R A N D O M || OS

199. (TWD) Daryl Dixon - What Comes After

https://crossbowking.tumblr.com/

Summary: (Set mid season 5) The reader falls ill while on the road after Terminus - but Daryl refuses to lose anyone else.

Prompt: "Do you believe in heaven?" - Heaven Anon

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"Do you believe in heaven?"

The sudden question, the unexpected break in silence that'd hung heavy around the dimly lit campground caught Daryl totally and completely off guard.

He glanced down, surprised to see your bleary eyes trained on him, stark against the pallor of your complexion. His hand hovered between you, the damp rag he held balling up in his fist. "The hell kinda question's that?" he snapped before internally cringing — he hadn't meant for the retort to sound so sharp.

But you remained unfazed, the ghost of a smile flickering over your lips. "There's nothing good to watch on television these days," you quipped, your voice croaky and soft as you shifted on the tree trunk you rested against.

Daryl snorted a soft breath, shaking his head as he reached forward and dabbed the cloth against your forehead, growing serious once more. You were burning up — he could practically feel the heat radiating off your body, small beads of sweat forming above your brow. But he quickly wiped them away, as if he could just pretend they weren't there.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he patted the rag gently down the sides of your face, letting his own guise drop while you weren't looking.

The group had been on the road since Terminus fell, walking aimlessly day in and day out. Things had rapidly gone from bad to worse — between Terminus, the loss of Bob, Beth, and Tyreese, and now this, the future for the remaining survivors was becoming alarmingly bleak.

You started coming down with something a few days back. It'd been brushed off as a cold, exposure to the elements, lack of basic supplies, but now you were getting worse — so much worse and far too quickly.

At this point, Daryl was worried you wouldn't even make it through the night.

You were important to the group — you were family — but the archer saw the way the others looked at you. Like you were a time bomb waiting to go off, like at any moment you could turn and put the rest of them in danger.

Their concern was warranted, their trauma valid.

But he didn't have to like it.

So instead, he'd made you his priority — the only thing he was able to control. He watched over you, made sure you got to rest when you needed it, all the while searching anywhere and everywhere for anything that could help heal you. Keeping you alive, making sure you got better had become his purpose — otherwise, he'd sink into the darkness that lingered, he'd give in to the swell of grief that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

After everything that'd happened, he couldn't lose anyone else.

He couldn't lose you.

A visible chill rolled through your body as you curled inwardly, your features skewed in pain. Daryl watched as you buried yourself deeper beneath his leather jacket, the one he'd draped over you despite the muggy night air.

He pulled away then, picking up the near-empty canteen of water he'd propped up beside him, quickly unscrewing the cap and holding the dampened rag near the opening.

But then you grabbed onto his wrist, your grasp weak and clammy, and his eyes met yours.

"Don't," you shook your head once. "Save it."