* Warning: Daryl insulting Otis.

* Once again, a big thank you to everyone who has reviewed! So, a quick heads up. Most of you know my writing style by now, that I don't explain things right away. Throughout the next several chapters or so, there are going to be things you might find confusing. By all means, you can express your confusion in a review. Just know that things will be explained gradually, as always. Once again, thank you. Your reviews and constructive criticism are always welcomed.

Stitches

"Thank you," I said to Beth while she handed me the plate. I grunted painfully as I moved myself to sit up. I was still very much tired and more than a little out of it. I couldn't wait to get some food in me.

"It's no problem," she replied kindly as she set a glass of orange juice on the nightstand.

"No, really," I said seriously. Thank you for keeping Daryl grounded after the fall of the prison. Thank you for giving him reasons to never give up. I couldn't voice those things, no matter how much I wanted to. I had never gotten a chance to express those sentiments due to her death at that damned hospital. "Thank you," I repeated softly, looking her squarely in the eyes, trying to convey as much gratitude as I could.

She looked at me funnily for a few seconds, trying to understand why my words held weight.

"If there's anything you guys need help with," I said, changing the subject. "Just let me know."

She glanced at my bullet wound. "We won't expect that of you," she shook her head. "You ran here from three miles away with a bullet in your side. You oughta rest."

"I always pull my weight, doesn't matter if I'm injured." I paused. "Otis was right behind me, right? He made it back?"

"Yeah, not too long after you got here," she nodded. "He's been wantin' to know how you're doing. We've been keepin' him in the loop." She paused. "You should know how sorry he is. He said the bullet passed right on through the buck. He didn't see you hidin' in the brush, otherwise he wouldn't've even thought about shootin'."

"You see me holding a grudge," I asked with a half-smirk. "Is he around? I need to speak with him."

"He's out doin' the mornin' chores right now," she explained as she made for the door. "I'll go tell him you wanna see him."

After devouring the sandwich and downing half of the juice, I gingerly lied back down, and spent my time staring at the ceiling or out the window. The window was open slightly, allowing a relaxing breeze to circulate the room. The only other thing I could do was listen to the sounds of the farm; chickens clucking, a horse clopping across a field, a barn door opening and closing.

I remembered when Daryl said that there was a barn somewhere on the property with walkers in it. Sophia was supposed to be one of them. I wasn't worried, though, given that Shane was supposed to be the one to bust it open. That told me that nothing was going to open that barn from within, that no walker should be able to claw or tear its way out. Either I wasn't worried because of that logic, or I was simply too tired to care.

I also remembered an inkling of something Daryl had told me when it came to Otis. Carl was the one who had gotten shot, making Otis go on a run for medical supplies. Shane was involved in the run, as well, and when he came back without Otis, it was almost obvious that he'd killed him. Thankfully, given that I wasn't on death's door, Otis and Shane didn't have a reason to go on that run. Also, it was highly doubtful that Shane would ever go on a run for something I would need.

The sandwich and juice were wonderful. I didn't feel any stronger, but at least my stomach was no longer bitching. Even the fog in my head cleared a little, more awareness returning. But that meant things were a little clearer now, including the searing pain. That entire side of my body felt like one big open wound.

I lifted the hem of the clean shirt Patricia had given me and finally let myself look at it. I had been ignoring it as best I could until now, trying to soldier through the ordeal as well as trying to keep my pride intact. The wound was bigger than when I'd first been shot. All that running through the woods, scalpel work, and thrashing on the bed had seen to that. The incision sight was long and irritated, starting just below my ribcage and reaching all the way to my hip.

I grumbled irritably as I tried to stay still. I kept having the urge to stretch or get up and walk around, instinctually wanting to do something to keep myself busy, and distract myself from the pain. How long had it been since Hershel finished the procedure? Judging by the sunlight now shining into the room, about three hours.

Only three measly hours.

"Bed rest is so much fun," I grumbled.

"Hi," came a meek voice. I glanced up at the doorway to see a nervous Otis. "Um," he started carefully. "How are you feeling?"

"I'd like to know that as well," Hershel said as Otis stepped aside to let him into the room. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "Mind if I look?"

I nodded.

He lifted the shirt to examine the sutures. After a minute, he let the shirt fall back into place. "There's a lot of redness, but that's more than likely due to how new it is. No sign of infection yet." He reached into one of his pockets. "I can't give you a jar to use, but if you're really intent on keeping them…" He placed a Ziploc bag containing the now clean bullet fragments on the nightstand.

I chuckled. "It was a joke, but thank you."

"Listen," Otis said from where he still stood next to the doorway, as if afraid to enter further. "I know I've said it a million times already, but…I'm sorry. So, so sorry. I…" He suddenly looked very perplexed and highly shocked. "Beth said you're not holding a grudge. Why?! I shot you!"

"And it was an accident," I replied. "You didn't know I was there. I forgive you."

He sagged his head with a heavy sigh. "Thank you! Look, if there's anything you need, anything I can do to make it up to you-"

"There is something you can do," I interrupted calmly after I glanced again at the bullet fragments. "You can keep your lip zipped."

His eyebrows came together. "What?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem like the apologetic type," I said sarcastically. "I forgive you, but Daryl-"

"Who's Daryl," he asked.

"My boyfriend," I replied, trying to hide a small smile at using those words. "Plainly speaking, Daryl's not gonna give a damn about your apologies. No matter what you say, he's only gonna see you as the dumbass who shot me." He opened his mouth to speak, but I kept talking. "He's gonna wanna know what happened, and I'm gonna tell him."

I tried to sit up a little, as if doing so would enunciate the gravity of my words. "Me. Not you. I know how to talk to him when things get rough, and I don't need you opening your mouth. He won't see this as an accident. He'll see this as threat." I looked him in square in the eyes. "He'll see you as a threat."

Otis squirmed in place as I said that, looking away almost respectfully. Hershel looked tensely between Otis and me.

"Do you think Daryl will try to hurt him," Hershel asked.

"No doubt, and he'll do so immediately," I said, still keeping my eyes on Otis. "If Otis opens his mouth, that is. I'll talk Daryl through what happened. I can do so in a way that he shouldn't fly off the handle."

"He sounds like an impulsive type," Hershel remarked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I responded confidently. "And if he does try anything, I'll step in."

Hershel frowned and shook his head. "You're in no condition to do so." He turned to Otis. "Maybe you oughta…leave the property for a day or so. Go on another hunting trip or something. Just until this Daryl cools down."

"This is your home," I shook my head quickly. "I can't have Otis do that because of me or Daryl. It's not right." I glanced between Hershel and Otis. "I've known Daryl for a really long time now. I can handle him. Trust me."

Hershel rubbed his fingers over his eyelids.

"Do you understand, Otis," I asked.

Otis nodded once. He gave me one last apologetic look before leaving the room.

Hershel stood up. He wiped his hands off on a rag as he stared at me with uncertainty. "Are you sure Otis isn't in any danger?"

I raised a brow at him. "Now, I didn't say that. Daryl might consider swinging a punch at him just to get it out of his system. I'll try and stop him from doing that as well, but at least he shouldn't be on the warpath by that point. Daryl isn't a dog. I can't command him to do anything. All I can do is reason with him." I gave him a knowing look. "I make no guarantees."

Hershel sighed, not convinced. After a second, he pointed to the bullet fragments. "Do you wanna keep those, or not?"

"Keep 'em there. Some of the group might think it'd be cool to look at 'em."

Hershel surprised me by sitting back down. He was staring at me with a steady and unreadable expression.

"When Otis came back, I asked him about his side of the story, asked him about you. Other than for the mass amounts of swearing, he didn't have a bad thing to say about you." He paused. "Otis told me how you were worried about the amount of bullets he had left. Why?"

I blinked, confused as to what it was even a question. "I wanted to make sure he had enough ammo so he could make it back home safely."

His eyebrows scrunched. "Your first experience with Otis was that of him shooting you…And you were worried about him. You even said you would turn around and help him if need be."

I shrugged. "Like I said, I don't hold grudges, especially against someone who clearly didn't mean for it to happen. He's a nice person. The last thing I'd want is for him to not make it home. I would be the one to deal with that guilt."

"You would protect a stranger," he asked slowly. "even with a fatal wound?"

"So long as they posed no threat? In a heartbeat."

Hershel didn't respond to that. He just kept his face as neutral as ever. However, his eyes were scanning me carefully, trying to make sense of my words, and the situation as a whole. His intense scrutiny was interrupted by the sound of a motorcycle engine. I couldn't help but grin widely when I heard it.

"It's been a peaceful day so far," Hershel breathed as he stood up. "For the most part. Guess all that's about to change."

As Hershel left the room, I thought, You have no idea, my friend.

When the motorcycle engine turned off, I could hear the sounds of a horse's hooves fidgeting over gravel, and Maggie's voice asking something. For a few short seconds, only the light breeze swaying tree branches could be heard.

A cautious whistle pierced the peaceful air.

With an even wider grin, I chirped back, and flinched as my lungs and side protested when I did that.

I heard the front door of the house bang open, with the door shuddering loudly in protest. Frantic boots pounded against hardwood floor until they stopped at the bedroom door. Daryl stood there in the doorway, holding his crossbow in one hand and my longbow in the other. He was staring at me with wide eyes that held a hint of panic.

"What's up," I greeted casually, breaking the silence.

He exhaled in relief, but his relaxed demeanor lasted for only a split second. After he leaned our bows against the wall next to my backpack – he must've gotten my bow off the porch if no one had bothered to get it this whole time – he started pacing jaggedly, staring at me with narrow, anxiety-ridden eyes. Then, in three quick strides, he was across the room and at the bedside.

He leaned over me and, in a gesture I had yet to see from him, gently cupped my cheek. It was an interesting contradiction given how tense he was. Now only inches apart, his eyes quickly searched my face, and then my body.

His words were an anxious rush. "Where's the wound?"

"First of all, I'm fine," I said calmly, placing my hand over his to keep it there, tilting my head into it slightly.

He wasn't convinced in the slightest. "That cowgirl said you got shot. Now where's-"

With a sigh, I lifted my shirt. His hand fell from my face. His eyes silently traced over the long row of sutures that held my skin together. Slowly, he started to bring his hand close, as if about to soothe his fingers over the wound. Quick as a shot, he jerked his hand away and went back to furiously pacing the room, all while not taking his eyes off of where the bullet had left its mark.

I shook my head at him. "Daryl-"

"Don't tell me you're fine," Daryl snapped. "Don't tell me you're fine! You got a damned hole in your side!"

"And now it's stitched up."

The yelling started quicker than I thought it would. "You coulda died! Whoever the hell did this, I'm gonna-" He cut himself off, snarling loudly through clenched teeth. "Why the hell didn't you make it back to the highway?! Why the hell didn't you call for me?!"

"The highway was too far," I snapped back. "And so were you! You didn't hear me! You couldn't whistle back!" Then, I exhaled slowly, trying to keep this from turning into a shouting match. "I'm alive, dammit. It's not the first time I've been shot. I've had worse. Hell, someone tried to gut me like a deer the one time. I've even had to cut off my own arm. This bullet is child's play."

With a distracted snarl, not really listening to my words, he stomped back over to the bedside. He got out a pill bottle from his pocket and yanked open the cap. After taking out a pill, he closed the bottle and all but slammed it down on the nightstand next to the bullet fragments.

Snatching my wrist, he placed the pill in the palm of my hand. "Take that," he grunted. "Cowgirl said you needed antibiotics."

"Her name is Maggie," I corrected with mild irritation. "What about T-Dog?"

"I split the pills up. You got half, he's got half," he said as he sank onto the chair that Hershel was just in.

I swallowed the pill. I reached for the orange juice, ignoring the way my body protested at the simple lean. I took a sip, set it back on the nightstand, and picked up the pill bottle.

I gave it a little shake and frowned. "There's not much in here," I muttered. "Which means T-Dog doesn't have much either. I'll take one or two more when I need to, and then T-Dog can have the rest."

Daryl scoffed. "You can't think of yourself for more than five minutes, can you," he grumbled.

I frowned at him. He wasn't looking at me, opting to glare a hole in the opposite wall. He had his chin on his fists and his elbows on his knees. His shoulders were hunched, and every now and then one of his legs bounced apprehensively. All of this told me he was experiencing a mixture of fury, fear, and total anxiety all at once.

I leaned again, this time to stroke my thumb over his knuckles. His shoulders relaxed, but everything else remained the same. "I'm gonna be fine, okay," I said. "I'll be up and about before you know it." I pulled my hand back and scowled at the room. "And I hope it's sooner rather than later. I'm already going stir-crazy."

Still glaring at the wall, he said, "You know, when most people get shot, they wanna rest for a long-ass time."

I tsked. "I didn't get that memo."

He finally looked at me. The harshness was gone, but the stress was still clearly there. Then, he looked at the nightstand. He picked up the Ziploc bag and rattled it.

"What's this?"

"The bullet. It fragmented. Hershel had to take 'em all out of me individually. That's one of the reasons why the wound is as big as it is."

His gaze drifted to my torso. He set the bag down, and then went to touch the hem of my shirt. He paused and looked at me, waiting. When I nodded, he lifted the hem to inspect the wound again.

"You see who did it," he asked. "Or did they turn tail and run when they saw who they were up against?" He let the shirt fall back into place. "You remember what they looked like," he asked, frown deepening, silently threatening who did this.

I puffed my cheeks and blew out the air. "So," I started, slowly, carefully. "Here's what's going on-" I stopped when I heard the floorboards creaking.

Otis was standing in the doorway.

My jaw clenched. I did my best to stare Otis down from where I was sitting. "You need…to leave," I said, as if speaking to a child.

Otis shook his head at me. "Please," he begged, looking at Daryl. "Let me say my piece-"

"Yeah. I really can't let you do that." I was glaring now, trying to convey the warning I had already given this dumbass. "Son of a…" I trailed off as my side twinged sharply when I shifted edgily.

"Who the hell are you," Daryl asked, narrowing his eyes at him. He kept glancing at me out of his peripheral, trying to make sense of my suddenly uptight body language.

"I'm Otis. I'm one of the farmhands here," he greeted nervously. He gestured to me. "I'm…the reason she ended up like this. It was my fault, and I know no apology could ever cover it, but… I'm sorry." He shifted from foot to foot as he waited for Daryl's reaction.

Daryl froze at his words. Then, painstakingly, he rose to his feet. "You sayin' you're the one who shot her," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. He stared directly into Otis' eyes as he started walking stiffly towards him.

My head fell back on the pillow in exasperation. "God damn, motherfucking…" I whispered to the ceiling. Trying to waste no time, I forced my body to sit completely upright. I flung my legs out from underneath the covers and let my feet fall to the floorboards. Huffing, already tiring, I put my attention back on the matter at hand.

Daryl was now inches away from Otis.

Otis swallowed fearfully. After briefly making eye contact with me, he focused on Daryl again. "Y-yes," Otis muttered shakily.

Daryl's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Daryl," I said firmly as I stood up, though knowing my words would be in vain. "It was an accident."

Otis's terrified yell tore through the room as Daryl grabbed him and shoved him into the wall. The house's foundation shook and groaned with the impact. Daryl went forward again, slamming his arm across Otis' chest and holding him there.

Ignoring my body as it screamed at me in sheer pain, I quickly staggered across the room. Just as Daryl's fist was coming up, I slammed my uninjured side against him, forcing him to stumble sideways. Involuntarily, I curled one of my arms up against my wound protectively, my body now throbbing head to toe from the force of my movements. Daryl tried to get around me, but I shifted my stance, blocking him as he tried to do so.

With a frustrated roar, he got right in my face. "Get back in that bed!"

"Well, that's a bold statement," I quipped. "At least buy me a drink first."

"This ain't fuckin' funny! You're bleedin'!"

"That's happened quite a lot in the last few hours. I'm pretty fucking used to it by now!" I glared at him. "You need to back off."

"You coulda died because of this fat bastard! We were waitin' on that highway for you! It's been twenty-four fuckin' hours since I seen you! You got any idea how worried I was?!" He paused for a split second, looking over my shoulder. "Don't you fuckin' run," he suddenly yelled at Otis as he was scrambling to get his feet back under him. "You ain't gettin' far!"

"It was an accident," I shot back. My arm was still curled against my side, and I could now feel the blood seeping through the shirt. "He didn't know I was there! He was shooting at a buck, not me!"

"'Cause that makes it okay!"

"Yes it does, because he's also the reason I'm still alive! He could've left me out there, wished me good luck! Instead, he told me where his people were, that they could help me! He left his family vulnerable to a stranger they didn't even know. Because he wanted to help!" I knew I was outright yelling as well, and I should've been doing a better job at diffusing the situation, but I was agitated, in pain, and fuck was I just damned tired of it all.

"That makes him a dumb fat bastard, then!"

"It makes him a good person! The world doesn't have many of those these days!" I took a breath, trying to calm myself. "I'm alive because of him, and his people! I'm not asking you to thank them…I'm asking you to understand."

As expected, he started pacing in front of me, glaring at Otis over my shoulder. But he didn't make any further movements.

I heard the front door of the house be flung open, but I didn't take my eyes off Daryl. Frantic footsteps raced through the house until skidding to a halt.

"What in God's name is happening," I heard Hershel demanded.

Not looking back at him, I said, "Making sure Otis stays alive. Mission accomplished so far." Daryl glared at me.

I could hear shuffling and one of the women gently saying, "Come on, Otis."

"Are you alright," Hershel was asking.

"Yeah," Otis responded breathlessly. "We…I think we're all good."

"Are we, Daryl," Hershel asked.

Daryl sneered at him. Seconds passed by.

Finally, Daryl shook his head and grumbled a long string of curses under his breath.

'Thank you,' I mouthed. His scowl only deepened in response.

I turned around to see Patricia and Maggie escorting Otis out of the room. He was up and walking, but they accompanied him out of worry. Hershel glowered at us, and rightfully so.

"This thing between you and Otis," he asked Daryl. "Are you gonna make your peace with it, or am I gonna have to ask you to leave my property?"

Daryl looked sharply at him. "I ain't goin' nowhere," he spat. "Maybe you oughta teach your man not to shoot people!"

"I'm sure Layla has already explained to you it was an accident."

"Yeah? And is your shitty doctor skills an accident, too? She's already bleedin' again!"

Hershel's gaze immediately went to my side. My side and my arm were once again covered in my blood.

"Lie down again," he told me as he went to the nightstand.

With a resigned sigh, I did as instructed. I could feel the stitches tugging as I put myself back in the center of the bed. I didn't have to look at the wound to know some stitches had popped. I tried to slowly lower my back to lay my head on the pillow, but realized it was too much of a strain. So, I relaxed my elbows and let my upper body flop the last couple of inches. Daryl winced at my abruptness.

Hershel had gotten out some alcohol and extra sutures from the nightstand. "Something told me we might need more of these," he said with a scolding look. "So I kept 'em close by."

I snorted. "That was wise."

Hershel looked at Daryl. "There are more rags in the kitchen under the sink. I'll need those."

Before Hershel had gotten the last words out, Daryl had already sped out of the room.

Hershel lifted the hem of the now bloodstained shirt. "I highly doubt Patricia will want this shirt back now," he mused with a frown.

"Whenever I'm well and able," I said. "I'll do a run. Clothes, rags, medical supplies, I'll get whatever I can find to replace anything you used or discarded."

"You won't be up and about for some time," he shook his head.

"Oh, ye of little faith," I smirked.

Daryl was back again, promptly setting the rags on the nightstand. "What else you need," he asked.

"I need you to give me space," Hershel replied bluntly. As if scolded, Daryl scowled at him, but walked away to go to the other side of the bed.

I had popped about a quarter of my stitches. Thankfully, though, it didn't tear that much more of my skin. Hershel worked brusquely, professionally. I didn't react much as the needle went in and out, feeling more and more drained with every passing minute. I only flinched every now and then when his fingers touched my skin.

At some point, Daryl sat himself beside me. His hand found mine, and his thumb stroking my skin was a welcomed distraction. He watched Hershel carefully, mostly with suspicion. I could tell he wasn't a fan of us being in a house full of strangers.

When Hershel was done, he put the suture kit, alcohol, and remaining clean rags in the nightstand drawer. He stopped his movements when he saw the pill bottle. He picked it up and inspected its contents.

"Not much in there," he sighed. He stood up, went to the dresser on the other side of the room, and came back with a clean shirt. "I'll give you some privacy and come back later for the dirty shirt," he said as he handed me the new one. "Try not to pop anymore stitches."

"No promises," I smirked, making Daryl roll his eyes disapprovingly.

Hershel looked at Daryl. "How about you and Otis just keep out of each other's way for now," he asked, leaving little room for argument.

Daryl scoffed loudly. "Fine by me," he grumbled.

Hershel shook his head at us, gave us one final unsure look, and then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

I blew out a puff of air as a neutral atmosphere finally started to return. "Jesus," I muttered through clenched teeth as I moved to sit up again.

"Lay back down," Daryl said, putting a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

I shook my head. "I need to get rid of this shirt and put the new one on."

Daryl frowned at this, but glided his hand from shoulder to my back to support me. "Thanks," I breathed out. Once I was propped against the headboard, he slid his hand away. I started to lift up the hem of my shirt. Red tinted Daryl's face and he quickly looked away.

I wouldn't have minded if he saw me shirtless. I trusted him and knew he wouldn't do anything risqué. However, I wasn't offended that he wanted to look away to give me a sense of privacy.

I tossed the bloody shirt towards my backpack and put on the new one.

"You can look now," I muttered as I sank myself to lie back down. Everything was starting to catch up to me. Hiding from walkers on the highway, keeping Sophia from running off, tracking a deer, getting shot, running three miles, bullet chunks being yanked from my body…

To put it bluntly, I was damned tired.

"What's the group doing right now," I asked. "Setting up camp in Hershel's yard?" I snorted. "I bet Hershel's enjoying that."

Daryl shook his head. "They're still on the highway. Dale fixed the RV. They're just tryin' to turn themselves around now to get themselves here."

"Everyone's okay," I asked. "T-Dog? Sophia? Everyone?" He nodded once. "Hershel's gonna have an aneurism when they all get here."

"Why?"

"He doesn't want any people on his land."

"Then his people should figure out how to not shoot other people."

I rolled my eyes. "You now understand that it was an accident at least, right?"

He scowled, but nodded begrudgingly.

"I thought about heading for the highway, after I'd been shot," I explained. "But I doubt it would've worked in my favor. You were too far away, which meant the group was probably too far away. When Otis mentioned the farm, I knew it would be my best bet." I looked at him steadily. "I know you wanna kill Otis. If the situation was reversed and you were the one in this bed, I would, too. But these are good people, all of them. Eventually…They'll be a part of us."

Daryl scoffed and pointed at the bedroom door. "If you think I'm gonna let the trigger-happy bastard be a part of our group, then-"

"I thought you said it wasn't your group," I asked with a smirk. "Thought you said we didn't need any of 'em."

Daryl looked away, glowering at nothing in particular. I chuckled lightly under my breath, and it transformed into a long yawn. I heard Daryl say I should get some rest just as my eyes were drifting shut.