“i got it,”

was all Daryl had to say for you to back off, holding your hands up in mock surrender.

wounded in his side (by his own arrow), and nearly shot in the head, you had been appointed ‘nurse’ for him.

yet still, you accepted the position, knowing he would do the same for you.

now here he sat in Hershel’s guest bed, struggling to slip on a thin tank top and cover the bandages wrapped around his torso; denying your assistance.

without thinking, Daryl turned his bare back to you, only for a moment, flashing deep scars and pink outlines that looked old. they were fully healed, yes— but in a mangled, rather gruesome-looking pattern.

almost immediately noticing them as the result of abuse, your heart broke for the man in front of you.