(AN: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of the characters and I make absolutely no money off of it.)

War Wounds

The sun beat down, hot on the boy's bare back. Running a hand through his muddy, blonde hair, he resumed his inspection of the injured puppy he held on his lap. While he ran his hands carefully through the lab's dark fur, he kept an ear out for the boys he'd rescued it from. Satisfied that the dog would be alright, he rubbed it behind the ears and whispered softly to it.

"Dixon! Hey Dixon!"

Daryl started, jumping up. Quickly dropping the dog in the worn out pick-up behind him, he just managed to reach the back door before he was tackled to the ground.

"The hell is my dog? Don't make me open your mouth for you!" Robert was thirteen, and taller than he should've been, with perfect teeth and clean shorts. Daryl struggled beneath Robert's firm grasp, dust in his eyes. Buttons rained down on him and he realized he'd ripped the older boy's shirt open. Robert realized it at the same time, and Daryl felt a punch connect with his cheekbone, followed by one to the ribs.

But Robert didn't find his dog. When Merle found his little brother lying in the dirt behind the old garage that evening, it was all the explanation Daryl had for him.

"Dumb-ass, riskin' yourself for a mutt." Merle's words were harsh. He was gentler when he checked the cuts on Daryl's torso. The blond boy shrugged.

"The prick had a ring," he offered. Merle raised his eyebrows, fake sympathy across his face.

"Well I'm so sorry, lil' brother. Jesus, you're eight already, ain't ya? Suck it up and handle it. They'll scar over." He poked Daryl in the shoulder, and Daryl slapped his hand away. Merle stood up, watching as Daryl made his way to the pickup and retrieved the puppy he'd hidden earlier. "Besides," Merle said. "They're just war wounds. Wear 'em proud."

He saw the baseball roll out into the street first and swerved to avoid it. Seconds later he was jerking the bike hard to the left, narrowly missing the boy who'd chased the ball onto the gravel road. He missed the kid- he knew that much- but he'd swerved hard enough that he couldn't recover his balance. Going with it the slide and praying he wouldn't hit his head, Daryl clenched his teeth and waited for the bike to stop sliding.

When it came to a stop against a metal dumpster, he didn't move. No, he couldn't move. His pulse hammered in his head, and then suddenly in his leg. Groaning quietly, he saw a figure in the corner of his eye. Shit. The boy stood with his mouth hanging open, baseball lying forgotten on the ground. Daryl finally managed to move and extricate himself from the motorcycle that pinned his left leg to the ground. The bloody mess was enough to make him cringe- fabric and skin both torn, the blood ran freely down his leg. Daryl remembered what he'd been doing in the first place and struggled to get the bike back up, leaning heavily on his right leg. The boy started to say something, but Daryl waved him off.

"Play ball somewhere else, kid." The engine cut off any other conversation as he kicked his bike into gear and sped down the street, swearing under his breath as the wind bit at his wounds.

There wasn't anything special about that. Daryl tried not to let himself think about what would've happened if he hadn't swerved on time. A four inch, jagged white scar striped down his leg as a permanent reminder that sometimes protecting others came at the risk of damaging yourself.

"Son of a bitch!" The words were hissed, growled out between tightly clenched teeth. Daryl stood in the dimly lit bathroom, hydrogen peroxide leaking down his back and arm in ruddy, red rivulets. He'd waited at least two hours for his pa to fall asleep. When Daryl found him on the kitchen floor, passed out with the broken bottle of whiskey still near his hand, he knew it would be safe to venture inside and take care of his arm.

Daryl had seen Merle and their pa fight, and he'd seen bottles flung across the room before, but not at him. He hissed, pulling a sliver of glass from his skin. Dropping it on the small pile he'd already collected, he inspected the gashes in the mirror best as he could. He'd never get over the fact that he'd actually fell on the broken bottle. The only stunning part was that the sleeping figure lying in the kitchen had been able to punch with that much strength, even after consuming unreal amounts of whiskey.

"Boy?" The voice filtered in from outside. Daryl reached quickly to lock the door, but didn't get a chance before it was eased open.

Merle looked like shit- usually did nowadays- that is, when he was actually around. He'd been staying away for longer periods of time with every "work" trip he took. The dark circles under his eyes emphasized the stunned look that crossed his face. Daryl stood quietly, bloodied tweezers in hand, waiting for his brother's reaction. Merle's eyes went from Daryl to the pile of glass shards, then to the bloody rag he held against his arm. Then, with a mumble that Daryl didn't catch, he turned and left.

Daryl slumped against the counter, breathing deep breaths. He glanced in the mirror at the shoulder. He'd grown used to new bruises and white lines littering his body, so it was nothing new. Daryl wondered if he'd have enough money to retouch the tattoo on his shoulder. It wouldn't do to have the ink marred by the scars- after all, he'd gotten it to cover them up in the first place.

Carol had left the room, and Daryl found himself letting out the breath he'd been holding. It wasn't that he was self-conscious. No, god knows there wasn't much time for that shit-not around these people, anyway. Besides, if anyone was going to see the littered memories that marked his back and shoulders, he'd have picked her. Daryl wouldn't be surprised if she had scars of her own. She'd know how it felt.

He reached up, scratching his head where the bandage rubbed it. He figured this one would be just one more to add to the list. At least it was a new one- he could add a gunshot wound to his file now.

"They're just war wounds. Wear 'em proud."

When he was seventeen, he'd knelt beside a friend as the boy bled out in a dirty alleyway. There was once when he'd burnt his arm on a freshly welded piece of metal. Countless nights had seen him sleepless, an old broken ankle throbbing from the time he'd turned twenty and jumped a fence running from the cops.

But of all the scars he had, the thickest ones weren't visible. They were the long, deep ones- scar tissue so deep that the edges permanently remained purple. Even after they'd hardened and turned white, they were raw with the memories of jagged events that had inflicted them.

Merle leaving, like he'd always done. Being alone when the world went to shit. Watching others- kids, parents, old folks- have their flesh ripped away while they screamed, slowly devoured by someone who was once their neighbor. Sophie coming out of that barn. Maggie taking charge of the family when Hershel had lost his leg, something Daryl wished he'd been strong enough to do when his own family fell apart. Seeing a familiar pain in Carl's eyes right after Judith was born. Having to kill his own brother- and that was really the icing on the cake of how many lives he'd already been forced to take, walkers or not.

Even with all the battles he'd fought, his heart had come out the most scarred. Despite the numerous experiences that life had marked on his skin, mapping out his childhood and adulthood in faded white lines, the world had scarred deep enough that he knew he'd never be the same.

Scar the body, and you can learn to wear it proudly if you try hard enough.

Scar the soul, and you'll always feel the rough edges of memory and change that shaped you into the character you are now. Wear 'em proud? Not a chance.

AN: Just a oneshot of little things that've been floating around in my head the past few days. I know there've been plenty done on his scars and all that, but I hope this shows how much deeper the character is than just the physical side of things. He's damaged goods on the inside too, folks.