This is based on mothercherokee's fanart. Set in Season 10 sometime. I want to reiterate, there is no character death in this fic.
Carol cried out in pain as she toppled to the ground. She stabbed the walker in the head before dropping her knife. She moved her hands to her leg.
"Carol!" Daryl yelled, his chest constricting.
He took out the walker in front of him and ran to her side. When he reached her, he dropped to the ground. He stared at her hands where they held onto her calf. They were bloody. At his urging, she shifted them so he could see. The teeth marks were obvious amongst the blood.
"No," he gasped.
This couldn't be happening, Daryl thought. Not her!
"Daryl," she whimpered.
Daryl looked away from the bite to meet her eyes. There were tears brimming in them.
"I'm sorry," she said, as if it was her fault.
He shook his head.
No, he thought. He wasn't going to lose her. It was just a leg. It didn't have to mean death.
He quickly set to unbuckling his belt, unattaching his knives as he did, and pulling it free. He could cut off the spread of infection just like they'd done with Hershel.
"Daryl, it won't work," Carol said, predicting his intentions.
"Don't talk," he growled at her. He hadn't meant for the words to come out as harsh as they did but he was panicking.
Daryl looped the belt around her leg and tightened it above the bite. She gritted her teeth, her fingers curling into the dirt. He felt a pang at her pain but he didn't let himself linger on it. He needed to focus on what needed to be done. Time was of essence.
"Oh my god," he heard Michonne gasp.
Daryl hadn't noticed her approach. He glanced away from his task to look at her. She stood there with her sword hanging from her hand limply. She was staring at the bite in Carol's leg. Her eyes were wide and her mouth gaped open.
"You gotta cut here," he instructed her, hearing his own voice break.
Michonne sighed, her expression softening with sadness.
"Daryl..." she trailed off.
Daryl could already hear the defeat in her tone and it only served to make his panic worse.
"Come on!" he shouted at her.
"She won't make it," Michonne reasoned slowly.
Daryl narrowed his eyes at her.
"What?" he spat.
Michonne closed her eyes, breathing deeply. When she opened them, a few tears spilled over.
"We're too far away from help. She'll bleed out before we even make it a quarter of the way."
Daryl knew she was right. Of course, he knew that. But he couldn't give up. There was no way he was losing Carol. No way.
"We gotta try!" he cried, feeling helpless.
He glanced down at Carol who was still crying silently. He met her eyes and she shook her head at him.
"We don't even have bandages or anything like it to staunch the blood!" Michonne argued.
Daryl consider the truth of Michonne's statement. They had very little supplies with them other than their weapons. He shook his head. If they didn''t have supplies then they'd make some. It wouldn't be anything as good as sterile bandages but it would be better than nothing.
Daryl tore his vest off and tossed it aside quickly. His fingers grappled with the buttons on his shirt. He managed to get them undone part of the way down but his hands were shaking too much. He gave up and tugged the shirt over his head.
"Daryl!" Carol gasped.
He paused in his task of tearing his shirt into strips to look down at her. Her eyes were wide, disbelief clear in them. She knew the weight he carried on his back better than most. She was one of the few people still alive that had seen his scars. And she knew how much he hated people seeing them.
Right now though, It didn't matter to him. He knew the group was close by and they would be able to see everything. But he could live with being embarrassed about people seeing his shame. He couldn't live with losing her.
Daryl looked back to Michonne expectantly. Her eyes snapped back to his. She had been staring at his back, aghast, never having seen him fully without his shirt before. She looked at him with new understanding before turning to the group.
"Bring me your jackets, shirts, anything you can spare!" she barked to them.
The group all set about stripping off what they could. The clothing piled up beside Carol on the ground and Daryl felt his hope renew. He leaned down to Carol, cupping her face, making her look at him.
"Hey, you're gonna be fine, okay?" he tried to reassure her.
"Daryl…" she tried but he shook his head.
"Please!" he begged her, not caring that there were tears streaming from his eyes. "I need you to try!"
Carol gave him a sad smile before she nodded.
"You ready?" he asked Michonne.
She levelled the blade above the wound, giving him a nod.
"On your count," she said. Her cheeks were still wet from the tears she'd shed.
Daryl pulled back from Carol. He regarded her for a moment.
God, this is gonna hurt her so bad! he realised with a pang of guilt.
"I'm sorry," he murmured to her.
She just nodded at him and smiled, though it was strained.
"Alright," he said, trying to gather the strength he needed. He held a shirt in one hand, ready to staunch the blood when the cut was made.
"One," he counted, his heart beating so loud in his head.
Carol reached out and took his free hand. She squeezed it tightly.
"Two," his voice croaked.
"Three."
The word was out of his mouth and Michonne's sword was coming down to meet its mark.
"Wait!" someone shouted.
Michonne froze, her sword stopping its downward strike. It was a testament to her reflexes that she managed to halt its progress so quickly. Daryl bristled impatiently. The longer they took, the less likely this was to work.
"We don't got fucking time!" he growled at whoever had spoken.
"No, no, no, this is important. You need to see this!" they said.
Michonne frowned. She glanced down at Daryl and Carol before she moved. She marched over to where the person, whom Daryl still hadn't identified, had called from. He watched her go, feeling his hope dying.
"Michonne!" he screamed at her. She spared him a backward glance but kept going.
He needed to find another weapon. His knives would be useless cutting through her leg. He'd probably do more damage than good with those. He tried to get up but his hand was tugged.
"Please don't leave me," Carol begged.
Daryl softened and resettled beside her. He couldn't leave her alone. Not when she looked so scared. He squeezed her hand.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promised her.
Carol smiled, squeezing his hand back.
"Daryl!" Michonne cried.
Daryl looked over and his heart stopped. Michonne held something in her hand. A mask. His mind reeled and he blinked, wondering if he imagined it. But there it was, still clutched in Michonne's hand. Her mouth was spread in a grin.
A whisperer, not a walker.
"Oh, god!" Daryl sobbed, barely recognising the sound.
He dropped his head to Carol's chest. He could smell the vanilla-scented soap she used. A few tears slipped from his eyes. He'd been so sure he was going to lose her.
"What is it?" he heard her voice ask.
Daryl lifted his head to stare down at her. He took her in as if it was the first time, studying her pale skin and her deep eyes. Things he'd dreaded he would lose only moment ago. He laughed and even to his ears, it sounded a little hysterical. He tugged her up from the ground against him. She squeaked but didn't protest. She settled her hands over his back, rubbing gently. He felt her fingers brush over the raised bits of skin of his scars and he shivered. He held her tighter, burying his face in her neck.
"Daryl?" she questioned.
Carol sounded concerned. Of course, she would be concerned for him when she thought she might be dying. He huffed another laugh against her and pulled back.
"You're alright!" he grinned at her as he spoke. His face hurt a little from it. It wasn't something he did too often. Hardly ever, in fact.
She frowned, not understanding.
"What?"
"It was a whisperer, not a walker!" he explained, still not believing how lucky they were. Her mouth hung open in surprise.
"A Whisperer?" she asked sounding unsure. He nodded eagerly.
"Luke saw the stitching when he was about to take his shirt off," came a voice to their left.
Both he and Carol jumped at the unexpected intrusion. Daryl turned to the source. Michonne stood there holding the mask still. She was grinning. Carol let out a half sob, half laugh and pulled Daryl back into her arms again. He smiled into her hair.
"Ow!" Carol cried then as she shifted. Daryl pulled away from her to look down at her leg.
"Right, you're still hurt," he muttered sheepishly. He'd been so distracted by the momentous news that she wasn't going to die.
"Here. We can bind it with this," Carol said as she shrugged off her shirt. She had on a tank top underneath. She handed her shirt to Daryl.
"You'll get cold," he pointed out stupidly. She smirked at him.
"I'll live."
Daryl scoffed but set about tearing her shirt and binding her leg. She winced every now and then but kept quiet. He couldn't help glancing at her while he worked the bandage around her leg. In this moment she looked more beautiful than he could remember her being. Even with the remnants of tears lingering on her face. He smiled again. She was going to be okay.
When he was done seeing to her leg, he finally noticed the breeze blowing on his bare skin. He blushed. He'd forgotten he was still shirtless. He grabbed his shirt from the pile of clothes they had made and pulled it on, hiding his face as he did. He redonned his vest over the top.
Carol took his hand when he offered it to her and he pulled her to her feet. The blood loss made her a bit woozy so she wobbled a little making him keep a hold of her arm. He urged her to lean on him and let him take her weight. She did so without hesitation. He watched the rest of the group head off towards home.
"I gotta say, if I knew it would get you to take off your shirt, I would have got bitten a long time ago," Carol quipped in a tired voice.
"Stop," he groaned at her. Only she could joke about something like this.
She giggled, leaning her body closer to him.