I do not own the Walking Dead or Boondock Saints. Rights reserved for Robert Kirkman and Troy Duffy, respectfully.
I own Alice and Red Donahue, and Daphne Jones
It was the next afternoon before Connor had said a single word to Daryl. After the embarrassing night before, catching him with Alice in a compromising position, Connor felt as if he almost had some explaining to do for his actions that Daryl wouldn't let him.
Connor had gone out to the pens once more, picking up handfuls of dried hay and spreading them on the matted dirt clod for the sheep to devour. The small baby sheep ate up the strands of straw that Connor laid out in the pen, before Daryl walked up behind him.
He hadn't talked to the man since the night earlier when Connor and Alice were caught in a compromising position. He was almost afraid to, the idea of having to defend himself against Daryl's judgment wasn't actually on his to do list. To make things worse, it had affected Alice in the worst way possible. She was embarrassed to say the least, she withdrew from Connor the moment they got back in the Cellblock, telling Connor in haste her concerns.
"What if Daryl tells Rick, or Carol, or my dad?" Alice said before her eyes widened at her sudden realization. Moving from Connor's grasp, she began to pace the floor. "Oh my God, he could tell my dad – my dad would kill you."
"Alice, just calm down-"
"No! He won't kill you, you'll both kill each other in a fight to the death – I'm not going to bury either of you two!"
Connor grabbed Alice's shoulders, holding her in place for the time being as he heart beat returned to somewhere in the human level. With a smirk, he eyed her. "I promise you da isn't gonna find out."
"Are you sure?" She pouted.
"Yes, I'm sure. I'll talk to Daryl tomorrow; see if I can't straighten some shit out, okay?" Connor whispered, placing a kiss on Alice's temple before she ran off to bed.
Now was his moment to shine, so to speak; to defend himself and his actions to the redneck. Daryl stood far enough behind the pen, watching in silence with his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. Connor continued to put out the straw, purposely ignoring Daryl for as long as he could.
Connor squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that he couldn't avoid Daryl for long as he turned around to face the oncoming judgment. Daryl's arms crossed over his chest didn't help the fact that Connor thought he was going to be criticized. In his head he had already come up with some well thought-out defenses:
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"Fuck you."
"Didn't you think you're get caught?"
"Fuck you."
"She's half your age for Christ's sake!"
"Fuck you."
Yeah. Yeah, that was gonna work out well.
Connor braced himself for the ridicule. He expected the man with his brother's face to have the same idea of hazing as his younger brother did. His plan was shattered when Daryl spoke little of the earlier events. "I'm gonna go out for a hunt. You wanna come?
Connor nodded his head in silence, rubbing the stubble along his jaw bone as he agreed to come along on the hunting trip with Daryl.
A decision Daryl Dixon would grow to regret.
Dusk had fallen over the forest outside the prison, the orange beams of sun radiating through the trees as Daryl told Connor that they'd more than likely be out all night and return in the morning. Again, Daryl let Connor out of the prison without a fucking gun, a small hunting knife had to make due. 'Of course, I get stuck with the fucking Rambo knife.' Connor thought to himself, trying to stay quiet for this little trip that the two of them had to go on.
Connor had never been hunting before. Slaughtering animals on the farm and hunting one down in the wild were two different things. It amazed him to think that Daryl suggested the two might be related.
The two traveled down a beaten pathway through the forest, Daryl mentally scouting the area for any trace of an animal and finding none. While Daryl's footsteps were light and almost dainty, Connor's heavy boots stomped and cracked every branch and every pile of leaves in the forest, causing Daryl's temper to grow quickly.
While ignoring the Irishman's faults, Daryl remained vigilant for anything that could pass as food at this point. The prison would need food for tomorrow, the cans were running low and the farm animals hadn't reached their peak yet, they needed this hunt.
"Daryl." Connor whispered, earning a sharp hiss from the rednecks tight lips.
"What did I tell you about talkin'?"
"I just t'ought I'd try and explain w'at 'appened last night, 'kay?" Connor whispered some more as Daryl's eyes locked on to tomorrow's lunch.
A fourteen-point buck stood about thirty yards away from where he and the leprechaun crouched, it's meaty chest puffed out proudly, almost daring Dixon to shoot it.
Daryl set up the shot, lifting his crossbow to his shoulder as he looked down the sights.
He leveled up the crossbow with the head of the deer.
He took the wind, the trees and even his own breathing into consideration.
Everything was lined up, until Connor shifted.
The rustling noise got the buck's attention quickly before it pranced away through the thick brush of the Georgia forest. Daryl's nostrils flared as his gritted his teeth, his crossbow falling down to his side defeated. He bit the inside of his cheek, the copper taste of blood quickly filling his mouth as he tried his best not to lash out on Connor.
He tried.
Daryl turned around and grabbed Connor by the collar, pushing the stupid mick up against a tree. Connor didn't fight it off, his puny little hunting knife nothing compared to a crossbow in the face- which at this rate he was going to get sooner than later.
"W'at t'e fuck?-"
"What the hell is you problem?" Daryl almost shouted, fighting the urge to do so as it would scare away any other chance of dinner.
"You're t'ey one holdin' me against a fuckin' tree and I got t'e problem?"
"Why are you following me all the time? Why do you want to be around me? Why are you always lookin' at me? It's fucking creepy!"
"Let fuckin' go of me now."
"Fuck no!"
"Let go of me, Murphy!" Connor shouted now. Daryl let go over Connor's collar, only to then point the business end of the crossbow at his face. Connor's words halted on the back of his tongue, afraid to go any farther to piss of the redneck.
"I am not Murphy." Daryl said, one of the first calm things he had said all evening.
Connor watched as Daryl's figure hovered over the trigger, but never actually touched the piece. Connor almost called his bluff. Daryl did not want to shoot Connor; otherwise, he would have pulled the trigger and put them both out of the misery. Instead, the redneck just wanted to scare him, trick him into thinking that he was going to kill him. Daryl couldn't do it, Connor thought to himself as he felt a smirk appear on his lips. "I'm getting under his skin."
Daryl lowered the crossbow back to his side, his intimidating blue eyes never faltering from Connor's as he made his way down the path way once more, on the quest for food. At this point, he had added the clause: With or without Lucky Charms as Connor quickly followed behind.
Another hour and half went by without a single animal scurrying passed. Sure, a crow or a black bird would fly by, but according to Daryl they were 'small eats'; they needed a whole lot of birds or one big score, and his eyes were set on the big prize – that fourteen pointer they had seen earlier.
The sun had officially gone down, the moonlight the only light that the two of them had. The sounds of the dead moaning around them gave little comfort and aided in irrational paranoia as the boys tested each other. With Daryl's crossbow brought to his shoulder and Connor's hunting knife unsheathe, their eyes combed the darkness for any source of moment, either food or predator.
Connor eyes narrowed in the darkness, carefully looking out for anything in the unfamiliar territory. Daryl sensed the leprechaun's paranoia, chuckling lightly at the idea of this wanna be hard-ass being afraid of the dark.
"You okay over there?" Daryl whispered, looking back briefly to the man with the hunting knife. Connor's eyes narrowed at the back of Daryl's head, his lip scowling at him.
"Oh yeah, just peachy."
"You're not afraid of the dark, are ya?"
"Go fuck yourself." Connor remarked in the darkness, forgetting for a moment that the ribbing wasn't coming from his brother as even their cackling sounded the same. It was hard to believe they were not the same person, it couldn't be – right?
Daryl had found a small clearing, a field almost that would be perfect for scouting out a nice meal. They decided it would be better to sit back-to-back, covering both ways in and out of the pasture. Connor was useless with his hunting knife. Even if a deer had come along, the best he could do was to tap Daryl on the shoulder and pray he didn't scare the damn thing away.
The two of them stayed like that all night, back-to-back, waited for the almost mythic fourteen-point buck.
Connor had dosed off for what he swore was only a second or two when the sun rose over the horizon, the warm light shining on the pasture and giving the boys another chance to get something to eat. Daryl had stayed vigilant throughout the night, his cold eyes never stopped roaming the grassy plain as Connor stirred on his shoulder, waking for his morning nap with a loud yawn. Daryl hissed at the Irishman, not wanting to scare away another potential meal because of the paddy's loud mouth.
It moved silently in the distance, the tan puff of fur galloping just inside the tree line as Daryl's eyes watched. He brought his bow to his shoulder, looking through the crosshairs at the animal that was growing in size as it came closer. Daryl noted the tracks all around them; the grass matted down and leveled as this was a prime location for a deer, his deer.
As the buck got closer, he could see the beginning of the antlers as they towered over its head, the exact number still obscured in the wilderness. As it got closer, the Leprechaun got noisier – stirring in his sleep and moaning like a bitch in heat. Daryl rolled his eyes at him, really hoping that he wasn't going to have to follow up on his promises and shoot Connor.
Rick seemed to favor him to the rest of the new group. Connor was almost the perfect child, could do no wrong type of shit. Whenever he got in a fight with Red, and even that had been a week or so ago, Connor would get a stern talking to as a punishment. When Merle did it, he was handcuffed to a fucking roof! Daryl had called him out on it once, questioning his leader's sanity before getting his bullshit of an answer. "We need to keep an eye on him. He's more valuable than you think."
His 'value' at the moment was screwing up every chance Daryl had to get a deer.
Daryl lined the buck up in his sights, the number of points on the antlers still blurred from the tree line as it walked closer to the boys, its chest puffed out in pride.
Daryl's finger hovered over the trigger.
The deer had stopped, its ears perking to the sound of a predator some miles away.
He lined the deer up in his sights.
Connor sneezed.
The deer ran off.
Daryl's eye twitched in annoyance.
Without so much as a warning to the sleeping Irishman, he was soon barraged with a fury of fists connecting with anything Daryl could get his hands on: his chest, head, back, shoulders, gut – anything. Connor woke up abruptly, still groggy from his beauty sleep, as he began defending himself against the punches. He tried to grab one arm, only to be beaten with the other.
"What – t'e – fuck?!" Connor shouted, his voice echoing off of the trees in the forest which only cause the redneck to beat him up even more for scaring away anything in a five mile ratios. Now there was no chance of getting any food and the trip, and extra headaches, were for not.
"You – son of a – bitch!" Daryl said, laying one final punch to the Irishman's gut. For hating him so much, Daryl found that he had put on a lot of restraint. He didn't hit as hard as he could have, as he should have. He found himself pulling back more than once when he could have easily broken Connor's jaw, and everything else to go along with it.
Daryl lied down in the grass, pulling his hands over his dirty face as he tried to nurse the headache he had so affectionately named 'Connor'. The pain had started as a simple pain in the ass, much like Connor, but had evolved and moved in his head, like Connor.
The Irishman, still groggy, sat up in the field, quickly checking his face for bruises or any open wounds. Connor wiped his nose only to find a red streak across the back of his hand, blood had begun to leak from his face and collect just above his top lip. He licked his chapped lips, his mouth turning inside out from the mix of dragon breath and the coppery taste of blood blending.
"You – you fuckin' hit me!" Connor said, his eyes not daring to look away from the red mark on the back of his hand. "You fuckin' asshole!"
"Shut up, will yah?" Daryl resorted, pressing his index fingers to his temple to relieve some of the tension of his migraine.
Connor stared back at the annoyed redneck for a little while longer, his jaw dropping at the lax reaction to beating the shit out of someone. In that moment, Connor couldn't see a single thing like his brother. Daryl's face had almost morphed into someone he didn't recognize, and for that reason alone Connor's fists started to fly.
Repeating much of the same contact that Daryl had earlier, Connor began to punch and kick at the down redneck, while he began to defend himself and fight back.
The days of following Daryl around like a sick puppy were over; the idea that this asshole could be his brother was gone. His brother would never just beat the shit out of him for no reason, giving Connor an Open Season pass on the imposter.
The two strangled against the others grip, trying to get the upper hand in the scuffle and losing to the other one. Connor's back slammed against the hard ground as Daryl got the upper hand, straddling the Irishman as he laid punch after punch into somewhere in his chest. Connor shifted underneath, knocking the redneck from his position as he proceeded to punch Daryl.
Connor was getting the upper hand, Daryl needed something to get the crazy Irishman off of him. He'd seen what Connor had done to that walker in the farm house, he had watched he he'd done to Red – it was only a matter of time before Connor would do the same to him.
Reaching out in the thick, matted down grass, Daryl's fingers stretched towards the handle of the cross bow that had been knocked away in the earlier fight. His fingers traced along the holt of the crossbow, still not getting a good enough grip on before Connor began to punch Daryl left and right in rhythm.
Daryl's arm shot out to the side, grabbing the crossbow with his dominate hand. He was getting weak from the lack of sleep and the two-hundred-plus Irishman on his chest that he could not lift the crossbow up. Daryl lifted about as high as he could before pulling the trigger, shooting Connor just below the knee.
His cries where heard for miles around, no doubt scaring the wildlife.
Connor fell off the redneck and grabbed his knee, the crossbow bolt sticking half way and looking like it wasn't going to budge. Connor's eyes grew to the size of tennis balls at the sight of the arrow in his knee, blood now pouring from both his nose and his knee.
He had been shot before. Multiple times, if he was being honest. Most bullets went through the flesh, leaving little trace amounts of bullet residue inside, but that was it. Never had he been shot with an arrow that had stuck itself within the flesh, and this hurt like a mother.
"You shot me!" Connor shouted over his own screams as he tried to coddle with wound, the sensitive, exposed nerves jumping at even the slightest of touches. "You fuckin' shot me!"
Daryl sat back, watching with the crossbow still in his hands as he writhed in pain. Daryl had shot many people, but never one that reacted quiet like this, or made him react like this.
Before he had time to rethink his decision, Daryl quickly moved over the shouting Irishman. As silent as the grave, Daryl moved with precision, ripping the short sleeve from Connor's grey t-shirt and wrapping it tightly above the opened wound. Giving little comfort to the screaming Irishman, Daryl then grabbed the shaft of the bolt. The littlest vibration sent shocking waves of pain throughout Connor's body, and the redneck grabbing hold of the damn thing didn't help. The shooting, throbbing pain was too much for Connor as he felt himself getting weaker and weaker.
Daryl had to think fast, carefully lifting the leprechaun up from his wallowing-in-pain position and throwing the injured man's arm over his shoulder, despite his protests. He was still mad at the little fuck, but he couldn't just let him die out there, not with the dead fast approaching to the smell of fresh blood.
Daryl handed Connor his crossbow, trusting that he wouldn't use it to get revenge for his knee, as the two hopped back through the woods, leaving their hunting grounds and abandoning the search for the fourteen point buck.
The two hobbled back through the woods, Daryl followed the trail of heavy boot marks that Connor had made the previous night as Connor got increasingly tired, the blood lost effecting him quicker than either of them had first thought. "You shot me…" Connor mumbled under his breath. "You son of a bitch."
"Stop your bitchin', it don't hurt that bad."
"How t'e fuck would you know, huh?"
"Fuck you." Daryl said, stepping over a large fallen tree.
"What, you shoot yerself with your own crossbow?"
Daryl stayed silent, his eyes focusing on the ever distant edge of the forest.
"Fuck me." Connor said, too exasperated to laugh. "You fuckin' shot yerself?"
"Shut up."
"How t'e fuck did you do that? Just wanted to see what it felt like?"
"I said shut up."
"Did someone else shoot you, or did you just fall on it?"
"Fuck you."
The boys finally made it to the edge of the woods; the prison almost glowed in the morning light as Connor finally slummed over, too exhausted to even help lift his own weight. Struggling with the added weight of the wafting consciousness of the mick, Daryl managed to wave up to the guard tower, knowing that at least someone would be on the lookout.
Daryl watched as a number of bodies began to move from the courtyard into the fields, running over the tall grass, all almost competing to get to the gate first. He dragged the mick closer to the gate, Connor's good leg had officially given up as his dirty blond head rested on his shoulder.
Connor began to stir as he moved in and out of consciousness, mumbling something in Daryl's collar that he couldn't quiet grasp. He sounded like a drunk, mumbling over his words, his legs given up on moving.
"Don't… Tell…" Connor mumbled.
"Yeah, yeah – don't tell Alice." Daryl finished, recalling the time at the farmhouse when Connor had once again gone berserk. Connor shook his head, softer than what he had meant to as he finished his own sentence.
"No… Don't tell Red…" Connor said softly. "Don't tell Red…"
Daryl stopped mid stride, his mind reeling back to that night in the courtyard with him and Alice when it hit him. That's why the little fuck wanted to come with him on the hunt. That was what he was trying to say when he scared that deer away. He wanted to make sure him and his little fuck-buddy were safe from the wrath of 'daddy'. Daryl shook his head, almost disgusted with Connor's prorates; his girl over his own leg.
Daryl hobbled closer to the gate, seeing the familiar faces of Rick and Hershel as Rick lifted the security gate with a heave. The gates opened, squeaking loud like the prison cells themselves. The sound once used to imitate fear gave him a sense of safety, of belonging. Never did Daryl believe that he 'belonged' in a prison, but the safe thing… That was something different.
Hershel met the two at the door, his eyes drawing immediately to the arrow sticking out of Connor's knee as his blue jeans were now soaked in blood from the kneecap down. Connor himself was pale and clammy, weaving in and out of the world as they took note of his injuries.
Bouncing down the hill behind them, Alice's straw hat came into view – that's when Daryl knew shit was about to hit the fan. She stopped about ten yards away from them, her eyes widening as Connor could barely hold his own head up. She quickly covered her mouth, in shock herself from the state in which her friend had come back to her.
"What happened out there?" Rick asked, his hand on the butt of his gun as he looked outside the chain-link fence. Both Connor and Daryl's faces looked about the same, black eyed, bruised lips, swollen jaws, hurt egos – he could finally see the resemblance.
With both of their faces in utter disarray, and the shit that they had to go through with other groups over the last couple months, Daryl could also see why Rick was acting so suspicious. He'd laugh if Daryl had told him that they did it to each other.
"Did he get bit?"
"He got shot." Daryl said, his tone sharper than he wanted. Alice moved closer, baby steps at a time as it slowly sunk it that Connor was under all those cuts and bruises. She moved in closer with Hershel as they looked over the injuries.
Hershel's eyes went down to the crude tourniquet and the blood that had begun to collect around his feet before he realized how serious it was. Without a word Hershel started for the prison, Daryl and Connor following close behind as Alice grabbed Connor's other arm and helped with the weight. She struggled under the mick's weight before looking over at Daryl.
"I knew you were gonna shoot him." She said without a drop of malice in her words. Daryl's neck craned over to her as she smirked, knowing she'd hit the nail on the head. "You didn't have to shoot him you know?"
Daryl stayed silent, discounting the young woman as she didn't know what they had went through out there. She didn't see how crazy he was, or how much the man annoyed the shit out of him – or even how scared not one but two deer away.
With all of his reasoning behind what he did, he would have been lying if he said he didn't feel like an ass.
Daryl and Alice bring the poor bastard in the prison, the worried and anxious looks of the fellow survivors bouncing off of them before putting Connor back into the first cell, the holding cell for the unruly and the first home to Connor's own group. The cot was just as Connor had remembered, hard and unforgiving on his aching joints as Daryl and Alice sat him down, giving him another moment to rest.
He had stirred from his unconscious state, suddenly aware of shapes and sounds, though they sounded too much like that techno crap with the bass way too high. Every syllable made Connor's head throb to accompany the heartbeat that he felt in his knee. He didn't even feel the pain any more.
Alice gave way to the staring eyes and grabbed Connor's hand, squeezing it tightly in comfort. He heard the muffled bass of her voice asking if there was anything she could do to help, Hershel mumbled something back and she jumped, abandoning Connor's hand as it hover in thin air.
"Now, Connor." Hershel said, raising his voice over the sound of rushing water that only Connor could hear. "This next parts gonna hurt. Bear with me."
The cell block was filled to the brim with Connor's screams as they poured out of the cellblock. Hershel had a fine grip on the shaft of the arrow and was beginning to pull it through the flesh, he'd only moved a couple inches. Hershel looked back, his face turning back into a bit of a blur, and ordered the dark shadow in the corner to do something that he didn't quiet catch. The dark shadow got closer to Connor, momentarily blocking the light from the only cell window before they grabbed onto Connor's arm.
Murphy held onto his brother, to stop him from thrashing about on the prison cot as Hershel pulled a little more of the arrow out. The pain shot through his entire leg, up his spine before entering his head in a world of sharp, stabbing agony.
Like the moment at Sick-Fuck's house back in Boston when their own Da opened fire on them, Connor reached out for Murph, grabbing the back of his head in support as the wound was getting ever closer to being free of the arrow.
Murphy's arm wrapped around Connor's shoulders, holding him back, and stable, for Hershel to finish what he needed to do before the old man pulled the last, and most painful, part of the arrow free. Hershel pulled the feathers of the arrow through the wound, the once neon colors now hidden under the thick tar of blood before Connor actually calmed down, resting his head against his brother in relief. Connor almost smiled at the fact of his pain being over.
Hershel bandaged up his knee, moving faster than he actually was to the man with extreme blood loss.
The dark shadow of Murphy began to move away, feeling like his time comforting the injured man was over. Connor's hand reached out, grabbing onto him arm, too weak to ask him to stay.
He saw the head of the shadow, with the worn features of Murphy nod silently. He kneeled by his brother's bedside before Connor passed out.
Connor awoke several hours earlier, his head pounding against every wall of his skull before he realized where exactly he was. His eyes opened to the sight of the top bunk's strings, the thin grey mattress on top telling him something wasn't right. He turned his head and noticed other things were out of place, like the bed, the wall, the window (they didn't have one) and even the iron bars.
When he went to move, he felt the pain of his knee and it all came back to him in one giant heap. The woods, the deer, the arguing, the fight, the shot – it all washed over him like a tidal wave, momentarily knocking him off his feet as he grasped for air.
In the darkness, Connor saw a shadow move from the corner. His mind wanted to believe that it was Murphy again, in the dark his mind loved to play tricks. The shadow moved like a cat, swiftly and quietly, its feminine hips swaying in the lightest way possible told him it wasn't Murphy. As if he needed any more proof that it wasn't his brother, when the form came into the moonlight that shined through the barred window, his brother's features had disappeared and morphed with Alice's, his original shadow.
Her face look worn from the numerous hours of waiting and worrying. Bags had collected under her bloodshot eye from lack of sleep, her cheeks looked sunken in when she refused to eat anything for dinner, and faint wrinkles appeared outside her eyes from her intense worrying. She looked like she had aged about five years in the three hours.
"Alice?" Connor asked, his voice hoarse and strained from the pain inducted nap he had just taken. He tried to move up to his elbows, wincing in pain the whole time. "Where's Murphy?"
"What?"
"Murphy. You know, about yeh tall? Blue eyes? Bit of an ass?"
"Con, I don't know how long you've been out but, Murphy wasn't here."
"Of course he was. When Hershel was helpin' wit' me leg, Murphy held me down. I know it was him."
Alice sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Not this again." She said. "That wasn't Murphy, Connor. His name is Daryl."
"No, it was Murphy. Daryl is prick t'at shot me in t'e first fuckin' place."
"No, it was Daryl." She said, kneeling down by Connor's cot side how Murphy had done hours ago. "Daryl was the one that helped get you in here, he helped when Hershel needed you to stay still -… I had to practically force him out of the cell for him to get something to eat."
Connor smirked briefly at the encounter, having known Alice for so long, the idea of her kicking someone out for their own good seemed like something she'd do in heartbeat. However, the idea of Daryl staying by his side just because the Irishman asked him to was a little bit harder to swallow.
"He was here?"
"The whole time. Called me several flattering names when I told him to leave so, I think he's warming up to me."
Connor's chest rose in a chuckle before the cell door opened, squeaking in distress and calling attention to the injured man in the bed. Daryl closed the cell door behind him, his eyes unblinking to the now moving and conscious man in the cot. Daryl had a small plate of food in his hands, cold from the hours that it had sat out before Alice went to go get him. He paused at the door, his face almost neutral to his awakening.
"Look who's up." Alice said, flaring her arms to the side like one of those women on the early morning game shows. Daryl looked on, unimpressed by Connor's ability to sit up on his own, before leaning against the cinderblock wall to eat the rest of his plate.
Alice looked back to Connor, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise at the redneck's unwillingness to socialize. Connor caught the aforementioned redneck looking over at the cot several times, as if he wanted to say something but decided against it.
It wasn't until Alice decided that it was getting late that Daryl even moved from his spot in on the wall. Alice stood up from her 'seat' on the concrete floor by Connor's cot, moving in for a kiss goodnight before she stopped herself. It was habit at this point, nothing more, but with an audience of Daryl, she still felt like she needed to hide. She recovered quickly by placing a kiss on his forehead before scampering out of the cell with her tail between her legs.
Connor looked over to Daryl, watching the redneck trying to hide a smile behind his hand as Alice's little stunt left an awkward mist in the stale air.
"Nothing weird 'bout t'at, right?" Connor said, laughing a bit.
Daryl shook his head in silence as he sat the plate by his feet, wiping his dirty hands on the front of his pants. The pain in Connor's leg had almost ceased, the sharp pain was no more as Connor looked down at his fixed wound.
The wound have been bandaged nicely, tightly wound white gauze with a large collection of red blood rising to the surface. The surrounding area was heavily bruised in purples, blues, and greens, probably from the removal of the arrow or maybe even Connors fighting against it. Connor ran his index finger over the wound to test that, yes, it was in fact sensitive to the touch.
"Hershel says you'll be back in about a week." Daryl finally broke the silence. "It didn't do any major damage. But he still wants you in bed for a week."
Connor nodded his head, taking his orders from the Doctor lightly. He felt a million times better; he couldn't understand why he couldn't start moving now.
Defiant as ever, Connor carefully moved his leg over the side of the bed, the cold cement shocking against his warn toes. Daryl stayed silent as he tried to stand up on his own. Most, if not all, of Connor's weight was on his good foot, the one unaffected by the arrow as Connor used the bunk bed in the cell to stabilize himself. The smirk on his face told Daryl he was getting cocky – shifting his weight to his messed up leg told Daryl he was stupid.
Connor yelped in pain, both legs seemingly went out at once as Connor began to fall to the ground. His hip had already made contact with the hard ground before Daryl decided to help the idiot child, grabbing him under the arms and hoisting him back to the bed.
Daryl muttered under his breath every curse word he could think of, hurling them towards the Leprechaun, but to no avail. Connor hissed as Daryl shoved both legs back on the bed, not giving two fucks if it hurt or not. The Mick was gonna stay in the bed.
"What part of 'about a week' did you not understand?" Daryl hissed, turning from enemy, to savior, to now personal nurse as he grabbed the thin wool blanket and through it over Connor's shoulders, Connor himself too weak to protest.
"T'anks…"
"Shut up."
Daryl grabbed a metal chair from the corner of the cell block, picking it up so it wouldn't make too much noise, and sat it by Connor's bedside. Weakly, Connor asked from below the blankets.
"W'at are you doin'?"
Daryl stayed quiet, sitting down in the chair as his put his heavy combat boots on Connor's bed. "Shut up."
"You're gonna stay with me?"
"I said shut up."
Both Connor and Daryl's eyes began to get tired, the lids got heavier and heavier in a matter of seconds. Of course, Connor was the one to break the silence.
"Wanna cuddle?
"Shut up."
I hope you enjoyed it!
~pure.
