Daryl Dixon x Reader

I'm right here

Hershel wastes no time. He pulls himself up and runs as best he can. Once they reach the courtyard Daryl picks up his pace.
Cold wind curls around your body, with no effect. Sweat glistens on your brow as your body shakes. Your eyes never leave the blood specks on the floor. 'Is this it? Is this how it ends?' Your mind is whirling now. Distant memories and unspoken words whirl around your brain. Tears prick your eyes as another wave of coughing over takes you, engulfing any remaining control over your body in it's wake. Your arms give way beneath you, your head crashes against the floor. Taking deep breaths, you attempt to stand up. Clutching onto every wall available; you manage to get out of the watch tower before collapsing again on the grass and gravel, unconscious.
Daryls gentle arms scoop you up and carry you to the cell block containing all the other ill survivors. Glen, Karen David and most of the Woodbury group had been moved earlier that day.

Daryl's shirt crunches into a ball in your fist as you cling on. The walls are dark and crumbling. The air spoiled by the stench of sweat and death. The coughing had subsided but the smell of blood sill hung strongly to your lips. "Daryl. . ." You wheeze.
"Shhh," He whispers, stroking your cheek. "I'm right here. Ain't gonna leave ya."
"In that one." Hershel says pointing to an empty cell on the top floor of the block.
Daryl continues to walk towards the metal stairs and you let your head roll uselessly on your neck; too exhausted to care. Your eyes latch onto a small boy locked in a cell. His skin is as pale as snow and his eyes as blood shot as the walkers outside. As Daryl walks you grow increasingly aware of where you are. Daryl almost drops your limp body as a freshly turned walker swipes its hands in his direction. Daryl murmurs a quiet "Jesus Christ." As he composes himself, adjusting you in his arms.

Once up the stairs Daryl lays you down on the bunk. Hershel looks you over and turns to Daryl. "How long has she been like this?"
"I don't know. I jus' woke up and found her coughin'."
"A few hours..." Your voice is barely above a whisper. " Started feeling really hot, then. . . well; you know the rest."
"You're going to have to stay here now. We can't risk anybody else getting sick."
"Will Daryl be okay? He's been around me all day." Your vision starts to go black, you can hear the sound of blood rushing in your ears.
"I don't know." Are the last words you hear before you pass out.

As he climbed out from behind the trees your breath caught in your throat. It was him but, in so many ways, it wasn't. The tell tale snarls echo through the howling wind as the last few remaining birds struggle to stay a flight on its powerful force. The group was there behind you, like fire their glares burned into back of your neck.
He kept walking, unaffected by the oncoming storm. His eyes lacked the bright blue light they usually possessed. Instead, a murky grey glaze haunted them. The bite on his bicep leaks black tar-like blood while his skin stayed a pale white, tinted with pale green and dirt. How long had  you been there looking at him? As you shake yourself out of your shocked daze you feel the teeth, of the man you once knew as Daryl, sink into your neck. You screams echo but remain unheard. You beg him to stop, you try tugging on his hair to unlatch his teeth. Soon you hear a gun shot ring through the clearing and feel Daryl's head fall limp in the crook of your neck. Carl steps forward from behind his dad and kicks Daryl's decaying body off your own. He looks down at you, his face hard and serious. "Zero tolerance for walkers." He blinks, pulling his gun and aiming it at your head.

Your eyes fly open, your screams ricocheting off the cement walls.
"Hey, hey, calm down." Glen hovers in the doorway while Hershel's hands pin you to the mattress. "It was a bad dream is all. You're okay." Your eyes are wide but slowly your body begins to relax.
"Where is he? Where's Daryl? Is he. . . Is he?"
"Him and a few others went on a run." Glen slurs, coughing into his arm. "They left a few hours ago." He walks into your cell and begins to wipe a damp cloth over your brow, you revel in the cool piece of fabric for a while but then his words sink in.
You push yourself up in a hurry, " Where did they go? I need to help him. Where's my katana?"
Hershel shakes his head and pushes himself up off the floor. "You're going to help him how in this state, may I ask? Let's say you go out there looking for him. First you gotta get past the walkers, your coughing will give you away. Then you've got to find them. You've barely been conscious all day, how can you guarantee you will be able to keep your eyes open long enough to get to the fences? Then let's say, by some miracle, you actually find him, you'll be slow on your feet, that means you will slow him and the rest of the group down. That may mean his death as well as the rest of the group and yours. Now, let me ask again; how are you going to help in the state you're in?"