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Chapter Text

Trees. More stumbling than running. Walkers staggering in his path. Breaths coming painfully.

Daryl has to stop, but he knows if he does, he’s dead. If he doesn’t, he knows he’ll black out any moment. He glances back. At least five creatures are still in pursuit, and they are speeding up.

No, he’s slowing down. He fires his last bolt at the nearest one, and misses. The blood pounds through his chest, throbs in his head. There’s the riverbed he remembers from tracking in this area, and beyond, he also remembers, lies a paddock. With a fence all around it.

Daryl takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain from his ribs. He lowers his head, blinks away the stars dancing in front of his eyes and focuses all his remaining strength. He wills his legs to move faster, splashing into the icy stream. He gasps at the cold, knees buckling as another arrow of pain shoots through his side from the busted ribs. He can’t help collapsing into the freezing water, can just about catch himself with his right arm, his bad arm. He cries out in agony, and for one moment, an insane moment, he thinks about just staying there, in the middle of the stream. Let the walkers come, let them do their thing with him. He’s spent, more exhausted than he can recall ever being.

But then he remembers the people he’s come out here for. He doesn’t much care what happens to himself, now, but he knows, if he doesn’t come back tonight, they will worry. They will go out looking for him, and they will be in danger. More danger than they know. He can’t let that happen, he has to get back, has to warn them.

With an effort he pushes himself up off his knees, and he doesn’t even care that his grunts of pain now sound more like whimpers. In his moments of weakness the walkers have all made it into the stream, and the nearest one is only a few feet away. Daryl pushes on.

Clambering up the opposite bank, dragging his left leg painfully. He isn’t sure, but he thinks the gash on his thigh is bleeding again, and his hip just doesn’t feel right. He pulls himself the rest of the way, pushing away from the embankment and inelegantly comes to rest on his front, panting.

Looking up, he can see the wooden fence around the paddock. Looking back, he can see the walkers trying to clamber after him, but finally something is going right for Daryl. The embankment here is steep, and the mindless creatures will have a hard time following him now.

Daryl pushes himself up, limping the remaining yards to the fence and leaning against it for a moment, breathing hard. His blood is loud in his ears, and he is certain that if he doesn’t move immediately he will pass out then and there. He pushes his crossbow, which seems to weigh a ton, up and over the fence, letting it fall into the high grass beyond.

Then he steels himself against the new bout of agony he is certain this maneuver will trigger, and lifts his right leg onto the lower rung of the fence, pulling himself with his good left arm. He swings his stiff, bleeding left leg over awkwardly when he hears the walkers snarling behind him. Startled, he puts the bad leg down on the inner side of the lower rung without thinking. His knee gives way, and with a yell of pain he falls, landing hard in the high grass. A jolt of hot white pain shoots through his ribcage, then he knows nothing.

He comes to slowly. At first his mind is blank and all he can do is stare at the crimson sky above him. Only slowly does the world return to focus, and with his vision clearing his memory returns. He can hear more growling, and something is tugging on his foot. He sits up with a jolt and a gasp.

The world is suddenly in freefall, his insides are churning, his stomach turns over. Leaning to the left Daryl throws up his meagre lunch, and a surprising amount of bile. The nausea only abates slowly, and he continues to retch for several minutes, each spasm aggravating his ribcage. When the retching finally stops he’s sobbing with the pain.

Wiping away the tears and focusing on the walkers in front of him he can’t help but feel relief. There are only two now, and they are straining to squeeze through the slats, but clearly failing. They were close enough to tug on his foot, but that’s about it.

Still, Daryl knows not to be complacent. Judging by the sun that has now almost disappeared behind the horizon he reckons he was out cold for at least thirty minutes, and he’s still a long way from home. Groping for his crossbow in the grass, briefly considering leaving it behind since he has no bolts left anyway but quickly deciding against it, he gingerly gets to his feet.

Within a few short steps, however, Daryl realizes that he will not make it back to the prison this evening. His left hip and leg are on fire, every movement is pure agony. Putting any pressure on it at all makes more stars appear before his eyes. Within ten feet the nausea is so overpowering he has to stop. Leaning over, awkwardly supporting himself on his crossbow, he contemplates his options. He only sees one, and he doesn’t like it at all: About 50 yards away a wooden, half rotted animal shelter stands on the paddock.

Daryl isn’t even sure he can make it that far, his vision is narrowing steadily and he knows he’ll black out soon. Slowly, in tiny increments, leaning on the crossbow, he inches toward the inadequate shelter. His breath comes in short, labored gasps.

Twenty yards, ten. Finally, he can touch the wooden hut, and supporting himself against the flimsy back wall he creeps around to the front. The structure only has three walls, and is completely empty. Which is a relief in a way, but Daryl had harbored a small hope that at least some dried grass might have been left over from when it was used by whatever animals grazed on this field. The only thing they have left behind, however, is a faint odor of dung, which makes Daryl gag again.

Either way, he has not many options left. None, really. Limping to the back corner he lowers himself as carefully to the ground as possible, trying to put no more pressure on his left leg. This makes his descent awkward and he lands with a jolt. Grinding his teeth to keep from blacking out Daryl tries to take a few careful breaths, attempting to slow his racing heart. Gradually, the cottony feeling in his ears subsides and his vision returns to normal.

Looking at his left leg, however, makes the sick feeling return to his stomach. The gash in his outer thigh, which he had hardly noticed when he had stumbled from the wreck of his car, is bleeding profusely now. It’s about seven inches long, ending just above the knee. The blood has soaked through the entire lower part of his jeans leg and his sock, and is still running down his leg.

Daryl is no stranger to accidents while out in the wilderness, and he knows what to do. He pulls out the small knife which he always keeps sheathed in his back pocket, and half cuts, half rips the bloody pant leg off. He quickly rips it into strips and knots these together into a rope. Looking around on the ground he is again in luck: a fairly sturdy stick lies just outside the shelter. Retrieving this brings on fresh agony, but he manages, biting down on his lip.

Panting heavily, he returns to his corner and props himself against the wall. He fashions a tourniquet just above the injury and cuts another hole in his jeans higher up his thigh. He will use this to secure the stick. Breathing as normally as he can, but biting his lower lip again hard he slots the stick into the makeshift tourniquet and quickly turns it until the strip of jeans fabric is taut against his leg. The pain is so excruciating, his vision narrows again and he just about manages to secure the stick before he faints.

*

Daryl wakes up because his teeth chatter so hard he bites his tongue. Night has properly fallen now, he can only see vague outlines in the light from a sliver moon. He isn’t wearing a jacket, just a T-Shirt and his leather vest. The day was still quite warm even though it’s already October. What is left of his pants is still wet from kneeling in the stream, and he’s shaking so hard from the cold it is causing his bruised body renewed agony.

He shrugs off his vest, wincing when he forgets momentarily about his busted up right shoulder and arm. He wraps the vest around himself back to front, hoping to at least warm up his exposed arms a little. A glance at his leg calms one worry: the bleeding has stopped. He briefly considers moving out into the open and onto the grass. It might be slightly warmer, and it certainly would be softer than the hard ground and shelter wall against which he lies slumped. If he wasn’t so beat up he cut rip up some grass and fashion himself a bed. But then, if he wasn’t so beat up he wouldn’t have to spend the night in this wretched place in the first case.

Trying to ignore his thirst and parched tongue, and trying not to think about walkers staggering through the field looking for warm meat he leans his head back against the hut and closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

Rick knows this is reckless, foolish behavior, but he can’t help it.

When Daryl wasn’t back by nightfall, Rick had taken the only other remaining car that had any gas left, and gone out to look for him. He had told only Carol what he was planning, because he knew that of all of them she was least likely to try and stop him. While Rick hadn’t exactly confided in her his growing attachment to Daryl she seemed to have realized that something was going on between them. She would understand.

Carol had looked thoughtful when he found her and asked for her help, but after a moment she had nodded.

“I’ll open the gate.”

*

This had been half an hour ago. Rick knows approximately what Daryl’s plan had been, and he follows the route he thinks the other man had most likely travelled. Unusually for him, Daryl had taken the car. He had recently started hunting and laying traps further afield because the woods around the prison were so full of walkers that it was getting difficult to cover any ground, or find any game that hadn’t been gnawed on.

“’ll check the traps from las’ night, then run past that store in Sharpsburg, get some more formula for Lil Asskicker,” Daryl had informed Rick. Another recent change in procedure had been to make sure that all supply runs were cleared with someone from the committee. They had had to go further and further out in the last few months to find sustenance for all the mouths they had to feed now, and there were now several runs a week, so planning had by need become more elaborate.

Daryl still prefers to go tracking on his own, of course, and does not take kindly to what he calls Rick’s “mother-hennin’”. At least he had stuck to the agreement and had told Rick where he was going, for which Rick is now damn grateful.

Rick knows that his best chance would be to check out the route to the store first, because, as Daryl keeps reminding him, his tracking sucks ass. In all likelihood he wouldn’t find the exact place where Daryl had laid the traps for days.

He never makes it all the way to the store. About three miles from Sharpsburg Rick notices black skid marks on the asphalt. Stopping the car, grabbing his flashlight, he quickly gets out and follows the marks down the slope and between the nearest trees. His flashlight’s beam reflects off a number plate he knows only too well.

Heart hammering in his chest he quickly descends all the way to where the car is lying on its roof in the ditch. Skirting round to the driver’s side he is actually relieved to see the door standing open and the car looking deserted. Then something on the upside-down back door catches his eye. Shining his light onto the spot he realizes immediately what he is looking at: bullet holes, and these particular ones had certainly not been there this morning.

Rick knows he has two options. One, he can head into the woods just beyond the car wreck, trying to follow the route he is certain Daryl would have taken. Or two, he can get back into his car and scout out the possible places where Daryl could have left the cover of the trees. Rick doesn’t think going into the forest would be a good move. Even with his flashlight it would be impossible for him to find the trail Daryl has taken. And not only are walkers in a dark forest a huge risk, they would slow him down and distract him from the task at hand.

So Rick gets back into his own car, trying to make a mental list of all possible exit points Daryl could have aimed for. He has no doubt Daryl would try to go the most direct route back to the prison – unless he was being followed by whoever has been shooting at the car. Rick doesn’t dismiss this disturbing notion, but he tries to concentrate on the strategies that are practical right now, not on those thoughts that will only worry him to death.

There is of course the possibility that Daryl is hurt badly and can’t make it back home under his own steam. In that case, Rick is certain, the experienced hunter knows better than anyone how to survive out in the open for a night. One place comes quickly to Rick’s mind as a possible spot to hunker down: the series of enclosed fields that start about half a mile south of the prison. There are several unpaved roads leading to the fields, and Rick decides to turn into the first one he comes to, right after the bridge over that little stream they had started using recently for fresh fish.

*

The first two fields Rick comes to don’t look promising. One is full of walkers, and the other one looks deserted. Of course, he can’t swear that nobody is hiding in the long grass, so he gets out of the car, letting the motor run, illuminating the field with its headlights. “Daryl,” he calls quietly a few times while walking along the fence, but has to abandon his position quickly when some of the walkers from the next field with the broken fence remember how they got in there and retrace their steps.

Back in the car, Rick drives past a patch of dense woodland, praying that he’s not acting on completely the wrong hunch. If Daryl is in the trees somewhere he will never find him before daybreak, and possibly not even then.

Then the forest gives way to another field, and as he draws closer Rick can just discern a small wooden structure outlined by the pale moonlight to his left. Praying to the gods he doesn’t believe in for more luck this time, Rick gets out of the car again, and again leaves the motor running. They can’t afford to waste gas, but without the headlights he would have almost no visibility, which is never reassuring, and he needs all the help he can get right now.

Rick clambers over the fence after watching the field for a few minutes, making sure no undead are on their way to him. He quickly crosses the hundred yards or so to the animal shelter he had spotted from the car, approaching it from the side. Inching slowly forward with his gun cocked he peers round the corner into the dim interior.

*

There is a huddled shape against the far wall, not moving. Rick hesitates, like they all do now when they see a body on the ground. But then he can make out the outline of angel wings on leather, and he is at Daryl’s side in two long strides. He crouches down and reaches out, placing his hand lightly on top of the wings.

“Daryl.”

His voice sounds shaky even on this one word. The effect is instantaneous, but not quite what Rick expected. Daryl wakes immediately, all right, but where Rick expected to have to hold him down (hence the hand on the vest) the other man only manages to sit up halfway, and suddenly doubles over with a sharp gasp. Rick can feel him shaking under the leather vest and pulls it off to help, and assess any damage.

Daryl’s left hand lies across his midriff, hand pressed against his right side. His chest is heaving, his breath comes in painful-sounding rattles. “Wha’ you think you doin’ out here, you stupid mo’fucker?” Rick can only barely make out the words, but he is almost relieved to hear that kind of language, even now.

“What d’you think?” he retorts. “Where are you hurt? What happened?”

Rick is certain he sees a tiny flinch when he reaches out again for the other man, but then Daryl relents and gingerly leans back against the wooden wall. Rick can tell that even this tiny movement causes considerable pain. Daryl is white as a sheet, even in the inadequate light from the torch. He looks at Rick, his eyes fever-bright.

“Got into some trouble.” His voice sounds hoarse and pinched.

“No shit. Now, let me look at you. Where does it hurt most?” Rick lets the beam from his torch travel down. Daryl’s left leg is a crimson mess. Rick leans over to inspect the wound, and the crudely fashioned tourniquet. Crude or not, it has done its job, there is no bleeding now.

“Rick!”

There is an urgency in Daryl’s voice, and Rick quickly looks up.

“There’s… a problem… need to warn t’others.”

“Go on.”

“Was ambushed. In t’store.” The few words, slurred even by Daryl’s standards, seem to exhaust him. And they bring on a coughing fit that makes him double over in pain again. Rick is at his side in time to prevent Daryl slumping to the floor face first. He holds him carefully, reckoning that whatever is causing this amount of pain does not need aggravating.

Daryl’s breath comes in shallow, raspy gasps. Rick can feel it rattling in his chest, and he can also feel the feverish heat emanating from the other man. He gropes around to the side of his own belt with his free hand, unclasping the small hiker’s water bottle he has taken to carrying around at all times. It has served him well on long days working his vegetable patches, and he is glad now to be a creature of habit.

He gently helps Daryl sit up, letting him lean into his chest. “Here, drink this.” Rick unscrews the bottle cap and brings the opening to Daryl’s mouth. “Slow, now.”

Daryl drinks while Rick tips the bottle carefully to prevent further coughing fits. After a few moments he pulls the bottle away. Daryl is clearly dehydrated, pouring the water into him too quickly would certainly not agree with him.

The water seems to have done him good, though. “We need to get back,” he continues, more easily. “There’s a bunch a’ thugs in the forest, and they are gettin’ ready to attack.”

Chapter Text

The traps had been a disappointment. Two hares, one of them already chewed on by rotting teeth. This is getting more difficult by the day, was there anything left to eat in this part of the country?

“Like a prison full of locusts,” Daryl mutters to himself. He can’t remember the last time any of them had left the dinner table with a full belly, and the last two weeks or so there has been entirely too much squirrel stew, even for Daryl’s taste.

At least he knows there’s some formula left for Judith in that store in Sharpsburg. The area had been infested with walkers, until recently that part of the herd had moved on. Daryl had been in the store once, a few months back, but he’d been on foot then and had really only run in to catch his breath for a moment. He’d filled his pack and brought back what he could, but the store had been almost untouched.

Hoping for a dinner of spaghetti hoops and no squirrel for a change he parks his car some distance away from the store. He doesn’t want to have to drag his haul too far, but the ingrained habit of caution does not abate just because the coast looks clear.

And it does indeed look clear. Daryl sits for a minute with the window down, but hears nothing but birds, and leaves rustling in the faint breeze. The sky is more overcast than it was this morning, they would have to get ready for winter soon.

Grabbing his crossbow from the passenger seat, almost automatically checking his knife is in the back pocket and the small handgun is secure in his belt, he gets out of the car. When his hand brushes the pistol he can’t help but smile slightly. Rick had insisted he never leave the prison without a gun now, brushing aside Daryl’s protests that he wasn’t too keen on them. “There will be a situation when a crossbow is too much, and a knife isn’t enough. I’d rather you came out of that situation alive.”

Whatever that thing is between him and Rick, it has made Daryl happy over the last few weeks, when he’s had not much else to be happy about. And maybe he doesn’t mind that mother-hennin’ quite as much as he is making Rick believe.

And suddenly Daryl wants nothing more than go home as quickly as possible. Too much experience with this world has ensured that he doesn’t let his desires stand in the way of caution and common sense, however. He scans his surroundings one last time and slowly makes his way over to the store.

Nothing is stirring, and the store door is closed, just as he left it on his last visit. This doesn’t mean anything, of course. He ascends the two stone steps in front of the store noiselessly and raises his crossbow. Aiming it at the door with his right, he puts his left hand on the doorknob and very slowly turns it, still without making a sound.

The window with its “Sorry We’re Closed” sign is dark. Even close to Daryl can make out no movement inside the store. He lets the door drift open on its own accord, training his weapon into the store and trying to make out details in the gloom.

Something that feels like a grizzly bear slams into him, bodily lifting him off the ground. He has no time at all to react, or brace himself before he and his attacker crash down hard onto the steps behind Daryl. His crossbow goes flying, and as his right shoulder and ribcage make contact with the stone steps a blinding pain shoots through his torso. He can feel ribs breaking and yells out with shock and pain.

All the wind is knocked out of Daryl and he can’t move for several seconds. His attacker, a huge brute, recovers quickly and is on his feet within the blink of an eye. He reaches down and grabs Daryl’s left arm, yanking him roughly to his feet. For a moment Daryl is sure he will black out on the spot, the pain in his side is like nothing he can remember experiencing for a long time.

Nevertheless, he tries to wrangle out of the huge man’s grip as soon as his wits come flooding back. The guy is having none of it, of course. He only twists Daryl’s left arm more firmly behind his back and marches him into the store. The whole attack has taken about twenty seconds.

*

Daryl doesn’t cease his struggle. “’me go, you bastard!” But he can’t wrench his arm out of the steely vice the tall man behind him holds him in. “Stop yer fussin’, squirrel,” he growls into Daryl’s ear, and grabs Daryl’s right shoulder hard. Daryl cannot suppress a yell of pain. His entire arm is on fire, his vision blurs and his knees buckle. “Hurts, eh?” the man behind him growls, pushing him further into the store. “Think I dislocated that for you, hope you don’t mind.”

Desperately trying to remain conscious Daryl intensifies his attempts to free himself. He doesn’t notice a second man to his left until it is too late. “Shut yer mouth, y’er givin’ me a headache,” the second man says. Daryl’s head whips around in time to see the butt of a rifle aiming for his temple, and then he knows nothing.

*

He can’t have been out for long, but coming round properly takes another few seconds of precious time. He is lying on the dusty floor, again on his injured right shoulder. He feels something wet down his right arm, viscous and warm, making his shirt stick to his throbbing ribs. He can hear voices, and focuses on them.

“I tol’ ya, we can pick ‘em off one by one as they come out. This ‘un is good bait!”

“Our best chance is attack. I say we go in tonight. Cut the fence, how hard can it be? There’s nutin’ but kids and women in ‘ere.”

One of the men talking is the giant who tackled him. Daryl risks a glance out of the corner of his eye. The giant has his back to him, and he can see two other men. One of them, wild hair and beard speckled with grey, speaks next.

“We’ll do nuffin’ until t’ boss is back. Now see to that squirrel.”

Daryl has heard enough. The way he’s lying he can feel the pistol digging into his right side. Morons. They haven’t even searched him yet. While still contemplating his luck Daryl is on his feet in less than two seconds. Without a busted side it would take him half that time, but no matter. His left hand goes for the gun in his belt, and he has shot the giant in the back of the head before the others even realize he’s back on his feet.

Daryl dives for the door and gets there a split second before the man who butted him in the head can grab him. Another mistake: none of the men thought of shutting it after the giant wrestled Daryl inside.

He flies out the door and down the steps, and only when he picks up his crossbow has one of the men managed to pull his gun and looses the first shot at him. He misses his head by a hair’s breadth, but Daryl is already running down the street towards his car.

He can hear yelling and curses and a second shot misses him by several yards. He cradles his crossbow carefully in his right arm and yanks the car door open with his left. Throwing himself into the car seat almost knocks him flat again. Hunching over the steering wheel for a moment, wrapping his left arm around his middle, he tries to calm his breathing enough to allow him to move without seeing stars.

The key is still in the ignition. He turns it with his right hand, which feels numb and shaky, and manages to get the car started on the second try. A glance through the windshield tells him it’s not a second too soon. Four men are running down the street towards him, only stopping long enough to fire more shots. He throws the car into first gear and turns it on the wide and mercifully uncluttered main street back into the direction he had come from.

While he turns he feels several bullets hitting the side of the car and ducks down behind the wheel. This brings on another volley of pain, and he can feel more blood seeping through his shirt on the right. The thought of his ribs having punctured the skin there to the point of bleeding makes him feel nauseated. Never mind, Hershel will see to him soon.

A glance into the rear view mirror shows his attackers now frantically scrambling back towards the store. He reckons they have hidden their cars behind the buildings, which is an obvious flaw in their overall not very promising plan. Daryl thinks that if he puts his foot down he’ll be back at the prison almost before these geezers have hoisted their sorry asses into their vehicles.

Daryl briefly considers whether he should try and lead his attackers away from the prison, but from what he has overheard they already know where his people are. The best thing to do now is get back as quickly as possible to warn the others.

He checks the mirror again. No sign of any cars. Deciding on the fastest route home he makes a sharp left - more pain - and speeds down a country road he knows has no obstacles and will lead him back to the prison within thirty minutes or less.

Less than a mile from the town, while he is driving around a fairly steep bend, Daryl hears an almighty bang. One of the bullets must have nicked the tire, he thinks frantically. The car is skidding out of control, he can’t steer at all, he is going too fast. The car tilts to the left, carried by its momentum towards the embankment. Daryl just about feels himself flip upside down before something bangs hard against his left temple again and he knows nothing.

*

When Daryl comes to this time it takes him more than a few seconds to sort out his head. For a while he drifts in and out of consciousness, registering only vaguely his surroundings and making no sense of the blurry outlines that are the only thing he can see. Finally, a thump outside that causes the car to wobble on its roof, and then another, make him take notice.

Daryl lifts his head gingerly. He squints into the twilight that surrounds him, making out shards of glass covering every surface. The windshield is shattered, and so are all other windows he can see. This time he is not lying on his messed up side, but half on his left. As he tries to move he realizes that this is no mercy, after all. His left hip is agony, he must have banged or crushed it somewhere fierce. There is also a sharp pain in his left thigh and he thinks he can feel blood running down past his knee.

All this is almost forgotten half a second later, however, when Daryl finds out what had caused the car to wobble. With a snarl a walker drops down next to the busted window right by his feet. Daryl scrambles back, yelling from the sudden jolt to his bruised body.

“Crossbow…“ He frantically gropes around him, scanning the interior for his weapon. Finally, his right hand makes contact with the stock, just behind his back. Biting his lip, tasting blood, Daryl yanks the heavy weapon over his head, sending fresh waves of pain all down his right side. His hand is bloody and he almost loses his grip, but then he holds the weapon in both hands, slotting a bolt into place with shaking but experienced hands. Grateful for the foresight of always keeping his crossbow cocked Daryl aims at the walker’s head and releases the bolt through his eye.

The creature slumps down, and so does Daryl. Breathing hard, and finding each breath more effort than the last, he stays motionless for several minutes. When he finally feels like he can move again without passing out or throwing up he slowly turns himself over onto his front. Taking his time he pushes himself out through the right back passenger window favoring his left arm and right leg and pulling the crossbow behind himself with his right hand.

Clear of the car he rests again, lowering his forehead to the ground and closing his eyes. He feels exhausted, his body aching in more places than he can perceive at any one moment. He knows that he will fall asleep, or pass out, if he doesn’t move right away, so he prepares himself mentally and slowly gets up. He pushes himself onto all fours first. For the moment his left leg seems stable enough, but his right arm can take none of his weight.

Balancing mostly on his right leg and steadying himself on the crossbow with his left hand he stands up. When he finally lifts his head and fully straightens up more stars explode in front of his eyes, but he manages to brace himself on the upturned car just behind him and doesn’t fall back down.

Squinting at his surroundings he realizes that his left eye is still blurry. When he touches that side of his face his hand comes away bloody. He can feel the stickiness all the way down from his temple to his cheek, and the coppery smell makes him gag. Having killed hundreds of animals and more than his fair share of walkers in his time he can’t really understand why that would be the case, but he reckons getting knocked over the head several times in one day will fuck up your perceptions.

Daryl doesn’t want to waste any more time. He has not forgotten about the danger his family back at the prison is in, and he must get to them as quickly as he can. Following the road he was on would probably be the easier thing to do, but Daryl isn’t going to risk being captured by that gang again. He was lucky they didn’t find him when he was out cold. Maybe they missed the car lying some way away from the road, but he mustn’t rely on his luck too much.

There had been a water bottle inside the car, and Daryl knows that he should try and retrieve it. The thought of having to get back down and crawl around on his injured limbs is not appealing, however. He has had enough trouble getting out of there once, who knows whether he can do it a second time. He also realizes that he can’t locate his gun, and that makes him almost change his mind and crawl back into the wreck.

In the end he decides against it and sticks to his original plan. Hoisting his crossbow over the left shoulder with his good arm Daryl starts slowly around the car and towards the trees. Soon, he has disappeared into the gloom.

Chapter Text

Rick doesn’t need to hear more. Some hooligans roughed up Daryl and now they are on their way to the prison. Details about when and how Daryl found out can wait. What counts is that Rick gets back home pronto, to warn the others, to help defend the prison. What’s equally important is getting Daryl to safety.

“How many?” Rick asks, already preparing to get Daryl off the ground. He crouches low next to Daryl’s left side, which he seems to be favoring so it must be hurting less.

“Saw only four, but maybe there’s more...”

“Do you think you can stand?”

“Yeah… gimme a minute…”

“Put your left arm round my shoulder, and lean on me properly. That leg of yours has stopped bleeding and I’d rather it stayed that way.”

Daryl braces himself, and Rick can see he’s biting his lip. He can tell it’s not the first time Daryl’s done that today, there are teeth marks clearly visible, and fresh blood. Hell, there’s blood all over the guy.

Getting Daryl off the ground is harder than Rick anticipated. He can’t support him properly because he doesn’t want to go near the injuries on his right. He compromises by putting Daryl’s left arm over his shoulder, reaching round the man’s waist and grabbing hold of the right side of his jeans and his belt. Holding him as steady as possible Rick slowly rises as Daryl struggles to support all his weight on the right leg.

By the time they are upright Daryl’s face is covered in sweat and he looks as bloodless as a walker. Rick is sure for a moment that Daryl will lose consciousness, but he just closes his eyes for a few seconds, then opens them again and looks at Rick with overly bright eyes.

“’S’okay.”

Feeling the feverish heat emanating from Daryl’s skin where he is pressed against him this closely, and sensing his racing, irregular heartbeat Rick knows that nothing is ok. He knows that they need to hurry, but for one moment he wishes he could just lie Daryl back down, get supplies from the car, build a fire and spend the night here, just to give his friend time to get some of his strength back. But he knows that they can’t do that. Daryl would kill him, once he had recovered, if Rick let anything happen to their family just to spare Daryl some discomfort.

So Rick only nods. “We haven’t far to go. Just keep the weight off that bad leg and lean on me.”

While this sounds easy in theory, it isn’t in practice. Daryl can’t keep off his left leg entirely or he would have to bunny hop on the right one only, which his overall state does not allow. Rick also finds that, as Daryl weakens he has to maintain a firmer grip on his waistband and belt on the right, which in turn seems to intensify the pain. Daryl is clearly trying to suppress the whimper that accompanies almost every labored breath, trying not to show how much he hurts, but Rick knows. He also knows that his right hand is slick with blood that has started seeping again from Daryl’s busted side.

They have only taken a few steps and the car is coming into sight. While concentrating mostly on not jolting Daryl too much as he helps him navigate the rough ground of the paddock Rick sees something out of the corner of his eye. He freezes.

“Get down, now,” he growls. And whispers, as he pulls Daryl down with him into the tall grass, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, shhh, I am so, so sorry.”

Daryl’s low moans probably don’t carry far, but Rick still puts a hand over his mouth. Daryl pulls it off, however, and, leaning over on his good side, he starts to retch pitifully. There’s nothing in his stomach to come up, but the dry heaving doesn’t stop for a minute or two. Rick’s heart is aching, watching his friend’s misery helplessly.

He can’t think of what to do now other than staying low and hoping the men he spotted over by his car didn’t spot them in return. He’s certain they must be the men that attacked Daryl at the store.

They might have heard them after all, or they are just putting two and two together, reasoning that nobody would be training a set of headlights onto an empty field.

Whatever the case, the quiet of the night is suddenly torn asunder by gunshots, some of which hit close enough to shower the two men in the grass with soil and dust. Daryl presses his face into his arms, whimpering. He is clearly at the end of his strength and can’t take any more.

Rick jumps into a crouching position, aiming his revolver at the figures by the source of light and fires. He knows that a moving target holds human and walker attention better than a stationary one, and crouching low he scoots to his left, hoping to draw the bullets away from Daryl.

He pulls out a second gun from his waistband, glad for giving in to his paranoia and bringing a backup tonight. He fires off several more rounds into the general direction of the car, hoping to make the men believe there are more people hidden in the grass than they anticipated.

And it works, in a way. Rick hears shouts, running footsteps, then slamming doors and squealing tires.

Staying low, cursing under his breath, Rick hurries back to Daryl’s side. He is still lying on the ground, on his left side, resting his forehead on his arm. His left leg is crumpled at an odd angle beneath him, and Rick can see fresh blood shimmering wet and dark on the right side of his white T-Shirt. He is shaking uncontrollably now, his breath coming in tiny, rattling gasps. Rick takes off his jacket and drapes it over Daryl.

“They took the car,” he says, like that’s not obvious. “Daryl, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah”, comes the muffled reply. Rick puts a hand gently on the back of Daryl’s head and strokes his hair. Daryl lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob. Rick helps the other man push himself into a sitting position, then takes his jacket off the shaking shoulders. He tries to guide Daryl’s right arm into the sleeve but realizes quickly that that’s not going to happen. Daryl can’t straighten out that arm at all now and holds it cradled to his chest.

“Just the left one, then,” Rick agrees, and once they have accomplished that task he sits on the ground to Daryl’s left.

“Come here,” he says, and leans into Daryl. The other man understands what he’s being offered and collapses against Rick’s broad chest with another sob.

They still need to get back to the prison in a hurry, but now that they have to face the journey on foot Rick knows they must pace themselves carefully. He retrieves the water bottle from his belt again and unscrews the cap. Holding it in his left hand, his right arm supporting Daryl around the waist he brings the bottle to his friend’s mouth for a few careful sips.

While Daryl drinks, pausing after every sip to catch his breath in painful little gasps, Rick considers their options. And realizes that, again, he really has only one.

He knows that he can't leave Daryl alone out here. Even if he was safe from the walkers in this enclosed paddock it would take Rick, even on his own, over an hour to get back to the prison. And even if he got there in good time, none of their remaining vehicles had any gas in their tanks, so he couldn’t come back for Daryl in a car.

And though Rick knows preciously little about injuries he knows what Daryl's rattly breath and steadily climbing temperature mean. His broken ribs have made it impossible to breathe normally for most of the day, which has made at least one lung collapse. Together with the exposure to the freezing night air this has brought on pneumonia. Rick needs to keep his friend upright and mobile now, bringing him to Hershel as quickly as he can.

Rick looks down at Daryl who lies slumped against his chest and he is suddenly very afraid. Never before has he seen the man so motionless. Even during their more relaxed moments in Rick's cell over the last few weeks Daryl has rarely stayed in one position for more than a couple of minutes. Usually, even after a long, exhausting day, he would suggest they go out for one last check on the fences, or up to the roof where he would pace and smoke, if cigarettes were available.

Then, Rick had wished Daryl would hold still and just unwind every once in a while. Now, all he wants is for Daryl to bounce up and announce he's fine, why is Rick still on the ground, let's go, c’mon!

Rick wipes his eyes. He knows this isn't going to happen, so instead he braces himself and rubs Daryl's back briefly.

"Right, let's get moving. We can do this, I'll carry you myself if I have to."

And Rick knows that this might very well be necessary soon enough.

Chapter Text

Getting Daryl across the paddock fence turns out to be ridiculously complicated. Rick is panting heavily himself by the end. This time Daryl indeed blacks out, while Rick is trying to get his left leg over the top rung. His hip joint is so stiff and swollen now, an accidental brush against Rick's elbow makes him utter a scream that reverberates in Rick's very bones.

Daryl goes slack and slumps in Rick's arms, and it is all Rick can do to keep them from crashing down onto the gravel road. Instead, he lowers himself and Daryl's dead weight (dead, not dead, no, no!) slowly onto a bit of grass by the fence. He arranges Daryl into a half-sitting position against his chest, leaning his own back against the fence, and tries to catch his breath.

His mouth is dry and he desperately wants a drink of water. But he stops himself. Daryl's fever is so high Rick can practically feel it parching the battered body next to him. They need to conserve what little water they have left.

Rick contemplates picking Daryl up and carrying him while he is out cold. He decides to try lifting him from Daryl's left side, since he will need to have Daryl's arm around his neck to keep his balance. When he tries to execute his plan, however, Daryl starts to stir.

"No, stop, please," he gasps. "Hurts...so much."

So Rick stops. He isn't entirely sure how he gets the two of them vertical again, or how long they have rested against that fence. Progress now is painfully slow, and by the time they reach the intersection where the gravel path meets the country road Rick is exhausted. 

The one bit of good luck they encounter is that most of the walkers in the first field Rick came across earlier have wandered to the far side of the field, and by staying in the shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the gravel path they manage to avoid detection.

Rick had decided, after barely making it out of that paddock, that their best bet is still the road. He is sure they would not be able to navigate the forest, and climbing any more fences is out of the question.

When they reach the road they stop for a rest. Rick keeps them on their feet, he doesn't know whether they could get up again if he put Daryl down now. He gives Daryl more water, but his friend is almost too weak to swallow and most of it runs down his chin.

Rick presses on. Each tiny, wobbly step is a fight, and he soon falls into a kind of stupor, just concentrating on the next bit of asphalt in front of them. Then he suddenly hears a shot, and people shouting. Judging it to come from just around the next bend in the road Rick tries to pick up their pace ever so slightly.

Leaving Daryl anywhere near the trees - and unseen walkers - would not be safe, but bringing him into a gun fight is just as insane. Rick decides to take him as close to the bend as possible, but out of sight of those people they can hear but not yet see. He lowers Daryl down as gently as he can. Daryl utters barely a whimper, he is almost unconscious again.

Staying low and keeping Daryl in his line of sight Rick creeps silently forward until he can just make out the people around the bend. And what he sees makes his heart beat faster.

He spots Glenn and Maggie, binding a man's hands behind his back. And there's Carol, leaning - Rick can't believe it - into the driver's side of the car he'd taken out to look for Daryl early in the evening.

Making sure his unconscious friend is still where he left him Rick stands up and calls over to his people, as quietly as he thinks they'll be able to hear.

"Maggie! Glenn! Carol!"

The three freeze and Glenn raises his shotgun. He lowers it immediately when he realises who has called out to them. Rick motions to Glenn to follow him. He doesn't wait to see if Glenn is coming but sprints back to Daryl's side.

He kneels next to the injured man and pulls his head carefully into his lap.

"It's our people, Daryl, it's Glenn and Maggie and Carol. We'll be fine, you'll be fine."

Glenn arrives at their side.

“Jeez, Rick, what happened? We came out looking for you two, and then we ran into these freaks with your car. They set us a trap, but we recognized the car right away…”

“Did you kill them?” Rick interrupts. “These assholes did this.” He motions at Daryl.

“Three of them. One threw his weapon away and surrendered.” Glenn sounds uncomfortable. “I couldn’t just shoot him in cold blood, Rick.”

Rick looks up, pondering. “No, I suppose not. Glenn, listen, we need to get Daryl home now. Is the car still ok? Bring it round here, I can’t move him another yard on my own.”

Rick feels so tired all of a sudden. Don’t give in to it, not just yet, he tells himself. There’s still work to be done. Glenn nods and runs back to the others.

Rick puts one hand on Daryl’s chest, gently stroking him through the T-Shirt. He just wants to feel he’s still there, still breathing, still alive. And while Daryl’s breath still comes in gasps and stutters and his skin is much too hot, Rick is now certain he will make it through this. Their family has come for them.

After a minute Rick can hear the engine sputtering to life and soon the headlights appear round the bend. Glenn parks the car right next to where Rick is sitting with Daryl’s head in his lap.

Maggie jumps out and kneels next to Rick and Daryl. “How bad is it?” she asks, taking Daryl’s left wrist and feeling for his pulse.

“Very,” Rick tells her. “We need to get him to your dad.”

She nods, getting up. “You and Daryl will go in the back seat. Glenn, Carol and I can squeeze in the front.”

“We need to be careful getting him in the car,” Rick says to Glenn who has gotten out of the driver’s seat. “His left leg, and his right shoulder and chest are a mess. Best we get him to his feet first, I’ve tried lifting him before and it doesn’t work.”

Glenn nods. “Just tell me what to do.”

It is easier handling Daryl between them, and while he cries out once when his right shoulder bumps into Rick who is holding on to his upper body they guide him into the car quickly. Maggie even produces a blanket she spreads over Daryl when he finally lies propped up against Rick on the back seat.

“Where’s the man you captured?” Rick remembers him suddenly. Maggie shrugs.

“In the boot.”

She finishes tucking in the blanket carefully and gently closes the back door. Carol is now in the driver’s seat, and Glenn and Maggie share the front passenger seat. Carol glances into the back.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

She drives slowly, making sure there are no major pot holes in the way, and no walkers to bump into.

Rick estimates that they are halfway to the prison when Daryl stirs, tries to sit up.

“Rick?”

“I am here, Daryl. Try not to move, you’ll hurt yourself.” A hand on his chest calms him down and he sinks back into Rick.

“...this a car? Are w’goin’ home?”

Rick looks down into Daryl’s blue, fever-bright eyes. He finds the injured man’s left hand with his own and holds fast.

“Yes, we are.”

Chapter Text

By car the journey home takes no time at all. Nobody says much, and Rick is grateful not to have to answer any questions. He needs a rest badly, and tries to just relax into the warmth and the soft car seat.

Daryl seems to be dozing, but keeps shifting his body around. Rick guesses even the gentle rocking of the car is aggravating his injuries. He keeps hold of Daryl’s left hand, resting lightly on the injured man’s chest. Rick’s starts caressing the back of Daryl’s hand with his thumb almost unconsciously. Feeling the softness of the skin there is almost as soothing to Rick as it seems to be for Daryl, who settles down somewhat.

Rick almost regrets arriving back at the prison because he knows they will now have to cause Daryl more pain. Carl and Michonne are waiting to let them through the gate. Carol drives the car as close to the entrance to C Block as she can. Rick spots Hershel already waiting for them.

Maggie jumps out first and hurries around to the left rear passenger door, while explaining the situation to her dad. Glenn turns around.

“How do we best get him inside?”

Rick thinks briefly. “Open the door behind me.” He looks at Maggie who is now leaning into the car. “Can you support his legs? I’ll take him on this side. When we’re out, let’s get him upright. I can hold him on my own once he’s on his feet.”

Maggie nods, and Rick feels the door open behind him.

“Daryl,” Rick says gently, soothing back the hair from his forehead. Daryl’s face is impossibly hot.

“We’ll get you inside now.”

Daryl tenses at the words. Rick continues to stroke his hair. He hates feeling his friend tremble at the thought of more pain.

“We’ll be careful, we’ll take it real slow.” He adds, feeling a little sheepish, “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

In his normal state Daryl would scoff at this sort of soppiness, and Rick’d never live it down. Now all Daryl does is squeeze Rick’s left hand and give a tiny nod. Rick can’t see his face now, but he’s sure that Daryl is biting down hard again on his lower lip.

Rick looks at Maggie. “Real gentle, ok?” Maggie nods again.

They take it slow, and are as careful as they can, but by the end of it Daryl is crying. He hides his face against Rick’s chest and Rick can feel the tears through his shirt. He gives Daryl a moment because he is sure that Daryl is trying his utmost not to pass out again. Each breath seems to be a challenge for him now, and he is almost limp in Rick’s arms.

Rick looks over to Hershel, suddenly feeling guilty. “We could’ve given him some painkillers before moving him,” but Hershel shakes his head.

“I need to look at him properly first. The wrong dose could kill him, the state he’s in. Could stop his heart, or weaken his breathing even more.” He motions to Rick. “Do you think we can move him now?”

Rick is holding Daryl up the same way as he was out on the road, standing up but supporting as much of his weight as possible. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Maggie speaks up. “Dad, take him into our cell. It’ll be easier if he’s on the big bed. You’d knock yourself out on the frame if you try and treat him in one of those bunks.”

Rick looks up at Maggie as she strides over and holds the door open to the C Block staircase. “Thank you.” Maggie smiles sadly at him. “Don’t mention it.”

Rick thinks he and Daryl only make it up the stairs because they both know that this really is the last hurdle now. Glenn pulls away the curtain of his and Maggie’s cell and follows Rick in to help. Rick lowers himself and Daryl until they are sitting on the bed together. Glenn ends up supporting Rick rather than Daryl, so Rick can keep his balance and make this last maneuver as smooth as possible.

They lower Daryl all the way down, Glenn helping to get his legs onto the bed. Daryl is shaking again, and his breathing sounds worse than ever. When Rick finally looks at his friend’s face in the light of the Coleman lantern he feels afraid again.

Daryl’s eyes are closed. His skin is the color of clay, and he’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat. There is fresh blood running down his chin from where Daryl has now bitten through his lip. What Rick hadn’t noticed before is how Daryl’s lips have turned blue. He glances at the gash in Daryl’s leg. He’d almost forgotten it, what with all the other painful injuries consuming their attention. There is blood seeping out again with each heartbeat.

Hershel comes into the cell when Glenn steps out. He is carrying his kit and a small metal stool. He puts both his bag and the stool down and sits on the latter. He doesn’t lose any more time and starts examining Daryl.

“Now, Rick, tell me what you know about where he’s hurt, while I check him over.”

Rick swallows. “His left hip and leg seem worst. He can’t tolerate any touch on the hip, it is completely stiff and swollen. The gash on his leg has started bleeding again, I don’t know when, I was concentrating on not causing more pain.

“He has broken ribs on the right, I don’t know how many. There’s quite a lot of blood. I think his lung has collapsed, and his breathing is very bad now…” Rick takes a deep breath himself.

Hershel looks past Rick at Maggie in the doorway. “Bring me more pillows, three at least. We also need that oxygen bottle and some IVs from the supply room.”

Maggie disappears. Hershel glances at Rick. “Go on.”

“His right shoulder is badly bruised and he can’t move that arm.” Hershel carefully examines the shoulder and Daryl hisses with the pain.

“He’s got a big gash on the left side of his head. And he’s running a fever…” Rick’s voice cracks around the last words. Hershel looks up.

“I know this all looks very bad, but I’ll do all I can for him now. He’ll be out of action for a long time, but I am quite certain he’ll be fine. Now, go and wash up, get some water into yourself. You look ready to keel over, too. Then come back, I will need you soon.”

Maggie is back with the pillows and supplies. Rick watches as she and Hershel prop Daryl up with the pillows and is relieved when Daryl’s breathing eases up a bit.

He ducks out of the cell and does as Hershel has asked. Rick knows that he can trust his people to be just as gentle with Daryl as he would be himself. He washes his face and changes his shirt, and drinks the water Carol pours him.

When he gets back to the cell things have progressed. Maggie is just picking up a basin and used towels. The water in the basin looks rusty red and brown, but Daryl himself looks much cleaner. Hershel has removed all his clothes which are now piled in a corner, and Rick can tell they’ve been cut off. Currently Daryl is only wearing a pair of clean boxer shorts.

Hershel is sitting on the mattress next to Daryl’s legs. He is leaning over and examining the busted hip. Rick steps closer and looks down on it himself. It is incredibly swollen and sports an array of angry colors that have no place on a human body.

“I can’t fathom how he did this,” Hershel says. Rick rubs his face with his hands. “He had a car accident.”

“He’s torn some ligaments in that hip. There’s a lot of tissue damage and he’s bled into the joint. That’s what’s causing the pain and swelling. This will take a long time to heal.”

“But it will heal?” Rick’s mouth is dry. Hershel looks at him. “Yes, but he’ll be very frustrated by how long it’ll take.”

Rick almost laughs. Yes, Daryl will be furious for a long time. They better brace themselves.

“I’ve given him a strong dose of painkillers now,” Hershel continues. “His heart is strong, and with the oxygen his breathing has improved. You were right about his lungs. The right one has collapsed. He’s developed pneumonia. No reason to worry,” he adds when he sees Rick’s stricken face. “It hasn’t had time yet to do too much damage and I have him on strong antibiotics. We do need more of them, though.

“I’ve stitched his leg up. He’s lost a lot of blood there, and through the bleeding into his hip, and his side. He’ll be very weak for a few days, and we’ll need to make sure we get enough food into him.

“We still need to see to his shoulder. It’s dislocated, and I need some help to set it right.”

Hershel gets up and motions Rick to take his place. “Put your hands here, and here.” He indicates Daryl’s right hip and left shoulder. “He will try and move away from the pain, even with all the drugs already in his body. You will need to hold him still. If he moves too much we’ll have to start over.”

Rick does as he is told. Hershel takes Daryl’s right arm which lies curled against his now bandaged chest. Hershel starts moving the arm slowly, pushing the shoulder up. Daryl stirs. His brow creases and he struggles to open his eyes. He tries to sit up, tries to free himself from Hershel.

“No… stop…” It’s barely more than a whisper.

Rick holds him down more firmly. “Daryl, try and keep still. Shh, it’ll be over soon, shh…” He’s not sure who he is trying to convince. Daryl is trying to focus his gaze on Rick, who is not sure he recognizes anything right now. But he struggles less, just bites his lip again.

Rick decides not to look at what Hershel is doing, it is making him feel sick. He focuses on Daryl’s face instead. Rick can see him struggle against the instinct to move away from this fresh agony. His eyes are clouding over, tears run down his cheeks. His back arches involuntarily, his left fist clenches into the sheets. Then he cries out once, a hoarse, weak, pitiful sound. At the same time Rick hears a faint pop from the injured shoulder. Daryl’s head slumps sideways, he has passed out again.

Hershel replaces Daryl’s arm onto his chest and straightens up.

“The worst is over for now. Rick, help me with these.” He grabs a couple of strong bandages from a small table cluttered with equipment. “I want to stabilize that arm now, it’ll heal better if it’s motionless.”

Rick lifts Daryl’s upper body slightly when Hershel tells him to, and the bandages are quickly put into place. Then Hershel looks at Rick with a frown.

“Son, you look dead on your feet. Go and get some rest. I can get Maggie to sit with him.”

Rick shakes his head. “I am not leaving him, not now.” Or ever, he almost adds. “I’m staying here tonight.”

Hershel nods, then indicates the space behind Daryl, next to the wall. “Big bed, plenty of space.

Rick looks at Hershel, sees how tired the old man is himself. “Thank you. For everything.”

Hershel waves his thanks away as he walks towards the door. “Just have a lie down now, Rick. I can’t look after two of you at the same time, I’m an old man.”

And he leaves. Rick suddenly feels very tired. They made it back. The attackers were dealt with by his people. And most miraculous of all, Daryl will be fine.

Rick looks over at the man on the bed as he toes off his shoes. He looks more peaceful now than at any time during the last few, awful hours. Lying propped up on the pillows his face is no longer shining with sweat, and his brows have smoothed out.

Rick strips down to his boxers and T-Shirt. He walks over to the bed and pulls the blanket up to cover Daryl’s chest. He is still warmer to the touch than Rick would like, but is not burning up as he was.

Rick turns off the light. Gently, trying not to jolt his friend, or get tangled in his IV, he climbs over Daryl and settles down under a second blanket. He briefly looks at Daryl again, making sure he’s not woken him up, and listens for a moment to the breathing that sounds a little less labored now.

Rick finally lets his head rest on the pillow that smells faintly of Maggie’s shampoo. He tells himself he will just rest his eyes for a moment and then keep watch over Daryl. But the thought has barely crossed his mind when his exhaustion gets the better of him and he falls asleep.

*

Daryl wakes when the painkillers start wearing off. He’s not exactly in agony anymore, but he can feel his left hip twinging uncomfortably. He shifts himself onto his right side, which is no fun but not as awful as he anticipated. He can lie halfway on his right shoulder now, as long as he doesn’t roll over too far.

He opens his eyes to a gloomy cell that is not his own. It must be very early in the morning. A weak light filters through the curtain. Daryl can make out some pictures on the wall and thinks that this must be Maggie’s and Glenn’s cell.

He can feel his right arm bound tightly to his chest, and uses his left hand to feel the bandages that hold it. There are also bandages around his ribs, and Daryl carefully touches the side where he can still feel the soreness. His own heartbeat causes a throbbing sensation in that part of his chest, so he leaves it alone.

His left hip still hurts. He is a little afraid to touch it, but puts his hand gingerly on the hip bone. A small hiss escapes him when this causes another flash of pain. The sensation is nothing compared to what it was a few hours ago, so he just drops his hand in front of him instead, trying to breathe through it.

Suddenly Daryl realizes he’s not alone in this unfamiliar bed, and he knows immediately that it must be Rick lying behind him. He doesn’t think he can manage turning over just yet to check so he just lies very still, listening to the other man breathing. Rick is such a quiet sleeper, on the recent nights they spent together Daryl had had to convince himself several times that he hadn’t died in his sleep by placing a hand gently on Rick’s chest.

The memory makes Daryl smile. And suddenly he is overwhelmed by his feelings for the man. Rick came out looking for him, and he found him. He didn’t leave him in the cold, trying to find others to help, but stuck with Daryl and supported him when he needed Rick most. Daryl remembers that while they were huddled together in the cold paddock that he had felt safe and secure despite all the misery, just leaning into Rick, just being held. He had known it would be all right in the end.

These thoughts are so comforting, Daryl relaxes and hardly feels any pain how. He closes his eyes and keeps listening to Rick breathing until he goes back to sleep.