He's got a shitload of scars, he'd told her once, on another night spent huddled in the living room together.
They and the group had found a few bottles of liquor left behind, and he'd convinced her through not-so-subtle prodding to drink a hefty amount of it despite her protests. It'd left a nauseating yet pleasing buzz in the pit of her stomach, coupled with a lightheaded glaze to her thoughts. She'd remembered, between one gulp and the next, why she'd initially refused to drink her entire life, but the way he'd poked fun at Glenn, nudged an elbow at T-Dog and even chuckled at a poorly told joke by Rick, had lowered her automatic unease. As she watched, the tenseness of his shoulders had relaxed the slightest bit, and his face seemed to frown less and less the more he drank.
When the others had finally gone to bed (Glenn groaning while Rick and T-Dog helped him up the stairs), the two of them had stumbled (well, she had stumbled) to the couch, wrapping up in whatever blankets and extra clothes they could find in their packs. They'd been silent for a long while, staring at everything but each other, before he'd spoken up about the scars.
"I've got one from when I got bit from a dog, once," he'd said with a twitch of his mouth. His words were more accented, the drawl just a little more pronounced than normal, and she'd found herself leaning in at the same time he did.
"Bit by a dog?" she'd asked, horrified.
"It was a tiny one. 'N old." He'd lifted one pant leg to his knee, showed the marks on his ankle to her as he explained, "It was when Merle and I were kids. He kept on pokin' it with a stick and it kept on getting angrier and angrier, tryin' to get at us. Merle was laughin' when the chain keepin' it back snapped, and next thing I know it's got a hold of my leg and was slobbering all over it. Hurt like hell but it only had a few teeth left, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been." And then he'd chuckled, just a little under his breath, as if the experience hadn't been one that should have been terrifying to a child. "First time Merle freaked out about me gettin' hurt."
It'd unsettled her, the unperturbed way he'd gone on about this, but when he'd squinted up at her with a gaze only partially guarded at her silence, she'd forced her worries away. They could be dealt with when the night was over, when the alcohol was gone from their systems and the next night had come again.
He'd gone on to tell her about a few more; the one further up his knee from when he'd fallen from a tree; one at the top of his head, covered by his hair, from when he'd had a bottle chucked at his head ("Some fucking dumbass wasn't paying attention," he'd said.) The stories paired up with each scar he'd shown her had seemed...typical.
It wasn't until the night had grown darker, when all sounds above them on the second floor had ceased, that he'd seemed to sober up. He'd refused to look at her when before he'd been unable to look away, and the change had made her scoot closer. He had become tense, pensive, his teeth gnawing away at his thumbs in that habit that told her he was thinking.
And the way he kept on squinting over at her told her that he was thinking something involving her. So when he'd untangled from the blankets and started to unbutton his shirt in swift, surprisingly nimble movements, she'd startled, leaning away with wide eyes. "Daryl," she began.
He'd tossed the shirt over the back of the couch, sitting there bare-chested for a long moment, not looking at her for even longer. His fists were clenching and relaxing in hard motions, and he'd begun to breathe hard, as if fighting the urge to do anything but this.
Finally, he pointed to an angry red line across his stomach. "A belt," he said, voice soft, and her fears died in her breast, her heart dropping to the floor. Her eyes roved over his skin, the marks left behind. She'd seen a glimpse of them what seemed so long ago at the farm, but he'd been so quick to cover them that she hadn't even taken the time to study them.
He pointed to his chest, across his heart, over his shoulder and back, to his side. A knife, cigarette butts, fingernails, more leather belts. Each scar indicated looked worse than the others, time told by the shade of red or white each one was.
Carol's hands shook, and her throat was clogged with the effort to hold back her tears by the time he'd stopped; staring at her with silent, squinted eyes and a solemn face, he'd simply left his hands in his lap, waiting for her to get a better hold on herself. Her hands were still trembling when he'd lifted one hand to his side, where a rough circular scar was, this one obviously newer than all the others.
"Got this one by the arrow at the river," he said. His other hand went to his temple, tracing the skin there even though she couldn't see any scar. It must have been faint, one that she would have had to get up close to see. "And this one, the same day."
She remembers the bandage wrapped around his head; remembers pressing her lips gently to the covered stitches, the way he'd stared at her like she'd been about to eat him; how he'd huffed at her in an obvious cover, brushing her actions off.
"I hate all the others, the way I got 'em," he said when her eyes had focused. He refused to look at her, instead chewing at his thumb and staring at the boarded windows. She shivered, huddling deeper into her blankets. "But these two - they're the only ones I'm proud of. The only ones that mean a damn to me." His eyes flicked to hers, held them. "I don't regret tryin', and they're my proof of that."