Changing To Adapt ➵ TWD

➵ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ᴛᴡᴏ

"I found it washed up on the creek bed right there."

Daryl points to the map, laid out crookedly on the borrowed bed.

It had taken a few hours for Daryl to screw his head on straight and flush whatever toll his injury put on him. But he was as determined as ever the second he let Hershel put a thread and needle to his wound.

Spread on his side, head propped up in his hands, Daryl winces when the next stitch slides through.

"Cuts the grid almost in half," Rick says, following his pointed finger.

"Yeah, you're welcome."

An ice pack sits on the ceramic of the sink as Lucas dips a washcloth back and forth from the water to his face, washing Daryl's blood off his cheek.

"How's he looking?" Rick asks, settling back.

Hershel finishes the last stitch, straightening up to put his equipment away.

"l had no idea we'd be going through the antibiotics so quickly." He glances at Daryl, "Any idea what happened to my horse?"

Lucas opens his mouth to explain, but Daryl's quicker to retort.

"Yeah, the one who almost killed me? If it's smart, it left the country."

Lucas rolls his eyes, dragging the rough cloth back over his jaw.

"We call that one Nelly. As in nervous Nelly. I could've told you she'd throw you if you'd asked."

Hershel throws a pointed glance at Daryl.

Lucas splashes his face, wiping the droplets off as he turns around. "I found her not far into the woods." He starts to explain, exchanging the cloth for a dry hand towel. "Then lost her again."

"Took off when I knocked him on his ass." Daryl grunts in Lucas's direction without looking. He scowls when he thinks about the horse. "It didn't like me much."

"Thanks for that." Lucas deadpans, the ache still very much there when he settles himself on a chair beside Shane. "Nelly was heading this way last time I saw her. Sorry."

Hershel dries his hands, eyeing the two of them. "Were there any more injuries you were neglecting to tell me about?"

"Nah," Lucas shakes his head, looking at the wallpaper on the wall.

Hershel tilts his head.

Lucas glances at a stern Rick, then again towards Hershel, but remains stubborn. If a simple bruise keeps him grounded like his fever had, he'll lose his mind.

With a grunt, Daryl double-crosses him, "Think I got 'im in the side." He says, staring up at the ceiling and fingering at a hole in the blanket.

Face smoothing out into a betrayed frown, Lucas narrows his eyes at the man on the bed. When he turns his head and looks up, there's a matching disappointment from both fathers in the room. 

Lucas rolls his eyes, "Fuckin' hell." He says under his breath but leans back in his seat to hitch his shirt up.

Rick sighs, peering around Hershel to have a look himself.

The bruising hasn't begun, but the vivid red across his ribs, the beginnings of a purple-ish hue, and the sharp pains accompanied by slight movements are a dead giveaway.

The old man tuts and Lucas suddenly feels like a scolded child.

"It's nothing, really. Jus' looks bad."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Watching Hershel press and prod at the kid's ribs, Daryl chews hard on his fingernail. He can see the way Lucas bites his tongue to hold back any sort of reaction.