He was floating on a lake of pain. Fire was raging through his organs, in every single cell. Blood was pounding so loudly he couldn't hear himself think, even when coherent thoughts were getting though. And even here, now, the beast of panic, devouring him, laughing. Telling him he was nothing, a joke, disgusting. It would never stop, he was sure now. He could try and hold it at bay, but it would be there always, lurking, gnawing away at his heart. He would never be free.

Breathing was impossible. Too much effort, too painful. Like the air was made of phlegm, and his lungs were caught in an iron vice. The world was blinking in and out of existence. During a lucid period he thought he heard someone sobbing, and felt hands stroking his face. Always, always, the instinct to draw away. But now he couldn't move. Was it Rick, by his side? A tiny hopeful sliver of a thought that made him feel strangely safe. Maybe if Rick was there he could help keep the monster away. But he couldn't be sure, mustn't rely on it, or anyone… or maybe he could. Maybe he'd try, yes…

Holding on to that thought as best he could Daryl drifted off into deeper sleep.

-.-

A sleepless night turned into an endless day. There was much to do but the other's kept Rick's back free and took care of everything, so he could stay with Daryl. Hershel had impressed on all of them that even in a hospital, with the best care, Daryl's condition was so serious there would have been a real danger of his dying. As things stood, it was a miracle he was still alive twelve hours after his collapse.

Glenn and Maggie had finally arrived back with some of the required medication and a small number of saline solution IV bags. Hershel's face had creased in worry again when he held them in his hand and inspected each one carefully.

"We have no way of testing these for contamination. But we have no choice. Either we get Daryl's pressure up, or he's not going to make it. If these are contaminated he will most likely die. But without them he will definitely die. We can only hope…"

So they had hoped. And waited. Rick hardly moved from where he sat by the bedside, sometimes on the stool, sometimes on the floor. He kept replacing the wet cloth on Daryl's forehead every few minutes, seemingly wiping away as much sweat as they could get fluids into the man. Daryl's face was waxen and so still that Rick frequently felt for the other man's pulse or watched for an intake of breath so intently he was holding his own.

Every few hours that stillness was rent apart by a sudden stiffening of Daryl's whole body, and he started shaking hard enough to make his teeth chatter. This was followed by a period of restlessness, where Daryl tossed from side to side, moaning softly. Every one of these attacks was weaker than the previous one, but they quickly realized that this was no sign of improvement. Daryl's energy was waning.

There had also been one more of the terrible seizures, which Hershel said were caused by the lack of oxygen delivery to the brain due to the low blood pressure, and the high fever. Daryl's back had arched right off the mattress all of a sudden, his head snapping back. Rick could see the whites of his eyes under the not quite closed lids as his eyes had rolled wildly. Between them he and Hershel had had a hard time keeping Daryl from falling right off the narrow bed, so violent were the convulsions.

When the seizure had finally abated Rick had been horrified to see the real panic on Hershel's face. He had placed a hand on the old man's arm.

"What?"

The other man had looked at him for a long moment before speaking. "Rick, Daryl will not be able to withstand any more of these episodes. I am worried that brain damage has occurred already."

Rick had looked down at the now still form in front of them. Daryl was entirely motionless, and he looked strangely diminished, lying twisted between the crumpled, sweaty sheets. He reminded Rick of a puppet whose strings had been cut, and he had wanted to run screaming from the cell. But he didn't. Instead he had straightened out Daryl's limbs, trying to make him comfortable. Lastly he had smoothed back some strands of hair that were clinging to Daryl's brow, and had replaced the wet cloth. Then he had waited some more. Every time Daryl stirred after this Rick's heartbeat had sped up, anticipating the next, and last, seizure. But it hadn't come.

Finally, five or six hours after the IV fluids had been connected, the first break came. Rick had just returned from a trip to the bathroom, and to stretch his legs. Carol, who had stayed with Daryl while Rick was out of earshot, had left the two of them alone again after Rick had reassured her that he was fine. As he looked down at Daryl Rick thought that his cheeks looked less flushed, his breathing seemed a little less shallow.

Rick took both Daryl's hands in his, which had been alternating between freezing cold and much too hot throughout the night. They still felt warm, but nothing like as awful as before. With a small, hopeful flame burning in his chest Rick settled back down on the floor, to wait some more. He watched as the sweat dried on Daryl's face, a semblance of normal color returned to it, and his breathing became more regular.

When Daryl relaxed into what seemed a more normal, deep sleep Rick put his head down onto the mattress by Daryl's side. He was so exhausted that, despite the impossibly uncomfortable position, he was asleep in under a minute.