Hello there!

This is a series of one-shots that are all about my most favourite TV couple. If you're not a stone cold Caryl fan, I can assure you this isn't for you. I love those two (LOVE), and I'm very impatiently awaiting their reunion next season.

I've noticed a slow-down in Caryl fics since the back half of season 4 aired, and although I can totally understand how the inspiration is lacking right now, I want us Carylers to keep faith! It's not over! I truly believe we're being dragged through the mud for a reason...a good one. And no, I don't think Daryl and Beth are "meant for each other" (for many reasons, the least of which has to do with Beth's age) - and if you want to hear me go on about it, I'll post one reason per chapter of this little one-shot series : P

I really want to write a reunion piece, but I, like so many, am drawing a complete blank. I have no clue whatsoever what their reunion might be like. It's a complete mystery - which is only fueling the anticipation (clever, clever TWD writers).

Anyhow, I hope you enjoy these little pieces...I have quite a few ideas that I want to get through, I just have to write them. So please let me know what you think, and if you have any ideas for what you'd like to read about, let me know and I'll see what I can cook up : )

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. I own nothing having to do with TWD or anyone/anything related to it.

KEEP THE CARYL PRIDE ALIVE! ; )

This little ficlet takes place in the prison. Daryl had gone out hunting and returned quite injured, with cuts and scrapes all over his back, but refused anyone's help to clean them up. Enjoy!

Carol made her way to the shower room, bucket in hand. She was feeling particularly stubborn today, not having slept the last few nights on account of Judith, and she was determined to get her way.

She peeked inside and saw him there, his back to her, as he peeled off his shirt slowly, wincing along the way.

"Need some help?" she asked softly, trying, unsuccessfully, not to startle him.

"No," he said curtly as he spun around, holding his shirt up to his chest in an attempt to cover as much of the surface area as possible.

She tilted her head to the side, having expected this type of reaction. But she'd seen his scars – he knew she had – so there was nothing there that would frighten her away.

"Hershel said you were cut up pretty bad. We need to clean your cuts, Daryl." She worked at keeping her voice soft and patient, even though she wanted to slap him silly.

"I can do it myself," he grunted.

Carol inhaled for a beat and sighed loudly.

"Daryl," she began, stepping towards him.

He didn't move away, which was a good sign. He only stood there, still as a statue, and looked into her eyes as she spoke to him.

"If we don't clean the cuts on your back properly, they can get infected. You've made it this far. Do you really want to be taken down by an infection you caught from a little scrape?"

She let her voice take on a teasing tone so that he didn't feel like she was nagging him. In reality, Hershel had said one cut in particular was quite deep and needed attention right away.

Daryl could feel her concern for him, he always could. He felt that her concern for him ran a different course than it did for everyone else. Not deeper, necessarily, but certainly different. He knew because it's how he felt for her. He loved everyone in their group, he knew he did, but Carol was placed in her own little compartment. Her own little place separate from everyone else, where no one could understand the attachment he felt to her, and no one could dare to touch it.

But still, he didn't budge. He remained entirely silent, looking at her.

She stared back, her eyes softening with her concern. Suddenly her short fuse didn't seem so short anymore.

Something was up with him, she could sense it. He seemed self-conscious. Nervous. Weary.

"Daryl," she whispered, trying to urge him on.

He took a breath, but still wouldn't move.

"It's me," she said, barely more than a whisper.

He knew she'd seen them before. He knew she'd suffered her own version of what he'd suffered. He knew she would never judge him or hurt him, or make him feel like less of a person. He knew he was safe with her.

But he was painfully aware in that very moment of just how important she was. Sure, she'd seen his scars, she knew vaguely what they meant about his life, but if he turned around and let her clean his brand new cuts, she'd be up close and personal with the old ones. Examining them. Thinking about them.

He'd come so far. He'd become a person he could say he liked. He was happy, whatever that meant in this new world. He didn't want to mix the old with the new. He didn't want to get Carol all jumbled up with his demons. He wanted her here, in the prison, at the end of the world, in this made-up sanctuary he held for her, where she only knew the new Daryl. The good Daryl.

He loved the way she looked at him. Loved the way she made him feel like he mattered. Like he was precious to someone – to her.

Her eye caught something on his chest and he knew exactly what she'd seen. He moved quickly to cover it with his shirt so that she couldn't think any more about it, but her hand flew up and caught his wrist, halting his action.

He ground his teeth together, feeling more exposed than ever, his glare begging her to drop it.

She brought her other hand up, her gentle touch like a feather over the raised skin of the scar, her eyes curious on the mark. She recognized it. She knew without a shadow of a doubt, it was a cigar burn.

His free hand flew up then, grasping her wrist firmly, making her stop.

She pulled her hands away from him then, surrendering to his need to not be touched.

And before he knew it, her face changed and things happened fast after that.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. His eyes flitted briefly to the movement of her fingers before scrutinizing her face once more.

She tentatively held the hem of her shirt before a steely resolve flashed in her eyes. In one swift motion, she brought it over her head and tossed it down beside the bucket.

She couldn't look at him for a moment. It was like she was talking to herself, inside her head. Telling herself something. He couldn't read her.

His eyes travelled on their own accord across her body. He tried not to look, but his efforts were wasted. He took in the swell of her breasts over her worn cotton bra, gulping at the fact that she was suddenly standing in front of him without a shirt on.

He had no idea what she wanted, what she was doing, but he didn't even care to stop it. He knew he should be some sort of gentleman, tell her no and make her cover up, but he just didn't want to. His walls were crumbling.

When he looked back at her face, her eyes were on his.

He almost felt bad that he was caught with his eyes on her like that, but he decided that he didn't care if she knew how he felt – how he wanted her.

He swallowed hard, wondering what on earth was supposed to happen next.

She turned around then, her back to him, and he saw the rise and fall of her shoulders and she inhaled and exhaled deeply.

She didn't say anything though, and his gaze travelled down her back, his throat catching at what he saw there.

He brought his hand up without thinking, his fingers ghosting on three little round scars he saw in a cluster, just under her bra strap.

She shivered lightly at his touch, letting out a breath of air she didn't realize she was holding, and smiled slightly at the feather-lightness of it. Despite what she was showing him, his touch brought her an odd sense of peace.

"Cuban cigars from one of his buddies," she practically spat out the last word.

He paused in his touch, his eyes travelling up to the back of her head.

He did this to her. The filth that called himself a man, a husband, a father. He put these marks on his Carol. Daryl ground his teeth together. He always knew it was happening, right from the moment he laid eyes on the Peletiers at the quarry, but the physical evidence of it turned his stomach.

His hand moved to another mark, this one bigger, and not raised like the others. Instead, it was a discoloration. A birth mark?

"Boiling water," she said softly, as if she'd heard his unspoken question.

He let his fingers linger there a second, reigning in his anger, his frustration, at what she'd suffered in her life.

His eye caught one more mark, further down, close to the waistline of her pants. This one was longer, and jagged, the skin raised. It was a cut, he knew that for sure. It ran from the middle of her back off to the side a bit, barely over the skin on her waist.

He traced it with his thumb, gently, as though it still hurt her.

She closed her eyes and swallowed before answering.

"That one," she took a breath, "was from a particularly rough night when he used to make me…"

Her voice trailed off and she didn't finish, shaking her head against the memory of it.

"I never could get the blood out of those sheets," she finished quietly.

Daryl's hand lingered there on her waist for a moment before dropping down to his side, and he looked, again, at the back of her head.

She turned around to face him again and looked up at him, her eyes slightly glassy.

He didn't say anything, though. There was nothing to say. He just looked.

"Turn around, I'll get started," she finally spoke, breaking the intense silence between them. She knew he wouldn't want to dwell on it, or talk it out, so she got on with it. And she was right. He wanted no such thing. Not because he didn't care, but because he didn't know what to say.

She understood him, that much was true. He could see it in the way she was so apprehensive to take off her shirt, to show him her own scars. Their demons were probably cousins, having picnics in the park and family reunions.

He said nothing, but let his gaze linger on hers as he turned around. She moved to soak the cloth in the water she had laced with antiseptic, wringing it out a bit, and stood up to face his cut-up back.

She gasped at the sight of the scars he wore, grateful that she had barely made a sound.

Carol swallowed back the lump in her throat.

She had seen them before, but not in such light. Not so close. She saw every single one, now, and new he was so very little when he got his very first one. The thought made her sick.

"This might sting a little," she said, in hopes that she wouldn't make him feel any more self-conscious than he already was. She refused to address the marks. She'd pretend they weren't even there.

He said nothing, fearing that he would say the wrong thing, or worse, burst into tears at the sheer intensity of the moment.

She applied the wet cloth gently to the first of his scrapes, and he flinched a little.

Carol smirked at his reaction.

"Told you, you big baby," she teased.

She heard him chuckle, and smiled to herself as she worked.

But she couldn't see the smile that spread on his face, or feel the tension leave his body at her words.

It was done, and there was nothing he could do about it. They were tethered to one another now, it was almost palpable.

As they stood there together, with his back on full display to her in broad daylight, there in the shower stalls of the prison they now called home, he felt himself change.

He felt the way his chest expanded to make more room for her. And as far as he was concerned, she had crawled right in and made herself a home there.

There you have it, the first one!

I wasn't sure how to write it in, but I liked the idea of them standing there without shirts on while she cleaned him up. Both totally exposed to one another. I love them (have I mentioned that already?) ; )