"I'll take care of it," Carol said.
Daryl had gone at least two or three shades whiter than he normally was, and she thought his hands were shaking beyond what he could normally blame on the nicotine addiction.
"I got it," Daryl said.
"I'm serious," Carol insisted, reaching toward him. She grimaced at the movement.
"You can't even sit up good."
"Then hand me the bottle and a rag," Carol said.
"I got it," Daryl insisted again, though he'd made no movement since she'd first revealed the cut to him.
"I'm going to bleed to death waiting, Daryl," she said, putting enough irritation behind her tone to try to spur him into action. He jumped. It had worked—at least a little. There was a threat to the situation that got him moving. She laughed to herself when she noticed his fingers trembling as he began mopping away at the cut. She focused on the humor she felt instead of the pain.
"The hell you laughin' at?" He asked, finally.
"You're shaking," Carol said. "I mean—you're a hunter. You skin animals every day. And—I've never even seen you shake after killing a Walker or…a person, for that matter."
Daryl hummed at her.
"There's blood," he said. "And then there's blood. Besides—there's shit in life that's a whole lot scarier than Walkers, or even fuckin' psychos, comin' after my ass."
"What's scarier than that?" Carol asked, her stomach clenching as she realized she might already know the answer.
"Them comin' for you," Daryl said.