Store-brand aspirin hadn't made a dent, but they had managed to find a half-full container of the type of meds they only give you after you've had some big surgery or accident. Carol had thought it was a miracle, as had the rest of the group, but in retrospect, maybe they should have just taken Daryl at his word that he didn't need the painkillers for his busted arm.
That wouldn't have been half as entertaining, though.
"Carol," the slightly slurring bowman inquired from his position stretched out on the couch. "Wha' happened to your purple shirt?"
"My purple shirt? That old thing?"
"It was pretty! Purple's pretty," he said decisively, with a little bob of his head.
Carol chuckled, exchanging a look with Maggie, sitting in the armchair across from her. The little cabin they'd found only had one tiny bedroom, so they'd decided to keep Daryl in the slightly roomier living room to make it easier to keep an eye on him. Carol had been a constant fixture since they'd set him up there last night, with the rest of their extended family taking shifts.
Daryl had spent most of his time in a drug-induced sleep. The few times he'd woken up, however, he'd grinned dopily at Carol and spilled his guts. At the moment, it was that he thought she was pretty.
"Your other shirt's pretty, too, though, Carol. The red one. I mean, I mean- all of 'em are pretty but the red one 'specially." His head lolled and Carol thought for a moment he was going back to sleep, but then his head turned to look at her and gasped. "You're wearin' the red one!"
Carol had to struggle not to laugh at him again, nodding at his observation. "Yes, Daryl, I'm wearing the red one."
Maggie paid him no such courtesy, stifling her giggles behind her hand, and he noticed her for the first time since she'd switched with Tara ten minutes ago.
"Maggie! Don'tcha think Carol's pretty?"
She nodded placatingly, still chuckling. "Sure she is."
"Carol's pretty. Pretty shirts. Pretty eyes. Carol has pretty eyes." He seemed to be stuck on that thought for a minute, looking back at Carol. She gave him a smile. He may have been a self-proclaimed mean drunk, but he really was sweet when he was drugged.
"Your eyes are pretty blue. Pretty and blue," he observed slowly, drawing out the words. Then he gasped again, reaching an epiphany. "You need a blue shirt!"
Carol's voice shook with barely concealed laughter. "Sweetie, I have a blue shirt."
He shook his head emphatically. "No, it's dark blue, you need a light blue one. 'Cause your eyes are pretty but they're not dark. They're light and pretty." He pondered it a moment. "I'll getcha one." He made to stand up.
Maggie beat him to it, still snickering but gently pushing him back on the couch. "Easy, there, cowboy. Where do you think you're goin'?"
"Carol needs a shirt. I'mma get her one," he mumbled, even as he lay back down. His eyes darted around. "Where's m'bow?"
"Daryl," Carol murmured, crossing to the couch in place of Maggie and gaining his full attention. "Why don't you get some more sleep, ok?"
He looked befuddled as she carefully adjusted the pillow under his left arm. "Bu'choo need a shirt."
"Tell you what, you get some sleep and then you can get me a new shirt," she offered, knowing he wouldn't remember his mission the next time he woke up.
"Hmmmm," he hummed, relaxing back against the pillow again. He was out like a light in a matter of seconds, and Carol returned to her seat across from Maggie.
"You know," the younger woman said after a minute, "you can always borrow my blue shirt if you think it'll make him happy."