SHELTER | DIXON

|19|

The next morning, Madison quietly crept into her bedroom to get some clothes for the door, intending to be as silent as possible so as not to wake Daryl. However, when she saw that her bed was vacant of the redneck, she realized he must have jumped ship with no regards to his health and it instantly pissed her off. Throwing on a different outfit, Madison quickly brushed her hair and yanked on her combat boots before storming out of the house. Her feet stomped against the ground as she crossed the huge yard, out to where Daryl had set up his tent away from everyone else's. On her way over she saw Maggie and Glenn in what looked to be a heated discussion, but was so annoyed with Daryl she didn't bother to stop and ask them what was going on.

Without bothering to announce her arrival, Madison stepped into the already-open tent with a glare on her face. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" She demanded, staring down at Daryl where he lay on his makeshift cot, playing with one of his arrows.

He looked at her flatly. "Just woke up an' yer already botherin' me. We gotta get you a hobby, woman."

Her jaw clenched. "I asked you a question."

Daryl's eyebrow rose. "I ain't doin' shit but layin' here. Thought that was pretty obvious."

"You're not supposed to be up and moving around," Madison scolded him. "Those stitches are on the side of your abdomen, the easiest spot to be affected by any sort of strenuous activity."

He rolled his eyes. "You call walking a strenuous activity?"

"I do when you're walking up or down stairs, and bending over to lay down on a cot that's no more than two inches off the ground," she snapped, slamming down the supplies she had brought just in case his stitches needed redone. "You are seriously the worst kind of patient, ever. You have absolutely no regard for your own health, you're noncompliant, you don't listen to a word I say―"

"Please. You talk so damn much, I ain't got no choice but to listen to what ya say."

"Yeah?" She asked pointedly. "Then roll onto your side, asshole."

"I ain't no dog, woman," he sneered. Madison dropped down on her knees and tried to reach for his shirt so she could pull it up and see his wound, but he grabbed her wrist tightly with one hand, his other covering the area he was wounded at. "Knock it off, Mads."

"Do you seriously value yourself so low?" She demanded, yanking her wrist away from him. "Do you think nobody cares about whether or not you're okay?" Daryl simply stared at her as she spoke, not really knowing what to say. "Because I do," Madison admitted angrily, her blue eyes fierce as she glared him down. "You don't have any idea how scared I was that you were dead, Daryl. So I don't care if you think you're fine, or if you don't care whether or not you are― you're gonna swallow your pride like every other man that has ended up needing health care, and you're gonna roll on your damn side and let me check your stitches."

Although clearly not happy about it, Daryl moved so that he was lying on his right side and stopped trying to cover his wound. Madison huffed when she saw blood had seeped through his shirt, and when she pulled it back she saw that he'd torn two of his stitches and bled through the dressing. She refrained the urge to scold him again and reached for her things, cleaning the blood away from the area before stitching him back up. Daryl watched her work silently, hissing in pain every now and then, but offering no complaint.

It was only when she had finished his abdominal wound and was checking to see how the wound on his temple had scabbed over when he spoke up again. "Did ya really mean that?"

"What?" Madison asked, glancing down to make eye contact with him. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, causing her eyebrows to rise. "That I care about you?" She guessed, and he nodded curtly. Her expression softened. "Of course I meant it, Daryl. I'm not really the type to say things I don't mean."