"Dammit, Merle." Daryl muttered, staring down at the elder Dixon, who sat with his head tilted back and his fingers pressed on either side of the bridge of his nose. With all the times it had been broken, Daryl was surprised the other's nose hadn't fallen off.
With a sigh, the archer tore yet another strip of cloth from his quickly-diminishing sleeves, offering it to the other to help staunch the bleeding. Merle offered a smirk, snatching the fabric. "What a good li'l nurse you'd make." The redneck teased, pressing the cloth to his nose and the hand that had been previously tending to it.
"Shut up." Daryl muttered, thinking back to his sparse wardrobe. This was his last shirt with sleeves. "Jus' do me a favor and stop gettin' hurt so much."
Merle shot him a cheeky grin, lifting a fist to punch his brother in the shoulder.
The first instinct Daryl had while staring down at his brother's bashed-in face was to reach towards his shoulder and tear off a strip of fabric to press to the dark blood. He half-expected Merle to sit up and smile at him with that cocky flash of off-white teeth, and talk shit about how great Daryl would look in a nurse's outfit.
But not this time.
This time, no amount of sleeves or the sentiment that they symbolized would do any good.