Written for the trope_bingo prompt "unrequited love/pining" and the h/c_bingo trope "body image issues."

Carol's hands shook as she tore open the package of gauze and lay it next to the other first aid items she'd assembled on the tray. This wasn't like her. She was usually the calm one under pressure; it was one of the reasons Hershel had chosen her to share his medical knowledge with. But this was different. This was Daryl, and she silently cursed her traitorous fingers, demanding they be still. They refused, damn them.

"Hey."

She looked up to find Daryl gazing at her with concern He placed his hand on her arm, stilling it. "You okay?"

She took in a breath and blew it out. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm fine." His hand was caked in dirt and blood and God knows what else, but she still found his touch comforting. She concentrated on the feel of his fingers, warm and calloused, against her skin. He was alive, that was the important thing. He was here and warm and alive and talking to her. And he was touching her, which threatened to start her trembling for an entirely different reason. This had been happening more frequently, lately, him touching her. And her being affected by it. Ever since Merle died, she could feel him drawing closer to her, and it terrified and thrilled her in equal measure. She had told Merle Dixon that she wasn't afraid of anything anymore, but that wasn't exactly true. She was afraid of getting her heart broken. Oh yes, she was still afraid of that.

"I'm alright, you know. Little worse for wear, is all." He smiled crookedly and took his hand back.

She tried to smile back at him, but found tears stinging her eyes, instead. Dammit. "I know. I just…it looked bad, when they brought you in. It looked really bad, Daryl."

Daryl glanced down at his shirt, which was covered in blood, much of it his own. "Yeah, I s'pose it did."

It had looked really bad when the car pulled up and Rick and Michonne had dragged Daryl, unconscious and bleeding, from the back seat. They'd been out on a run and it had gone wrong pretty quickly. Daryl had been cornered, trapped on the second story of a building by a small herd of walkers; he'd had to break a window and jump in order to escape, slicing his back open on some window glass in the process and hitting his head when he landed. Thankfully, his fall had been broken by some shrubbery or else it could have been a lot worse. The herd had followed him right out the window, though, and from what Rick told her, he and Michonne had barely managed to grab Daryl before they did. The bump on his head only required an ice pack, but from the amount of blood soaked into his shirt, she was pretty sure he'd need stitches.

"Why don't you get that shirt off so I can clean this up?" she said.

"Think this one's a goner," he said of the ruined shirt. He started to unbutton it, but she could see he was having trouble making his fingers work. Between the blood loss and his head injury, he was still a little shaky.

"Here, let me help you," she said. But she still wasn't much better, and as she fumbled with the buttons, she cursed under her breath.

Daryl chuckled at that; she rarely swore.

"You best steady those hands or I ain't lettin' you near me with a needle," he teased her.

"Well, you can't blame me, can you?" she asked, finally undoing the last button and helping him slip his arms out of the shirt. The blood was still tacky and made the fabric stick to his skin, and she peeled it away from his wound as carefully as she could before tossing it to the floor. "It's been a long time since I undressed a man," she said, teasing him back, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, I'm real sorry you got stuck with me then," he said.

He turned his back to her to give her access to his injury, and she could see from his posture how uncomfortable it still made him to bare himself to her like that. She remembered when they were back on the farm; he'd been injured that time, too, trying to find her Sophia. He'd drawn the sheet up to hide himself from her, and shied away from her touch. But she'd kissed him anyway. She smiled to herself. At that point in time, it might have been the bravest thing she'd ever done.

She chose her next words carefully. "I'm only sorry you were hurt, Daryl." She dipped a clean rag into some soapy water, and went about cleaning his wound.

He shrugged. "What's one more scar to add to the collection? Can't get much uglier."

"You are not ugly, Daryl."

His back to her, she was finally able to take a good, long look at him. In all the months they'd spent running, they'd all had to dress and undress in front of each other dozens of times. But out of respect for their forced close quarters, no ones eyes ever lingered. This time, she allowed hers to do just that. She took in the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the hard, muscled planes of his back. He was truly beautiful, and the scars that marred his skin only showed how strong and resilient and good he was, that he could withstand all that he had and still become the man that he was. She longed to say all that to him, but she knew it would embarrass him terribly, and probably send him running, or worse. If only he could see himself the way that she saw him.

"How's it look?" he asked.

"Not too long, but deep. I'm going to have to sew you up."

"Yeah, well. Least I got this one for a good reason."

She began placing the stitches, neat and careful like Hershel had taught her. Daryl didn't flinch.

"This ain't nothin' compared to what he did to Merle," Daryl said.

Carol paused in her stitching for just a moment before she continued, not saying anything, waiting for Daryl to continue. She'd learned over these past few months that patience was often rewarded when it came to Daryl Dixon. He may not talk a lot, but if you gave him space, he would sometimes share more than you'd ever think he would.

"Our daddy liked to use the belt on us. Didn't want to hurt his hand, he said. Got worse after our mama died. He'd get drunk and start rantin' and ravin', then go after one of us, more often than not, like we were the reason for all his problems. Merle took the worst of it, though. Used to take my beating's for me. Get in the asshole's way." He took a deep breath, and Carol could feel the shudder go through his body. "But then Merle left. Couldn't take it anymore. Told me later if he hadn't left, he woulda killed the bastard."

Carol felt the tears, hot behind her eyes, but she blinked them away and kept on stitching.

"You know, sometimes I really wish he would have." Her hand faltered for a moment, and Daryl noticed. "That surprise you?" he asked.

"No," Carol said. "I used to get on my knees and pray for Ed's death."

"I know," he said softly. He shook his head. "But yeah, Merle left, and then it was my turn with our Pa. Fair's fair, I guess."

Carol finished the last stitch. She dabbed some antibiotic on his wound, smoothed a bandage over it and taped it in place. "Nothing that happened to you – to either of you – was fair. Or your fault. You know that, right?"

"Gettin' there," he said, turning around and taking the clean shirt that she handed him. He pulled it on and peered at her closely. "Do you?"

She smiled. "Most of the time."

He held her gaze a few moments longer, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer, and took his time buttoning up his shirt. "Sorry I scared ya," he said once he finished, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I got me nine lives, too."

"I sure hope so," she said.

He stood, rolling his shoulder experimentally. "Thanks for putting me back together."

Thanks for putting me back together, she wanted to say. Instead, she just said, "you're welcome."