Carol headed down the darkened hallway towards Daryl's room laden with a bowl of broth, a glass of water and a couple Tylenol she'd managed to scrounge up. She was thankful they had a generator to provide them with some power at night, but they were careful to conserve, meaning they'd all become adept at navigating the corridors of the building at night.
She'd been patient after Rick's announcement that Daryl was sick, and waited until dinner was over and the dishes were cleaned before going to check on him. She knew he'd get sick. She just knew it. He was always pushing himself so hard, insisting he was and would continue to be 'just fine' whenever she expressed any concern. She'd watched him for weeks now, going off of little sleep and less food, enduring the constant exposure to the cold weather on his endless hunts. He was running off fumes, adamant in his refusal to listen to her when she asked him to slow down. The man was nothing if not stubborn.
She knocked lightly on his door, taking the liberty of entering after receiving no answer. The room was dark and she couldn't see whether he was awake or not. Creeping silently to the bedside careful not to bump into anything, she flipped on the bedside lamp, stopping short and expelling a little gasp at the sight that greeted her.
Daryl looked simply awful. Save for the slight flush in his cheeks, his face was a pallid grey, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The glow of the lamplight did nothing for the sickly appearance he presented. He lay on his side sleeping, but it certainly didn't look restful, what with all the shivering he was doing. The blankets had slipped down, revealing what she knew to be the warmest shirt he owned: an ill-fitting sweatshirt about two sizes too big. It was thin as far as sweatshirts go and sported a couple holes, the neckline and cuffs of the sleeves fraying, but it was better than nothing. She'd come across it one day while scavenging and given it to him. It'd been early fall at the time. With the days getting colder, the threat of winter looming oppressively over their heads, she was always keeping an eye out for any warm clothes the group could use. They all had a pitiful lack of winter clothes. She set everything down on the nightstand, and placed a palm on his forehead, alarmed at the warmth radiating from his skin.
"Daryl? Daryl, wake up." She gently shook his shoulder, "Daryl, you need to wake up." She got no response other than a moan, so she shook him harder. "Daryl!"
She was starting to get scared. Maybe she should got get Hershel, but she didn't know that he could really do much more than she could. That fever needed to be brought down, that she was sure of. Looking around the room, she spotted a small Tupperware container. She snatched it up and headed for the sink. God knows what he'd been using it for, so she spared a small amount of soap to wash it out before filling it with water and taking a washcloth from the drawer. She returned to her stricken friend's side, folded the blanket down to his waist then began to wrestle him out of his shirt. A task that would have been a lot easier if it wasn't sticking to sweat soaked skin.
She sat down next to him on the bed, dipped the cloth into the water and began mopping the feverish brow, hoping that her ministrations would help. The feedback from her patient was negative. A groan and more shivering. She didn't let that deter her, and systematically bathed his face, chest and arms until the water grew warm. Daryl didn't feel any cooler to the touch. If anything, he felt warmer. Perfect. She tried one more time to wake him with no success. Fear gripped her heart, raw and intense. She looked back down at the man who was fast becoming her best friend in the world, before fleeing the room in search of Hershel.
When Carol got back to Daryl's room with Hershel in tow, they found no change in the man. He was still unresponsive and hot as ever. Carol watched as Hershel examined him, wringing her hands, hoping for the best, fearing the worst.
After what seemed like forever, Hershel turned to her. "I don't think there's any cause for real concern just yet. Fevers tend to have a way of working themselves out once they peak. Of course, we have no way to tell just how high a fever it really it is, but even so. And his body is exhausted. More than likely, he just needs to sleep this off for a while. He should be easier to rouse tomorrow. Though, I don't think it's a good idea to leave him alone. Someone should stay with him overnight."
"I'll do that." Carol stated without hesitation.
Hershel smiled, "I thought you might." His expression switched to one of paternal authority, "You shouldn't stay up all night, though. You need your rest too."
"I'll sleep in here." Carol gestured matter-of-factly to the unoccupied twin bed. "I can't leave him like this, and I'd never be able to sleep in my room. I'd just worry all night."
"All right." Hershel headed to the door. "If anything changes, don't wait to come get me."
Carol nodded then she was left alone with Daryl. She just stood there watching him shiver for several moments. Hershel's assessment had been encouraging, so why was it that she couldn't shake the feeling of fear that was taking hold of her?
Morning came and went. Daryl was still no better and was not easier to rouse as Hershel had predicted. The closest he'd come to waking was a few hours ago when he'd opened his eyes, but didn't appear to understand what was going on around him. He'd mumbled a few things too incoherent to be understood. Rick had just come in to relieve Carol, between the two of them they'd managed to get the Tylenol Carol'd brought the previous night down him.
That in itself was no easy feat. Daryl had fought them, and for as feeble as the fight that he'd put up was, he still managed to make it surprisingly difficult. You'd have thought they'd been trying to poison him, judging by the fuss he'd kicked up. He kept turning his head away and choking on the water they tried to get him to drink to wash down the pills, muttering indecipherable protests all the while.
By the end of it all, Rick almost regretted even trying. It was clear Daryl was too out of it to grasp the concept when they tried to explain that he needed fluids and medicine; he knew they desperately needed to lower Daryl's raging fever, but the last thing he wanted was to drown the man with their own good intentions. Rick credited Carol with their ultimate success. She'd somehow managed to coax the pills down; he'd mostly just propped Daryl up and kept his weakly swinging arms from knocking the water all over himself.
Not long after that ordeal, Hershel had come by and advised that they just keep an eye on him for now, try and get him to drink some more water if possible. Now hours later, Rick sat on the bed opposite Daryl, elbows resting on his knees, his steepled fingers coming up to cover his mouth, obscuring the worried frown he wore. He kept a silent vigil, wishing he could do something, knowing there was nothing he could do. So he settled for watching his ill friend toss restlessly in his sleep, alert to any indication Daryl was waking or may need something from him, or any change that would warrant frantically fetching Hershel. Rick let out a sigh. At least the shivering had stopped, that had to be a good sign, right?