Pairing; Daryl x fem!reader
Summary; Lizzie had made you a pie of her own and you were more than willing to try it to make her happy. But in the middle of the night, you were wishing you hadn’t.
Tw; Sickness, food poisoning (worse), mention of throwing up (blood too), kinda sad but kinda fluff in the end ig.
Despite it being one of the hottest days of the summer, you’d gotten through your chores without much trouble. The heat had been miserable, sure, but nothing you couldn’t handle.
But by nightfall, your body was experiencing a completely different kind of climate. Your stomach felt like a damn toxic war zone. What had started as a dull ache earlier in the day had grown into sharp, twisting cramps that left your head pounding and a cold sweat clinging to your skin.
You lay on the thin mattress in your shared cellblock, tossing and turning in the dark, desperately trying to find a position that didn't make you want to curl into a fetal position. Behind you, Daryl stirred. He had been asleep, his thick arm thrown securely over your waist, holding you close against his chest.
You tried not to disturb him. You really did.
Daryl never got much sleep to begin with. A few hours here and there were usually all he managed before something dragged him back to his feet—whether it was a run, a noise outside, or his own mind refusing to settle. It had become so normal for him that you weren’t even sure he remembered what a full night’s rest felt like. Which only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest cause you knew you were stealing away the few precious hours he actually had.
But after another few minutes, you shifted again with a quiet sigh, hoping to find some position that would finally let you drift off—A sleepy grunt came from behind you. "...What're ya doin'?”
You froze. Shit. You woke him up.
Daryl blinked in the dark, letting out a low, gravelly mumble as he pulled you a little tighter against him. “Why are ya movin' so damn much?" He muttered, his voice a rough from sleep and exhaustion.
"Been tossin' 'round all damn night" He muttered, burying his face against your shoulder. "What's the matter with ya?" You shook your head just slightly, shrugging gently like it was no big deal. "I don't know” You said quietly, your voice strained as another sharp cramp rippled through your abdomen. "Just… go back to sleep”
He gave a tired huff instead, tightening his arm around you again. "It’s hard to when ya keep rollin' around” A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "I know”
"So, what's wrong?" He asked, his voice quieter this time. You hesitated, not answering right away as your eyes wandered back to the ceiling instead, tracing over the cracks. "I just... I can't get comfortable”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. A small silence falling between you two.
And then you shifted once more, instinctively hugging your stomach a little firmer. Daryl sighed, opening his eyes properly before propping himself up on one elbow. He scanned over your figure slowly, trying to figure out what the fuck is actually wrong with you—And then he noticed.
"...Yer stomach?" He asked softly, his hand absentmindedly rubbing your side. You nodded slowly. "Yeah. Feels kinda weird” You muttered, pressing your palm against your ribs. "Probably just my period’s about to start. I'll be fine" You waved it off again, earning another tired grunt from him. "...Mm”
Daryl reached out, his large, calloused hand sliding up to rest against the side of your neck to soothe you, but the instant his palm made contact with your skin, he went completely rigid. "Shit” He muttered, his voice instantly losing its sleepy edge. "Yar burnin’ up”
"No, I'm not" You argued, shaking your head in denial even though your breathing turned shallow. "It's just hot as fuck in here, and these blankets are too thick" With a weak, frustrated shove, you kicked the heavy wool blanket off your legs, your body trembling slightly as the cool air hit your sweaty, bare skin.
But Daryl, obviously, wasn't convinced. He watched you adjust your position again, your face twisting in obvious discomfort as you hugged your stomach tighter. "For fuck's sake” You panted, the nausea suddenly hitting the back of your throat like a wave of battery acid. "I'm gonna go get some water. Throw some on my face too”
"Ya sure you can walk?" He asked, his eyes tracking you through the dark. "Yeah, yeah. I’m fine" You muttered, forcing your weak legs to swing over the side of the bed.
You stood up, your head immediately spinning as a wave of dizziness washed over you. You forced your feet to move, stepping out of the cell and walking down the narrow concrete hallway past the other sleeping blocks. But three steps in, your stomach let out a sickening, liquid gurgle, followed by a cramp so violent it felt like a knife twisting in your intestines.
You stopped dead in front of an empty cell door, a muffled, agonizing groan tearing from your throat. You didn't want to whimper, but the pain was blinding. Suddenly, your knees buckled completely. Your body went entirely weak, and you fell forward onto your hands and knees, hitting the solid floor with a loud, echoey thud.
Back in the cell, Daryl heard the impact. He sat straight up, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Y/n? What the fuck’s going on?" He whisper-yelled into the quiet block, removing the covers from over his body and moving closer to the edge of the bed.
Meanwhile—You were on all fours, panting heavily, the floor swimming beneath your vision as you tried to regain your senses. "Yeah... I'm fine!" you managed to whisper-yell back, your voice cracking.
Using every ounce of your remaining strength, you reached up and gripped the cold iron railing of the cellblock walkway. You dragged yourself up, your fingers gripping the metal for dear fucking life just to keep your body upright.
A violent, unstoppable convulsion racked your torso. You leaned over the railing, and a horrific, wet sound echoed through the cellblock as you began violently throwing up down onto the walkway below. But it wasn't just bile or food. In the dim light, you could see the dark, unmistakable splatter of thick, heavy blood rushing out of your mouth.
Daryl heard the wet, heavy splashing and the violent coughing. "What the fuck..." He muttered, sliding off the bed and instantly fixing his pants, ready to sprint to you.
You clung to the railing, gasping for air, a trail of dark blood dripping from your chin as your vision began to fade around the edges. "Daryl..." You choked out, your voice a desperate, dying whisper. "Daryl... Carol... anyone..."
Before Daryl could even reach the halfway point of the corridor, your grip slipped from the iron bars. Your body went completely limp, and you fainted, falling straight backward with a massive, sickening crash, your head barely missing the sharp corner of the wall.
"Oh, shit! Y/n!" Daryl yelled, abandoning all caution as he sprinted down the hallway.
The loud crash and Daryl's panicked shout instantly woke up the surrounding cells. Flashlights clicked on, and confused, tired voices began to murmur in the dark.
Daryl slid onto his knees beside your limp form in a matter of seconds. He gathered you into his arms right away, his hands shaking as he patted your face. "Hey, hey! Look at me! What's going on? Are ya okay?!"
Your eyes fluttered open slightly, glazed with a terrifying, glassy fever. You twisted in his grip, clutching your stomach with both hands as a raw, agonizing cry left your lips. "My stomach... it's fucked... oh my god, Daryl, it hurts so bad..."
By now, Carol and Hershel had rushed out of their cells, their flashlights illuminating the horrific scene—specifically the pool of dark blood dripping through the grates of the upper walkway.
"Oh, Lord” Hershel breathed, immediately kneeling down and pressing his hand to your forehead. "She's burning up. It's a massive fever. Daryl, get her to the lower cell block, now! We need room to work”
Daryl didn't hesitate. He slid his strong arms under your back and knees, hoisting you up carefully. You were completely dead weight, whimpering and clinging to his shirt as he carried you into a clean, open cell.
For the next hour, it was pure chaos.
You kept drifting in and out of consciousness, your body convulsing as you threw up more blood into a metal bucket Hershel had provided. Daryl was entirely helpless, a ball of pure, toxic anxiety. He paced the small cell like a caged animal, his breathing ragged, his face twisted in a mixture of blind fury and terror.
"Daryl, talk to me" Carol said, grabbing his arm to stop his frantic pacing. "What happened? What is this?"
"I don't fuckin know!" Daryl snapped, his voice cracking with raw panic. "She couldn't sleep. Said her stomach hurt. Thought it was... hell, Ion’ know! She said maybe her period comin’ " He run a hand down his face, trying to remain as sane as he could. “Then she got up and... and I found ’er like this!"
Hershel nodded slowly, wiping your brow with a damp cloth, his expression incredibly grim. "Did she eat something? Anything unusual?"
"I don’t know!" Daryl yelled, throwing his hands up. "The usual?! Same as everybody else?!” Hershel just nodded again, turning his attention completely and utterly on you.
Another hour passed with you still drifting in and out of consciousness, your body completely wracked by violent tremors. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot agony would rip through your gut, causing you to curl into a tight ball. The pain was so blinding, it felt as if your insides were being ripped apart. You sobbed openly, gasping for breath as a cold, slick sweat coated your trembling skin, your fingers desperately clawing at the rough mattress just to survive the waves of spasms.
And Daryl? He was a damn wreck.
He couldn't stay still, still pacing around the room. And every time a low cry escaped your lips, he flinched as if he’d been struck. He kept stepping closer, his heavy boots clicking against the floor, hovering over the bed with his hands twitching at his sides, completely paralyzed by his own helplessness.
"Hey, hey, look at me" Daryl muttered, his voice thick with a raw, sickening panic as he sank to his knees beside the cot. His large, trembling hand reached out, his rough palm cupping your tear-stained cheek as he tried desperately to anchor you. "Shh, 'm right here. Just breathe, alright? Just look at me”
You couldn't answer. Your jaw clenched tight as another violent cramp seized your abdomen, making your vision blur. You let out a breathless, choked sob, leaning weakly into his touch for a split second before the sheer intensity of the pain forced you to pull away, turning your face back into the pillow as more tears streamed down your cheeks.
“Why's she shakin’ like that?!” Daryl's chest heaved, his head whipping around toward the older man without even realizing what his was doing, his breathing shallow and fast. "Hershel, do somethin'!"
"Daryl, I know you’re worried but step back and give me some room” Hershel ordered firmly, his tone calm but carrying a sharp authority that left no argument. "Get that damp cloth off the table. Keep her forehead cool. Maggie, hold her up sideways so she doesn't choke if she vomits again”
Maggie moved in quickly, her face pale but determined as she supported your shoulders, while Daryl lunged for the cloth, pressing it against your burning skin with trembling, uncharacteristically gentle hands. He stared down at your pale face, his chest heaving as he watched your eyelids flutter weakly, your lips parted as you panted through the waves of pain.
As the hours dragged heavily into the deep night, the fever only climbed. Your skin turned slick with cold sweat, and your whimpers faded into weak, exhausted groans. You weren't improving; you were slipping.
“Why isn't she gettin' better?!” Daryl’s frantic pacing started up again, his toxic anxiety finally reaching a boiling point. He whipped around to face the old man, his voice cracking with pure desperation. "It's been hours, Hershel! The fever ain't droppin’!"
Hershel paused, his expression incredibly grim as he looked up from checking your pulse. "She needs medicine, Daryl. Probiotics, vitamins, fluids... her body is fighting a massive, aggressive infection, and—"
Before Hershel could even finish the sentence, your body violently convulsed. A harsh, wet cough tore from your throat, and you threw up right into the metal bucket Maggie rushed to hold beneath your chin.
Daryl froze, the breath completely trapped in his lungs as his eyes darted to the dark, thick blood and the horrifying splatter of deep fluid inside the bucket—clear evidence that whatever was inside you was tearing your gut apart.
You fell back against the pillow, coughing and panting heavily, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The agony in your stomach flared so intensely that tears blinded you, and you blindly reached a hand out into the empty air, your voice a broken, weeping wail. "Daryl... Daryl, please... it hurts, it hurts so fucking bad..."
Hearing you cry out his name in pure agony shattered whatever restraint Daryl had left. His own breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified gasps as he looked from the horrific sight in the bucket back to your tear-stained face.
He felt like he was drowning.
Hershel’s face went entirely pale, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place with terrifying clarity. "She needs a stomach stabilizer! Whatever she ingested is tearing her lining apart. If we don't stop the hemorrhaging and infection in her gut immediately… she isn't going to make it through the night. Her organs will eventually start failing”
The word failing snapped the paralyzing terror right out of Daryl, replacing it with a cold, manic focus. The helpless boy from the woods vanished, and the hunter took over. He ripped his gaze away from you, grabbing his leather vest from the back of the chair and throwing it on with violent, jerking motions.
"Where?" Daryl demanded, stepping back and tightening his grip on his crossbow until his callouses dug into the wood. "Tell me where the hell I gotta go to get it!”
"There's a veterinary clinic and a small pharmacy about twenty miles out, past the infected zone near the tracks” Hershel said, his gaze sharpening as he stood up. "But Daryl... it’s pitch black out there. The rain choked the main roads with herds. Going out right now is a suicide mission”
"I don't give a shit ’bout the dark, and I don't give a shit ’bout the herds!” Daryl snapped, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his stubble. He took one final, burning look at your fragile form on the cot, his voice dropping into a fierce, unshakable promise. "She ain't dyin' in this cell! Not tonight—Not ever”
His breath was coming in short, jagged bursts, his chest still heaving under his sweat-stained shirt. He didn't look back at your pale, shivering figure on the cot again; cause if he did, even for just one more second, the panic would paralyze him completely. He needed to move. He needed to kill whatever bacteria was tearing you apart from the inside out.
He tore out of the lower cellblock, his heavy boots slamming against the concrete, but he barely made it past the threshold of the main common area before a figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking the exit.
The beam of Rick's flashlight cut through the dark, flashing the tight, worried lines of the leader's face. "Daryl, stop” Rick said, his voice dropping into that low, unyielding command tone. "Look outside. It's the middle of the night. It’s pitch black, the fog is rolling in, and the west fences are already crawling with walkers from the noise earlier. You go out there now, you’re blind. Wait until dawn. We'll form a group—”
"She ain't got ’till dawn!" Daryl barked. The sound that ripped from his throat was barely human—a raw, feral snap that echoed off the high ceiling. He took a hard, aggressive step forward, trying to shove his way past Rick’s shoulder. "Did ya hear him in there? Her gut's bleedin' out, Rick! She's dyin' right now!"
Rick shifted his weight, refusing to budge, and planted a heavy palm right against Daryl’s chest, forcing him back. "It’s too risky, Daryl! You get caught out there in the dark, you get surrounded on the road, we lose you too. I can't risk it! We wait three hours until the sun's up”
"I ain't gonna let her die!" Daryl snarled, his face twisting into something genuinely terrifying. The sheer, suffocating fear for your life mutated instantly into blind fury. He slapped Rick’s hand away with enough force to send a crack through the quiet room, his knuckles white around the grip of his crossbow as he took a hard, defiant step around the leader.
"Daryl. I can't let you leave" Rick repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet warning.
The sharp, metallic sound of a holster being unclipped sliced through the heavy air. Daryl stopped dead in his tracks. The silence that followed absolute, suffocating. Slow and deliberate, Daryl turned his head over his shoulder, his greasy hair falling into his eyes.
Rick’s hand was resting firmly, heavily, on the checkered grip of his Colt Python.
Daryl turned his entire body around, his eyes narrowing into deadly, icy slits as he looked Rick up and down, taking in the defensive stance, the hand on the weapon. A bitter, dry scoff escaped Daryl's throat—a sound of pure disbelief and challenge.
"I’d like to see ya trynna stop me” Daryl muttered, his voice low and dangerous, promising violence if Rick took another step.
He didn't give Rick another second to think or pull that gun. He turned his back completely on the weapon—a total, insulting dismissal of the leader's authority—and headed toward the heavy prison doors.
Rick's jaw clenched, his muscles tensing as he prepared to sprint after him, but a gentle hand suddenly clamped firmly onto his forearm, stopping his movement. He spun around, his flashlight catching Michonne as she stepped seamlessly out of the darkness, her katana already slung securely across her back. Her expression entirely unreadable, but her eyes were steady.
"I'll go with him” She said quietly, her voice a calm anchor against the storm.
Rick hesitated, the muscles in his face twitching as he looked from Michonne to the open exterior doorway where Daryl’s broad figure was already vanishing into the pitch-black courtyard. Finally, Rick let out a defeated breath and gave a tight nod. "Keep him from getting himself killed”
Michonne didn't waste a heartbeat.
She turned and ran out into the cool night air, her boots hitting the gravel just as the roaring, throbbing rumble of Daryl’s motorcycle broke the quiet of the courtyard. She skidded up to the bike, throwing her leg over the back seat just as Daryl slammed his foot onto the gear shift. The tires tore up the dirt, and they launched out into the dangerous, walker-infested roads of the dark world.
The two hit three different structures within a five-mile distance, bypassing the main roads to avoid the herds. The first two locations were nothing more than plain, rotting houses abandoned in the early days of the outbreak, but the lack of a pharmacy sign didn't slow Daryl down for a single second.
Inside the dark, claustrophobic hallways of the first house, Daryl didn't care about noise. The cautious, silent tracker who usually moved like a ghost was entirely gone. He kicked the front door open with a violent crash.
He moved through the rooms like a man possessed by a demon, driven entirely by the terrifying image of you coughing up thick, dark blood again and again. He tore through the kitchen and the bathrooms with a frantic, very much destructive, urgency. His large hands moving with dizzying speed—ripping cabinet doors completely off their hinges, sweeping entire rows of glass jars and pill bottles onto the floor in shattered piles, and frantically grabbing anything that looked remotely like a medical container.
"Daryl—" Michonne breathed, her sword slicing cleanly through the skull of a walker that had stumbled out of a bedroom closet. The creature dropped heavily, but Daryl didn't even flinch at the sound. He didn't even look up. He was on his knees in the dark, his hands wildly shoving random bottles of vitamins, antibiotics, and charcoal supplements into his bag.
Michonne stepped back, lowering her blade, her dark eyes tracking him through the darkness. She stayed silent, clearing the perimeter, but her gaze kept drifting back to the hunter. She had known Daryl to be loyal, tough, and very protective of the group—but she had never seen him lose his mind like this.
She watched the manic desperation in his posture, the way his hands shook as he uncapped a random bottle to check the label, his breathing ragged and shallow. She saw the raw, exposed terror in his eyes—a look of a man who was looking down the barrel of his own destruction. In that quiet, ruined house, without a word being spoken, Michonne realized— that you weren't just someone he cared about. You were his entire world. If you died in that cell, whatever piece of humanity Daryl Dixon had left was going to die right along with you.
"We got enough here" Michonne said, her voice firm as she stepped in front of a chest of drawers he was about to rip apart. "We need a pharmacy for the stabilizers Hershel talked about. There’s a clinic two miles up”
Daryl spat a curse, shoving the bag shut and slinging it over his shoulder. "Move” He growled, pushing past her.
And like said, they hit the clinic next, Daryl breaking the glass storefront without a care for the noise. They gathered every heavy-duty antibiotic, stomach stabilizer, and pediatric probiotic left on the ransacked shelves, packing the bag until the seams strained.
The ride back to the prison was a blur of high speed and dangerous turns. The moment the motorcycle skidded into the prison courtyard, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and gravel, Michone climbed off and Daryl didn't even bother to kickstand the bike. He let it drop heavily onto its side, the engine sputtering and dying in the dirt as he scrambled off.
He sprinted through the courtyard, his boots pounding a frantic rhythm against the asphalt. He burst through the double doors of the cellblock, his lungs burning, his face covered in a layer of road sweat and dried walker blood. He didn't slow down, moving down the dark corridors until he reached the lower block.
He violently threw open the cell door where you lay and with a loud, chaotic crash, he upended his bag directly across the small wooden desk. Dozens of plastic pill bottles, boxes, and liquid supplements rattled and rolled across the surface, some clattering onto the floor.
"Take it!" Daryl panted, his wild, bloodshot eyes locking onto Hershel. He was trembling from the sheer adrenaline, his voice cracking with a desperate, breathless demand. "Take whatever the fuck she needs to stop the bleedin'!”
He rushed straight back to your side. You were still in terrible shape, your pale face twisted in pain as you whimpered in your sleep, softly calling his name. "Daryl... fuck, it hurts... I can't..."
"I'm right here. I'm right here, baby” Daryl muttered, his rough voice incredibly soft as he helped Hershel guide the pills down your throat, praying that this would help you get better. That, if not stop the pain completely, then at least make it weaker.
The heavy-duty medicine slowly fought its way through your system over the next few hours, fighting the violent toxicity in your gut. You didn't wake up fully, but the awful, strained whimpering finally faded, your body sinking into a deep, bone-weary sleep.
Daryl refused to leave your side for even a second.
He sat rigid on that upturned bucket right next to your cot, a dented bowl of cold water resting between his dirt-crusted boots. Wringing out a rag with his shaking hands, he gently laid it across your burning forehead. His bloodshot eyes never left your face, watching the shallow rise and fall of your chest like a man guarding the last fragile thing left in the world.
Then suddenly, slowly, your eyelids fluttered open. Your throat felt like sandpaper, your voice barely a ragged scratch. "Daryl..." His head snapped up instantly, his entire upper body leaning forward over the cot. "Yeah. Yeah, 'm here. What's wrong? What do ya need?"
"I’m tired..." You whispered, the lingering sting of the fever drawing a single tear that slipped down into your hair.
"I know, I know—But I need ya to think for me, okay?” He murmured, his thumb surprisingly gentle as he wiped the moisture from your temple. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Did ya eat somethin' while I was out on the hunt yesterday? Anything at all?"
You weakly shook your head against the thin pillow, your thoughts hazy and broken. "No... I don't know. Just the normal stuff. Carol's stew... a protein bar Glenn found..." You paused, a sudden memory piercing through the fog. "And... and that pie Lizzie made me”
Daryl's eyebrows drew together in a tight, confused frown. Carol’s stew was fine, and the protein bars hadn't gone bad. The kid's pie was the only unusual part, but before his brain could even begin to process it, your chest heaved violently. A sudden, massive wave of nausea twisted your features.
Reacting on pure instinct, Daryl grabbed the metal bucket from the floor, hoisting it up just as you rolled onto your side and violently vomit into it. This time, it wasn't the dark flood from before—mostly just bitter stomach acid mixed with faint, streaky traces of blood.
“I gotcha” He stayed right there, holding your hair back with one hand while the other stabilized your shaking shoulders. When it stopped, he gently wiped your mouth with the corner of a clean sheet, helping you sink back down into the pillow carefully. "I gotcha. It's fine, just breathe f’ me”
The moment your eyes closed and your breathing leveled out into a heavy sleep, Daryl stood up to empty the bucket. He walked toward the cell door, but as the morning light caught the fluid inside, his tracker's eyes caught something solid and dark resting at the very bottom, completely separate from the liquid bile.
He frowned, a cold, sickening sensation coiling in his chest. Ignoring the utter disgust of it, he slipped his hand into your puke, trying to catch and pull that dark… thing out. And when he held it high in front of his face to inspect it—his stomach dropped—
It was a small, gray, leathery tail. Not a whole one, just a ragged, severed section of a rat's tail.
Daryl’s breath caught hard in his throat. He swirled the bucket slightly, and the motion revealed more: tiny, crushed fragments of bone and patches of gray fur— Lizzie hadn't just baked a pie. The kid had literally stuffed pieces of a raw, definitely, diseased prison rat into the food.
A sudden, terrifying realization washed over him.
Eating a raw rat was like ingesting pure poison and the thought alone made his blood turn to ice. Assuming that maybe a grown-up had used the kid to hurt you, white-hot rage completely took over. He stormed out of the cellblock, his face pale and lethal as he rounded up Carol and Maggie, explaining everything and asking them to help him find the kid.
It didn’t take them long to find and corner Lizzie in a quiet, shadowed corridor near the library block. Carol took the lead on the questioning, keeping her voice leveled and calm, while Maggie stood guard by the iron door.
Daryl couldn't stand still; he paced the narrow walkway like a caged predator, his heavy boots making a dull, menacing rhythm against the floor. His hands were twitching at his sides, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches that filled the small space with an explosive, volatile energy.
Lizzie was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, her small fingers twisting and tugging the hem of her oversized shirt. She looked visibly anxious, her wide, unblinking eyes darting frantically between Carol’s gentle face and the terrifying, relentless shadow of Daryl cutting back and forth across the room.
"Lizzie” Carol said softly, crouching to match the girl’s eye level before reaching out to lightly brush her shoulder. "Did you give [name] that pie yesterday?"
"Yes” Lizzie whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she swallowed hard. "I made it for her”
"What did you put in it, sweetie?" Carol asked, her tone dripping with a quiet, heartbreaking patience. Lizzie looked genuinely, her brow furrowing as if she couldn't understand why everyone was looking at her like this. "I just... I put a friend in it. From the walkways”
Maggie let out a small gasp, her hand instantly flying to cover her mouth as the sickening confirmation washed over her.
Daryl stopped his pacing dead in his tracks. His breath hitched violently, his chest completely locking up as the absurdity and horror of those words hit him like a physical blow.
"Why would you do that, Lizzie?" Carol pressed, her voice incredibly soft, almost a whisper, though it cracked slightly as the horrific reality of what you had ingested truly dawned on her.
"I didn't mean to hurt her!" Lizzie suddenly burst out, the fragile dam breaking as heavy tears finally welled up and spilled rapidly down her cheeks. Her voice rose into a frantic, sobbing, high-pitched wail that echoed off the walls, her small frame shaking violently with genuine distress. "I didn't mean to kill her or make her sick, I promise! I just... I wanted to prove it! I wanted to show everyone that the walkers and us are the same. We can eat the same things!" She choked on a sob, burying her face in her hands, completely messed up by a reality she couldn't understand. “The walkers like the rats, so I thought if she ate it, she'd be fine too. I just wanted to show you!”
As the kid's deeply detached, twisted logic echoed through the space, Daryl looked like he was about to completely lose his mind.
He stumbled back a step, the floor slipping beneath his boots. His hands flew up to his head, his fingers clawing deep into his greasy hair before pulling down hard, dragging over his face in total desperation. "Oh my fuckin’ god” He muttered under his breath, his voice trembling violently with a mixture of pure horror and blind, helpless fury.
He was shaking from head to toe. Every cell in his body wanted to scream, to smash something to pieces, to absolutely destroy whoever had put you through that agonizing, near-deadly torture—but it was a kid. A completely broken, twisted little kid who was currently sobbing her eyes out in front of him.
He couldn't beat the shit out of a child.
Carol looked back over her shoulder at Daryl, her eyes swimming with deep, absolute sorrow. She didn't say a word, but her gaze silently begged him to leave the room before he completely exploded.
Daryl didn't give the little girl another look. He turned and stormed out of the corridor, his heavy shoulder slamming open the door. As he passed into the next block, the uncontainable rage in his veins spilled over, and he slammed his fist into the solid rough wall with enough brutal force to rattle the pipes.
Two full days passed. Daryl barely slept a single wink, leaving your side only to get fresh water or to help Hershel give you the strong antibiotics he’d found on his run.
And on the third morning, the fever finally broke.
The quiet of the cellblock felt different now. The thick, suffocating dread that had choked the room for the last three days had finally cleared, leaving behind only the soft glow of the morning sun cutting through the iron bars. The rusted springs of the cot gave a slight, familiar creak as you shifted your weight, the tiny sound instantly drawing your eyes right to Daryl.
He was sitting exactly where he had been for days, hunched over on the upturned bucket like a guard who refused to abandon his post. A damp, wrinkled towel was loosely gripped in his fist, and his clothes were still heavily stained with the road dust and dried blood from his frantic midnight run. His head was bowed, his greasy hair falling forward to shadow his face, his broad shoulders completely carrying the absolute crushing weight of exhaustion.
But the exact second he heard the subtle rustle of your covers, his head snapped up.
Seeing your eyes clear, focused, and looking right at him, the breath completely left his lungs. He froze, his entire body locking up as he just stared, his jaw slightly slack. He looked like a man who had just stared straight into the abyss, felt the ground crumble beneath his feet, and was still trying to process how he had somehow made it out alive.
"Hey” You whispered. Your voice still a little weak, still scratching like sandpaper against your throat, but the pitch was normal. It was you.
Daryl didn't say a word at first. He just sat there, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid hitches, as if he was terrified that speaking or blinking would make the image of you waking up vanish entirely.
"Are you okay?" You asked softly, noticing the heavy, dark circles bruised deep under his lashes.
Daryl let out a rough, dry breath, his jaw tightening as he set the towel down on the edge of the desk. "I should be the one askin' you that” He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned just a little closer. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah” You murmured, shifting your weight slowly to pull yourself a little closer to the edge of the mattress, wanting to bridge the distance between you. "Just my stomach feels… y’know. But I'm fine” Daryl just nodded, his eyes dropping slightly.
Bracing your elbows against the mattress, you slowly tried to sit up on the bed, a sharp groan of discomfort catching in your throat as your weak core muscles protested.
Instantly, Daryl shot forward. His body moved on pure, unadulterated reflex, his large hands already reaching out to steady you. "Hey, hey, be careful” He urged softly, his voice tight with sudden panic. His palms pressed gently against your shoulders to support your weight, his movements incredibly careful as he reached behind you, using one hand to fluff and adjust the flat pillows against the brick wall so you could lean back comfortably.
As his hands lingered, you weakly lifted your own, offering him a small, reassuring touch. "It's okay. I got it”
Daryl hesitated, his hands hovering in the air for a just a second. He bit his bottom lip nervously, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of lingering pain, before he slowly nodded and leaned back onto his bucket again, though his posture remained completely rigid.
A quiet silence settled between the two of you then. Till, unable to bear the weight of it hanging between you any longer, you let out a soft, half-hearted chuckle, hoping to crack the tension.
“Come on. Stop looking like you’re at a funeral”
Daryl let out a sharp, breathless sound at that. Not exactly a laugh, more like a rough, defensive scoff that tore from his throat. He looked down at his boots, his face tightening as his fingers dug into the damp cloth in his hand. "Yeah, well. Sure as hell almost fuckin’ had one”
You pursed your lips, the playful tone vanishing the moment you saw the raw, remaining terror into the sharp lines of his face. A soft, mumbled apology left your lips, your voice dropping into the quiet of the cell. "Sorry”
Daryl instantly shook his head, his brows frowning as his eyes snapped back up to yours. "Nah. You don't gotta apologize for nothin'. Just..." He took a small, heavy moment, his chest rising slowly under his shirt as he struggled to force the vulnerability past his teeth. "I just thought I lost ya”
You gave him a small, tender smile, trying to offer comfort, but he was already avoiding your gaze again, shifting his head and looking anywhere but your eyes. The tracker was trying desperately to pull his walls back up, but the cracks were too deep.
"Was ready to tear the whole damn place down if ya wouldn't open yar eyes today” He muttered, his voice dropping into a low mumble. "Set the whole place on fire”
You smiled gently at the fiercely protective words, knowing that burning the world down was just his way of saying he loved you. Reaching across the short distance between, you placed your hand over his knee. "Daryl, I'm okay. I promise. I'm fine”
Daryl lifted his eyes, but not his head. He stayed hunched forward, his gaze fixed intensely on your stomach, staring at the blankets as if he could still see the pain that had been wracking your body hours before.
"Hey” You said softly, squeezing his knee to draw him out of the dark memory. "Come on, look at me. I'm alive. Daryl, I'm here. That's what matters, okay?" The corners of his mouth twitched, the hard line of his jaw softening just a fraction as he tried to force a reassuring response. He gave you a small, strained smile and a tight nod, his voice a quiet murmur. "Yeah…”
Another brief silence stretched between you, comfortable but heavy with the weight of everything he was keeping locked inside. Then finally, Daryl cleared his throat, his shoulders tensing, his fingers curling against his thighs like he was turning the words over one last time before letting them leave his mouth.
"We found out what happened”
You blinked, your brows frowning in confusion at the sudden shift in his demeanor. "What do you mean? Hershel found out what made me sick?"
"It wasn't bad meat, or the flu, or a cold. And definitely not your, uh… period” Daryl said, his words slicing clean through the warmth of the room. He didn't blink, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding, almost aggressive intensity that made your breath catch.
You frowned deeper, completely losing the thread of the conversation. You shrugged, worry tightening your chest at his sudden darkness, but you let out a small, confused chuckle anyway, trying to break the tension. "What was it then?"
Daryl hesitated for a split second, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips as he tried to find the right words to break the news without breaking you. " ’Member that pie Lizzie made ya? The one you told me ’bout?"
You nodded, your brain completely refusing to connect the dots, still unable to see any danger inside your own walls. "Yeah… What about it?"
Your gazes remained locked, the space between you growing dangerously thin. Daryl took a slow, heavy pause, the silence settling in the small cell before he finally forced the words past his teeth. "There was no damn fruit in that pie… The kid put a rat in it—Or… parts of it”
You completely froze then.
The world seemed to drop away for a second, your eyes wide and unblinking as you just stared at him, your mind stalling out entirely as it tried to process the weight of the sentence. "What?"
"She found a rat—don' know where—and just put parts of it in your pie" Daryl explained, the raw disgust and lingering fury vibrating low in his voice, his knuckles turning white where his fingers still dig in his leg.
A disbelieving, breathy scoff broke from your lips, the sound sharp and hollow in the quiet room. You shook your head weakly, staring at him like he had just grow a second head, desperately waiting for him to tell you it was some kind of sick, twisted joke. "Why... why would she do that?"
Daryl shrugged, his face turning dark, as he looked away from you for a split second, unable to mask the horror of it "Don' know. The kid's twisted. Said somethin’ ’bout wantin' to prove how the walkers are the same as us—That we can eat the same stuff—I don't fuckin’ know”
You looked away, your gaze turning blank as you stared at the far wall of the cell. Your mind completely reeled.
You couldn't reconcile the image of Lizzie—the little girl who had run up to you in the courtyard with a giant, bright smile, holding out a small tin and begging you to try what she had made just for you—with the horrific reality of what had actually been baked inside it.
Daryl could basically hear the gears turning in your head, see the shock wash over your features as you stared blankly at the covers. He shook his head, wanting to cut off the panic and the hurt before it took root. "Don't worry ’bout it. Carol and Rick are takin' care of her. She won't come near ya again—nor will she ever make another damn pie”
You just nodded slowly, pursing your lips because the words felt stuck in your throat. Then, turning back to him, your brows still furrowed deeply with a painful lack of understanding. "I don't understand. Why would she want to hurt me?"
"She didn't want to hurt ya” Daryl said, shaking his head gently to ease your mind. "Or, at least, she says she didn't. Just wanted to prove her point. Make people understand”
You let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound shuddering through your chest as you ran a hand through your messy hair, trying desperately to clear the mental fog before looking back up at him. "I don't know what to say” You shook your head helplessly, your heart aching with a complicated, painful pity for the broken little girl.
“She’s just a kid—Like you said, she probably didn't mean to” Daryl nodded, but the small gesture was sharp, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his dark stubble. "Yeah, but kid or not, she almost killed ya”
Another small silence fell around the small cell. You still trying to process a danger that came from a child inside the gates, while Daryl sat there, his body humming with protective instincts and anger he didn't know how to tame.
When suddenly, a small, involuntary whine escaped your throat as a sharp, empty pang hit your core, twisting your recovering muscles.
Daryl reacted instantly on pure, lightning-fast reflex, his hands snapping forward as his body lunged half off the bucket to hover over you, his eyes wide with renewed panic. "What?! Gonna throw up again?"
"No, no… I’m fine” You breathed, shaking your head quickly to soothe the terror in his eyes. "I just... I haven't eaten anything in days— Or drunk anything other than pills. I think I'm just starving”
Daryl let out a massive, shuddering breath, his broad shoulders visibly sagging as the tension left his body. He nodded quickly, as relief washed all over his face. "Right" He rubbed the back of his neck, a bit sheepishly, realizing it was just your body finally crying out for the basic nutrients and water it needed to survive.
You looked up at him through your lashes, taking in the utter, bone-deep exhaustion radiating from him. "Haven't you gotten any sleep?"
Daryl looked down at his hands, his rough fingers slowly tracing the thick callouses on his palms, completely unable to meet your eyes as the raw vulnerability of the moment finally caught up to him. "Nah”
"Didn't want to leave yar’ side” He muttered softly, his voice low, barely audible over the quiet, distant hum of the morning prison block "Not till you woke up” A soft, genuine smile spread across your face. Even though he wasn't looking at you, his devotion was clear in the small cell.
Daryl seriously couldn't bear the thought of losing you, and right now, he didn't even know how to look you in the eyes because the relief washing through him was so massive it terrified him. The horror of the last few days was still sitting heavily on his broad shoulders.
"I can't lose ya” He said quietly. A confession he never expected to say out loud, a truth he usually kept buried behind layers of anger and protective silence. But slowly, he lifted his head, his icy blue eyes locking directly onto yours with an unshakable intensity that made your breath catch right in your throat.
"Not you” He said, his voice cracking slightly on the weight of the admission, his gaze burning into yours, stripping away every defense he had left.
The moment the words left his lips, he reached out and took your hand from his knee, cradling it with desperate gentleness between both of his large, rough palms before slowly, he lifted it to his face and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your knuckles, his eyes never breaking contact with yours for even a second.
Your heart swelled, warmth rushing through your whole chest. You nodded softly, gently sliding your hand from his grip only to bring it to the side of his face. Your smaller palm cupped his rough, stubbled cheek perfectly, feeling the solid reality of him.
"You won't” You said softly, your voice steady and full of absolute certainty. "I promise”
Daryl closed his eyes, leaning heavily into your touch as your thumb gently stroked his cheekbone. He turned his head just a little, tilting into your palm, before pressing a quiet, tender kiss against the soft inside of your hand, holding it there as if breathing you in.
You stayed silent, just watching him, feeling the gravity of what he had just said settling deep into your soul.
Daryl had always been guarded, keeping his emotions locked away, and while you had always known how deeply he cared for you, hearing him say it out loud—hearing those exact words tear out of him—felt like nothing you have ever felt before, settling somewhere deep inside your chest.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t known. You had. Daryl had proved it in a hundred quiet ways. You’d felt his love in every silent gesture, every instinct to stand between you and danger, every hand that reached for yours without thinking— But hearing him say it, made something in you soften all over again.
Words had never come easily to Daryl. They probably never would.
They caught in his throat, buried beneath years of silence and habit. So he had always let his actions speak for him, and you had learned to hear every unspoken word in them. But the thought of losing you before you ever knew—without him ever telling you—how much you meant to him… that frightened him far more than saying the words ever could.
