#i'm scarred from the last pic you sent in 😭😭

[bau-drabbles]

Gideon and Rossi got me like

awwww no way because you got me like this frfr 🥰😘🤩💋😙❤🫂

[darylsfavoritegirl]

my first fanfic here... feel free to correct my mistakes or you can just say what i can do more for these to be better!

Summary: This takes place in season 4, prison era (my personal favorite) there is this new girl which Rick and Daryl have taken into prison as a survivor but Daryl can't really stand her and dang a broken fence cuts her upper front thigh (rectus femories to be exact I had to examine an anatomy pic for this one😭) and Daryl has to clean it!! But our girl has surgery scars from when she was a kid. It catches Daryl's attention. Idk I'm making it quite obvious that I'm such an amateur in this. It's a first person narration fanfic

I was lying on my bed under the dim light of a kerosene oil lamp Maggie had given me earlier that day. I was sighing deeply now and then, getting more and more bored with each passing second. Having to put a stupidly looking smile on my face everytime someone would pass infront of my cell. I could feel my hands feeling more and more sweaty in the humid of Georgia summer, yet I kept them crossed on my lap.

I was stupid enough to not check my surrondings when I was aimlessly walking into the gates of the prison after a run I was sent to with a couple of others in the camp. A fence cut the upper front of my thigh, not deep enough to leave me all screaming and whining, I thought. I let out a small soft moan at the pain of it, but I was the last one to pass through the gates. Nobody saw it bleeding. I covered it with the hems of my shorts, my shorts immediatly being colored with my blood. I ran into my cell and tried to bandage it incompetently, which horribly failed.

Carol was the first one to notice how terrible my wound was looking.

"It can get infected" she said with a warm, cautious temper.

"If not cleaned and bandaged properly."

I couldn't help but gasp a little bit at the idea of my wound getting infected in the middle of the apocalpyse. I went through worse wounds than this, except I always had someone to take care of them for me before. I couldn't bear the idea of the others thinking I was dumb enough to get my wound infected within my first week with them.

Carol, Maggie even Hershell have been my saviors so far, cleaning the wound. I could walk, I wasn't handicapped in any aspect but I didn't know how to clean it myself neither.

But there I was, lying in gloom and distress worrying about who was going to be cleaning my wound and I'd have to share a couple of odd minutes with them, both of us trying our hardest to come up with something to say for a small talk.

Carol showed up with necessary utensils on her hands. She had that welcoming, warm and even pleasant smile on her face. I smiled back.

She started lying out the stuff she brought on the nighstand next to my bed.

"Your wound is getting a lot better." She said without looking at me.

"Next time, you get injured; you let us know."

"I will." I said with a subtle undertone of guilt and a mix of apprecation in my voice.

She gestured her body towards the cell door as if she was gonna leave. Before I could even open my mouth, she spoke "Mind Daryl cleaning your wound tonight? I'm needed somewhere else."

By the gestures on her face, the way she said those words I knew Daryl have had to say something about me to this woman, which obviously wasn't all positive. It wasn't a secret that he didn't necessarily love me but I was the one that needed some kind of a simple procedure. I wasn't gonna act like a child, whining and requesting someone else. I simply nodded and waited for this dreadful man to come and do what he was asked for.

Minutes passed like years when he finally showed up at the cell door, looking a bit pissed and constrained. It was obvious he was never asked to do these kind of stuff. He was an important man around; going on runs, finding supplies, the act of service type of guy; working only for the good of his people. He seemed, though, a little bit bewildered as if he had no idea what or how he was going to clean my wound.

He stepped into the cell. I curled the ends of my shorts without him having to ask for it. He checked the utensils Carol laid out on the nighstand minutes ago. He, once again looked bewildered, incompetent. He grabbed some of the utensils on the nightstand, drew the half broken stool to himself and sat on it. He laid some of the stuff on the edge of the bed as he gestured his hands to the blood soaked bandage. Before he could even move his hands towards it, I spoke "I got it."

A soft moan of pain escaped my mouth as I was taking off the bandage, throwing it right into the trash after.

I heard him taking a deep breath and mumbling under his breath

"Shoulda spilled earlier, wouldn't hurt this damn much now."

I frowned at him before starting to study my wound.

"Carol said it's getting better." I said softly, my tone just above a whisper. I didn't feel any energy to spend on talking to this man. He gazed at my wound couple of seconds before grunting "It is."

He took a grey cloth that somehow looked like a deformed gauzed pad out of an aid kit. He poured some kind of alcohol-based liquid on the cloth. He looked at me for a brief moment before speaking under his breath

" 'S ma' hurt. "

"It's fine." I spoke. The alcohol really stings on the bare wound but there was nothing I could do. I bite the inside of my cheek as he started cleaning my wound. It was hurting like hell but I didn't want to whine and come off as "weak" to him. I was worried that I would cause the inside of my cheek to bleed because of how hard I was biting it and how often I have had to start doing it.

I look at him for a brief moment. He couldn't see me looking at him as he leaned forward so that he'd make a better job at cleaning my wound. I could see his bangs falling on his eyebrows and sometimes getting into his eyes which he'd swing his head slightly to get them out of his eye corners. He looked really focused, not talking at all. The others did; asking me where I come from, what I did before all this. It would all be omnious small talks, which I regret thinking they ever were because what this was felt more infuriating.

I kept on staring at him or looking at random places now and then for 30-40 seconds when I noticed him scowling at something he saw on my leg. His expression faded away within 2 or 3 seconds perhaps, I followed his gaze and saw his finger curling the hem of my short a bit more upwards than I did because he needed more space to work on my wound. There they were, the scars from the surgeries I had as a kid. I knew he wasn't the type to ask when or why I had those but now my scars had my attention as well as they got his. He was still working on the area and his finger was still on the edge of my shorts so it wouldn't fall on where he was cleaning. I noticed he avoided touching them. I was feeling hotter and more distressed each passing second. I assumed questions were pondering his head because my scars were relatively long scars. At the end, I decided to speak. I cleared my throat lightly. Somebody had to end this awkwardness.

"Surgery scars." I spoke

"I had 'em when I was 5 and 6."

Our gazes met, he seemed as if he was contemplating whether or not to stay silent. His blue eyes were almost piercing and I couldn't help but feel hotter than I felt before. I felt his hand falling on my upper leg lightly.

" 'S fine. "

That was it. That's all he had to stay. He broke the eye contact immediatly after. He went back to getting the job done with my wound.

"Ever thought 'bout gettin' 'em removed?" He grunted.

"No. Never." I huffed under my breath. I sensed that he asked this question only to make conversation and break the oddity wall that was getting thicker every passing second.

"Hmmm." He expressed and kept working on my wound.

"Can't get them removed even if I want to now, can I?"

I spoke with the intention to talk to him more.

" 'S possible if ya can bear the pain." He said I might be wrong but I saw the curl of his lips going upward. It was the first time I saw this man smirk even a little. He got up from the stool, that tiny mischievous snigger was still on his face as my eyes followed his every little move. I was mesmerised as if he has just cast a spell on me. I had a stupid smirk on my face, of course it was subtle to an extent which wouldn't freak him out. I probably smiled for the first time with him ever since I've met him. He placed the tools on the nighstand and turned to me.

"Yea should be al' good if yea keep an eye on yerself a bit."

I nodded. He didn't expect me to say anything and made his way to the cell door.

I got up, sat on the edge of the bed; looking at the fresh bandage he just wrapped around my upper leg. I sighed as I looked at the high narrow window on the wall.

FOOTNOTE

Ok yall that was it. I actually loveeedd writing this eventho we don't get much of a daryl content but idk this is my first time writing in english (as in fanfic, yes i have written in my mother tongue when i was in like middle school.... a guess a writer is always a writer😈😈👿👿😭😭 -corny as fuck) and i feel like writing daryl can get quite out of character for two reasons, first being he's never had a s/o in twd where it was obvious they were dating and we havent seen any "boyfriend" or "flirty daryl" and this man only grew more and more silent each passing episode and season so.....