Author's Note: I took the title for this story from the KT Tunstall song of the same name. It felt fitting, as this story touches on both physical and emotional healing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, all characters are the property of someone else. ;)
Daryl sucked a breath sharply between his teeth. "Careful!"
"Well if you were more careful, we wouldn't be in this position to begin with." Carol's fingers deftly cleaned the wound on the palm of his hand, liberally applying hydrogen peroxide. She gently nudged at the flap of skin she suspected she'd have to stitch.
Daryl groaned, and thumped his boot against the wall to prevent himself from jerking his hand out of hers.
"How did you manage to do this, anyway? I thought you were supposed to be clearing brush, not engaging in hand to hand combat."
Daryl and Glenn had lead a group of the Woodbury refugees outside the perimeter of the Prison's fence to scavenge for dry wood and brush to use for fuel over the winter. It was an easy, safe job, and one that helped the refugees to feel like members of their community. Stitching up a bloodied Daryl was last thing Carol thought she'd have to deal with this afternoon.
While Carol stepped away to look for sutures, Daryl gently flexed his hand, wincing as it began to bleed again.
"I was holdin' the fence together while Glenn wired it back up, and some asshole thought he saw a walker and screamed. Glenn let go of the wire, the fence sprang apart - damn near took my hand off."
Carol rolled her eyes. The cut was a bad one, to be sure - a ragged gash across the fleshy part of his palm, with a flap of skin dangling that exposed the sinewy muscle underneath - but Daryl (like most men, she'd found) liked to complain once he had a sympathetic audience. He had taken much worse in the past - he was just whining because he knew Carol would let him. She appreciated that he felt that comfortable around her, but sometimes she just wanted to tell him to suck it up and deal.
"Dammit." Carol rustled through their medical supplies. Although their supplies were quickly dwindling with the influx of new people, she could have sworn they had a few more sutures - but she couldn't find them. She sighed as she remembered; the Bell's youngest had fallen down the stairs two days ago. Hershel had needed to put seven stitches in his forehead.
"What is it?" Daryl was inspecting his hand with curiosity - no more whimpering, she noted with another roll of her eyes. It was just as well; if she was going to do what she suspected she'd have to, a fussy Daryl certainly wouldn't make things easier.
"I think we're out of sutures. I'll have to improvise."
Daryl's eyes widened as she reached for the sewing kit. "You sure? I mean, maybe we should ask Hershel-"
Carol turned to face him with exasperation. She knew that Hershel was the expert, but dammit, she knew how to stitch a wound.
"If we had fishing line, I'd use that, but we don't. It's either I stitch you with regular thread, or we try to just bandage it and hope for the best." And then you'd probably go and rip it right open, she thought to herself.
Daryl didn't look convinced. Carol lowered her voice and crossed her arms in front of her. "It could get infected, it probably wouldn't heal right, and it will almost certainly hurt a hell of a lot more."
Daryl fell silent under her stern glare and gave her a quick nod, biting the corner of his lip.
Carol had little faith in his ability to keep a bandage clean and dry, much less avoid re-opening the wound. Stitches would keep the wound securely closed, and help keep the risk of infection at a minimum. They couldn't afford to have Daryl out of commission for longer than absolutely needed, and if he got blood poisoning... Carol didn't even want to consider it.
They'd lost so many since the days at the quarry. Dale, Shane, Amy, Andrea, Lori, Jim...and Ed. It amazed her how easy it had been to move on when Ed died. It was like she'd put a pickaxe through her old life when she'd driven it into his skull. She'd felt lighter immediately, and for once in her life had begun to have hope for the future.
But once Sophia died, she'd felt adrift again. Lost, in a world that didn't seem to need her. But Daryl had needed her, whether he'd realized it or not. He'd taken Sophia's death nearly as hard as she had, and helping him, bringing him back into the group, had given her new resolve, a new purpose.
If they lost him...Carol knew the group would suffer - but so would she. Oh, she'd keep going. She knew she wasn't a burden anymore; she had skills to contribute now. But her world would be significantly emptier and lonelier without Daryl Dixon.
But now wasn't the time to dwell on things that might not even happen. She gathered the first aid supplies in her arms, and motioned towards a metal table as she crossed the room.
"Now stop whining, or so help me, I will stitch you with pink thread," she said evenly as she set the supplies down. Her voice was soft but serious, brooking no disagreement - the voice she'd taken to using with the children in the Prison who tested her patience. Carol heard Daryl chuckle and she whipped her head in his direction. She fixed her eyes on his, daring him to laugh again.
Despite her threat, Daryl couldn't help but smirk. "Yes, ma'am." He liked how feisty she'd become. Was this what she'd been like before Ed had sucked the life out of her? Daryl couldn't picture Carol talking to that asshole the way she'd started talking to him.
He watched her cut the length of thread she needed - black, thank God - and sterilize both needle and thread. She had a tendency to purse her lips and furrow her brow when she concentrated, he noticed. Carol had worn that expression frequently at the quarry. He remembered her - a skittish little thing afraid of upsetting her ogre of a husband. Her face had nearly always had that pinched, careful look, like she was constantly treading on eggshells.
What's gotten into you, Dixon? Why you so stuck on Carol's face? You goin' soft?
He'd surprised himself when he realized just how carefully he'd been studying her expressions.
Carol had a very mobile face. When she smiled - which was something that was starting to happen more and more frequently - a deep dimple appeared just below the corner of her mouth. Daryl found himself trying to make her smile just to see it.
"You comin'?" Carol was grinning at him from the table where she had laid out the curved suture needle, scissors, sterilized thread, clean gauze, and her trusty bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"Yeah, yeah," Daryl shuffled to the table and sat down across from her. Their knees bumped together as he settled in and extended his arm towards her. Carol's fingers, smelling strongly of the harsh soap she and Hershel used to disinfect themselves, were cool and soft as they arranged his hand the way she needed it. Using the very tips of her fingers, she gently pulled back the skin she would soon be stitching. Daryl hissed as the hydrogen peroxide once more hit the raw flesh on his palm.
"Dammit, woman," he mumbled under his breath. "How clean this gotta be?"
Tersely, Carol said, "Clean." She was engrossed by the task in front of her, blue eyes calm and steady. Daryl wasn't squeamish by any means, but he didn't want to look at his mangled hand, especially not once Carol started sewing him up like a rag doll. Instead, he concentrated on watching her thoughts play across her face.
A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she focused on threading the suture needle. Her forehead smoothed as the thread slid easily through. A smile quirked at the corners of her mouth - she was obviously pleased with herself.
She'd come a long way since that night by the fire, when they'd fled the Greene farm. She no longer thought herself a burden, that much was clear. She felt useful, and that, in turn, made her more confident and self-assured.
Carol had never been a burden in Daryl's eyes. She'd done as much as she could to keep their lives running smoothly. God knows he couldn't cook half as well, much less do the never-ending loads of laundry their group created. Carol had quietly supported them all, her contributions not as obvious as his or Rick's, maybe, but important, nonetheless.
Daryl glanced down when he felt a small tug, and was surprised to see that she'd already put in two stitches. His hand was throbbing in pain with every beat of his heart, so he hadn't felt the suture needle pierce his skin at all.
Carol noticed his eyes fixed on her handiwork. "I think you'll only need four stitches - you're halfway there."
"Good. I ain't got time to sit here all day."
Carol rolled her eyes. "Well, I don't know what you think you'll be doing after this. Where this cut is located...just about anything could pull the stitches out. You should really keep your hand as still as possible for a few days."
She smirked, and cocked one eyebrow. "We all know how hard that is for you." Her blue eyes were dancing merrily as she stared pointedly at him.
Daryl felt his cheeks redden, and he looked away quickly, clearing his throat. Sharing a cell with Carol had benefits, but it had lead to more than one awkward encounter for both of them. He heard Carol chuckle, and when he looked back she had returned to the job at hand, a wide grin on her face.
"I don't know what you're smilin' at, lady. Last time I checked, I wasn't the one takin' half an hour in the shower because I just couldn't get clean." Daryl made air quotes with his good hand, and smiled as he watched Carol's cheeks flush pink.
A few days ago Carol had been suspiciously absent at dinner, and when Beth asked Daryl to look for her, he'd found her in the showers. Rather, he'd heard her in the showers. Daryl had waited outside until she exited, fully clothed, but when their eyes met, they both knew the other knew. They'd walked down to the cafeteria side by side, and Daryl stayed silent while Carol made her excuses to the others.
Time alone in the Prison was a valuable resource - Daryl understood completely. And with the new people here, Carol always seemed to have some ankle-biter or another hanging off her. Honestly, Daryl was surprised she didn't sneak off more often.
With a slight tug, and a snick of the scissors, Carol finished tying off and trimming the last suture.
"Finally," Daryl said. He began pulling his hand away, before Carol caught it, and yanked it back.
"Not so fast - you're not done yet." Carol laid his hand back down on the table, and got up, walking towards the first aid kit.
"What the hell else could you do?"
Carol glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes and smirked. "Oh, you'd be surprised just what I could do, Mr. Dixon."
Daryl's mouth fell open slightly as he watched her walk back to the table, a tube of something in her hand. She grinned, and laughed at him. "It's only antibiotic ointment, Daryl. Have to make sure it doesn't get infected."
Daryl cleared his throat and his good hand nervously tapped out a rhythm against the table. The skin on his other hand tingled as Carol dabbed the ointment along the sutures.
"Now I just have to wrap it, and then you're done." Carol unwound some gauze, and firmly - yet gently - began wrapping Daryl's hand.
"Don't hurt yourself again," she chastised him. "I won't always be here to patch you up."
Daryl snorted. "You kiddin' me? You'll outlast us all, like a, a..."
"A cockroach?" Carol cocked an eyebrow and looked at him quizzically.
"That's not - I mean...I, uh..."
Carol chuckled, and tied a knot in his bandage, fastening it securely. She affected a serious tone and stared directly at him. "I'm offended, Daryl - offended."
He looked down, ashamed, like a little boy caught in a lie. "Sorry."
She laughed again, long and loud, and planted a soft kiss on his hand. "I forgive you."
Daryl's cheeks reddened, and he unconsciously - or consciously, he wasn't sure - squeezed her fingers with his own, holding her hand in his for a moment or two.
A small smile played on her lips, no longer teasing. "I should go help Beth with dinner," she said softly, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. Daryl slowly released his grip on her hand, and watched her stand up and begin putting away the medical supplies. He clumsily stood, trying to push himself up without putting weight on his newly-bandaged hand.
"Hey, let me do that." He took the first aid kit from her hands, and nodded his head towards the door.
"You sure?" Carol looked grateful to have something taken off her plate.
"Hell, least I can do," he said. "Pretty sure I can figure out where to put Band-aids."
"Thanks," she said. Before Daryl could process what was going on, Carol had leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
He was frozen, his hands gripping the first aid kit tight. Carol giggled, and before he could say or do anything, she walked out the door, her laughter echoing down the hall.
"...you're welcome."