(continuation of 'Shot through the Heart'. Expect more along this AU line :D )

Not a single soul asks about the two cuts on my face—other than Maggie who had checked and cleaned them—until Daryl did a day or two after our group started walking.

"Somebody scratched you up pretty nasty, huh?"

I nearly smile. Hearing his voice again, that tiny bit of teasing to his tone, warmed my belly like a fire. "Dawn did." I haven't thought about her much, mainly because when I do I only see her brain blow to bits by Daryl's glock. Feel that onslaught of guilt, wishing that it hadn't had to end like that.

"What for?"

"I guess I made her angry."

"So she beat the shit out of ya?"

And when I look to him, I can see scars. I can see the physical and invisible scars that have laid upon his body and mind for years, and always will.

But I also see familiarity, understanding. He knows the feeling of someone taking their ridiculous lick of anger out on you. Knows the feeling of being someone's mutt to kick.

"At least I'll have a story to tell with these scars," I say, squinting in the blazing sunset to see his expression. "I'll look tough too."

He snorts. "Naw. We'll get you some marigold or somethin', make sure you heal right."

"Maybe I want the scars." Rick is calling something out to us from up ahead. Our group veers off the beaten highway and towards the woods, where we'll take shelter for the evening. My boots hit the dewy grass with a squish; I want to shed my shoes and socks and walk barefoot to cool off my feet. "To remind me."

The way he speaks, it's as if he grabbed my arm and stopped me mid-gait.

"Naw. You don't."

Later that night, Daryl and I are some of the few still blinking around the fire. He'd come and gone most the evening, hunting and the like. But now he pulls out his bandanna and shows me a handful of golden flowers.

"What's that?"

"Marigold." He picks it up and tucks his bandanna back in his pocket. "I'll show ya how to use it and maybe your scars won't be so bad."

I smile. I smile so hard I can feel my stitches crack and split.

"What?"

"You," I say.

"What 'bout me?"

I don't have to think on my response. Not even for a nanosecond.

"Everything."