Daryl stays rigid still the entire time, staring up at her mistrustfully. He's dead silent, trying to wait out this interminable status, between pain and anticipation, sickness and something worse. He still inches back from the cloth, but it's clearly on instinct. In the end, he's perfectly in reach for her to dab at his head.

"That ain't doing shit," he grumbles. "You can quit it."

It feels nice, and he hates it.