Nox: Caryl, and Merle. Maryl. This is a prompt, suggested by letmefallasleep. Check her out, she has a plethora of stories, many in the Walking Dead (I'd suggest American Dream, and Cajun Queen). And really, she's pretty awesome. Thanks letmefallasleep for bringing this on, because even I dove into something that I ended up loving.

Disclaimer: The Dixons and Carol belong to Robert Kirkman and AMC. Even the idea that started this beauty does not belong to me.

Treasured

She couldn't believe it.

He was back.

They'd been arguing about what they were going to do, who was going to go where, what supplies they needed instead. If certain people were actually worth saving. She refused to even think that the group had brought that one up.

Regardless of who it was, it was a matter of family. They wouldn't have talked about it if it were one of Hershel's, or Rick's. It didn't seem to matter that he was the only one who ever went out searching for their lost loved ones, bringing back food when nobody else could find any, and who followed Rick to the end of the world.

No. Because it was Merle Dixon, they had to discuss it. Didn't matter whether Daryl was trapped there, whether he was alive or not, because he was alive, and it sure as hell didn't matter that he had stayed behind so that they could all get out of there alive, god rest Oscar's soul.

Safe.

What mattered was that Daryl wasn't safe, Daryl wasn't with them, and Daryl wasn't able to choose his family. But damned if he didn't love him anyway.

And Carol could understand that.

Family, sometimes, you just didn't choose who you loved. Sometimes, you just loved them.

But somehow, he had escaped. Somehow he'd traveled through walkers upon walkers. Somehow he'd come all that way, beaten, exhausted, hunted by the Governor's men, hunted by walkers, hunted by his own body.

Somehow he'd made it back to them.

"Are you okay?" When she touched his shoulder, he didn't even withdraw from her. He just slumped further, letting his head fall into hands. A heavy breath escaped him.

"Fuck you think? He ain't no pussy. Course he's okay." And then he jerked away from her, almost hitting his head on the bunk above him, as Merle stepped into the cell with them.

She turned to Merle then, eyeing him warily. He leaned against the doorframe, filling it up with his threatening presence.

He'd caused a scene when they all saw him, running right behind Daryl, amidst all those walkers. But between the walkers, the gunfight with the Governor's men who'd followed them and getting Daryl inside and safe, they couldn't object to bringing Merle either.

But once he was inside and the threat outside was taken care of, things turned around.

People had things to say. Maggie didn't want to have anything to do with him. Not after what he'd done to Glenn. And Glenn had drawn his gun on him, hands shaking with rage. Rick had to quell that one, slowly.

And the black woman, with the sword, Michonne; there was no changing her mind, calming her down. She chose to stay outside of the cell block, with the new group. They couldn't take the chance with her, not when she'd drawn her blade and wouldn't put it away. The look in her eyes told Carol she'd take Merle's head clean off if she had the chance.

Hershel was wise enough to draw everyone into the cell block, away from Merle. He had kept Beth away from it all, her curious eyes peering through the bars, watching intently.

Carl had kept a silent vigil next to his father, hand steady against his gun.

And Rick had finally made a shaky peace with everyone; something that Carol was sure was going to break.

Because they were all sure the Governor's men were coming after them, and once they did, she was sure that Merle wasn't going to find a friendly face, not one except his brothers.

And maybe mine.

"Need something Merle?" He squinted at the space between them, eyeballing Daryl momentarily and then took a step toward him. "A hand maybe?" Daryl's eyes widened in shock at her brazen attitude, and Merle looked like he was going to fly off the handle at her. But he grit his teeth and crossed his arms.

Seems like maybe he did learn something at that Woodbury.

"Just checkin' in on my baby brother. Ain't seen'im in a year." He glared at her then, puffing out his chest slightly. She didn't miss the masculine gesture. "That a problem?"

She looked back at Daryl, checking to see if he would have a problem with Merle being there.

"I'm only going to be a moment, just to stitch him up. You can see him after, when I'm finished with you as well." He looked taken aback, eyes slightly widened.

"Don't need nothin' from you woman. Just here to see my brother." She smiled a little, took a step forward.

"You mean since you can't go anywhere else but here and the other cell at the end of the hall?" This time a growl escaped him, and he stepped forward, closing the space between them. He towered over here, so much coming at her from his eyes, the same color as Daryl's. She hadn't known he was taller than Daryl.

And Carol was a little scared of him then.

"Back. Off. Merle." Daryl's voice came from directly behind her, and she could feel his body against her back. Daryl gripped her by the arm and pulled her out the way and behind him.

"Can't I have a minute to get my fuckin' shit together?" He turned then, back to Merle, so he didn't see his brother's face twist up, confusion written all over it. Merle couldn't stop looking from Daryl to Carol and back again.

"Oh I get it, Darylena. You need a minute." Merle laughed, coarse and mocking. "That's all it takes baby brother," he whispered harshly as he left the cell and stomped down the treadway, toward the only other cell he could occupy.

Carol didn't miss Daryl's ears tinting red.

"My brother he's," Daryl searched for the words, unable to find any.

Carol just shook her head, and touched his shoulder again. "He's your brother," she said with feeling. "I know."

He looked up, gratitude thick in his eyes. The shame and embarrassment were gone. She pushed on his shoulder, towards the chair.

He sat, shoulders slumping again. She sat on the bunk this time. Waiting for him to allow her to stitch him up. Sometimes he'd let Hershel do it, if it was an area that was more private than he'd want her to see. But mostly, she was the one who stitched him up now. She suspected he didn't mind her touching him, seeing him shirtless.

She suspected it was the scars.

She'd never seen so many, so many pains against one body. She suspected he had as many on his heart.

"I ain't got nothin' I can't stitch myself." She smiled a little, at the way he tried to dismiss her, at the exhaustion clear in his voice.

"If you don't want me here Daryl, I can leave. But…" She sighed. She had to give him the choice. It was always his choice. "You know I won't leave if you don't want me to either."

It was a moment before he looked her in the eyes, nodded, and started taking off his shirt.

It was always such a slow, agonizing process. And when he pulled it off, it was like she was seeing each of those scars anew, each of them yelling at her, slapping her in the face.

She hated seeing those marks against his flesh. Who could do that to a person? She started to reach out, almost touching one that went jagged down his shoulder blade. It was old and faded, like it had been there for yea-

He turned in the chair, snapping her back, and she saw the dried blood against his side, along the bottom of his ribcage.

"Bullet grazed me." She swallowed hard as he glanced back at her, reading her face.

"Weren't nothin'. Just a graze. Had worse, you know that." She turned to the box of supplies at her side, hiding her face.

"Just another to add ta the collection." She blanched at the admission.

She had tried to tell herself that it was just minor, it wouldn't scar that badly. But to say that it would just be another to add to the collection, like it was something as trivial as a duplicate baseball card, was heartbreaking.

And she hated to hear that. Hated whoever had beaten that type of thinking into him. It wasn't just another scar. It wasn't just another wound. This was his body. This was Daryl.

But.

But each and every scar, every mark, had a story, had a purpose, had a reason. Whether it had been justifiable or not. They had made Daryl the man he was today.

And that was the catch, wasn't it. Without them, he wasn't Daryl. With them, he was Daryl, broken, scarred.

Treasured.

He meant something to her, and he shouldn't have to knock a wound off as just another one.

She placed her hand on his back, unable to resist anymore, and tentatively, gently traced each and every one of the scars, like she had never seen them before. They didn't scare her, they didn't make her pity him. But she would never have wished them on him, on a man who deserved far better.

"Damn woman," he whispered tiredly, not bothered by her touch, "you'd think you'd be used to it by now." His voice was defeated, his body the same.

She leaned forward, and laid her forehead against his back, scars in her face, the smell of sweat and blood wafting in her nose.

But it was the feel of his skin beneath her, rough and jagged, littered by scars, that made her cry, the single tear slipping down her cheek, and dropping onto his back.

"But you shouldn't be," she whispered back, throat thick with emotion.

A/N: On to part 2. This was not part of the prompt, but the actual prompt part comes in the second half. And Merle will be here next!