Hey!

Happy Mother's Day to my British homies! Here's a chapter to celebrate! Thanks for all the follows and reviews and love, you little cuties ;)

Anyway, here's the chapter! Next update is on Thursday! ❤️❤️❤️

The last time Daryl woke up in a strange room, head throbbing, mouth dry and with no recolection of the day prior, was the weekend before the world went to shit.

This wasn't some crappy shack in the middle of Georgia, though. No; this was nicer, warmer. He flickered his eyes open, everything unfocused as his hapless vision engulfed him with his surroundings.

He was laying on a bed, his clothes removed, his torso wrapped in tight bandages and his arm connected to an IV drip. An attempted shuffle left him in great pain. His body unable to move in the slightest without a burning agony coming from his stiff back.

He sucked in a breath, tears stinging his eyes as he tried once again to move himself upwards. It was no use, the harmed nerve endings burst to life. Pain, unforgiving and prevalent, injected itself into his muscles. He slumped back, gripped the sheets in the process, waiting for the excruciation to subside.

It didn't, not fully. It eased enough to centre himself, but it was there. Quiet but present.

He didn't know where he was. He was injured. Judith was out of his sight, the first time in well over a year that he wasn't near her. It panicked him, his paternal instinct, the one he tried not to think about, screaming at him to find her.

Now.

Right this very second.

He scanned the room, his head still pounding like an out of tune mariache band, his vision still unclear. A light thudding of steps made their way to his bed and in an attempt to move away, to attain someform of self preservation, he shifted himself further from the bedside.

The pain was worse than the two times before, like white hot knives stabbing his every neuron. The fire in his back settled once again to a specific spot on his left side, and he remembered being shot. The memory itself was not clear, the events following a fog, but he remembered the sensation. Like a hot iron poker stabbing his torso.

"You shouldn't move, it'll make the pain worse."

He titled his head towards the noise, his gaze settling by the far left side of the bed, a few feet from the door. It was a man. Short, skinny, large round glasses on his small featured face. He had little tuffs of grey hair that sprouted on the sides of his head, they reminded Daryl of weeds. He stood there, smiling.

Daryl looked at his bandaged torso, before going against his advice and moving once more. His act of rebellion, however, was too unbarable to even attempt. The man walked forward to him, his hands clasped together as he made his way to the foot of the bed.

"You've got off easy all things considered. You've suffered serious muscle damage and a broken rib, but we managed to get the bullet out completely."

Muscle damage and a broken rib. It'd be weeks until he could move, let alone carry a baby and a crossbow and supplies and fuck up walkers. He glanced around at the small room before looking at the man dead on.

"Got a name?"

The man gave him a tightlipped smile, "Walt. I'm the doctor here." he put his hands in his pockets, "And you are?"

"Sore." He said, "Where's the baby?"

"Brooke's with her."

The name was as good as nothing. He may as well have said Mickey Mouse and Kermit the Frog were with her, it made that much of a difference to him.

"Well can tell Brooke to bring her back."

He nodded, "She's just feeding her, she'll be back soon. She's been looking after her the last few days. You were in a critical condition until last night."

"I was shot."

"Yes. You were lucky."

"No shit." He winced, trying to shift upright and failing, "The fuck kind of place you got here anyway?"

Walt stepped away a moment, his one hand leaving his pocket and finding his face in contemplation. Daryl didn't get why he looked like he was giving it much thought. Either he tells him or he doesn't, it wasn't complicated.

"You were hurt pretty bad. Gave us all a scare."

Doesn't. He just looked at the stranger.

"You some kind of broken record?"

"More of a conversationalist."

"Well I ain't. The hell am I, and the hell is my baby?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Both?"

"Where you are. Your baby is with Brooke."

The men looked at the other, Darly cocking a brow as the stinging pain made his stomach fall and the bile rise from his throat. He was not well, understatement of the apocalypse, but true all the same. His body was not going to be well for a long time.

He wouldn't be surprised if it was never quiet the same.

Walt walked around, his frame cat-like as he stood by Darly's bedside, towering over him. There was a lack of threat in the way he stood, whoever he was, he was not dangerous by nature. The way he moved, the way he spoke, he did so with an air of pasifism that was misplaced in this savage world.

Ten minutes with walkers and this man would be rotting in the bottomless gut of some undead bastard.

And they both knew it.

He checked on Daryl's fluids, his eyes glued on the task.

"Why don't you tell me how you ended up in the woods with Brooke?"

"She the girl that brought me here?"

"She's the girl, yes."

"Didn't ask her?"

"I wanted to hear what you had to say."

He grunted, he fucking yearned for a cigrette now, "Like I said, ain't no conversationalist."

His eyes paused on him. They were quiet, Daryl's eyes on the man as he carried on checking him. The effort he put in his care was gracious, it almost made him feel safe.

Almost. Experience told him not to be so naive. He couldn't help but feel safer here, even if he felt that safety was misplaced. He'd been to a few horror houses during his year with the baby, and people there weren't the types to nurse strangers that almost killed one of their own for supplies. He figured whatever place this was, it was civilised.

Sometimes civilised was the worst thing to be in this world.

Walt turned to him, the look on his face expectant of someone waiting for conversation. Daryl chose to ignore it. The stranger clamped his arms tight as he paused from Daryl's examination, his processing fractured by Daryl's lack of talk. The bed-ridden man looked around, familiarizing himself, and gave in.

"Where's my crossbow."

"We took your weapons. Don't worry, it's safe. You'll get it when you're better."

"And when's that exactly?"

He smiled at him, "Isn't that the million dollar question?"

He grabbed a stool hidden by the bedside table before peeling the blankets off of Daryl's front. His bandages were exposed, the pasty white fabric soiled by crusted blood.

"Any tenderness?"

"What do ya think?"

"How bad does the pain feel?"

"Like I been shot."

Walt took in a deep breath, his frustration chipping his cool frame, "Look son, I can't help you if you don't cooperate."

"I want to see the baby."

"I told you Brooke-"

"I know what ya said, get her here now."

Walt shook his head, a hand running through his sparce hair. If he wasn't in such pain Daryl would've felt at the very least grateful for the older man's trying. Yet until Judith was there all bets were off.

"I'll get her here soon, can you please let me examine you?"

He looked at him and attempted a semi shrugg before urging away, bored.

"Do whatever."

The man began unraveling his bandages. Daryl winced. Walt glanced up at him, his hands expert as he moved him to his side.

"You're a lucky one alright." he said, "You should've died that day."

"I'll get another chance ta." he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt him clean it, burning pain awful as the antiseptic killed any chance of infection and set his skin alight.

"You owe Brooke your life."

That made him snorted. Despite the unquestionable pain he found that scoff-worthy.

"Like hell I do. Bitch shot me."

He grunted as the doctor dabbed the rubbing alcohol hard on his exposed flesh. Daryl twisted his back, eyes rouged as he shot him a dirty glare. The man seemed unfazed.

"Don't you ever call her that again. She saved your life. She could've let you die there."

Daryl exahled a breath. In all fairness he did almost kill her for a bagpack. He bent his head down and chewed on his lip as the pain rolled in waves.

"You should thank her when you see her."

"Plan on it." he breathed out as the man wraped the bandages round him. He helped settle Daryl down, his touch gentle as he placed the blankets over him. He didn't move from the chair though.

"Thanks."

"It's fine, it's my job. I was a Red Cross trauma surgeon before this. Dealt with all sorts of people in conditions that were hardly ideal."

Daryl nodded. Lucky profession to get into before the world ended. That and military, figured that was why Merle made it as long as he did.

"What was Brooke doing in those woods?"

Daryl glanced at him, a brow raised, "You her father?"

"A friend. She and my nephew were very close."

Were. His nephew was out there pushing daisies and fertilising the earth then. By the look on Walt's face it was a recent occurrence.

"Dunno what she was doin'."

"Where did you bump into her?"

He frowned, whatever kind of interogation this was Daryl figured he clearly wasn't the focus.

"Thought you said you talked to her 'bout what happened."

"I did. Just checking facts."

That stinging pain on his back ached. Daryl let out a slow breathe.

"Met her on near Route 95 and East 9. Jumped her for her pack, she shot me, we fought a herd of walkers and right before I passed out she said she'd bring us here for help."

"Walkers?"

He rolled his eyes, "Them undead bastards."

He didn't care to nod in understanding, just went on with the questioning.

"Jumped for her pack? What do you mean?"

"Like I said."

"You tried to steal from her?"

"Yeah."

"You tried to *steal* from her."

"Got trouble hearin', 's like I said."

The doctor didn't know what to do with himself. He stood there, body fidgeting, hands unsure of their placement.

"What did you try to steal?"

"Her pack."

"She said she didn't have a pack."

"She had a pack."

"She said you guys meet a half mile away from here. Route 95 is a half hour drive away. At least."

"Could be, dunno where we are, 'member."

He couldn't help but feel the ghost of a smirk hint at his lips. He watched the man unravel the apparent lie Daryl hadn't been aware of. Walt took a deep breath.

"You did save her from a herd of roamers right, that's how you got shot."

Nope. He shook his head, the silence confirming his statement the longer it dwindled between them. Daryl broke it first.

"Sound like she said a lot of things."

Walt's eyes were on his, unblinking. Daryl couldn't hold back the snark in his face any more, his smirk unashamed. The older man stood up and made his way to the door, and against his better judgement Daryl spoke.

"That Brooke had you played."

The doctor left him, his words echoed between them like dust. Daryl looked around the room again, chewing on what little he got from what just happened. Eyes settled on a crib he spotted on the right side of the room and the discomfort of having Judith away grated on him.

He was in a place a half hour drive away from where he was before. It was a community. The girl that shot him, for some reason or another, he didn't care, fabricated a rather logical altnerative tale of how she both shot and met him.

He didn't know how to place that. He felt like she got him into a hell of a lot more shit than he anticipated, most of it unnecessary. He bit his lip contemplating whether the doctor's discovery on his verion of events was helpful rather than harmful.

It was too late now. He knew that much. What happened next to her wasn't his priority or concern, he just didn't want either him or Judith getting in shit for it.

He wasn't in a state to protect her and that alone was enough to set him on edge. The second he was well he'd be out. He had to be.