She had wrapped his ankle, his foot resting in her lap, and would even have pulled his dirty sock, seriously in need of water and a detergent, over his foot again if he hadn't stopped her, blushing furiously. „No, no, ya don't need ta … So good of ya to wrap my foot, ya really don't need to …" Flustered, he fell silent, holding his sock, his foot still cradled in her lap with both of her hands resting atop it protectively. His ankle was swollen and discolored, and he had the dismal feeling that he wouldn't be able to ride the bike he'd found for a few days but have to sit in one of the cramped cars they had managed to get up and going. He wanted to yell in frustration, but there had really been no way for him to see the root looping up among the dead leaves covering the forest floor, just in the right position to snare his foot and take him down. His ankle was badly sprained, and he'd known that getting up after his fall, yet hadn't done anything about it when returning to camp after his hunt the night before, nor the morning after.
Instead, he'd spent the day riding his bike with her behind him, leading their little convoy, and had topped it off by limping off to hunt again once they'd stopped to set up the tents they'd found two villages back and secure their camp for the night. By the time he'd returned to the group with three squirrels and two rabbits for the spit waiting over the fire already, he'd hardly been able to set his foot down and put his weight on it without flinching in pain, and of course everyone had noticed the moment he'd stepped out into the circle of light cast by the fire. Glenn had wordlessly handed their first aid pack to Carol and the two of them had made for his tent while Maggie had gone to work skinning his kills.
Daryl felt horrible for being helped by her yet again. He felt horrible for using up precious resources. He felt horrible for having them worrying about him. He felt horrible for leading all of them by their noses, letting them believe that he was someone that he really wasn't. The gratitude in their eyes when they saw him coming back with food nearly killed him. The gratitude in Carol's eyes nearly plowed him into the ground as he felt it was undeserved in the extreme.
These people didn't owe him shit for feeding them. He felt like the worst human being ever to walk the earth, and he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to go on like this. The gentle and careful way in which she was holding his injured foot right now only served to drive home once again that he was pretending to be someone he was not, impersonating some sort of ideal that he really couldn't even hope to aspire to, but that these people believed in nevertheless because he still wasn't telling them the truth.
It had started while they'd still been staying at the farm. On the night she'd told him that he was as good as Shane or Rick. The night she'd fuckin' kissed him to show him how much she appreciated him looking for her lost daughter. Hearing that he was as good as the others did something to him. The faith she placed in him, so undeserved, had his conscience screaming, even as he froze with her lips on his temple.
She had no idea who he was. She had no idea what him and Merle had been planning to do. It was his extra dirty little secret, his to keep now because Merle had been lost in Atlanta the day they'd meant to be their last one with the group. When Merle hadn't returned and they hadn't found him on that roof, Daryl had figured that his chances would be better if he stayed with the group, so that was what he'd done, following Rick and Shane like a docile little dog in hopes of getting tossed a bone every now and then.
His bones consisted of praise, acceptance and respect, either from Rick or Shane or anyone, really - even that annoying little brat, Carl, might work. Appreciation of any kind worked like fuel for him. As he had never gotten any of that in his pre-apocalypse life he craved it all the more, craved acceptance and respect to balance the little demon inside his head screeching at him that he was worth less than shit - and these people gave him what he craved.
They thanked him for bringing in food, for standing watch, for going on runs. After meals, they told him how good the meat had tasted, and that they had full bellies thanks to him, and that they would have needed to go hungry so as to leave enough for the kids in the group if it hadn't been for him. He was made to feel like a valued, and valuable, contributing and respected member of this group, which was completely overwhelming him. He had never been made to feel like that ever before in his life. His life before had consisted of violence and contemptuous sideways glances and whispered remarks behind his back. And now, all of a sudden, his skills that had helped him survive long before now were being appreciated and singled him out from the others - he alone, out of all of them, knew how to get fresh food.
But that wasn't the only thing that singled him out, was it?
This was just the one thing they knew about.
With Merle gone now, he was the only one who knew what they had been planning to do, and that knowledge, his secret, gained a ton of weight every time someone thanked him, or gave him a grateful look, or even so much as gave him the time of day.
Praise, acceptance, and respect.
For someone who had been planning to …
Infinitely gently, she took his injured foot and set it on the ground, next to his waiting boot, and looked up at him, her eyes full of worry and reproach. „You need to take better care of yourself!" She carefully ran one hand over his bandaged ankle, freaking caressing it, he realized, before getting up and dusting herself off.
Her words hurt worse than if she'd put a knife through his heart.
His dirty secret throbbed within him, rotten, ripe, ready to explode.
How could he ever tell her?
Now that he had so much to lose?