twd one-shots

doctor's orders - daryl x reader

Plot/Request: When a sprained ankle takes you off run duty, the new girl goes in your place. Which would've been fine-- if she didn't have that brilliant wit, gorgeous smile, and effortless skill. But she did. And it was only a matter of time until Daryl noticed too.

Word Count:
 6.6k (this is ridiculously long SORRY lol)

Warnings: insecurities, mentions of injury,

A/N: not another sick fic, but apparently the reader has a nasty habit of getting herself hurt/sick, huh? also, she's super jealous... cue evil laughter.

* reposted from my Tumblr, where i'm much more active: imagine-thewalkingdead. for the latest fics, updates, sneak peaks, etc please check me out there! 

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"Two weeks, at least."

You groaned.

"I'm serious," Dr. S scolded, "without proper time for rest and recovery, you'll just make it worse."

"Fine."

Dr. S stood from the chair at the end of the bed, packing the rest of the bandages in his black duffle, "Hey, far as I'm concerned, you're one lucky lady getting away with only a sprained ankle and a mild concussion."

You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back— a wave of dizziness overcame you, followed by a steadily increasing throb in your temples.

"Yeah. I know. Still sucks," you groaned, this time out of pain rather than annoyance. Moving from your position on your elbows, you slowly lowered yourself down to the bed, where your sore head fell into a soft pillow.

Dr. S gave a quick flash of an empathetic smile, then shook a stern finger, "Rest. Get some sleep and keep it elevated."

"She can sleep? Thought ya said it was a concussion," Daryl stepped forward from his spot against the wall.

Dr. S shrugged, "She's awake, holding a conversation. It'll do more good than harm."

Content with your care, the young doctor slipped out of the room. The light shifted a little when he did, a glare of sun peaking past the moving sheets that covered your door, but soon enough the dark returned.

Well, as dark as it could get before sunset.

"Guess it looked worse than it was," you sighed.

"Mhm," Daryl hummed behind the thumb he'd been chewing on— after he washed it clean of your blood, of course. He let his hand fall to his side, and spoke a little louder, "still ain't good."

"Yeah, well. I'd rather a sprained ankle than a bite," you chuckled, but it tasted bitter leaving your mouth, "speaking of— thanks for getting me out of there."

Daryl gave a slow, almost calculated nod. His lips drew into a tight line as if to restrain him. Exhaustion was painted over him, dripping from his slumped shoulders. You couldn't blame him-- between running from the dead, pulling you out from under two walkers, and racing you back to the prison, he had his fill for the day. Even you were spent, and he carried you here.

You did have a concussion, though.

"Get some rest," Daryl grunted and crossed to your doorway.

Considering you could feel your heartbeat in your skull, he didn't have to tell you twice. After the light disappeared once more, Daryl along with it, sleep quickly took over.