It being a dream, Daryl doesn't question the sudden return to the warmth of Georgia or Natsha dressed like his own personal Daisy Duke, leaning over him where he worked on a bike he couldn't quite make out the details of. They weren't the ones that mattered, though, so it wasn't something to dwell on.

He wiped his hands on an oil rag and tossed it to the side, finding himself surprisingly comfortable dressed in only a brown undershirt and a pair of baggy, ripped cargos an equally brown color as the tank. The kind that just blended in with the dirt. And the kind he hadn't worn in years.

"Not really," he answered, grinning up at her and pushing himself out from the bike without sitting up. "Why? You got plans?"