You watch him sleep. He was out like a light the moment his head hit the pillow, lights still on and all. You don't bother undressing him. He needs to rest so badly, and this is way more comfortable than anything you're all used to, fully dressed or not. You just pulled his shoes off, not least cos you're pretty sure he threw up all over them.
He looks bad, real bad. Your gut clenches in worry as you study his face. There's a grayish tinge to his skin, and he's covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Dark circles under his eyes give his face a hollowness that is truly frightening. His hair is damp with sweat, too, and clinging to his forehead. When you push it out of his eyes you feel the heat radiating off him. The fever is getting worse. He needs different antibiotics urgently, and someone to check that cut. You're afraid to look under the bandage, but the skin around it is red and warm.
As you watch his brow knits in discomfort. He gives a low moan and shifts restlessly for a moment. You have an idea what's going on.
His eyes fly open and he looks disoriented for a few seconds. Then the pain and nausea darken his face. His eyes flick to you and you can see pleading in them as he tries to struggle up to sitting. You're by his side in a flash.
"Rick… help…"
"Easy, man… I got ya…"
You support most of his weight as you lead him into the bathroom, he seems to have no strength left. You can feel him shudder against you. He gags once, and you steer him towards the sink, which is closest. He still doesn't quite manage. Most of the orange juice that comes up makes it into the sink, though. He heaves again, shaking arms supporting him on the white porcelain rim. You hold him up as good as you can.
He really is incredibly weak, and you struggle to keep him upright, afraid to hurt him. Your arm is round his middle and you can feel his stomach contract painfully under your fingers as his body fights to rid itself of the offensive medication. His breathing is becoming more and more panicky as he tries to get any air at all between heaves. He's sobbing with the misery, and trying to hide it, and it breaks your heart.
Finally he seems to have purged everything, and slumps against you, utterly spent. He clings on hard, and you can feel his heart racing against you as you hold him close. The sobs have died away to whimpers as he hides his face against your shoulder.
"I got you… Let's get you back to bed… you done for now, yeah?"
He nods against your shoulder, and you move the two of you slowly back into the bedroom. When you lower him down you accidentally brush his injured arm and he gives a small yell of pain. Your heart contracts with worry again.
The front of his shirt is covered in sick, and there are traces of it on his chin and neck, too. You quickly lower him all the way, then return to the bathroom to soak a towel under the hot tab on the bath. The sink is a mess and you wince at the sight.
He's barely conscious as you return to his side, but you can't bear to leave him splattered with his own vomit like this. Quickly you strip off his soiled shirt, wipe his face, neck and chest with the warm wet towel. He feels clammy under your hands and you take extra care to rub him dry properly. He sighs at the sensation, and you keep running the dry towel over him a few more times, since it seems to soothe him.
His hand is pressed against his middle, and you put yours just above it and rub his stomach gently for a few moments, hoping to ease the discomfort a little. He relaxes a little as the tension eases, and wakes up a bit more.
"Rick…"
"I'm here, Daryl. It's ok now, you're ok…"
"No more…" His voice cracks.
"I won't make you take those pills again, no. We'll get you something else as soon as the sun's up…"
He's starting to shiver under your hands and you quickly go and grab a t-shirt from the chest of drawers by the door.
"Here…"
You have to lift him to get the shirt on him, and you try to hurry because his teeth are starting to chatter now, too. He must be severely dehydrated, but you're reluctant to give him water just yet. Let his stomach settle some, first. Nothing is likely to stay put at the moment.
You pull the covers up to his chin and sit down by his side again. He tries to look at you, but his gaze is out of focus, and he finally gives up, closes his eyes. You rub his shoulders through the blankets, hope he'll be able to get warm now quickly.
"Cold…"
"I know, Daryl. It's that fever, and you're so dehydrated…"
He shudders again, and moans quietly. His lips are a little blue.
It's no use, he needs water. You get a glass full from the bathroom, giving the sink a quick rinse, too. You don't want to have to come in here again tonight.
After toeing off your shoes you climb into bed beside him and pull him into your arms so that he's resting against your chest while you lean on the headboard. You retrieve the water from the bedside table where you'd set the glass down.
"Daryl, wake up for a moment… You gotta take a couple sips, ok?"
You stroke his back gently until he comes round a little more. But then he shakes his head.
"No, please…"
"You have to… You'll get worse if you don't drink some water now. C'mon, for me…"
Reluctantly he lifts his head and you hold the glass to his lips. Only a little makes it into his mouth, most runs down his chin. He coughs, weakly, and pulls away.
"Can't…"
"Ok, ok…" You put the glass away. "Relax now, and go to sleep. We'll try again later…"
He curls up against you. His hands are like ice, but the rest of him is burning. Slowly, slowly he stops shivering and relaxes under your hands as you stroke his back and shoulders. Finally his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep.
You keep still, holding him. This was horrible, and your heart is heavy with worry and pity. You dread tomorrow. Daryl is really sick now. Will there be anything in Alexandria that can help him?
