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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 2 months ago

Text

Onstage

What - it's nothing to panic about, Lori's secret pregnancy, Shane's changes for the worse, Sophia gone for over a week, and now a barn full of walkers. It's fine. No big deal, nothing is wrong, so you're gonna step onstage and act like it. On the bright side, Daryl isn't stuck in a bed anymore!

When - the morning after Keep this dog asleep. (the night where Glenn discovers the barn in Season 2)

Who - this is part of the Slowpoke Series, which is a canon compliant slow burn Reader x Daryl. You're also Shane's younger sibling

Pronouns - she/her

TWs - a few cusses, panic, bad screenshots

References - lots, y'all, want the Masterlist?

Length - longer bc I've been awol, I've been dreading posting again, friends, so thank you much for reading. Kind feedback is always welcome :)

“Goodness. You two slept together.”

“Wha—Carol!” you squeak, accidentally splashing some coffee on your hands while you’re at it, to which Carol apologizes, “Oops!”

Glenn and you fell asleep beside each other, by the fire pit. You two must have conked out while staring at the barn.

Brr, the sun hasn’t warmed the day yet, you’re like an ice-pop.

“Wh’appened?” Glenn mumbles, still half-asleep in Dale’s camp chair.

Carl, freshly freed from the house and now officially back to the tents, also wanted to know, “What was the joke?”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” Carol whispers in your ear and wipes the coffee off your hand with a tissue she had in her pocket.

That ship has sailed, Carol!

Lori smiles and shakes her head, and hands Glenn a coffee cup. “Carol was teasing them about having spent the night out here. Must’ve stayed up far too late having fun.”

“‘Fun,’” Glenn groans to himself, blindly nursing his coffee. You notice he winces and reaches for the back of his neck when he tries to bend it forward. Must’ve slept on it wrong.

“How late did you guys stay up?”

“I don’t even know, little man,” you answer Carl while reaching out for a hug. “But ‘far too late’ sure is correct.”

He returns your reach and hugs you back, tucking his head down across your neck like he used to when he was little. You press a kiss to his temple and hold him awhile longer, not wanting to let go first.

It’s good to have started the day on an up-note. You’re already on guard this morning. Less so about the genuine, bona-fide barn full of walkers on the property and moreso that Glenn won’t keep the secret long enough.

Which is backwards, but…the worry is that Shane will, um, and, and— oh God, and Carl can’t go near it! What are you gon—

“—Here, Maggie left these for you two.” Lori has returned and plunks down what resembles an Easter basket filled with peaches.

“Wait, should you be lifting heav—” Glenn cuts himself off, apparently having woken up a brain cell and remembering the pregnancy is still a secret.

You run onstage and speak up for Lori. “That’s how her arms stay so toned. Can you believe she hand-whipped the cream for the ambrosia?” Solid improv.

Lori seems to tamp down on whatever frustration she’s feeling. “It’s not heavy, Glenn.”

“Mom can lift so much, that puny basket of peaches is nothing,” Carl tells him, apparently thinking Glenn was being dumb.

Rattled, it takes a moment before Lori recalls what she was talking about. “Maggie also gave us a bucket filled with tomatoes along with another big bowl of eggs. We have to find a way to thank them. They’ve done so much.” She sighs. “Even last night, we cooked the meal, but they provided the food. Meat, even. All we contributed food-wise was the field green salad and the two cans of creamed corn.”

You’ve got to keep it to yourself that by not revealing the Greene’s massive secret about a barn full of walkers, you’re certainly giving them some kind of fucked up recompense.

And like you said last night, there are worse things to be bribed with than food. In fact, you have no immediate plans to do anything other than sit here, miserably tired, in T-Dog’s camp chair and stress-eat peaches — and stick close to Glenn lest he get the urge to open Pandora’s box about that barn.

“Carl, Miss Patricia hopefully mentioned how the barn is unstable? They won’t even go near it, and we are forbidden.” You swipe a peach and have at it. The juice dribbles down your hand and chin. Carl smirks. You snort; at least he’s seen you look grosser. So, in a very ladylike fashion, you shove the rest of it in your mouth in one bite and immediately swipe another. “There’s some kind of vermin problem, too, and you don’t want none of them diseases rats and the like carry. Keep away.”

Mid-chew, you realize that you just lied flawlessly by slipping in truth. You’re not big on lying. In fact, you hate it. You don’t do it, or, at least you think you don’t? Do you?

This and the weight of last night’s inward decision that you made sits heavy in your stomach, making the peach sink like a rock.

You’re going to leave, with your brother. Shane can’t stay here, not when the news of the baby and now the barn gets out. You’ll even go to Fort Benning despite all your misgivings. Anything to keep things from imploding here when those secrets get out. Not, um, not that you’ll stay away forever from the group, just until, um…

Well, if looks are any indication, Glenn’s also busy being miserably tired and stressed. He was the one to discover the barn’s secret, first off. And he’s not good with secrets, and now has three to contend with. The pregnancy, Shane losing his temper and physically hurting you. And now, the stupid, stupid, awful barn.

“Did your head flop down when you fell asleep, Glenn?”

“It must’ve, it’s so stiff!” he mutters. “I can’t have a stiff neck when the…”

Smart, he knows not to finish the sentence and instead resumes warily eyeing the barn. You’re grateful your neck is fine and dandy, you’re in no fit state to mess up your neck or shoulder again. For real, by the grace of God, you’d fallen asleep nestled in T-Dog’s camp chair and your neck stayed blessedly straight and untwisted.

“We search for Sophia in groups, it’s all good,” you cover for him. Carl is still next to you, so the fewer questions, the better.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but you’re restless. Seeking something to busy your hands with, you think to yourself you know what? Your friend could use a massage. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, considering you slept together (lol).

Shoving the rest of the second peach in your mouth, you consider that slurping the juice off your hand may be a mite untoward, so instead you…wipe it on the clothes you wore all day yesterday and fell asleep in…such a feminine, classy woman. Didn’t even brush your teeth last night.

Whatever, a neck and shoulder rub is the least you can do for a friend you may not see again. “Glenn, I can do you a massage,” you offer.

“Wait. Really?”

“’Course.” Let’s face it, you may not see him again after you leave. Maybe no one here, just look at the track record of losing peop — oh my gosh, crybaby much? Get your butt back onstage and act fine.

“Can you, with your arm still wrapped like that?” he checks regarding your modified sling.

“Sure can.”

“Dude, that would be, like,” Glenn sighs, then you hear Lori call for Carl, who gets up and goes to his mother. “Thank you, that would be awesome, it hurts really bad,” your friend accepts.

“Eh, it’s the least I could do, considering last night we did,” pause for dramatic effect, “sleep together.”

“What the h—”

“—Bro, I know," you drone. "That’s what Carol joked about a few minutes ago. Didn’t expect that joke outta her, right?”

“Slept together, now I get it,” he cracks up halfheartedly. But in an instant, his gaze gets drawn right back toward the barn and resettles into uneasy, blatant stare.

That rattles you. Suddenly, you become convinced he’s gonna spill the beans before the one week (at least one week!) trial. For a few moments, you feel breathless, as in you can’t inhale enough. That happened last night, too, you figured it was because of the cold air.

You cough, inhale extra deep. The sensation goes away. But now you’re starting to get mad. As you rise from the chair, you’re more than conscious of your inner kettle beginning to simmer. Not gonna lie, you sound snotty when you comment, “Glad to see they didn’t learn how to jump as high as a hayloft and find their way out yet.”

“Y/N.”

In lieu of any new comeback, you start on his neck. Immediately and likely without meaning to, he lets out a thankful groan. That warms you, and you remind yourself he’s worried for a good reason and that you love your friend.

And, strangely, then you think back to how you did this for Daryl, gave him a massage. How pleasant the closeness felt, how strange it made your stomach feel. How he’d silently cried but was vulnerable enough to ask you not to stop…

And with the jokes about you and Glenn, you’re feeling some unpleasantly conflicting emotions. Full disclosure, you’d had some hidden and very unwelcome hurt feelings when you found out about him and Maggie. Residual, you reckon, from when you’d two had a little fondness (lol Dale) for each other.

Really, you know it’s just that you’re lonely and things are stressful. More than stressful.

“Wanna kick the ball around later with the others, see if the girls can’t beat y’all this time?” Together, Jimmy and he have been an unbeatable team so far, and you three girls want to change that.

“Anything to make the pharmacy trip suck less.”

Man, you’d forgotten all about that. It’s supposed to feature none other than Glenn, Maggie, yourself, and maybe T-Dog. “That’s still on?”

Glenn shrugs. “I don’t remember. And I don’t want to go today, let’s do it tomorrow or Monday.”

“Fine by me. Naught dire we need yet.”

He unexpectedly exhales in pleasure when you must’ve hit a spot he needs worked out.“I haven’t gotten a massage since, like,” your friend sighs again, and he sounds weighed down when he continues. “Varsity baseball in high school. Appa was really good at shoulder rubs.”

“Oh.” A memory about his dad might will probably spark a whole lot of memories, and he’s still iffy about crying in front of people. “Want me to stop?”

“Heck no.”

“Are you cool with crying? Massages sometimes do that,” you hesitate.

“What do you mean?”

“I meant the act itself can make folk cry sometimes.” Especially if memories get brought up.

“Make ‘folk’ cry?” he teases. "You already used the word 'naught,' too, bumpkin."

You pause the massage to give him a very light shove. “Shut up, buttface.”

Breakfast is eggs again, you can smell them cooking. The Greenes have been very generous with eggs. And, of course, now extra-generous with the peaches and some tomatoes, apparently. Maybe the thrill of yellow squash or string beans is in the future, too.

Ooh, or dairy. Oh my gosh, or red meat! Jimmy mentioned they’ve made a ton of jerky what with their cattle.

“G’morning,” you hear Shane behind you.

“Heya.”

“Morning, Shane.”

The razzing is clear in his tone of voice, but try telling that to Glenn as your brother says, “Lookin’ cute, you two. Didn’t know this was a thing now, I thought that ship had sailed.”

Yeahhhhh, Glenn wriggles away from your hands quicker than you can whine, “Shaney!” who simply cracks up, “Just teasing.”

“I’ll tease your face,” you wish you weren’t snickering back. “And you know my heart belongs to darling Theodore,” you add in an exaggerated accent.

T-Dog, unfortunately, hears, and utters a soft “Da hell?” aaand you cackle even harder. Surely he knows the not-so-secret secret that you think he’s a catch? Too old for you, but, like. What a gem.

“Glenn, my apologies.” Shane winks. “It’s too easy to rile this one up. And Dog, don’t worry.”

“It’s cool,” Glenn answers so awkwardly.

You scrunch your lips at your brother in an effort not to smile. He’s acting like himself again, the real Shane. You don’t feel as if you’re looking at a stranger, you don’t feel the urge to stay on-guard or stay onstage. “Proud of yourself?”

He shrugs with a lazy grin. “It is real easy to rile you up.”

“Mmhm, well I’m fixing to escape to Fort Benning right now, lemme just wash up first.” You insert this little seed in hope it takes root. He was planning to go there before things changed.

He was planning to go without your input or foreknowledge, too, but he was doing what he thought was best for the group. For Lori and Rick.

Until he didn’t anymore, according to what he said to Lori.

That night, the same day Daryl had almost died, was something else.

The things he said to Lori echo in your head, the confident flirting while she was visibly unreceptive and shaken.

Then you recall the way he’s been “pragmatic” and almost irritated about the continuing search for Sophia.

Then the way he blew up at you, hurt you.

And finally, how your first reaction to finding out there was a barn filled with walkers a mere one minute trek from where your people are sleeping in tents was to insist that the secret must be kept from Shane at all costs. That the secret had to stay that way because of what would happen if Shane found out.

Maybe it’s from sleeping too close to the campfire or because it was so chilly last night, but the breathing trouble is back. It's fine, this happened last night, it ended up being fine.

You cough a few times to try and inhale more deeply and ease the tightness in your chest, but you feel strange and a little nauseous. Maybe you're coming down with something.

“Lemme take over here — aw, Glenn, hey, sit back on down,” Shane insists to your friend who just tried to escape. “Heard you slept on your neck wrong. That shit stinks, man. But,” he holds out his hands and wiggles his fingers. “I got so much practice with massages from this one’s migraines, I might should switch careers. C’mon then,” he says lightheartedly.

The unease you just wrestled with lessens. This is the real Shane, the confident, even cocky, but goodhearted one.

Huh, cool, your breathing feels a little better, too.

He looks at you and points with his thumb toward the house. “The uh, the little one, what’s the blonde girl’s name again?”

“Soph—oh! Um, sorry, y-you mean ‘Beth,’” you stammer, all the mirth from a moment ago zapped.

The look in your brother’s eyes changes from easygoing to dampened to cold.

He tries to sound nonchalant behind a thin veil of both defense and offense. “Yeah, the, uh, the teenager. She asked for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” You’d be off like a shot if there wasn’t another potential time bomb to worry about.

Glenn.

To your friend, you assure in truth, “He does give a mighty solid massage.” But when you lean over enough for him to see your face, you can feel your eyes darken when you hold the finger to your lips and set your jaw.

And as you make toward the house with your coffee and another two peaches, you’re grappling with the fact that, in an effort to keep Glenn quiet so everything won’t blow to pieces, you’re behaving not unlike the very person that you’re trying to prevent from igniting the explosion in the first place.

Another worry is the way you so easily slipped in and out of being onstage.

You’ve always been one to insist on truth and honesty. It’s a badge of honor you wear with pride, and even Daryl, prickly grump Daryl, has mentioned it and appreciates that about you.

And yet, look at your conduct over the past week or so. You can certainly lie, and be believable at it. You don’t like that.

Ew, gross, you’re getting nauseous again.

As you near the porch, Beth’s soft, clear voice calls your name, and she exits the house to meet you. “I got somethin’ for you. Can you come upstairs?”

“Sure. Your dress is cute!” comes out automatically. You’re still dazed and stressed. Her sundress really is pretty, though. Briefly, you consider how it would be nice to feel feminine again.

She leads you up the stairs, and it strikes you how odd it is that you have to go upstairs for whatever she’s going to give you, right? Then, you worry that it’s to do with the barn.

And you’re right.

Or, at least, you think you are. Maggie is upstairs when Beth brings you there.

The tightness comes back, so you focus on your breathing and will your stomach to chill out. You're onstage, you need to perform.

“Y/N, hi!” Margaret says this a little overly chipper, even though her appearance suggests that she’s had about as much shut-eye as you, if not less. “Sleep okay?”

“A-About as well as you, I reckon,” you answer with a hint of humor and only a trace of a stress stutter. Buying time with a few more coughs, before you get too defensive, you play it off as if Beth does not know that you and Glenn know. “We stayed up far too late and ate way too many peaches,” you say the girl. Which is the truth, you aren’t lying! You aren't lyi — nope, don't you cry! Stay onstage, stay onstage, stay onstage—

—As it so happens, now is when you recall how you are currently carrying two peaches in your hand, so your cheeks heat. The urge to cry goes away, so, small win. “I ate way too many, at least.”

Beth giggles. “I love peaches, too. I had peach cobbler as my birthday cake two years ago. The ones we grow are so good!”

“Thank you for the basket of food, by the way, it was very kind.” Very kind bribery, please keep it up, we haven’t had this much available food in months, in fact, we’ll probably do anything you ask us if you let us stay here!

“There’s plenty more where the peaches came from. The season’s almost over, but we still have bushels left to pick, the hens haven’t slowed production yet, and we’re almost out of canning supplies we’ve done so many,” Maggie responds.

Beth is opening a big trash bag on her bed that looks like it’s filled with blankets, so Maggie takes the opportunity to lock eyes with you again. She mouths, “Thank you.”

For not saying anything? “She doesn’t know we know?” you mouth back.

She shakes her head.

You relax muscles you didn’t know you were tensing.

“Yay, I got it open without rippin' it!” Beth exclaims. “Y/N, Maggie and I had gathered up a bunch of clothes for charity, but that’s when things got, w-well,” she halts, unsure of how to describe the outbreaks. “The bad things happened, but, um, we, well, we still had all the donations bagged. Daddy and Shawn also…” She quiets at mentioning her deceased older brother and turns weepy.

Her big sister finishes for her. “Shawn donated clothes, too. And Mom.” She swallows. “There’s plenty to share with your group, is what she means.” Maggie nods her head at the bag on the bed, then to two others on the floor.

They're sharing...all of those?

You don’t get a chance to ask it because Beth is already answering. “When I saw how y’all looked, it was scary. The,” she starts, then stops. “Not that you were scary, I meant y’all must’ve been out there a long time. It’s scary to think about.”

“In your defense, I did look scary the first time you saw me.” Wild hair, sweat-drenched, sobbing, and covered in Carl’s and your own blood. Rough day.

But having been ‘out there,’ as Beth worded it, it’s not so scary when you’re with a group you trust. It even feels comforting to have them all. Which is when you consider how Shane and you will be back out there in a couple weeks, alone.

“Here.” Beth shyly points to the bag. “I wanted to offer for you to look through the bags first. If, if you want.”

The offer is (more) bribery to keep you quiet, which cools the warmth of the charity, but doesn't lessen the grateful tears you spill. Plus, yes, you all could use some fresh clothes, there’s only so much mending that can be done. And to be offered first dibs, even if it’s just to butter you up, is still being offered first dibs. “I’d love to take a look, thank you,” you say in earnest.

Beth combs through the bag and chats in her shy manner, handing you a barely-worn, calf-length dress that had been gift for Maggie, then a (pure wool?!) cardigan their mother had been giving away.

You find it hard to believe that she’s doing this as bribery, Beth doesn’t seem the sort to easily conceal things. She’s got an innocence that hits as genuine.

But, then again, you who hate dishonesty are apparently great at it. Who’s to say she’s not, too?

The breathlessness briefly comes back. You clear your throat and cough once.

Beth next, to your apprehension and then delight, has you try on the dress and cardigan (which shockingly fit). While retying the modified sling around your upper arm, Maggie keeps trying to catch your eye again in order to, you don’t know, communicate something via meaningful glance? But you don’t have the bandwidth for it, so return her look with a polite smile and shrug.

Her little sister then proceeds to gussy you up in a way reminiscent of how Amy did once at the quarry camp to see how Glenn would react. Gosh, was that only two-ish months ago, wasn’t it? Or has it been longer? It feels like longer.

Beth has manages a quick, respectable braided style for your hair, touches up your eyebrows for you, and even adds blush. She then claims that your hiking boots “look okay” with the ensemble and has you use the full length mirror in her closet to inspect the full results.

The dress is lovely, you have to admit. The neckline doesn’t dip too low bonus that it doesn’t show your bruise, the waist is defined, and it’s long enough past your knees to be comfortable. The length also helps lessen the lingering apprehension you have about showing natural (*cough cough unshaven*) legs.

You actually feel…pretty. Been a while.

It’s as if she knew you were yearning to feel girly again. If this is bribery, you welcome it. Worse ways of being bribed than with fresh food and a makeover from a genuinely sweet kid. And hey, since you have to be onstage so much, might as well dress nicely for the audience.

When you’re walking downstairs to bring your people the donations, Maggie murmurs in your ear, “Y/N, I didn’t put her up to any of this, it was all her.”

When you pull away from her, she's insistent. “It wasn’t her bein’ nice to keep you quiet. Remember, she doesn’t kn—”

“—Good mornin’, girls. What’s in the bags?” Patricia’s voice calls from the bottom of the stairwell.

“We had some clothes to donate since before Easter,” Beth answers. “I figured they could use ’em.”

“They certainly could. I’m glad I have plenty I brought from my house when we moved in.” You can see Miss Patricia in the hallway by the stairs, clearly wearing one of her late husband’s shirts over her dress. Her brows lift. “Seems you dolled your friend up some. You clean up nice, sweetpea!”

“Thank you, ma’am. I-I do feel like a lady again,” you allow, your cheeks again warming.

“Never stopped being one, as far as I’m concerned. Always kept your Ps and Qs,” she’s kind enough to maintain. “Oh, speaking of ladies, I don’t know how y’all are doing on girls’ supplies, but we should have enough to share while you’re still with us.”

“Margaret and I were gonna look for some more on the next drug store run tomorrow or Monday to make sure you’re well stocked.” Along with everything else on the list(s) that was forgotten when those two…got distracted.

Ugh, how different things would be if you’d gone along for that trip! None of this barn bullshit!

Again, you feel the need to cough to help you breathe better, so you cough twice and try clearing your throat.

“Uh-oh, sounds like cold and flu season is well on it’s way,” she muses. “Don’t let me keep you holding them bags all day, girls. It’ll be funny watchin’ your daddy react if one of them ends up dressed in his giveaways,” the woman comments wryly. “Now, I did intend to check on those stitches today, Y/N, so come see me later. Hersh is just finishing up with Daryl’s, in fact, then he’ll be all set to go, if you were wantin’ to see him out.”

Oh, right! Today is finally the day he’s leaving that room!

Carl, too, but he’s already out and has been wandering around outside as much as his energy and mom will allow (which isn’t very much yet).

Daryl, on the other hand, has been too dizzy and too ashamed to do much more than a trip around the perimeter of the house.

Carol and you cleaned his tent yesterday as a surprise. It was her idea, of course. She enlisted your help specifically because you twice mentioned not thinking his sweat smelled bad, which is weird, but, for real, it doesn’t smell bad to you. The cigarettes, on the other hand, ew.

“Are we not going today?” Maggie asks quietly about the postponed pharmacy trip.

With tact, you suggest, “We could all use some rest after stayin’ up so late.”

She peers into your eyes, then nods and adjusts her hold on the two bags in her hands.“That’s a good idea. I’m not up to it, either.”

Upon stepping back outside onto the front porch, Jimmy and Glenn are kicking the soccer ball around already. Glenn is keeping his neck taut as he and Jimmy go back and forth, but the pain must have lessened.

The irresistible urge you have to make light of everything seizes you, and you leap into matchmaker mode because, why not? You won’t be here much longer, and maybe Maggie and Glenn linking up will lead to the rest being permitted to stay. That’s what matters.

Oh, and, uh, because you love Glenn, and Maggie is kind…oh fuck, are you just a calculating, cold strategist?

The feeling that you’re running out of air and going to vomit returns, but you push yourself onstage and commit to the role. You have to keep your shit together.

“Ain’t he handsome when he plays? Good sportsmanship and confidence rolled into one.” You playfully hold a smile back when you glance at Maggie and giggle to hide your heavy breathing. “Also the shiny hair.”

“He does have great hair,” she softly agrees.

“Y/N, do you and Glenn like each other? I-I thought…” Beth’s face has paled.

Maybe that’s why you over-act when you exclaim, “Of course I like him, that’s why I’m such a great wingwoman for him.”

Margaret blushes. “Let’s get these bags to their camp.”

------------------------------

Him

------------------------------

“I can’t hunt?”

“You can do as you please,” the old man remarks. What, is he making fun of him? “But doing so while recovering from a concussion would be foolish, as would be heavy lifting or other strenuous activity, and that’s not considering your collarbone and ribs. I’m curious as to how you’d wield your weapon or bring back what you hunted, for one, if you would even make it off the property without keeling over.”

Daryl bites his tongue and keeps his words to himself. Well, fine! I can still bring that little girl back. She’s got legs, she’ll be able to walk on her own.

Hershel cleans up his stuff and stands. “Now, then, I’m sure you’re ready to finally see yourself out.”

“Damn straight,” is probably not the smartest response in front of the old man, what with the cuss word, but damn straight he is ready to get the hell out of there. Still, he remembers his manners. “Thanks for everythin’.” He even holds out his hand for a shake. Which is dumb because the guy’s hands are full.

Daryl…puts his hand back down and grabs the few things he had in there with him. Y/N once described the Dr. Farmer as ‘unreadable.’ Definitely is that.

Unreadable, Hershel drawls, “It’s good you’re on the mend,” and inclines his head toward the door. “After you.”

------------------------------

You

------------------------------

Dude, you had a panic attack.

It wasn’t too too bad, all things considered. Initially, you’d thought it was a mild asthma attack, but in hindsight, wow you were oblivious to all of the signs.

It started to happen when some of the group was going through the clothes, right after Maggie and you dropped them off and she left to do choring.

Lori was beside you, low-key beside herself trying to figure out how your people could “ever repay the family now?”

Next, T-Dog joked about the sizes being too small for him. “Ain’t sure what here I could fit that won’t result in a show for y’all.”

This is when Andrea murmured to Carol, “Reminds me how it’s been awhile.” The way Carol reacted clued you in that it might have been a sex joke. Especially given the way Andy next gave your brother a once-over as if you weren’t right there. You vividly recall licking your teeth and rolling your eyes.

Then Shane — and he did this without having seen Andrea do the once-over — nudged T-Dog in the ribs and began to unbutton his own top. “Worse things than a show these days, friend. And that there clean shirt is calling my name.” Naturally, he proceeded to swap garments right where he stood.

Per usual, Lori was more graceful than you. She ignored it as if he were her own brother acting like a frat boy, and merely continued to sift through one of the bags. She smiled upon finding something, tapped Carol on the shoulder, and handed it to her.

It’s been a week now since Shane's betrayal of her and Rick. Even you are still figuring out how to see him. The hopeful part is that he’s been leaving Lori alone. If his sights have indeed turned to Andrea, all the better.

Back to the moment, you next worried that what if he and Andrea got a little too close, did something foolish, and she ended up pregnant, too.

Not that Lori’s baby is Shane’s, the baby is Rick’s regardless, but...

The tight feeling returned in your chest.

It was in the midst of this that Dale complimented you. “Kiddo, you’re all gussied up! Any occasion?”

“Mmhm, all dressed up for the ‘show.’” The nausea was back, plus a fun new notion of being observed, as if everyone and anyone, seen or unseen, was staring you down.

Dale just nodded with raised brows, and you and he shared a look. Instead of tempering your fears, it piqued them. It wasn’t his fault, but Mr. Horvath’s expression started to mirror the way he stared into your eyes after catching Shane lose his temper and leave you with a bruise on your sternum.

The fears within you, the stress, the dread, all started roiling stronger and stronger. You cleared your throat, then coughed, but it didn’t help. You felt so restless and, oddly, cornered.

And so, not knowing where to look therefore looking in all directions, you happened to spy Glenn staring at the barn. Again.

The air felt too…thin? And then you noticed Lori examining the torso of one of the shirts in the bag as if testing it for stretchiness or room. You could see the shadows clouding her face right before she abruptly put the shirt down.

Then, there was Carol, holding up something that had clearly must have been Beth’s a few years ago, and it looked as if it would fit Sophia perfectly now.

It was just about then that your lungs simply couldn’t keep up.

“Kiddo?” sounded in your ear.

You may have panted something to do with “puffer,” referring to your largely unused inhaler. At any rate, instead of next going to the logical location of the RV to find the med bag, you made for the treeline. You didn’t want anyone near you, didn’t want anybody to see you, didn’t want a fuss, didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want anyone to even think about you, so you had to hide.

Panting, a numbness started to affect your fingers and spread to your torso and toes. You repeatedly coughed in an effort to break up whatever was making it hard to breathe.

Once you started coughing, it dominoed. Your stitches were tugging at the forceful coughs, and soon, you were hacking. The hacking led to retching, one, two, three times. Tears started to fall.

“Baby, here,” came from your right and a warm, delicate hand touched the small of your back. Lori. She pressed the inhaler into your hand. “I shook it up, it’s all ready.”

Bending forward slightly to open your airways, you tried to exhale enough so you could take the dose properly as you clasped the trigger.

One puff. Hold breath in.

Your pulse thudded in your ears.

Another puff. Hold breath in.

The relief that usually comes with the medication wasn’t as apparent as it normally would be. It helped somewhat, but.

You tried another dose.

More tears of frustration. You panted to her that you thought your were going to pass out. "F-Feels like m'gonna die," you may have also said.

The phantom sensation of your hand being covered in Amy's blood returned. You recall wiping it with the hem of your dress, and Lori taking your hands, preventing you from continuing to do so.

Lori calmly instructed you to, “Try this with me, honey,” and slowly breathed in through her nose. You copied as best you could.

She then slowly breathed out through her mouth. You copied as best you could.

Over and over she coached you until things started to ease.

You looked around you. Your new sweater was hanging off your elbows. Your pulse was still loudly thumping, but two doses of a corticosteroid will do that. In your escape, you’d made for the big rocks where you’d shared (sort of) a cigarette with Daryl. The stones felt nice and cool, and Lori’s gentle rubbing of her hand across your back was comforting.

“Been a while since you’ve needed the inhaler. ‘Decorative,’ you called it once,” she softly chatted. The sensation of not getting enough air wasn’t quite gone just then, but you felt pretty normal again.

“I reckon the cold and the smoke must’ve done me in,” you mumbled. Your throat was mildly sore after all the coughing. “It’s good it was mild.”

“Were you wheezing?”

“No, I…just couldn’t breathe enough or something.” You shrugged. “I don’t always wheeze when I need it.” Your nose was stuffy from crying.

She was thoughtful for a moment, and had begun to lightly scratch your back. “You and Glenn seem off this morning. I’ve seen you two tired before, but today you both seem…there’s something else going on, clearly. Did you two fight?”

“Not exactly.” It’s true. “We’re on the same page.” You weren't prepared to have to go onstage again, but just in case, you tried pulling yourself together.

“Was it about Maggie?”

You laughed genuinely. “Ha, not at all.”

Lori didn’t mirror your laughter or even smile in return. “Honey, I think you had a panic attack.”

That's ridiculous! was your initial reaction, which is why, at first, you protested. “Oh, it wasn’t that dramatic.”

“It looked different from where I was. But even still, it didn’t have to be or feel ‘dramatic’ to have been one. You know that.” The nonjudgemental straightforwardness in her voice, in her eyes, was enough to convince you that she could see straight into your heart and read what was there. “Y/N, is there something more going on?”

More than anything, at that moment, you didn’t want to lie to her.

But what could you do? Tell the truth, yes, 'the truth will out,' you know that. But you were convinced that telling the whole truth, right then, would be like lighting dynamite.

In your view, you would be exposing everyone to chaos and even violence, and you'd all seen too much of that already. And no, you couldn’t just tell one person because it never just stays with one person. Lori was/is not in any position to have more fear on her plate.

So what did you do?

You crawled back on that stage and you lied — by telling the truth.

“I’m worried he’ll talk.” Vague and a lie of omission, and maybe a little throwing your friend under the bus, but Lord have mercy on you, it was truthful.

Lori squeezed her eyes shut. “Me, too. Oh honey, I’m so scared!” she whispered, covering her mouth.

So scared of Shane, just like you are. “Rick won’t hold any of it against you. We all thought he was dead.”

She shook her head and stared at the ground.“But you saw how Shane behaved, you, you heard the things he said, Y/N,” she nearly hissed. “I don’t know who that man was, but it wasn’t Shane, just like when he had m—” then Lori cut off.

“When he had what?”

She shook her head again. “Seems Dale’s on his way over. He told me about what was going on so I could bring your medicine to you. He hadn't known what 'puffer' meant." A look of pure guilt. "And —oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry that you’re worrying yourself like this over my mistakes! It's not fair to you.”

“Your kid ain’t a mistake, it’s so good that they’re here,” you replied in total honesty. First time all day.

Maybe she’ll be honest with you and spill whatever Shane did that she’s not being upfront about. Whatever it is could surely have been described in a sentence. “What else did Shane do, Lore?” It can’t have been that bad, or could it?

All she did was shake her head once more. “Like you said, he hasn’t been himself.

‘Hasn’t been himself.’ Fine. You’ve got secrets, too, so there’s no way on earth that you can cast stones.

You stepped back onstage for hopefully the final time, and made yourself deliver the next lines. “That’s why we’re goin’ to Fort Benning.” Without you all. “Just him and me. Within two weeks, I hope?” The nausea still hadn’t gone away, and simply saying this brought it back.

Her brows sunk caution. “When was this decision made? I-I thought—”

“—I ain’t told him about it yet.” The bitter smile, you hadn’t been able to stifle. “Shouldn’t be hard to convince him, considering he was fixing to not so long ago.”

Lori’s apologetic tone wasn’t a put-on. “I’m so sorry he didn’t tell you. I had no idea you were left in the dark.”

That’s when some tightness came back to your chest, and your breathing turned faster again. “I know, Lore.”

She noticed. “Honey, hey,” she soothed, “breathe slowly, deeply." Her hand cupped your cheek. "His mistakes, his choices, his reactions are not your responsibility.”

“I know, b-but—”

“—And you don’t have to leave with him if you don't want to.”

“But wh—”

“—No buts.” Lori cupped your cheek, stood, and swiftly made toward Dale.

And here is where you hadn’t known she was going to be quite so straightforward with him.

In fact, you’d hoped she’d join you onstage and lie, too, but she behaved beyond reproach. “It was a panic attack, so please make sure to respect her privacy about it. I’ve got to check on the laundry.”

------------------------------

Him

------------------------------

Funny thing, he’s wearing the same clothes he had his accident in. He’s in the same stuff leaving that he had been when he got carried in there, except now they’re cleaned and mended.

It’s been good to be back outside, he prefers it. He can’t wrap his head around why some people can keep inside in front of a screen all day. You don’t get to hear or feel the wind indoors, can’t hear the birds and all that.

Now, he couldn’t say for sure, but stepping outside and knowing he didn’t have to go back in must feel at least half as good as getting freed from prison.

If prison was a nice-ass farmhouse without the risk of getting shanked or worse, obviously.

Merle would have some words if he heard Daryl say something like that out loud. Though, Merle was pretty settled when he was in lock-up. Fared fine.

His first view when he steps out into freedom is Glenn and the teenage boy kicking the ball around. Those two are straight into it and pay him no mind as he walks around them.

The rest of the group is around the picnic table, looks like they’re sorting laundry (?), therefore ain’t paying him no mind, either.

Phew.

This is good. He was wondering if Y/N was gonna parade him out or make it a big deal, but after hearing her and the other ladies talking in the hallway, she didn’t come back in. Works for him, he doesn’t like a crowd.

…But, like, where is she? He figured she’d be around, is all, but she ain’t by the table.

Ah, yeah, duh — she's probably still doing something with the girl that's about her age and her little sister. Still seems off Y/N and Glenn are only “five or six years younger” than him, but that’s what Y/N has said a few times.

The next thing he sees is Lori, who is swooping down the yard and toward the big rocks where he and T-Dog took a smoke break once. And where Y/N had her first try of a cigarette, too. Lori looks like a woman on a mission, damn. Dale is staring in the direction Lori is walking, those big-ass brows of his slanted downward. Wonder what that's about?

Over the sound of a few leftover end-of-season cicadas, he hears the normal drone of crickets, light talking from the group, the thunk of the ball getting kicked, a very loud crow, some cows mooing, somebody coughing, birds doing their thing, chickens clucking, the wind blowing. Mmm, good stuff. Being inside and hearing it just don’t sound as good as being right out in it.

Then, “Daryl!” comes from his left, and he sees Carol walking to him. She’s a good woman.

And now the memory of her kissing him on the cheek is making his cheeks heat up as quick as she steps toward him.

“I’ll carry those for you,” she quietly insists about his small pile of clothes. He lets her.

She’s been very, um, attentive. Been having most of her meals with him, babying him as much as he’d allow, and all-in-all has been treating him extra after he had his accident.

There are more coughing sounds that he almost pegs as being Y/N’s, but when he looks back in the direction of the noise, there’s no one, just Lori off on her walk, and she wasn't coughing.

“We moved your tent closer to the rest of us, so you would be closer to where we could help you.”

Closer. Great.

Daryl wanted nothing less, but a kind gesture is a kind gesture, so he mans up and acts proper, grunting, “Thank you.” It’s not like they went and messed with his stuff, they just moved the tent, and for a real kind reason.

Glenn rears and kicks, sending the ball soaring. Damn, he's good.

“Now, it may smell and look a little different, but all of your things are still there.”

“Huh?” What’d she mean?

“You deserved a nice, clean place to go back to,” Carol explains. “Y/N and I tidied your tent.”

…

...

…they what?

He gets the weirdest image of himself as being onstage and forgetting whatever it was he was supposed to say next, leaving him standing there like a mouthbreather in front of the audience. And he kinda wants to cuss the audience out.

His first idea after learning Carol and Y/N was: What the hell, y’all been messing with my stuff?? What gives y'all the right?

But, come on, even he had it in him to keep his mouth shut. They’d taken the time and effort to clean up his shit and it was probably as nice as when Carol had worked her magic in the RV. That's damned decent, in fact.

So, Daryl does not act like a jackass, and instead, remembers his lines and thanks Carol again.

“It was no trouble. How about I bring you some more breakfast once you’re settled in?” she quickly offers. See? Very attentive. And he didn’t do shit to have earned it, which made it more uncomfortable.

Aw shit, his cheeks feel all warm again. First around Y/N, now Carol? Maybe there is something to this whole concussion bullshit.

Or, maybe Carol done kissed you on the cheek and said you were a good man and that you did right by her little girl as much as a father should and that’s the best possible thing somebody could be told.

“Do you want some more coffee, too?”

I wanna to be left alone, lady. “Nah, m’great. Thank you.”

------------------------------

You

------------------------------

“Last night seemed to be an indication summer was officially over. But today,” Dale blows through his lips, “Well, we can already tell it’ll be a warm one.”

“Did we hit the first day of fall, yet? I forgot what date it is today.”

“No, that’s on the 21st. We’ve got some time.”

“Oh, wait!” you squeak (ouch, your throat is still sore from coughing). “Ain’t it the Holy Days for you still?” Rosh Hoshanah was sometime last week, but that one got sort of messed up because of everything that’s been going on.

Oh man, it was the day after Daryl got into his accident, wasn’t it?

Dale’s cordial expression falters. “Yes, it was last week.”

“Yom Kippur is soon then, right?”

“It’s on the 18th this year, yes. Two days away.”

There’s this very insistent raven that’s been cawing away. Or is that a crow? You can’t tell the difference. You can tell that you’ve bummed Dale out, however. “I’ve bummed you out.”

Smiling sadly, he concedes, “Jewish holidays are usually lonely ones in mixed company. And now, especially with it being the holiest time of the year, after everything…” He lifts his shoulders.

“I’ll do the fasting with you so you won’t be alone!” Ow, stop raising your voice so high. “Is it no food or drink at all on that day, or is water okay?”

A happier smile. “No food or drink — barring serious health concerns, of course, in which case, one is required to not fast.”

“No water must suck! When my lot do fasting, water don’t count.”

He nods his head once. “It’s all part of the atonement. It’s considered a blessing for us to fast for it.”

“And the feast after it is fun,” you sigh with a grin. You’ll enlist Carol and Lori to see about making him a yummy fast-breaking meal for the day.

This is what you needed. Dale didn’t press you regarding the panic attack, and has simply been keeping you company by the big rocks. You’ve haven’t had to go back onstage while he’s been sitting with you. You’d probably be content to stay here a good, long time if you didn’t have to use the toilet something major.

“Did you see if there was a pair of suspenders in the bags so you and Mr. Greene can match?”

“Is this your way of saying you’re feeling well enough to head back, or that you need privacy?”

“It’s my way of sayin’ I gotta go potty real bad.” You stand. “Suspenders are pretty cool, you can party like it’s 1899.”

“I actually quite like how suspenders look,” he chuckles, stretching and getting to his feet.

“Mm, they remind me of the Old West, I love ’em.”

Dale and you walk back until reaching the side of the farmhouse, whereupon you excuse yourself to head to the treeline and do your business.

------------------------------

Him

------------------------------

As soon as the heat starts to sink in, he unbuttons his shirt halfway and kicks his shoes off. Getting the socks off without hurting himself takes some effort, but it’s worth it. His stuff is so squeaky clean and fresh, he wants to avoid sweating the place up too quick.

His old pillowcase is gone, probably scrapped for dishrags seeing as it was pretty worn. In its place is a flower-covered one with soft, thick cotton fabric. There's some phrase about a 'woman's touch' that must apply here. Or, if Merle were here, prime Darylina ammo. Joke's on him, the pillowcase is soft as hell.

And being in there might seem boring, but it's 10 times better than being stuck in a damn bed and listening to music for days on end. Just cloud-watching through his tent window is fun enough for him.

In fact, it’s rad! He’s so psyched to not be in that room anymore!

Cloud watching, playing with his bolts, farting if he's gotta; he's content as can be. Seriously, he’s in such a good mood right now.

But as luck would have it, by the time he’s decided to see how easily a bolt can poke a hole through the mesh window (the answer is very easily, and it’s real satisfying) none other than Andrea herself appears at his tent door. The chick who shot him.

Now, she’s pretty as a picture and then some, but he doesn’t want his belly showing in front of her. If he’d been paying attention and heard her making her way to him, he would’ve buttoned up.

So, he tries out the same tactic as last night, when Carol walked in on him shirtless; maybe by not closing his shirt, she wouldn’t think about it? Or…fuck it, just about everybody has seen some part of him uncovered in the past week. At least there ain’t no scars on this side.

All he’s got to do is make like he’s onstage and that it doesn’t bother him having his literal nipples on display.

“Hey.” Andrea steps into his tent, looking like she is about to eat crow.

She hands him a book. He accepts the maybe peace-offering.

“It’s not that great, but…” she trails off, breathes out, and looks as shamefaced as can be.

Y/N, Carol, and T-Dog all mentioned she’s been kicking her own ass for shooting him. Granted, he’s still a little pissed, and, yeah, real thankful that she’s a shit shot, but — she was trying to protect the group, right? Ain’t even her fault he got stuck in that damn bed. The concussion, split side, and broken ribs did that for him.

He figures he’s gotta make it clear that she’s off the hook without making her feel worse for being let off the hook. And, he thinks he knows just the way to break the tension. It’d got the librarian at his high school to laugh the first time he made the remark, which is probably why he was usually allowed to eat in there during lunch if he asked.

Now, he knows reading is still on the no-go list, don’t worry, Y/N, but he casually holds the book up and flips through the pages.

He’s gotta, it’s the setup.

It’s good that Andrea ain’t said nothing yet, because it’s the perfect opportunity for him to pretend to be dead-serious when he complains, “What, no pictures?”

The joke does the trick. Andrea smiles and relaxes.

“I’m so sorry. I feel like shit,” she starts to go on, but he puts a stop to it.

Tucking the book aside as he settles down onto the pillow, he cuts in, “You and me both.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but, if there’s anything I can do, I—”

He cuts in one more time, “—You were trying to protect the group. We’re good.” He means it.

But, ya know, just because things are chill doesn’t mean he can’t bust her balls a little, right? “But hey,” he stops her as she’s leaving. “Shoot me again, you best pray I’m dead.”

------------------------------

You

------------------------------

“It went great! Better than I ever expected.” Andrea takes a seat beside you on the log. Judging by the look of serenity on her face, it appears that the monkey she’s had on her back for the past week is finally gone.

“Good, m’glad.” You knew it would be fine, but Andrea was so nervous.

“And I have to say, I can see the appeal now.”

“What appeal?”

“Daryl was,” she thinks on the right word and picks: “Charming.”

Ah. You see what she’s trying to do. “Well, go tell him that, then,” you suggest, cool as a cucumber. She and Dale thought you and he had a romantic thing going on. Lol, nah.

“And he was funny!” she goes on.

You sip your tea. “Mm, he can be.”

“Not angry, or, or nasty.” She closes her eyes and breathes out a sigh of relief. “I was so worried about how it was going be.”

You tilt your head in partial agreement. He can be a dick.

Your job for the rest of the day, so Papa Dale done told you, is to be chill (yes, he used the word ‘chill’ and it was adorable). It’s your only responsibility today, seeing as he joined you when you went to check the highway spot for Sophia. She hasn’t found it, it’s untouched. Again.

So now, your job = keep chill.

“Are you helping with target practice later?”

Oh, right, and there’s that. You suppose you could continue helping Beth with drawing her weapon smoothly, keep drilling her never, ever forget to switch the safety back and forth.

But…okay: maybe today, that isn’t your job. Maybe you need a rest from being onstage. “I think I’m gonna sit today out.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I just need a day,” you answer in too high a pitch.

Andy doesn’t inquire further. “How’s the little fuzzball?” she instead asks.

“Still sleeping,” you coo. The sluggish little chick you’d scooped up while quickly sprinkling feed-corn in order to feel useful is your insurance for keeping chill. Can’t not keep chill with a chick asleep in your lap.

“It must feel nice and safe wrapped up like that.”

“Mm.” The chick is nestled in a dishtowel, half its body also covered by your new cardigan.

“Y/N, have you not gone to visit him yet?”

“Not yet. He’d appreciate some time to himself, I reckon, after a week bein’ stuck in there and visitors and checkups at all hours.”

Glenn’s off doing farm chores with Jimmy, so he’s being kept busy and won’t be a concern. As for you, you’ve got your sleepy chick and are content to stay here on the log. You ate lunch, yet another peach (you’re up to six), just finished the leftover raspberries, and are now washing it all down with some fresh mint tea you made in honor of one of your best friends. She’d make her own mint tea and would call it ‘wild mint’ tea because it sounded exotic.

When Dale mentioned today’s date, you remembered it was her birthday. She was the most confident girl you’d ever met, and a sweetheart to boot. You really hope she’s alive.

Andrea chuckles to herself. “I gave him that terrible book to keep him occupied.”

Book?? To Daryl? But the concussion! “A book?”

“I brought him The Case of the Missing Man,” she shares with a grin. “He can join the survivor’s club of those who’ve read it — Y/N, is something wrong?”

“Oh, um, nah, it’s all good, uh,” you are fumbling so hard right now. Cool, you’re feeling lightheaded again, cool cool.

It’s all cool. There’s no fire. Stay chill. “I’m gonna pop over and make sure he ain’t cracked into it yet, he’s, it’s, it’s not safe yet. C-Concussion and all.” Listen to you, smooth like butter.

“Oh shit.”

“Andy, don’t sweat. Even if he did start on it, like,” and you pause, because, “I don’t actually know what can go wrong, I didn’t ask Miss Patricia, but I’m sure it ain’t nothing serious!” You cup the (awoken and now loudly peeping) chick between your hands as you book it (pun intended?) to Daryl’s tent.

------------------------------

Him

------------------------------

For Y/N to glide over wearing a pretty dress, hair all fancy, and holding some little bird was not something he put on his bingo sheet.

“Hiya, Daryl.”

It takes him a second. “Hey.” He ain't never seen her in a dress.

And with that little bird, he gets the image in his head of her bursting into song and the farm animals and forest critters doing a musical number with her.

He’ll *ahem* keep that to himself...

“I hope you’re enjoyin’ your new freedom! Mi—”

“—Who’s the little guy?” he had to ask first.

“It's a chick.”

Clearly. “Why?”

“It’s cute.”

She ain’t wrong. “…Can I see?”

“Yeah, it's adorable!”

He begins to get up, but she steps over faster than he can stand. She kneels beside his cot and, delicately, transfers the wrapped chick into his hands. Carefully, he unwraps the washcloth around it and slips his hand underneath it so sits on his palm with its teeny legs dangling through his fingers. It’s peeping like it’s getting paid for it, holy shit it’s so fucking cute.

“I came here wonderin’ if I might I borrow the, uh, the book Andrea just lent you?”

Ha, called it! The second Y/N found out he had contraband, she came to the rescue.

The chick quiets down, appearing to relax in his hand. His hand must be good and warm for it.

Maybe it’s because he’s in a good mood, but he smiles like a dipshit for a few moments before saying anything. “Nah, I wouldn’t dream of checking it out ’til you said it was fine.”

“Oh ha-ha,” she play-mocks, assuming he wasn’t being serious.

Eh, okay, maybe he was sorta razzing her, too. But he wants to come out on the other side of this whole concussion bullshit on the up, and if reading is still off-limits, it’s still off limits. He’s not gonna full-on disregard somebody who gives a shit.

“How’d ya end up dressed like that?” is his second question while he pets the chick lightly along its head using the feathers on his bolt.

“I wear this, like, all the time.”

“Oh right, yeah, you do,” he sarcastically responds. He tries to reach with his left arm to pick up the book under his cot, but gets a sharp twinge and surrenders that he can’t do that move yet.

Y/N snorts at the sarcasm and tells him straight, “The Greenes had some giveaways, so Beth gave me this outfit. Oh, thank you,” she says when he instead points in the direction of the book. She picks it up and hugs it to herself. “I do believe Carol put a few things aside for you to try on, too.”

“’Kay.”

Y/N looks pretty.

It’s nothing new, obviously her face is nice, but it's the whole blushing thing that keeps happening to Daryl's face that's annoying. Seems he's started blushing like a belle over all the damn women in camp these days. That really was some smack to the head he got.

He’s imagining himself as being back onstage again, forgetting his lines. He can make something up on the spot: “How you gonna search in that?”

“Ain’t like my ankles are tied together. Women have always been able to move, play, do manual labor of all sorts in dresses, corsets, stays, stockin’s, you name it,” she serves back with just enough fire that his belly did one of those good flippy-floppys. “That reminds me, Nervous Nelly came back! Did any of us tell you? She’s fine as can be, I fed her half a peach yesterday!”

Some of them baby hairs around her face are coming out of the braids. Her skin's got a sheen to it. And did she put pink stuff on her cheeks or something? Or is that because she was moving around a lot and it’s gotten warm out? Because her lips don’t look like there’s nothing on them but they’re nice and —

“—Dare, you okay?”

“Yeah. Tired.”

“You must be.” Why is she frowning? “You looked like you’d just got hypnotized or — you sure you feel normal?”

“M’fine, I just spaced out.”

She’s gonna have him do a thing, isn’t she? “Follow my finger for a little, please?” Ah-ha, see?

Pointer finger extended, he goes along with it for the 10 or so seconds it takes for the slight crease between her eyebrows to relax.

“Please stick out your tongue for me?” is her next request and, uh, why?

Well, he goes ahead and does it for her anyway. The hook ’em horns he makes at the same time are a sure sign he’s in a good-ass mood.

Y/N lets herself smile, then elaborates: “If it came out tilted, it’s a sign of stroke.”

Stroke? That’s a little much.“C’mon, you’re worried I had a stroke?”

She nods once. Her chest expands big as if she were inhaling really deep. “A smoker, extended bed rest, head trauma,” she quietly counts.

Is he hearing things, or does her breathing sound a little too fast?

“Can you point your toes three times?”

He point his toes three times, and yes, her breathing is a little too fast.

“Now please lift both arms parallel to the bed.”

He lifts both arms. The baby chicken is sleeping now and doesn’t wake with the motion.

“Okay,” Y/N whispers to herself.

“Tell me you’re not stressing out about nothin’.”

She blinks a few times and deadpans, “I would never.”

“Here,” he holds the chick near her face. “Get zen like this pipsqueak.”

“But you ain’t ‘nothing’ and you are at an elevated stroke risk.”

He’s only got the one word for her: “Zen.” The hovering motion he made with the chick was a fun touch, the little thing didn’t even mind.

Her expression suggests she’s trying to not smile, and, in a move he doesn’t anticipate, she leans forward to rub her nose on its beak. Her lips brush against his fingertips when she does, and his train of thought derails.

Next thing, her hands are overlapping his as she gently takes the chick back and re-wraps it in the washcloth. “’Lil buddy you’re fine, you’re fine,” she coos. “I’ll grab you the hand sanitizer and leave you to some peace, alright man?” she addresses to Daryl, who's still a little distracted, so a grunt and a chin tilt is how he acknowledges this.

Merle would be laughing his ass off right now, goddamn. ‘Sweet lil virgin Darylina’ sounds about what he’d be cackling about.

Y/N flips open the cap with her thumb and squirts the hand stuff onto his palm. Smells like lemons.

So, he didn’t have that stuff before, meaning she’d likely been the one to put it in there when she’d cleaned his tent with Carol. “Hey, um, thanks for the surprise.” Damn, he’s awkward. Smells way better in here.”

“Carol is so wanting to help you in any way she can. I was in it just to see you end up with that pretty floral pillowcase. I had to stop her from hangin' the matching curtains,” she snickers, then waves him goodbye and, boom, leaves.

So…how long until his heartbeat and head stop racing?

------------------------------

You

------------------------------

Yet another stage performance today. You had to act like you weren’t distracted by how boyishly charming Daryl looked lounging there with his shirt unbuttoned to his hecking waist, good Moses. But like, the way he snuggled the chick, and how your legit lips bumped into his fingers?? It was an accident! Ohh, but how he'd noticed your panicking so was all soothing and stuff...

Dude, and you were trying to sit like a dainty lady the whole time, too, what a poser.

Still, you think you were convincing in your latest stage performance. Oscar-worthy. Golden Globe. Emmy. Tony. Somebody hook you up with your EGOT.

Oh, and that little jab at his new pillowcase, aw yes, that was top tier friendzoning!

Or — oh, it wasn’t interpreted as flirting, right? No way did you intend that! And, hold up, there's no way he'd even care. It's Daryl.

Eh, you've earned a B- so far at being chill. You've got to get that grade up.

So, you are going to go pick fruit, alone, and you’re going to stuff your face because the show is over, you’re off stage for the rest of the day!

------------------------------------------

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loveandfictionforall · 5 months ago

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Hi!! I was wondering if you could take this request! I thought maybe a oneshot (platonic!Dale Horvath x fem!reader)

So it’s set in season 2 at Hershel’s farm. Shane makes her really uncomfortable by trying to get her to sleep with him, flirting with her, etc. so she hides away in Dale’s RV to try to stay away from him. Dale finds out what’s going on so he comforts her after having a talk with Shane.

If you don’t want to do this it’s totally fine!! Just lmk if you will or not so I won’t be waiting for nothing if you don’t😭

I kind of went a different route but I hope you still like it. I genuine loved your idea. Dale is often forgotten but he was a good man.

tw: mentions of harrassing, mentions of getting touched without consent

It's been a long time since you were truly sitting with Dale down. He had always been your friend, even though a lot of years separated you from each other. It had been quite a ride since arriving at the Camp. Back then you were together with Lori, Shane and Carl after knowing them for years. You used to be Carl's babysitter, actually being on duty when the apocalypse began and following Shane, Lori and Carl. You suffered through the loss of Rick, just like those three and stumbled like everybody else through the beginnings of the outbreak.

Since you were a woman, Lori and Carol got you into doing the chores with all the other women. The men went out, looking for food, clothes and medicine. You also wanted to do something. Teaching Sophia and Carl math and history wasn't really important for you but Shane always declined your wishes.

So instead you began to hide. At first it was in the woods until you got a mouthful from Shane - and even Merle. Soon you began hiding in the Camper, with a Dale always winking at you when he saw you slipping into it. When Lori, Andrea or Carol went asking, he always played his part: shaking his head and lying through his teeth, telling them where he saw you last. You never been there but it threw them off your trail. And thus, your friendship with Dale began.

Dale tried fixing his Camper with you. But unlike all those other tasks, he actually wanted you to do it, guiding you and giving you new knowledge about the workings of cars. On evenings he would invite you to sit on the roof with him, watching the stars and talking about those old times. You learned a lot about him and how his life had been. Soon you were kind of his kid - adult but also his kid. He showed you how to fish, how to skin them and even gave you his little pocket knife.

Even when Andrea began to insert herself into the friendship, Dale and you were inseparable. In the end, it would be Dale's death which would end your genuine friendship with each other. But you two didn't know that Hershel's farm would be his demise. Instead you were looking at each other with bright smiles and hope fluttering in your chest.

Sure, things were rough, especially since Rick appeared from the dead, still alive and healthy. It shook your world and made you hope that you will too see again your family. Nobody could escape the whole drama of Lori and her men but her so harshly shoving Shane away made things worse for you. You always knew that Shane looked at you sometimes a bit too long. When the world was still whole, you kind of liked it - being noticed felt good, especially by an older man with a bright career. Now it made you break out in goosebumps. Your neck hair would rise and without turning you would know that Shane would be staring at you.

It started small - a conversation here and there, a small compliment about her sharpening skills of knifes or her really good hiding skills from the other women. It still gave you the creeps but what should you do? Shane didn't to anything at first. But after Otis died, Shane changed. The crazed look in his eyes. Sometimes he would drink in the evening before he would press himself against you, his breath ghosting across your throat and cheeks. After that the touches started. It grossed you out - so much, that you tried to find a reason to sleep with Dale in the Camper. It wasn't possible, after all there was only one sport to sleep in.

But Dale knew something wasn't right.

And on one evening, while sitting together on the roof of the Camper, watching the starts you finally gave in.

"It's Shane.", would be all you would say. You still remember how Dale would straighten his back, his eyes getting serious when he turned all of his attention towards you.

"What did he do?" There wasn't doubt in his voice. It didn't waver. It was like he always knew something wasn't right with Shane. He saw Shane and knew he was danger.

"He just… He-" You could talk about it. Just thinking about it made you tear up. And finally those tears fell when Dale circled his arms around you, pressing you against his warm body, shushing softly against your frizzled hair. It just made you sob harder. In a world without any true rules and consequences, you couldn't do a thing. And even though Rick and Shane were fighting, it was his best friend, he wouldn't believe you. And Dale knew that.

So instead he gently swayed both of you while you used every strength in your body to talk and tell him about everything. Dale was your saving grace. He never doubted you.

"You will sleep in the Camper. I will take your tent." His words would have a final tone. Arguing with him would be unwise, his opinion was set in stone.

"But your back!" The small chuckle from Dale would make you smile. You always teased him with being too old.

"I think I will manage. It is far more important that you feel finally safe again."

When Dale lead you into the Camper and helped you into bed, his eyes were soft.

"You are a true blessing and you deserve to feel safe and loved. You will always be welcome with me." To be honest, it made you cry again but now they were finally happy tears.

It was a memory you never wanted to forget in this forsaken world. It would be a memory which would keep you alive, even in the toughest of moments, even after Dale died.

#twd #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #twd dale #twd dale x reader #twd fic #twd shane #shane walsh #dale horvath #twd angst #tw harassment

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final-girl96 · 1 year ago

Text

Broken World: Chapter One

2000

I was sitting beside my best friend, Daryl Dixon. I had just graduated high school and was getting ready to start college that was an hour away. We were sitting on the bank beside the creek that runs through the woods behind his house. "Ya really want to go off to college?"

Daryl had dropped out of high school his sophomore year, claiming school was useless. He was a smart man, but more street smart than book smart. He knew everything about survival, cars, and motorcycles. Of course, he was also five years older than me, but that never got in the way of us being friends.

We met on the playground when we were kids. I was only seven and he was twelve. Two boys were making fun of me, pushing me back and forth, knocking me to the ground. That's when Daryl stepped in, punching both of them before helping me up. He made sure I was okay then walked me home. Ever since that day we've been inseparable.

"Yes, Daryl, I'm sure I want to go off to college," I said, throwing a rock into the creek. "Why can't ya just go to the Community College?" He asked, head tilted down, picking at the dirt with a stick. "Because I don't want to be stuck in this town my whole life. I'll still be living at home, so it's not like you're not going to see me." I nudged him, and he finally looked at me.

"What's this really about?" I asked. He brought his hand up to bite the side of his thumb, and I pushed it back down, holding it between both my hands. "Daryl, what's going on?" I asked. "Merel went back to jail last night." That's not a shocker. Merle was always in and out of jail. He was in and out of Juvie when he was a teenager, too. Dealing and doing drugs, getting into bar fights. He had a short fuse, and that got him in trouble a lot.

"What was it for this time?" I asked. "Failed his drug test for parol." I nodded my head and hummed. "Did your dad come home from the cabin yet?" He shook his head, "Nah. He's still up there with his buddies. He can stay there for all I care." Daryl's dad wasn't a great man. He was an abusive drunk.

He always had bruises on his from where his dad would hit him. There were times that it would be so bad that he was left with permanent scars. His dad has burned him with cigarettes and beaten him with whatever he could grab. I've cleaned him up, cleaning his cuts and bandaging him up on late nights. I've even let him sleep on my floor some nights, making sure he was gone in the morning before my dad or stepmother woke up.

We sat in silence for a while, as we usually do. I had let go of his hand and laid my head on his shoulder. "Maybe we should just run away," I said. The only response I got from Daryl was a grunt. He's never been a very talkative person, and that was okay with me. It started to get darker, and Daryl walked me home, like he always does.

My dad was never fond of me being friends with Daryl. He knew his dad back in high school and said he wasn't always like he is now. But everyone in this town looks down on the Dixon's. More Merle and Will, but they still put Daryl down and assumed he was just like his father and brother. Some people were kind to him, like Mr. Lawson, who owned the only garage in town. He's always been nice to Daryl and gives him a job when he needs it.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I asked. Daryl was looking down at the ground, biting his lip. "Earth to, Dixon." I waved my hand in front of his face. "Hmm?" He hummed, looking up at me. "See you tomorrow?" He nodded, looking behind me at the house. "I'm workin' at the garage until three so it won't be til then," he said. "Okay, that's fine. Maybe I'll stop in around lunchtime and bring ya something," I said.

"Ya ain't gotta do that." I rolled my eyes at him. "I want to, Daryl. You're my best friend. My only friend." He scoffed at that, "you got other friends. I better go before your dad comes home." I nodded my head and gave him a hug before he turned and walked across the street.

The next day, I did exactly what I said I was going to do. I stopped by the sub shop and got Daryl and I both lunch before heading to the garage. I walked in through the door where the front desk was, Mary sat behind it. Mary was Mr. Lawson's wife. "Well, hello, yn. How are you today, baby?" I smiled at her and walked up to the counter.

"I'm good. How are you doin' Mrs. Lawson?" I asked her. The Lawson's were a nice older couple. Always understanding and helping those in need. "I'm alright. You here for Daryl?" She asked, and I nodded my head. "I am. I brought him lunch," I said, holding up the bag in my hand. "Go on back. He's working on Frank Dawson's truck." I thanked her and walked back into the garage itself.

I found the red Chevy pickup and walked over to it. It was jacked up, and Daryl was looking under it. "Hard at work, I see." Daryl's head snapped to the side so hard I was sure he gave himself whiplash. "What the hell ya doin' here?" He asked, coming out from under the truck, pulled a red rag from his back pocket, and wiped his hands off. "I told you I was going to come by with lunch." I said, holding the bag up.

"Ya didn’t…" I held my hand up to stop him. "Don't even say it. Now come on, let's go out back to the picnic table and eat, Dixon!" I turned on my heel and walked to the door that went out back of the shop. I sat down and pulled the subs out. "Come on, sit down and eat!" I told him. He sighed and sat down across from me. I pulled out the sodas and put them down between us.

"So, how has your day been so far?" I asked, opening my sub. Daryl just shrugged. He was a man of few words. But that was okay because it was never an awkward silence between us. "Wanna hang out after you shift? My dad and Cheryl are going to be going out of town along with her little brats. So I'm all yours to "corrupt." Daryl rolled his eyes at me and scoffed. "I ain't the one doin' the corrupting."

I lightly kicked his leg with my foot, "Hey! I am an angel, thank you very much!" He scoffed around a mouth full of food. "An angel of hell," he said. I gasped, put my hand on my chest, and batted my eyelashes. "That is the nicest thing you've ever said about me!" A small smile grew on his face, and I could tell he was trying to keep it from getting bigger. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But ya love me. I mean, come on, what would you do without me? Who else would annoy you?" He shook his head, and we finished eating. "What time should I expect you to be picking me up?" I asked as we made our way back inside. "What do ya wanna do? Ain't much to do in this shithole town," he said. I shrugged, "I don't know. We'll find something to do like we always do. Maybe you can sneak me into the bar, and I can find you a girlfriend!"

"Ain't happenin' so forget about it." I groaned, rolling my eyes at uim. "Come on, Daryl, live a little. I can totally find you a girlfriend!" I said. He threw our trash away and walked back into the garage. "Don't need no girlfriend. Dealin' with you is enough." My mouth dropped open with a gasp. "Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean? You're the one that picked me to be your best friend!"

"I didn't do shit," he grumbled. I knew he was just teasing by the small smirk on his face. "You saved me. That automatically made me your best friend. You're stuck with me for the rest of your life. Whether you like it or not!" I said, poking his arm. "Great. Now get outta here. I'll think about pickin' ya up around five." I gave him a side hug and kissed his cheek. "Can't wait!" Then I left and went back home.

Truth be told…I have a huge crush on my best friend; I have for a couple of years now. But I'm only seventeen, and he's twenty-two. Besides, there would be no way in hell that he would ever like me like that. He probably sees me as that annoying little sister. But I could dream, right?

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boygiwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Harley D. Dixon 25

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

As always, enjoy reading :) And uuuh prepare yourself.

"There you guys are."

Dale says this because he's been waiting for us. He pushes himself off the crumbled fireplace, anxiously gripping the strap of his rifle like he always does, like he's glued it there and hasn't bothered to take it off. He always looks nervous and angry at the same time.

"Whatchu all the way over here for?" Dad asks, setting his crossbow down by his chair. "Couldn't wait for visitin' hours?"

"Listen, I'm going to be frank here." He mutters, his bushy white brows disappearing under the brim of his fisherman's hat. The adults have always muttered when they don't want the kids listening in on them, but now it's actually working, and I don't like that, so I make a point of sitting on the lip of the cobblestones nearby. I pretend to take off my boots and pour the dirt out, even though they're already empty. "If we don't do something, come dusk," He says in a very important way, "Jim will be dead."

"Ain't that kinda the point?" He deadpans.

Dale hates that response. He scoffs. "No. You're a smart man, Daryl. You can see why this is crazy."

I don't know what he thinks he's doin', tryna convince my Dad to call off the execution. I guess it didn't go over so well with Rick.

"Can I?" He drawls, entirely unconvinced. "Ain't nun' crazy 'bout squashing a bug."

"We're not talking about a bug." He argues. "We're talking about a human being. A human being that's made mistakes, yes, but haven't we all? I mean, how many times have you said something somebody didn't like? That isn't a crime. Certainly doesn't warrant the death penalty."

"Man, save it. You getcher'self in the mix with my daughter in a way I'on like, you get what's comin' to ya. That's just how it is."

"And I— I can appreciate that. You're a family man. You love your daughter. You love Harley and you want to protect her," He reasons, and as he says this, I think, pshh, what does this have to do with anything, which is what Dad must be thinking, too, 'cause he rolls his eyes a bit. "But don't you love her enough to want her growing up in a world that doesn't punish so harshly? Hasn't she seen enough death?"

Sure I have. But like all things we once thought were impossible, it's now just a matter of, what's one more? What's one more dead man in the ground? Jim's death will be a different type of killing, sure, but they're all just bodies in the end. We've done this before.

"Watch yourself." Dad's look turns sharp at that. "Don't tell me what I already know."

"I'm just trying to—"

"Look." He cuts him off. "I know what's best for my daughter. The world I want her growin' up in is one that ain't made'a fairytales. People gotta die, Dale. Already have. And they ain't gonna stop just 'cause one man pulls out his thesaurus and starts cryin' about it. Lil' Jimmy, he's a threat to the group. He's a threat to my lil' girl, and it don't get any more black and white than that for me."

"But does that mean he has to die?"

"It means this conversation's over." He throws a hand up, turns away. "I ain't y'all's Momma. Go talk to Rick about it s'more if ya wanna."

"I already have." He calls after him uselessly, before sighing and giving up altogether. He seems to remember that I'm here too, and sends me a small smile. "Sorry, Harley," He says, "Maybe I shouldn't have brought that up with you here."

"Naw, it's alright." I shrug, joking, "I been through worse before."

That makes him chuckle, despite himself. "You have, have you?"

"But can I tell you sum'?"

He pauses, frowns. "'Course you can."

"Just stop." I say very plainly, in a way I hope he understands. "Just stop. It ain't worth it."

Ain't you just a little pot of wisdom, as Merle liked to say, whenever I told him he shouldn't sniff that white powder so often, or to try lookin' at the sky when he got too angry. Smarty-pants, is what Dad preferred to say. I got a bad habit of tellin' people what to do, sometimes, but it ain't that I'm wise or smart or want a damn medal, do ya. I just don't want Dale doin' what I did, tryna fight things ya can't fight, like with Sophia and Shane. In a way, I guess Jim's right. Ya can't fight death. It's just one of them things ya can't put a knife in.

I know Dale's tryna do good. That's what he is. A do-gooder. That's what Dad used to call the people at church. Always fightin' the good fight. With words and bibles and morals. But that ain't how things work now. I know Dale wishes it was, but it ain't.

From the look on Dale's face, it seems that just by saying this, I've as good as killed Jim myself.

"But-But, honey," He stammers. "How can you say that?"

"'Cause," I wiggle my boot on and stand. "People just gotta die, sometimes."

His lip curls. "Your Dad been teaching you that?"

"Yeah." I don't know why he says that like it's a bad thing. "People die, people mourn, life moves on. That's what he says."

"I don't want to argue with you on this." He shakes his head, hiding irritation. "You're too young to know what you're talking about."

He's like Lori. He wants to live like it was before, back when we had homework and couldn't say fuck, or shit, or fuck-shit. Back when we had courtrooms and judges and churches that were standing. 'Cause back then, Jim wouldn't be killed.

He blanches a little, before calling out to Dad, "You need to re-think what it is you're teaching your daughter."

As he huffs and walks away, Dad sends me a confused look.

"Nothin'." I sigh dismissively, heading over to join him by the dead fire pit, where he's knifed open a tin of baked beans. I stand in between his knees and he spoons some out and feeds them to me. "I jush argued with him a lil', 'das all."

"I ain't tell you to do that." He jokes, wiping sauce from my chin with the spoon.

I garble around my mouthful, "Well, I did tell him Jim's gotta die. Ya did say 'dat."

"Guess I did... But don't worry 'bout old Dale. He's a—"

"—He's a do-gooder." We say at the same time.

He scoffs amusedly. "Yeah. Exactly."

I swallow and open my mouth for the next spoonful, which I munch on with a smile. "How 'bout that deer just now, huh?"

"Pretty cool." He agrees absentmindedly, giving me a small smile back. Only once I open my mouth again does he tell me, "Listen, baby." I snap it shut once I realize he's not going to lift the spoon. For a terrible second, I think he knows about the shed. It's nonsense, of course. Andrea promised she wouldn't snitch, but the thought's still stuck to the back of my head. "About them things I said last night..."

Oh. Right. I don't say anything. I just stand and listen. I gotta get better at that.

"About your Momma givin' up," He struggles to say. "Weren't right'a me. Things are tough right now, but... weren't right'a me."

"It's alright, Dad." I tell him. Not a lot is alright these days, but we are. I forgive him. "You was right, anyway."

My Momma did give up. Whether I like how it sounds or not, that's what suicide means, and my Momma gave up. She gave up on me and Daddy, gave up on fighting, and she gave up on life, too, in the end. Like the rest, she was weak. Like Sophia. Like me.

"C'mere." He sets the tin aside and pulls me onto his lap, cradling my head under his chin. "Don't matter who was right. I love you."

"I love you, too, Dad."

Two I love you's in the same day. What on Earth is goin' on? You'd think the apocalypse had started or somethin'.

He pulls back, holding my face in his big, grimy hands. "I wantchu to stay wit' the women when we kill Jim tonight."

I suck in a breath, asking, "How you gonna do it?"

"I'on know yet." He admits as he smooths down my baby hairs, swipes some dirt from my cheek. "But you don't need t'see it. I know that."

I give a nod. I wish I could see, but that would never be allowed. "Okay."

"Okay." He repeats, kissing my temple. "Good girl."

As I finish off the rest of the beans, I gaze out over Dad's shoulder, watching Dale's tiny figure wander over to the other side of the farm, off to go try convince the next person he comes across that this is all a terrible idea. Off to fight the good fight, which no one's ever won.

The best part of my day is when Maggie slaps Andrea across the face.

It's not that I hate Andrea or anythin' like that, unlike some other people around here, but it's just kinda funny. As I walk up to the house, she holds her reddened cheek with her mouth agape in shock, while Maggie stands over her, totally fuming. I like her even more now.

"Stay away from her." She scolds her hotly. "From both of us. Don't you dare step foot inside this house again."

After struggling to find something to say, she wordlessly turns and hurries away.

"What's goin' on?" I call up to Maggie and Lori, who are standing on the porch.

"Nothing, sweetie." Lori assures me, but she seems heated. She moves to the side to let Maggie storm inside, and follows her in after.

I find Carl past the patch of tall trees by the house, past the overgrown fence and sitting in the seat of an abandoned tractor, fiddling with his hat in his lap. I'm still a little angry with him. For trying to control me like I'm his pet dog, and treating me like I'm some sort of practice run for his little sister or brother. But that don't mean I can't talk to him. I climb one of the big tyres, crossing my arms over the rusty hood.

He glances at me but decides not to say anything.

"Did you tell Maggie about the knife?"

"Yeah." He admits, not surprising me in the slightest. I don't see why else Andrea would be on Maggie's bad side. "What do you care?"

I frown in confusion. "Huh? I don't. I was just asking."

"Oh." He puts his hat on and looks at me. "I thought you came over here to argue some more."

"Nah." I shrug one shoulder, tracing my finger along the cracked ridges of the old, red metal. "Don't wanna."

Gazing out onto the barn, I see Rick through the open doors, pacing the dirt floor and looking up at the rafters with some rope in his hands. I make out a loop on the end of it, and then I realize it's not a rope, it's a noose. He's looking for a place to hang Jim.

"That's how they're gonna do it." I murmur to myself. "They is gonna hang him after all."

"Gunshot would attract the horde." Carl supposes.

Rick takes hold of a wooden banister, pushes on it, checks its sturdiness.

"True. I ain't thought of that."

"He told me we're gonna be sleeping in the house, soon. Because Winter's coming, and all."

That's a funny thought. Feels like just yesterday Rick was begging Herschel to let us stay, and now we're facing Winter together.

"Guess it's good Jim's dyin' now, then," I muse, "So he don't gotta freeze to death instead."

After a couple more minutes, Rick stops pushing on banisters and attaches the noose to the spot he's chosen. I guess that's it, then.

"It's almost time." Lori says to Rick as the sun begins to set, like a ball of orange sand in a glass timer. "I know this isn't easy for you."

She doesn't know that, but she likes saying it, anyway, because she wants to believe it and it sounds nice. But I think we all know that Rick is a little beyond caring about ending a person's life for the good of the group. He might not love it, but it's like Dad says. There's only two options, and when push comes to shove choosing the best one, the one that keeps us safe, things become pretty damn easy.

He nods, knuckles going white as he grips the porch railing. I guess he doesn't have the guts to tell her she's wrong.

Inside, the group are gathering to have what Dale calls a discussion. It's his last-ditch attempt at stopping the execution, and Rick's not happy about it, but he's willing to hear him out. It's pretty obvious we're all just stalling the inevitable, though.

"You don't have to be the one to do it." Lori continues after he's said nothing.

On the deck chair beside me, Dad sits with his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlocked, wriggling. He offers gruffly, "I can do it."

"No." Rick shakes his head. "It has to be me. Bringing him back was my decision. Makes this is my responsibility."

I wonder how you even kill someone using a noose. I guess what they're debating is who's gonna kick the stool Jim stands on.

Dad doesn't argue back. The only person he really wanted to kill was Shane, and he did that. This one goes to Rick.

The door swings open.

Maggie pokes her head out. "Everyone's ready."

Rick takes a deep breath, gives one last look to Lori, and heads inside.

"C'mon." Lori takes Carl's shoulder and guides him to sit in Dad's chair. "I want you to stay out here with Jimmy and Harley."

"But, Mom," He argues, "I wanna listen."

"Uh-uh. Not this time, baby."

Just as Lori goes inside and Dad is about to follow her in, Carl blurts out, "Daryl, wait."

He pauses in the doorway. Confusion pinches his features. I go still, glance at Carl side-long, hold my breath. There's no way he's doing what I think he is. Why else would he stop my Dad? Please, no. Just say something stupid and useless and let him go inside.

In a moment that makes me want to put my hands around his neck, Carl says exactly what I didn't want him to.

"Harley snuck into the shed and talked to Jim."

I bite down a thousand curses. Carl Grimes, that little... I can't believe he told on me. Not even Andrea did.

Dad's face contorts into a look of rage, pinning me in place, making my heart race until it's punching against my sternum like a fist. Now I'm realizing just how much of an idiot I was for breaking the rules. All Dad wants is for me to be safe. He's gotta look out for dangers like Jim, but I'm becoming a danger to myself, now, too, 'cause I'm an idiot and I went in that shed like an idiot and spoke to Jim like an idiot.

He grabs the door handle like he's tryna crush it between his fingers and slams the door shut behind him.

The windows rattle behind me and Carl.

I let out a breath, but I'm not relieved for long. I'm suddenly almost as angry as Dad was. I turn to Carl, fixing him with a scathing glare.

"Why in Satan's hot Hell," I grind through my teeth, "Did ya do that for?"

He looks all pleased with himself. "Because I'm responsible."

If I weren't already in deep trouble, and if Jimmy wasn't out here to witness it, I would slap Carl so hard his baby teeth and his adult teeth would fall out his skull. I didn't snitch on him when he wanted to sneak into the woods. In fact, I helped that jerk.

"You know, I'm about sick'a you." I tell him, because it makes me feel better. "You been buggin' me so bad today."

"I've been bugging you?" He exclaims incredulously.

"Ya heard me. First ya tell Carol her dead daughter ain't in heaven, then you start actin' like I'm a baby, and now ya snitch on—"

"Well, you are a baby!" He shocks me into silence with that. "You're a baby, Harley. You might know what a chantrelle mushroom is, and you might shoot better than me, but you're still just a stupid baby, and I'm right for looking out for you. You can't do it yourself!"

Jimmy awkwardly wonders further down the porch, pretending he doesn't hear our argument.

"Well, I hope your baby sister or brother hates your damn guts," I snarl, "'Cause I sure do."

"I'm just trying to set a good example like Dad told me to!"

"Y'know, fuck yer Dad. And fuck you, too. I ain't your test sister. I ain't yer anythin'."

He huffs angrily, rolling his eyes. "Whatever. I'm glad you're not my sister."

"And I'm glad you ain't my brother." I mumble, turning my back to him and crossing my arms. "Damn snitch."

I almost wish Carl never found out he was gonna be a big brother. It's turned his head big. He thinks he can play house with me and act like some hero just 'cause his Dad told him to, but I don't need no damn boy who don't even know how to skin a squirrel to look out for me. He ain't an adult and I ain't a baby. I don't even like it when he reads his comics to me or holds my hand when he wants to take me somewhere or shares things with me or listens extra hard when I'm teaching him something. I meant it. I'm glad he ain't my brother.

Screw him. When his sibling's born, he's gonna forget all about me and I ain't gonna care one bit.

Inside, my Dad's voice is the loudest outta everybody's. To know what he's actually saying, I would have to ask Carl to translate, and there's no way in Hell I'm talking to him right now, or ever. I hear tidbits of Dale's voice, Glenn's, Jacqui's, T's. After a while, I hear shouting.

"If you were so sure you wanted to kill him," It's Dale. "Why'd you cover his face?! I know you have humanity in you!"

It seems nobody answers him, or he just doesn't wanna listen anymore, because the door opens and he steps out.

"Go ahead and slaughter that human being, then." He calls over his shoulder. "I won't be a party to it!"

He trudges down the steps, across the field, ducks into his tent, disappears. The thought that he might be crying makes my chest clench.

After that, the others file out. When I see Dad again, I feel like I might throw up.

He beelines for me, grabs my arm, pulls me off the chair.

"Get up." He seethes.

"What's going on?" Rick asks in concern.

"She messed up, that's what's goin' on." He drags me down the stairs. "Snuck into the shed and talked to Jim."

I hear Jacqui gasp at that. "What? When?"

Rick calls out to us, "Remember what I said, Daryl! If I see a bruise, I'll shoot you dead!"

"Man, whatever!"

He sounds pissed he would even suggest he's gonna beat me, but I don't think Rick really believes he'd do it, anyway. He just had to say it.

When we reach our camp, he throws me onto the stump and I sit there with a lump in my throat while he chews me out.

"Girl, I'on even have words for you." He says harshly, looking at me like I'm a nasty stain on his boot. "What the Hell were you thinkin'?"

"I—I just— I was just so angry, I wanted to—"

"I'on give a shit what you wanted." He cuts me off. "And I guess you don't give a shit what I want neither, do ya? Huh? Tellin' me you wanted to die, that was one thing, but what? Now you're tryn'? I gotta tie you down to stop ya, is that it? 'Cause gimme the word and I'll do it!"

"N-No," I quickly tell him, watching him pace back and forth. "I was just— I was just bein' an idiot."

"You're Hell right, you were bein' an idiot." He notices Merle's knife strapped to my shorts and lunges forward. "Gimme this damn thing."

He tears the button apart and rips the sheath offa me, stuffing it into the back of his pants line.

"You'll get this back when I can trust ya not to open up yer wrists with it." He growls before turning away.

I don't move from the stump for the next ten minutes. I watch him start a fire, heat up a tin of soup and eat it, and by then a whole hour has gone by and I realize I'm gonna be here longer than I thought. The sun goes down. Another hour, and I'm still sitting here. He doesn't talk to me, doesn't look my way. He doesn't even give me dinner. After that, another hour. He makes a few arrows. It gets colder and he gives me his flannel to put on, but after that, another two hours. It's around everyone's bed time when Glenn walks over and tells him it's time.

Dad understands what he means straight away and stands up, because there's only one thing he could be talking about.

"Stay with her." He orders Glenn without room for argument, and marches away.

Glenn watches him go, then sends me a small smile. "Hey, Harley."

"Hey, Glenn." I say a little glumly.

"You wanna come sit by the fire while we wait?"

I shake my head. "I'm in time-out. I gotta stay over here."

He nods and comes to sit in the dirt beside me, hugging his knees. The sounds of crickets chirping fills the air.

"I heard what you did." He muses after a long stretch of silence. "I'm not gonna add insult to injury, but that wasn't cool, Harley."

"So I've heard." I mutter, picking at threads.

"I mean, you could've gotten hurt." He patiently explains. "We don't know what Jim might've done to you in there."

"He hates me 'cause I remind him of his kids, y'know. He says I deserve to die like they did. Thinks it ain't fair."

"Wow." He scoffs to himself. "What a jerk."

"I think my Dad's got some more colorful words for him than that."

"Oh, I do, too." He warns, making me giggle. If Glenn wants to swear, that's how you know it's bad. "But we'll stick with 'jerk' for now."

"I think Lori would appreciate that." After a pause, I ask, "Did you talk to Maggie?"

"Yeah. I did."

"How'd it go?"

"It went good." He grins a little. "I got your advice to thank for that."

Aw. I'm happy for them. "I'll be giving Dale a run for his money, soon."

As we're both suppressing laughter at the thought of my life advice being better than Dale's, the group's wise owl, a gunshot cracks out across the farm. We both flinch. Our smiles fade. He puts an arm in front of me on instinct, looking out into the dark. What the Hell?

"They're hangin' him." I utter, seeing nothing but trees and night, "They hangin' him, Glenn. Why was that a gunshot?"

"I-I don't know." He grabs my hand, pulls me to my feet and keeps me close in case we gotta run. "I don't know."

Then comes the screaming. It's not Jim's.

"Dale," Glenn gasps right as my stomach hits the ground.

Then the group is running across the field and there are guns in their hands and flashlights are cutting through the grass. Glenn takes off running with me, his hand in mine, and I'm thinking that I should be on the stump, I'm gonna get in so much trouble for moving from the stump, but nobody's thinking about my time-out because there's all that screaming and Dale— Dale might be dying.

When we collide with the group, Dad takes hold of me and asks me if I'm alright, if I'm alright, and I struggle to nod.

"What's happening?" I whine, as Lori and T-Dog ask the same thing to two other people. "What happened to Jim?"

"We had to leave him in the barn." He says breathlessly before I'm running again.

There's a mess of running legs and bodies and panicking and then the squeaking of a gate, and then I'm pushing past everyone and then the world stops because there's a bundle on the ground. It's Dale. I hear someone retch. All of him, guts and all, spread out in the grass.

My Dad rushes forward and daggers the walker that's on top of him. "Come on, help! Help, he's— Fuck!"

"Who is it?" Lori shrieks as she runs to us, only to stop dead in her tracks when she sees.

Rick throws himself next to Dale's head. He's cradling his head and muttering things to him, and Dale's moaning and huffing and puffing and wheezing like a half-dead animal as the cavity in his chest pours blood into the grass. I do nothing but stand there in shock, watching it pour, pour, pour. There's shouts for Herschel, shouts for stupid things like bandages and stitches that make no sense and are just so awful, because ain't no bandage gonna fix Dale's missing stomach and his sprawled organs and the bite marks on his neck.

"We're gonna help," Rick's promising him while Andrea cries over his body, "We're here. We're here."

I'm wrapped up in a hug. Glenn. He steps backwards with me, holding me tight, saying nothing.

I was talking to him just this afternoon. I swear I was. He was right in front of me and he was alive, and I was talking to him and now he's laid out and torn open, and his insides are on his outsides, and I couldn't talk to him even if I tried, even if I had words to speak.

Herschel's here. He crouches, hovers his hands because there's nowhere to put them, no wound to put pressure on.

"What can we do?" Rick's asking him, up to his elbows in Dale, our friend's, blood. "We have to move him. Can we move him?"

Herschel stands, eyes bulged. "He won't make the trip."

"We have to do the operation here," Rick's saying, but it's useless. "We hav— We have to—"

"Rick." He puts a hand on his shoulder.

"No." He cries, turning away, holding his face. "No. No, no, no!"

"Oh, Dale." Andrea sobs, and somehow this is the worst part because Andrea never cries, and neither does Rick or Glenn, but they're all crying, all doubling over and sniffling and no-no-no-ing, because there's nothing we can do. Dale is dying right in front of us, dying in our hands. Carl gapes at the walker laying nearby, and that's when I notice the clumps of mud on its ankles, and I grab tighter onto Glenn and Carl runs to his Momma, because that's the walker from the swamp. The one we didn't kill. Andrea weeps, "He's suffering."

Another groan wracks Dale's mangled body, and we all feel it in our bones, because she's right.

"Do something!" She begs.

God fucking damn it, why didn't we just kill that thing when we had the chance?

It's Sophia all over again. The something is a bullet. Someone has to shoot Dale like we shot Sophia. Oh, God, Jim was right. Dale, my wise old friend, the man who just wanted to go around the country with his wife and his RV and read poetry books, dying in a paddock on the edge of a random farm in Georgia. I wonder if he's scared. Dale's never scared. He's one of the bravest people I know.

Rick raises his gun. I don't look away. I don't cry. I don't feel much of anything except my heartbeat in my mouth.

"Don't look," Glenn tells me, "D-Don't look."

Jacqui hides her face in Carol's neck. T-Dog turns away. Dad glances at me, tells me he's sorry with just a look.

We all know what has to happen.

He pulls the hammer back.

Dale coughs, looking into the barrel. He knows what has to happen, too.

Rick can't do it. His arm falters. He has to walk away, into Lori's arms, where he doesn't have to see it.

Dad steps up instead, raises his gun.

"Sorry, brother."

A bang.

And then Dale's face is blown to bits and I didn't even get to say goodbye.

Walking back to camp. Dad washing my face. Stamping out the fire, climbing in the tent. I don't really remember any of it, because I'm thinking about the sight of Dale's body wrapped in a white bedsheet and how when I wake up tomorrow, we'll have another funeral.

Dad sleeps beside me tonight. He holds me, soothes my hair, but he doesn't tell me everything's alright.

All of us are in shock. Back at main camp, I imagine Glenn will be sat up by the fire until sunrise, staring into the ashy pit, just thinking, mourning. Carl will be cuddled up with his parents, too. They'll be holding him tight. In the next tent over, Jacqui sniffling herself to sleep. Carol bunking with T-Dog. I don't think anyone's gonna be sleeping in the RV tonight.

Not for any real reason, but because it was Dale's.

I'm the only person awake. Alone with the white sky and my thoughts, I stare out at the tiny oak tree.

For some reason, the only thing I can think of is what we're gonna do with all of Dale's books. It's not important, but it's what I think about. He had Italian poetry, boring old non-fiction, a few thick classics that I saw him lend to people from time to time. Maybe they'll just stay in the RV, in all those nooks and crannies he had them stacked in. I won't see Glenn wasting the afternoon away reading a book on mystery, or Lori rummaging around for a romance book but only finding more poetry. Like I said, not important. But it hurts too much to think of other things.

Like how much I'll miss his chuckle-snort, the way he petted his pockets when he couldn't find his glasses. How he was good.

When Dad steps out the tent, he finds me sitting over here in the grass, still wearing his flannel.

He carefully sits beside me, and we just watch the thick fog roll over the farm together.

At the funeral, Rick talks about Dale's ability to read people, to know who they really are, and how he could always get under your skin by telling you what you needed to hear, not what you wanted to hear. I try very hard not to look at Sophia's grave. I never got to be at her funeral. I wonder what types of things Rick said that day. Something about her love for her Momma, or how she was kind, I'm sure.

When it's my turn to speak, I tell everyone that Dale was a better friend to me than my own Grandpappy ever was.

Maggie makes us all scrambled eggs and sweet-smelling tea after that, because we're sad and she's a sweetheart.

Then there's talk of moving sleeping bags into the house, dividing spare rooms, using the windmill for a lookout post. Others are saying those two gunshots last night are going to attract the horde and that we don't need to re-enforce the fence, we need to leave.

Me, I don't get involved. I sit on the sofa next to Lori and Carl and watch the fireplace dance away.

Then chores to numb the mind, collecting eggs and filling troughs. Carl don't talk to me the whole time. We're still pissy at each other.

Jim's execution is postponed. After what happened last night, nobody thought it felt right, and he got locked up in the shed again. I don't even think about going anywhere near it. I tried this morning to set myself back down on the stump again, but Dad gave me a soft, no, baby, and told me to come get dressed instead. I've learnt my lesson. No more puttin' myself at risk, and no more bein' an idiot.

I'm gonna really miss Dale. He's the smartest old person I've ever met.

I catch myself.

Was, now.

Author's note.

The moment I've been dreading writing. Dale is dead.

I love Dale. Especially since I started re-watching the show with some family, who all love him too. I tried fitting in a scene where he, Glenn, and Harley got a final talk together, but it just didn't work. It wasn't realistic. Nobody ever knows when disaster is going to strike, and you don't always get to part on good terms.

And my poor Harley has lost another person she cares for. That being said, she's more hardened than she was when Shane and Sophia died, so this won't be as devastating for her character. It's actually going to be good for her. Good riddance to the suicide arc.

Rest in peace to Dale Horvath, the wise old do-gooder.

Thank you for reading! :)

@poetoflawed

#fanfic #the walking dead #daryl dixon #twd #angst #rick grimes #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon daughter #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #ao3 fanfic #dale horvath #daryl dixon x reader #original character #fluff #hurt comfort #hurt/comfort

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lovergirl-78 · 1 year ago

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REDEMPTION

Rick Grimes x Dalia Thompson(oc)

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

AN:This is a test run. Seeing if you goes like this version if not just tell me please I would really like your feedback. Bare with me this is my first fanfic.

Warnings: mention of death, apocalypse,suicide, depression

659 words.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

The night was still; the beeping from the monitors and chittering from the people were still, yet Dalia seemed unmoved. Imagining what could be wrong with the world, her family and friends are all dead, while she remains untouched by the atrocities right outside the building. You see, Dalia often imagined that if she just opened that door and got eaten alive by the dead, just like her family, she would be free from the guilt of leaving them to die.

Dalia... DALIA!" a voice exclaimed, breaking Dalia from her zoned-out state.

Huh," Dalia responded.

"Did you not hear anything I just said?” Candace questioned.

"Is it about the cells?

"Honey, I know it’s hard right now, but you’ve got to understand that I’m here for you. Everyone lost something, and you staying alive is something your family would want.

Candace Jenner was a mother figure or a mentor figure for many, especially Dalia, who is fresh out of college. It’s been hard on everyone here at the CDC with the minimal scientists that remained. Some scientists decided to stay; some left to be with their families, while others decided to opt out of this nightmare. Dalia didn’t blame them; if she could, she would have too.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Vi, start recording!" Dalia yelled.

"Starting recording in three, two, and one," Vi replied.

"Well, here we go. Hi, my name is Dalia Thompson. I am currently twenty years old and a scientist at the CDC. Ummm.. I honestly don’t know why I did this, but Candace mentioned it’s good to keep a video diary to document or rant. Dalia sighed while taking a deep breath.

"It started on April tenth, two thousand and ten... I woke up with a crazy hangover from partying the night away with my friends Savannah and Mindy. I was tired as hell. I checked my phone, and I saw a barrage of messages from my parents angry about me missing Susie's seventh birthday. I really didn’t understand why they were so upset. There isn’t anything a seven-year-old and a twenty-year-old have in common. I digress. I worked at the CDC as a public health analyst, which is an entry-level job. When I entered work that day, Candace Jenner, who leads the CDC, reported about a strange virus that was found in France that changed people into empty, cannibalistic versions of themselves. We needed to research the effects immediately, but I guess it was too late.

It started small and manageable, and the government told us they had it under control. They sent out nationwide messages about the dangers of going outside and staying safe. Scientists and researchers were told to keep looking. Many hurried to leave to be with their families, and some decided to opt out. Since then, we've gotten rid of the bodies and placed ourselves in lockdown. No one can come in. Many came in hopes of food, shelter, and protection, but we couldn’t break protocol; we had to keep the doors shut. A family came by a couple days ago pleading for help, but we couldn't, and I watched as they got torn apart by the dead. Dalia takes a long pause. Her eyes tearing up and lips crumbling together at her meager attempt to hold in a cry.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Later that day,

Candace, Edwin Jenner, and I walked into the test room, which holds one of their dead colleagues. They needed a sample of the colleagues' DNA. Dalia offered to do it, but Candace said she would. They took an ample amount of safety precautions to prevent any way for them to get hit or scratched by the disgusting piece of sh*t.

Candace went in a full hazmat suit, looking like a marshmallow, which made Dalia laugh her ass off. But as Candace was turning away from collecting the DNA, all of a sudden it came back to life.

"WAIT!" Dalia screamed.

TBD..

#carl grimes #rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #shane walsh #the walking dead x reader #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #daryl dixon #lori grimes #dale twd #dale horvath

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dixons-sunshine · 2 months ago

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Secrets | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

A/N: There are no reader descriptions! Reader can be Dale’s adoptive daughter.

Over the course of the few months that the apocalypse had been in full swing, you had heard the phrase ‘I’d rather get eaten by a walker’ too many times to keep track of. You had not been inclined to use said phrase due to the fact that it had not been needed to be said.

Up until now. You would much rather become food for the dead than have to live through your current predicament.

Despite your more than grown age, your dad still had a tendency to meddle in your love life. It seemed as if though nobody would ever be enough for his baby girl. And by the situation he had found his baby girl in, you were surprised he did not have a heart attack on the spot. No father ever wanted to see his daughter in the midst of a deep, heavy make out session with their boyfriend, especially not if their daughter was keeping the relationship a secret, so the father did not even know about it.

Admittedly, your dad finding out about your relatively recent relationship with the crossbow-wielding archer had not been ideal at all. You knew he would find out eventually, but you figured you would be the one to tell him, not that he would just walk into your tent on the Greene’s property and find you on the huntsman’s lap, with Daryl’s tongue shoved deeply into your mouth as his hands trailed up and down underneath your shirt.

Dale Horvath was a good man with good morals and principles, but you were worried that all of that could potentially fly out the window in favour of murdering the younger Dixon brother.

You picked at your nails as you anxiously awaited for your dad and partner to emerge from the solitude of the beloved RV. Dale had sternly told Daryl that the two of them needed to talk—after he chewed you out for keeping the relationship a secret in the first place—and they had disappeared into the mobile home. That had been a good ten minutes ago, and you were beginning to think that Daryl was indeed dead, and your dad was only trying to think of a way to sneak the body out without anybody seeing him.

As if hearing the inner turmoil in your head, Daryl finally reemerged from the RV, a neutral expression on his face. His eyes locked on yours and he began making his way over to where you sat on one of the chairs in the campsite, fiddling with what appeared to be a box in his large hands.

“You’re alive,” you voiced through a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to think he would murder you.”

Unwillingly, a small chuckle left the archer’s mouth. “Felt like it at times. Honestly, I would’a preferred kickin’ the bucket over that awkward as fuck conversation. But I survived.”

“You survived.” You got up from the chair and walked forward to embrace your partner, but stopped when you noticed your dad watching the two of you from the doorway of the RV. “So how’d it go?”

Daryl shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Got the usual talk.”

“The usual talk?”

“Y’know, threats’a bein’ murdered if I ever broke yer heart, that he’ll cut my balls off if I ever so much as think of another woman. Oh, and to ‘be safe’.” For added emphasis, he lifted the box he had been shielding from your view with his large hands, showing you the clear-as-day logo of a well-known condom brand. “Said he ain’t ready to be a grandpa yet.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered and shook your head, trying your best to keep your embarrassment at bay. “Why does he even have a box of those?”

Daryl knew that was a rhetorical question, but he provided you with an answer regardless. “Apparently, s’one of Glenn’s boxes, but yer ol’ man reckoned we needed it more.”

You ducked your head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry about him. He—”

“S’fine,” he waved you off with a small, lopsided smile. “Ain’t nothin’ I couldn’t handle.”

You breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. “Okay.”

A few beats of awkward silence passed. Daryl cleared his throat and looked down at the box of condoms in his hands. “So… should I put this away for future use or are we puttin’ one’a these suckers to use right now?” he asked jokingly, attempting to lighten the mood.

That made you laugh. You shook your head with a radiant smile. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“M’choosin’ to see that as a compliment.”

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deansapplepie · 5 months ago

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Looking good, Dixon! (Drabble)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Horvath!Reader

Warnings: a middle finger being thrown in front of 2 kids, inconvenient Merle, Daryl is too cute for not being a warning. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, 18+

A/N: A second part to “Watcha lookin’ at?”, couldn’t resist to your requests also it’s cute the way they are. What do you think about calling this short stories “The Staring Contest”?

It was again, a boiling hot day. You were responsible to take care of Carl and Sophia, so what did you do? You take them to the lake and entered the shallow part with them. “You can stay and play here, don’t go deeper and always stay on my sight.” You commanded the kids, you wore some shorts and a tank top it was really hot. You had a knife on your waist and observed the kids playing, little did you know someone observed you too.

Daryl was on top of a rock trying to fish something the hunting didn’t go so well and he had come back the night before just with a couple of rabbits, so he decided to try fishing the next day, he knew the lake was full of good fish. He took a fishing rod with your father, Dale, and were trying his luck. He was successful so far 3 medium fish weren’t so bad.

He remained silent as it should be while fishing, but his eyes couldn’t leave you since you arrived to the lake with the kids. He normally couldn’t take his eyes off you and he always tried to be respectful, but it was even more difficult to not look in the atire you were wearing, especially when the two kids rebelled against you and started to throw water. You declared war against the 2 children and started to use what you called your secret water attacks. Daryl couldn’t help but feel amused observing you while…

“Are you even fishing at all?” Merle almost shouted approaching the younger Dixon, Daryl on the other hand was so caught up on his observation that he jumped, lost his balance and fell into the lake, a loud noise of water being splashed following it.

You look immediately in the direction of the noise, seeing Merle on top of the rock and a pretty much soaked Daryl coming back to the top of the water. You couldn’t help but open a big smile followed by a wholehearted laugh. “Looking good, Dixon!” You teased the younger one.

“If I’m receiving a smile like that, I’ll also throw myself in the water, doll face.” Merle said, shouted, to you.

You looked at him putting a serious face. “Not even in your dreams, Dixon.” You answered and showed him your middle finger, making Daryl snort and have that amused look on his face all over again.

“If you ever tell your moms I showed the middle finger in front of you, I’m never bringing you to the lake again. You hear me?” You advised/threatened the two kids that only shared a look between themselves and giggled going back to their playing.

Wanna be added to my tag list? Let me know. (Please tell me if you want to be tagged on everything or just specific series) Everything Taglist: @lilyevanstan1325 @hayley1998 @vaniniweenie @cupidelocke @avabh12 @whore4romance @dixondystopia @dixons-sunshine

Minors do not interact banner by @anitalenia

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl #daryl x reader #twd daryl #deansapplepie #twd #daryl fanfiction #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl x female reader #daryl x you #daryl imagines

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ineedmorefanfics2 · 3 years ago

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The Beginning Of The End

Fem!Grimes!Reader, Rick Grimes X Daughter!Reader, Carl Grimes X Sister!Reader (Platonic/Familial)

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: Season One, Episodes 1-3.

Series Masterlist

A/N: I’m thinking of making this a series! Not a full rewrite of the show but important parts of the story just including you as a Grimes. Ex. Carl getting shot, Lori’s pregnancy, the prison falling, the line up. Let me know what you think! :)

The end of the world was something you never thought you’d live to see. Something you never thought you’d live to feel. It was utter terror that had consumed you as you stood with your mother and Shane as you watched the bombs descend into the city.

The way your mother clutched onto you like a life line as she buried her head into your shoulder, refusing to watch the chaos erupting just mere miles away.

You didn’t look away, you couldn’t. You felt your heart break with every building that collapsed, could feel the rattling of the explosions in your very bones.

It was Shane who had pulled your attention away, clutching you to his chest and shielding your eyes.

You let him, soft sobs escaping your mouth. Eyes squeezed shut to block out the noise of the bombs and the panicked screams of those around you. And for just a second, it wasn’t Shane’s arms you felt around you, but the warm embrace of your father instead.

Then your mother was grabbing your arm, mumbling about Carl who was sitting back at the car with Sophia, Carol and her asshole of a husband who you had met while trying to reach the evacuation center.

Not a few weeks later and Shane had become unofficial leader of a small group of survivors, your family included.

The lot of you had set up around a quarry and after getting settled, you were all given jobs. You were in charge of keeping an eye on the kids when their mother’s were busy, and just generally helping out where you could.

You didn’t mind the kids, the job giving you more time to bond with your brother, Carl.

Before the apocalypse you were a high school senior, and Carl was an elementary student. While the two of you didn’t dislike the other, between school and your part time job it was hard to bond with him. But after the loss of your father and the start of the apocalypse, the two of you were never seen apart. You’d be damned if you lost him too.

“We’re heading out.” Glenn’s voice spoke from behind you, making you flinch and breaking you from your thoughts

You turned towards him, flicking the front of his baseball cap. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Glenn had been the first person that you had formed a relationship with outside of your small family circle. The two of you were close in age, with a similar sense of humor and taste in music. He was always kind, always asking if you needed anything or helping you round up the kids when needed.

Shane liked to tease the two of you, as did Dale, but the relationship between you two was always on the platonic side. Glenn was like the older brother you never had.

“Sorry.” He replied with a sheepish smile. “You need anything while we’re out?”

You thought for a moment. “If you find anything for the kids that would be great. Oh, and we’re running low on feminine products. If you just tell Andrea she should know what to get.”

“Got it, we’ll be back in a few hours.” He turned to walk away but you were quick to grab his arm, giving him a tight hug that he was quick to reciprocate.

“Be safe, and come back.” You muttered, and he nodded, giving you one last tight squeeze before running off to find the others he’d be leaving with.

“Don’t I get a hug, sweetheart?”

Merle Dixon’s voice rang out from behind you. A racist pig who got on everyone’s nerves and pushed his younger brother around like a slave. Something he’d probably been doing since before the apocalypse.

You opened your mouth to respond to him, but someone else beat you to it.

“Leave ‘er alone, Merle. She’s just a kid.” Daryl grumbled from behind his brother.

“Ah, don’t worry little brother, she’s eighteen. It’s completely legal.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“I’d rather sleep with a walker.” You muttered. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, anyways?” You pointed to Glenn, who was waving Merle’s way.

“Conversation ain’t over sweetheart.” Merle quipped before hurrying away.

“It definitely is.” You muttered as you rolled your eyes before turning towards Daryl, who gave you a sheepish look.

“Sorry bout him.” He mumbled.

You hummed. “Not your fault, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

He stayed silent.

“You going hunting?” You asked.

He nodded. “Was just about to head out.”

“Perfect, give me one second.” You turned away from, grabbing the satchel that sat on ground beside you and rifling through it. You pulled out a bundle of newspapers, letting the satchel drop back to the ground as you handed it to Daryl.

He took it from you, peeling back the paper to peak inside.

“Fish?” He questioned.

“Amy and Andrea caught a lot yesterday. I cooked a couple pieces for you last night.�� You rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly. “I know you usually go hunting when Merle leaves and I thought you’re probably sick of raw squirrel, so I made you something else to eat. Should last for a day or two.”

He sent a soft smile your way, bundling the paper up once more before bringing his hand up to ruffle your hair. “Thanks, kid.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Daryl went off, heading into the woods with his fish and crossbow. It wasn’t long before you were turning back to your task at hand, which was finding Amy and Andrea more bait for fishing.

As you bent down to dig your fingers into the soil of the ground to search for worms, small arms wrapped around your waist.

You let out a soft chuckle. “Need something, Carl?”

“Watcha’ doing?” He asked.

“Looking for worms, wanna help?”

“Yes! Wait, no. Dale sent me to look for mom so I gotta find her first.” He replied. “Do you know where she is?”

“I believe she’s looking for firewood. Why don’t you let her do that, while we look for worms. You can catch her when she comes back.” You responded, and with a quick glance around and no sign of Shane, you knew where she really was.

You weren’t an idiot, you knew of the relationship between Shane and your mother. She was terrible at hiding it, if you were honest.

You didn’t exactly like it, but you didn’t hate it. You trusted Shane, had grown up with him. He was there when you were born, had seen every low and high you’d faced, even took you joyriding in his cruiser when you got a license. And when you got dumped in sophomore year, he was there to take you out to dinner and a movie before bringing you to egg the asshole’s house.

He was also there when your dad got shot and he had then been the one to tell you that your father died. Shane was the reason you’d survived so long and you couldn’t thank him enough.

He was a good man, a great man, but he wasn’t your father. It also wasn’t your decision who your mother slept with, so you did the responsible thing and kept your opinion to yourself.

“If you find more than ten I’ll let you keep one, deal?” Carl beamed at the idea, instantly kneeling to the ground and ripping up dirt.

You laughed, ruffling his hair before doing your own search for the slimy critters.

A few hours passed, the sun beginning to settle when you started getting antsy.

You had filled two small pails of worms thanks to Carl, colored with Sophia and even had time to do a load of laundry.

Amy was sick with worry and her anxiety wasn’t making you feel any better. You knew the few of your people that had gone out to scavenge should’ve been back by now and you couldn’t help but think of the worst possibilities.

As you clipped the last wet shirt in your hand onto a clothesline, voices reached your ears.

“Is it them? Are they back?” Amy asked, and it was then you heard the alarm of a car.

You made your way over, the other group members making their way along with you.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Dale muttered as he looked through his binoculars.

“What is it?” Amy asked.

“A stolen car is my guess.” He replied.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, and turned to see your mother who was holding Carl’s hand with Shane standing right behind her.

A red sports car blaring it’s alarm pulled up next to the RV Dale owned, and the group was quick to make their ways towards it.

Glenn came out, grinning from ear to ear.

“Holy crap, turn that damn thing off!” Dale chastised as Shane made his way to the front of the car.

“I don’t know how!” Glenn replied and you had to stifle your laugh.

“Would you pop the damn hood, please?” Shane called as Amy ran over, questioning Glenn about her sister’s whereabouts.

When Glenn didn’t answer, Shane repeated himself, this time with more authority.

“Okay, okay!” Glenn quickly popped the hood of the car.

“Is she okay? Where is she?” Amy pushed.

“She’s all right, she’s okay!”

“Is she coming back? Why isn’t she with you?”

You made your way to Amy, grabbing ahold of her arm gently. “Relax, he said she’s okay so she’s okay.” You assured her.

“She’s fine, everyone is fine.” Glenn spoke. “Well, Merle not so much.”

Before you could speak, Shane was quick to cut you off. “Are you crazy, driving this wailing bastard up here? Are you trying to draw every walker for miles?”

“I think we’re okay.” You muttered, and Shane sent a glare towards you.

“You call being stupid okay?”

“Well the alarm was echoing all over these hills, hard to pinpoint the source.” Dale pointed out, coming to your rescue.

Shane’s hardened expression switched to him, and Dale put his hands up in surrender. “I’m not arguing, I’m just saying. But it wouldn’t hurt you to think things through more carefully next time.”

He pointed towards Glenn, who muttered out a sorry. “Got a cool car though.” He said with a smile, gesturing towards the red vehicle.

It was then that a truck approached, pulling up behind the sports car.

You watched the rest of your group exit the vehicle, Andrea running towards Amy and Morales making his way towards his family.

Jackie and T-Dog were next but Merle was nowhere to be seen.

“How’d y’all get out of there anyways?” Shane questioned and Glenn was quick to respond.

“New guy, he got us out.”

Your brows furrowed as Shane asked your unanswered question. “New guy?”

“Yeah,” Morales replied. “crazy vato just got into town.” He turned towards the truck. “Hey helicopter boy! Come say hello!” He yelled.

You watched as the man stepped out of the truck and your heart stopped.

The hair, the face, the uniform. It couldn’t be. There’s no way, it couldn’t be real.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t even comprehend what was happening as you watched your father exit the truck, hand going over his mouth as he caught sight of your brother.

“Dad!? Dad!” Carl screamed, and then he was running.

Your father scooped him up, tears falling from his eyes as the two fell to the ground in their embrace.

“Oh my god.” Your father cried.

He stood, arms around your brother who had latched onto him as your mother made her way over.

You watched, standing stone still in your spot as he embraced her, squeezing the two tightly.

“Y/N? Where’s Y/N?” He asked, gaze drifting around before his eyes landed on you.

You blinked. “Dad?” You croaked, and it was like a dam broke. Tears flooded your eyes as you rushed towards him.

Carl let go of him, stepping out of the way as you barreled into your father. Rick’s arms wrapped tightly around you as you shook, gasping in lungfuls of air between sobs as he held you.

“I thought… Shane said…” But you couldn’t finish your sentence, burying your face into the crook of his neck and holding onto him with all the strength in your body, as if letting him go would cause him to float away.

“It’s okay.” He shushed, rubbing his hand up and down your back. “I’m here.”

And he really was.

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gracemyface · 3 years ago

Text

Daryl: The Professional (Daryl Dixon x Young! Reader)

Chapter Six

Key:

Y/n - Your Name

Y/l/n - Your Last Name

Y/e/c - Your Eye Color

Y/h/c - Your Hair Color

Series Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

Summary: Things are unsettled at camp after the fight and Jim's breakdown, and the Reader finds themselves too worried about Daryl to really enjoy any of the festivities. Meanwhile, Daryl finds himself struggling in the city, wanting to return to camp but not wanting to face the wrath that would come from leaving Glenn behind. They're finally reunited when, in a turn for the worse, the camp is attacked by a wandering herd of walkers...

Warnings: Major Character Death, Canon Typical Violence/Gore, Some Angst.

A/n: I will have no real Lori slander. She did some shitty things, yes, but she loved her kids and the other women’s kids. Anyway, how do we like Daryl’s pov? I really, really struggled with it bc he’s such an asshole (I mean that affectionately.)

Shit really goes down this chapter. You guys have a slight breakdown, but it's been a long time coming. Character development ig?

also, do we want more stories from when the Reader, Daryl, and Merle were together?

Word Count: 4.8k

The first time Daryl ever saw you, the blood-soaked orphan with a far-off stare who’d barricaded themself into the corner of his father’s cabin, he felt a prickle of annoyance travel up his spine.

He didn’t know why you were out in the woods, or what had happened to result in you being covered in the crimson liquid (though, if his father hadn’t just been eaten in front of him, he would’ve assumed it was a pig slaughtering gone awry), or how you got into the cabin. He, especially at that moment, hadn’t even cared. He knew immediately that Jess wouldn’t have left you behind, cursed his father’s half-brother and his bleeding heart, and reduced you to nothing in his mind but another mouth to feed — a weak, sniveling mouth at that. He wasn’t ever keen on being around kids, smart-mouthed teenagers even less, and he didn’t really want to have to handle the collapse of society with anybody who couldn’t fend for themselves.

You showed him, though. You really did.

In those few days when it was just you and him after Jess took that fall off the truck when you officially became his responsibility, you proved you weren’t weak. You adapted to the end of the world quickly — learned to be quiet when you needed to be, to be useful most of the time, and to just eat whatever he managed to catch. And then you took on Merle in a way that nobody really dared to, most nights ending with you sending his older brother a heated gaze over the fire, the flames reflecting in your y/e/c eyes. Now, he still wouldn’t leave his life in your hands if he had the choice, even after you shot that man clear in the head back in Fontana and walked it off, but he knows for sure that he can trust you to handle your own — and, even if he doesn’t really appreciate being wrong, he can’t help but admire you for it… though, he’d never admit it aloud.

Standing in a long-abandoned lab building in an overrun Atlanta, the redneck stares down at the whimpering kid they picked up with pure disdain. His lips are curled back over his teeth in a sneer and his eyes are slanted as he stares down, internally picking apart every little thing the teenager does. That is what he expected from you.

What a shit show this little expedition-slash-rescue mission has turned out to be.

Not only was Merle not where they left him — currently down one hand and on the run through the sweltering pit of hell that has become of the once lively city — but now they’ve lost Glenn, too. If Daryl’d known that the younger man was going to get taken hostage by a bunch of wannabe gangsters and hold them up like this, he’d have left before these assholes could’ve even thought about getting into the truck with him.

He wanted to be the hell out of dodge three hours ago. “Them guns are worth more than gold. Gold won’t protect your family or put food on the table— you’re gonna give that up for that kid?”

Both of them give him a stern look, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sure, the kid is nice and all, and half the camp (including you) would be really pissed off if they came back without him, but they can’t give up half of these guns. It’s either Glenn or a better chance at survival and he picks survival.

“If I knew we’d get Glenn back, I might agree. But, you think that Vato across the way is just gonna hand him over?”

Daryl nods in agreement. There’s that, too. They have no idea for certain if giving up the guns will even get them what they want. It might just be a trap that gets them all killed.

“You calling G a liar?” Their hostage— Miguel, was it?— inserts himself into the equation.

His mind once again drifts to you. If you were kidnapped, you wouldn’t be this stupid. You’d be smart enough to not mouth off to the people who held you captive, smart enough to figure out how to get yourself free, and smart enough not to make promises on his behalf that he might not be able to keep. You’d be mute, sitting there and watching your captors with those dangerous little eyes of yours.

This kid, though? Christ.

“Are you a part of this?” He crosses the room and leans down over the kid, slapping him lightly. “You wanna hold onto your teeth?”

T-Dog continues on, ignoring the violence. “Question is, do you trust that man’s word?”

“No, question is what are you willing to bet on it? Could be more than them guns. Could be your life. Glenn worth that to you?” He holds Rick’s gaze.

Truth be told, Daryl doesn’t quite get risking why anybody would risk their life for someone who wasn’t their blood. Glenn wasn’t any of their brother, son, or cousin — he was just some (former) pizza running kid that was on the highway, in the right place and at the right time when Shane spearheaded the group and lead them off the highway. Merle is probably the only person in the world that the redneck would even think to sacrifice anything for.

(Except maybe…)

“What life I have I owe to him. I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could have walked away, but he didn't.” Rick loads his revolver and sticks it in his pocket. “Neither will I.”

Daryl scoffs in his soul. “So you’re gonna hand the guns over?”

“I didn't say that.”

The sheriff's voice has now taken a quality that has his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

“There's nothing keeping you two here. You should get out, head back to camp.”

T-Dog winces from his injuries, rubbing his head with his hand. “And tell your family what?”

Daryl and Rick stare at each other for a beat, a silent conversation happening between them, before he sighs shortly and reaches for a weapon. You’d probably be really pissed at him if he didn’t try, and he doesn’t want to deal with an emotional teenager right about now.

“Come on, this is nuts.” The boy sits back down when Daryl holds a hand out to him. “Just do like G says.”

The redneck ignores the whining boy and starts loading a shotgun. He needs this to be over as quickly as possible, and he needs the gangster assholes to go down without a fight.

He made a promise to come back alive, after all.

──────────────────

Jim has a heatstroke. Or, at least, that’s what Shane keeps dismissing it as. With the current state of the world, it could’ve very well been post-bite fever or a psychotic break.

He’d been digging for reasons unknown and unintentionally ruined the good news of the incredible amount of food they were going to have tonight in the process. Shane went all cop on him, which didn’t really surprise you after what happened with Ed, and the whole ordeal ended with Jim being tied to a tree after ranting and raving about how he left his family for dead. Everyone seemed to move on after that, the mothers dragged their children off to do schoolwork and a few of the other adults started setting up for the fish fry, but you found yourself a little nauseous.

It looked like he was digging graves, and why did he go into such intense detail?

Hiding away in your tent, you lay down on top of your sleeping bag and throw a ball of socks up just to catch it as it comes down. You hoped the action would be therapeutic — something to take your mind off the image of Jim’s poor family and how it bleeds into the image of your own — but the socks lack the weight of a real ball, and you can’t get out of your head.

Had washing your parents’ blood off your skin absolved you of any responsibility in their deaths? Were you doomed to end up like Jim?

Would you also, someday soon, have a psychotic break?

“Hey, Y/n?” Lori’s soft voice drifts through the thin fabric of your tent as he speaks timidly.

For a beat, you decide if you want to be silent and let her think you’re asleep. “Uh, yeah. What’s up?”

“Shane’s gonna teach Carl and Sophia to clean fish. He wanted to know if you’d join.”

You already know how to gut an animal. Squirrels, rabbits, and even a deer, once — Daryl had always been very big on you learning how to survive in the time you spent together, and that learning involved getting over the grossness of animal entrails very, very quickly. You were living through the end of the world, he’d reasoned, you don’t have time to be weak-stomached.

And you don’t want to spend time with Shane. That’s at the top of the list of things you don’t want.

But you’re not going to tell the woman that you dislike the man she was sleeping with, so you say, “I already know how to.”

There’s another beat of silence, and you can see the shadow of her willowy figure shift through the wall of the tent.

“Can I come in?”

You, certainly not expecting that, pause.

“Uh, sure.”

You sit up and push yourself to the back of the tent, watching as Lori unzips the door and ducks down inside. She’s got sincere eyes. So sincere that when she crouches down in front of you and meets your gaze, your skin starts to crawl.

“You feelin’ okay?”

You hate that question. Something burns behind your nose and you snuggle, shrugging pitifully. “Dunno. Pretty shit — what happened to Jim, I mean.”

Lori nods thoughtfully. “Yeah… it is.”

She looks a little pale. Surely, the death of children doesn’t sit well with a mother, even if they aren’t her own.

“I, uh, I understand that you’ve had a rough time.” The brunette doesn’t seem to know what to say to you, and you almost feel bad. “I mean, I don’t. Not really. And you don’t have to tell me anything.” She stresses that point with a sweep of her hand. “But I know something must’ve happened because everyone has something happen.”

You nod along, fiddling with a loose string on your jeans.

“I— Daryl and Merle don’t exactly seem like the easiest people to talk to, so if you ever need anything, me and Carol are right here, okay?”

“…okay.”

She smiles softly at you, and you spare one back. Lori and Carol are perfectly nice women, but you almost prefer Daryl, who has put a ban on personal questions and mostly ignores the emotional side of everything. You know you aren’t going to go to Lori and tell her things.

You wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Y’know, Carl likes you? Like, a lot.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Sophia, too.”

Deep down, you know this is her trying to coax you out of the tent, but you let it boost your ego anyway. There’s something so incredibly normal (and endearing) about being looked up to — even if, sometimes, it gets a little annoying.

“And I’m guessing they would really, really like it if I went out there and helped Shane gut fish with ‘em?”

“Yeah. They would.”

Pursing your lips, you stare at the woman through slightly narrowed eyes before sighing and giving in.

“Alright…”

She grins widely and it kind of makes up for it.

Shane seems to be getting frustrated with the ordeal when you arrive, correcting Sophia’s stance with a tightness pulling at his smile as Lori gently nudges you along. You take the seat next to him without a word, pretending you don’t notice how he and the woman exchange a look, or how Carl shifts toward you on the log. It’s a hundred degrees out and he’s attached to your hip already, watching with those big blue eyes of his as you silently grab a fish off the pile and get to gutting it.

You can remember the steps well: descale, cut a slit in the belly, remove the guts and fins and head, and rinse.

“Look at you.” Shane compliments in a drawl, finally getting Sophia to do what he needed her to. “Like a swan to water.”

With a wrinkled nose, you drop fish innards into a bucket and turn to look at him as you shake the blood off your hands.

“Yeah, well, you spend enough time with the Dixons and you’ll learn how to gut anything.”

Something dark flashes across his face but you don’t care. You turn back to the fish, making a little joke to Carl about fish eyes that makes his entire face scrunch up and draws a long ‘Ewww’ from his lips. The laugh that bursts from you rattles in your bones.

──────────────────

“Hey, Dale, you got a?—“ The question dies on your lips as, upon stepping over the threshold of the RV, you stumble upon Andrea.

Every cabinet in the mobile home’s little kitchenette is open and she appears to be rooting through them desperately. At the sound of your voice, she pauses, looking up at you like she’s an animal and you just caught her looking through your garbage cans.

“Hi.”

“Hi?” You retort, shifting your weight. “Do you know where Dale is?”

“No, but I wish I did.” She heaves a sigh and runs her hand through her hair.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen the woman quite so frantic. Somewhere down the line, Andrea Harrison was a lawyer, and it’s hard to imagine her standing in the front of a courtroom, prim and proper and ready to kick some ass, with her standing in front of you like this.

“Can I help you any?” You ask just as Dale finally responds to his summons, stepping over the threshold with a quiet, “Did I hear my name?“

“Yeah.” Both you and Andrea answer at once, but you step back and gesture to her. “I think she needs help first.”

The blonde spares you a nervous smile.

“Alright. What do you need?”

“Wrapping paper, color tissue, anything?”

(Okay, maybe you regret letting her go first. At this rate, you’ll never get that bandaid.)

You stare at her with furrowed brows and a scrunched-up face.

“Seriously?” Dale shares in your confusion, glancing warily between the two of you. You offer him a shrug.

“How could you not have any?”

“Had I been informed of the impending apocalypse I'd have stocked up.”

Your snort at the old man’s dry words earns you a particularly derisive look from Andrea. “What? It’s the end of the world and you need wrapping paper. Shoot me for finding that amusing.”

“It’s Amy’s birthday tomorrow.” She says it like you should know that (probably because you should.) “I've been marking days on the calendar just to make sure.”

Your eyes wander over to the calendar on the wall of the RV as she lifts the necklace that she stole for a gift to her sister. Surely enough, Andrea has been crossing out the days on it.

Despite what you expected, there is no big circle over Amy’s birthday or anything, but you then figure that would probably ruin the surprise. Your older (in age and not maturity) blonde friend had come to you earlier in the week and lamented to you about the situation. While you’d always known that Andrea was the older of the pair, you didn’t know just how much until Amy filled you in on the ghosts of birthday past; she told you all about the older blonde’s broken promises to return to the nest for her little sister’s birthday, about how, more often than not, college and other things got in the way. She must’ve seen the calendar, too, and been disappointed by the apparent lack of acknowledgment that it was growing closer and closer to her favorite holiday.

“You can’t leave a gift unwrapped.”

“Oh, it’s good that you got something. I think she thinks you forgot.” That was told to you in confidence, but you stretched the truth a bit, so it isn’t that bad, right?

Dale and Andrea both look at you for a moment before he nods his head slowly. “Alright. Deep breath. I’m sure we’ll find something.” He turns back to face you. “What did you need?”

As if a lightbulb turned on over your head, you lift up your hand and the handkerchief that’s been wrapped around your minor flesh wound. “Carl cut me while I was demonstrating. I just need a bandaid.”

The old man shakes his head at you and steps around Andrea to go get the first aid kit, muttering to himself about the youth of today and how you’re going to lose your limb if you aren’t more careful.

──────────────────

As the grating summer sunlight fades into the darkness of dusk, taking the heat with it, the whole group (excluding the men in Atlanta and Ed, who refused to show his face around camp) sits down for the biggest meal most of them have had since the end of the world.

Cold beer and water are handed out as serving trays full of fried fish get passed around between the clusters of people who gather around their fires, the murmur of their happy chatter and soft laughter cutting through the blanketing sounds of the night. After the big fight and Jim’s foreboding breakdown, it’s nice to see everyone smiling and knowing that nobody’s going to ruin it this time — even if you can’t really find yourself joining in on the festivity.

“Pass the fish, please?”

“Here you go.”

“Man, I missed this.”

Sitting down on the end of one of the logs and feeling a little removed from everyone else, you wrap your coat tighter around your frame and let yourself worry about the group of men who went into the city. You don’t know Rick Grimes too well — he didn’t exactly give you the chance to get to know him, did he? — but you do know Glenn, T-Dog, and Daryl. You know that they’re very capable men and that, in certain circumstances, most of them have more experience with geeks than you do, but you can’t help but worry. The sun has long since set, meaning that the men, wherever they are, are stranded out in the dark. You don’t really remember the nights from when it was just you and Daryl (a combination of many sleepless nights and too-high adrenaline made the memories blur together), but you know enough to know that things do get worse when the sun goes down; geeks aren’t exactly quiet, but they can really sneak up on you when there’s no light and your body wants to sleep.

Experienced or not, they're going to be tired eventually, and, if Merle doesn’t try to kill them, something else will.

“Hey, Nervous Nellie.” Shane draws your attention to him by nudging your leg with his boot, “Yeah, you— how's the fish?”

Your eyes flit down to the bottle in his hand. Beer surely makes him a little looser.

“It’s alright.”

The ex-cop cocks a brow and echoes your response. “Alright?”

You really wish he’d just leave you alone.

Truth be told, you don’t really like the food. It’s bland and it tastes fishy in the worst way, and (even if you’ll admit that you’ve been eating it like a death row inmate getting their last meal as if indigestion isn’t a thing), chasing it down with water isn’t helping. Sure, it’s better than the food you’ve been eating for weeks — better than measly mushrooms, canned rations, and whatever game the Dixon brothers could hunt up — but it’s not great.

“It’s no cheeseburger.” You shrug, stabbing some more of the pale flesh with your fork. “But beggars and choosers, and all that.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Morales interjects lightheartedly, tipping the head of his beer in your direction. You smile a thin-lipped smile.

The arrival of his long-lost best friend has made Shane rather… unsettling. Whether it’s because of how cold Lori has been acting toward him or his superiority complex, you’re not sure. You just know that you want Daryl to come back, even if that means putting up with Merle for the rest of his life.

“I’ll be right back.” You dismiss yourself quietly to Jacqui when the temperature changes and your discomfort proves to be too much. She nods absentmindedly, too engrossed with whatever Dale is saying to really respond, and takes the plate from you when you hand it over.

You slip away into the darkness pretty easily, retreating to your tent in search of a sweatshirt, a breather, and maybe some reassurance that the redneck you’ve grown to like could survive whatever came at him.

With a press of your hand, the nylon flap of your tent opens and you step in. Pausing briefly to turn on the little electric lantern on the floor, you then scan the small space with your eyes, looking for anything that might pass as something with long sleeves. There’s already a pile of dirty clothes forming in the corner and most of your stuff is strewn about, but you ignore that and grab for your bag— an old duffel that belonged to Daryl’s deceased father. Curling your fingers around one of the fraying straps, you pull it up and toward you, rooting through the stuff in there until you find it. A red and black flannel.

Somewhere down the line — just like most of your stuff did — the flannel belonged to one of the Dixons. It hangs loose on your frame, the sleeves too long for your arms and the length stopping mid-thigh.

Buttoning it up, you cuff the sleeves and fiddle with the ends for a few minutes until they sit in a way you like.

Just as you’re able to breathe a deep breath and feel remotely at peace, a blood-curdling scream, followed by many more, cuts through the quiet dark of the night. Adrenaline is the first thing you feel, your heart beating in your ears and your lungs squeezed of air, and worry is the second, fear for your friends forcing your legs to move and push out of your tent again. Though, before you can do that, you’re greeted by two rotting hands shoving their way through the opening and grabbing at your shoulders in a surprisingly iron grip. The shock of seeing a geek so up-close causes you to stumble back, but your ankle twists harshly — sending you sprawling to the ground with the monster right on top of you.

“Oh, god!” The cracked scream leaves your lips, the now-shattered glass from the lantern digging into the skin of your leg.

The walker is — or, was — a man. It gnashes its teeth and pushes toward you, the sound of the bones clacking together making you whimper. Is this what your parents felt in their last moments? Jim’s wife and kids? Very quickly, your arms start to tremble under the weight of the much larger body, and you decide to not resign yourself to the same fate. Craning your head, you search for a weapon.

There’s no way for you to reach your gun right about now, which you can’t really shoot with one hand anyway, but there has to be something else — anything you can use.

As the walker claws desperately at your shirt and groans miserably, you have to make the rash decision to remove one hand from its chest and give yourself less leverage to reach blindly behind you. Panicked breaths puff past your lips and your head starts to feel light as you grab at your stuff. Your fingers tightening around your sleeping bag, you give a harsh tug and hear the faintest sound of objects clattering around. The walker pushes down on your forearm as your fingers touch what feels like the hilt of a knife. Daryl must’ve thrown it in with your belongings a while back.

Letting out a strangled and panicked sound, you take the weapon and stab the walker with all your might.

The steel of the blade pops the walker’s eye upon entry and slides right through to its brain. Closing your eyes and mouth, you whip your head to the side as a mixture of ink-like blood and gel-like eye fluids drip down the hilt of the knife and onto your face. Its body, now eerily still and limp, falls on top of yours, making it hard to fully inhale as stuttered, panicked breaths rack your chest. As the sounds of gunshots and screams continue from outside the tent, you roll the body off you and force yourself up on your knees, gasping breaths through frightened sobs as you try to tug the knife out of the dead head.

As you pull it free, another walker stumbles into your tent and tries to pounce on you. Before it can bite a chunk out of your body, the tent door is being pushed open and a bullet is shattering its skull.

“Y/n!?” Glenn’s voice is just audible over the deadly mixture of your heartbeat and painful ringing in your ears, his eyes wide as he hopes what he just shot was actually dead before he shot it. “Y/n?!”

“Glenn.” You whimper, kicking the other dead body away from you. Your alleviation that the men from Atlanta are alive is short-lived.

“Oh.” He breathes in relief and slings the gun over his shoulder, reaching out to hold your forearms. “Oh. You’re okay. Oh, god. That’s good.”

“Daryl— is— is Daryl?” You can barely form words, your fingernails digging into his skin.

“Daryl’s fine. C’mon. We have to get out of here!”

He ushers you to your feet. The pain in your calf worsens as you stand up on shaky legs, every movement causing the glass to shift in your skin, and you stumble forward into his chest.

“I can’t— I hurt my leg.” You hiccup and Glenn sighs softly, wrapping one of your arms around his shoulders so he can half carry you.

“I have you.”

Glenn leads you out into the chaos. What’s left of camp isn’t very different from what Sedalia was like all those weeks ago — bodies, both rotting and fresh, littering the floor and the once-contained fires roaring loudly against the stones. Howls of anguish and sobs fill the air.

“Y/n! Y/n!” Daryl’s southern drawl echoes through the remains of the camp, worry, fear, and anger lacing his words. “Where the hell is the kid?!”

The survivors are all gathered around the RV, and you watch as he shoves Shane lightly for getting in his way.

“Where are they? Did you leave them alone?” Rick tacks on as T-Dog tries to get in between them, his son in his arms. “Has anyone seen Y/n?”

As the moonlight casts a blue shadow on your blood and grime covered skin, you let go of Glenn and find it within yourself to shout. “I’m right here!”

The redneck’s head snaps over to you and he abandons his antagonism against the ex-cop in favor of running over to you. Daryl grabs your face in both of his hands and starts scanning over your features.

“You alright? Any of this blood yours?” He whispers gruffly.

“I’m… I mean I hurt my leg but otherwise I’m fine. No bites.” Your hollow voice cracks slightly as you speak, and your gaze flits away from him as he bends down to check your leg. “Is that?…”

Andrea sits, crumpled at the foot of the door into the RV. In her lap is Amy. Sweet Amy. Amy, who missed texting more than most and still had this beautiful ability to wonder in her twenties. Amy, whose birthday is tomorrow.

Amy, Amy, Amy.

Your blood runs cold and your stomach drops so fast you might fall over as the older blonde’s bloody hands brush across your dead friend’s pale skin.

“Don’t look.” Your guardian orders once he’s followed your gaze, but it’s too late.

Tears, burning hot and long coming, spill out of your eyes and down your cheeks. Daryl sighs and, because the attention isn’t on either of you, lets you curl into his chest, his hand rubbing down your back in an attempt at comforting you.

It’s useless, though.

Andrea’s sobs filter through the air as a heavy silence overcomes the rest of the group, each and every one of them consumed with the weight of what they’ve lost.

──────────────────

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lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love · 5 years ago

Text

Dead to Me: Prologue

Notes: This will be the first part of many, and I hope you guys enjoy it!

Message me or leave an ask if you want to be tagged!

Y/N = Your name

Y/L/N = Your last name

N/N = Nickname

Y/H/C = Your hair color

Y/S/C = Your skin color

Y/E/C = Your eye color

Pairing/Characters: Daryl x Female!Reader -> slow burn; your sister’s name is Melanie

Chapter Description: You weren’t expecting this, any of this. What are you going to do now?

Warnings: Anxiety, fear, reader and her sister trying to survive, zombies, apocalypse, death of parents/stepparent(s)

Masterlist: Click Here

Word Count: 746

Deep breaths, okay? In, out; in and out — c’mon, just focus on that. Don’t look at anything, just focus on breathing. Keep your eyes closed and breathe.

You were on your knees, your eyes squeezed shut. Your hands went to your thighs as you knelt forward, trying to calm yourself down. Your head was spinning, your stomach lurched with each breath you took. Blood stained your hands and clothes, and had been splattered on the walls and ceiling. You could smell it, and it made you want to vomit again.

“Calm down,” you murmured, lowering your head. “Just calm down... you’ve got this.” You took in deep breath before letting it out. “Keep breathing, just keep breathing.”

After a couple more breaths, that did little to nothing to calm your nerves or your stomach, you opened your eyes. Blood stained the white walls and ceiling. Furniture was knocked over or broken. Then you saw it. The bodies. Your parents’ bodies.

You felt bile rising in your throat, and your eyes began to water.

Oh God, please don’t, you thought desperately. You’ve thrown up twice already, your throat still burning from it.

Too late. You threw yourself forward, supporting your upper body with trembling arms, as vomit spewed from your mouth. When you had nothing left, you continued to gag, spit dripping from your mouth.

Damn it.

———————————————————————

Everything was normal. Everyone would go about their lives without a care in the world, doing the same routines without a second thought. You used to enjoy that.

When the news started broadcasting about people getting infected with a mysterious virus, you thought nothing of it. It would pass, no big deal. You were wrong. The virus continued to spread at an alarming rate, and people were dying just as fast.

That caught your attention.

The virus had a high infection rate, and anyone who contracted it was immediately quarantined. Quarantine could only do so much. Soon, months had gone by and there were no signs of improvement. People started rioting, and you noticed the riots happened in waves. The first wave was minor, but still bad; people just wanted medicine and essentials, and they’d do anything to get it. The second wave was worse; people were destroying property, stealing whatever they could find, hurting each other. That riot came after news that scientists and doctors couldn’t create a vaccine for the healthy. The third wave was... unbelievable. You had no words to describe it. People were destroying anything they could get their hands on, some even killing others in fits of rage and panic.

It was a downward spiral from there. No amount of police force could stop what was happening, any amount of civility was long gone. Your family managed to avoid any major threats, until a few days prior. A window was broken, and someone broke in. Your stepfather and your mother went down to handle it, while you and your sister hid. You tried to convince them to let you help, but they refused.

“If there’s anyone else in the house,” your mother had said, “someone has to be here to protect your sister.”

As much as it pained you to admit it, she was right. Your sister’s only five, she couldn’t defend herself.

Your sister was sobbing into your shirt, gripping it tightly as she tried to be quiet. You held her, hoping to give her as much comfort as possible, but you were on the verge of running from the closet to help your parents.

Mom told you to stay here, you thought anxiously. There could be someone else in the house.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out a logical solution. From what you could hear going on downstairs, your parents weren’t doing so hot. There was a lot of screaming and cursing, and groaning and growling.

I can’t leave Melanie by herself, I was told to stay. You pursed your lips. But if I don’t help Mom and Ben, they’ll...

Gently prying Melanie from you, you explained the situation to her, that you were going to help your parents and you’d be back in a minute. Melanie begged for you to stay, but you promised her a safe return as long as she stayed hidden in the closet.

“I promise Mel,” you said, “I’ll be back. Just stay here and be quiet. I’ll come back for you when everything’s safe.”

You regret ever leaving that closet.

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 7 months ago

Text

Penance + (knock-off) Ambrosia

still alive, slowpokes :P

When -- during the meal at the Greene's Farm as seen in S02 Chupacabra. After Shame on a plate.

What -- Carol wanted to cook a communal dinner for the Greenes in thanks for all they've done to help your group. Under the weight of Otis' death as well as possibly having to vacate to God-knows-where, the shared meal is tense. Meanwhile, Daryl's busy beating himself up alone in his room and won't eat.

Relationships -- slow burn Daryl x You

Perspective -- You 2nd, Daryl 3rd

Pronouns -- neutral

TWs -- some language, and a non-descriptive allusion to Shane's actions in Stuck in a damn bed.

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

feedback is nice to get :D

Jimmy’s note to you reads: “What’s a pirate’s faverite letter?”

Easy, you know this one!

After double-taking at the typo, you scribble back “aRRRR!” and pass it to where he sits beside you, a smug grin tucked in your face. Only rule is: don’t laugh.

Yo, this table is fun, you’re not even embarrassed about being in your mid-twenties and sitting at the kiddie table. It’s too bad Carl tired himself out earlier, he’d be in stitches!

Oh, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be good, his actual stitches are still healing. So are yours, for that matter…

Anyway, it started off as a silly thing: Not 5 minutes into the meal, Beth had tiptoed to get her drawing pad from the den and wrote “please pass white gravy + pepper?” instead of whispering it, because supper had/has been that darn quiet.

This immediately (and somehow wordlessly) turned into the no-laugh competition you’ve all got going.

Granted, laughing out loud might would make the dinner a little less stiff, but you aren’t certain.

The big table seems rough. They’re barely making eye contact, not really talking, eesh.

Before dinner began, Patricia, Lori, and Carol were chatting as they finished up the cooking, and at the same time there was light discussion as you were helping wash the dishes and set the table with your friends. Even Lori exiting Carl’s room after plainly having been crying didn’t alter the good jibing any, things were chill.

But when everyone came in, sat down together? It got uneasy. When Mr. Greene said the blessing it almost felt too loud.

Now the room is limited to clinking, scraping noises, murmured niceties, and hushed requests to pass things.

You did almost lose the no-laugh game first when Glenn quietly mimicked the way Gollum said “what’s taters, precious?” because you whispered at him to “pass the mashed taters, please?” instead of ‘potatoes.’ Don’t fret, you’d obviously murmured back the only correct response of “po-tay-toes?” as well as the cooking instructions Sam says in the movie.

You almost lost it again when Glenn next decided to break the silence by asking the entire room if anybody knew how to play the guitar. The crickets that followed, hilarious!

Except, then Patricia spoke up that her husband had known, Mr. Greene agreed about how skilled Otis had been.

Oh, did the tension spike.

First thing you'd done was peek around to see if Shane was okay. He wasn’t.

His expression had taken on that 1000 yard stare sort of deal he’s been slipping into. Scared, lost. Then hard and almost mean.

Something got broke in him real bad that night Otis got killed. It’s scary, especially considering how he snapped at you yesterday and even…never mind, you don’t want to get into it.

At any rate, he made a very serious apology to you earlier today, very serious.

So, yeah, the room turned way more tense after that innocent guitar question, certainly sobered you up right quick.

And the strange sensation you’d had after Amy got killed, the one where it felt as if her blood was back on it, it started to come back pretty strong. Granted, it had come back after what happened with Shane the other day, too, but the sensation revved up more after the guitar question. Rest in peace Otis.

And at least to you, it made the unspoken understanding of Sophia twist harder, too.

When poor Jimmy got teary when his dad was brought up, you traced a blessing on his forehead and set to scribbling the next dumb joke you could think of on another scrap of paper for him and reminded yourself your hand was clean and that Otis and Sophia’s fates weren’t on you.

As for poor Glenn, once the exchange was over, he looked like he wanted to transform into a chair.

Silver lining was that Maggie helped him feel better; she slipped him a note that must’ve been a really good joke because Glenn seemed giddy as a schoolboy as he wrote down the punchline or whatever.

‘Schoolboy’ is definitely the best term — Mr. Greene and Dale happened to see Glenn sneaking back his response and were staring at the folded paper in his hand.

It’s kinda silly, right? Not only were you, Margaret, and Glenn sat at the kid table, but you were also acting like kids, what with the note-passing. Caught by the principal lol.

In the moment, you’d figured might as well, and so scribbled in big letters on the back of the notepad itself: “Too quiet, so we pass notes!”

When you held it up to the two of them, Dale read the words, swallowed a smile, then mouthed "troublemaker" to you.

As for Mr. Greene, his expression was, per usual, unreadable.

That was, what, all of 10 minutes ago? And it’s still a quiet, tense meal.

Maggie hasn’t taken the note from Glenn out her pocket to share it. A part of you hopes it’s something sweet, therefore private.

And, well, right now, you’re staring at your plate and thinking on how you’ve already got helping #2 on it. It makes you wonder if the quiet in the room, tense as it feels, might could be related to the food?

’Cause dude, it’s been so long since a hot meal this good!

Even the heartbreak about Sophia isn’t enough to stop the cravings from going into overdrive (not true, actually, but the meal is great, is what you mean)—and Carol orchestrated the dinner, anyway. She’s in a place where even she can eat, so…

Wiping your hand on your napkin again (and again), you take another sip of water, and fidget with your fork and knife.

God save you, you want to go hog wild on the food and shove it all into your mouth in one fell swoop. So, you know, maybe everyone else is also extra quiet to focus on eating politely and not stuffing it all in their face like half-starved hamsters, too.

That’s a nice thing to imagine, rather than it being gonna-get-kicked-off-the-property-and-we’re-very-sorry-Otis-is-dead-and-are-we-allowed-to-enjoy-things-when-Sophia-is-probably-dead? tenseness.

Because the food really is so yummy! And there are potatoes! Carol was so thrilled to find out they have potatoes! And there’s dairy! Therefore butter and cream and milk — hallelujah!— oh, you did a happy dance the second a forkful of the mashed taters touched your lips!

Back to the present, as you set to crafting an unnaturally large bite featuring a taste of everything from your plate, Jimmy is reading your response to his pirate joke while — grinning wide and shaking his head?

Then, you see as he scratches with the pen again on the note in his lap and hands it back to you.

Is not a pirate’s favorite letter R? What other letter could it…

You keep chewing while you open the folded note.

It reads:

“aRRRR? Nay, ‘tis the C!”

…

OH MY GOSH—

___________________________

Him

___________________________

A familiar laugh belted out from down the hallway where they was all doing dinner. This was followed by couple seconds of silence even more dead than the dinner already sounded.

But after that? It was as if a dam had burst and carried in pack of hyenas who quickly overtook the dining room.

He next thought he heard the word “pirate,” but that made no sense. A few minutes later, the hyenas seem to have left, judging by how shit got all quiet again.

That is until another noise, this time suspiciously moan-like, called out from the dining room. Within a second or two, he heard the food’s praises sung, T-Dog leading the charge, and, well, the din stayed put after that.

One, big, happy family.

Minus one missing little girl.

Daryl hadn’t touched his plate yet, hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. Didn’t feel like eating.

How those dickbags was having a dinner was beyond him at that point.

The search today was a bust, yet again. The neighborhood T-Dog’s group went to check was mostly burned down, and the highway spot set up for Sophia was still untouched.

Carol’s words to him wouldn’t shut up, neither — and why in the hell she gave him a kiss on his head?!

“You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole life,” she’d told him.

Can you believe that shit? “You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole life.” If failing and getting benched for a week was the best that little girl ever got, she had a piss poor life, and that fact whipped Daryl on the back harder than his own old man ever had.

Speaking of, when Carol brought him his tray, she hadn’t knocked. Meaning, Daryl hadn’t had time to pull the sheet over his shoulder before she walked in. His shirt had been off.

Daryl’s hope was that it’d been dark enough in the room that she wouldn’t see the scarring, just the tattoos. It's his own damn fault— he hadn’t felt like putting his shirt back on after Patricia checked his stitches, and house got warm from the cooking, besides. And because he didn’t care to slump out of bed and wrench open the window more, he stayed shirtless and decided to simply kick off his blankets.

Joke’s on him. And now, someone else had seen them.

He could just about hear Merle tell him, “quit wallowin’ like you’re on your period, Darylina.”

Well, Merle wasn’t really there, so Daryl would wallow all he wanted, and think on Carol telling him that he was also “every bit as good as them.”

As Rick, as Shane, as T-Dog, as Glenn, as — fuck, who cares, it didn’t matter. Because Daryl was not.

Carol wasn’t the best judge of character, just look at the turd she’d married.

“You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole li—”

—A steady knocking sounded at the door, breaking up the echoes of Carol’s words and setting Daryl on edge.

Yup, it was Y/N’s knocking, no mistaking it.

“Just open it!” was the loudest he’d spoken all day. He didn’t want to be around people, was that such a big ask?

There was a pause before he heard the door open a crack.

“Would you prefer to be left alone awhile longer?” his friend asked softly.

The annoyance Daryl had felt eased and drained off. His whisper was hopefully loud enough for Y/N to hear. “What is it?”

After another pause, whatever they said in response was too quiet and blocked by the door. All Daryl heard was “Red furseh?”

“Y/N, y’can just come in,” he relented. He even bothered to turn toward the door for them, except, his friend hadn’t opened it up yet.

“A-Are you decent?”

Am I…what, did they think he had his hand down his pants or something? “Yes.”

He watched as the door opened and Y/N (nervously?) looked at him, eyes flitting down along the bedsheet.

Goddamn, Y/N really did just worry if I had my hand down my pants.

“Are you ready for seconds?” Y/N repeated, relaxing.

Got it, that’s what they’d been asking from the doorway.

Daryl responded by way of a gruff, soft, “Nah.”

Another pause.

“Do you feel sick? Or are you,” they tilted their head and frowned again, “‘wallowing’ ain’t the right word — are you beatin’ yourself up, Daryl?”

Yes, somebody has to. “What do you want?” If Y/N could not hit the nail on the head right now, that would be great. He had a bandage on it, after all…

“I’m-I’m asking ’cause the symptoms are usually the same, I mean,” his friend started walking toward the bed as if they was hesitant to do it, “you ain’t even touched your plate, your voice is — for real, sugar, d’you feel sick, depressed, or both?” Saying this, they laid their wrist against his forehead.

“Careful, I got a bandage!” was stupid of Daryl to grunt, because it was coming off tomorrow morning and because Y/N was careful, but he grunted it anyway. Just — why’d they need to use that pet name?

“There were a whole lot of ways you could have contracted yourself an infection, and, well, y-your shirt is off. Ain’t never seen you do that, um…” Y/N inhaled, then exhaled slowly, and pulled their wrist away. “You are kinda warm, but it is warm in here. Really warm, actually, um, d’you want the window open more?”

Yes, please. “M’fine.”

He shifted back onto his side and resumed staring into space.

“Let me do somethin’ for you before I go,” Y/N gently insisted. “Please.” They put a soothing-type tone on. Normally, a tone like that would cause him to feel belittled or pitied, but, he didn’t know, maybe after this week he was used to it. And, he didn’t know, maybe pity wasn’t such a bad thing.

“First, would you like a shirt, or are you good?” his friend asked.

‘Would he like a shirt,’ hell yes, he would like a shirt.

The tugging sensation in his chest came back for a sec. Y/N had a knack for hitting the nail on the head with him. And while the offer was both innocent and loaded, he started to feel as if his soul had been stripped bare-naked in front of them again.

The fact that he’d even let them see his back had been a lapse, a huge lapse. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking.

But, if right now he didn’t act like it was the worst thing, he hated hated hated people seeing, nobody was supposed to see, weren’t nobody’s damn business! a big deal, it wouldn’t be, right?

Which is why Daryl decided to make no effort to cover up more at that moment, so that nothing would seem off. It made his skin crawl to not, it made him feel cornered, but he left the sheet where it was and decided to kick Y/N out.

Yet, strangely, instead of hoarsely grunting at them to 'leave him be' like he thought he was about to, he softly admitted, “Yeah.”

Y/N grabbed the clean, folded shirt and pants that Lori had brought and placed it beside him.“Here’s your pants, too, make it easier in the morning when you get discharged. Miss Patricia will come in and you’ll be all ready!” A nod at his untouched meal. “Want the plate to stay, or go?”

“Take it.”

“Positive? Carol, Lori, and Patricia went ham cookin’ the food. Literally, they cooked some salt ham, but there’s also a little of the fish left that Andy caught for me, if you’d prefer?” They tried to entice him more. “The green beans are fresh, the veggie casserole is creamy, and the mashed taters got fresh butter in ’em? There’s white and brown gravy…”

The thought of eating was tempting as hell, he’d give it that. He was hungry and the food smelled amazing. Still, he shook his head. The thought of putting a bite in his mouth made him feel sick.

Y/N looked a little disappointed, but accepted his decision with a tiny, forced smile. After a beat, their smile turned real. “You’ll get awarded MVP for not touchin’ your plate tonight,” they teased. “It’ll get shared well. I don’t reckon there’ll be crumbs left at the rate we’re hoovering it down, I-I accidentally already had thirds. But, um,” they added, biting their lip. “Dare, in a little while, please might can I bring you a bowl of dessert, in the least? You must be terrible hungry by now and you need to eat if you’re gonna heal, hon.”

He just sorta stared back, didn’t know what to answer yet. Them using a pet-name again wasn’t helping none.

This was no problem for Y/N, who seemed to have begun nervous-jabbering. “When I told Jimmy there was dessert, his eyes got all big. I’m not gonna lie, it was so darn cute. But I didn’t ruin the surprise and tell him what it is, I just winked and let him imagine. Do you wanna know what it is?”

His cheeks warmed. “What is it,” Daryl dutifully responded.

“It’s a surprise!” was the completely expected answer. Y/N looked very pleased. “But it involves hand-whipped cream,” they sing-songed.

___________________________

You

___________________________

You haven’t seen anyone’s mood here drop as low as Daryl’s has in the past few days, not since Andrea’s did after Amy died. Not even Shane after what happened to Otis, he’s handling the pain differently.

But just now when you enticed Daryl with the notion of whipped cream, he almost smiled, you saw it!

Victory!

And, before you went to Daryl’s room to see if he wanted more, you’d walked over to the big table and whispered in Shane’s ear that when dessert was served, he should wake Carl to give him a bowl and get “cool uncle points,” and he smiled, too!

Victory!

Why do you feel like you are personally responsible for holding everyone’s shit together?

Like, even at the dinner, after you’d burst out laughing, it felt so good to have eased the tension in the room, even if by accident. Then, when you heard the laughter dying down and the room going quiet again, you felt as if you’d just failed. So, you had to fix it.

Cue you to shove a big bite into your mouth and loudly moan about how good it was in the hopes that saying so would keep the momentum going. And prompt Hershel to accept your people, change his mind, keep your family safe, and keep everyone together because what if you personally aren’t trying hard enough or doing it the right way and things fall apart? Who’s fault will it be? Why does your stupid hand feel like Amy’s blood is on it again? Dale already explained how it’s ‘self-reproach because of survivor’s guilt,’ so why can’t you shake it off?

Okay, chill out, it’s not all on you. You’re not responsible, you cannot control and fix it all, it’s not all on you.

Surrender it up, and trust.

Offer it up and trust…

Thankfully, Theodore had joined in with your noise of appreciation, declaring, “I second that, mmm-mm!”

Good Moses, you could’ve legit knelt down and pledged him your fealty (or whatever it is squires did for knights in shining armor).

Heck, you were tempted to ignore the age difference and propose marriage to him instead, you were that relieved that he’d gone with it, because it prompted those at the big table to join.

Shane was right there for you, too. “This meal is hittin’ all the marks,” he quietly praised, “ain’t had grub this good in a while.”

Then there was a toast (thank you, Ricky and T-Dog), and things stayed fairly light after that. Light and comfortable.

And only during your last bite, when you noticed everyone else had seconds (…or thirds…), was it that you scrambled off, mid-chew, to Daryl’s room to see what he wanted for seconds and maybe convince him to join everyone.

Instead, you were met with an untouched plate and a man who’s voice could barely raise above a gruff whisper. So, you had to try and fix it, obviously, even if the only thing that would actually fix it is finding the little girl who everyone’s hearts have already mourned.

“Wha’ was so funny earlier?” Daryl suddenly surprises you by asking.

You snort. “We were trying to see who’d break first and laugh — this is at the kiddie table, by the way.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Psht,” you play-grumble. “But yeah, I lost the game big time. I’d just taken a very impolite sized-bite of food, too. Ain’t never swallowed a bite that big in my entire life, but I didn’t want to snarf in front of everyone!” Way to overshare, weirdo. “Oh, right, you’ll probably want to know the joke,” you remember. You can get scatterbrained when you’re carrying on. “What’s a pirate’s favorite letter?”

“A pirate’s what?”

“Favorite letter.”

“A pirate’s favorite…” Daryl makes a low, soft hum as he exhales. “Didn’t, uh, wasn’t most pirates illiterate?”

“Bro.”

“I dunno, um, the…P,” is the gem he comes up with.

Bless his heart, has Daryl never heard the ‘arrr’ joke before?

“Why a P?” you’ve simply gotta know.

“P…P for pirate, and peg-leg and um, eye-patch, and, the uh, they got parrots. That’s a lotta Ps.”

The immediate gut reaction you have is the strong desire to gasp with delight and smooch him square on the lips WHAT THE, why did his answer turn you on?? Oopsy lol, yeah, gross, no way. You meant to say, um, ah,…?!?

Anyway, you unfortunately end up squealing, “Oh Lord, that was hot.”

It’s fine, you slip in a ‘dude’ right after. “C’mon, dude, what do pirates say? Like the, the sound they make in movies and books?”

“I don’t, uh…'Yo-ho…ho?'”

That’s now you, belly-laughing, even as it makes your stitches pinch more. “No, the noise they make, like, when they’re mad or tryin’ act all scary.”

Hold the darn phone, is he — good Moses in heaven with the angels and saints, Daryl Dixon is blushing.

He’s gone from plain to red splotches on his cheeks, it’s visible even in the low lighting. The inconvenient butterflies start fluttering around in your stomach again, but this is such an unexpected treat, who cares? Ha!

“No way you’re turnin’ red, nerd,” you whisper.

“Stop,” he grunts in his way, and his eyes are crinkled and his mouth is threatening to grin.

A pleasing shiver travels down when you scrunch your pointer finger into a hook. “Arrr,” you enunciate with spot-on cartoonish flair, if you say so yourself.

His eyes shut when the punchline hits him. “Sonofa—it’s R, then?”

Hot damn, is this joke satisfying. “R? Nay nay, boy, ’tis the C!”

___________________________

Him

___________________________

That he’d gone from wishing he were left for dead in a ditch to laughing out loud in the few minutes his friend was in the room with him…Y/N was something else.

A weirdo, too.

The dessert was ambrosia, by the way, Y/N eventually came back into the room with two bowls of it. “Ambrosia” was a loose term; it didn’t have none of the usual stuff but for the pecans and cream dressing.

“It’s peach, raspberry, wild blueberry and pecan ambrosia with hand-whipped cream — Glenn won’t even know to miss the marshmallows!” Y/N had chirped.

Him telling them it was “knockoff ambrosia” (as a joke) only lead to them pursing their lips, giggling, then immediately going back to happily twittering on how: “Lori hand-whipped it to make it extra special, and Carol added a mite bit of buttermilk to get the tang it needs. Can’t wait to taste how it came out…”

Their little food dance as they took the first bite was cute.

And shiiit, the little moan they made as they shut their eyes and tilted their head back shouldn’t have been enough to turn his thoughts sexual, but yeahhh did it. The cabin fever was apparently messing with his dick, too, great.

But, like, why did Y/N say something he did was “hot?” Was it slang for something else, other than what he knew it usually meant?

“Dare, what do you think?” Another quiet, hummed moan, and then Y/N opened their eyes and saw that he hadn’t tasted any. “Oh, Daryl, c’mon and try some? It’s heavenly. I think I’m dying, it’s so yummy.”

Nah. As good as Y/N was making it seem, he couldn’t, and so, shook his head.

But then his friend said something that, weird as it was, for some reason hit the nail on the head for him once more. It was as if there Y/N was, seeing his soul bare-naked again.

“If I were your confessor,” they began so casual-like, “other than explaining how accidental injury ain’t sinful, I’d tell you your penance was to eat what’s in front of you.”

Y/N almost took another bite as if in example, but hesitated before the spoon reached their lips. The light expression they wore dimmed and turned serious. “All you’ve gone through this week isn’t divine justice, that ain’t how God operates. It was an accident. Just like Sophia. It, it wasn’t no test or punishment what happened to her. It was just a… a bad thing,” they hushed, eyes fixed on their bowl, spoon. With an empty half-laugh, they mumbled, “Suddenly can’t stand the thought of food, now, neither.”

With that, Y/N put the bowl to the side and didn’t seem to know what to do next other than maybe cry, by the look of them.

Daryl would’ve missed it if he’d gone back to spacing out and wallowing, but from the corner of his eye he noticed them wipe their palm on their knee a few times as if to dry it off.

He recognized what was going on, or was pretty sure, anyway.

After Amy got killed, Y/N had this messed up thing go on with the hand, the one they’d used to try and stop her from bleeding out. For a few days, it felt to them as if Amy’s blood was still on it and wouldn’t clean off.

Back when Sophia first went missing, he noticed their hand thing came back a little that first afternoon.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s clean.”

“What is?”

“Your hand.”

They took an extra beat to respond. “I-I know. It’s nothin'.”

“It’s clean,” he repeated, which resulted in Y/N bowing their head. “Ain’t nothing there, Y/N. Lemme see?”

His friend lifted their head back up, raised their hand for him, and shrugged. “Dale says it’s a guilt thing.”

Yeah, he could see that.

“It's not on you to fix everyone’s everything,” he needed to say. Y/N seemed like they didn’t remember that sometimes.

“Ayy, way to come at me with a hammer,” his friend answered with a dry smile. “I know I can’t fix everyone’s stuff,” they spoke carefully, their throat sounded tight. “But we’re called to help, right? After how far things have fallen, we’re called even more now to, to bring, you know, that, that light, to do what we can. And, and,” they stuttered, then took a deep breath. “I dunno. Before all this—did you ever feel like your life was stagnant? Like you was just...existing?”

Did Y/N know how well they could hit the nail on the head?

Yes, Daryl felt like his life was stagnant, it fucking was, he was a nobody! Didn’t do shit with his life, he’d just…rotted, and fixed up bikes in whatever direction his brother drifted. “Yeah.”

“That’s how I was was for years, too. Kinda floated one day after another, just tryin’ to make it to the next.”

Daryl stayed quiet. Yet again, they’d hit the nail on the goddamned head and he wanted Y/N to keep on talking.

And Y/N did, they kept chatting very matter-of-fact. “It got better, ev-eventually, I um, I got help, and then started forcin’ myself to do stuff, get out in the community, all that. Healed a bit.” They swirled their spoon around the bowl. “It didn’t fix everything boom, like: I still felt stagnant a lot, or like a failure, or that things were all my fault, still sometimes wanted to die really bad,” they shared with a shrug, very chill. “But that’s why we can’t rely on feelings, right?”

The invisible string was tugging Daryl’s whole damn torso toward them at this point and he just wanted to hold them to him and — shit, sorry, uh, he meant he wanted to pat ’em on the back, at least.

“Really, it was when the, um,” his friend bit their lip. “This is gonna sound weird.”

“Prolly, if it’s you we’re talkin’ about,” he ribbed, completely dead-pan.

His friend liked it, and even taunted back all goofy, “sure is, betch,” before their smile fell away. After a beat, Y/N quietly, quietly told him the rest. “It was when the…outbreaks happened, that I-I didn’t have to force it anymore. There was suddenly such a, a, a clear duty, clear sense of purpose, I dunno. Just—so much to do, so much to live for, and,” a big exhale, “so much work to be done.”

That explained a lot. Y/N tended to go hard, burn the candle at both ends, if that’s the right phrase.

In fact, he flat-out said so. “Is that why you push too damn hard to be ‘useful?’”

“Again with the hammer on the nail, dude. And, no, it’s—” Y/N found their words. “When you think how w-we, we might could get killed, at any second, any one of us. And how we’ll look back on it all, all our choices, and then answer what we did ‘for the least here on earth’…”

Ah, that checked out, too.

It was something, to see someone still believe in all that stuff after the world fucking ended, he’d give it that.

He used to, too. Not that he’d been any good at it.

Didn’t matter, he didn’t anymore. Not after the dead started walking.

“Now, before Teddy materializes in here to scold me, I get that ‘It’s not through our own efforts.’ And the problem I have with feelin’ worthless is a separate issue my faith helps tackle. Now, I know it ain’t about racking up works of mercy, but, dude—there’s so much work to do! And I want to do as much as —” Y/N shook their head a few times as if shaking out of it. “Sorry, I-I’ma just quit while I’m ahead, here. Oversharing Olympics.”

“Mm.” Hey, it was. “But that’s part of the deal with friends, right?” he murmured while trying to think of a good way to razz on them. “Means you trust ’em.” Y/N tended to make light about everything, so a tease would do ’em good, right? “It, like, Sunday or somethin’, preacher?”

The tease might’ve missed the mark that time, if he was seeing it correctly.

“Friday,” was all his friend mumbled back, and looked embarrassed as shit. The forced smile they offered in return — it made Daryl’s side ache more, somehow. And the way Y/N then sat there, curling their feet in and looking as if they felt…just about as small as Daryl did?

It was as if the invisible knee to the nards was connected to the invisible tugging string on his chest, because while that knee to the nards got him good, he felt that strange string tug toward Y/N big-time.

It was next, when Y/N stood up and moved to take the dishes out, that something very forceful moved in Daryl that had him sitting himself upright (sort of upright) and reaching for his bowl and spoon (oww) before his friend could get to it.

“It’s still good without the cherries and the marshmallows?”

His friend blinked. “Th-there are some, uh, it’s technically got those mini freeze-dried ones, as an extra-surprise.” They tilted their head, squinting at him in a way not unlike how Rick squinted at shit. “The Greene’s had some hot chocolate packets in the back of the pantry, we separated the marshmallows out.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Daryl commented, scooping a spoonful. Looked real pink because of the raspberries.

Y/N next twisted their mouth and almost seemed shy, when they realized what he was about to do.

It made Daryl feel good, seeing them spark up like that. And their shy smile was damn cute, as always.

“Oh, here, try mine if you’re only havin’ a bite,” Y/N asked, holding out their own bowl to him.

“Nah, m’gonna do the whole thing. It being penance and all,” he grunted, then waved his spoon at them. “You, too, go on. Do your penance.”

“My penance?”

“Yeah.” Oh goddamn, the stuff was delicious. “Have a seat, eat up.”

His friend settled on the side of the bed, still looking as if he’d caught them off-guard. They watched him eat for a few moments, and, Daryl had a random, unusual worry that he was eating too sloppy. But holy shit, fresh fruit and whipped cream!

He glanced over mid-scarfing to see Y/N nibbling on (no lie) half a pecan.

“Quit playing with yer food.”

This earned him a small huff and a “I’m savoring it.”

“White lies cost a quarter, remember.”

The amount of attitude Y/N next put into their next bite was funny. “I’b also sduffed a’ready, banjy hick,” they added with their mouth full.

Don’t smile too big, Daryl. “Penance is penance.”

“But pedaces ca be cobooted.”

Don’t smile too big! “They can be what?”

Y/N apologized, swallowed their food and their giggle, and repeated: “Penances can be commuted.”

“They can travel to work?” was his idea of a dumb joke, and this time it did the trick and he made them burst out laughing a second time.

Y/N broke into a laugh so hard they hinged forward and caused some of the cream dressing to get onto their shirt right before their spoon clattered to the floor.

“Laughing like that still hurts, you butt,” his friend wheezed, pressing their arm to their stitched-up side. They coughed a few times, still giggling, and when they thudded their chest a few times they winced. “Ow, bruise. And Lore just washed this top, too.” Another snort. “My fault for bein’ a sucker for dumb jokes, I guess. ”

“Ain’t nobody’s fault, just an accident,” he got the immediate urge to tell them, and so, did.

In response, Y/N looked at him with an expression he wasn’t sure how to read. It wasn’t a bad expression. Then, because that expression made his stomach do more flippy-floppies, Daryl gestured to their bowl again, and Y/N obligingly took another spoonful.

“Dis is so gub,” they hummed softly after taking the bite.

“Damned tasty for knockoff ambrosia,” he had to admit, joining along with another scoop of that damned tasty knockoff ambrosia.

“Do’d even deed deh bigger barshballows.”

Y/N was so fucking cute sometimes. “Or cherries.” He loved the cherries the best, after the marshmallows.

Y/N swallowed their bite.“Or the mandarins.”

“Or the pineapple.” His third favorite part.

“Oh, or the coconut,” Y/N realized, then thought out loud, “Shucks, this is a knockoff.”

“Tasty knockoff, I’d eat it again in a heartbeat,” Daryl murmured. He couldn’t believe his bowl was already empty. “Y/N, you just say ‘shucks?’”

“Shut up.” His friend shook their head and smiled. “Y’know, Daryl, this is prolly one of the top five penances I’ve ever gotten.”

“Top five?”

“One time I got ‘buy yourself something nice that you’ll get good use from. It’s okay if it’s a little expensive, it’s okay if it’s a little frivolous.’ Almost a direct quote, that. I’d been bein’ too, um,” they cleared their throat, “the priest thought I was a bit too hard on myself.”

Daryl knew whatever came next had to be something good, based on his friend’s playful little grin.

“That’s how I bought me my PS3. Pre-owned, so it was a solid deal, and it got very good use.” And with a wistful sounding exhale, they finished, “I miss that thing.” Y/N wiggled their bowl at him. “Please help me with this?”

Daryl’s mouth watered. The stuff tasted so good. Fresh, creamy, sweet, tangy.

Y/N raised their eyebrows at him and smiled.

“If I gotta,” he grunted back.

“Thanks for the assist. Plus, it’s penance.”

“Mm, guess I have to." Oh yeah, big scoop. "If it’s penance.”

------------------------------------------

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