daryl-dixon-daydreams

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

"I appreciate your help back there, but you really don't need to go further out of your way."

"It ain't outta my way," he drawled, keeping pace with you easily.

You shot him a look and did a full stop. "Look—I'm not a 'you must reach friendship level 5 to unlock my tragic backstory' kind of person. I'm a 'you must reach friendship level 5 to know my name' person."

He shrugged but looked undaunted. "Okay," he said.

"'Okay'?"

"Yeah. Tha's what I said. So ya dun trust easy. Me neither. And the thing about that is, it's 'cause we got reason not to trust easy. So—okay."

You sighed and put a hand to your brow before you started walking again. He fell into stride beside you. "Has anyone ever told you that you're—"

"A pain in the ass? Yeah," he said.

Prompt: "I'm not a 'you must reach friendship level 5 to unlock my tragic backstory' kind of person. I'm a 'you must reach friendship level 5 to know my name' person."

A/N: This has 'The Ghost' vibes for sure...

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

sorry BUT IS THERE ANY UPDATE ON THIS WHOLE FAITH THE PLAGIARIST DEBACLE

You can head over to the FPWG page @fanfic-plagiarism-watchdog for the latest update. Nothing new since she deleted her "writing" blog on 1/15/25 but all of us familiar with the situation are watching for any new accounts that could be her. Her reblogging account was still up and active last I heard.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Guys, I came down with influenza A from people at work and it is AWFULLLLL. And if you're thinking to yourself, hey, weren't you just sick a little bit ago? Yep. Yep, I was. I was sick for about 10 days with a heinous cold after Christmas and just had gotten back to 100% health. And now THIS SHIT.

Mask up and wash those paws, kiddos. This flu season is terrible.

Oh, and we have a fascist for a president. Cool. We aren't living in a dystopian nightmare at all.

In other news, I am halfway done with the next part of The Ghost and mostly done with a new one shot that really grabbed hold of me and would not let go. Stay tuned <3

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

"Daryl? Is that you?!" you yelled, hearing the front door open. You rushed toward the entryway and stopped in your tracks when you saw the condition he was in. He grimaced as he tried to toe off his boots. "Jesus," you breathed. "You're covered in blood. Why are you always covered in blood?" You rushed to him and knelt down to untie and loosen his boots. "What happened?"

He looked down at you kneeling at his feet and gulped nervously, feeling entirely unworthy of your care and concern. "Some asshole set spikes up on the road. I didn't see 'em," he drawled. "Tire blew. Bike laid down and I caught a good bounce..."

You looked up with wide, fearful eyes. "Thank God you made it home in one piece! Someone could have been waiting to—to do God-only-knows what." You stood close in front of him and started gently pushing his leather jacket off.

He pulled in a hiss of breath through his teeth as it dragged over the road rash on his arms and his aching muscles in his back and shoulders lit up with pain.

"Here—let me," you said softly. Your arms flew around him, almost in an embrace, as you worked the jacket down his arms and finally dropped it to pool on the floor. His breath hitched in his chest at your closeness. You gave him worried look as he inspected the abrasions. "Maybe we should get you to the clinic."

"'M fine," he said. "I just wanna crash," he drawled.

"Nuh uh. No," you said immediately.

"No?" he chuckled, casting a nervous glance in your direction with his bright blue eyes.

"Not until I'm satisfied that you're cleaned and patched up," you said, crossing your arms stubbornly.

Daryl's eyes crinkled a little in a smile and his expression was soft. He ducked his head. "Alrigh'. Yer the boss, clearly," he drawled.

You felt relieved. "Oh, good. You've finally figured it out then. I'll get the first aid kit and meet you downstairs." You started to turn away but felt Daryl gently take your hand and you turned around in surprise.

"I hate to ask ya for anythin'—"

"Ask me," you breathed.

"Once 'm cleaned up, would ya—would ya stay with me tonight?" He watched as you face brightened into a smile that nearly knocked his knees out.

"Of course I will."

Prompt: "You are covered in blood. Why are you always covered in blood?"

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Happy Flashback Friday!

“He could have killed you that night. At the line up. And what ya did—it drew his attention righ’ to ya. And then they shut me up in that van and I had no idea what happened to ya. That was worse than any other kinda torture they coulda come up with.” He looked at you for a long moment. “Ya shouldn'ta done it. Why’d ya do it?” You could see the pain and distress it had brought to him simply because he did now know what came of it.

You wondered if he really didn’t know the why. “Well, you see, I have this problem of acting before I think. Kind of like you do,” you said with a small smile. “Besides, I don’t regret it. I did it for you.”

Prompt: “You see, I have this problem of acting before I think.”

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

You'd never seen such alarm on Daryl's face before and it seemed to cut right through you, but still you struggled to get up again.

"Please sit down," Daryl urged you. "'M beggin' ya. Yer bleedin'. Y/N, yer hurt, yer sick and—and I can't let ya go back out there. It'll kill you!"

You drew in a deep breath and fought against another wave of pain that made you almost dizzy. "I need—"

"Ya need to live!" Daryl barked at you, his eyes fearful and flickering over your face. "I need you to live," he said. "We let this one go and we—we fight a different day! 'M not gonna let ya die! It ain't worth it. yer worth so much more than—" he cut himself off and sighed, his eyes closing and his shoulders slumping. "'M gonna take care of ya, okay? We're gonna patch ya and yer gonna rest and we'll figure out the rest later."

Prompt: "You're bleeding. You're sick and hurt and—and I'm afraid I can't let you go back out there. It will kill you." / "I need—" / "You need to live!"

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Time to watch for her NEXT accounts, but so happy to see the positive impact of the FWPG page.

Important update on Faith Ann, multi-fandom plagiarizer.

As of today, 1/15/2025 it appears that Faith has deleted her most recent writing blog (@/fandomimaginewasteland), PROBABLY because this page and all of you helped completely blow her up yesterday. That's as good an admission of guilt as we are likely to get in this case. This is what she usually does after being caught plagiarizing, but we know she will most likely be back under a new name, spouting good intentions again. Her reblogging blog is seemingly still up and running under the username @/fandom-reblogs-and-things.

Stay vigilant everyone! If you can, take a scroll through blogs that may show up in your notifications We will also be watching for her new blog to pop up.

Below is a response by @writeriguess , a writer Faith plagiarized who felt so violated by the whole experience she left the platform (we hope temporarily!). This really exemplifies what this blog is all about. Thanks for being a part of it everyone and taking these signal boosts seriously. <3 We love our fandom communities. Sincerely, The FPWG

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Warnings: innuendo Reader pronouns: unspecified, but Negan calls reader "doll"

Your hand had been out for much longer than needed for Negan to pick up a new nail and place it in your palm. You looked down from your perch on the ladder to see that his attention was focused on you, but not on your held out hand. "Negan—stop staring and hand me a new nail," you scolded him, unable to keep a slightly exasperated laugh out of your voice.

He gave you a wolfish smile and placed a nail into your palm, his hand lingering against yours much longer than necessary. "I'm not staring, doll. I'm admiring."

You laughed again and shook your head. "What's the difference?" you asked, before turning back to hammer the nail into the board.

"Intent," Negan said after the last stroke of your hammer fell. His voice deep but laced with the smile that was still on his lips.

You looked down at him and cocked an eyebrow up. "And what exactly do you intend for me, Negan?" you asked.

"Oh, doll... All kinds of things. How much time do you have?" He grinned up at you, a light sparking in his hazel eyes. Your face flushed with heat and you gulped. "We should probably talk about this when you aren't 6 feet up on a ladder. I don't want to make your knees weak..."

Prompt: "I'm not staring. I'm admiring." A/N: *fanning self*

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

this is alex anon again and YEAH ohmg they genuinely have me LOSING MY MIND. they do this insane negan impression too and are funny like he is genuinely has me crashing out

I would be DECEASED.

Good luck, Alex. Stay strong lol

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

"I've got it!" You spun around to thrust your knife into the head of the walker lurching toward you, but Daryl's bolt sunk deep into the temple and the withered body dropped at your feet. "I said I had it," you said, turning to look at him with a half-amused expression on your face.

"I know ya did. Just tryin' to help out," he replied.

"Uh huh... who invited you anyway?" you teased him.

"You did. Under duress, but still..."

You nudged him with your elbow playfully as he fell into stride beside you again. "Under duress," you laughed. "We both know that's not true. You turned up at my front door on your bike this morning before I could even leave to get to the gate."

"Mhm," he hummed. "Ya think I like ya comin' out here alone? What if somethin' happens?"

You gave him a soft look. "I was alone for a long time before. I can handle it."

"Yeah, but ya ain't alone now. So, ya shouldn't have to. Of course ya can handle it. That ain't the point."

Your expression was thoughtful and you walked beside him in silence for a moment, until his elbow nudged into you playfully and you turned and gave him a small smile.

"Ya ain't mad I crashed yer outing, are ya?" he asked, suddenly worried that he was intruding on you.

You shook your head. "No. I'm always happy to be with you, Daryl."

His cheeks flushed red out to his ears and he ducked his head, hiding behind his wavy hair.

Prompt: "Who invited you anyway?" / "You did. Under duress but still."

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

hi so this is a useless ask tbh but i just need to tell anyone on this app who cares that my fucking best friend who im kind of in love with looks exactly like young jeffrey dean morgan and im losing it haha like obv i love them for them but the resemblance is so there

- anon named alex

god bless america.

Young Jeffrey Dean Morgan basically looks extremely similar to young Jensen Ackles and I have huuuuuuge crushes on both of them haha Asking the real questions here; how are you able to be in the same room without simply short-circuiting and just staring and drooling? lmao

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Unbelievable. Absolutely speechless.

Important Update on Faith, multi-fandom plagiarizer! She's done it AGAIN.

New plagiarism. Unreal.

Recently, we discovered that Faith's blogs had disappeared and pretty quickly realized that she had blocked this page. (She also posted a 20 minute video on her Youtube in relation to content on this page which we didn't and don't plan to watch because... It's a waste of our precious time, we don't give a shit, and this page isn't a platform for her to talk bullshit :) )

Obviously, her suddenly blocking this page seemed pretty suspicious to us... if you are "not doing anything wrong" as you claim, why would you need to block this page? Let us watch you if you're on the up and up. You don't have to follow us, Faith, if it is too "ridiculous" and upsetting for you to see our posts. But blocking? To us this was an IMMEDIATE indication that something fishy was going on and that she was trying to hide it.

So, we took a little cruise through her recent posts... the first thing we noticed was the striking similarity of this Sam imagine to one of the chapters of The Wrong Bed by @supernaturalfreewill, in which Sam breaks his hand defending the reader and is put on painkillers which give him the courage to hold her hand and compliment her and ALMOST spill his feelings. It seems like a pretty big coincidence, and we know that Faith knows about @supernaturalfreewill's account because she previously blocked them. Imagines with no accompanying writing are hard to prove as stolen, which is probably part of the reason she switched to them, but we don't overlook anything as coincidence when it comes to Faith. On the other side of the token, it can be said that 'nothing is original' anymore. We all take inspiration and bits and pieces of things we've seen or ideas from other places and it's usually fine. We have a microscope on Faith for obvious reasons, so though this ISN'T proof of a stolen imagine idea, it is suspicious. BUT IT GETS FUCKING WORSE. Faith is doing THE SAME. EXACT. BULLSHIT. to try to get around being a plagiarist. Namely, saying something is "inspired" by a certain fic or post, and EVEN LINKING IT, and then just completely ripping it off and reposting the writing as her own (no delineation where her original additions start or end AND just changing the tense of verbs and slight word changes). She posted a Draco Malfoy fic that she claimed was "inspired" by an author over on Quotev, but she actually simply plagiarized the whole thing, with the exception of a little bit of her own writing at the top. Look below for the evidence. It's pretty blatant.

Much of the dialogue IS taken from the original source material of the book/movie, but what Faith has plagiarized goes beyond that. She simply replaced the original author's OC with "the reader" and keeps all the actions and sequence of events the same. The exception is just about a thousand words of writing at the very beginning which she added instead of the scenes the original author included of the OC/Harry/Dumbledore going to retrieve the Horcrux. This is fucking UNREAL. She knows exactly what she is doing, and just as we predicted she's done it again. LINKING THE FIC YOU STOLE FROM IS ABSURD. THIS IS 100% STILL PLAGIARISM. We will be contacting everyone interacting with your blog and CONTINUE contacting all the original content creators you've been reblogging, because ALL of their content is in jeopardy, as evidence by this exact behavior. We don't care about your response. We don't want to hear it. We are tired of you. Get shadow-banned already. BYE.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Daryl's nervous energy wasn't lost on you. You'd noticed how he seemed unable to still his hands or find a position to stay in for more than a minute at a time. You let your eyes flicker over him for a long moment before you spoke. "What is it?"

He looked up with a question on his brow. "Hmm?" he hummed, unsure.

"Something is bothering you," you said. "Want to talk about it?"

Daryl gulped down his nerves. Your bright eyes were fixed on him and he felt a bit sheepish beneath their gaze. "I don't know... s'just—ya had somewhere else to be," he said. You gave him a questioning look and waited for him to go on. After a beat, he did. "Ya had somewhere else to be but—ya came after me instead..."

The question made you smile in spite of Daryl's uncertainty and nervousness. "Of course I did," you said. "What about it?"

He shrugged and gulped at the tightness in his throat. "I just—I guess... 'm wonderin' what—what that means, ya know?" He couldn't hold your eyes any longer as he asked. This felt far too big.

"Daryl—" You waited until he looked up at you again, his expression almost fearful. "It means as much as you want it to mean," you said, smiling at him again.

"As much as—?" he repeated. You nodded. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest.

"In other words, it's unlikely that you could ever overestimate its meaning. But also, no pressure."

Your eyes seemed to be brimming with light and it was the first time Daryl truly thought that you might actually feel the same way about him as he felt about you. Prompt: "It means as much as you want it to mean."

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

I'm so glad you're finishing it and love it as much as I do! I think it's really true to Daryl's character 💛 It's a very special series to me, because a lot of it is based on myself and my life in Montana. It's self-indulgent for sure haha but it makes me so happy to hear that people enjoy it and find it a good escape.

Words: 5,818 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria, pre-Negan Warnings: scary imagery, frightening scenarios A/N: This is part of a series! Find the rest on the Master List!

Summary: Escaping from the horde and leaving the ruins of the cabin behind, Daryl and Y/N head down the mountain and then must decide what happens next.

Previous Chapter

You cut the engine of the snowmobile and shut off the lights. The slope of the foothills behind you continued to carry you downwards toward the darker shadows looming, rising up in front of you like a tidal wave. The moon was bright enough to illuminate your way.

You were shivering, almost violently, and Daryl’s arms tightened around you. Your teeth chattered.

“What is it?” Daryl drawled over your shoulder.

“W—we’re almost there. We should f—find somewhere to leave the sled and g—go on foot. I don’t want th—the engine noise or lights to attract the dead or the l—living,” you stuttered. You both squinted ahead at the dark buildings.

“Yer frozen,” he said. The worry weighed heavily in his voice. “We gotta get ya warm and into some dry socks and shoes… Hopefully I can build ya a fire when we find a clear buildin’.”

“I’m—I’m okay,” you managed, though you weren’t sure you believed it. You felt as if you’d been in a daze since you’d woken up and seen the crowd of dead outside the cabin. You still had the fleeting thought that this wasn’t real, that this wasn’t happening, but then the bite of the cold on your cheeks and fingers would reassure you that it was. You were far past feeling anything in your toes, even the painful teeth of the frigid wind.

Keep reading

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

You'd never know these two cuties are about to start throwing punches at each other. Daryl and Rick in The Walking Dead S9 E04 - The Obliged

gifs by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

"What the hell is that?" Daryl asked, incredulous. You were holding up a small revolver, grinning. "Where the hell did ya get that?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, tugging you farther down the alley so the two of you were hidden in shadow.

You laughed lightly. "I borrowed it."

"From where?" Daryl growled. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, we ain't been here a week and yer gonna get into deep shit! Where did ya get it?" he demanded.

"I borrowed it off our little friend Sebastian," you said.

Daryl's eyes widened. "Jesus, Y/N! What the hell are ya thinkin'!? He's gonna figure it out!"

"No, he won't!" you retorted. "I'm not an idiot! It's not like I took it off him while we were having a one-on-one chat! He was in a crowd of people. He'll have no idea what happened to it."

Daryl sighed and still looked worried. "Why ya always gotta find a new way to give me a damn headache?"

You laughed again. "Come on! It's fine! I'm like frickin' Robin Hood!"

Daryl let out an amused huff and you felt a great deal of satisfaction in the way his mouth twitched into a smile. "Ya wish ya were Robin Hood. At most yer a damn uncontrollable pickpocket with delusions of grandeur," he said, crossing his arms.

"Rude," you retorted, but you couldn't help laughing. "Here." You offered him the gun.

"Nah. I'd rather ya keep it. It'll make me feel better knowin' ya have it. But be careful. Keep it hidden unless it's an emergency, alrigh'?"

"You mean until it's an emergency. This place is going to implode sooner or later."

"Right. Until." He gave you a fond look and couldn't help shaking his head one more time. Prompt: "I'm like Robin Hood!" / "You wish you were Robin Hood. At most you're a pickpocket with delusions of grandeur."

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

I love all of you screaming in the tags and reblogs lol I get ittttt... It's disappointing she didn't stay. But Daryl and Y/N have known each other for all of 3 days at this point in the story and considering her background, it shouldn't be surprising that she left. She DID tell him she would leave the first chance she had... But yes hahaha I feel you. <3 Hang in there! Slow burn fics require patience to do well, even though we're all already screaming KISS ALREADY XD

Words: 5,773 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: The Whisperers Warnings: language, violence, references to injuries and blood Summary: Trouble arrives in the middle of the night. A/N: This is part of a series. You can find all parts on my Master List.

Previous part here

Daryl felt as if he’d just closed his eyes when they shot open again. Dog was beside him, growling. It was a low, warning growl, and his attention was fixed toward the back of the dark cabin. Daryl swung his legs onto the floor, planting his boots, and reached for his crossbow. The interior was cloaked in shadows, the fire having dwindled to coals covered over in a blanket of ash, but he was unsure of whether or not he should risk turning on the lantern on the little table in front of him. For now, he simply stood, butt of his bow tight to his shoulder, and strained his hearing. Dog let out another growl and stood, his ears sharp on alert. Daryl thought he could hear some faint rustling outside the back of the cabin, but it could be an animal for all he knew.

Then suddenly your bedroom door was opening and you stepped out, wide-eyed, clutching his knife in your hand. Achilles sat perched on your shoulder, his feather somewhat puffed up, making him look even larger than he already was. “What’s going on? I thought I heard something,” you whispered, realizing both Dog and Daryl were also awake and on guard.

Daryl only shook his head, still straining to hear anything over Dog’s continued low growl. You could barely make out the shape of him in the dark. Dog’s growling seemed to suddenly be growing louder and then it burst into a crescendo of barks, causing both of you to jump and Achilles to take off from your shoulder with a startled squawk. He soared somewhere into the darkness near the ceiling. Dog lunged toward the front door, snarling and barking, his hackles raised and teeth bared.

Your heart thudded loudly in your ears and time seemed to slow with each breath that dragged in and out of your lungs. But you didn’t have to wait long before the front door, already partially busted in earlier by Daryl, was now completely ripped from its hinges. A figure charged forward, the glint of a long silver knife breaking through the darkness. Dog was on them in an instant and a strangled scream rippled through the air as his teeth sunk into the arm wielding the weapon. Dog dragged them to the ground and Daryl followed up with a bow shot to the head, impressive considering how dark it was.

You hardly had time to process what was happening before two more silhouettes were hurrying in. The moonlight now streaming in through the open door at least allowed the two of you to better see the attackers and the wrinkled and grotesque skins over their faces made it clear who they were. Daryl was rounding on the second figure with his bow as the third charged toward you. He had no time to reload a bolt and dropped it to the floor, drawing out his knife.

You stepped back as the last Shepherd rushed you and you only had time to reflexively duck the broad stroke of their knife, sinking down almost to the floor as your torso erupted with pain. Achilles swooped low over their head and struck them with his feet before disappearing again into the darkness overhead. You must have called out, and that was enough to draw Daryl’s attention away from his own fight. “Y/N!” he called out. “Hang on!” A fist connected with the side of his face, knocking him slightly off balance. Dog lunged at Daryl’s attacker and sunk his teeth into the Whisperer’s leg, causing them to drop their knife. Daryl plunged his blade into the side of their head and the figure went limp.

When he again turned, his stomach dropped. The last Whisperer had you pinned on the floor with your back against the stone hearth, the edge of it digging into your shoulder blades and spine. You were struggling to keep their knife away from your chest, shaking with the strain of it, your teeth gritting together. Daryl turned to grab his bow and fumbled with the bolt he pulled from the body of the first intruder, rushing to set it in the flight groove with hands shaky with adrenaline.

Your strength was waning rapidly and you could see and feel the point of the knife getting closer and closer to your chest. You looked around desperately, your mind whirring as you searched for a plan. Daryl’s knife had clattered away on the floor and you suspected it had gone under the couch, well out of easy reach. You did the only thing you could think of—continuing to block the attack with your dominant hand, you used the other to reach into the fireplace and plunged your fingers into the still smoking pile of ash and hidden coals. The heat seared your skin but you hardly felt it as you reeled back around and ground it into the eyes of the Shepherd leaning over you. They recoiled and dropped their knife, screaming and stumbling backwards blindly. You scrambled forward on your hands and knees, propelled by the instinct and will to survive, and grabbed hold of their knife off the rug. You swiftly jumped up and plunged it into their chest at the exact same moment the characteristic sound of Daryl’s bolt snapped through the air and buried itself into their head. The body dropped heavily.

You collapsed back down onto the floor yourself, your chest heaving. Achilles landed beside you, cawing and picking at your sleeve with his bill, turning his glossy head and bright eyes this way and that. Daryl rushed over to you, clicking on the lantern as he passed the coffee table, his expression grim. “Fuckin’ hell… Are ya okay?”

You hurriedly nodded, still completely unaware of the damage to your hand, though you were instinctively cradling it with the other. He nodded, though looked unconvinced. You watched as Daryl charged back to stand in the doorway, peering out into the night. He whistled to Dog and the Malinois took off outside, Daryl moving behind him with his bow, checking for any others. Not that he could be 100% sure… the surrounding trees cast the understory in deep shadow and only slender fingers of moonlight reached the forest floor. But Dog seemed calm and trotted back to his side, unconcerned, not a single hair prickling on his back, and that gave Daryl some comfort.

He let out a huge sigh and dropped his bow to his side, shutting his eyes for a brief moment before crossing the little porch and stepping back in. He glanced at the shattered door and then back to you, where you were still on the floor trying to catch your breath. He could see that you were shaking, probably with adrenaline but perhaps also from residual and now new pain.

After he dragged the bodies outside, he shoved the door back in place as best he could and then pushed a heavy wood desk in front of it as a makeshift barricade. He made his way over to you and you looked up at him, your eyes still a little wide. Daryl gulped. “Can I help ya up?”

You nodded slowly. You’d already tried to right yourself, but your side and ribs protested too much and your muscles gave out.

Daryl gripped you gently under the elbows and helped you to your feet. He stood you up merely 6 inches from him, his fingers not leaving until he was sure you were steady. “Alrigh’. C’mon and sit down,” he drawled, guiding you over to the couch. His hand ghosted behind your back the whole way.

He helped you sink down onto the couch carefully, though you still winced a little, and then arranged himself beside you. He leaned his bow up against the couch. “Lemme see that hand,” he said, his brow furrowing deeply. Daryl put his own palm out flat on his knee, waiting for you to make the first move. You eyed it, slowly uncurling your uninjured hand from around the other. “If—if tha’s alrigh?” he asked.

Your eyes flickered back up to his face and between his concerned blue eyes and then you laid your hand in his, a peculiar sensation prickling in your stomach.

He drew in a hiss of breath as your fingers uncurled and he pulled the lantern over more closely. Achilles took off from the top of armoire in the corner again and came to land on the back of the couch behind you, looking over what was happening. “Shit,” Daryl murmured, turning your wrist gently in the light so he could better see. There were shiny red patches scattered over your palm and fingers, interspersed with areas that were blistered or gray with scorched skin.

You seemed to be looking on impassively as he examined you, the back of your hand flush against his rough palm. You worried your bottom lip with your top teeth absently. His touch was surprisingly gentle considering the ferocity with which you’d just seen him fight.

“Fuck,” he swore again, softly, his eyes closing for just a moment against the image of your burned hand. “‘M sorry. I shoulda been faster,” he said.

You looked up at him again, with surprise this time. “This isn’t your fault,” you said, shaking your head. “It was them. The Shepherds.”

He sighed and relinquished his gentle hold on your hand. “‘M still sorry,” he said. “I’ll get some cool water from the kitchen. We should bathe this and wrap it in some sterile bandages to keep it from getting infected.” He dug in his pack and drew out a flashlight and set out some supplies from his first aid kit.

“Daryl—there should be a small, brown glass bottle with an eyedropper in the top of the pantry,” you said suddenly. “It’s lavender essential oil. You can add a few drops to the water. It’s good for burns,” you said. He nodded and then stood and you watched his broad shoulders and the wings on the back of his vest disappear into the kitchen.

Achilles hopped closer and wiggled his long bill into your hair, tickling you. You turned and looked at him. He cocked his head at you and let out a low grating sound. “I’m okay,” you whispered to the bird, scratching behind his head gently with two fingers. “I’m okay.”

Daryl returned with a bowl of cold water and a clean cloth. He sank down on the couch again and set the bowl between you, swirling the cloth through the dispersed sheen of lavender oil on the surface. “Alrigh’. Should help,” he drawled. “S’pretty cold.”

You sunk your hand into the water and couldn’t help the sigh of relief that left your lips, your eyes closing as the coolness quenched the burning. You held it below the water surface, watching the shifting shapes and colors of the reflected room wavering in the bowl.

Daryl’s eyes were fixed on your wrist, on an angry red mark cutting across perpendicular just below your sleeve. “Can I take a look at that?” he asked, gesturing to it.

“Oh,” you said. You hadn’t even noticed it before. “Yes.”

He nudged your sleeve up and stared at the burn. “Must be from the fireplace grate,” he said, dipping the cloth into the cold water and lifting it to let it trickle over the wound. He barely pressed the cotton across it, and you felt the satisfying coldness slowly growing warmer and warmer. Daryl dunked the cloth again and repeated the process, over and over.

“Luke and Alden were righ’,” he said suddenly.

Your brow furrowed and you gave him an unreadable look. “Hmm. What do you mean? About what?”

“‘Bout you bein’ a badass,” he said, dipping the cloth back into the cool water again and replacing it on your wrist. “I mean—I kinda suspected it from what they said ‘bout you fighting out there, and then ya punched me in the face… Pretty much cemented it right there. But this? Badass.” You could tell he was attempting to lighten the mood.

Your expression changed, softened, and you shook your head. “No. I’m not. I’m just—trying to stay alive, like everyone else.”

“Not ev’rybody would think to shove their hand in a pile of coals, damn the consequences,” he said.

You didn’t say anything and he let the silence stretch. Finally, he gently lifted your hand from under the water and set it on a towel he’d tucked beneath, dabbing at the skin delicately to dry it. It was peculiar, having someone else tending to you in this way after so much time alone. You didn’t quite know what to do with the restless energy building up in your midsection or with your facial expression. He grabbed a roll of sterile bandaging and ripped it open, starting to wrap it over your palm and up around your wrist.

“They know ‘bout this place? Before, I mean,” he said.

You shook your head. “No. They didn’t. I don’t think so. I haven’t stayed here in a very long time. They must have been watching us today, followed us here. Wouldn’t exactly have been hard. I was slow. And not alone,” you said. “Traveling openly on the ground.”

Daryl felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly followed by the realization that they perhaps still would have found you if you had been alone, and then it would have been you trying to fight off three of them while injured, and what if you’d been hurt worse? He cleared his throat. “How is the rest of you?” he asked.

You gave him a questioning look, not realizing at first what he’d asked as you were lost in your own thoughts about the Shepherds.

“Your stitches, your forearm? Your head? Alrigh’? Nothin’ bleedin’ again?”

“Oh. No. No, I’m alright,” you said, glancing down at your side to make sure you truly weren’t bleeding again through your shirt. You weren’t. “Just—sore. And tired,” you sighed.

He nodded and tucked the end of the gauze underneath itself when he was satisfied that your hand was well wrapped. “Yeah… ya should get some more rest. ‘M gonna sit up a while, stay on watch. Just in case there are any more of them. Dog will hear ‘em if there are, and I’ll be ready this time,” he drawled.

You nodded as he set the bowl of water on the table and dimmed the lantern. He climbed to his feet and hesitantly offered you some help getting up again, which you accepted. The aches in the rest of your body seemed even more pronounced now, and the hum of pain in your hand was sharpening. “Achilles,” you said softly, and the bird fluttered up onto your shoulder again. You glanced at Daryl, standing in front of the couch.

“Thanks. For patching me up,” you said.

He nodded and then started—struck with a thought. “Where’s yer knife at?” he drawled, glancing around.

“You mean your knife?” you said. One of his matching set. “I’m not sure. It slid away somewhere when I fell. I thought under the couch maybe?”

Daryl grabbed his flashlight again and shown it around the floor, finally spotting the handle poking out from under the side table by the back leg of the sofa. He retrieved it and held it out to you. “Ya better keep this close. Just in case,” he said.

You accepted it with a nod. “Night,” you said. “Um—I think I’ll leave the bedroom door open this time, if that’s alright,” you said. “That way I’ll hear Dog if he alerts. Just in case.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Course.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

Daryl watched your figure become swallowed up in the darkness of the bedroom and waited until he heard the silky rustling of the blankets. He let out a heavy sigh, his anxiety finally seeming to ebb completely. “Good dog,” he murmured, patting the Malinois as he passed him on the rug in front of the fireplace. The deep crimson swipe marks of blood on the wooden floor looked almost black in the low light and he cast them a sideways glance. He could still see the scattering of fine gray snow sticking to the drying blood from your desperate defense. His stomach churned. Then he turned back to the fireplace, blew the ashes from the coals, and added another log, ready to start his vigil.

_ _ _ _ _ _

The next morning had you wandering out of the bedroom in a bit of a daze, wondering at first if you’d dreamt the Shepherds attack in the night, but the bandage and stinging of your hand told you otherwise. There was clattering in the kitchen and you stopped in the doorway to see Daryl at the little gas stove, a flame flickering under a big cast iron pan.

“Hey,” he said, finally realizing you were there. “Sorry. Was I bein’ too loud? Did I wake ya up?”

You shook your head. “No.” Dog trotted over to you and nudged your hand until you scratched behind his ears. He let out a satisfied noise when you hit the right spot and you couldn’t help smiling.

Daryl saw it. His eyes flickered over your face and back down to Dog. “Dun let him boss ya ‘round. He’ll have ya workin’ overtime on scratches,” he said.

Your smile widened just a little, but your eyes stayed on Dog. “I don’t mind,” you said.

“Where’s Achilles at?” he asked, noticing the raven’s absence.

“Out flying,” you said. “He needed to stretch his wings, and he’ll tell us if he sees any dead or people.”

Daryl nodded and stirred around whatever was steaming in the pan. “Uhh—I made some breakfast. And the kettle is hot,” he said. You wandered closer and grabbed a mug from a hook on the wall and glanced down at the food. “Yeah, uhh…” he drawled hesitantly, “hopefully it tastes better than it looks… ‘cause… it looks—”

“—like shit,” you interrupted him. It was a semi-liquid, semi-solid brown concoction bubbling in the bottom of the pan.

He glanced up and met your eyes and you both smiled a little, amused. Daryl let out a low huff of a laugh and stirred it around with the spatula again. “Yeah,” he said, scratching at the back of his head. “Hey, I never said I was a good cook.”

“But it’ll be edible,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Last night’s was actually pretty good.” You went to the pantry and pulled out a jar of dried leaves and rose hips. You were staring down at it and then looked over at your bandaged hand. It stung and burned beneath the gauze.

Daryl was watching closely and set down the spatula. He gently took the mason jar from you and opened it up. “How is it?” he drawled. “Yer hand. And the rest of ya?”

“It’s—okay.”

Your hesitation was enough to make him worry. His brow furrowed as he handed you back the jar of tea leaves. “Prob’ly should change the bandage later today and check it over,” he said. “What about the rest, from the fight with Alpha?”

“I’m fine. Really. Just a little sore.” You dropped some leaves into your mug and Daryl grabbed the kettle before you could and poured the hot water into your cup. “Thanks,” you said.

You went and sat down (gingerly) at the little kitchen table and watched him busy himself at the stove for a little while longer. You stared as the wings on the back of his vest moved as he shifted. “Are you some kind of angel?” you asked.

“Huh?” He turned slightly to look at you over his shoulder.

“Your vest,” you said. “The wings.”

He shrugged. “S’just a design.”

“I don’t know. You seem like the hero type to me,” you said, blowing at the curls of steam rising off your tea.

Daryl gulped, completely unsure of how to interpret that. Was that supposed to be an... insult? A compliment? But suddenly you were smiling and then let out a light laugh at the expression on his face.

“Are you?”

He turned fully now, spatula still in his hand, and leaned back against the counter. “S’this some kinda test? Or—trick question?”

You set your mug down, warming your uninjured hand around the ceramic. “It’s just a question.”

He gave you a long look, and his blue eyes were intense but thoughtful. Something happened in that moment. It was just a feeling, but it bubbled up in your chest unexpectedly, and you found yourself almost startled at it. Connection. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Or was it something more than just a simple human connection. It felt different somehow.

At length, he ducked his head. “Nah, I ain’t no hero. I just—try to do what I can for my people.”

“I’m not your people,” you said quickly. “But you sat at my bedside, tried to calm me down, gave me your knife, attached yourself to me like a fucking barnacle... oh, and probably saved my life last night when those Shepherds busted in.” There was a pregnant pause for a moment where the air felt thick and electric. “You patched up my hand. You seem like you worry about me, which I can’t understand because—”

Daryl let out a sigh that you thought sounded annoyed if that was possible. “Ya are my people now.”

There was a beat before you could find your voice. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I didn’t say ya did. Tha’s just how it works with us. Ya saved me and Dog, and ya saved Luke and Alden, even though it almost killed ya. As far as ‘m concerned, yer one of our people now. Even if ya dun think ya are. Tough shit. Deal with it,” he said with finality. He turned back to the food and you watched him curiously.

Soon, the two of you sat across from each other, almost bumping knees, and ate in silence.

Later that day, Daryl came back from hauling more water from the well to find you standing out in the open, staring out at the trees. He stopped beside you and set down the bucket. “Ev’rythin’ alrigh’?” he asked, following your gaze out toward the canopy.

You nodded. “Yeah. Achilles should be back soon.”

But the expression on your face had him worried. “Ya think more of ‘em are out there?” he asked.

“Oh, they’re out there. But hopefully not here,” you said. You looked over at him and his eyes seemed to land on the still dark bruise on your cheekbone and temple from Alpha’s boot. His face darkened. “I’m fine. It’ll be fine. You should be more worried about what’s happening back home,” you said. “If Alpha comes for her daughter—”

“Well, I ain’t back home. ‘M righ’ here. Tara and them can handle it.” He picked up the bucket again, irritated. The truth was that he was worried about what was happening back home. Henry was there. Jesus had just been killed. And they had a captive Skin freak in a cell. If only he could be in two places at once...

_ _ _ _ _ _

That night, Daryl couldn’t tell at first what woke him up. The cabin interior was nearly all deep black with the exception of a faint orange glow where the fire had dwindled down to coals cloaked in ashes. A soft sound brought his attention to the pile of old, faded newspapers stacked on the side of the hearth. He watched curiously as the corners of a few lifted in a current of air and fluttered before dropping into stillness again.

He sighed and rub a hand over his face, swinging his legs down onto the floor and planting his boots. He hadn’t even meant to fall asleep. He was still worried about more of those freaks showing up... His eyes drifted over to where Dog was curled up on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He raised his head at Daryl’s movement.

The newspaper fluttered again with the same soft sound and Daryl moved around the coffee table toward the hearth and grabbed a log. He blew the ashes clear resulting in a slightly brighter glow and stirred them with the end of the wood until it caught. Flames licked upward again, crawling over the dried bark and curling inside toward the heart of the wood.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the newspapers flutter again but this time it was accompanied by a cool breeze on his cheek. Considering how close he was to the fireplace and the direction of the draft, it didn’t make much sense. He held out a hand, stretching it toward the stack and cold air kissed his fingertips. It was coming from the direction of your closed door.

It didn’t make much sense that you would have opened a window… the night air was cold and the temperature inside the cabin was much more comfortable since you’d built the fire the evening before. Gulping anxiously, Daryl stood and went to stand at the door to the bedroom. He strained his hearing but could hear nothing but the continued occasional flutter of the papers beside him. He hesitated only one more moment before lifting a hand and knocking lightly. “Y/N?” he called out. “Everythin’ okay?”

Behind him, Dog whined and got to his feet.

It was probably only seconds before he knocked again but the silence felt ominously loud. “Y/N?” he called once more, his voice a little gruff still from sleep. “Are ya alrigh’?” Sharp worry seemed to pierce him. You’d been badly hurt and had exerted yourself far more than you should have since the surgery at Hilltop. Sure, you’d rested for most of that day but after the fight last night— “Look, if ya dun answer I’mma have to come in and check on ya,” he drawled, certain he was being loud enough to wake you even if you’d been deeply asleep. He stood still for a long moment, his heart pounding. Dog circled nervously behind Daryl and whined again. “Shit,” he murmured under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face again. But there was still no answer and his hand seized the doorknob and turned. The latch drew back with a metallic click and he pushed into the room. “Y/N?”

He was met with a draft of cool air that fluttered his wavy hair back as he stepped into the room. It was quickly explained by the window, which was left open a crack at the bottom.

Daryl sighed as he looked at the ruffled blankets on the bed. Empty. No sign of your pack. None of your belongings. No Achilles.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. Dog rushed past him and circled the room, sniffing and then sticking his nose into the gap at the windowsill and pulling in loud, deep breaths. Defeated, Daryl stepped farther in and caught sight of a small, rectangular scrap of paper sitting on the quilt. There was a glossy black feather sitting on top of it. He picked it up and spun it between his fingers before turning to the note. It was simple, just a few words.

“Thanks. And sorry.”

Daryl sighed heavily and chewed on the inside of his cheek before glancing at Dog. He walked to the window and shut it securely, locking it in place. “C’mon, boy. See if we can’t pick up her trail,” he said, ruffling the Malinois’ fur as he darted past him back into the main room. You couldn’t have been gone too long… He was shocked he (or Dog rather) hadn’t heard you sneaking out. He must have been deeply asleep for once. Daryl hastily threw on his pack and grabbed the rest of his gear. He doused the recently rekindled flames with water and closed the flue once the smoke and steam had diminished. He took one final look around the cabin. Everything was in its place. He wanted it to be in case you had to come back someday. Just in case.

He stared down at the note and Achilles’ feather once more before tucking them into his jacket. “C’mon,” he said to Dog again, opening the back door and following him out into the cool night. “Track her, boy,” Daryl commanded.

Dog immediately took off and Daryl raced after him, clicking on the flashlight on his bow. He almost didn’t need it. The moon was bright enough to light his way and he used the flashlight beam only to scrutinize the ground for your tracks. He strained his ears in case you were closer than he expected, but the only sounds were the distant calls of night birds and the drone of a few insects.

At first, Dog snuffled the ground and moved in a purposeful path, clearly following the trail of your scent, but after about 200 yards, the Malinois noticeably slowed. He circled and quartered, his nose to the ground and his determined bounding ended. His nose and paws stilled at the base of a large pine with branches that came within easy reach of the ground. Dog lifted his head and looked up. Daryl did the same. Dog stood on his hind legs and put his paws up on the trunk, whining.

Daryl shooed him back and stepped in close, resting his palm against the rough bark, two of his fingers landing in the sticky sap exuded from a wound to the trunk. The pine was dark overhead. He could hear and see nothing. He glanced down at Dog, who yipped anxiously. “Is she up there, Dog?” he asked in a whisper, patting his head. Dog’s paws pranced back and forth and he sat. But there was no urgency in his movements, and Daryl realized, even before he had climbed high into the tree, clumsily with his pack and bow slung on his back, that you had slipped away. No croak of raven or soft rustle of pine boughs, no snarky comment or annoyed glance greeted him when he reached the point where he could climb no higher. It was as if you had faded into a mist and blown away, swept off with Achilles’ wings…

As he climbed down, Daryl marveled at the fact that you had climbed at all, if that is indeed what you had done. He had seen your careful movements, your fatigue, your ginger stretching. He knew the extent of the wound in your side and that you’d had a serious concussion and bruising throughout your body. And on top of it, the burns to your hand were fresh and angry. And yet… you’d vanished.

He wandered back and forth in the area with Dog for some time, hoping to pick up your scent somehow, scanning the ground for a trail to track, but the undergrowth was thick and made moving miserable and completely impossible in some places. He could see why you’d climbed into the trees.

Eventually, defeated, he and Dog turned back.

By the time they reached the little cabin again, the dawn was already growing over the tops of the trees and there was nothing else to do but head back to Hilltop. He was needed there. Time to go.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Tara was standing with Enid and Alden just inside the gate when Daryl came strolling in after Dog. “Daryl!” she yelled with surprise, trotting over. Enid and Alden followed behind. “Are you okay? What happened? We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”

“How is she?” Enid asked urgently, desperate for an update on your condition.

Daryl let out sigh and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly. He shrugged. “Well, she was exhausted and sore but—doin’ alrigh’ last night. But, uhh…” he trailed off.

Tara frowned. “But what?”

He was almost embarrassed to admit it. “She, uhh—left. Without tellin’ me. In the middle of the nigh’… Just slipped right out.”

“What?” Tara asked, her eyebrows lifting, concern painted all over her features. “Why?”

Daryl thought back to what you had told him about your last settlement, about the betrayal and the devastation. “She just ain’t used to bein’ ‘round other people. Same reason she didn’t wanna stay here.”

Enid looked thoroughly worried and Alden gently put a hand on the small of her back.

Daryl did what he could to assuage Enid’s worry. “Look, she’s tough as hell. ‘M pretty sure she’s gonna be just fine. Somethin’ else happened though... Some of those Skins must’ve followed us to where we crashed the day we left. Three of ‘em. They broke in that night and attacked us. We fought ‘em off but one of her hands got burned pretty good.”

“Oh my God,” Tara said, her face falling.

Enid looked thoroughly upset. “You should have brought her back here,” she said. “We could have treated her.”

Daryl shook his head. “Enid, you and I both know there was no way she was comin’ back here unless she was forced to. I helped her get it cleaned up and patched up. She used some lavender oil on it. I think—I think she’s gonna be alright. Really. She’s tough as hell.”

Alden let out a laugh and the three others looked over at him. It seemed like an odd time to be laughing. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s just—not only did she get a hit in on Daryl Dixon, but she snuck away without you knowing? Or being able to track her? If I hadn’t seen her myself, I’d say she is a damn ghost.”