"May I help you with that?"

Daryl looked up as if slapped at Hershel's words. The old vet was standing in the open door of his cell, holding back the curtain with one hand and smiling at him. "'m good, I got it, thanks", he mumbled, blushing. He wanted to kick himself for not paying attention at all - it could have been anyone approaching his cell, and he was sitting here shirtless.

"May I come in for a house call?" Hershel persisted, still smiling.

Of course, even though he was embarrassed as fuck, Daryl would never deny him that and nodded. He started gnawing on the inside of his upper lip. "Mind if I continue here?" he asked, his cheeks and ears growing warm. "'d like ta finish this so I c'n get dressed again."

"Please, not at all, I was going to help if you'd let me."

Daryl turned his attention back to what had had him so engrossed that he hadn't noticed Hershel coming up to his cell, crutches and all. Holding the fresh dressing in place over the ugly, stitched-up five inch gash in his side with the stitches still in and the dark, messy scab still sticking to the wound, he slid the end of the bandage under two equally banged-up fingers to hold it down and started winding it around his waist again. He felt comfortable enough sitting here like this with Hershel but wanted nobody else to see him like this.

Hershel in turn kept his eyes on him, but Daryl knew he wasn't staring or curious but concerned about him as his patient and his friend. When the bandage roll in Daryl's hand had shrunk to roughly half its original size Hershel cleared his throat. Jeez, people would start flocking in here just to check in on his doctor if he kept producing noise like this. "How's the pain?" Hershel asked softly.

Daryl looked up at this, his eyes meeting Hershel's and holding them for what felt like forever. "'s okay, I can manage", Daryl mumbled, and once again felt himself blushing. Hershel was onto him.

"You were supposed to take pain medication for at least one full week. That bottle was too small for a full week, but you haven't come for more." Fuck, the old man sounded disappointed. Daryl's heart sank.

"Ya know I'm not into that shit. Merle was." Tasting blood, Daryl stopped his gnawing and started sucking on his lip instead. "'sides, it's not too bad. I've had worse, don't need that shit."

"May I sit?" Hershel asked, nodding at Daryl's cot.

"Course, no need ta ask", Daryl mumbled. He smoothed the self-adhesive end of the bandage over his side, getting it to stick, and reached out for his shirt which was draped over his pillow, ready to slip into. Stretching hurt his broken ribs, but he managed to limit himself to a grunt which could have meant anything.

Leaning toward him, Hershel all but whispered: "May I?" His hand was raised and hovering just shy of Daryl's left side which displayed rainbow colors from the blue end of the spectrum, with a nearly black area centered over the actual fractures. Daryl could all but feel his skin puckering at the imminent touch, but this was Hershel. He nodded twice, his head turned sideways, his eyes firmly on the edge of his cot and his equally discolored left leg, and braced himself.

As Hershels fingertips brushed across his bruised side, gently seeking out his broken ribs under the skin, he stiffened and held his breath. It wasn't that Hershel's touch was hurting him that badly. No, it was being touched at all, by anyone, after getting hurt like this. After having someone put his hands on him again to cause him harm.

Two days after the run gone so wrong, Carol had told him about the shit that had gone down when Hershel had tried to patch him up in his cell. How he'd made himself look like the world's biggest asshole by thinking Hershel was his dad who had made him hurt like this and was still out for more. How he'd remembered getting beaten and thrown through a window, but not by the goons who had jumped them in that warehouse but by his dad who had probably died long ago, but surely around the Turn at the latest because he would have been drunk out of his fucking mind when meeting his very first walker.

He was still burning with shame just thinking of it. Hershel had never mentioned it when changing his dressings and bandages and regularly checking his cracked collarbone and mistreated joints on his injured left side, but Daryl just knew he had to be disappointed in him.

When checking his bolt wound the day after he'd shot himself, always careful to give Daryl advance warning before touching him and giving him space to move away from his touch when he needed to, Hershel had hinted that he'd received similar treatment, if not quite as prolonged and as violent, as a child.

Mistaking him for his father, imagining that he was reaching out for him to hurt him even more, even while delirious with blood loss, shock and pain, had to have hurt him deeply. Daryl couldn't imagine that he'd ever be able to make up for so grossly insulting a man he admired, a man who'd shown him nothing but kindness and caring ever since he'd met him.

"Does breathing still hurt?" Hershel asked gently, withdrawing his hand. Daryl relaxed slightly and looked to his left, his eyes still down, looking at the gray cement floor and his worn boots now. He just didn't have it in him to meet Hershel's eyes. They'd both been right. He was a damn pussy. His breath hitched in his throat as he found himself thinking of them.

"'s gettin' better", he mumbled. "Can I ... Need ta ..." His good hand went first to the gash in his side and then up to the long, dark old scar running down and across his right collarbone, betraying his need to cover not new but old injuries. As he was still looking down, way too ashamed of himself to even glance at Hershel's face, he missed the look of warm compassion there.

"Of course", Hershel said, his voice almost ... gentle, as if he were talking to a frightened child - which he was, in so many unspoken ways. "But, Daryl?" He waited for the hunter to raise his head slightly, even though he still wasn't anywhere close to meeting his eyes. "Taking your pain medication is not the same as getting drugged out if your mind, and you should know that. When you're in pain your body tenses up to minimize it, and that just makes it worse and you take longer to heal."

He knew that what he was about to say next would hit Daryl where it hurt, so he paused briefly to give him some time to prepare for the blow. When he finally continued, he allowed all of his compassion and care for the younger man to bleed into his voice for once. "We're your friends, Daryl. We care for you, and it hurts us to see you like this. Will you take what the doctor ordered, please?"

Daryl's breath hitched in his throat at this and he blushed fiercely now. He didn't deserve this. He was a piece of shit who had thought Hershel was going to pull his belt on him and on Carol. If Hershel knew for whom he'd taken him ...

Hershel was getting up from his cot. Fumbling, Daryl reached out to help him up, but the old man was already standing again. Damn, he was too slow and stupid for even the most basic shit. His face felt as if it were on fire, and with his blood pounding in his ears he could actually feel all his bruises thrumming in time with his frantic heartbeat.

He reached for his shirt again and quickly put it on, his hands shaking. Rasing his left arm like that still hurt like fuck and he briefly glanced at his left shoulder. The bruise there extended well down his arm and halfway across his chest and back, just like those at his wrist, hip and knee extended a good ways above and below the joints themselves which were all still jarred out of whack from hitting the ground on his left side after falling from the second floor of that damn warehouse.

Seeing him wince in pain, Hershel stopped turning around toward the cell door and asked softly: "You're still sure about the arm? Your collarbone and maybe even your ribs would heal faster, and you'd be in less pain."

"Ain't not gonna wear no damn sling", Daryl almost growled. "'ve had worse without being looked after, 's gonna be okay. Ain't no fuckin' freak show." Still, he reached for his pants with his good arm as Hershel pulled aside the curtain to leave. Hastily, making it sound like an afterthought, as if it didn't matter to him at all, Daryl asked: "C'n I take watch up in the tower again? 'm drowning in people in here. Won't go down to the fence or use the crossbow, neither." As if he had a fucking choice. He wouldn't be able to load the damn thing right now anyway.

Seeing an opening, Hershel looked back over his shoulder. "You can, if you collect your pain medication and actually take it - instead of throwing it out the window." He'd definitely hit a nerve, he saw. Daryl's face was all but glowing from the blush spreading across it. "You come to the warden's room to get it, and take the first two right there - and I'll tell Rick you're cleared for the watch tower."

Defeated, Daryl hung his head and nodded, his long hair falling over his face. He mumbled something as Hershel was stepping through the door and out of his cell. "What was that?"

"Said thank you. 'preciate it."

Smiling slightly to himself, Hershel made his slow and careful way down the stairs, leaving Daryl alone.