twd one-shots

breathe through it - daryl dixon

Plot/Request: When you come down with the flu, Daryl's ready to fight through fifty miles of walkers, people-- anything to get you those meds.

Word Count:
 3.7k

A/N: So... I was planning on releasing some other fics last week, but I ended up having emergency surgery instead... oops! everything went well and I'm okay (thank u modern medicine + canadian health care). I have been feeling kinda down lately, so I figured since I can now tolerate looking at a screen again, why not write some self-indulgent daryl fluff (with a hint of angst, of course)? enjoy! xx

* reposted from my Tumblr, where i'm much more active: imagine-thewalkingdead 

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Walkers. People. Maybe just some accident.

How you'd eventually die was anything but certain in this world.

You sure as hell didn't think it would be some pig flu, though.

Another cough racked through your body. The force was vicious against your ribs. You grasped at your sore chest, rolling over to your side as you fought to catch your breath.

Stripped down to your tank top, the heat was still unbearable. Sweat was slick against your hands, making your grip slip away from your chest and find the damp bedsheets instead. You didn't know what was worse, the overwhelming heat that seemed to choke you, or the chills that came quickly afterward.

It wasn't like you'd never been sick before. You had. Even had a cough once that left you with bruised ribs. The doctor had ordered x-rays and everything, only to send you home with a sorry smile and a hope that some over-the-counter medication would help ease your pain. You thought that had been hellish.

It was nothing like this.

Whatever this was, it was fast and strong. People around the prison had been dropping like flies. First, it was Patrick. A young guy with a stark nativity among the other arriving survivors, like a fresh drop of blood on a white sheet. It always made you wonder how a kid like him had survived out there with such hope.

Then he died and attacked Cellblock D.

And you. When you'd been clearing the catwalks after the initial carnage, he surprised you from inside a cell. Snapped his jaw from your arm's length for a whole four seconds before Daryl's bolt lodged in his skull. It was quick— four goddamn seconds— but enough for you to catch whatever killed him.

Now, it was killing you.

Well, not yet. But so far it sure as hell felt like death.

The last puff of air from another brutal cough finally left your lungs, slow and weak, and you curled your knees closer to your chest.

A soft breeze caught your skin, just as you were debating removing your tank top too, and you exhaled a long, steadier breath. The cool relief soothed you a little. Distracted you from your concerns and, admittedly, the bit of dramatics you indulged in.

The fever was bad, the cough too, but you were tough. Even through Atlanta's fall, herds of the dead, and a war with the Governor, you survived. Most importantly, your body was stronger now. Food was in better stock, runs less necessary, and the prison was flourishing. You'd gotten through sickness before, you could get through this.

Once they got the meds—

Oh.

The meds...

You were supposed to go on that run. You were supposed to be packing provisions right now. That was before the fever finally knocked the wind out of you and you somehow ended up back in your cell, making a damn mess on your freshly washed sheets.