knucklescum - Tumblr blog

knucklescum · 1 year

Text

hands down my favourite series at the moment!! would highly recommend to any fellow Daryl girlies <33

All You Got | Part 7

Part 7: Burning Out

Plot: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count: 5k Warnings: description of injury, infection, and other typical twd content. mentions of death. A/N: oh hi <3 im happy to be back with a new part for you guys. definitely needed that break. I had my last class of university this week and I've just been a bundle of feelings lately. thank you for being so patient and for all the lovely comments lately :) mwah! enjoy

These last few years, the fight had been constant— to find shelter, to defend a friend, to get your next meal. Each day was like a knife at your throat, leaving you to wonder when the blade would finally pierce and bleed you dry.

It was an oddly empty feeling when there was nothing left to do. A gnawing in your gut, like you'd been doing to the raw skin of your thumb the last half hour, as if there was an answer you were forgetting.

You ran through the list for the ninth time. The last of that antibiotic cream. Dressings coated in a layer of honey— Daryl taught you that one. A damp cloth over his forehead. As much ibuprofen as you could give him. You’d done it all. Now there was nothing left to do but wait for the fever to break.

It was miserable.

The room was dark, lit by a single candle. Sometimes it flickered with your occasional sigh. Otherwise, it cast a gentle glow across the small bedroom. You sat in a cushioned chair by the door, five feet from Daryl’s bedside. It had been in the living room until you dragged it in here yesterday, falling into the same routine as you did now. Chin resting in your palm and a lazy stare at the sick man ahead.

It’d gotten bad since that first day. Infection came— of course, it did— and without much more than that antibiotic cream and the rest of the drugs you'd used for your leg, Daryl was forced to fight through it. That meant long, feverish nights like this one.

Waiting.

“Ya jus’ gonna stare at me all night?”

You sat up. His eyes were narrowed into a slit, but open. With only the low flicker of the candle beside you, they almost looked black.

“You’re awake.”

“Guess so,” Daryl mumbled. “Hot as hell in ‘ere.”

He was already stripped of his vest, that flannel he wore on cold nights, and his boots. Yesterday, in one of his steadier moments, you’d dug a simple black t-shirt from the dresser and made him change. It took him a couple of minutes, his shoulder still stiff and swollen with infection. It gave you time to wash his usual sleeveless button-down as best as you could, though a litter of blood stains still dried across the fabric.

As you stepped closer, flickering candle in hand, you could see the damp mark of sweat around his collar, but if anything, the room was cool.

“Your fever’s getting worse.”

You grabbed the cloth from his forehead. It was tepid on the edges, warm where it rested against his skin. Puffy eyes met yours, scanning your serious expression. He’d been asleep for hours. You’d only managed to get a few with that anxious pit in your stomach waking you up, over and over.

“Feel like shit.” He adjusted his spot, sitting up against the pile of pillows behind him with a low groan. You passed him his bottle of water and placed it back after he’d had a few sips.

“How long I been sleepin’?”

“Most of the night.” You sat by his legs. The bed was bare of its thick blanket; you’d torn it off him when his skin started to burn. The top sheet was thin enough that you let him keep it when the chills hit. He kicked it down when the first hot flash came. “You woke up a couple of times.”

“Don’t remember tha’.”

“I figured. You’ve been pretty out of it.”

Daryl nodded, eyes as tired as they’d looked at sunset. Yours must’ve been similarly drained.

“Ya got any sleep yet?”

“A bit,” you said. “I’m fine.”

“Ya don’t look fine.”

You gave him a playful, lopsided grin. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

Daryl huffed, eyes falling to his lap. But your tease had done what it meant: to distract away from the bloom of purple that was, no doubt, forming under your eyes. Those sickening worries about Daryl’s health were already suffocating. You didn’t need the weight of your well-being piled on top.

“You hungry?”

He hummed yes. That was a good sign, you thought, before drifting out of the room.

Dawn was still a few hours away. You walked the dark halls of the house you’d come to know, and a few minutes later, that same candlelight welcomed you back into the bedroom Daryl stayed in. You had a bowl of steaming chicken soup and a half-eaten package of crackers in hand. It was a good thing you’d gone for the bag, after all. If you hadn’t, it would’ve been just another thing to worry about.

His appetite was low, but better than it’d been the last couple of days. There were still three crackers he hadn’t touched and a quarter of soup left, but he seemed adamant about having the rest later. Food was often in such short supply that he wouldn’t dare waste a bite.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

You placed his bowl of leftover soup and the half-eaten package of crackers on the dresser you’d raided for cloth, towel, anything that could be boiled sterile and made into a bandage when that roll of gauze finally ran out after his second dressing change.

Back at his side, you gave him a small smile. “Still feel like shit?”

He chewed his lip. “Shoulder’s throbbin’ somethin’ awful. Head too.”

There was a small bump in his hairline left from that day. He hadn’t caught a concussion, but the fever had been giving him a wicked headache.

“There’s another hour until you can take the next round of painkillers.” You dipped the cloth back into a small bowl of water. Rubbing your thumb along the inches that had become warm, you waited for the fabric to cool. Droplets trickled down as you rang it out, causing ripples to catch in the faint light. It was the only noise in the air, save Daryl’s slow, heavy breaths.

Until you turned and he caught that dispirited expression across your face. It must’ve been particularly obvious; the candlelight barely reached your face at this angle. As you stepped closer, the glow curtained you in delicate gold. An easy warmth that looked quite special painted across your gentle features, even if they were hinted with regret.

The closer you got, the harder his head pounded. No, his heart. Which seemed to echo in his head.

His eyes shifted away when you found that spot next to him again.

“Should save ‘em anyway.”

“No. This is what they’re meant for.”

He huffed as you placed the cloth on his head. As your fingers inched closer to his skin, he blinked rapidly. It wasn’t quite a flinch, but you felt the resistance all the same.

“Still. Might need ‘em later.”

“You need them now,” you challenged. “We’ll have time to find more when you’re better.”

When.

“Guess you’re the boss.”

You scoffed. If anything was in charge, it was that fever.

“Is there anything you can think of that could help? Another pillow or…” You shook your head, not even sure what else you could offer.

He rolled his good shoulder back, biting back a groan as he found a comfortable spot against the bed. “‘M alright.” He nodded, even sparing you the smallest curl of his mouth.

You gave him a bittersweet smile back, fighting the urge to brush his bangs behind his pinkened ear. His cheeks were flushed too, even if he seemed to be retreating back into the warm bed. Perhaps the hot flash was nearing its end.

“You should drink some more. It’ll help.” You handed him the water again.

He took small sips.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later when a distant thump came from the other side of the house, and Daryl didn’t jump up, that you realized just how out of it he was. Thick in the fog of fever and pain, his senses were dull. On the contrary, the twitching in your muscles had started hours ago, a cruel mix of exhaustion and restlessness. It made you more jumpy than sharp, but demanded your attention for every small creak in the house the same.

Your shoulders tensed, and your head snapped to the side.

Daryl noticed that.

“Wha’?” He grumbled.

A gun sat on the small table next to your chair, next to the book you couldn't read well enough under only candlelight. You stood up and grabbed it, weighing the heavy handle in your palm. You made a mental note to keep your twitching finger off the trigger.

“Stay put. I’m serious,” you told Daryl with a quick stern glance and closed the bedroom door behind you.

The wooden floors whined even under the slowest, steadiest steps you could manage. The hallway was thin, drywall stained with cigarette smoke. There were two doors ahead, one on the right leading to a small linen closet and one on the left that passed into the kitchen. Quietly, you made your way to the general area where the noise had come from, near the kitchen, while raising the gun Ross gave you. The exit to the back porch was there and, fuck, what if someone had snuck in? What if they had a gun and cruel intentions and what if you had to—

Deep breath.

You hovered in the same spot for a second longer, waiting for the drum of your heart to slow. It wasn’t much, but at least you were able to open your eyes without that dizzy fog suffocating you again.

It was only a few more steps to the kitchen’s doorway. With your back to the wall, you reached the hallway’s end and peeked around the corner.

Good thing you only peeked.

A figure caught under the moonlight. It shuffled past the small window, looking out to the side of the house. Shadows cascaded onto the cheap tile floors. Two— three— four walkers stumbled past the wrap-around porch. It reminded you of that first night after the prison fell. How Daryl stood watch all night with nothing but his bow as a herd of the dead moved through the street, surrounding the house he'd dragged you into. All night, you sat on that couch, nursing your hurt leg, watching the dance of their shadows along the walls, and avoiding Daryl’s abrasive stare. Waiting for the moment they finally knocked down the door and took you into their cold fingers first.

This herd didn’t seem as big. Maybe a few dozen. You could only guess from the noise of bodies thumping carelessly into the house’s siding.

Carelessly— that was good. It meant they hadn’t realized you were here yet. Best keep it that way.

Delicately, you snuck back to the small bedroom. The thick curtains were already drawn, and that single candle was soft enough that you weren’t inclined to race back and blow it out.

You opened the door again, and, well, should’ve guessed Daryl would’ve been out of bed, knife in hand and about to open the door himself. The gun slipped into the holster at your belt, and your eyes sought out his. They were uneasy, red-rimmed with dilated pupils.

“It’s just a group of walkers passing by,” you said in a hushed whisper. “Get back in bed.”

“How many?”

“Maybe a couple dozen.” You gently pushed him back toward the bed, twisting the knife out of his grip as you did so. “They didn’t see me, so we can just wait it out.”

“Ya can’t take ‘em all on.”

“That’s why we're gonna stay here and be quiet.”

“You should go.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“If those assholes get in ‘ere, you run,” he said. His voice was hoarse and his accent thicker. “Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Your brows furrowed. Your whisper was soft, even if pitched with confusion, “Daryl, they don’t know we’re here. They’re not coming in.”

There was a fog in that usual bright blue. It wasn’t from the dim lighting, either. He was dazed.

The back of your palm landed against his forehead. Hot. Then dropped to his chest, just below his collarbones. Your hand laid flat against that black cotton, stretched over the broad expanse of his chest, and felt that same burning underneath. Daryl hadn’t flinched, he seemed to give up that impulse when the fever took control, but his eyes did flicker down to your touch.

You shook your head. “You’re burning up. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Your hand hadn’t fallen off him yet, a lingering touch as the rhythm of his heart became a soft pulse underneath your palm. Gently pressing him back toward the bed, you hushed, “Lie back down. Relax. We’ll be fine.”

He listened. Whatever that outburst had been about seemed to slip away with the cushion of an old mattress underneath him. It felt like a new weight lifted off your shoulders; you weren’t sure if you could sit through a lecture about how you should leave him for dead. After all he’d done, all you’d done, that just wasn’t an option.

You sat beside him again. “Here.” You held a pill in the same palm that’d landed on his chest.

“Thought it was too early?”

“One more isn’t gonna kill you.”

The fever could.

He glanced down at the small blue capsule. “How many left?”

You almost laughed. Feverish, incoherent, and still stubborn.

“Enough. You need them.”

If you told him there were only three more pills in that bottle, he’d refuse. You held your tongue and he tossed them into his mouth. Swallowed, leaned back, and groaned.

“Water?”

“Elderberries,” he muttered. Your brow furrowed, and he gave you a weak shrug. “Hershel used ‘em for the fever, ‘fore we got back.”

Hershel.

You remembered that name. Of course, you did. The Governor had called it out right before he used him as a bargaining chip. Hershel, the man with the long white hair. He’d kneeled in front of that fence, tan shirt damp with sweat and hands tied behind his back. Even tried to reason with the Governor. It was his neck that poured blood, him that inched his way around the cars you were hiding behind when the bullets started flying.

Until the Governor cornered him. Chopped into his neck three times before his head finally rolled across the bloody grass.

The memory made your skin pale, your breathing pause.

A second later, when your vision focused again, Daryl’s eyes were closed. His chest raised and fell with deep breaths, his heavy exhales tickling your clammy skin.

After you’d had a moment to regain your composure, you asked, “‘Got back’?”

You weren’t following his train of thought. It seemed to go beyond the weeks the two of you had shared, reaching into his time spent at the prison. That part of his life had been mostly out of bounds for you. Blocked from the casual conversation you sometimes fell into.

The fever seemed to tear those boundaries down.

“The vet college. We had to— to get the meds for the sick ones,” he muttered under his breath.

The cloth sitting on his forehead had fallen onto the bed, presumably when he’d gotten up to follow you. Your boundaries seemed to slip away, too; you finally brushed away the damp mess of bangs on his forehead, tucking a few strands behind his ear.

There was a part of Daryl that never seemed to let up. It went deeper than stubbornness. He was strong, innately, even when his body was failing him. You knew it took a lot out of him to try and follow you out, and had probably brought on some kind of dizzy spell that was making him spill his guts now.

“Elderberries,” you repeated. “I think I remember. If you make tea, they can help bring down a fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Smart man,” you said under your breath.

He still caught it. Fever and all.

“He was.” Daryl nodded slowly. His eyes seemed to glaze over again. “He was a good man.”

A lump caught in your throat, stealing your voice. That old feeling of guilt sunk into you again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “He didn’t deserve it. None of you did.”

“Should’a kept lookin’.”

It was overdue, you thought. Daryl didn’t seem the patient type, not when it came to his own body, at least. Give him a long hunt, he’d be fine. A wound that kept him bedbound? He was itching for something— anything— to do. The worrisome fact that his family was still out there couldn’t have helped.

You sighed, “We will—”

“For the Governor.”

Oh.

“Maybe if I wouldn’a gave up…”

He sunk deeper into the pillow, mouth moving as incoherent whispers slipped past.

It dawned on you that Daryl was perhaps his most vulnerable right now. Maybe even more so than when you first cleaned his back. In this moment, that surly, reserved man slipped away to leave someone who… who seemed lost. Guilty, like you. His words left you confused, filling in the gaps in his story, his regrets.

He’d been looking for the Governor. If you had to guess, which you did, you’d assume after he killed Merle. Daryl had issues with his brother, no doubt, but he’d proved time and time again to be fiercely loyal. To his brother, his people, even you. Why he’d give that up, you couldn’t say. But Daryl didn’t seem irrational, or disinterested. There had to have been a reason— something— to pull him back.

There was an undeniable part of you that ached to hear more, to let him bare himself to you in ways he hadn’t dared before. Curiosity could prove to be a dangerous thing. The trust between the two of you was fresh. Delicate. Leading him on with questions or letting him ramble in the midst of a daze, could rip it to shreds.

You refolded, then placed the cloth back on his forehead.

“Elderberries,” you whispered again. “I’ll look in the morning.”

The walkers outside were still too close.

It was quiet for a while. Daryl drifted off to sleep quickly and the dead passed thirty minutes after. You curled in the chair again, chin perched in your palm, leaning over the armrest. There was still that gnawing feeling in your gut. Still that worry that you could be doing more— should be.

But exhaustion had dulled caution when the dead passed that half hour ago. Your blinks slowed, moments of darkness stretching into seconds, then minutes, and it became nearly impossible to keep your eyes open.

The last thing you saw was a thin ray of early morning light, slipping between a gap in the curtains. Barely noticeable, until it had landed across Daryl’s face.

It seemed as good a sign as any, you thought, before drifting to sleep.

—

The fever broke the night of the herd. Cups of elderberry tea helped subdue the few symptoms that lingered, and the stream of puss from his wound seemed to reach an end, after all. Four more days passed by and with them, the constant stress and anxiety that plagued you those late nights.

A few more hours of sleep under your belt and life had become calm. Idle, even.

The wind was lazy, its soft huff could barely rustle the fallen leaves. Hues of red, yellow, and anything in between scattered the woods, stretching into the backyard. A sharp crunch under your boot. There was a bite to the air, but the new berries you found had lasted through the weather’s turn.

All those chilly mornings and early sunsets were not in vain; autumn was here, and winter was nearing, too. Though the cottage had been good enough while Daryl healed, it wasn’t suited to become a permanent stay. Certainly not a home. The surrounding trees were too dense, the walls too thin, and it didn’t matter how many strings of cans you set as alarms since the herd passed that night, you couldn’t sleep without one eye open.

Even if it hadn’t been for his people still being out there, you’d have to leave.

With the small bag in one hand, you pulled the first alarm string above your head. It chimed in the wind until it steadied again. It was an effective system; Daryl was opening the back door before you even had a chance to break through the tree line.

You passed into the backyard with a smile.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey. Find anythin’?”

“Just some berries.”

The morning’s sun had drifted away within the last ten or so minutes. It wasn’t much of a shock to find the sky had darkened with heavy-looking clouds.

“We should go in, looks like it's gonna rain,” you said, sliding between his frame and the door.

It didn’t take long to place those buckets around the porch, just past its cover. A couple of empty, uncapped water bottles sat next to them. It didn’t take long for the rain to start, either.

Inside, the small table in the kitchen was homemade. Shoddy work, but it could balance the few candles you’d found in the basement when night came. You picked the berries clean of their stems while Daryl confirmed the findings of your foraging were, in fact, edible.

Maybe at the start, when your brother had found that survivalist book, you would’ve been able to tell. But that got lost a mere month after he found it. Since then, you’d only stuck with the basics. What you knew was safe, without a doubt. That meant you spent a lot of time scavenging abandoned buildings instead of the woods.

Daryl, on the other hand, seemed to know the forest better than anyone. You could assume from that deep accent and the fact that he never cringed at mud on his skin that he wasn’t a city kid. No, he probably grew up in the sticks. The middle of nowhere. In this world, that kind of experience was invaluable. You’d spent many hungry nights, staring at a bush of unrecognizable berries, wondering what could’ve been if you’d had it, too.

By the time the two of you were done, a damp cold settled along the walls. The rain had been pouring down for some time. It wasn’t as harsh as it had started, but the cool, moist air was sinking in. The temperature of the usually feverish sun dropped, hidden behind grey clouds.

Daryl started a fire with that wood you’d found a couple of days ago. The pile was dwindling faster than expected; the nights had been cold. The short flames reached up to the bottom of a pot you’d positioned. You poured some rainwater inside, then tossed in a couple rags to sterilize, and waited for it to reach a boil.

By the time Daryl heard those bubbles begin to break the surface, you had wandered back to that back door, standing with the heat of the fire to your back and the cool breeze brushing across your face.

You heard his steps approach behind you.

“I like the rain.”

Daryl stood at your side, quiet.

“I always loved that smell, too.” You inhaled a deep breath, staring beyond the porch. “Do you remember what that’s called?”

“Nah.” Daryl shook his head. “Jus’ called it rain.”

You grinned. “Well, regardless. I always liked it.”

He watched the rain come down. It soaked the fallen leaves and dampened the soil. The breeze was slow, weaving its way through dripping trees. The roof was a weak material, something cheap and old, and echoed a low patter of rain. It made everything feel softer. Muted.

“Me too.”

You glanced over your shoulder, that grin slipping into a tender smile, kind and sweet. Daryl met your look, felt that bloom of familiarity in his chest, and gestured you to come back in. The cold would become bitter again and inside was warm, so you followed.

He sat by the fire, arms wrapped around bent knees. He’d peeled off his vest, then his flannel, and finally pulled down the left sleeve of his shirt. Just like the first day you checked his wound. You sat behind him, a small pillow under your knees and the freshly boiled rags sitting in a clean bowl to your left.

That little routine the two of you had fallen into— you’d come back to Daryl, who’d help deal with whatever you scavenged that morning, before you cleaned his wound, then ate— came easy. He’d gotten less tense every time you had to face his bare shoulder again. Which was frequent, unfortunately, since the exit wound had proved more troublesome than the smaller entrance.

That heavy pit in your gut at the thought of those scars and their cruelty hadn’t alleviated much though.

“How’s it feeling today?”

“Better.”

You nodded and unwrapped the bandage. The fever had been the height of that infection that hit him a few days ago. During the worst of it, his wound had swelled and reddened, leaking a trail of puss that reminded you why you could have never been a nurse like your brother. Today, the swelling was gone and the redness cleared. It was improving.

“It looks better, too.”

“About time,” Daryl huffed.

On the other hand, his attitude hadn’t improved.

You sighed, “It’s only been a couple of days.”

“’S been a week.”

“You were shot.” You passed the rag along the few dried bits of puss, careful to leave the growing scab undisturbed. “It takes a while to heal from that.”

“We don’t got a while.”

“I know.” Your jaw tightened.

Daryl was becoming more agitated with his rest as the days dragged on. Cabin fever, maybe. It must’ve been especially bothersome for a man like him, someone who seemed to feel more comfortable in the woods than four walls and a roof, to be trapped here. Especially when neither of you had forgotten the whole point of running house to house in the first place— finding his friends.

“But we agreed. You need to let this heal as long as it can before we leave.”

“Trail could’a gone cold by now.”

Even with your eyes on the back of his neck, drifting down the outgrown strands of dark brown hair reaching to the cuff of his shirt, you could almost see him chewing his lip. It turned out that Daryl’s unease had become mixed up with yours some time ago. By now you could feel that stiffness in his muscles, as if it was in you, too.

“It could’ve.” You dropped the last strip of clean cloth back into the bowl. “It could be fine, too.”

Daryl glanced back at you over his shoulder. It made you freeze— he hadn’t offered any attention other than the small talk you shared while you patched him up. Not until now, when those narrow blue eyes burned into you, demanding your attention.

It was almost instinctual, that warm smile you offered. Still, you were sure he could notice that somber look in your eye. The one that remembered the fear and urgency you felt while in pursuit of your brother— before it ended the way it did.

He seemed to notice every hint of emotion that slipped past your grip.

“Dwelling on it won’t help us find them any faster,” you said.

You glanced over his expression, almost leisurely in your inspection. His lips were parted slightly, jaw slack. Though he wasn’t angry, there was a heaviness in the pretty blue of his eyes. Lately, you were realizing that might be permanent.

While it was sweet, your smile didn’t do much to soothe his urgency or frustration. He turned back.

“I can’t keep doin’ nothin’.”

You swallowed, bandaging a clean strip of cloth around his shoulder as the tone shifted.

“Four days ago you could barely get out of bed.” you firmly stated. “And two days ago, you could barely lift your bow.”

“‘M fine now,” he snapped.

“You’re still healing.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care.”

The cloth reached its end and you paused. Going in circles with him was exhausting. It made your stomach flutter with anxiety, too. This routine the two of you had fallen into, something idle and restful, was comfortable. He was comfortable.

Maybe even a friend.

“Well, I do,” you replied. “I guess I like you too much to risk you getting hurt worse.”

Daryl glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Subtle enough that you almost hadn’t noticed.

“Thought we didn’t have to like each other,” he retorted in a lighter tone from his previous.

“It makes things a lot easier, don’t you think?” You smirked. “And if you can’t aim that bow, you’re kinda stuck with me anyway.”

You, like anyone else nowadays, knew what it was like to lose a friend. You certainly didn’t want to lose Daryl— whatever it was you had with him— from perhaps a curse of your own overprotectiveness. It was hard to let someone go back into that dangerous world after you learned how bright their blood ran, but this thing you two shared was fragile. Trusting. If Daryl said he was ready, you had to be willing to give him a chance.

So, with a cautionary glance at his new bandage, you gave in an inch.

“One more day.”

His mouth opened, but you snapped before he could, “It's bad enough we’re leaving while you’re still hurt. I’m not doing it in the middle of a storm, either.”

The rest of the day Daryl was still tense. Emotionally, at least. He practiced picking up his crossbow, balancing the weight in his hands. You packed both bags, boiled and bottled all the water you could carry, and hoped this was the right thing to do. The rain didn’t let up until long past sunset.

When morning finally came and the sun broke through grey clouds, you followed through on your word. Backpacks stuffed full, your boots landed across that empty road and the two of you finally left that little house for good.

A/N: slower part, but I think they need that right now. it can't all be fighting and running and shooting and blah blah. I love these little interactions between them as they grow closer <3 I hope u do too!

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #fic recs #twd daryl dixon

247 notes · View notes