Authors Note: Here we go. This chapter was kind of heavy to write but I found a few places for some levity. And for the first time, I gave us all a little glimpse into Daryl's dreams even if it might be fever-induced.
I don't own these characters or TWD
The vibes for this chapter were inspired by the song Evermore by Taylor Swift (feat Bon Iver). You might be thinking, "That's not a Christmas song!" No, it isn't but she does mention December so I feel like it still counts.
Evermore
Later that night, she felt Daryl shivering and fidgeting uncontrollably in bed as the fever raged inside his body. Reaching across the mattress, she placed a hand on his back just as he was wracked with a sudden coughing fit. She rubbed slowly and gently, up and down, waiting for his body to calm. He groaned pitifully, "Carol."
"I know," she spoke softly and continued her ministrations. Daryl rolled to his back, hissing at his aching joints. Carol pulled away from him, turning onto her side to face him.
His hand fumbled blindly in the dark, searching for her, "Wait-" he whimpered.
"Just trying to get comfortable. I'm still here," Carol reached over, throwing her arm across his chest and urging him to scoot closer to her side. "C'mere." His shirt was soaked through from fever and chills. And while her skin was chilled to the bone in the night air, his skin against hers felt as though she were sitting in front of a roaring fire. She held him as close as he would allow.
"You got your knife?" he asked suddenly, his voice laced with fear.
She frowned, "Under my pillow like always."
"Good, in case-" she could hear his teeth chattering as his body shook harder.
"Don't," she said sternly. "Don't talk like that." Tears sprung to her eyes. She'd never heard him like this. "I'm going to go downstairs to find you some medicine. Gotta get your fever down." She threw back the covers from both of them.
"No. Please- So cold," Daryl's body vibrated as his skin met the cold air in the room.
"I'll be right back," she assured him somberly. She shivered, not from fever but from the cold night air, as she padded down the stairs quickly to the kitchen. With a flashlight in her hand, she began scouring the medicine cabinet. By the time she'd rifled through everything, she'd come up with only three ibuprofen tablets and two acetaminophen capsules, a quarter of a bottle of pepto that looked to be expired, and- she swished the viscous liquid around in the bottle- maybe three tablespoons of cough syrup with codeine. She rubbed her eyes in frustration, reading the pharmacy label; it, too, was expired. But expired medicine with a half-life was better than no medicine at all. So, she grabbed the plastic cup from the Pepto bottle in one hand, the codeine in the other, and made her way back up the stairs to Daryl.
As she stepped onto the landing, she saw that the door was still cracked. Daryl had turned on the bedside lamp. She squinted her eyes as they adjusted in the soft light and held up the cough syrup. He stared blankly at her from his prone position on the bed. "Should be enough to get you through tomorrow morning. Noon, maybe, if we're lucky." She shuffled into the bedroom and sat gingerly at his side as she screwed the lid off the bottle of cough syrup. "Can you sit up?" she asked.
He heaved himself up to half-sitting with the last bit of his strength, not even bothering to open his eyes. " Wha—" he slurred. His cheeks read hollow, his eyes red-rimmed, and his mouth, open, puffing out ragged breaths, choked by the fluid beginning to fill his lungs. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound filling the room raucously. She winced as he tried to settle, a pained look on his face.
Her stomach flipped with an uneasy feeling, and she worriedly bit her lip.
'He's going to be fine,' she told herself. She lifted the brown bottle and poured the cough syrup into the small measuring cup. As she reached the tablespoon line, she frowned.
"Whas wrong?" he shifted his head against the headboard.
She looked up at him, then, "Huh?"
"Yer upset," he swallowed, panting as he closed his eyes again.
"No, it's fine," her brow creased when she tilted the bottle upright. There was only half a dose left. She slumped her shoulders in defeat and prayed silently that this did something to quell his coughing. "Open," she pushed the small cup up to his lips. He opened his mouth, "Need you to swallow-try not to choke."
His face screwed up in disgust as the sweet yet sour chemical flavor hit his tongue. He sputtered as a coughing fit took hold again. "Fuck," he groaned, his face red with exertion.
She rubbed his forearm, "Roll on to your side if you can, try to relax," she directed him. She pushed gently on his shoulder and did her best to aid him onto his right side. She turned the bedside lamp off and slid her body into the bed directly behind him, pulling him into her chest. "Try and follow my breathing," she cooed.
He reached for her hand and squeezed, "Your knife."
She shook her head against his shoulder blades. "NO," she pressed her nose to his shoulder and closed her eyes. It was a request she refused to grant him.
"Carol," he rasped.
She shook her head again, "Just sleep," she clutched him tightly, spreading her hand across his chest to feel the labored rise and fall turn into slow, rattling but steady breaths as the codeine forced his body to relax and fall asleep.
She woke again an hour later, his body still but breathing evenly. She sat up and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. He flinched a little under her touch, "Mmm," but didn't wake. Moving from the bed, she flipped back the blanket covering the window. The light from the moon cascaded through the wisps of clouds still hovering above them. The storm had cleared, and a fresh layer of snow blanketed the ground below them. From her vantage point, she could make out a few places in the yard, some areas in the treeline, where walkers had gotten stuck, frozen in place, and once dawn broke, she would decide to stay one more day in the house with him or risk it and go.
The decision was made for her at about five am when she woke and tried to rouse him. Aside from a small moan, he was unresponsive and astoundingly hot to the touch. She ripped the top sheets and blankets away from his body and removed everything but his underwear from his writhing body. "I'm sorry," she comforted, but his eyes didn't open. She set about checking his temperature, finding a thermometer in the bathroom on the first floor. Her eyes widened in horror as she tried three and then four times to make sure it wasn't broken or that she wasn't hallucinating. Each time, it read one hundred and four degrees.
The mattress dipped under her weight next to him, the rattling of his chest reminding her with each passing inhale of the choices she'd made back in Georgia behind those prison walls. She folded her arms over her stomach and looked up, 'Don't make me do it; don't take him like this,' her lip quivered as she begged. She knew how quickly things could get worse. If they were lucky, she could administer the last of the codeine and set out for the other houses. She reached for the last two Acetaminophen on the nightstand and forced him to drink them down. "Please," she pleaded with him in a whisper, holding up his head. His eyes opened to slits. They were clouded with fever- tired. "Hey." she smiled as a tear slid down her cheek.
He swallowed then and croaked, "You can't-" He reached out and gripped her forearm.
She stroked the back of his hand and smiled sadly, "I'm coming back," she wiped the damp locks away from his forehead and face. He frowned. "This isn't it," she assured him. He released his hold on her and slipped back into a feverish sleep. Grabbing the edge of the top sheet, she slid it over his body. She stepped over to the window, threw back the curtain, and pushed up on the frame. A gust of frigid air poured in. She stuck her head outside, trying to get a glimpse beyond the treeline. The sun was rising, and only a few walkers were gathered around the edges of the trees. Relief flashed upon her face.
Thinking quickly on her feet, she left the bedroom and ran to the garage to grab a few buckets and a shovel. When she stepped outside, only in her boots and sweatshirt, she took in a shaky breath. She had a few minutes to gather up some snow and ice, which she'd pack around Daryl's body. He would hate it, but he'd also be unconscious—hopefully—while she was gone. This was the only way to ensure his fever didn't go higher.
A walker slowly crawled toward her as she stood scooping up the snow from the side of the house and plopping it into a bucket. She huffed in annoyance and stepped toward it, "I've got more important things to worry about than you." She raised the shovel above her head and swung downward, smashing its skull, splattering brain matter and bits of bone across the pristine snow. She threw the shovel to the side, glanced at her full buckets, and rubbed her hands together, returning feelings of warmth to her chilled fingers.
It took her fifteen minutes to pack him down with snow. He hissed and shivered as the wet and icy towels made contact with his skin. "I know," she said heavy-hearted. She tried to remind herself that she would be back. She wouldn't leave him to die here. She wiped at another stray tear, leaned over, and kissed his forehead in a quick goodbye. She leaned her forehead against his momentarily, "Don't go anywhere." He didn't reply. She stood up straight and clutched the rifle strap in her hands, slid her knife into the waistband of her coat, and headed for the stairs.
The entire house was dim, and a chill from outside had set in over the evening. A warm amber light glowed from the side table near the couch. The sound of Bing Crosby and David Bowie's voices crooned softly from the record player under the window. Carol heard the sound of the shed door slamming and stood from her cozy chair, pulling a soft green blanket around her shoulders. She sighed and set her copy of Little Women on the coffee table before shuffling to the window to take a peak outside again. He moved effortlessly from the shed to the other side of the house- unbothered by the slow-moving dead trickling through the trees. He disappeared from her line of sight when she heard a loud thump and the sound of the kitchen door unsticking from its seal.
The wind blew him inside, and she heard the sound of trailing walkers on his heel. He shoved the door closed quickly, shook out his hair, and slipped off his boots to walk around in his threadbare socks.
"And you thought my old coat was bad," she said, eying him from the living room.
He looked up at her absentmindedly. "Huh?"
"Your socks. Remind me to make a few new pairs," she nodded her head in the direction of his visible toes. He shrugged, picked up his boots, and walked down the hall and up to the bedroom. She threw the blanket over the back of the couch and followed him. When she arrived at the bedroom door, she noticed it was closed. She leaned her forehead against the chilled wood surface and sighed.
"What are ya doin'?" he asked from behind her.
She whipped her head around and frowned at him. His face and neck were flushed red, and his eyes looked drawn and tired. "Are you okay?" She asked.
He shrugged, leaned against the wall, and spoke softly, "I'm just tired, I suppose." Daryl bent his head and gave her a peck on the cheek before affectionately running his hand down the side of her face. "Didn't sleep well last night."
She wrinkled her nose. "That's my fault; sorry," she apologized. She looked up at him sweetly, her eyes sparkling in the warm glow flooding the hallway.
"Know you can't help it," he shook his head dismissively, and she caught a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Kid's fault these days."
"That means it's your fault too," she poked him in the chest playfully. He grabbed her hand, and she cocked her head to the side. She frowned suddenly, a look of intense worry crossing her face. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead and neck, "You have a fever."
He swatted her hand away. "Stahp! I'm just tired," he insisted, stepping away from her. "Gonna lay down."
"Were you bit?" Concern apparent in her voice
He scoffed at her and walked through the bedroom door, "I ain't been bit. Just workin' on somethin' out in the shed like I told you. And don't go out there later snoopin' yer ass around." He crawled onto the bed and sprawled onto his back with what seemed to be an aching body. "S'posed to be a surprise," he winced as he re-adjusted his body and shivered when the cool pillow hit his neck in just the right spot.
She laughed and sat beside him, "Something for me?"
"Santa's elves don't get paid enough." he sighed.
She leaned over, a sensual smirk on her face as she placed her hand on his chest, "I think they get paid plenty."
His eyes opened wide, and he gasped. His body was freezing cold, and the ache in his bones felt marrow-deep. He turned his head to face the window, the curtain blowing into the room harshly, whipping around in the frigid breeze. He looked up at the ceiling, panting, then looked down at his body, laying chest up on the bed. He was surrounded by wet towels and covered by a top sheet. He groaned in agony and forced himself to sit up. The sheet fell to his waist. Carol had removed his clothing. Images and words from earlier returned to him slowly. His body was suddenly overtaken by a coughing fit. "Fuck!" he shouted.
No footsteps on the stairs, no soft calls from the hallway, and no one asking if he was okay. He stumbled from the bed angrily, grabbing the dry comforter she'd left on the chair- wrapping it around himself. Each step toward the window was accompanied by sharp pains throughout his body. He reached the window ledge and looked out; the sky was clear, and he could see the scattered brains of a walker down in the yard next to a shovel. The sun, blindingly bright against the snow, glared into his eyes, and he hissed in pain, bringing his hand up to shield himself. "Goddamnit," his teeth chattered as he mumbled under his breath. He looked out to the edge of the property, his eyes narrowing at the tire tracks leading down the back road, away from the house.
She was thankful the sky had fully cleared under the morning sun. The hardest part of leaving the house that morning hadn't been the walkers; the herd now considerably thinned out, still roaming in and out of the trees. The hardest part had been leaving Daryl and being unsure if she'd return to him alive. Her heart clenched, remembering his request for her to grab her knife. "No. Don't cry; he's not dead, and neither are you," she gripped the steering wheel tighter and continued down the road.
When she reached the first house, she nearly wept at seeing the supplies missing from their hiding spot. In the second house, she got lucky. The cache remained untouched, along with a few bottles of Acetaminophen and three doses of a leftover antibiotic she hoped Daryl wasn't allergic to. She rifled through the drawers in the bathroom and under the cabinets coming across band-aids, some tampons, and a random vibrator which sent her back on her ass laughing for a minute. "Okay, pull yourself together," Carol blushed and returned it to its drawer. She paused, shook her head, and closed the drawer. "No," she told herself.
In the ramshackle kitchen, she'd found a few odds and ends and a bottle of crystallized cough syrup, which she could easily reconstitute on the stove. As she shoved several cans into another bag, she thought back to her time at the prison before it had all gone wrong. She supposed that was when she'd realized her deep feelings for him. Daryl had been the one to find her when she was dehydrated, starving, and helpless in the tombs. He'd been her savior then. The bright light that met her in the darkness. The uncertainty of him surviving weighed on her, so she had to try her hardest to save him in return. She wanted a future where, just maybe, he could know that she loved him out loud, and he might admit the same.
As she closed her pack and shoved one last hidden bottle of aspirin in the pocket, she hung her head and said a silent prayer for him. She scoffed at herself, "Who are you kidding?" Shaking her head, she left the house behind and jumped into the truck. Looking up at the sky, taking note of the position of the sun, she worried that it had been gone too long already.
When she arrived back at the house, she sighed in relief and parked the truck in the garage. Once the door to the garage was secured back in place, she pulled two heavy bags from the bed and entered the house. It was dark, with no blankets pulled back from the windows, and in the living room, slumped over in a corner of the couch, was Daryl.
The bags thudded to the floor, "Daryl," she said in surprise. Her wet boots squeaked across the floor, moving without hesitation toward him. He was still feverish, his pallor little improved as he turned to look at her. He had wrapped himself in the comforter. "How-"
"Fuckin' left," he glared.
"I had to. Your fever was- we were out of medicine, and you could've died-"
"Not worth you riskin' yourself for," he shoved the heals of his hands into his eye sockets.
She scoffed, "Yeah, I don't think this is a fight you're gonna win right now."
"Makes me fuckin' mad," he growled, giving her a severe scowl.
She knelt beside him, gliding her fingers through his hair, "Couldn't be stopped." He tried to pull away from her, but she grabbed his chin and forced him to look into her eyes. "You asked me to kill you. Don't ever ask me to do that again." Her voice was stern, her face pained.
She pushed off the couch and returned to the bags on the kitchen floor, unpacking the medicine first. "Are you allergic to Levofloxacin?" she called back to him. He grunted in reply. "Great. I'll take that as a no."
She worked for the next hour, rehydrating stock and adding some noodles. And while Daryl was coherent enough to eat, she spoon-fed him. "Is it good?"
"Can't hardly taste shit." he hacked.
She set the bowl and spoon aside and rolled her eyes. "You need fluids; you're already dehydrated, and if you don't eat this, it'll get worse." She stepped back to the kitchen to check on the warming cough syrup.
"Feel like a fuckin' child," he called out.
"It's okay," she spoke over her shoulder as she shook the bottle, carefully swishing it back and forth in the warming bath on the stove. It's what we've always done. We take care of each other," she finished softly. She looked at the clock on the wall from her place at the stove. "Just a few more minutes," she walked to the bag, still full on the kitchen table, and began to unpack it.
"You find anythin' good?" he moaned.
A smile bloomed on her face, and she giggled, thinking back to the vibrator, "A few things." A blush crept up her cheeks.