So this is something that's been brewing in my mind lately, especially during the bullshittery that is season 7. This story has a pretty slow build up but I promise it heats up a LOT in the next chapter. Please let me know if you like it :)

She was crying again.

Daryl pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took a deep breath. He rolled onto his back on the floor of the RV and put his hands behind his head like a pillow, staring up at the yellowed ceiling and knowing that, once again, he wouldn't be getting much sleep. The noises Carol was making were small and pitiful, faint whines interspersed with sniffles like an animal caught in a trap. He knew she was sleeping, too. She had cried almost every night in her sleep, every night since they had found Sophia in the barn.

Everyone kept a watchful eye on Carol during the day, but at night they left her alone in the RV. Lori had stayed with her the first few nights, but had eventually gone back to her tent with Rick and Carl. Giving her space, she had said. As little sleep as Daryl knew he was going to get with each of her shuddering breaths thick and deafening in the quiet of the trailer, he had gotten far less sleep at his own little campsite. After a few night's fitful rest that he had mostly spent just staring up at the stars, he had gotten up and began to pace. It had been too early to hunt, the animals in the forest still asleep save for an owl or two hooting forlornly, so he wandered the perimeter of the farm. He had hoped his body would eventually just give out from sheer exhaustion, but instead, on his third time around he found himself at the door of Carol's trailer. He didn't knock, and was glad for it when he cautiously stepped in to find her sleeping form illuminated by the first traces of the early morning sunrise. Salty tear tracks lined her face, but her chest rose and fell evenly, and Daryl had been comforted that, at least for the moment, she was blissful and unaware. A wave of exhaustion had rolled over him and he curled up on the floor for a brief sleep before rising again to hunt, slipping out so quietly he doubted she had known he was there at all.

Daryl quickly took to sleeping in the RV each night, making sure to take first watch while everyone else drifted off then sneaking into her trailer and leaving again before the sun had fully risen. He wasn't exactly sure what compelled him to it; maybe he wanted to protect her like he couldn't protect Sophia, maybe there was no sense in sleeping outside when there was a perfectly good RV instead, maybe he just didn't think she should be alone. At first he would come in so late and leave so early he was sure she didn't notice, but one day he woke up with a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him that he hadn't brought. Neither of them acknowledged it later on in the day, but Daryl could almost swear she held his gaze a little longer than usual at breakfast, and that the corners of her mouth might have twitched faintly when Lori asked if she had slept alright.

After that, Daryl continued to come in after his watch and would leave before the sun was up, but didn't bother with stealth. It became an unspoken understanding between them: Daryl would shove his blankets and pillows into a corner when he left and then when he came in for the night they would be laid out neatly on the floor for him. It only took a few days of their arrangement for Daryl to realize that most nights, Carol cried. He had been so tired at first that he had slept soundly through it, but was awoken one night to her soft sniffles peppering the silence like faint raindrops on the fibreglass roof. He lay awake, heart thudding in his throat, the guilt of being too late to save Sophia twisting his stomach too painfully to sleep. It crossed his mind to wake her, but her eyes had been so dark and hollow lately he justified to himself that fitful sleep was better than nothing. He drifted in and out of consciousness until morning, when he had once again rolled up his blanket, checked on her, and headed out to hunt.

Her cries were coming louder now. Hollow sobs echoed through the trailer and pierced Daryl's chest like an arrow, over and over with each breath. Sighing, Daryl pulled himself up and rested his head in his hands. This was the worst night yet, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. In a way, he supposed he was punishing himself. Why should he deserve a good night's sleep when Carol's daughter was dead and she would likely never see a good night of rest again?

"No… no," she whimpered in the darkness. Daryl rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, trying to guess how many hours were left until dawn.

Then Carol started to scream. High pitched cries of anguish that reverberated through the thick darkness and made the hairs on his arms stand up. If he thought she sounded like a trapped animal before, she was a trapped, terrified, wounded animal now. He stood up and before he knew what he was doing, he was standing beside her bed. Carol's eyelashes cast soft shadows on her cheeks in the faint light that starkly contrasted with the twist of pain on her face, the tears leaking from her eyes and pooling on the pillow. The blankets were bunched up in her white knuckled fists and her stomach kept contracting like she was being kicked. Daryl awkwardly shifted his weight, desperate to do something, anything, to stop her gut-wrenching keening.

"No, please," she moaned, bringing one of her hands up from the blankets to grasp her opposite shoulder, nails digging in hard enough to leave a mark. Daryl instinctively reached for her hand and stopped her just short of drawing blood. His heart was pounding and he felt guilty somehow, like he was intruding on her right to grieve in private. But fuck, he couldn't listen to her cry like that for one more minute. She stirred and he froze, but he didn't let go. Instead, he gingerly sat down on her bed and took her hand into his lap. He began lightly stroking her hand in an old, familiar pattern, something that his mother used to do when he was small and had bad dreams before his bad dreams bled over into reality and she couldn't comfort him anymore. He rubbed up and down her knuckles and turned her hand over to trace the lines of her palm, which, to his relief, quieted her a little. His calloused skin was clumsy and awkward and rough against her impossibly small, soft hand, but the way she sighed and turned into him let him know that she was at least half awake and found some small comfort in his gesture.

As her breathing slowed and her chest began to rise and fall evenly again, Daryl stopped his motions and quietly held her hand in his lap. The faint lines of her face, usually so tense and defined, were relaxed and smooth. Daryl noticed, not for the first time, a faint pink scar that just peeked out from the fabric of her tank top under her arm. It was white and lumpy, an old scar, but the ring of cigarette burns surrounding it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He knew the signs of abuse, and the idea of her cowering with her hands over her head while Ed laughed and mocked and burned her sent firebolts of rage up his spine. Looking at her sleeping so sweetly, he had no idea how anyone could ever justify laying a hand on her. She sighed and her mouth curved into a half-smile, satisfying Daryl that she was sleeping peacefully again. He gently placed her hand back down beside her and let his fingertips briefly drag up the back of her wrist as he stood up again. Carol intrigued him. He hadn't known her for long, but he could sense that there was more beneath the surface than the meek, submissive housewife he had first encountered. His search to find Sophia had irrevocably bonded them, and he felt a tug in his chest whenever he thought of her that he chalked up to just being two damaged people coming together over tragedy. As she shifted contentedly onto her back her deep breaths turned into light snores, and Daryl smiled softly. She could saw logs and keep him up all night for all he cared. He could handle that, as long as she wasn't crying.

"Fuck," Daryl muttered as his knife brushed across the sensitive web of his thumb just enough to draw blood. His hunt that morning had yielded only a few scrawny squirrels, which he was nonetheless diligently cleaning. Hershel had offered him his workshop to clean his kills, but Daryl preferred to be out under the sun in the clean, fresh air. He debated for a moment just wiping his hand and continuing, but decided he ultimately couldn't run the risk of an infection when doctors and hospitals were so non-existent. He shuffled up to the house, cursing his carelessness, and didn't bother to kick off his boots as he made his way to the kitchen. The farmhouse made him uneasy, it was too light and pretty to welcome his dirty, dishevelled presence. Making his way to the kitchen, he was surprised to hear Carol's voice drifting through the hallway as she helped Patricia prep for dinner. Still, the sound of her voice momentarily distracted him from the dull thud in his hand and he stood awkwardly in the doorframe until they noticed him.

"What happened?" Carol asked, immediately noticing the cut on his hand and going to him to inspect it.

"Accident," he mumbled.

"I'll get the antiseptic," Patricia said while Carol ran warm water in the sink. She took his hand and guided it to the stream, gently rinsing the dirt, grime, and blood from his hand. Daryl's throat went dry while her hands deftly worked over his.

"I can -" he stammered.

"I know," she said quietly, but didn't stop. Daryl opened his mouth again to reply but was silenced by Patricia coming back to the kitchen. She dressed his cut expertly, using the smallest amount of antiseptic she could to conserve their meager supply. Hershel called for her and she bustled out of the kitchen, leaving Daryl and Carol alone again.

Carol finished wrapping his hand with a clean strip of gauze, but held his hand in hers for a moment too long.

"Thank you," she breathed.

"Should be the one thanking you," he said in a low, gravelly tone, nodding toward his hand.

Carol just looked up at him with her crystal clear blue eyes and he understood what she meant. The air in his lungs was too thick to breathe, let alone speak, and the softness of her hands on his and her faint clean scent were making his head swim. Sensing his sudden stiffness, she gently let go of his hand and rested hers against his chest briefly, her searching eyes compelling him to look at her again. He met her gaze reluctantly, absurdly afraid that she could read his mind if he looked at her, but her eyes just crinkled slightly and she gave him the first half-smile he had seen from her since Sophia died. He had always reflexively shied away from physical contact, usually associating it with pain, but Carol was slowly giving him a new perspective. Her touch was warm. Comforting. Daryl thought he should say something, but he faltered and instead just swallowed hard and nodded.

"You should be just fine," said Patricia, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

Daryl nodded again and mumbled his thanks, catching Carol's eye and holding her gaze for a moment longer before quickly ducking back out of the kitchen.

The next few nights passed without incident. Carol still cried in her sleep, but sporadically and quietly enough that Daryl was able to get some decent rest. They continued their routine as usual; Carol laying out his bedding for when he came in late and Daryl checking on her before leaving early in the morning. They interacted normally during the day, but now and again he would catch her eye for a little longer than usual or she would casually touch his arm as she sidled past him. After Daryl left a few Cherokee roses on her bed one day he noticed his blanket was freshly washed the next. They continued like that in a sweet, silent dance around each other for days, neither acknowledging anything because they weren't sure what to acknowledge.

Until the thunderstorm.

Daryl liked thunderstorms. He didn't believe in God, but the cracks and booms reminded him there was something bigger than him out there which strangely brought him a sense of comfort. He liked the idea that nature didn't care if the world was in chaos, it would continue as usual. In a way, he identified with the defiant flashes of lightning streaking across the sky. He would continue in the world like he always had ever since he was a child: hunting, scavenging, and surviving regardless of what was going on around him.

An abrupt noise from Carol wrenched him from his languid state. It was a strangled yell, thick with tears, a sound that he hated he was so familiar with. Her pitiful cries mixed with the thunder and he tried for a few minutes to ignore it, but each sob wrenched him back awake. He stared wide awake at the fibreglass ceiling that he had become well acquainted with and sighed. Daryl clamored to his feet and rubbed his forehead. He didn't know what he could do, but he had a burning, insatiable need to do something for her. Anything.

He awkwardly stood over her once again, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he was intruding on her grief, too antsy as she tossed and turned back and forth to care about how creepy he felt. He gingerly sat on her bed and caught her hand when she thrashed toward him, stroking the same light patterns as he had before in a desperate attempt to soothe her. She would not be consoled, however, moaning and crying louder and louder with every rumble of thunder. She was mumbling incoherently between cries, and Daryl couldn't take it any longer.

"Carol," he said quietly, squeezing her hand and shaking it slightly. "Carol."

Her sobbing only got louder, and in a fit of desperation he grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.

"Carol!" he pleaded. "Wake up, dammit!"

Her eyes flew open and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Daryl," she choked out, and his chest twisted at how utterly small and helpless her voice was.

"Was jus' a dream," he mumbled, releasing his vice grip from her shoulders.

Carol swallowed and closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I don't mean to be keeping you up, I -"

"I know," he said. Reflexively, he reached out and brushed her fresh tears from her cheeks. "'S'okay."

Carol nodded faintly. Daryl inhaled deeply and stood up, but was abruptly stopped when she reached out to grip his hand. Her small, slender fingers lightly coiled around his rooted him in place just as firmly as if his feet were encased in concrete, and he turned to look at her. She jerked her head slightly to the side, indicating to the empty space beside her in a silent plea that Daryl understood.

The flimsy bed groaned under his weight as he settled down beside her. They both lay on their backs facing up at the ceiling, not touching but close enough to feel each slight shift the other made. Carol thought she should be mortified that she had woken him up, but she found it hard to stay embarrassed around him for long. He put on airs of being a tough, indestructible fighter, but during his search for Sophia and in the aftermath she found herself catching glimpses of who he was beneath his hard outer shell: sweet, kind, and endlessly forgiving. Forgiving to everyone but himself. Thunder cracked around them almost in perfect sync with the bright flashes of lightning.

"Sophia hated thunderstorms," she heard herself say.

Daryl didn't respond, but she nonetheless knew he was listening. He had an uncanny ability to do what everyone else in the camp was failing miserably at: allowing her to move through her grief at her own pace. He didn't badger her relentlessly about if she had slept or how much she ate or how she was feeling, like Lori, and he didn't fidget uncomfortably when she talked about Sophia like Glenn and Rick. Instead, he quietly listened to her speak or just let her be silent when needed.

"Hated them. Ever since she was a baby. She wouldn't sleep unless I was there with her."

Daryl remained silent, but chanced a glance over at her. She felt his eyes on her silently encouraging her on, and she continued,

"She was a good baby. Hardly ever cried, really, but during storms like this she would scream herself hoarse. I even took her to the doctor once. I thought the change in the air pressure might have been hurting her ears or something, but for whatever reason, she just hated storms."

Daryl nodded, his eyes still on her, and she fell silent. She had said all she wanted to, and he had listened to her without that furrowed look of pity everyone seemed to wear whenever she spoke, just acceptance and understanding in his face. It struck her suddenly that she was the only one left in the world who carried any lasting memory of Sophia. She had no photos, not even a pen and paper to write down all the little details about her she was desperate to remember. Tears clouded her eyes again and she turned away from Daryl onto her side, determined that he wouldn't see her cry again that night. Crying in her sleep was something she couldn't avoid, but crying while awake was a vulnerability she wasn't ready to expose.

Carol bunched up the blankets in her fists and was patting the wetness under her eyes when she felt Daryl shift beside her. Gently, so gently she almost didn't register it at first, he placed a tentative hand on her waist under the blanket. Carol froze for a moment, as equally unaccustomed to physical closeness as he was, but then allowed herself to relax slightly into him. He snaked his hand around her and pulled her close until she was fitted snugly into the crook of his body. His warm breath brushed lightly over the back of her neck, causing the short hairs there to stand up and sent pleasant goosebumps prickling all along her exposed skin. Daryl, mistaking her goosebumps for a chill, briefly broke his grip on her to hitch the blankets up around her shoulder before wrapping his arm back around her.

Carol didn't know the last time she had been held like that. Not as a suffocating apology, not with an ulterior motive, for no reason other than pure, unadulterated closeness and comfort. A faint smile flashed across her lips and, despite the howling storm outside, she quickly fell into a deep, peaceful sleep for the first time in as long as she could remember.

Daryl hardly saw Carol at all the next day, except for a brief few minutes at dinner during which they barely even had time for eye contact, let alone a conversation. He had woken to hunt early as usual, still wrapped protectively around her, but when it became clear the thunderstorm had subsided he had forced himself to rise and face the day. Carol's soft, relaxed body curled vulnerably into him stirred something deep and hidden within him, but he did his best to ignore it. Her sleepy, petulant sigh when he eased his arm out from under her head was almost enough to coax him to stay, but he nonetheless had slung his crossbow over his shoulder and headed out to face the day.

All day Daryl ran the implications of the previous night through his head, and all day he kept coming up with fuzzy conclusions. Above all, however, he desperately hoped that Carol wouldn't think he had any dishonest intentions in mind. He was content to provide her the comfort she wanted, and that was all.

When he found himself back at her trailer door that night he expected to see his bedding laid out as usual, but stopped short halfway through the doorway when he realized the floor was bare. His face burned and a knot formed in his stomach. Had he misunderstood her? Was this her way of telling him to leave her alone? Daryl swallowed hard and was just turning to go when something caught the corner of his eye. His blanket was folded neatly on the end of her bed and his pillow was propped up next to hers. Daryl let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he kicked off his boots. Relief flooded his chest and spread to his fingertips as he quietly made his way to the bed. He tried his best to get into bed without disturbing her, but the mattress groaned enough to wake her slightly and she turned to face him while he settled in.

"Sorry," he muttered, maneuvering until he was flat on his back on the edge of the bed, giving her a respectable amount of space.

"Hmm," was Carol's sleepy reply. Her eyes fluttered closed again and he felt her hand lightly brush his in what he took as an accident at first, but then her fingers gently coiled around his and he returned her light squeeze. Giving a slight, sleepy smile that spread heat through his veins, she just barely rested her head on his shoulder and let out a contented sigh.

"G'night," she murmured, so softly he almost didn't catch it.

"Night," he said. Daryl stared at the ceiling, wide awake, trying to make sense of what was happening. Whatever it was, it was something he couldn't bring himself to fight against, but he was having a hard time wrapping his mind around it. He had never even had a close female friend, let alone one who invited him to bed for the sake of… comfort? Cuddling? He'd never even seen anything like that in movies or television without something more happening, which was an idea he wasn't even allowing himself to entertain. Deep down he knew that if she were to make a move he wouldn't push back, but overtly thinking of Carol in that way felt somehow like he was violating her.

Carol's breathing pattern was uneven enough that he knew she was still somewhere between waking and sleeping. He briefly considered saying something, asking her what she needed from him, but his courage faltered as soon as he opened his mouth because she sighed again and wiggled closer. She was pressed flush and warm into his side, her one leg slightly propped up over his, as if she was trying to shield him just as much as he was trying to comfort her. Daryl let out a heavy breath and shook his head slightly. Rather than running through endless possibilities in his mind, he decided to just let it go and instead focus on helping her sleep through the night for as long as she needed.

Daryl gave in to her touch by turning his head into her hair, inhaling her sweet, soapy, impossibly clean scent and allowing himself to finally relax. His last thoughts before drifting off were a vague realization that for as much as she needed him, he was starting to need her right back.

Each day that passed was more or less the same as the last, the hours bleeding into days that bled into weeks. Dale kept diligent track of the calendar, but no one else really cared. The day to day operations at the farm hardly changed, and every night Daryl would crawl into Carol's bed and fall asleep with her head on his chest, or their hands intertwined, or curled protectively around her. There is little else more intimate than sleeping with someone, trusting them enough to allow yourself to become so vulnerable and defenceless, but for all their shared intimacy, they rarely talked much. Carol occasionally shared a brief snippet or story about Sophia just before drifting off, and Daryl sometimes remarked on the day's events when climbing into bed. Other than that they were mostly silent, usually finding words to simply be unnecessary when a gentle squeeze or light touch would suffice.

It didn't take long for Daryl to discover that dragging his fingertips lightly up and down her arms was the quickest way to calm her even if she was still asleep. The screaming nightmares that woke both of them up came fewer and further between, but she still usually woke him once or twice in the night with wet, trembling tears landing on his arms and chest. When she did wake she never said what her nightmare had been about, but from her frantic sleep talking Daryl generally understood. Sophia was the most common theme, but the rare ones involving Ed were the worst.

"Shhh, shhh," Daryl would whisper into her temple when she thrashed and screamed during particularly bad nights. "Jus' a dream, jus' a dream, jus' a dream." He repeated this mantra over and over between telling her she was safe and lightly stroking her arms, shoulders, and back until her sobs became slow, even breaths again.

Once, when Carol's screamed loud enough to wake herself up and he had drawn her close, she, so lightly he almost didn't register it, pressed her lips softly to the hollow of his neck. Daryl's eyes flew open and he inhaled sharply as electricity shot through to his toes from the point where she had kissed him. He realized with a flush that there was no way Carol could have missed the way his body suddenly went rigid, and he was embarrassingly sure she could feel his heartbeat quicken. Carol just snuggled a little closer and breathed a simple phrase:

"Thank you."

Daryl swallowed and nodded, pressing his face into her hair and hoping to absorb some of her sorrow.

"You're…" she murmured as her breathing evened out again, "a good…"

Her sentence trailed off as her breaths came in light snores almost comically fast, and Daryl couldn't help a small smile creeping over his face. He chanced a quick kiss against her forehead, then curled his hand around the back of her neck and held her close until the sun rose again.