Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of it's amazing characters. All I own here is the plot :)
"Will he be alright?"
Rick's voice sounded foreign, even to his own ears; strained and full of concern, raspy from all the shouting he'd done less than an hour or so earlier.
"I don't know," Hershel frowned, eyeing his patient with a look of deep concern, his disdain for the situation clear in his body language.
Rick sighed heavily, running a shaky hand over his whiskers roughly.
"Why would anybody do something like that?" Glenn asked no one in particular, seemingly in some sort of mild state of shock. "Who would rig a place like that? Why...?"
"I don't know..." Rick muttered, irritated even though he knew it wasn't Glenn's fault. His nerves were shot and he was on edge because of it, and Glenn's rambling wasn't helping the situation.
"Could'a been the Governor," Michonne pointed out with a contemptuous frown. "He's crazy enough t' do somethin' like that."
Rick nodded slightly, finding it difficult to focus on anything but the injured man lying motionless on the table a few feet away from him.
"Could'a been..." he mumbled in vague agreement, eyes trained on Daryl's prone figure as Hershel carefully wrapped a bandage around the hunter's head.
The explosion had quite literally rocked their world, sending their small run group reeling backward with the force of the blast, splinters of wood and debris flying skyward before raining back down on them as the building they had planned on raiding was engulfed in flames.
None of them had noticed the tripwire until it was too late. Daryl had taken point like always, and consequently, the brunt of the blast. His head had literally bounced off of a rock do to how hard he'd been flung back, landing on the unforgiving ground hard enough to break bones, the sickening thud that surely sounded as his body hit the dirt drowned out by the ringing in each of the group members' ears.
Rick had been the first to recover from the initial shock of the explosion and had rushed to the other man's side, fearing the worst at the sight of blood pooling beneath Daryl's head and running from his mouth and nose.
Daryl lay motionless and unresponsive as Rick screamed in his face, trying desperately to find a pulse and coming up empty.
Maggie had shoved him asside a moment later, resting her head against Daryl's seemingly unmoving chest and -after what seemed like an eternity- confirmed that there was a heartbeat and that he was breathing, that he was, indeed, alive.
Daryl's eyes had fluttered open then, a dazed and confused look crossing his features as Rick continued to shout orders over the roar of the fire.
The pain had registered relatively quickly after that and his face had crumpled, a small, distressed whine escaping his throat as he choked on the blood trickling from his lips. When he tried to speak, his words were slurred, his eyes rolling about in his head as Rick tried to get him to focus on his face.
Daryl had tried, Rick knew that, but he just couldn't seem to control the movement of his eyes as they rolled lazily about in their orbits. They had begged him to stay with them, to stay awake after that, but the hunter had slipped into unconsciousness anyway, too weak and obviously in too much pain to care what they wanted from him.
Everything had moved relatively quickly after that. Maggie had bandaged Daryl's head as best she could, relaying to the others that he had a concussion while Michonne took care of the first five geeks approaching the scene, drawn in by the noise of the blast.
Glenn and Rick had lifted Daryl as one, carrying him in tandem to the SUV a few moments later, getting him situated on the back seat as quickly as possible before diving in and taking off.
Rick had driven like the devil himself was nipping at his heels, glancing over his shoulder now and then at the pale figure lying limply in the back, Michonne and Maggie kneeling on the floor between the front and back seats to keep their eyes on him, help him in any way they possibly could.
It had seemed like the longest drive back to the prison ever.
Hershel had confirmed Maggie's diagnosis of a concussion, adding the word "severe" in front of it. The old vet hadn't said much after that, simply asking Carol to hold Daryl's head still while he checked the unconscious man's mouth, searching for the sorce of all the blood leaking from the corners of his pale lips.
"He must've bitten his tongue," Hershel had stated calmly to the others, frowning as he worked.
"Will he be alright?" Rick asked for the umpteenth time since they carried Daryl in, voice strained.
He had to know.
Daryl had to be alright. He just had to be!
"I don't know," Hershel responded simply, sadness thick in his voice as he repeated the same response he'd already given a dozen times.
With those three simple words, Rick felt as if the entire world had suddenly come crashing down on top of him, his heart hammering in his chest as the room fell eerily silent.