AN: I am sooooo sorry how long it's been since I've updated. We moved a few months back, and I still don't have internet. It's by chance that I actually happen to be somewhere with my laptop and wifi. That never happens. I figured I'd get a chapter posted real quick while I had the chance. This story is nearing it's end and I want to give a big thanks to everyone for reading. I'm hoping we'll have internet again soon so I can get the next chapters posted before months go by again. Also, I try to personally respond to all my reviews; if I've missed anyone I'm sorry! I appreciate each one, and want to thank you all so much for all praises and criticisms; it really helps me to grow as a writer. :) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this.

The next several days were much the same after that. Someone would always be in the room during his brief bouts of wakefulness, more often than not it was Carol or Rick, though occasionally it was one of the others; Hershel seemed to be checking in on him quite a bit as well. Each time he'd be given medicine, soup and water before exhaustion overtook him again.

They told him he was getting better. That his fever was consistently down by several degrees, sometimes abating completely; which was treated like a major accomplishment, even though the damn thing kept coming back. But the days wore on, and he still felt like he was existing on the dregs of what gives one life.

By the end of the second week of being bedridden, he was certain he was going to lose his mind. He was almost grateful he'd been unconscious for the better part of the first one, and really, he still was asleep more hours of the day than not. He was beginning to think he'd never get better. But gradually he began to stay awake a little longer as he began to regain a small measure of strength. He could hold a cup steady without sloshing its contents everywhere at any rate. Hershel even started allowing him a bit of bread instead of the strictly liquid diet he'd been restricted to. The bread scraped at his still tender throat, but he wasn't about to backpedal on any progress.

And then, finally, he woke to an empty room. They must have deemed him no longer in danger of keeling over at any given moment and taken him up on his many, not-so-subtle demands that they give him 'some fucking privacy for once!'

What a treat.

A rare smile flitted across his features as he just laid there for a moment, basking in the comfort of no one's company. He was grateful for the care the group had shown him in his weakened state, but he was a solitary man, and there was only so much he could take. The constant hovering and fussing of the others had been wearing on him. He had enough fatigue to contend with from this illness without the added strain of being smothered with kindness.

He took stock of his body, feeling the aches and pains still lingering like a heavy weight, but nothing like when he'd come to that first time. Throwing back the blankets with a shiver at the cool air suddenly accosting him, he decided to do what no one would allow him to even try and attempt. Get the hell out of bed.

Being in bed so long was a foreign concept to him, whether sick or healthy, you don't just laze about for no good reason. Good reasons were few and far between, such as you had not one, but two broken legs, or you were unconscious. This way of thinking had been beaten into him from such a young age it was hard to just turn that off. Apparently, the members of his group felt a near-lethal strain of the flu was categorized under 'good reason'. And hell, maybe it was to normal people.

Slowly and carefully he sat up, the movement setting his already aching head to pounding. He closed his eyes, steeling himself to the increase in pain, before firmly planting his feet on the hard floor, the socks on his feet offering little resistance to the chilly surface. About to stand, he felt a tug in the back of his hand and noted the IV still in place, pumping fluids into his veins. He pulled the needle out, a pearl of blood welling up from the puncture wound, and drug his thumb across it leaving behind a crimson streak staining too-pale skin.

Standing on shaky legs set his head to spinning and he grappled for the wall to keep from falling. He leaned on it for several seconds, breathing heavily willing away the woozy feeling. Feeling a bit steadier on his feet, he pushed off the wall and found that he had no plans on what do from here. He stood there, in a bit of a daze, before realizing he needed to take a piss. Badly. Well, he had a course of action now, so he shuffled into the bathroom. It was probably the longest piss of his life. Feeling much relieved, he chanced a look in the mirror.

Damn but he looked terrible.

There was no color to his skin, he was almost translucent. Dark bruises under his eyes stood out brightly against the sickly pallor. He'd already lost weight along with everyone else on their starvation diet, but he was even thinner than before, his ribs protruding noticeably. He'd lost probably another 10 or 15 pounds. His overly long hair was a matted and tangled mess; it was like a nest perched atop his head. He felt like he had a layer of sweat coating his entire body. God he felt gross.

He stared at his unsightly self, trying to decide if he had the strength for a shower, and being already chilled to the bone, if he could even handle one without hot water. It really probably wasn't the best idea. If Hershel were in here he'd probably tell him he'd catch his death… but screw it.

Throwing caution to the wind, he grabbed a washcloth and stripped down, figuring it'd be warmer to take a horse bath. He hissed as the cold water hit his skin, and made quick work of lathering up his whole body, then rinsed off as best he could, not caring he was drenching the floor in the process. There was tile in the bathroom, it didn't matter. He toweled off his body before dunking his head under the icy stream. Clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from clacking together, he scrubbed hand soap through his hair in place of the shampoo he didn't have, then rinsed it off. Taking the damp towel from about his waist he dried his hair vigorously before tossing the wet thing on the floor, pushing it around half-heartedly with his foot to mop up the mess he'd made, while using his fingers to comb his hair. He didn't do a very good job. With his hair or the floor. But fuck it.

Luck was on his side for once as he managed to dress himself without anyone barging in and catching him in his full glory. Freezing, he lay down on the bed and burrowed under the covers. Taking a bath had been exhausting. He felt slightly more human now at least. He let his eyes slide shut under heavy lids, intending to just rest them for a few minutes and catch his breath, but the pull of sleep was stronger than he was at present and overtook him once more.

"Daryl." He woke to someone shaking him gently. "Daryl, wake up."

Hershel.

Daryl groaned and squinted up at the old man. Hershel wore a stern look on his face. "What do you think you're doing taking that IV out? You didn't even turn the drip off." Daryl looked down to see that the IV had been reattached to him, then down to the floor where there was a puddle of saline solution.

"Sorry, I didn't think about turning it off." He apologized for wasting the precious resource.

Hershel, who had stooped down to mop up the mess, looked up at him. "It's fine; just don't take it out again. It's important that you stay hooked up to that for awhile yet. If you get up again take the bag with you." Hershel leaned back down to wipe the floor. "What did you do in there anyway? Take a bath at the sink? There's water all over the floor."

Daryl looked sheepish. "Yeah. Guess I made a bit of a mess."

"You really should have waited till you'd recovered more. Hopefully it's no harm done. I'd hate to see you relapse from the exposure to the cold." The vet straightened before taking a seat in the chair now ever-present at his bedside. He lifted his medical bag from the floor producing his stethoscope. "How are you feeling?"

"Still tired and achy, and I got a headache." Daryl answered, deciding not to mention how cold he was. He wasn't in the mood for any 'I told you so's', or worried admonishments. He was, however, pleased that his voice was a bit stronger than it'd been of late, even if it wasn't yet up to his usual par.

Hershel nodded and put the stethoscope in his ears, listening to Daryl's heart and lungs. He felt his lymph nodes and went about his routine of generally poking and prodding at him, ending with taking his temperature. "Well, you seem to be doing better. You haven't kicked that fever just yet, but it's low-grade, 99.6."

Hershel handed him some pills and a glass of water, which Daryl swallowed. "We'll keep you on that IV another day or two, and I don't really want you getting up and around till then. That means no gallivanting about the motel. You can get up for the bathroom, but that's it. No more showers till then, either."

With a sigh Daryl nodded. He really didn't like the idea, but he'd abide it. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but his body was still pretty weak and he tired so easily it was ridiculous. Not to mention he still felt awful. But there was an end in sight. Two more days. He could handle that.