AN: I saw this prompt on NineLives by jlo1013 and couldn't pass it up. I am not sure that I did it any justice at all, but it's just a little something cute. I hope it fills the prompt.

I own nothing from the Walking Dead.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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His stench burned her nostrils.

All of them were clean. Their hair was clean. Their skin was clean. The clothes that they were wearing were clean. Sheets and blankets and most of the things in the house—it was all clean. It was the first time that any of them had been this surrounded by cleanliness in too long to remember.

On the road it was easy to ignore the smells. All of them stank, when they were honest with themselves. The half-ass baths they took with what little water was available, and soap only when they could find it, did very little to relieve them of the stench of sweat and smoke and dirt and Walker. It was in their clothes, it was in their hairs, and it seemed to drip out of their pores.

That was why, enjoying the luxury of Alexandria, every one of them had put aside everything else long enough to stand under the spray of scalding hot water and scour themselves almost to rawness. Haircuts had been doled out, razors had been dulled, and toothbrushes had scrubbed until their bristles were almost flat. Some of them, even, went above and beyond the cleaning process to almost over clean themselves, but the feeling was too glorious to give up. It was like, in some ways, being reborn.

When Carol had first stepped out of the shower, her skin red from scrubbing and hot water, and dried herself off with a towel, she'd almost orgasmed simply over the feeling of her smooth legs under her palms and the fact that, for the first time in ages, there wasn't enough mystery sludge under her fingernails to stain them black.

The cleanliness was glorious and they all partook of it.

Everyone, of course, except Daryl.

For whatever reason, he was behaving like a petulant child. He was holding on, with both hands no less, to something from the outside. He was refusing to bathe. He was refusing to change his clothes or brush his teeth. He was refusing it all as though getting rid of the stench and the built up grime would, somehow, make him softer to the world around him. It was as though he believed that the layer of dirt and other questionable ingredients that was crusting over him was an added layer of protection against everything surrounding them.

And his stench, in contrast to the cleanliness around her, was burning Carol's nostrils.

She had threatened him already, on the porch and earlier in the day, that if he didn't do something about the filth, she was going to take care of it. He'd ignored her. He was sure she was bluffing. He'd held strong to the fact that he wasn't going to "look ridiculous" by putting on anything that the community had to offer. And though she wouldn't hold it against him if he didn't want to do what she was doing, and assume something of a secret identity, she couldn't see where it would hurt to simply accept a basic shirt and some pants. His, after all, would probably run away if he'd let them off his body for even a moment.

He'd come slinking to bed too, trailing his cloud of filth after him like he was Pigpen, and had expected that she wouldn't notice that he'd ignored her declaration that it was time to get intimately acquainted with a bar of soap. His clumsy knocking around, for all his attempts to keep anyone else in the house from knowing where it was that he wanted to pass the night, had woken her first, but his smell would have done the job if he'd been quiet.

As soon as Carol had felt him press on the mattress, finding it in the dark, she'd sat up.

"No," she said, her tone not too much different than if she were telling an animal to stay off the furniture. Of course, if he was going to insist on smelling like an animal, he should probably expect to be talked to like one. "You're not sleeping in this bed. Not smelling like that."

Silence in the darkness. He wasn't gone though. She'd have heard him leaving or she'd have gotten a breath or two of fresh air from his stench exiting the room.

"Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?" Daryl asked, finally.

Carol shifted around on the mattress.

"Outside smelling like that," she said. "I told you to take a shower."

"I did," Daryl said. Carol heard the sound of him sniffing. "Don't smell bad."

"You've burned out your nostrils and you can't smell anymore," Carol said. "You're used to the smell, but it smells a lot worse out here in the land of cleanliness."

"Whose damn fault is that?" Daryl asked.

"What exactly do you have against a bath?" Carol asked. He didn't respond. "If you wanted—I'd take one with you? Hold your hand—make sure that nothing happened."

A snort then.

"Forget it," he said. He shuffled away—he bumped away—he was leaving, but he wouldn't go too far. He'd never go too far. Knowing Daryl, he would go back downstairs. He'd take her first piece of advice and he'd sleep on the porch. But he wouldn't do it because he smelled, or at least that's not why he would say he was doing it. He'd do it because, according to him, he couldn't sleep that well with a roof over his head. Not anymore.

The truth of the matter, though, was that Carol thought he'd have slept just fine right there with her—among the blankets and pillows—if only he'd have taken a bath that might give her the incentive to make sure that he had some sweet dreams.

"I'm gonna hose you off in your sleep," Carol called after him, not loud enough to wake anyone else.

"Whatever," he gruffed back, calling her bluff again.

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It was a shame that she was dirtying herself, scrambling around the house in the darkness, but she could bathe again. It wouldn't bother her at all to wash off whatever dirt and mess she was picking up. She found the garden hose without much effort—wound up on a hook against the wall—and she unwound it. She twisted the main valve and tested the water. It worked. All the water in this place worked. They had more water here than they even dreamed of on the road. She twisted off the valve on the hose to hold the water back and she pulled it with her as she made her way around to the front of the house.

For being the tracker and hunter that he was, Daryl Dixon was a solid sleeper. He could keep watch for them any night because he was good at staying awake when he was dedicated to it, but he was good at sleeping, too, if that's what he was dedicated to doing.

Carol had slipped out the front door and found him curled up, just like she'd suspected he might be, on one of the rough blankets that he'd claimed for his own. Not appreciating him calling her bluff at all, she'd gone back inside and got everything she needed—a bar of soap, a bottle of dish soap, and one of the scrubbing brushes that was supposed to be used for scrubbing the floor. All of that was waiting for her, to the side, while she'd gone to fetch the water hose.

Carol carefully dragged the hose up the porch steps and quietly laid it down. She didn't want to wake him. Too soon and she'd never make this happen. She carefully popped the lid on the dish detergent and lowered herself close enough to him that she could generously squeeze it on him without waking him. The smell of green apple was already a huge step up from what he had to offer. And the dish detergent, at least, would stick to him well enough to get some of the grime off—even if he stopped her before she scrubbed him clean.

Carol put the brush and the bar of soap close to him on the porch and then she finally went for the hose. She had a matter of seconds, the way that she saw it, to get in there and get things done. It wasn't going to turn out perfect, but at least her point would be made.

And Daryl would know to take her seriously.

Carol turned the water on and Daryl sprang up, scrambling about, the moment that the cold water hit him. Carol couldn't choke back her laughter and she immediately launched herself at him. She grabbed for the soap and it slid across the porch, so she took the brush instead. She started scrubbing, clothes and all, as she wrestled with a surprised Daryl who had just been roused from his sleep.

The hose was still running, still soaking them both, and the slightest agitation was calling suds out of the dish detergent. Daryl wrestled with her, spitting some curses at her as he did, and Carol surprised herself by realizing that she couldn't choke back her laughter. Despite the fact that she was soaked in the cold water, and every bit as covered in bubbles as he was, something inside of her thought it was the most hilarious thing that had ever happened in her life.

And then something else happened.

The wrestling continued, but the cursing stopped. Slowly, the wrestling didn't seem like wrestling. Little by little, the intensity of it died down. Daryl's hands were still on her—they were still all over her—but now they weren't trying to get her off. They weren't trying to throw her off and put distance between them. Instead, it felt like he was pulling her closer to him. He was pulling her against him. He rolled, pinning her to the porch, and she shifted enough for him to find a comfortable position where neither of them would be injured. Caught up in whatever it was—because she was afraid to let her mind run away with her and imagine what it might be—Daryl moved and created his own friction between them. He ground into her and she held her breath. The hardness of the wooden porch floor beneath her wasn't uncomfortable enough to make her cry out against the feeling of Daryl's body grinding against hers—searching for something. Something that wasn't the bath that she'd intended it to be.

She breathed out words to him, her laughter stopped entirely now, but even she wasn't sure what she said. He responded, but she didn't understand the words he said either. He repeated the gesture and she struggled to change her position—seeking one that was more pleasurable than the one that she had, sure that he wouldn't mind as long as he didn't lose the possession of her body that he'd gained in the tussle.

"What the..." Glenn's voice called out and caused a shock for Carol that was greater than the cold water brought.

The second shock for Carol came in the form of the cold water being lavishly splashed over her body again as Glenn lifted the hose that was abandoned and running over the porch. He used it to soak both of them. The only thing that saved Carol from the shock of it was the fact that Daryl's body, warm against hers, was blocking most of the flood of water. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a matter of minutes, Glenn stopped the spray of water by twisting the valve on the hose once more. He stood there, over them both and visible only for the light that was glowing out of the doorway behind him, and shook his head.

"Get a room," Glenn said with some humor in his voice. "Before I have to turn the hose on you both again."