Hi everyone!

This is my entry for TheCarylDaily's Affection challenge on Tumblr...and it won 2nd place! You should check out the other entries as well, they're super good : )

This takes place at the prison. I was always so touched by the way Daryl grieved for Carol when he thought she was dead before finding her in the tombs (placing the cherokee rose on her grave…*swoon*). I always imagined his being so concerned for her if ever she was ill, and being unable to focus on anything other than taking care of her. This is my take on that : )

I hope you enjoy! oxox

She was never aware of just how much he watched her, the things he paid attention to when she didn't notice. And he was always paying attention.

He noticed the way she chewed the inside of her mouth when she was reading something. The way she almost immediately started scratching her arms when a buzzing insect flew by, bothered by the sound. The way she hated touching raw meat, clear in the way she wrinkled her nose and used only her thumb and forefinger, though she never once complained.

He knew that she liked to flip over her pillow – or whatever it was she used as a pillow – every time she adjusted her sleeping position.

If she needed to switch sides, she'd flip her pillow over before putting her head back down. And when she got up to relieve herself in the middle of the night, she'd flip it again when she returned. Every single time her head came off that pillow for whatever reason, it got flipped over again before she lay back down.

He watched her flipping that damn thing countless times during the night, every single night, while he was on watch duty, all those winter months of being on the run.

And he knew she liked to fall asleep on her stomach, with her arms slipped under her, and whatever cover she was using tucked right up underneath her chin.

He knew that when she wasn't feeling well, she slept on her back, and that a soft sound escaped her as she exhaled now and then. But only ever when she was sick. And it was so quiet and so delicate, that it tugged at his heart strings each and every time he heard that weak sound pass through her lips.

He often saw her face grow thoughtful when she folded laundry. Her eyes would be entirely focused on her task, but there was a gleam in her eye, a tightening of her forehead, and her hands would run blindly through the motions of folding their cleaned clothes and making neat piles, one for each of them, as she clearly reflected on things in her mind.

This morning, Carol had that same look on her face as she folded a pair of pants at a picnic table in the prison's courtyard. But then he noticed something else while she had moved on to folding a t-shirt. Her actions were slower, less sure of themselves, and her shoulders were hunched a bit too much.

Daryl kept an eye on her as she worked, unable to shake the unsettled feeling he now felt.

As she finished folding the last garment and placing it gently atop its pile, she sat slowly on the bench next to her and leaned her elbow on the table, resting her forehead in her hand.

He went to sit next to her, his movements cautious so as not to startle her.

"You alright?" he asked softly when she didn't move an inch to look in his direction.

At the sound of his voice, she peeked up at him, not lifting her head from its cradle and barely moving it at all.

"I have a headache," she whispered. "It's so hot out here."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. It was no hotter than the day before, or the day before that. And she had now been stripped down to her most threadbare of tank tops. One that, just a few hours earlier, had him secretly ogling from afar the way it clung to her skin in just the right places.

"You sure it's just a headache?"

"I don't know. I'm just feeling…strange."

"You should go lie down." He knew she would do no such thing. No more than he would have had he been in her position.

"No, no. I'll be fine. Just a little tired, maybe."

He didn't believe her one bit, and it showed in the skeptical look he threw her way. She smiled softly at his concern.

"I swear," she assured him.

She turned away from him then, moving her head to face the table again, her eyes closing against the throbbing pain.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he watched her, a nervous, nauseating type of feeling washing over him. Finally, he found it in him to speak, though he could barely force the words out of his mouth and he dreaded the answer she might give him.

"You bit?" he asked, eyeing her as she lifted her eyes to him and sat up straighter in her seat, looking for the truth in her eyes.

She looked back at him for a beat before speaking, eyes narrowed at the concern - the fear - she saw there. His stomach twisted and turned as he waited with baited breath for her answer.

"No," she finally muttered.

"You sure 'bout that?" he asked, trying I keep up his poker face.

"I'm sure."

He didn't know what had happened while she'd been on watch the night before. Didn't know if she was hiding something under the leg of her pants that she thought she'd just suffer through in silence before slipping quietly away. He wouldn't have put it past her to pull a stunt like that.

The tone of her answer implied how seriously she took his question. Anyone could see that he was troubled. She needed him to know that she was being truthful.

She stood up, a little slower than usual, he noticed, and piled the laundry into her basket before making her way inside to deliver the clean clothes to their owners. She placed a hand on his shoulder as she passed him, squeezing ever so gently, and let it trail off his back as she walked away.

Daryl watched her until she disappeared inside the prison doors, worry etched onto his face.

She wasn't fine. And it wasn't just a headache. He tried to think of what they'd eaten, what she'd been doing the evening before.

He remembered that she'd been on watch after dinner, and came back inside in the middle of the night. They'd all eaten the same dinner, the same breakfast that morning, but no one else seemed affected in the ways she had been.

At lunch she was nowhere to be found.

"Seen Carol anywhere?" he asked Maggie as he filled his plate.

Maggie shook her head before speaking. "She was helping earlier with lunch, but she left a while ago and I haven't seen her since. Said she had a headache."

Daryl filled a second plate for Carol and went off searching for her. He didn't have to go far, though, since her cell was the first place he looked. And there she was, sitting on her bed, head in her hands as she steadied herself with her elbows on her knees.

"Ya gotta eat somethin'," he mumbled from the doorway.

She squinted up at him, as though the dim light that made its way into her cell was too bright. He moved to sit beside her, and she took the plate he offered gratefully.

Carol picked at her food unenthusiastically, and only took a few bites before declaring that she wasn't hungry.

"Somethin's wrong," he said aloud, stating the obvious.

"Yeah. I don't know what, though. My stomach's feeling a little funny. And my head is just…pounding. My back hurts. My skin hurts."

He watched her with scrutiny as he finished chewing the food in his mouth. He held the back of his hand up to her forehead.

"You ain't got a fever," he said.

"Feel my skin," she commanded weakly, holding her arm out.

He grasped her forearm with his rough hand, wrapping his fingers around it, touching as much of her skin as he could. It was practically steaming.

"Shit, you're burnin'."

"I know, it's so strange. I'm just so…hot. But no fever."

"You gotta lie down. Drink some water." She finally conceded and he helped her lie on her back before sitting at the edge of her bed to remove her boots.

Anything to stay next to her. Anything to help him figure out what was wrong with her.

"Thank you," she whispered, smiling.

"Anytime," he offered back, looking into her eyes with sincerity.

The fact that she didn't fight him had Daryl even more worried. He left to get her some water, bringing Hershel back with him.

"Looks like heat exhaustion. Severe dehydration, at least," he assessed after a few questions and a quick check. "Lots of water and rest, Carol Ann, and I don't want to hear any arguing."

"Yes, sir," she said weakly.

"See to it, son," Hershel said as he stood up and turned towards Daryl. "This type of thing would often warrant a 911 call back in the day."

Daryl grunted his assent, nodding as Hershel left her cell.

He knelt beside her immediately, offering her the bottle of water. She lifted her head and drank it readily, and he flipped her pillow over before she sank back down onto it.

She smirked at him, consoled by how well he knew her.

"Nap time," he told her then, his glare daring her mockingly to defy him.

She sighed. "Alright, alright. Nap time."

He smiled at her, swallowing back the dread he felt at the fact that she didn't fight Hershel's instructions.

Carol fell asleep quickly. Daryl sat on the ground beside her, his back against her bunk, listening to her shallow breath and occasional soft whimpers. He couldn't understand why he was so relieved to hear those quiet little moans come out of her lips. Why he seemed afraid today that she would just stop breathing altogether.

She woke in the darkness, a soft candle light flickering somewhere beside her. She felt a warm hand holding her softly by the wrist as another ghosted down her arm before placing it back down gently on the bed.

Her brow furrowed at the sweet sensation before she cast her eyes towards the source of it.

She watched as Daryl slowly and carefully drew her shirt up to her breasts, exposing her bare stomach, and leaned his face in close before exploring every inch of her skin tenderly with his fingertips.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a hoarse whisper, though his eyes and hands didn't falter at the sound of her voice.

"Checking," he replied simply.

Checking.

She sighed and threaded her fingers into his hair.

"I told you I wasn't bit," she reminded him.

Still, he didn't look up, didn't disrupt his hands from their thorough examination.

"Gotta make sure."

The nervous edge to his voice didn't go unnoticed. So she let him finish, knowing she'd want him to do the same if their roles were reversed. Knowing that he'd let her.

When he finished his exploration – of her chest, her throat, her legs, her feet – his shoulders slumped with his sigh of relief and he began hoisting himself to stand and go back to his own bed.

Carol swiftly placed her hand on his forearm and tugged gently, shifting her grip to the collar of his shirt when he was close enough. His eyes searched hers as he let her draw his face closer, sliding her hand up the column of his throat and resting at the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers into his hair.

"Stay with me?" she whispered.

For a moment he let her words wash through him, and the relief – that she would be fine, that she wanted him there just as badly as he wanted to be there – cloaked him in its comforting presence.

So he stayed. He shucked off his boots and crawled into her bed, draping an arm across her stomach as he curled into her, letting everything else fade into the background.

He kissed her shoulder, she kissed his forehead, and they drifted off to sleep.