Gloves and a Mask (The Walking Dead; Daryl - Part 1/3)

[PuddinPop]

Hello~!

It's been so long since I posted anything here honestly, it's been so long since I wrote anything fetish-focused outside of RP. Even rarer is that I'm posting something that isn't Supernatural  

Shocking, I know. What has come over me.

Well, I was re-watching Season 4 of The Walking Dead earlier and the idea for this fic cropped up and refused to leave me alone. Of course, I had to write it. There are some spoilers for S4 past this point, so if you don't want any spoilers, don't read on.

For some context, this is set at the very beginning of S4 when the prison plague first makes an appearance. There's one scene where Herschel tells Daryl to "make sure he wears gloves and a mask" when handling the diseased corpses and that kind of sparked this idea. 

As seems to be quite usual for first parts, there isn't really much sneezing here, as it is mostly just setting the scene, but there will be plenty more to come when it kicks in full-swing. Actually, there's only one spelled out, and a few mentioned. There is some sickness-descriptions though? I guess that counts for something, right? ....right??

Also, be warned... there is some very, very light implied Rickyl in here, purely because I am absolute trash, but it's only Rickyl if you seriously squint. It's mainly just bromance but take it any way you want.

I might as well just get on and write it. This has multiple parts but I only just managed to finish this one. Apologies if there are any errors. I'm not very good at beta-ing my own work. 
 

Gloves and a Mask

 

Quarantine.

It was a desolate promise, one which guaranteed danger and potential abandonment. Not that anyone would have openly admitted abandoning anyone – no one gets left behind and all that bullshit – but should one person compromise the others, not a single one of them would have hesitated to neutralize the threat. They may have been close, some may have even called it a family, but when it came down to life or death, the truth was that all of them had one instinct and one instinct only: survival.

The world they lived in had bred soldiers, a pitiful army against pestilence, famine, war and death. If someone had ever mentioned the word ‘apocalypse’, there probably wasn’t anyone alive anymore who could have argued against it. Times like the present were when one truly questioned the cogency of the Bible, words like ‘repent’ and ‘the end is nigh’ holding more validity than ‘find a cure’ and ‘salvation’.

Though they hadn’t become completely primal just yet. There was still the kinship of family-ties rife within their group, the love for one another, unity found among the division of civilization; if such a thing existed anymore. They may not have hesitated in extinguishing any threat, but every one of them would do their utmost to ensure that it never came to that. ‘Prevention is better than the cure’ was a phrase that many of them had drilled into them since being children, a common paraphrase that numerous – if not all – parents lamented to their offspring.

Which is why when the virus broke out, no one was surprised that quarantine was mentioned immediately. It was a noble notion, one with good intentions and ‘the greater good’ at the heart of it, but they all knew it was just a pipe-dream, an ethereal fantasy that probably looked good on paper but was impractical to implement.  

Understanding the suggestion had not been difficult to comprehend; keep the women and children safe, especially Judith, but the cold, harsh reality was that there probably wasn’t a person left inside the prison that hadn’t been exposed at some point. As mentioned, they were tightly-knit, bonded closely and kept to a tight pack in order to ensure survival. Not to mention that bugs and viruses had a way of working their way through the masses. Just one glance outside affirmed how quickly a simple virus could threaten the very existence of human life.

Yet, despite some minor protests, the quarantine had prevailed (thanks to the previously dismissed democracy) and several of them were cast aside, banished from contact with any other member of the group. It hadn’t been too effective; Carl had flung himself around Rick at first sighting, Tyreese refusing to leave Karen’s side, among other kisses, cuddles and contact. A mass-murder seemed to have a way of bringing people closer.

Then there were those responsible for clearing the tombs.

Daryl, Herschel and Dr. S had all inadvertently exposed themselves, Carol and the children had spent most of the evening with Patrick – Carl, too. After a quick calculation, it was concluded that there was probably just Beth, Sasha and Judith completely safe.

It had barely been two hours since the slaughter had happened and some were already digging graves; one of the perks of being in the quarantine squad.

As much as it needed to be done, as much as it was respectful and as much as it separated them from the flesh-eating vermin that owned the earth, Daryl really hated digging graves. The tenacious scrape, clunk! scrape, clunk! of the shovel wore him down on his best days, but coupled with the emotional fatigue of days just passed, he found it to be more inconvenient than sad.

Sweat poured from him in rivers, forcing his clothes to cling to his skin in damp, uncomfortable patches; dirt was gritting its way between the creases on his brow and the juncture between his neck and shoulders; the relentless shovel-and-tip of the spade ached his muscles down to the sinew.

Herschel had ordered him to ‘wear gloves and a mask’ but the only thing readily available had been his bandana which served a sorry purpose for a mask. It kept nothing out and Daryl even felt the odd sprinkling of dust and dirt filtering its way past the thin material, nestling in for a nice stay deep in his lungs. He coughed intermittently but only when he was certain that no one was close enough to hear; the last thing he needed was to be thrown in solitary confinement or some shit. For the first time, he was thankful that he got a slap whenever he made a noise while out on a hunt; at least it taught him to be proactive with stifling any unwanted sounds.

An hour in and his bones were protesting, his skin was shimmering and his lungs ached in a way which wheezed on each exhale. His eyes stung with debility, his nose running from dirt inhalation and the constant bounce-back of breath mirrored against the bandana, tracking hot puffs of air back up into his face. An irritation had worked its way up into his skull, buzzing incessantly for what felt like hours. He had already managed 3 successful almost-silent stifles, smothered between a gloved hand and the fabric of the bandana but the urge persisted, spiking white-hot flutters around his sinuses with each inhale, provoking what he combated so vehemently-

“’kng’t!”

He was thankful it was just one that time, a short, sharp noise, not dissimilar to a stifled hiccup. A brief panic washed over him as he raised his head and glanced around, relaxing when he saw that Glenn and Maggie were too occupied with each other and the others were hauling their shovels out of the pits in which they dug.

Snorting back as loudly as he dared, Daryl stopped his work, lifting his gaze to meet with the sickly-orange glow of the sky that illuminated everything in a tacky light, promising the darkness that was an hour at most away. He took a moment to swipe a forearm across his brow, smearing the flecks of dirt which settled on the surface, sticking to the sheen coating his skin.

As much as he would have continued with the task until every last person was buried, he couldn’t deny that his entire body had a private relief-party when Rick ordered them to stop for the night and ‘pick it back up in the morning’.  He would have rather gotten it out of the way, but he was soaked through, the chill autumn air cooling him to an uncomfortable temperature, and the moisture collecting on his top lip was a morbid combination of breath-sweat and snot, forcing him to keep the bandana fixated in place. If he could just shower, eat and maybe even snag an hour or two of sleep, he was certain that grave-digging in the morning mist would be much more appealing than grave-digging in soaked clothes by the light of a lantern.

After discarding the shovel and hauling ass out of what was now someone’s resting place, Daryl was grateful that he was a hundred yards behind the others when the next round of sneezing hit. He was lucky enough to be able to smother a gloved hand across the fabric of his bandana, making nothing more than a muffled exhale. Rick flicked his gaze back just once, but either ignored it or didn't notice, continuing on as he herded the others inside.

[Chickadee365]

Oh my gosh, YES!!! I've been absolutely dying for another TWD fic!! I *LOVE* the concept (I wrote a few mini pieces surrounding the same time period in the TWD universe myself but they're not good enough to ever see the light of day ) and I *LOVE* where this is going! And RICKYL! Everything about this is perfect. I will be very eagerly awaiting the release of your next part!!

[Zuki]

Yessssssss. Love it! 

[SneezyHolmes]

I love this so far! Ah, Daryl will always be bae~  

[Hedgehog]

That's a really nice start. I'm curious to read more.

[CharliesGirl]

Oooooooh yes!!!! Please go on