Chapter 23: Birds on Their Wires

They'd found a single gas lantern, the kind she'd grown up with before their house had been wired for electricity. It sat on the floor, dead center in the small room, a perfect golden circle that cast dancing shadows on the weathered walls. It was too risky to light a fire in the old pot bellied stove, so they sat on the thin mattress and curled together under the single blanket the shack had to offer; wooly and slightly scratchy, but leaning up against Daryl's chest and his arms around her, his fingers stroking absentmindedly at her elbow, Carol was warm. So warm, and contented despite the bone deep exhaustion niggling at the edges of her consciousness. If she could only sleep, just for a little…

"Stay awake, little bird," Daryl murmured in her ear.

"Mind reader."

She felt his chuckle deep in his chest, a slight shudder against her back that made her smile. They'd already talked about it: the need to stay awake, to fight off the cold. She could do that.

"What happens when we get home?" she asked softly. Daryl sighed, his breath warm against her temple. She waited, the jumble of thoughts swirling in his head so palpable she could feel them in the air.

"Business as usual," he finally said flatly. Right. Business… business meant cover and things done in the shadows she'd rather not imagine. She'd already gotten close enough. Business meant Merle… and Andrea… and Crowley.

Crowley would be there soon. Less than an hour, now… maybe…

"Tell me about your grandfather?"

"Hmmm." She smiled as he nuzzled his nose into her hair and tilted her head up enough to plant the tiniest of kisses on the curve of his jaw. "Trade you."

"Oh really?"

"Somethin' 'bout my grandpappy… and you tell me somethin' 'bout Sophia?" The question was cautious, so tentative and quiet she almost didn't hear him. She settled back down against him and turned her gaze back to the lantern and let Daryl's arms fold tighter around her. She could do this, too.

"I had her in dance classes by the time she was three," Carol said quietly. "From the minute she could talk, it was all she asked for. The way she'd smile… It was everything." The images flitted through her mind: her daughter's big, beautiful smile as she twirled and twirled. The gentle, only-slightly-pitying smile of the teacher who'd allowed Sophia to stay in classes even after the money had disappeared. The embarrassment had been worth it.

"Grandpappy used to laugh he had a lil' Injun in him, with all his bow and arrow huntin'..." She let herself drown in the smooth whiskey of Daryl's voice, the soft lantern light, the warmth and strength of him around her, and wished they never had to leave.

The roof of The Five O'Clock Club was one of Andrea's secret places. Daryl had shown her the unassuming door that hid the dark, narrow staircase that led up here once. She'd come up here to get away from the crowd and the noise. Sometimes she'd bum a smoke off Daryl, if she caught him up here.

Tonight she stood, high on the ledge, her heels kicked off to the side. Nothing below her but air… and then the hard, unforgiving pavement. She just couldn't help herself. She felt so free up here.

It was war. She knew that. An all-out world war, just like in Europe… but here. Greene versus this damn ghost, Greene versus his own stinking mortality, Greene's gang versus the simpering honorable Dale Horvath and his band of merry coppers, the Dixons against Jackson Lachterie, Rick against… against the whole world, really. Wars without end.

He didn't love her. Andrea wasn't foolish enough to think he did. She knew men, knew him, and knew what her place in his life was. But goddammit, somehow Rick Grimes found a chink in her armor, gotten through. She was head over heels. A sucker, gone and done for.

She walked the high wire between factions backwards, and in high heels to boot. She always had; it was how she survived. A flash of thigh, a toss of blonde curls and a smile of ruby red lips so they'd never notice how she listened. She was the best in the game, and she knew it.

There was a scripture about that, wasn't there? Something about pride before the fall…

One step... Back. She planted her feet firmly on the roof and ignored the relieved shudder that ran through her. Nobody was falling yet.

Certainly not her.

The door from inside banged open, tearing Andrea from her thoughts as she spun on her toes to face the newcomers. All things considered, she thought she managed to keep her expression fairly neutral at the couple that stumbled through the door, laughing and caressing each other familiarly. She cleared her throat, drawing their attention away from each other.

"Well, hi there," Andrea smirked. Now this is interesting.

"Hello," Lori Grimes replied hesitantly, flushed tomato red from the roots of her hair and down the length of her neck.

"Evenin', Andrea," Michonne drawled as she arched a warning eyebrow at the blonde.

Oh, what Merle Dixon wouldn't give for this juicy bit...

Very interesting indeed.

Crowley barreled down the highway, his foot heavy on the accelerator. The dark shadows of trees blurred into a black wall outside the windows, lining the dark pavement and making it seem as if they traveled in another world… one that was closing in with alarming speed.

Sixteen of their men, gone already in a turf war gone toxic. Shot, strangled, burned, some just plain old vanished. Daryl Dixon sent to Savannah in the mother of all Hail Mary plays with Carol fucking Peletier. That alone was trouble of a whole different sort, the type he usually left to the likes of Merle and Andrea to use against each other with increasing frequency. It was all spinning out of control, and he was starting to worry he was the only one with any real brains left in the whole stinking operation.

Axel was uncharacteristically quiet in the passenger seat, chewing on a gnarled cheroot with an almost eerie contemplation.

They were fifteen, maybe twenty minutes from the safe house, if Daryl's instructions were correct.

He tried not to think about what might have happened in Savannah. Better to hear it from Daryl and the widow.

Fuck.

"I don't get it," Leon Bassett hissed impatiently from the backseat, making Shane's teeth clench together so hard his jaw was starting to ache.

"Get. What." Shane growled.

"Why did you even try to get a warrant? We got Horvath's say-so to go without… fuck, we're supposed to go under the radar! So why'd we waste all that time doin' some half-assed song and dance ain't gonna matter in the end?"

He didn't want to admit that Bassett had a point. Dale's instructions had been explicit: no warrants, no records, no paperwork. If the coin landed heads up on their side, nobody was even going to know what they'd done. Ever. So why hadn't he followed the plan?

They were parked in front of Carol Peletier's boarding house. As Andrea had promised, it was dark. No cars in the drive, the windows shuttered. Nobody home. Nobody's home.

"Just one somebody's." He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until he caught Daniels' arched eyebrow in the rear view mirror.

In some mad way, he'd been trying to warn her. Maybe get her out of there in case any of the goons were in the joint that night. It was her home, after all. He didn't want Carol incriminated in any way. She wasn't one of them, not by a long shot.

"You fellas wanna sit here chewin' the fat, or can we get to work now?" Shane tossed the keys to Bassett and heaved himself out of the car. "Be fast now. And someone grab me the damn crowbar."

A/N: This exists because of the infinite enthusiasm of meeshie, AlannasTara and onedayyoujustchange, who have yet to give up on this story even as I drown in work and grad school. Thanks also to my eternally patient and supportive beta imorca, without whom none of this would exist at all.

And you to, dear reader. Bless you from the bottom of my cold, black heart. I haven't given up on this story, even though I'm so much slower at updating than I would like. I am, as is this story, a work in progress. Thanks for sticking with me.