The fever spikes early that next morning.

It's been a little over six hours since Daryl got back, since this whole nightmare started, and Daryl's been fading in and out the better part of the night, blinking awake just long enough for Rick to get some water and maybe another dose of antibiotics in him before he's right back out again.

Except he's not out, not really. The fever's got him restless, twisting and squirming and kicking off the covers, only to wind up waking himself up shivering. Rick tries to keep him still as best he can, on account of his shoulder and side being in such a state as they are, but there's only so much he can do without doing more harm than good. More often than not, he just ends up talking to him, quiet, hushed tones, and running a cool wet washcloth over his face until he settles back down.

Hershel'd come in a few times to check on Daryl. First time hadn't been so bad, but the second, he'd gone to change Daryl's bandage. Now, Rick was no doctor, but he knew when he saw all the sickly acid yellow mixed with the blood on the bandage and the way the skin around the wound practically glowed red that Daryl was in trouble. Hershel hadn't said anything to that effect, but then, he didn't have to. Rick could see the grimness in his face and the sadness in his eyes, and he knew.

Eight hours, Jenner said. That was the longest anyone'd ever lasted with the bite. Maybe Daryl could make it longer, but if this really was a walker bite, then the clock was running down. Two hours.

The third time Hershel came by, he'd checked his temperature and gone through the whole song and dance, but he really just came by to tell Rick he needed to get some rest and food in him before he ended up lying on a bunk himself. Rick had kindly refused and just as kindly told Hershel to please, get the hell out, unless he had some other business to be doing there with Daryl.

He felt a little guilty about it afterward, muttered an apology the next time Hershel stopped in, but he was glad when Hershel didn't stick around to chat after.

It was Carol that came up to bat the next time. Rick had just finished choking down the lunch Beth brought him – it tasted like sawdust and went down about as easy as a mouthful of sand – when she rapped her knuckle against one of the bars.

He had half a mind to shoo her off. Last thing he needed was another conversation like the one he had with Hershel. A little bit of boot leather wasn't what he had in mind to wash the taste of sawdust out of his mouth.

But he didn't. It wouldn't 'a been fair to her. She loves Daryl, too, and he reckoned, with what little mind for reason he had left after that last God-awful sleepless night, that she had as much right to be in there as he did. The others probably did, too.

Baby steps, though.

So, he nodded, because he didn't much trust his voice at the moment, and she smiled softly and came in, because she understood just fine. She always did.

"Brought some fresh water," she said as she joined him by Daryl's bed. Her voice was quiet, no doubt trying not to wake the others. He didn't even ask what she was doing up this time of morning. Sure enough, she had another bowl tucked under her arm, and Rick could see the beads of sweat rolling off it. The last of the water went tepid a little while earlier, and Rick hadn't been able to bring himself to leave long enough to get another.

And yes, he knows damn well how it sounds, how he's acting. A little bit crazy, and more than a little bit selfish. He's hanging around this cell like a junkyard dog on a chain, never making it a few steps beyond that door and growling at everyone that passes, but he can't help it. He wasn't there for Lori, not when she died or even really before that. He's not making that mistake again.

Whatever happens, he's not going anywhere.

Which is why, when Carol put her hand on his shoulder and suggested she take over for a while, it took a lot more effort than it should've to keep from snapping at her. And he felt guilty about that, too – still does – but like he said: he just can't help himself. He's wound too tight, feels like a rope about to snap, and he's doing everything he can to keep himself together, because he needs to keep it together, but it gets harder every time he hears Daryl let out one of those damn near pitiful sounding groans in his sleep or flinch or wince or do anything that's not waking the hell up, fine and dandy.

"I'll be alright," he said instead. "I can't go until…" Until what? Until he dies? Until he comes back? Until he miraculously recovers? "While he's like this." That'd have to do.

It did. Nothing seemed to be going right for him, but at least he got that. Carol let it go, didn't push any more than that, and after a few minutes of not-uncomfortable silence, she got up, patted his shoulder, and left.

That was a good half hour ago. No one's been in since, and Rick's been passing the time going between pacing, brooding, and trying to cool the fire burning under Daryl's skin.

He's wringing the washcloth out over the bowl Carol brought. The water's still cool enough, Rick thinks, and he turns back around in the stool to face Daryl. He's got his brows all drawn in again, and he's taken to tossing and turning again, and muttering in his sleep. Rick can't quite make out what he's saying, but he'd bet good money it's nothing pleasant. Not with the way his lips're pulled down.

Sighing, he props one arm on the bed and leans a little closer. When the rag first touches to Daryl's head, he flinches, even still asleep, but Rick's gotten used to that. "You're alright," he says, even if Daryl's still out cold and doesn't hear a word of it. "You're alright."

But Daryl doesn't settle down like he usually does. His eyes screw up, and Rick sees the muscle in his jaw stand out taut like he's in some sort of pain. Probably is, Rick realizes with a sick sort of twist in his gut. And that kills him, because there's nothing he can do about it but just keep smoothing over the tight lines on his face and wish like hell he could take his place.

It doesn't help. He's not expecting it to, but it really, really doesn't. Matter of fact, it looks like it's getting worse. Daryl starts squirming a little more. His legs kick under the sheets, and his fingers twist in the fabric. His mumbling gets louder, clearer, and even though Rick can't make out the lion's share, he can pick out the odd word.

"Girl," he says, voice barely even a whisper, and Rick thinks he might see his eyes open a little, but then they're right back closed again. "Lost…little girl." And this time, Rick definitely sees his eyes peel open, bleary and unfocused, before they slide back closed. Daryl's head lolls a little to the side, and Rick sets aside the rag in favor of tipping his head straight again and half-holding, half-cradling it there. "Tried...t' find…Rick an' I, we…" Daryl's eyes widen a little bit, and Rick can see the haze in those blue orbs. They're glassy, and even though Rick's looking down at him and there can't be more than a few inches between their faces, Daryl's eyes can't seem to track him. They just kind of rove, lazily, and his breath picks up.

He kind of drifts off after a second, though, his eyes narrowing to slits, and Rick thinks he's done. Part of him's relieved; Daryl's been getting less and less coherent each time he wakes up, and he's not sure what he's got in that head of his right now. What little he could make out of what he was saying didn't make much sense at all.

Before he gets a chance to try and make heads or tails of it, though, Daryl suddenly gives a start. He jerks back, high, reedy breaths breaking from his lips, and it's like he's trying to scramble up away from something, trying to reach for something else, but there's nothing there. Nothing but Rick, and he's got his hands full holding Daryl back to the bed.

"Hey," he says, more than a little bit frantically. Daryl looks scared about something, and whether he's imagining it or not doesn't make much difference to Rick one way or the other. He's got one hand on his good shoulder, holding him down to the bunk, and he's trying to grab Daryl's arm with the other. "Hey, hey, hey, you're alright. It's okay, you're alright." But Daryl's not listening. "Daryl!"

That does it; Daryl stops. Freezes, like Rick's just dumped that bowl of cold water on him. Except that gives the impression he comes to.

He doesn't.

He's still got this far-off look in his eyes when he stops, and Rick can still feel his heart beating ninety to nothing against his hand. His breath's quick and shallow, and his eyes, glassy and fever-bright, keep darting around like he's looking for something.

Finally, though, they make it around to Rick, and he blinks. "You find her?" he asks. His voice is weak, rasped with disuse and his drawl's even thicker than usual.

Rick frowns. "Find who?"

Daryl furrows his brows deeper – Rick hopes it's not screwing up the stitches on his head – and it's like he's having a hard time getting his thoughts together. "Sophia," he says finally, except it almost sounds like a question. He's not sure. He's confused.

It hits Rick like a punch to the gut. Because he's not just confused; he's delusional. And that before, that wasn't just a dream. He's hallucinating. He's out of his head, and Rick feels his heart sink like a goddamn stone straight to the soles of his boots, because he remembers…he remembers Jim. What happened to him. The boat.

"Did you find her?" Daryl asks again.

There's a knot in Rick's throat damn near the size of Texas. His eyes are burning, and suddenly, he feels like someone's hollowed him out and filled him with cold lead. He feels sick, and there's something tight in his chest that's making it hard to breathe. He wants to cry, scream, grab Daryl and shake him and tell him to snap out of it now, goddammit, that he can't do this.

But he can't do that. Won't do that, because it won't do any good. He can't lose it now. So he scrubs his hands over his face and forces himself to smile, even though it feels like his face is cracking. "Yeah," he lies through his teeth, and God, it hurts. "Yeah, we found her."

Daryl relaxes a little. "She alright?" He says it like he's trying not to let on that he cares, which strikes Rick as funny in a heartbreaking sort of way. Even like this, Daryl's a stubborn son of a bitch. Tough as nails. Can't let anyone see him care, even though everyone knows he does.

Rick nods and hopes like hell it doesn't look as shaky as it feels. "She's fine."

Daryl immediately starts to sit up. "Where is—" but he flinches back, almost violently, when Rick reaches to stop him. It's not even subtle, like his usual shy-aways. He honest-to-God turns his head and lifts his hand to cover his face, like he's waiting for a smack that, as far as Rick's concerned, isn't ever gonna come.

His chest tightens, but he holds his smile in place by sheer force of will. With slow, deliberate movements, he takes Daryl's hand in his and eases it away from his face. Daryl fights him for a second, much as he can, but he's got no strength left. The fever's taken everything he had.

"Easy now," Rick says, and with his free hand, he picks the rag back up and makes to wipe the newly-beaded sweat from Daryl's face. He's burning up, now, and Rick feels his breath catch and his body tense when he goes to touch him. "I'm not gonna hurt you. You know that." And slowly, gently he starts to run the washcloth over his face. "Just gotta clean you up."

"Fell in th' creek," Daryl mutters, and he lets his head sink back into the pillow. Rick's not sure if that's 'cause he's relaxing, though, or if he just doesn't have it in him to keep holding it up. "Damn horse…and Merle—"

Judith crying cuts him off, and damned if Daryl doesn't jump like he's been shot. He jerks up, and it's all Rick can do to catch him before he gets halfway to upright.

"Lil'…" But Daryl trails off, and he gets this weird sort of lightbulb look on his face, like he's just realized something awful. He turns his head, and for the first time, Rick feels like he's really looking at him.

He wishes he wasn't.

"I ain't right," Daryl whispers, and oh God, he looks like the world just dropped out from under him. He starts to sit up, and it's so sudden and Rick's so caught up in what's happening that he can't stop him. He doesn't make it too far, anyway; his side must stop him, because his hand goes to rest on his bandage. He looks down at it, then looks back up, and there's…there's fear in his eyes. Visceral, gut-churning, heart-stopping fear. "Rick, I ain't—"

This time, it's Rick that cuts him off.

"You're fine," Rick tells him, steady as he can. He's not real sure who he's trying to convince, but he's giving it his all. He moves from the stool to sit on the bed. He curls a hand around the back of Daryl's head, cupping his neck firmly, and brings their heads together. He tries everything he can to ignore the heat seeping through the scratchy gauze bandages around his brow. "You're fine, okay? Ain't nothing wrong with you. It's just a fever. You're gonna be alright."

But Daryl's shaking his head against Rick's, and he's holding onto Rick's arm with the hand that's not tied up in the makeshift sling. "Can't be here," he's mumbling. "Ain't safe being here. Not when I—"

"Hey, no," Rick says. "You can't talk like that, you understand? I won't let you talk like that."

"Judith." Daryl says it like a plea, his voice wavering, and Rick can feel him shaking despite the heat he feels coming off him like a damn furnace.

"She's fine. Everyone's fine." Everyone. Rick doesn't think he could stand it to be any different. Not after everything they've been through. He can't lose Daryl.

He's careful when he pulls Daryl close. Mindful of every cut, every scrape as he wraps his arms around him. Gentle when he holds his head against his shoulder and presses his lips to his hair. "Just go back to sleep," he says, and this time, he's the one pleading. Because even his restless sleep's better than this. Better than seeing the fear in his eyes, better than knowing every breath hurts him and at the same time praying for each and every one. "Everything's gonna be fine. Just go back to sleep." And spare the both of them this eighth level of hell they've landed in.

Daryl wants to argue; Rick knows he does. He's stubborn like that, and Rick loves him for it. But the fever really has taken all he's got. He mumbles a little more, a few curses, a few 'idget's and a few things Rick can't quite make sense of. But finally, finally, Rick feels him go slack. His head lolls against Rick's shoulder, and his breathing evens out just a little.

Rick doesn't let him go, though. He knows he should, but he doesn't. Can't.

He can't let him go.