the aftermath of a firefight is always dicey. it's almost worse than the actual fight itself, because most of the time, it's the first chance you have to look around and really survey the damage done. so much of the time they get lucky— no one dies, and there's very minimal injury. but as daryl glances around, eyes scanning to pick out any unnatural movement, he sees something that plucks a fearful cord in his chest.
his feet carry him swiftly to jesus' side, one of his hands reaching to grasp his bicep in an effort to stabilize his balance. never did he think he would see a man of such strong equilibrium falter. ‘ 'ey— 'ey! are you hit? ’ he asks, trying to push paul's trench coat out of the way so that he can see.
don't worry. don't— don't worry, @jcsus stammers, covering his wound as blood, fresh and vibrant, begins to soak through his clothes. panic rises in daryl's body— paul is a strong companion. a confidant. he really doesn't want to see another good man die.
spurring into action, daryl tugs jesus' arm to settle around his shoulders, providing him with a full body crutch as he endeavors to get him back inside of the hilltop's walls. if there's a bullet lodged in him, they need to get it out and stop the bleeding, or paul doesn't have a chance.
“Don’t worry. I’m okay- I’m okay…”
The words felt like mere reassurance to himself, as if his brain could convince his body to walk off such a blow. He didn’t want to be seen as weak, he didn’t want to be a burden to anyone- least of all Daryl. The man had enough on his plate, the last thing he needed was to have to play doctor all because he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way in the fire fight. He should have been quicker, should have checked his blind side, the aftermath of what-ifs would always be inevitable at a time like this. It seemed like a fair exchange in his mind, being grazed with a bullet, for the sake of everyone walking out of it alive. He’d do anything to protect his people, even if the sentiment wasn’t always returned in full. Now, he simply had to live with what came next- if he could even do that.
Daryl’s voice sounded miles away, like a dream, blurred around the edges, nothing exactly clear in his clouded mind. Once the adrenaline began to fade, the reality of the pain he felt began to put a toll on his body. At first, he tried his best to hide it, white shirt being stained a pungent red, almost black at the source with how deeply it flowed. A part of him wasn’t even sure if there was an exit wound, nor the extent of the damage that it may have caused. He’d tried his best to cover it, something Daryl was all too quick to discover, and before he could hardly protest, he found himself moving through space- up toward the wooden gates, clutching to his wounded side as Daryl carried him with the other.
“I’m sorry- I don't know when- or how-” He felt his feet dragging, tripping through the mud as they made their way in, and toward the location of his home, knowing well the only doctor Hilltop had to offer was busy with those frantic for attention. How Daryl managed was beyond him, that post battle adrenaline no doubt helping him in the situation. How he could feel his legs buckle beneath him, once they were indoors- yet Daryl held firm, bloodied hand clutching to the reassuring squeeze of the bowman's arm around his waist. “-Thank you, Daryl. I don’t mean to be a burden…” He needed to rest, just a moment to lay down- anything to ease his aching body- assuming it was far less worse than the actual damage that lingered underneath.
