A simple supply hunt for a source of water in the middle of Atlanta turns sour quickly for Erin as she come fist to face with a fuming, handless Merle Dixon.
Alone in the middle of the apocalypse with only a racist guy who doesn't know the differen...
"We are only as blind as we want to be." - Maya Angelou
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By the time Daryl came round, the aroma of cooked venison had already been swimming around the room for more than half an hour, making Erin's mouth water at the prospect of a decent meal for the first time in months. She'd been left with the job of keeping an eye on the unconscious man in front of her while Patricia went to help the cooks and Hershel went to do whatever Hershel did.
Originally, he'd gone outside to have a few choice words with Rick, but it seemed he'd got side-tracked along the way as he never returned, leaving her to mull over her past interactions with the younger Dixon in the silence that hung in the air, only interrupted by the soft snores from his sleeping form.
This was the most peaceful she'd ever seen him. Clean-faced and asleep, Daryl almost looked normal; like he hadn't been fighting off the dead daily since long before their minds could recall. She could barely remember what the world was like before the chaos - she didn't know if she ever would - but her greatest wish was that they could return to that life some day. She was tired of living like this...
That realisation made her annoyed at how petty she used to be, and how self-centred her thoughts had been in the past few days. She was spending her time being angry at people when really they should be helping each other to survive instead of promoting death within the camp.
The rhythm of Daryl's breaths altered slightly, picking up speed as his body twitched against the thin mattress that suspended it. In his half-asleep state, he seemed to try and turn on his side, his eyes immediately shooting open as the movement put pressure on his bandaged wound, "Gah!"
Erin breathed out some form of snigger through her nose as he turned his head towards her, grabbing his side as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and anger, "The hell?!"
He made a move to sit up, but she hastily leaned forward, placing a hand on his chest and forcing him back, "Don't move so quickly. You'll pull out the stitches-"
"Stitches? The hell'd I need stitches for?" He'd reined in his anger considerably in those few seconds as he realised who was beside him, but a dazed confusion still rang clearly in his voice. A twinge of meekness hinted at the edges of his words, his eyes seeming to avoid hers as he possibly fought between not wanting to look at her but having to so he didn't offend her further.
"You had half a bolt jammed in your side for some fucking reason and a bullet skimmed your head..." The mention of the other injury prompted him to raise a hand to his forehead, fingers skimming over the stitches she'd put there. "Don't mess with them." He pulled his hand back and gave her a look that said 'really?', "I'm serious. You pull them out and I'll have to stab you repeatedly in the forehead with a needle again... and you won't be unconscious this time..."
"I walked around with a bolt in my ribs for ages. I ain't scared of a needle and thread," he scoffed, crossing his arms and wincing slightly at the pull at his side.
