AN: I'm SORRY for not updating sooner. I've been distracted with this serious drawing I started of Norman and I had to finish. I've figured out that I can't juggle the story and my drawings at the same time. It messes up the flow or something. Go look at it and see the cause of my delayed update; my instagram (lil_hanna) or my twitter page (lill_hanna).

Also, again, I don't know everything for hospital stuff, so it's not the most accurate, so forgive me if that bothers you.

Anyway, I hope you like the chapter. Review and tell me what you think.

Chapter 14

A nurse comes into the room after about five minutes. She flashes him fake smiles, but he still sees the contempt in her eyes. At least she's being professional about it. She's pushing a wheelchair in front of her. Daryl sighs to himself and sits in it. He's ready to just get this shit over with.

She pushes him out of the room and into the hallway to an elevator down the hall. He isn't sure how many floors they go up, he doesn't pay attention. He's thinking about the MRI machine. If only the plate in his face could have been magnetic… Suddenly the image of him walking in there and then flying through the room face first, getting smashed against the machine and breaking his face, pops in his head. He bursts out a laugh. What the hell? That's not funny….But it kinda is…

He sees the nurse watching him like he's lost his damn mind, but he doesn't give a shit. She can go fuck herself for all he cares.

They exit the elevator and she pushes the chair down the hall and turns the corner and goes through some double doors that they have to flash a card to. Then they enter this room where Daryl gets out of the wheelchair. She hands him a release form he has to sign saying he has no metal and, again, the scene from before pops into his head. He laughs to himself again as he signs his name. He hands them the paper and they direct him inside another door that he lets himself into.

When he enters the room he's greeted by a familiar face. A face he knows well and doesn't much care for. He internally groans when he sees that the MRI technician is Paul Preston. He was in his class when he went to school. Always the top of the class – straight A's, that kind of thing, but he was also a dick. Still is. Anyone whose grade point average was below a 3.5 was a dumbass in his book, especially Daryl. But not because of his grades; mainly because of his long lineage of people who never gave a fuck and dropped out of school.

"Dixon," Paul says in way of greeting as he walks in. "Lie down on the table."

Daryl walks over to the table mindful of the opening of the gown at his back and lies down. Paul hands him some earplugs.

"Put these in your ears. It's going to get loud in there."

Daryl takes them and mashes them in his ears.

"Now don'tmove at all when I slide you in there," Paul says louder on account of the earplugs muffling the sound.

Daryl nods his head with a frown. Paul fastens a cage looking thing over Daryl's head and then throws a blanket over Daryl's legs. He hands him this button to hold and press if for some reason or another he needs to get out. The next thing he knows he's going into this hole that keeps getting smaller and smaller the further he goes in, giving him the illusion that it's closing in around him.

His chest tightens as panic begins to set in. He wishes he wouldn't have seen that image. The urge to sit up is stronger than it ever has been before now that there isn't room to.

Don't move, he reminds himself. He closes his eyes, cutting off the view of the confining space as the machine begins to make a slow rhythmic knocking sound. He feels his nerves making him vibrate as he quells all urges to move his arms or legs.

After a few minutes the knocking sound begins to pick up in speed and quantity all around him, making him feel that much more stressed.

It's minutes later when he starts feeling himself moving. He begins to panic until he realizes that he's being slid out of the tube. He looks up at Paul who asks him how he's feeling. Daryl just grunts out something resembling a "yeah". Paul pulls out a syringe filled with some substance and brings it towards his arm.

"What the fuck is that?" Daryl asks, pointing at the syringe. He's been stabbed enough for one day, he doesn't need any more holes in his arm.

"It's a syringe, Dixon."

Daryl rolls his eyes and suppresses an annoyed growl. "I fuckin' know that. What the hell's it for?"

Paul arches his eyebrow at Daryl like he asked if the moon was made out of cheese.

"It's contrast. Dye for your veins…" he adds, but Daryl just stares at him. Paul scoffs.

"It'll highlight any blood clots."

"Ain't nobody told me about no contrast."

"Well they should've. Give me your arm."

Daryl stares at the man for a second longer before reluctantly sliding his arm outward towards Paul with the crook of his elbow facing up so Paul can inject the dye into his vein. After he does that he slides Daryl back into the tube.

Again Daryl closes his eyes so he's not constantly reminded that he's in a small tube with limited moving space.

After quite a few minutes the sound of the knocking begins to add pain to the headache in Daryl's head, and on top of that he feels his head beginning to spin. It's all so distracting that keeping himself still completely escapes his minds as he tilts his head to the side a little bit trying to ease his pain.

A voice from a speaker cutting into the pounding sounds around his head startles him and he jumps.

"Stop moving! You move and mess up the image; you'll have to do this again."

Daryl moves his head back straight, but also raises his hand up and flips off the air. He smirks to himself when he imagines Paul probably watching the screen, showing his image in the tube, with a scowl on his face.

Daryl battles his sudden onset of nausea while he makes some kind of rhythm out of the constant pounding noise to distract himself.

It seems like it takes longer than it actually does before the machine begins to wind down and for the knocking to stop. It seems to take even longer for him to slide out.

He hears Paul ask him something as he takes the cage and blanket off, but he doesn't pay attention. Daryl sits up and steps off the table. The shift in position for his head makes him lose his balance as the room spins. He stumbles to the side and grabs the closest thing to him, Paul, to keep himself from falling. He feels Paul grab onto his arm tightly and his first reaction is to panic. Daryl grunts as he rips his arm from Paul and stumbles into the shelf against the wall, breathing hard. He rubs his face with his hands as he regains his composure.

"You alright, Dixon?"

Daryl looks up and is surprised to see that Paul's face almost portrays concern… almost.

"Peachy," Daryl grunts out as he drops his hands.

Paul sighs, "Well, the nurse is waiting to take you back to your room."

Daryl nods stiffly and heads for the door. He goes through the door and sits down in the wheelchair next to the nurse with a grunt.

The nurse tries to carry conversation with Daryl when she pushes him back to his room; Daryl pays no mind. He's just ready to get out of this damn hospital. But he still hears her talking. He doesn't know who she thinks she's talking to because he sure as hell isn't listening.

She pushes him into the room he was in earlier, beside the bed. He gets out of the wheelchair and sits himself down on the bed, his back facing away from the woman.

"You can change back into your clothes if you want to."

Daryl looks at her, "Naw, I think I like walking around these hospital gowns…. Nice breeze."

The nurse raises her eyebrows at him as confusion settles into her face.

He furrows his brows, "I'as jokin'."

The nurse's face then changes into a look of understanding as she lets out a small nervous laugh and leaves without another word.

Daryl looks around the room for his clothes and locates them in a chair in a clear plastic bag. He hops off the bed and staggers for a second as he crosses the room to the chair and picks up the bag. He unzips it with the enthusiasm of a kid opening the package for their new toy. He dumps out the clothes on the chair and picks up his pants to start with first.

He pulls on his cargo pants and fastens his belt. He looks around the room to double check even though he knows no one is in the room before he begins to untie the strings from his backside. He throws the gown down and snatches up his t-shirt. He's just pulling it over his head when he hears the door click closed. Daryl panics and hastily pulls the shirt the rest of the way down, getting an elbow hung in the armhole for a split second.

He looks over at the door to see Hershel standing there staring at him, face blank.

Daryl crosses his arms across his chest defensively, almost with a hugging manner, and diverts his gaze to Hershel's shoes until he sees him walk over the cabinet to his left. Daryl looks up at Hershel's back with a scowl.

"Was it your brother?"

Caught off guard, Daryl gapes at him for a moment before he begins to connect the dots and feels irritation begin to flow throw him.

"'Scuse me?"

Hershel turns around calmly and faces Daryl.

"Was it your brother that you got most of your bruises from?"

Daryl lets out a breath through his nose he didn't know he was holding. Bruises… Man's talkin' about the bruises. Maybe he was fast enough putting his shirt on that all he saw was the dark bruises decorating his waist.

Daryl nods, lightly moving one hand to rub the back of his neck, "M… most of 'em."

Hershel nods his head, "I'm not going to pretend that I know what you deal with personally and on a day to day basis, but I've met Merle on a few occasions and I know that he's displayed volatile behavior for each time that I have. I've heard several rumors about you and your family over the years, but I've never been one to let other people make my opinions for me; I come to my own conclusions. The things I've heard of your brother, although some being absurd, do seem to hold some truth to them. But you seem to be nothing of who everyone says you are. You seem like a decent man, which leads me to refute everything I've hear about you."

Daryl swallows and crosses his arms over his chest tighter, digging his fingers into his ribs. All Hershel's sentiment is making him feel just a tad bit uncomfortable. "Ya got a point to all this er you jus' ramblin'?"

Hershel shakes his head a little at Daryl's attitude. "I know there are a lot of people around here that treat you poorly, for what reason I don't know-"

"You and me both," Daryl mumbles

"But I want to let you know that I'm not going to be one of those people. I'm a doctor and I care about my patients." Hershel catches Daryl's eyes. "All of them."

Daryl honestly doesn't know what to say to this. He uncrosses his arms as he breaks eye contact and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking backward and forward slightly.

"Do you live with your brother?"

Daryl looks back at Hershel and shakes his head after a beat. "Mm-mm, not anymore. I kicked him out a couple days ago."

"The bruises?"

Daryl frowns and looks down before looking back at him nodding his head, "Mmhm." Daryl looks down at his feet and realizes he's still standing barefooted. He walks over to the chair and clears everything in it onto the counter next to it and takes a seat. He begins putting his socks on as Hershel looks at the clipboard in his hand.

The door opens and a nurse carrying some paper peeks in and looks around before her eyes settle on Hershel.

"There you are."

Hershel raises a brow in question, "I didn't run off. Where did you think I'd be?"

The nurse blushes and walks over to him handing him the papers. "Here's the results to the test," she says before she walks out of the room. Hershel looks down at the papers and reads over them for a few seconds.

"Well, it looks like you're off the hook. There aren't any clots here. But you need to treat this as a warning," Hershel says.

Daryl looks up at him, "Warning?"

"Although the cause of your TIA is different from the usual, you could still be at risk of having a stroke, considering that the TIA happened in the first place. Out of the patients who have had TIAs, four to twenty percent progress to strokes within 90 days. So I want you to be careful with yourself. I'm going to ask you to stop smoking, even though I imagine you won't; watch how much you drink, some is fine just no excessive drinking; exercise regularly; and eat a balanced diet. I've noticed you're a little underweight for your height and build, so I would suggest eating a little more often." Hershel stops and pulls out a card from his pocket.

"I know coming to the hospital is taxing and time consuming, but if you start experiencing any problems, come back here immediately. It could help you in the long run and it might just save your life." He leans forward and hands Daryl the card. He accepts it without really thinking. "That's my card. Don't be afraid to call me if you have any questions, about anything really… not just for stroke related issues."

Daryl looks down at the card in his hands and turns it over. He unconsciously rubs his thumb across the card. Yet again he doesn't really know how to respond. He's touched to say the least. Here this man he barely even knows is treating him the way he wishes other people would, and he didn't even have to do anything. But he doesn't know how to say any of that and if he did he's not even sure that he would want to anyway. He looks back up at the man letting his eyes say what his words could not.

Apparently Hershel is pleased with what he reads in Daryl's eyes because he gives him a smile, "Now I imagine you wouldn't want to stay in the hospital overnight…"

Daryl's mind is snapped back to the situation and where he is from Hershel's words. "Hell no."

"Well then. I'll get you the papers so you can sign yourself out."

The drive back to Daryl's house is quiet. He hasn't said a single word since he walked into the waiting room. Before Daryl came out to the waiting room, Hershel pulled Jon aside and told him the things to make sure that Daryl does, and to keep an eye on him. He also told him that he thinks that Daryl should take a week off from work and then he gave him his card. He worries that it might be hard to convince Daryl that he needs to take a week off. He wants Daryl to have the time recuperate. He'd hate for him to get out there and end up working himself to death. Not that he thinks Daryl's that bad off, but he knows how Daryl gets when he gets into his work.

Jon glances over to Daryl who's just looking out the passenger window.

"I think maybe you should take a week off from work."

That gets Daryl's attention. Daryl straightens up in his seat and turns his head to face Jon with a harsh expression.

"Why?" he asks, tone edging on defensive. "What, you think that mini stroke's rendered me incompetent? Think I can't handle my job?"

Jon leans back slightly at the harshness in his voice.

"No." Jon is silent for a second. "I thought you could use a break, considering everything that's going on with you. Let your hand heal and get everything in order."

Daryl's face relaxes just the slightest before he turns to look back out the window before mumbling out, "Yeah… well, I'm fine. I don't need no break."

Jon sighs through his nostrils. "You may think you don't, but I think you do. And that's what's going to happen."

"You can't keep me away from my work, Jon. Them boys can't tell shit from a rock without me."

"Look, I'll deal with it. But you're not going to work-"

"I'll just go anyway," Daryl says with a tone that suggests the conversations over, but Jon's not done.

"No… you won't," Jon says letting his annoyance taint his voice.

"How ya gonna keep me from going inta work, anyway?"

"Daryl… If I catch you up there I'll suspend you for a month," he spits sharply, overcome with irritation. He looks over at Daryl, who's gaping at him.

"Yer not fuckin' serious?"

"I'm very serious. And you need to just suck it up right now because this is how it's gonna be. I don't care if you do think you can handle going back to work. 'Cause you ain't goin'."

Daryl crosses his arms. "Fuck you then."

"What!?" Jon parks the truck on the side of the road. "Daryl, we're good friends." He pauses to watch if Daryl will respond. He only sits staring out the window. "My best friend actually, but you seem to forget that I'm also your boss. And yer one of my employees. And when it comes to work, you have to do what I say. I look out for my employees. I'm also serious about situation pertaining to work, and this does," Jon says in his reprimanding tone that would make anyone squirm in their seat.

Jon falls silent as he puts the truck back in drive, but he silence now is much more tense. He can practically feel the vibes coming from Daryl as he sits in his seat, sulking and chewing on his thumb.

When Jon pulls up into Daryl's driveway and parks the truck, he shuts it off and turns to Daryl in his seat.

"Look, I'm not trying to be mean."

Daryl turns and looks at him, face void of emotions.

"It's not some kind of personal attack; I think it could benefit you. You need a break anyway, it's long overdue. Just think of it as a vacation."

He sees Daryl's chest expand from a deep breath before letting it out and looking away. Daryl pushes open the truck door and slams it shut behind him and begins walking towards the front door. Jon is about to put his truck in reverse when he notices that Daryl has stopped in his doorway and is frozen in place, staring in.

Jon shuts his truck off and gets out, approaching him. Jon calls out when he steps onto the small porch. "Daryl, ya okay?"

Daryl doesn't even twitch at the sound of his voice. Jon walks up behind Daryl and looks over his shoulder into the house. He shifts his eyes and looks at the side of Daryl's face. His face is completely blank, giving nothing away.

Jon gently pushes at Daryl's back to try and get him in the house, but Daryl feels like his feet have been bolted to the floor and he barely moves an inch. Jon pushes with much more effort and Daryl stiffly steps into the house. Jon stops about two feet from the door and closes the door behind him.

He turns back around and looks at Daryl. He realizes that he hasn't been staring into space, like he thought, but at the space. At the atrocious ruin his brother created from his house.

He walks around in front of Daryl and looks into his eyes, but they look straight through him.

"Daryl." He waves a hand in front of his face, nothing. He snaps his fingers a couple of times. "Daryl," he tries again. Still no response.

Jon turns around and looks at the living room again. It really amazes him that his own brother could do that to him, without even much forethought. And this right here is a perfect example of why Jon doesn't like Merle. He's always thought he was a self-centered coke head, who only uses Daryl for personal gain. He's never said any of this out loud to Daryl, where he figured that would only stress him out on top of everything he deals with. But ever since Jon's known the man his opinion of him has never wavered.

He hears a strange sound and turns around to see Daryl with a frown on his face. He's stricken for a moment when he sees how heartbroken he looks.

Suddenly Daryl's rushing past him, not even sparing him a glance, into his room where he slams the door shut.

After a few seconds of debating Jon decides to walk over to the closed door. He leans towards it before speaking. "I guess I'll get going. I'll probably drop by or call tomorrow."

Jon listens for some kind of response, but hears none. He straightens back up and walks towards the front door, giving the rooms a lingering glance before he heads back out. He heads home, feeling the heavy weight of concern bearing down on him.