𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 | Daryl Dixon

77 | YOU'LL BE ALRIGHT

It was like a swarm of wasps had formed their nest around her entire form, every inch of her skin physically stinging until it burned. Her ears rang with a non-stop buzzing; the silence had dragged on for so long, her thoughts becoming louder to fill the void.

And it was torturous.

His body was hot against hers, his heart somehow racing and slowing down at the same time. Each one of his breaths sounded painful; she could only imagine how they felt. As his back leaned against her chest, his entire form completely slumped against her, she could feel the warm wetness seeping from the wound in his shoulder, staining his clothes and hers. The crimson seeped through her clothes, drying there, making her skin unbearably itchy beneath her shirt. But she never pushed him away. Holding him tighter, cradling him in her arms with her chin resting atop his head.

The darkness was maddening. The thin gap between the locked doors wasn't near wide enough to let any daylight it. Or maybe moonlight – they'd lost track of time hours ago. What felt like hours. Whatever hour it was, there was a narrow sheen of some kind of glow which blinded her every time she looked to her left. Her eyes had spent far too long adjusting to the pitch black of the van to bare looking at any light.

Sweat poured from every inch of her skin, each muscle cramping up and seizing with every breath she took. If it weren't for the man she loved lying in her arms, she was sure she'd have lost her mind by now. The small space, the isolation, the unknown – it had been piling up ever since those doors were slammed in her face, trapping her inside the vehicle with her friends and her fiancé.

The only thing reminding her that they were all still there was the echoes of their shallow breaths. Hardly a word had been spoken. With their weapons gone, and their bodies battered, there was no chance in escaping. She could think of nothing now, besides Daryl's bleeding body, and her inability to do anything other than hold him and let him use her as a safety blanket.

She felt his shaking, freezing cold hand wrap around her own, his fingers wrapping around her wrist whilst her palm rested over the hot wound on his shoulder. Not to pull her hand away or to tell her she was hurting him. But just to hold her. To feel her skin and know that she was still the one holding him.

He was scared – more scared than he had been in a long time. The last time he felt a fear this genuine was right after the prison, when he sent Tori running to safety, and thought he'd never find her again. Back then, though, he could cling to the sliver of hope that she would be fine. That he could find her again, which he did. But not now. Now they were in the danger together.

A danger that he'd led her too.

The pain flooding his veins was nothing compared to the stabbing agony in his mind as he remined himself over and over again. They were here because of him. Because he ran off and refused to follow her home. All his fault.

All his fault.

All his fault.

She looked down, although she couldn't see him, and kissed his forehead, not caring at all about the layer of sweat covering his skin. Hugging him tighter, she felt his weak grip on her wrist become stronger, a whimper of pain falling from his lips and echoing through the blackened space until it met her ears. And broke her heart.

Whatever happened to them now was for the tendrils of fate to decide. Though, if their day so far was any reference, she doubted fate was on her side this day.