The witchs garden

part 1 - trees part 2 part 3

daddy dixon:

readers vibe:

im obsessed with the squirrel man, idk

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Normally you’d cover your tracks, a habit you picked up some time ago, but you didn’t have time. You barely made it out of sight as it was. 

“Maybe she ran off,” one said, his partner in crime it seemed, “she took off fast.”

“Nah,” the man in leather rumbled, “she’s around here somewhere.” 

“We’re losing daylight Daryl, we can circle back tomorrow.” 

Daryl. Daryl in the leather vest. Only Daryl seemed to know better, because you wouldn’t be here tomorrow. If you made it out of this spot they’ve cornered you in, you’ll be long gone before they make it back to the camp they claimed to have. 

“Can’t just leave her out here t’die, you saw her…” he trailed off, kicking over a loose stone, “looked like she forgot what food is.” 

You peered down, curiosity getting the better of you. That wasn’t a comment made lightly. It wasn’t a comment a man who wanted you for all the wrong reasons would make. Your shift caught the hunters attention and you snapped back into position. The blend of earth tones you’ve scavenged camouflaging you against the rough bark. 

“Alright,” Daryl muttered, eyes on you and pretending not to see a thing, “I’ll just leave her m’pack, come back around like you said.” 

You shifted slower this time, eyes on his, watching the torn up canvas backpack strip off him.

Him, all sweat and muscle and discretion. 

It looked good, too good.

Against your better judgment, you stayed. You picked apart his pack, and he left more than you’ve scavenged in months. A pocketknife, freshly sharpened. Water half drank and a well loved plastic bag that had some form of jerky in it. There was a long sleeve shirt, socks with holes in the heels, and an arrow that had snapped clean in two. 

All usable. All needed. 

The forest shifted. The birds went quiet, the breeze softened, and his boots crunched softly against the stiff leaves. 

He was surveying the space. Slow movement, skilled in the practice of careful quiet. You watched curiously as he got closer, waiting for the louder, more obvious set of shoes, but nothing followed.

“You’re Daryl,” you whispered, lingering closer to the forest floor than before. 

He looked up, and there you were, dressed up in his clothes. He dropped his crossbow with a hesitant nod. 

You fiddled with the sleeves of the oversized long sleeve, anxious to be wearing it but needing the extra layer it added more. 

“Is it just you?” 

“Just me,” he replied instantly, words rougher than boots on gravel. 

You walked gracefully down the branch, clinging to the center of the tree trunk to get a better look at the archer. “You left me things.” 

“You needed it.” 

“Why?” 

“Shits hard out here alone.” 

“I get by.” 

“I see that,” he muttered, placing the bow at his feet and shrugging a different pack off his shoulders. It was cleaner, heavier too. “Got some more water, food too.” 

“Why?” 

He glanced up, a mess of yellowing leaves and dying branches and you. He was so undeniably taken with you. Your dirt stained cheeks, the intentional mess of hair and twigs that hides you so effortlessly. “You need it.” 

“What do you want from me?” 

His eyes softened for no more than a blink, “nothing.” 

You wanted to believe that. You almost did. You felt something deep in your bones that was vaguely familiar to trust, but you knew better. “Good people don’t exist anymore.”

“That ain’t true where I’m from.” 

“Where are you from?” 

“Come down here and maybe I’ll tell ya.”

You climbed up rather than down. Fleeing from what you were absolutely sure was a trap. “I don’t want it.” 

“Yeah y’do,” he drawled, setting out the contents of his pack like he had packed for a picnic. 

A blanket folded neat. Two bottles of water, crystal clear and mouth watering. Foil covered something that looked enough to feed you for days. 

“Think about it,” he muttered, shrugging on the empty bag with a step back. 

“You’re leaving?” Your voice squeaked more than you wanted it too. 

He kept moving. That same graceful movement that suggested he and the forest had mutual understanding, “I’ll be back.” 

He came back the next day. More food, more water, a jacket your size. You still didn’t come down from your perch. 

It didn't sway him, and the visits became routine. A part of your day that was anticipation and excitement you did too well at hiding. Every time he came to your corner of the forest, you were closer. Curious but quiet.

He pushed, but never far enough to trigger your fight or flight. He would gently remind you of the offer on the table. Safety in numbers. Safety with fences and walls. A roof over your head and food that didn’t come at a cost. 

It seemed too good to be true, and so did he. The man who visits like an old friend, leaving gifts at your tree like you were a forest fairy considering granting him a wish. 

Your feet were dangling today. Swung over the branch, no longer hiding at the familiar pattern of his light steps through the terrain. 

You still had his long sleeve on, his socks. Hair clean and braided back thanks to the soap, brush, and hair ties he left out yesterday. 

You looked more like yourself than you had in a very long time. 

He approached with caution but his bow was down. He wasn’t searching, just walking. 

“Brought you something,” he muttered, shrugging off his pack as he got closer. 

“I never would’ve guessed.” 

He glanced up. A joke. Not enough to make him laugh but enough to get his attention. He took a second to look at you. For a woman living in the trees, you clean up okay. 

The dirt across your cheeks was a memory, the rat's nest that was once your hair had been sorted. Still, you looked like you belonged up there, like you and the trees were a package deal. 

Your feet swung sweetly underneath you and he noticed a hole in the seam of your boots. His socks, a few sizes too big for you, visible through the crack. 

“I’m gonna pull it out and imma need you to stay calm ‘bout it.” 

You tensed. He knew you would, but warning you only seemed fair. He dragged the zipper down and pulled out a gun. 

Small, simple, something that wouldn’t be missed. 

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. And he set it down at the base of the tree like an offering. 

“It ain’t much but it’s got bullets.”

“Why?” 

“Didn’t like the idea of you out here without one.”

Your voice went small, weak and disbelieving, “thank you.” 

“Ain’t nothing,” he shrugged. 

He liked his time outside the walls too much sometimes. He loosened up each step further from the safe haven in the making. There was no one watching him, thanking him, or trying to talk about nothing.

Outside the prison it was just him, the breeze, and you. 

He was getting ready for the day, taking no more than his fair share of rations, when the lecture he had been anticipating started up behind him. 

“You don’t think you’re wasting your time?” 

“Nah,” Daryl rumbled, inspecting the spare sets of boots in the shared pantry. He had done a pretty decent job at guessing your sizes so far. The jacket fit well, the beanie he gave you was warm and snug, but his view of you is limited by bark and leaves.

“She won’t even leave the tree.” 

“She’s scared.” 

“Or she’s using you for resources.” 

Daryl finally looked up, entering into a stone-cold staring contest with Rick. 

The prison had plenty, more than enough of everything to go around. The people were clothed, fed, safe under an actual roof and behind two layers of fence. You were alone. He didn’t know for how long, maybe he’d ask one day, but it didn’t really matter. 

You were trusting him. Allowing him closer, little by little, and that wouldn’t stop because Rick wasn’t convinced you’d finally come back down to earth. 

Rick broke first. A long dramatic sigh and a step back. “I’m just saying, you’re out there everyday. We’ve got people here, work to be done.”

“My works done.” 

“You haven’t been on a run in two weeks. You spend more time with her than you do on the hunt.” 

Daryl scoffed and shoved two different sizes in his bag to be safe. “Tell that to the deer y’had for dinner last night.” 

The branches swayed in the afternoon light, golden rays blocking his view of the heavens you live in. 

“I know yer out here,” he rumbled, squinting with a hand over his eyes. You switched it up. Three trees down, higher up than you’ve ever been. Out of sight but certainly not out of mind. 

You weren’t hiding. Testing, maybe even teasing. 

“You gonna make my old ass climb this damn thing?” He asked, still looking up the wrong tree. The tree you prefer. 

The branches are thicker. There’s a blunt edge you hang your bag on. The base where the main branches split creates a decent enough spot to sleep in. It’s not much but it’s been your home. 

“I don’t know, can you?” 

His head turned so fast his neck cracked, but he still couldn’t see you. Your words were soft and they echoed around the quiet woods, making it hard for him to pinpoint the source. 

You peered down cautiously, clinging to the thin branches as he walked through the brush. Back and forth, until he stared up at the canopy of dying branches with a huff. 

“C’mon now.” 

He was looking right at you, though he didn’t seem to know it. You rolled an acorn between your fingers before tossing it down, giggling softly when it hit him dead center in the forehead. 

“For a hunter you’re not very aware of your surroundings.” 

“I’m a tracker,” he muttered, crunching the acorn you’d tossed under his boot, “ain’t no tracks up in the trees.”

“I have a gun now,” you said, climbing down to a more manageable level, “I could shoot you.” 

“Y’could try,” he countered, tapping his shin with the crossbow that wasn’t yet loaded. 

“If I come down…you promise you won’t do anything?” 

“Only one way yer gonna find out.” 

You considered it, for too long maybe, but you made your way down. Grace with each move, one branch at a time until his hand was in reach.

A silent offer, and to his genuine surprise, you took it.

fingers crossed this isn't total buns. cheers to the squirrel man, thanks for reading, love you bye.

taglist: (lmk if you want to be added/removed at any time!) @idkmanimjstired @firefirefeline @philiasoul @bedshrooms @lillybahng @t0xicsl33p @wizardparfait @jewellthebooknerd

ED was at its usual chaotic energy. You were tucked behind the nurse's station with a warm cup of tea and trying to ignore the dull ache in your lower back.

You were thirty four weeks along and the "taking it easy" memo from your OB-GYN had apparently been replaced with a high volume shift.

"I can take the chart for Bed 4, Jack," you said, reaching for the tablet as Dr. Abbot, your precious husband, rounded the corner.

He didn't hand it over. Instead, he held it just out of your reach, his eyes sweeping over you with a precision that usually preceded a lecture. "Bed 4 is a suspected spinal precaution. Which means a log roll. Which means lifting."

"I can assist," you countered, putting on your best I'm fine face. "I’m pregnant, love, not made of glass."

Jack stepped into your space, his hand dropping to the small of your back, his thumb tracing a soothing circle over the scrubs. His expression softened but his resolve didn't waver. "You’re thirty four weeks. Yesterday was a long shift. Today, you’re staying behind the desk."

"Jack—"

"No," he said, his voice dropping to a protective tone that made you huff. "I need you, and the little one, to stay out of risk until labor. Take it easy. ED will survive if you just handle the coordination for a few hours."

You opened your mouth to argue but a sharp kick to your ribs from the inside made you winced. Jack’s eyes widened, his hand immediately moving to the front of your bump.

"See?" he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Even she agree with me. Sit. Drink your tea. If I see you trying to move a patient, I'm calling Lena to personally escort you to the breakroom."

"You wouldn't dare," you gasped.

"Try me," he winked, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your forehead before turning back toward the trauma bays. "I’ll bring you a snack in twenty minutes. Don't move!"

You watched him go. You leaned back into your chair with a sigh, resting your hands over the spot where he’d just been touching.

"Your father is a menace," you whispered to your stomach. "He’s very bossy and currently treating me like a high risk intake. But I suppose we can give him a pass this time, right babygirl? Just for the extra snacks."

As if on cue, yoyr baby gave a solid thump against your palm, a clear vote in favor of the snack plan.

True to his word, Jack reappeared twenty minutes later. He wasn't empty-handed; he had a plastic container of sliced green apples with honey and a cold bottle of juice.

"Delivery for my girls," he announced, setting everything down in front of you.

"You actually found the good apples," you noted, reaching for one. As soon as the first bit of sugar hit your system, the baby went into overdrive, performing a series of enthusiastic somersaults.

"Whoa," you gasped. "Okay, someone is very excited about the apple with honey thing."

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. He walked around the side of the desk and kneeled. You reached out, taking his hand and guiding it to the right side of your bump where the movement was most frantic.

The moment Jack’s palm made contact, a sharp kick connected right with his thumb. Jack’s entire face transformed. He let out a soft laugh, leaning his forehead against the side of your stomach.

"Hi, babygirl" Jack murmured, his voice vibrating against your bump. "You like the sweet snacks, huh? Just like your mom. Keep growing big and strong, but maybe stop using her body as a punching bag for a few hours, okay? Give mama a break."

He looked up at you, his eyes bright with a mixture of emotions. "She's really active today."

"She’s definitely a fan of your catering," you teased, running your fingers through his hair.

Jack pressed a firm kiss to the center of your bump. He stayed there for a long moment, grounded and unbothered, making it very clear to the entire ED that his most important patient needed his attention.

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