Just as Rick was paralyzed by physicality; Daryl was paralyzed with fear. He’d never dealt with the injured in the group. Always someone else to do that. Let alone the man he would do anything to protect.
He was starting to feel sick.
Hands shaking, he did the things that appeared in his mind. He couldn’t look at Rick here. He didn’t trust the area; but he wasn’t about to leave him there to check it out. A desperate hunter pushed his arm under Rick’s torso, and tried with all his terrified might to lift him; but he wasn’t able to anticipate the other man’s pain at that.
“—Shh-h,” he tries; his own words coming out nothing but shivering pleas of someone weakened; as he musters up his remaining strength. For this would take all he had left in him.
As valiantly as he could, he took his arm from under Rick, and pushed it under his knees. He did the only thing he knew he could try to do, as the other arm; muscles rippling and trembling with shock; pushed under the small of his leader’s back.
A deep breath. This would require all the power he had left that wasn’t too overwhelmed to use.
He lifted him.
A strained grunt escaped him as he did. Rick wasn’t like Carol. Rick was a fully grown man. The tension on his arms was pulling the skin taut; the weight being, very nearly, too much; but the motivation there to guide him.
Curse the choked sob that coils around his throat as he carries his leader from the house; the steps to the road being just torture; and set across the road. He got to the bungalow he’d checked; his strength failing as he dragged himself up the steps; stepping over the walker; and, finally; he laid Rick on the couch; collapsing on the floor.
He’d even left his crossbow behind.
“I can’t move my legs,” he announced, trying to remain calm, but finding it impossible to do so. He tried, he tried so hard to make them move, to wiggle his toes, to do something that gave him a sign it would be okay.
The pain then became too much.
It’s when Daryl lifts him up that he empties the contents of his stomach onto the floor, which isn’t much. The pain was the main reason he actually threw up. He tries to wipe at his mouth but is unable to. He holds onto the hunter with whatever strength he can muster. His legs drape across the floor, he stares down at them - they’re useless.
Rick leans into Daryl and cries. That’s all he can do is cry. He allows himself to break down because it’s unfair, because after everything, he now has to face surviving paralysed.
That’s when he realises he’s as good as dead. He's already dead.
Rick tried to stop Daryl from carrying him - he refuses to be lifted in that way, he wouldn’t be that weak. He wouldn’t have someone carry him around for the rest of his days. There was nothing to do, so he continued to whimper. It was unlike the Sheriff.
He helped him as much as he could, trying to put less of his weight on him.
He wanted to yell, he wanted to shout out in frustration. He was in so much pain that it was nearly unbearable, but his body just wouldn’t shut down. He thought of dying, he thought of how peaceful it would be, he thought of being put to rest once and for all.
When he was on the sofa, he stared up towards the ceiling. That’s when he realised this was it - there was a definite chance he would spend the rest of his days staring up at that same ceiling. He allowed his hand to fall over the edge of the couch, towards the hunter who sat silently. His fingers moved from the palm of his hand and outstretched, a sign for the hunter to hold on.
Daryl was scared, just as scared as Rick was. This was it. Deep down, he knew this was the end.
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