she sits in my lap.

They're blocks I made for her one by one. It started with the duck, which I carved months before she was even born and then I added a new animal every month for the first year of her life. I've made other little toys for her, like one of those caterpillar things that's on wheels that you pull along, as well as some numbers and letters, but these are by far her favorites.

"Okay…" I pick up one of the blocks, "What does a cow say?"

"Moooo!" She imitates.

"Good job!" I laugh, holding up my closed hand, "Pound it."

She makes a little fist and bumps my knuckles with hers.

"Good job," I repeat, before getting a new block, "What does the duck say?"

She purses out her lips. "Quack, quack!"

I try not to laugh at her impressions, but there so cute and funny. "That's good!"

Birdie puts her fist up. "Poun' it."

I bump her fist. "Okay, what does the…chicken say?"

"Bawk, bawk." She tucks her hand under her pits and flaps her wings.

"Good," I put the chicken down, "What does the rooster say?"

Birdie goes to respond, but her eyes trail up to think about it. "Um…."

I didn't make a rooster block, so I point towards the window. "What does the rooster say every morning?"

"Roo-raroo-roo-roo!" She crows to the ceiling.

At that, both I and Nan in the kitchen laugh.

"What was that?" Nan bends back to look at us.

"Rooser!" Birdie tell her.

"A rooster?" She chuckles. "If you say so."

"Poun' it, Daddy."

"Okay, pound it," I pick up another block, "What does the horse say?"

She whinnies, "Nee-hee-hee!" And it's hysterical.

"Great horse, baby."

Birdie puts her fist up and I oblige.

Nan walks in after a few minutes, tossing the apron to the side. "I've got it in the pan now. It'll be a few minutes."

"Shouldn't you watch it?" I ask her, hearing the sizzling from the kitchen.

"I'm watching it," She assure me as she kneels down at the table, "I just want to get out of the heat for a minute."

"Here." Birdie hands her a block shaped like a sheep.

"Oh, what is this?" Nan accepts it. "What animal is this?"

"A wamb."

"It's a lamb?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, and what does a lamb say?"

"Baaa!"

Nan smiles warmly as she stifles a laugh. "That's right, the lamb says; 'Baa!'"

Birdie giggles at Nan joining in. "Here."

"What animal is this?"

"Um…a pig."

"What's a pig say?"

Birdie scrunches up her face and snorts twice. We laugh.

"Good job!"

"Do it, Mom."

"You want me to make the pig sound?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Nan makes almost the same face as Birdie and snorts, which causes Birdie to cackle loudly. She'd almost tip over, if my arm wasn't around her.

"Was that funny?"

"Yeah!" Birdie continues to laugh. She holds up her fist to her mom. "Poun' it."

Nan smiles, reaching across the table. "Pound it."

Birdie takes up another block. "Here."

"What's this one?" Nan asks her.

"Dog." Birdie answers.

"And the dog goes…?"

"Bark, Bark!" Birdie yaps.

"Good girl," Nan grabs a block and holds it up, "What's this one?"

"Fish." I say, looking towards the kitchen.

She sighs, disappointed. "D, let her answer."

"No, Nan, the fish." I point over to the little cloud of smoke.

She turns her head. "Oh!" She springs up and runs into the kitchen, "I'll take the burnt piece!"

She does take the burnt piece, which is just a little extra crispy on the side. Sometimes, she can convince me to take whatever she's accidentally burned, but she likes fish a little charred when it's breaded.

After dinner, we play with Birdie some more after we clean up the kitchen until her bedtime. She's pretty active during the day, so we never have a problem getting her to go to bed. She likes it when Nan rocks her in the rocking chair and sings to her. Most nights, she hands one of us a book and wants it read to her, before she agrees to be rocked.

While Nan does that, I lay on our bed, trying to read All's Quiet on the Western Front. It's not that I don't like reading, I just always think about doing it at night, when my eyes don't want to pay attention. Like right now, I'm going line per line, but I don't know what I'm reading.

"Whatcha reading?"

"I don't know." I mumble, staring at the page with a furrow.

"Birdie's asleep." Nan informs me, treading to our bathroom and flicking on the light.

"She went down quick tonight."

"Yeah," Her voice echoes off the tile, "Let's hope she sleeps through the night."

"Yeah." I mildly agree.

Birdie wakes up almost every night and when she does, she'll call for one of us, or cry as a last resort, until we wake up, or cave and go get her. Nan tries to be more stern about Birdie going back to sleep in her room, even taking the time to rock and sing to her again, no matter how tired she is.

I, on the other hand, just bring her back to bed with me and let her lie between Nan and I. Nan's techniques don't work for me; hard as I try, I can never get Birdie down the way she can. It's always been that way.

So, I put her in bed with us, which is difficult some nights, because Birdie likes to lay right next you and so it makes it hard to move around in bed.

"You're not gonna get her tonight, right?" Nan inquires, brushing her teeth.

"No." I say too low for her to hear me.

The sink turns off. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you."

She looks me over from the doorway of the bathroom. "So, you're not gonna go get her, if she wakes up?"

"No." I go back to my book.

Nan laughs as she saunters over to our dresser. "Why do I get the feeling that's not true?"

"I intend on it to be true." My eyes lose focus as they peer up over the book and at her.

She pulls her shirt over her head, still humored. "You spoil her."

"I do not."

"You do too," She smiles back at me as she unhooks her bra, "You know, you're the one who said we needed to be more stern about her sleeping in her own bed."

"I know," I sigh, looking at the pages, "Maybe we'll get better at it when she's a little older."

"We? You got a mouse in your pocket?"

"Alright, smartass, I'll get better at it."

"That's more like it." Nan comes over to the bed, my side.

She lifts her leg over, gently straddling me. I look up at her shyish smile. She's in her underwear and of my t-shirts that I don't wear anymore, because she keeps taking it. She's got some faint dark circles under her eyes, but the lamplight makes her face warm and soft. I set down the book; she's beautiful.

Nan reaches over and puts her hand on my scarred face. "I love you."

"I love you, too." I say to her, meaning every word.

"I meant it when I said you're a good dad."

"I know."

Her thumbs caresses the mangled over skin as she stares in my eyes. She then comes my way and kisses my lips. "I love you, Dwight."

"I love you." I repeat.

She sighs, content, as she sits up. "Do you want to have sex?"

I nod my head, putting my hand on her elbow. "Yeah."

"Okay." Nan pulls the string undone on my pajama pants as I shift underneath her.

I move out from under her and she climbs over to her side of the bed, diagonal. I crawl over her, getting between her legs. I stare down at her and she up at me. She's beautiful.

…

I open my eyes. The key sinks into the lock, draws out the bolt, and is pulled out. The door makes that creaking sound as it opens. The light from the window shines low on the wall and telling from the yellowish hue, I'd guess it's supper time. Hell, I know it's supper time; food comes three times a day.

"Wake up." Rick rudely demands as he strides over to the bars with a tray in his hand.

"I wasn't sleeping," I say to him, sitting up in my cot, "In fact, I'm wide awake, so we can chat."

"Eat."

I watch the tray of dinner get carelessly placed on the ground on my side, "Let's talk about this awesome, better world you're building up there."

Rick looks down on me. "Eat."

"Oh, come one," I egg, "You think I don't have ears? I hear all the tinkering going on, day in and day out."

Rick gets a look at me for a minute. He then turns around to get the chair that usually sits in the far left corner.

"Oh, goody," I reach for my tray, "Dinner and a story."

Dinner's always the same thing, too. Cornbread, sometimes brown bread with lumpy, artificial mash potatoes mixed with some type of ground up sausage and vegetable. I'd complain, but it's the best meal of the day.

I stir the meat and carrots into the potatoes. "It's been awhile since you sat down to talk. Why? Are things not going according to plan?"

Rick plants it in the chair, giving the look again, except it's cockier. "No, everything's running smoothly."

"Huh," I nod my head, "No problems?"

"No problems."

I nod again. "Well, isn't that nice?"

Rick smirks, presumably thinking that what I said was out of bitterness. "A long time has passed since the war."

"Not that long."

"Over two years," He informs me of what I already know, "Almost three. We've come a long way from where we were."

"Have you?"

"We have," Rick says confidently, "We've stopped fighting each other to survive. We build, we grow. We're facing the world, learning to deal with its terms and our own."

"Sounds grand." I reply dryly.

"It is grand," He confirms, "We're making something that's gonna be bigger than all of us."

I scoff, skeptical.

"Carl's vision is coming to life."

I look up, getting a sad grip in me that I haven't learned to settle yet.

"And your part of it still," Rick claims, "You are still an example; a symbol of progress."

"You gonna erect a statue of me?" I sarcastically inquire. "Put a bronze plaque outside that door?"

He breathes deeply, still smirking. "No, because it's not about you, none of this is about you, or for you. It's about us, it's for our children. One day, it'll all be like it was before, or close to it. Better."

I scoff again. "Let me know when that day comes."

"Oh, don't worry, you'll be the first to know."

"Good," I retort, setting the spoon down, "And do me favor, Rick."

"What?" He arrogantly indulges.

I look him straight in the eye through the shadows. "The day it all goes wrong, the day when tensions rise and all hell breaks loose and you realize that you were in way over your head? Be sure to tell me about that day, too."

Rick exhales, partially amused. He gets up from the chair and picks it up by the back. "Yeah, I'll be sure to do that."

"Aw, leaving so soon?" I glance back down at my tray. "I was gonna ask you to braid my hair."

He scoffs, but doesn't say anything to my smart aleck comment. He just walks towards the steps, fishing the keys from his pocket.

"I'll be back to get your tray in an hour."

"Tomorrow's the second, right?" I scoop up some of the gruel, "Second of the May? June? Whatever."

Rick doesn't answer.

"My baby's gonna be two and a half tomorrow."

At that, he stops, one foot on the first stair. He turns his head over his shoulder. "She's not a baby."

My eyes move up from my dinner. "Pardon?"

"Your...daughter?" Rick clarifies with a bad taste in his mouth. "She's not a baby anymore."

I stare, affronted. What the fuck is he talking about?

"She's nearly three," He tells me, "I saw her the last time she was here."

My brows gather. "She was here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"The last time her mother came into Alexandria."

"Nan? When was she here last?"

"About two weeks ago."

What?

Rick moves his head forward, but lowers it, as if looking at the step. "She's grown a lot since you last saw her."

My mind goes quiet and I peer back at him.

"Like I said, it's been a long time since the war," He adds in a flat tone, "You're missing out on a whole of lot more than just the world." Rick starts up the stairs.

The door slams shut. The key goes in, the bolt thuds, and the key goes out again. The sound of the keys jangling disappears.

My eyes blink down from that direction that I can't even see anymore. They adjust to the dark and find the food in the tray in my lap. I set the tray down on the floor and lay back in my bed.

Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of the "Save Yourself" sequel! Thanks for reading!

If you've read the SY, then you'll know that my updates for this fic will either be two to three weeks out, depending on my availability.