Disclaimer: Not mine, well…not all mine. I'm keeping Fin for myself…you know as long as Daryl doesn't stab me in the eye…
Notes: Big thanks to all the readers and reviewers! You guys are awesome and I appreciate all the support!
Chapter Forty-Three
(Daryl's POV)
"It's been too long; four fucking days…Mika's getting better, why isn't she?" His frustrated outburst breaks the silence.
Carol stares up at him from the side of the bed, eyes tired, face drawn and pale.
He takes a deep breath; tries to stop his feet form pacing back and forth in the tight space behind her.
The second he stops his eyes move to her pale face…just lying there…she only wakes up to take more of that weak ass tea; he doesn't even think she's remember it…recognizing that they're there when she does…
He says her name and she doesn't even look at him…it kills him every time.
He turns back to the wall, fingers laced behind the back of his neck just tries to stand there for a minute, quiet his mind.
There's got to be something they can do;
something they haven't done yet…
"There's a clinic up the same road I came down; I don't know if there's anything left; there might be medicine, IV's… When Carl was shot Hershel gave him a transfusion…we don't know how much blood she lost…maybe..."
"We don't have any blood to give her." He presses his eyes shut.
"Sasha says she's got that universal blood type; Red Cross used to call her up all the time begging her to come in and donate every few weeks. She mentioned it yesterday."
"I'll take Glenn make a run out of it."
"No, you should stay here."
His breath leaves him in a rush. "I can't… I need to be doing something, can't just sit here doing nothin…"
Waiting for her to not wake up…or worse slip away from them and come back as one of the dead…
"She needs you here, I'll go with Glenn, we'll take Tyreese…"
He opens his mouth to argue but she's got her hand on his arm, face all serious like she gets sometimes when she has something she really wants him to hear.
"It's not nothing to be here…it's the hardest part, and the most important. She needs a reason to wake up Daryl…and God knows the rest of us haven't given her much of one."
She looks down guilt still obviously eating at her after what Lizzie did out in the woods…to both of them…
"I can't…" His chest aches every time he sits here in the silence.
"Don't give me that crap."
He stares down at her a bit dumbfounded by her outburst while she continues berating him in that soft voice.
"You can't run from this, it's going to hurt; and you know what? You're strong enough to deal with it."
He blinks, has to look away.
"You want to love someone? Earn their love back? Then you do the hard stuff too; not just the easy bits…you don't get to pick and choose when to feel. It doesn't work that way; one foot in and one foot out, that isn't honest, not for her and not for you."
He can't help but think of her abusive husband. And his asshole brother…using them over and over, he loved his brother…and he poisoning him against the whole world; against himself…
"She's good for you. He wasn't." Her fingers squeeze around his arm briefly. Somehow knowing already when his thoughts have slipped off to a dark place.
She keeps her hand there for a second 'til he nods finally; moves to sit down on the carpet beside the bed. Places his elbow against his bent knee, raising his hand to fidget with a hangnail while he stares down at her behind him on the bed, face pale and still.
"I'll tell Sasha to check on her while we're gone."
"Be careful."
She slips out leaving him alone with his thoughts.
:: Walking Dead ::
(Fin's POV)
I slowly rise up to consciousness; someone's hand is pressed to mine…
Our fingers laced tightly together.
I try to draw in a careful breath…relax a bit when it doesn't bring the agonizing stab I expected to accompany it…
That's a small relief at least.
My back still aches and throbs with every heartbeat.
Now, to figure out where I am; and who's hand I'm holding…or who is holding my hand I guess would be more accurate since I was asleep moments before…
My brain drifts for a bit longer before I manage to open my eyes.
I lay still staring up at the pale blue painted wall on my right.
Huh. I don't remember that.
Someone is snoring softly as well…
I turn my head carefully; slowly, pleased when the action doesn't result in more than a mild discomfort on my right side.
Daryl seems to be sitting on the floor judging by the wild mop of dark brown hair, his fingers laced through mine on the bedspread by my hip; his head rested on his forearm, just flat out. Breathing slow and even, with the lightest hint of sound to it.
I stare at him for a few minutes, let the sound of his breathing sooth me almost back to sleep…
He must be exhausted; why isn't he sleeping like a normal person? Would it kill him to get some rest, lay down for once…just like in the woods. Stubborn idiot.
He probably says the same thing about me…
I try to sit up. I need to move over so he can lie down too…he's obviously tired…needs rest…
His head jerks up off the bed, eyes instantly locking onto my face.
He twists his back away from the side of the bed where it was half leaned, gets up onto what must be his knees.
"Don't move."
I'd ask him why but the pain that just hit me clearly answered that question.
"Mika…" I barely recognize my own voice, have to swallow a few times to sooth the scratchy sensation centered in my throat. I feel like I haven't spoken for days…that can't be right…
"She's okay, she's in the other room; resting."
I think there's a chastising in there somewhere…
"I'm okay,"
He snorts in response. "Might have been helpful to tell us you'd been stabbed: Twice, before you passed out from blood loss."
"I had to take care of Mika."
"And what about you?" Anger has crept into his tone.
"I'm still talking to you aren't I?"
He huffs an unhappy sound. Gets up the rest of the way grabbing a mug off a table or desk near the bed; I don't turn my head to see where; it's kind of painful.
"Sit up."
He helps me, it's surprisingly difficult.
I'm momentarily distracted by the IV in my arm…the bag of saline hanging on the wall…hooked over a knife embedded in the dry wall of all the ridiculous things.
His eyes follow mine up to the knife hilt for a moment, he lifts the cup to my lips, palm cupping the back of my neck stopping any argument I might make.
"Drink this."
He keeps holding the cup, not trusting my fingers to support the weight…which honestly might be a wise choice; I'm not so sure they're all that trustworthy right now either.
He helps me lay back after I've finished the cup.
"Get some rest."
I'm not tired…
I just slept for God only knows how long...it feels like days.
I stare up at the ceiling, feel his fingers slip through mine again; try to open my mouth to tell him to get on the bed; sleep properly before he gets a terrible crick in his neck…
But my tongue feels really thick suddenly; and my eyes unbelievably heavy
…and wow…either he knows something I don't about mixing herbs in tea…or he put something else in that cup because….
I'm out.
Notes: Thanks Guys! Happy (almost) spaghetti Tuesday!