It was a strange thing, seeing himself properly clean for the first time in a long while. He'd never gone the extra mile to rid himself of the layers of dirt, grime and whatever else had stuck to him along the way. He hadn't with his clothes either. Not like the others had anyway. Sure he'd get rid of any walker blood or guts but that was just plain common sense rather than vanity or presentation. It was the same at the CDC as well. Everyone had been excited about the showers. He'd been in and out of his shower. Just long enough to be passably clean and then he got back to his mission; getting shit face drunk for the first time since the world had gone to shit. Hell, on the way back from his little accident he hadn't even bothered to clean the blood from around his mouth. He knew it was there. Could feel the wind on it while it was still damp. He just didn't care. Maybe he should have. Might have saved him another near death experience.

Hershel had insisted on this shower though. Something about keeping wounds clean. He would have done the same routine as the CDC but the blood matted in his hair meant this time he had to be a little more thorough.

If he was honest he felt exposed without his semi-constant layer of filth and sweat.

"It's how a real man is supposed to smell," that's what Merle had said once, "None of this $100 bullshit those city pussies douse themselves in. Fucking fags."

Looking at his reflection Daryl can confidently say he looks like shit. Not that the blood, sweat and mud look had been particularly attractive but at least then he looked as though there was a reason for it. That he'd been doing something. Surviving mostly. But right now he just seems tired, drawn and wore down.

He lets out a sigh. Something he never would have done if he was in the company of the rest of the group.

When he was younger Merle used to call him the pretty boy of the family.

Pretty boy. It wasn't a complement in the Dixon family. It was another way of saying weak, inferior, the runt of their little pack. He remembered one time when Merle had dragged him to the doctors because he couldn't be bothered to drive. Merle had been flipping through all the stupid magazines they have lying around the waiting area; commenting loudly on just what he'd like to do with some of the women in them much to the disgust of all the ladies present. That's when he'd come across some photos of some model douche and immediately put the magazine up next to Daryl's face and said,

"Well I be damned. Turns out you have a motherfucking twin."

For the next few days he was like a dog with a bone. Just when Daryl thought he was done he'd start up again.

"How about me and you get in the truck, drive to New York or LA, get you an agent and you can become a proper pretty princess. They might even let you wear a tiara in one of your pictures. You'll have to suck the right guys' dicks though if you want to make the big money. Let's face it. Your face is probably the only half decent thing about you. And fuck lot of good that is way out here."

When it'd become obvious that Merle wasn't going to let it lie then it had to be settled the Dixon way. Daryl had launched himself at his brother, fists swinging and spitting curses. He'd woken up sprawled out on the floor. Body aching and jaw throbbing something awful. The next time he'd seen Merle, in the early hours of the next morning, Merle just bitched to him about some asshole of a bartender who cut him off. It was if he hadn't left his brother lying unconscious to go get wasted at some bar. There were no apologies. It was just never mentioned.

That was the Dixon way.

Which is partially why he's currently dreading going downstairs. Andrea is probably going to want to apologise; because that's what good, normal people do when they've screwed up and want to set everything right. And, he supposed, shooting a guy in the head counts as one hell of a screw up. A large part of him hoped to hell that she didn't try though. The only time he remembered someone apologising to him and seeming as though they actually meant it was when some social services lady came calling. Merle had taught him how to handle her type. What to say and what not to say. And he reminded him of what he should have done, normally in a way in Daryl wouldn't quickly forget, whenever he fucked up. He hadn't messed up that time though. He'd done everything perfect so she didn't have a single shred of evidence to back up any of her concerns. She'd been getting in her car when she'd stopped and turned to look him right in the eye and said she was sorry. It had pissed him off. Daryl hadn't wanted her pity or sympathy or whatever the hell she was offering with her little apology. So he replied in way he thought best summed up his feelings. He told her to go fuck herself.

His thoughts turned to the pile a clothes Hershel had given him to wear. They had belonged to his son or step son or some shit like that. Once again he was sort of insistent about the upkeep of hygiene near healing wounds and therefore dirty clothes just wouldn't do.

Subconsciously his hand moved towards his mouth and one of his nail found its way between his teeth. He chewed on it all the while weighing up his options. He'd have to wear them otherwise there would be questions. He was already going to get enough questions and glances what with his current condition. This time he wouldn't be able to just fuck off into the woods. And he doubted his ability to intimidate when he looked like he did.

When he's finished getting dressed (which involved some painful and awkward manoeuvring but there was no way he's calling out for help to get dressed) he reaches a conclusion. The clothes fit too well. Too good of a fit and too clean. He feels an itch. A compulsion to keep pulling fabric further away from his body. They're just not him.

Before leaving the bathroom he takes one more look in the mirror.

The image staring back at him is wrong. It feels like he's playing dress up. He looks... normal. You might even say approachable if it wasn't for the scowl etched across his face. He hasn't got his knife or his crossbow. It's like he's been domesticated.

With a final snort of disgust Daryl leaves the room. It's time to face the little group. Doubt they'll let him do anything but rest up around here in this shithole. Just what Daryl needs. An entire day of inactivity to make him feel utterly useless.