"The hell is that?" he asks her that morning, watching her slip the thin length of fabric from her small pack. He leans against the door of the cell she and Lori share, snacking on a small packet of food she'd given him during watch.
She looks down at the scarf in her hands, at it's pretty pattern and colors, a minute smile tilting on corner of her mouth. "It's nothing," she answers, strangely embarrassed. Her cheeks don't heat, but she feels an echo of the blush brewing under her skin. "Just something I found awhile back, during winter."
His eyes flick to her face, watching intently. He may not say much in the way of words, but his eyes are expressive in the way they squint at her sometimes. It's his thinking face, and that coupled with the way he's starting to chew at his thumb means he's thinking about something he'd rather not have at the front of his mind.
"'S nice," is all he says.
She pauses in her folding, meaning to put it back in the pack now that her other things are put away; meets his eyes before they flick away again. Her gaze falls back down to the scarf, and she remembers a conversation, way back when the group was still getting used to one another, scavenging in the trunks of cars on the highway. Before the farm. Before the loss of her daughter. She'd taken a simple red top, held it to her body and had admired it. She remembers Lori staring at her in disbelief, silently questioning her priorities on something so frivolous.
Ed never let me have nice things, she'd told other woman in quiet defense. She'd felt a deep flash of shame because it was just another indication of how he'd controlled her life.
But now she smiles again, shaking the fabric out before lifting her arms with it in her hands. As Daryl watches, still gnawing at his thumb, her fingers deftly wrap it around her head in a makeshift turban. When she's done, she skims the pads of her fingertips along it's edge across her forehead. "You're right," she says, moving around him. "It is nice." She gently touches his bare arm, and it says so much on how far he's come that he only tenses for a split second. "Thank you for noticing."
He stops biting, holding her eyes. "'S'nothing." The man looks away, adjusting his crossbow across his back. "We'd better head out there, Rick 'n T-Dog are already settin' things up." One calloused hand reaches up and squeezes hers, letting go after a moment. "C'mon."
Carol grins at him as he leads the way out, keeping up with him in long strides; footsteps quiet compared to the clomping of his boots on the concrete. She's so proud of him, she thinks. He opens the door first, letting her through before closing it behind them with a sliding klang. She's so proud of the both of them.