Arrowhead ➳ Daryl Dixon

n i n e

"Thaz alright." Daryl said, laying down the knife he had just been sharpening. "There's enough meat n' shit for now."

Carl laughed a bit at that. "You're worse than a boyfriend, Daryl." He said, earning a small glare. "Well you are! Look at you, you haven't left her side since she got here. Who knew you were such a softie to pretty women."

"Shut up, Carl." Daryl muttered. "I'm not a softie towards anything. Especially her." 

"It's the truth, Dare." Carl said, grinning. "What are you gonna do when she leaves?"

"Act like nothing ever happened." Daryl said, saying what he believed was truthfully.

Carl snorted and pushed off the bars, "Doubtful."

Oddly enough, the young boy was right.

___

"Here, let me help you." Carol said as Presley slowly made her way out of the cell. She was about to decline, but Carol moved her arm over her shoulder before she could say a single word.

"Uh, thanks." Presley said, only allowing a bit of her weight to be supported by the woman. A few unfamiliar faces turned and looked at her, frowning creasing their faces. Every now and then one would offer a timid smile, but it never reached their eyes.

Then again, there wasn't a whole lot to smile about anymore.

"Where were ya heading?" Carol asked as she continued to assist her down the steep steps. Though the women stood about at the same height, Carol was more broad and sturdy. If she had been taught differently, the woman really could be dangerous. Presley was more slender and feminine, but you'd best not doubt her. She relied on stealth and speed- not so much strength.

"Hershal said I could wash up in the showers, and then he would patch me up." She said between breaths.

The elder woman nodded, and they continued their silent steps to the shower. Once they reached the shower, Carol showed her the complex controls and handed her a bar of soap, shampoo, and a towel. Presley gave her a thankful nod before beginning the slow, painful process of stripping.

The water wasn't hot nor cold, but it still felt like heaven. She stayed and scrubbed a month's worth of grime and dried sweat off of herself. Dirty water rolled off her body and circled around until it found the drain. A shower was a luxury. Most of the time she found herself stripping and wading through a freezing cold stream with a bottle of cheap shampoo and a crusty bar of soap.

Her hair was the biggest task. She had thought about cutting it so many times, but she just couldn't quite let it go. She had always had long hair, because that brought out the tender part of her father, oddly enough. Every morning before school, he would pull it back into a braid. It took a lot of practice, but soon he had mastered the art of braiding. He often told her that she had the same hair as her mother.

By her freshman year she had grown out of those braids and mostly just left her hair down, but she never cut it.

So, she suffered through the yanking and pulling and managed to pull out the tangles with the help of some conditioner and her nimble fingers. Soon enough, Presley was as clean as she was gonna get. She stepped out and changed into her old clothes. Thankfully, they only smelled a bit musty and old.

When she emerged from the showers and came back to her cell, Hershal was already laying out bandages and stuff for her rib cage. He gave her an apollogetic smile, "You're going to have to take your shirt off... I can't do the bandages over your shirt, unfortunately."

Surprisingly to Hershal, Presley didn't have a problem with that. Well she did, but she didn't complain. It wasn't like she had anything to hide. She was skinny and battered and bruised, but a layer muscle tone was prominent. She was in shape, that was for sure. Then again, Hershal sensed she had never been one to set camp and stay for too long at a time. She probably did a lot of moving around.