Daryl passes out not long after that. Hershel's still working on his side when his whole body just goes slack all of the sudden, and there's this moment of panic – Rick thinks his heart might actually stop beating there for a bit – but then he feels the puff of warmth against the crook of his elbow that means Daryl's still breathing, and Rick's heart remembers how to work right again.
It takes Hershel a good long while to finish getting Daryl patched up after that. Aside from the bi—from his side, he's cracked his skull pretty good on that stump. By Rick's best count, Hershel spends at least ten minutes picking bark and splinters out of the patch of hair over his ear, and another fifteen tryin' to get it stitched up alright. He's got a few other cuts and scrapes here and there, too. None are so bad as to need stitches themselves, but his right shoulder's in rough shape. Probably landed on it when he fell, Rick reckons.
"It'll be a while yet before he can hold that crossbow 'a his," Hershel says as he binds it with a torn pillowcase and some elastic wrap. Rick doesn't think he's ever wished more they had better supplies, because if that shoulder doesn't set right, Daryl might never hold a weapon proper in that hand again.
"Probably still shoots better left-handed than any of us," Glen mutters. It's not bitter, though. There's this sort of reverence to it. It reminds Rick of something you'd say at a man's funeral, and he's got half a mind to remind them all that Daryl's still alive and kicking, and that he's staying that way if Rick's got anything to do with it.
Carol's got sad eyes as she watches Hershel work. "It'd break his heart," she says.
They don't try putting him on his side again after that.
By the time Hershel finishes up, Daryl's already running a fever. Not a high one, not yet, but his face is flushed and he's warm to the touch. Getting some antibiotics into him turns out to be a trick, because he's not waking up for nothing – truth be told, Rick's not inclined to try too hard; he figures let the poor man sleep, if that's what his body wants – but Hershel crushes one of the pills up in some water and they manage to get it down a in few mouthfuls, one at a time.
Most everyone's cleared out by then. It's not that they don't care about Daryl; Rick knows they do. They all do. It's just that there's nothing they can do, and those cells are awful small. One by one, they trickle out, 'til it's just Rick, Hershel, and Carol. Then it's just Rick and Hershel. Then it's just…Rick.
He's sitting on the stool Hershel left behind. It's hard as stone and the edges bite into the backs of his legs, but he barely even notices. He's too caught up watching the rise and fall of Daryl's chest, and he's breathing right there with him. Every breath Daryl takes, Rick can take another; every stutter and catch, and Rick feels his throat tighten.
There's no telling how long he sits there. Long enough for his legs to start tingling and his backside to go numb, he reckons, but he can't rightly say more than that. Hour, maybe. Maybe two. It doesn't really matter, anyhow. He's got no place else to be. Everything's quiet. Beth's lookin' after Judith, Michonne's out on watch, and all the Woodbury folks're being looked after. Far as Rick knows and cares, the only person that needs him right at this very moment's lying in that bunk.
"How's he doing?"
Rick's too distracted to give a proper start, but he does glance over towards the voice. Carol's standing in the doorway, a big metal mixing bowl in her hand. Maybe it's just the light – the one lamp sitting over on the shelf can only do so much – but she looks older than he's ever seen her.
He reckons he doesn't look much better. Probably even looks worse.
He frowns, running his hand over his face like he can smooth away the worry lines and haggard look. "He's still breathing."
"Well, that's something," Carol says. Rick doesn't think anyone in this life can ever be accused of being an optimist, but Carol's about as close as it comes. She's got a knack for finding silver linings.
Rick wishes he had that knack. He could use it right about now. "Yeah." His voice is hoarse; it's like swallowing razorblades just getting past the lump in his throat. "Yeah, it's something." He's not one to be ungrateful. It just seems like God's pissing on him without even the decency of calling it rain, and even if he's grateful for each and every rise and fall of Daryl's bandaged chest, knowing it could stop at any time's enough to drive him insane.
Carol's footsteps are quiet, but in the silence of the cell, they might as well be gunshots. She ends up standing next to Rick, and she's quiet for a minute, but then, "You really think he's got a chance?" she says.
There it is. The question he's been putting off answering. He'd seen it in Glen's eyes before, could practically hear it echoing out of everyone's heads.
He sighs, and it feels like a little bit of his life goes with it. Ten years, gone. He'd give 'em twice over again to make this alright. "I don't want to get anyone's hopes up."
"But," Carol prompts, because there's one in his voice; Rick just wasn't going to say it.
Might as well now, he figures. "But," he picks at a hangnail and resists the urge to chew at it with his teeth, "it just don't make sense."
"What?"
"His story. 'Bout waking up to that walker." When he glances over, Carol's look tells him she still needs a little explaining. He doesn't mind. Truth be told, it feels good saying it. Like saying it can make it so. "When was the last time you saw a walker take one bite outta someone and turn up its nose? He wasn't exactly puttin' up much fight, according to him."
"You think he was lying?" Carol asks.
Rick shakes his head. "That ain't what I'm thinking." Not after Daryl looked him straight in the eye like that. 'Sides, if Daryl was gonna lie about something, he'd say it wasn't a walker that bit him, not the other way around. Daryl's not the sort to be ambiguous. "He said there was something else had its attention. Coyote or something."
Another glance. This time, he can see it: she's catching on. Her eyes are just a little brighter, but not by much. Silver lining or not, she doesn't dare hope. It's a hard thing to come by these days. "You think it was the coyote that got him?"
He wants to say yes. Wants to say that's exactly what he's thinking, what he's prayin' for with every last bit of faith he's got left. But like he said: hope's a hard thing to come by these days. So, instead, he drops his head to his hands – it's gettin' awfully heavy – and tries to pretend the world's not crashing down around him. "I don't know," he whispers, and even to him it sounds ragged. Broken. "I just…." He lifts his head, turning to look at Carol, and he don't feel so bad about his eyes burning when he sees tears in hers. "It can't end like this. Not for him. He deserves better." Because in Rick's head – and yeah, in this world, a man can't help but think about this sort of shit – Daryl dies one of two ways: old age, sittin' on a porch somewhere cleaning that goddamn crossbow, because not even a bona fide zombie apocalypse's a match for that crazy son of a bitch; or in some wild blaze of glory, because if he's going out, Rick can only imagine he ain't making the trip alone. Daryl told him himself, one night after a close call, that a few dozen walkers'd make a fine swan song.
He never pictured it like this. Never pictured he'd be lying on some cot in a prison, restless with fever and not even a handful of walkers to boast about on his way down. One fucking walker. No fight, no nothing. Just one lousy walker, and he's got to watch this man, the strongest man he knows, the man that's saved his damn life more times and in more ways than he can count…he's got to watch him die? No, he's not ready to accept that. He won't accept that.
As if reading his mind, Carol puts a hand on his shoulder. It's small, thin, but there's a strength there that Rick only wishes he had. He reaches his own hand up to cover it, and she squeezes his shoulder gently.
"I read somewhere…one of Dales books, I think."
Rick chuckles despite himself. He never managed to read one of Dale's books; always had something else to do. But he's heard stories. He doesn't reckon he was missing much.
"Anyhow," Carol continues, and her voice is soft and soothing, even for the tears choking it up a bit, "I don't remember much, but I remember in the back of one of them…it said something like, 'If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never yours at all.'"
Rick's about to say something – something he'd probably have to apologize for later, if he's being truthful, but what she's asking, indirectly as it is, is something he's not ready to do – when he's cut off unexpectedly.
"Fuck that," Daryl says. He's looking at them with glassy, fever bright eyes and a pale imitation of his usual crooked simper. "I come back, you best put a bullet in me."
And color him fickle, but Rick's too happy to see him awake again, alive, to care much about what he's saying. Even if it's not too different from what he was about to chew carol out for.
By some miracle of determination and denial, he manages a smile, leaning forward to rest a hand on Daryl's bandaged brow. It's gotten warmer since last he checked; he can feel it through the gauze, and he feels his stomach wrench. He keeps his smile, though.
"You came back once already," he says. "Saved my life, as I recall." That day of the Governor's attack. If Daryl hadn't come back with his brother, Rick would've been dead as a doornail, no two ways about it. It's like he says: Daryl's saves his life more times than he can count. He just wishes there was something he could do to return the favor.
Daryl lets out a chuckle. Least, Rick thinks that's what it was supposed to be. Comes out sounding more like a cough, and it must tweak something the wrong way, because Daryl grimaces and curls his good arm tenderly around his belly.
"Try not to move too much, alright?" Rick's seen the way that wound on his side pulls when he breathes; it's straddling his ribs, and even though it's not bleeding quite so openly anymore, it is starting to spot through the bandage. Red and yellow alike; he's not sure which's got him worried more. "Best keep from aggravating that side of yours." He can't quite bring himself to call it a 'bite'. Feels like it'd be admitting to a lost cause.
Wisely, Daryl bites back a chuckle this time in favor of a wry grin that looks pulled so tight and so thin, Rick's half expecting it to shatter any second. "Ain't like it's gonna kill me," Daryl mutters.
Rick can tell he's being ironic, and this time, he actually does start to say something – last person he needs to hear talking like that about Daryl is Daryl himself, dammit – but Carol's hand tightens over his shoulder briefly. Not so much a warning as a friendly reminder. This is no time for picking fights.
So, he chokes it back down, and settles for something else instead. "Nothing's killing you, you hear?" he says. It's not quite the snap he was going to go with, but it's firm in its own right. "It ain't gonna happen."
Daryl looks a little surprised for a second, but then his face kind of softens. The smile's not so wry anymore, and through the pain and fever clouding his eyes, Rick can see something looks a lot like genuine gratitude. "Always did have a problem with authority," he says, and Rick's own smile becomes a little less taut.
"Not with mine." And he stands up on stiff legs to lean over and press a kiss to the top of Daryl's head, just above the bandages. When he sits back down, he smoothes over the spot with his thumb. It's not sappy, not the coddling someone like Carol or Beth'd probably give him, but it's right for them. Everything else is wrong, but at least this…this is right. "You go on back to sleep."
Because he can tell Daryl's fighting it. His eyes are narrower than usual, and it looks like he's fighting just to keep them in focus. And maybe Rick's being selfish with this whole thing, but he's not selfish enough to deny him some peace. Especially not when he's hurting like he is.
But Daryl's nothing if not stubborn. "You too," he says. His words are a little slurred, a little rasped, but there's life in them yet. "Look like shit."
"That make you the pot or the kettle?"
"Pot," Carol supplies, somehow both helpfully and helplessly. It's the first word she's gotten in since Daryl woke up.
Rick knows it's 'cause she trying real hard not to cry in front of Daryl.
Daryl just nods, except it's hard to tell how much of it he means to do and how much of it's his head listing to the side. Rick reaches around the pillow and holds it just in case, brushing his fingers lightly through the softer hair behind Daryl's ear. And that's playing dirty, because Daryl's eyes are as good as closed after that.
For a second, Rick thinks he might be asleep again, but then his lips move just a little, and he mumbles something. It takes Rick a minute to figure out what he's saying.
"Say g'night t' Lil Asskicker for me."
"'Course," Rick manages to say, even though his voice feels about as steady two-legged stool. "I'll tell her."
Daryl mumbles something else that Rick doesn't even bother trying to translate, and then he's out. And suddenly, Rick's left fighting to keep it together, because he's got this terrible, terrible thought. He can't help thinking, when Daryl said to tell Judith good night…
It sounded an awful lot like 'goodbye'.