I've never tried to write fanfic before (heck, I haven't written fiction at all since I was last forced to in ninth grade English class), but here goes. I have no idea what kind of relationship Daryl and Carol have/will have, but I think it's very sweet and wanted to try out a little scene that hopefully sounds canon. Critique very much appreciated!

This takes place after the Season 3 finale.

During the day, he was as impassive and able as always, carrying on like the rest, helping the refugees settle into their new quarters.

At night, he cried. And she knew.

In the jarring (though not altogether unwelcome) chaos of moving in the new residents, the group had been forced to make some temporary rearrangements, and the two of them were sharing a small, one-bunk room. He took the bottom cot; she suspected that it would have made him uncomfortable to be in a spot from which he couldn't spring into action at a moment's warning. After all, he did sleep in his clothes, although she wasn't entirely sure if that was due to a need for readiness, or simply because of her feminine presence.

But despite her being there, if she awoke at a certain time of night she would feel the posts of the bed shaking slightly, and hear him sobbing quietly, almost soundlessly. The first time, although it hurt her to recognize the desperately stifled grief of a person who had learned to keep his suffering to himself for fear of ridicule or worse, she had remained still and uncomfortably alert until his ragged breathing faded into the calmer rhythm of sleep.

The next time she became aware of it was several days later. She awoke at that same silent time of night cursing her need to slink off to the bathroom. She could hear him again, and winced as she sensed him going still and quiet the moment she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the top bunk. On the return trip, she paused in the miserable silence, unsure of herself, her bare feet shifting nervously on the cool concrete floor. Before she could change her mind, she reached a gentle hand to where his shoulder must be. His whole body tensed as her fingers made contact. She leaned over to kiss his dusty hair, and stroked it once like she used to stroke her daughter's when she was sick and scared. Then she straightened up, and climbed back into her own bed.

Late the next night, she heard the baby crying across the cellblock. She waited a moment, and, hearing no one else stirring, stumbled groggily to the floor. She was only a few steps away from the doorway when she heard Beth's soothing murmur from inside the baby's room. She yawned and turned back, eyes already drooping half shut. But a step away from the bed, a questing hand reached out to take ahold of her wrist. Now it was her turn to jump with surprise, but she let him take her hand and pull her gently towards him. She sat on the edge of the cot, and took his rough hand in both of hers. And then he wept. He wept for a long time, shaking with grief and anger and relief as she silently held his hand, fingers intertwined with his. And the next morning, long after his sobs had ceased and she had placed his relaxed arm softly by his side, the quick glance that he gave her over breakfast told her that at least a minor weight had been lifted from his shoulders.