#daryl angst

“That’s asking an awful lot these days.” The man stepped forward. Fear coursed through your veins just as your blood did. The man looked frazzled, not only with the gun shaking in his hands and the uncertainty on his face, but his hair was wild, shirt stretched and wrinkled like he had been woken up. His eyes looked tired; not sleepy-but emotionally exhausted.

“I know,” Rick shifted his weight, hoping and praying the man would have mercy. The man’s crazed, unsure eyes searched all of you, watching as you all held baited breath.

The barrel was becoming warm under your grip. Daryl stepped closer to you, looking behind himself just to make sure any walkers didn’t get too close.

The pale man finally spoke after staring, weighing his options. “You all submit to a blood test. That's the price of admission.”

Rick sighed in relief, “We can do that.” He nodded.

The man put the gun down, “You got stuff to bring in, you do it now,” he pointed at the shutters, “Once this door closes, it stays closed.”

Feet shuffled across the yard, back to the vehicles. People grabbed anything they deemed important. Everyone seemed to already have everything.

You didn’t.

Something was holding you back.

With one last look at Daryl as he shuffled through another set of doors, you ran back. Past the smell of rotten corpses and straight to the truck.

Daryl yelled after you.

Slinging the old, creaky door open harshly, you immediately pulled the vizor on the driver’s side down. A white rectangle fluttered down into the worn seat.

Daryl ran to the truck, beating on the hood, and looking at you like you were crazy. Maybe you were.

Grabbing what you came for, you slammed the door shut, running back to the building.

Daryl wavered behind.

Reckless; that’s what your actions were.

Everyone stared as you ran back, Daryl on your tail at that point. The blond/greying man stared at you, then to what you had in your hand. He swiped a card, “Vi, seal the main entrance. Kill the power up here.” Gears rattled, doors clanking.

Still trying to catch your breath, you avoided Daryl’s eyes as he glared into the side of your head, eyebrows knitted. Inhaling deeply, you looked down. Flipping it over, you stared at the picture. A trapped memory.

~flashback~

You had just bought the camera. You had seen it while walking through a thrift store before heading home. The sweet lady at the counter had let you know the camera needed film, giving you a heads up that a store down the road carried some. Arriving at your second stop before heading home, you bought some blank white polaroids.

Stepping in the house, you didn’t expect there to be a delicious aroma wafting through the small house. Daryl walked out from the kitchen, eyes practically lighting up at seeing his wife.

He put the dish rag down after wiping his hands, before walking over to you. The door shut behind you as you put the bag and your keys on the table by the door. His hands sat on your hips as you put the camera down beside the bag.

“How’s work?” Daryl kissed your forehead, looking down into your eyes.

“Just another day,” you sighed. “What’s that smell?”

“Supper. Steak, potatoes. Stopped by and got stuff for salad.”

“You hummed, already having your mouth water. “Haven’t had steak in a while.” You stepped out of your shoes as he nodded, pulling back.

As he went back to the kitchen, you went to your bedroom, changing into something more comfortable. By the time you walked out of your room, Daryl was setting the plates. Given his childhood, setting the plates, eating at the kitchen table, cooking together- hell, even just having a non-toxic relationship was foreign. It wouldn’t matter how long you were together for. He tried, you both did. The majority of the time, you would eat dinner on the couch. Sure, many grandparents would probably curse you for it -burn you at the stake even- but it didn’t matter. It was your house, your couch, your life--together.

Walking up behind him, you put your arms around his waist. He continued scooping mashed potatoes on each of your plates, before scooting yours over.

“Bon-apple-teet, or whatever the French say.”

A chuckle slipped past your lips before you let go of him, grabbing your plate.

Daryl made sure he turned the oven off, before opening the fridge. You grabbed your plate, along with his, and walked to the living room. Setting the plates on the coffee table, you sat down, reaching for the remote, before switching through the channels.

Daryl walked in, lifting an open beer bottle to his lips, a glass in his other hand, wine bottle under his arm. He flopped on the couch beside you. He made quick work of pouring you a glass of wine as you tried to find something to watch.

All that seemed to be on were reruns or some crappy tv show with terrible acting and a worse plot. Sighing, you gave up, sitting back as some rerun played.

You both began digging into your food, sitting in comfortable silence aside from the laugh track of the show. The flavors melted on your tongue. You silently thanked yourself for teaching Daryl how to season food correctly. He silently did the same from beside you. Daryl would eat anything, no matter the taste. If it was food, he was fine with it. Anything is better than starving.

He swallowed before grabbing his beer, turning to you, “Fixed my bike today.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What was wrong with it?”

“Brake pads. Drained the old oil, too. Keepin’ myself busy ‘til you got home.”

“Maybe we could go for a ride tomorrow.”

Daryl’s eyes lit up again. Going on rides through the backroads was always relaxing after a long week. Saturdays were usually the days you could both let loose. Wind could blow through your hair, taking the burden of the week with it. Daryl loved that rugged bike, and in turn, you did too. “Sounds like a plan.”

The tiny tapping against the hardwood floor averted your attention. “Ball of fluff.” Daryl tsked, watching the dog stretch from her nap. Before walking over to sit by your feet.

“She needs a bath.” You smiled, already knowing Daryl was readying a sigh and eye roll combo. The puppy hated baths. Usually Daryl took the lead as you guarded the door, towel ready to wrap around her soaked body. It’s not like you didn’t try to swap roles, Daryl persisted every time. He didn’t want you getting scratched– like he has plenty of times.

Finishing your plate, you scooted to the edge of the couch, grabbing a napkin to wipe your mouth.

“I stopped by that thrift store Mary, from work, is always talking about.”

“Whatcha get?” He took another swig of his beer, watching you stand and walk over to where you had set the bag down. Bringing it over, you put an empty polaroid film in the camera. A sneaky grin etched across your face before Daryl could guess what you could possibly be planning. Before he knew it, you turned the camera around, clicking the button.

He grumbled, reaching for you. You moved away, giggling as you waited for the picture to develop. He watched as you smiled at the picture.

“Throw it away.” He squinted his eyes up at you, keeping eye contact as you walked over, sitting back down. You threw your legs over his lap. His hands instantly went to your calves, massaging the stress from the work day.

I want one of us.” You bit your lip, putting the picture aside, before angling the camera toward the both of you. You paused, licking your teeth, before baring them at him. “Anything in my teeth?” He looked before shaking his head.

He continued looking at you as you raised the camera, smiled, and took the picture. When the picture developed, you frowned before actually raking in how he was looking at you. In awe. You could actually see the love he had for you.

The picture instantly became your favorite.

Sadly, you had put the camera on a shelf and forgot about it.

The picture of Daryl was put in your car, the other put in Daryl’s truck. He loved it just as much as you did, even if he didn’t admit it.

You were both happy in the few years you were together. It wasn’t until a couple years later that Daryl got down on one knee.

Sure, the portrait of you two wasn’t perfect, with your fingers covering some of the lens, and it being slightly slanted. It was a perfectly imperfect representation of your relationship.

“Don’t throw that one away.” He picked the polaroid from your fingers, looking down at it.

You weren’t going to tell him that neither were going to be trashed.

~~~

The elevator hummed. Everyone was packed tightly in the box like sardines. You stood beside Daryl, staring down at the picture in your palm. Daryl shifted from beside you, scooting in on himself to give you more room. It didn’t help.

“Doctors always go around packin’ heat like that?” Daryl asked, crossbow in one arm and shotgun in the other.

Dr. Jenner glanced back, “There were plenty left lying around. I familiarized myself.” He nodded, looking around at the strangers he had let in. “But you look harmless enough.” He gave Carl a look, “Except you. I’ll have to keep my eye on you.” Carl tried hiding his grin.

Stepping out of the elevator, Jenner led you down the hall.

“Are we underground?” Jenner looked at her, “Are you claustrophobic?”

“A little.”

“Try not to think about it.”

“Vi, bring up the lights in the big room.”

A halo of light lit up overhead a bunch of machines and computers.

“Welcome to Zone Five.”

Rick followed the doctor further into the big room.

“Where is everybody? The other doctors, the staff?”

“I’m it. It’s just me here.”

Lori began questioning the doctor, “What about the person you were speaking with? Vi?”

“Vi, say hello to our guests. Tell them.. “Welcome.””

A robotic voice emitted from all around, “Hello, guests. Welcome.”

Jenner threw his hands up, frowning. “I’m all that’s left. I’m sorry.”

-

Laughter emitted from everyone around the tables that were pushed together to make a large table.

Dale was ever the jokester.

“You know, In Italy, children have a bit of wine with dinner.” He laughed, raising his bushy white eyebrows ar Lori, who held her hand out for the glass of wine the elder was pouring. “And in France,” He added.

“Well, and when Carl is in Italy, or France, he can have some then.” She took a swig from her glass, letting the liquid coat her mouth with its rich and complex flavor.

Dale grabbed your glass, refilling it with the Merlot.Rick chuckled at his wife covering Carl’s cup when Dale turned back toward them. She gave Dale a stern look, turning to her husband.

“What’s it gonna hurt? C’mon. C’mon.”

Dale laughed, watching Lori stare down Rick, before turning to Carl, before shrugging. She moved her hand, letting Dale pour a little in the cup. “There you are, young lad.”

Carl took the cup in curiosity, sipping at the liquid. He quickly put the cup back down, pulling a face of disgust that made you laugh. “Ewww!” He shook his head, trying to rid the pungent flavor off his tongue. Lori patted his back with a proud expression, “That’s my boy,” she reached for hid cup, pouring what was left into her glass. “That’s my boy.”

“Yuck! Tastes nasty.”

“Well, stick to sodapop there, bud.” Shane commented from behind his conjoined hands, elbows sat on the table.

“Not you, Glenn.” Daryl moved from his spot beside you. The younger man looked up, confused, the alcohol already taking its effect, “What?”

“Keep drinking, little man. I want to see how red your face can get.”

You smiled as people hollered.

A clicking against a glass and Rick standing up drew everyone's attention.

“It seems to me we haven't thanked our host properly,” You glanced over at Jenner, who sat at a small table a little away from the conjoined tables. T-Dog raised his glass, “He is more than just our host.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Here’s to you, Doc. Booyah!” Daryl raised the wine bottle, smiling down at you.

Everyone started their own conversation. You looked down at your plate, zoning out.

Daryl walked over, squatting beside you. “You alright? Haven’t said nothing.”

You shook your head, “Yeah, just tired.” You offered him a small smile. He hesitantly stood, topping off your glass before taking a swig out of the bottle.

“Been a while since I was able to have wine. Should’ve grabbed a case before going to the city.” The thought of wine collecting dust in your old house brought a frown to your face. Maybe another group of survivors would run across your house and be able to take the edge off. Maybe they would need it more than you.

Daryl placed his other hand on your shoulder, slowly kneading the wound up muscles.

You gave him a close-lipped smile, patting his rough hand across your chest.

“So, when are ya gonna tell us what the hell happened here, Doc?”

At Shane’s question, the little bubble of normalcy was popped. Everyone stopped smiling, finding their empty plates or the bottom of their glasses all the more interesting. Shane stared at Jenner, wild eyebrows raised. He liked the attention now being brought on Jenner, as if he still owed you all something after letting you in. “All the uh-the other doctors that were supposed to be figuring out what happened. Where are they?” Shane grabbed his glass, sloshing the wine around.

“We’re celebrating, Shane.” Rick sent a warning glare to his bestfriend, the bestman to his wedding, the man that held the record for the most stubborn man that Rick knew. The man that didn’t know when to quite. “Don’t need to do this now.”

“Woah, wait a second. That’s why we’re here, right?” Shane countered, holding his palm up to Rick. “This was your move- supposed to find all the answers. Instead we-” Shane cut himself off with a humorless chuckle, “We found him.” He snorted, pointing at Jenner with his thumb. “Found one man. Why?”

Jenner spoke up, “Well, when things got bad, a lot of people just left. Went off to be with their families. And when things got worse, when the military cordon got overrun, the rest bolted.”

Shane licked his plump, chapped lips. “Every last one?”

“No, many couldn’t face walking out the door. They…opted out.”

You brought the wine to your lips, swollowing more than what was normally appropriate.

“There was a rash of suicides.” Jenner looked away, “That was a bad time.”

Andrea didn’t waste much time before questioning him herself, “You didn’t leave. Why?”

“I just kept working, hoping to do some good.”

Glenn stood, walking over to sit at a table near instead of a counter where the alcohol was making seem way higher than it really was. The boyish grin from before was gone. Everyone was sullen with how the dinner had ended up.

Glenn looked at Shane.

“Dude, you are such a buzzkill, man.”

Part 5

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His mind was racing at the speed of light, his eyes resting solely on the corpse at his feet. Daryl was furious, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, his breaths deep and heavy. He was barely aware of his surroundings, too caught up in his own rage-driven thoughts.

“Daryl?”

The soft, quiet sound of your voice reached the huntsman’s ears. However, he did not react to it. It sounded like you were far away, like he was submerged in water and your voice was muffled to him. He knew he had to snap out of it. He knew the two of you needed to get out of there. Other Saviours could show up at any given moment and then this would all have been for nothing. However, it was like he was paralyzed, unable to move, speak, or do anything.

Slowly and carefully, your frame appeared in front of him, your own appearance similar to his, and that made Daryl’s jaw clench. If the guy wasn’t already dead, Daryl would murder him again. He hurt you. He put his hands on you. That bastard deserved to burn in the fiery depths of hell for all eternity.

“Daryl,” you called to him softly, hoping to calm him down enough to make him realize that you both needed to get the hell out of there.

You raised your hand slowly, it being shaky and trembling, and gently cupped his cheek. The archer flinched a little but didn’t pull away, finally snapping out of the daze he was in. His cerulean eyes flickered over your face, taking in the cuts and bruises that were forming, his heart aching for the state you were in. The state his actions got you in. He felt absolutely terrible.

As if reading his mind, your gaze softened and you subtly shook your head. “Don’t.” When you saw the frown tug at Daryl’s eyebrows, you continued, “Don’t blame yourself for this. It’s not your fault.”

Daryl inhaled a shaky breath, not sure if he wanted to start crying or punch a wall. He was enraged at the whole situation. He was mad at himself for letting you get hurt. He was mad at the Saviour for daring to lay a finger on you. He was mad at everything. Everything except you.

“I’m okay, Dar. I promise.”

Daryl shook his head. “Y’ain’t. You’re hurt.”

You knew there was no use in trying to deny it. You were hurt. You ached all over, and you felt really dizzy. However, you couldn’t let that slow you down.

“I am,” you admitted, “but I’ll be fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” When Daryl went to protest, you cut him off. “I promise I’ll be okay, Dar.”

Daryl wanted to protest. However, low groans filled the air, and he saw the guy he had killed start to twitch. He had changed. Some part of Daryl wanted to leave the bastard like that. To let him walk like that for his whole miserable undead existence. However, he didn’t. Daryl forced himself to get it together and stepped away from your touch to get the walker in the brain, effectively killing the Saviour for the second time.

When he turned back to you, you were already adjusting your bag on your shoulders, grimacing at the pain that shot through your body at the added weight and stumbling a little bit. However, you chose to ignore it, knowing that there were more pressing concerns at hand.

“Let’s go,” you said quietly.

Daryl exhaled and strode over to you, holding his trusted crossbow up in front of him as you both began making your way out of the room. He snuck glances at you every few seconds, trying not to let the guilt of letting you get hurt consume him. There would be time to process and deal with everything later when you were back at Alexandria, safe and taken care of.

Daryl opened his mouth to say something, but before a sound could even leave him, you suddenly collapsed in front of him, no warning whatsoever. His heart stopped, before he rushed over to you, dropping his crossbow in the process. He dropped to his knees next to you, taking your face in his hands.

“Y/N?!” he exclaimed, scanning you to see what made you collapse. “Y/N!”

You weren’t fully unconscious, but Daryl knew you would be soon. Gingerly tilting your head to the side, he tried to see what caused this, his heart hammering against his ribcage when he saw blood pooling from a wound on the back of your head, one neither of you had noticed. As you slipped from consciousness, Daryl had only one thing on his mind:

He needed to get you back to Alexandria, and soon. And any Saviour that dared get in his way would suffer.

___

You and Daryl are out on another run together. It’s routine now. The quiet ritual you both fall into without ever saying much. Sometimes it’s you knocking on his door, sometimes him at yours, both of you carrying that unspoken invitation: let’s get out for a while. A hunting trip. A scavenging run. Anything beyond the walls of Alexandria where it feels easier to breathe.

It’s been like this for months. A rhythm neither of you names. You’re not just partners on runs. Not just friends. Not quite anything else either. Something hangs in the space between you, wordless and warm, but lately it’s felt different. There’s a thinness to it, a gap you’ve let grow. You’ve been quieter, slipping out at odd hours. He’s been watching, noticing. He’s no good at talking, but he’s not blind.

He knows grief when he sees it. Knows it because he’s drowning in his own. Beth’s loss still sits on his chest like a stone. He sees your eyes go far away sometimes and he wonders whose name you’re thinking, what you’re running from. He doesn’t push. He never has. He just lets you hover around him. Lets you keep coming back even when you’re half somewhere else.

You and Daryl had gone far out of Alexandria this time, scavenging in an abandoned store. Dust and broken glass crunched under your boots. Then walkers started appearing, more and more.

“Get out! Now!” Daryl yelled, sprinting for the exit, covering your back.

But you saw it. That stupid bottle of wine.

It sat on a low shelf, its glass catching a shard of sunlight through the dirty window. For a heartbeat, everything else blurred out – the walkers, Daryl’s voice, even your own pounding pulse. All you saw was the deep red liquid, the familiar shape. In that exact moment, it felt like a lifeline. Like if you could just have it, just hold it, maybe you’d stop feeling so hollow. Maybe you’d stop seeing blood on your hands when you closed your eyes.

Without thinking, you dropped the two walkers lunging at you and grabbed it.

You hit the ground hard, a walker on top of you.

Daryl was there instantly, stabbing, yanking you free. His hands were rough on your arms, his breathing ragged. He didn’t say a word but his eyes were wild.

You ran for Daryl’s bike, but a swarm of walkers blocked the way. Daryl shoved you into the back of a car, jumped into the passenger seat, and tried to start it. Of course it didn’t.

___

Now you are trapped, the walkers pressing in, the wine bottle useless in your hands. You notice it immediately. His eyes. The way he keeps checking the rearview mirror. Once. Then again. The second time lingers too long. You can feel the heat of it even without looking. “Just say it,” you bite out, sharper than you mean to. “Either say it or quit fucking staring at me, Daryl.”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw is tight. You know that look. You’ve seen it a hundred times, that silent fury he uses when he’s scared for you. He’s always like this. Never yelling, never saying the thing you know he’s thinking. Just locking it down. It makes you feel like you’re being watched through glass.

“Fucking say something!” The words rip out harsher this time, frustration boiling over.

Finally, he moves. A pause. The flick of his lighter. The faint glow of a cigarette between his fingers. He takes a slow drag, smoke curling around him, before glancing back at you through the mirror. “Ya tryin to get yerself killed?” His voice is calm. Too calm. Collected in a way that makes your skin prickle, because he has no problem snapping at others. You’ve seen it countless times. But with you, he pulls back. And it drives you mad.

You meet his eyes in the mirror, your voice steadier now. “You wouldn’t have let me die anyway.”

The cigarette hangs between his fingers. He doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on you through the glass. Heavy. Unreadable. Something that feels almost like anger but cuts deeper.

He notices the bottle in your lap. He’s seen you slip away lately, reaching for anything to dull the edges of your loss, like he’s been reaching for his own ghosts. But he doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t know how to say that it scares him to see you like this.

You look out at the walkers pressing against the dirty windows, their hands smearing the glass, and it hits you that this could be it. And you dragged Daryl into this mess. All for a bottle of wine. Just something to drink. Now the two of you are boxed in, a car surrounded on all sides.

“Sorry you’re dying here with me.” The words slip out in a dry laugh, one of those sarcastic jokes you only make when your body is running on empty. Daryl knows this. He notices everything. You glance back to the rearview mirror. His eyes are already there, locked on you, sharp and steady. Your chest tightens. Your vision blurs once the truth finally claws its way through. “I- I just needed something that felt normal, like before,” you admit, voice trembling. “And I’m sorry… I know you’ve been through your own shit too, but I can’t do this alone anymore.” 

For a moment, there’s only the sound of walkers dragging their bodies against the car. Daryl leans forward, stubs out his cigarette, and turns just enough to look back at you without the mirror between you. His voice is low, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “I ain't going nowhere.”

His words hit you like an anchor, steadying your spinning thoughts. You let out a long breath, finally letting some of the weight go. You don’t know why it took you so long to tell him how alone you’ve felt, how much you needed him. Maybe it’s the almost-too-late realization: he’s never going anywhere. And neither are you. Where would you even go without him?

___

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The sun peeked from within the blue curtains, threatening to make its appearance on another morning in Alexandria.

You moved your gaze from the ceiling towards the old wall clock, its dial turning in rapid motions. 

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It was early.

Your eyes moved on their own accord, glancing at the man sleeping soundly beside you. His chest rose and fell as his eyelids twitched ever so often. He looked peaceful, as much as he could.

Your eyes traced the hair on his chest, peeking from beneath the covers, the scars littering his shoulders, and the soft breaths escaping him slowly. Memories of the night before flooded your mind, a glance down only confirming what you thought.

‘Third night in a row.’

I sit and watch you,

And notice everything you do or don't do

You're so much older and wiser and I,

You and Daryl were something. Everyone would agree. Those from the farm had seen you bicker and quarrel. Even before, at the quarry, when you’d sit by yourselves near a fire separate from the others, it meant something.

Somewhere within the hushed whispers and the stolen kisses, he became yours and you became his. That much was clear.

Your hands moved with practiced ease, rubbing the soft material only harder over your gun barrel, cleaning the walker blood from yesterday's expedition. The prison walls were cold; your bare shoulder pressed hard against the one beside your bunk. Brows scrunched in concentration as you fought against a particularly stubborn stain.

A grunt caught your attention; you knew it was him. It had to be; that's how he announced his presence to you. More than he did for anyone else.

“I got this fer ‘ya” his southern drawl lingering in the words.

It was only then that you glanced at his outstretched palm, fingernails caked with dirt and blood that you only hoped was not his own. A ring lay in his palm, a silver band. You swore there were some hasty-looking engravings on its inside, though it was too far to tell for sure.

 A sly smirk graced your face before you could think much of it.

“What? You’re proposing already? At least buy me a drink first.”

You could see his features twitch, trying to refrain from showing his amusement; his next words were casual and soft. Too soft for it to mean anything, but that never stopped your mind from wandering.

“Please, ya’ barely old enough ta’ drink as it is.”

You scoffed, eyes flitting to the teasing look on his face, and you stood up before you could think, leaving the now dirty rag and your gun on your bunk. Crossing your arms over your chest, you held your head high.

“I’ll have ya know that I’ve been well over that age for eight years.”

He didn't miss the way you mocked his words, emphasising the redneck with a jut of your chin.

The exchange felt longer ago than you'd like to admit.

The prison had long since fallen, and as many around you would take note, so had you.

Your flirty comments, sly teasing, and words that riled him up just the right amount, had dimmed. His kind gestures, reserved only for you, going down with them.

~

The cool metal of the ring brought you back to your senses; the pad of your thumb brushed against it. His voice caught your attention from what felt like the far end of the room.

“Ya’ still have that?”

A pause followed his words, his eyes lingering on your face and yours lingering on your finger, the silver band reflecting the dim candles from the house. When you didn't reply, Daryl filled the silence with noise of his own, accompanying it with somewhat of a smile.

“I didn’t take ya’ out for drinks.” 

There's humour in his voice, something you don't seem to find in the situation.

 It only reminds you just how much older he is. How much wiser.

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit.

"I made dinner."

The sound of Daryl's boots trudging from the doorstep filled the quiet of your home. His rough grunts followed, clouding the room in their echoes.

"Not hungry."

His answer wasn’t unexpected; you’d grown accustomed to it over the many nights he returned from hunting. He said it was to feed the small town, but you knew better; you always did. You knew it was to blow off steam and put his mind elsewhere, from what or whom you didn't know. Maybe it wasn’t even the hunting that he went out for.

He didn't notice the way your shoulders slumped or how your smile didn't reach your eyes as you nodded. Only carried himself further into the small bedroom.

You watched his figure retreat, the angel wings on his back bringing forth a pain in your chest. Something you tried so hard to hide, so hard to let go.

The irony wasn't lost on you. You and hunting; two sides of the same coin.

Both tossed for the same purpose.

And watch you tolerate it 

"Is that it!? A quick fuck, Daryl?"

You could feel your anger rising, the heat flowing through your body. You don't recall what made you put words to your thoughts. Perhaps it was the routine that you two had fallen into. Maybe it got too predictable. 

Maybe that's why you snapped.

Daryl let out a sigh, followed by a muttered string of curses, and he moved to stand in front of you, towering over you with a furrow in his brows.

He observed your face, eyes landing on the frown of your own that was starting to form. Taking a deep breath, he braced his hands on either side of your face, noting the way your eyes softened at the touch.

“It ain’t like that, y’know it. I know yer angry, tha’s got you talkin’, not thinkin’.”

You averted your eyes, choosing to look at the ground instead. He followed your gaze, ducking his head to peer at your eyes, leaving you little to no choice but to look at him again. With your attention on him, he spoke.

“We’ll talk about this later, okay? We will.”

His hands cradled the back of your neck, so tender, like there is no place else he’d rather be. So gentle, you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. You savoured the feeling when his lips met your head in a kiss that, this time, wasn't born out of desire.

Later never came.

If it's all in my head, tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated.

“It’s not healthy! You don’t know if he’s even out there, Daryl. Dead body or not, staying out there only puts your life on the line. Why can’t you understand that!?”

A frustrated, jerky head nod followed your words, your hands balling into fists at your side. A sigh preceded Daryl's next words as if he was carefully considering them. As if he wasn’t about to leave the safety of the community. And for what? In search of the man everyone long presumed to be dead!?

“But I have to try. Ya’ know I do.”

Daryl didn’t meet your eyes when he said that, choosing instead to stare piercingly at the gravel beneath his feet, his lip curling up the smallest bit. There was a desperation in his voice, one that you chose to ignore.

No other sounds followed his declaration, his boots thudding as they carried him out the open gates. He didn't look back, only rolled his shoulders with a huff, pulling his crossbow to his back and holstering his knife before swinging his legs over the motorcycle.

You swore you saw a pause before it, a moment of hesitation. Like he was considering it. But you knew better; you always did. The same conversation has happened a hundred times, mostly in your head.

The outcome never strays from this.

But you tolerate it.

The arguments subside as the days turn to months. Before, eventually, they stop altogether. Winter rolls around. It becomes a routine. The reunions feel longer and more overdue with every visit. The goodbyes hurt a little less each time.

“Be careful out there.”

“Always am.”

His reply comes out mumbled. Short and heavy, as if he shoulders all the weight in the world. He never does meet your eyes when leaving. And you never do tell him how it feels to watch him not turn around.

And the smallest part of you hopes that it's guilt.

I greet you with a battle hero's welcome

I take your indiscretions all in good fun

I sit and listen

I polish plates until they gleam and glisten

You can feel your heart hammering in your chest; moreover, he feels it. He feels the steady thump he has grown to recognise over the years. It quickens as you feel his arms around you tighten.

“It’s not your fault.”  You don't recognise your voice as you repeat the words like a broken record. 

His body racks with the sobs, muffled by your chest as he lets himself feel. Truly feel, this time. Your hand caresses the back of his neck, the other rubbing gentle circles on his shoulder.

You feel his breathing quiet, but he doesn't let go just yet. And you hope he plans to hold on a little longer.

It ends how it always does.

When the sun peeks through the curtains once again the new day begins like it always does. With you in his bed, his arm draped over your bare waist as his breath fans the back of your neck. He’s fast asleep; you’re wide awake. 

How it always is

And watch you tolerate it.

"I met someone."

Carol’s head snapped towards the redneck, who was focusing his attention on sharpening one of his bolts as if the words he had just uttered were nothing to mull about.

"What?"

Her confusion was evident, but something told Daryl that she had heard what he said, and he’d be right. Not wanting to repeat himself, his head moved to the side as he continued.

"Shes nice…got a dog."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable; Daryl never acknowledged his words again. He had something to tell Carol, and he did. 

To him, that was it.

You're so much older and wiser and I

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit

"You're back?"

You can feel the heat of the sun beating against your back, sweat beading at your shoulder blades, and a few drops running down your spine. Your hands cradle each other, thumb picking at the new scabs you’ve acquired over the week. 

A run gone wrong. 

A nick on the side of a broken shelf. 

A punch thrown in anger at the wall.

"Jus' for a bit, gonna get back out there; here to check on carol, see how things are."

His response is quick; different from the other times, it’s uneasy and filled with shame. Even in your anger you don't fail to notice that.

"Okay...yeah, okay." 

Your words are breathy; you can feel your heart picking up its pace again. You don't hide how it hurts, you don't try to show it either.

‘Check on Carol. Okay. He doesn't have to check on you. It's okay.’ You tell yourself.

But it's not.

A part of you wishes, begs, that it was you he'd stay for once. That the longing stares and fleeting touches could mean more.

That maybe, just maybe, you'd be more than his girl. That you’d mean more than ‘his girl.’

If it's all in my head, tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

“So, what’s up with her?”

Carol's voice startles him; he jumps the smallest bit. There’s teasing in her tone, hard to miss.

Daryl knows who she's talking about; he knows it's not the woman he spoke to her about last month.

He knows it's you from the way her lip curls upwards and her eyes trace back to the third house on the block, the one that had blue steps on the porch instead of the usual white. Your house. 

The porch that he helped paint.

He’s sitting on the grass, his arms thrown carelessly over his bent knees, hand twirling around a flower stem he picked up off the grass.

“Nah, it ain’t like tha’.”

She takes a beat before plopping down on the grass beside him, her eyes wide, brows furrowed in mock concentration as she studies the man beside her.

“Like what?”

She’s pushing now; it’s obvious even to you, who’s sitting on the other side of the large fence that separates the pair from you, ears straining to listen to their exchange.

"I saw you leave her house in the morning. It was too early for it to be a friendly chat." 

She continues, her words losing all humour as the sentence goes on.

"I don't—we—nah...I don' like her, okay? It's not like that. It’s just—”

He sighs before he finishes.

“—just is."

That seems to be enough for your legs to stand up on their own, book discarded on the wet grass. Your feet carry you further away until their voices are just a murmur in the distance, nothing more.

Carol pauses, the gears in her head turning. She searches for a reply, landing on a question in its stead.

"What are you protecting her from, Daryl? What's stopping you?"

He looks at her again, this time holding her gaze.

A silent answer lingers in the air. She knows what it means. It makes her pull him into her side with a sigh of her own.

'Myself'

While you were out building other worlds, where was I?

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

"You're leaving again?"

A few seconds pass, seconds you'd swear feel like days. You’re sure he won't even answer; you’re prepared for him not to.

"I have to keep lookin’ "

A sharp inhale. A beat.

You don’t look up this time.

"No, I…"

You know your words are stuck in your throat. The conversations have dulled; there is little room left in your heart for the ache of it all. Little room left for waiting, holding on, hoping.

“...I get it."

You don’t wait by the gates for him to leave this time.

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life.

The next time he returns, you don't greet him at the gate either. You don't rush over at the rev of his motorcycle. You don't glance out the window.

His presence only makes itself known when the air carries his scent through your front door, the familiar thumps of his boots echoing against the carpet.

The same scent clings to your bedsheets when you wash them the next morning.

Drawing hearts in the byline

Always taking up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine

"You're married?"

It wasn't phrased like a question; the lady saw it as a means to start up a conversation. She was new at Alexandria, another survivor of the many that had taken to joining the small community.

"Huh?" Your response was instinct, an admission to the lack of thought that you’d given to your current work partner.

"The ring? It's pretty." 

You don't blame her; you know how it looks, and you can get where she's coming from. But that doesn't stop the shame from creeping up your neck, your stomach tightening.

"No, uhm..." 

Your response comes out choked, eyes darting between the metal on your finger and the woman in front. The air suddenly feels too heavy, the ring even heavier on your finger.

"We're not...—not really, uhm—"

You clamp your mouth shut, pursing your lips. Your mind raced between the things you could possibly say to her.

The woman gives a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your left hand before resuming her task.

You sense pity on her face. You know what she assumes, what everyone does.

And as you slide the ring off to let it drop into your back pocket, only one word loops in your head, over and over.

‘Stupid’

Not knowing that your hand had missed your pocket entirely.

The faint clink of the metal hitting gravel is drowned out by the groans of walkers outside the fence. Pushing.

Pushing.

But what would you do if I, I

Break free and leave us in ruins

Took this dagger in me and removed it

Gain the weight of you, then lose it

There’s a palpable silence in the room. The only sounds are his ragged breath bouncing off the stone walls. And the soft crackle of the flames in the fireplace. The cold outside penetrates your home, burning the skin at your knuckles and turning each breath of yours to mist.

There’s a faint murmur of laughs outside the door; the children are playing. It’s their first snow in Alexandria in a while; their giggles and words, though unintelligible, do little to bring comfort within the place. It feels colder inside than it should; the fire is burning, and the windows are closed. 

You wonder if it’s you. If the guilt, the fear, and the shame are what make this visit different from the rest.

You glance at him once. Then twice. Until you choose to set your eyes on his figure.

It’s slouched, curling towards himself like he was protecting something, something dear.

His hand is resting over his crossbow, his finger lying lazily beside the trigger. The other in his pocket. His eyes are staring at the window, which is fogged up and frosted over. You can see his eyes follow Judith, and Michonne as she cradles RJ in her arms.

You don’t speak; neither of you do. Your shirt—his shirt—hangs loosely off your shoulder, the lacy tank top visible underneath. The sheets on your bed are ruffled, hastily put back in their place.

Even in the dim light of the bedroom, you can see his throat bob up and down as he swallows. The words were dying on his tongue before he had a chance to let them escape.

You flit your eyes elsewhere; you don't see his hand clutching something in his pocket. You don't see the faint, round outline beside his fingertips.

You don’t bother breaking the silence this time.

It brings you more comfort than you’d admit.

Believe me, I could do it.

You know you’re in for nothing short of a lecture when you hear the sound of Carol's feet stomping over the dry leaves behind you. You know it’s her because you had caught her gaze earlier this morning before you left the house. His house.

You prepare yourself for an earful, a sigh, or even a distasteful joke.

What you don’t expect is her hand reaching out to put something in yours. The cold metal stings your hands before you can retract them.

You roll it around again, not recalling when it left your being. You know what she implies, what the furrow of her brows means, and what the scowl on her face indicates.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat at the thought. You don’t say anything; she is the one that breaks the silence.

“You’re only hurting yourself.”

She sounds sincere, concerned for a friend who has found themself too far gone into a place they cannot return from.

You knew it wasn’t a lie. You knew it all wasn’t in your head. You knew it. So why?

Somewhere along the way, between the rigid body, the calloused hands, and the gruff demeanor, you had found something that was rarer than an undead in this world.

You were his, and he was yours…right?

The glances turned to something more, something deeper, something so hard to miss that it would have you replay the moments over and over until your heart stopped pounding and your head had had enough.

You knew it. You believed it.

So why did the woman standing a foot to your right, the ring in your palm, and the man at the brink of your mind all make you think otherwise?

Could you? Leave—that is.

You could. 

If you wanted to.

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

As his lips moved against yours, you knew you shouldn't; every cell in your body wanted to fight against it. Against him.

But your heart. No, no, your heart doesn't let you. 

Your hands trace his arms, trained with years of mastering his crossbow and twisting the throttle on his bike. Arms that held you when you were sick, when you’d returned from a run, and even when you had given up on the world.

Your eyes travelled, moving between every inch of his body and his face, committing it all to memory.

His hands. The ones that wiped your tears when you lost your sister. His lips—the ones that kissed away all your worries. His eyes that held so much emotion, emotion he refused to show otherwise.

Your hands glide to his neck, touching the hair on his nape. His hands found your waist, not taking a moment to break the kiss. Like a dance only the two of you knew. Rehearsed so many times, over and over.

You don't know how or when your back hit your bed, falling down with him on top of you. When his lips found your neck or his hand found purchase on the skin on your inner thigh. The other gliding down your back, easing you into the bed.

Every inch of your mind repeated one thought. One prayer. Him.

~

It ended how it always did. Began the same next morning.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Third year in a row.

I sit and watch you.

~~~

General taglist: @desikudisworld @iamgayforyourmom1510Tags for this fic: @maciswack

Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this fic, a reblog would mean the world to me.

you'd lost count, by now, how many rounds it'd been.

once daryl had you laid against your back, head between your thighs, it was over for you. you could squirm all you wanted but you wouldn't be done until daryl said you were done. even if you were quivering against him, tears glossing over your eyes.

"stop fuckin' squirming." gruff voice against your swelling cunt as his lips moved, working wonders against you.

he'd undressed you down so you were merely clad in a baby pink bra, your panties long removed and your pretty white socks against your feet. "daryl!" your voice was bleak though it was but a scream. "c-can't!" back arching against the mattress beneath you.

his face slowly rose from your aching pussy, fingers plunging in and out of you mercilessly. "can't take what, huh?" you tried to focus on his words though your eyes were rolling, the feeling of his fingers becoming too much. "can't take my mouth, that it, sweetheart?"

you nodded dumbly, truthfully with no idea of what he was speaking about. all you knew was that all the pleasure was going straight to your cunt.

the man let out the smallest of chuckles, his head finding it's way between your legs once more. your cheeks were flushed pink, the feeling of his tongue grazing across your clit. everything was so messy, filthy even. your juiced slid right onto his fingers, creating a type of white circle as his tongue lapped you up.

this was his favourite place to be.

when his face was between your legs, tasting your tangy juices that slipped onto his tongue, fucking you dumb with his fingers. well, he couldn't quite move his mind to anything else.

the pretty moans that left your strained lungs, face all pink and flushed, embarrassed of the pornographic sounds that you couldn't keep contained.

though, daryl liked you loud.

it was like music to his ears. he was a downright animal unable to be contained. he quickly pulled his fingers out of you earning a long whine from your lips. it was quickly replaced with another moan as his hands moved to push your thighs backwards, shoving his face into your pussy.

you practically squealed.

the high pitched noise caused his lips to perk, gentle chuckle falling from his lips sending vibrations throughout your entire body.

his two palms were set on your thighs, pushing them back as far as he could while his tongue lapped up your juices, coating your pussy in his wet saliva.

you whined and moaned, your hips moving against his face as he lapped and licked at your cunt. "so good." he mumbled, returning his face against you. "s' sweet."

sweet as honey.

a familiar tension built up in your stomach, whining as tears coated your eyes in pleasure. "'mmnnh― daryl!"

"good girl." he mumbled, doing his best to keep his mouth against you. it deemed near impossible, he just loved running his mouth when he got you like this. "let go f'me."

you barely registered his words, thighs shaking and pulling away from him. his large palms kept you grounded, holding you in the position you were in, lips suckling against your clit and lapping you up.

finally, the tension in your stomach broke.

you let out a string of moans, trying your hardest to keep them quiet. that was impossible as his tongue kept moving against you, letting you ride out your high in his mouth, juices falling onto his tongue.

his mouth moved, practically making out with your cunt as he took in every single bit you had to offer, wetness coating his chin and his lips. he didn't care for any mess that you'd make, knowing he'd clean it up with his tongue, had you asked.

your chest rose and fell as his mouth moved away from your cunt, eyes looking down at you.

you'd gone so many rounds, eyes low and heavy, red even. you were tired, that was for sure. your swollen pussy feeling almost cold without his mouth against you.

you watched as he lifted a hand to wipe his mouth, softly gazing down at you.

no words were spoken, all you could feel were his fingers gently tracing up your body, finding your clit. "can you do another?" the whisper more of a command.

you shook your head, tears instantly filling your desperate eyes. "c-can't, daryl― 's too―" cutting yourself off with a moan as his fingers slipped into your sopping hole.

"gonna be a good girl 'n take another?" rephrasing the question, knowing you'd rephrase your answer. "c'mon, sweetheart, know you can take another one. 's a good girl."

you could take another one. perhaps you'd only whined and mouthed about it because you longed to hear that sweet gentle voice, coaxing you into it as his fingers slipped into you.

even so, you found yourself clenching around his fingers as soon as they entered your little hole. your pussy was red raw, swollen. it was sopping, shaking even. "d-daryl." voice quivering as tears coated your eyes.

daryl brought his free hand up, quickly wiping away the little tears staining your pretty pink cheeks. "'s a good girl, you can take it." his lips found your neck, gentle kisses pressing against your skin as his fingers slowly pumped into you. "you gon' take it."

it was as if a band inside of him had broke.

daryl mercilessly pumped his fingers in an out of you, scissoring them against your gummy walls and allowing you to squirm in on yourself, moans louder than ever.

your eyes kept rolling, fluttering shut and opening again. your hands pawed at his arms and shoulders, trying to keep yourself grounded on anything you could.

his scent.

his touch.

his everything.

he filled you so completely, having you reeling at the feeling of his fingers inside of you.

he did it often, never did it feel the same.

you screamed in pleasure, chanting his name like a prayer and struggling to breathe.

his fingers didn't stop the momentum, rapidly fucking you silly as you tried your hardest to keep yourself in the moment, mind reeling. the wetness of his tongue from before along with the juices from your many orgasms had squelching noises bouncing off the walls. "hear that, baby?" his voice high pitched, cooing at you. "hear how good 'm makin' you feel?"

you nodded dumbly once more, not a notion of the words leaving his mouth. your cheeks flushed at the realisation of the sounds, the wet squelching from your aching pussy. you were embarrassed, shy as you tried your best to keep the heat from your cheeks.

"'s.. 's so good." the mumbles that left your lips were that of nervousness, eyes looking to find the same electric blues you'd longed to see so much.

his face was covered by little hair, gazing down at you as though you were a doll, one for his pleasure.

"yeah?" questioning you as if you could speak. "daryl makin' you feel good, huh?"

a nod from you as your eyes fluttered shut, whining and whimpering at the feeling of his fingers, the palm of his hand slapping against your clit with every pump, having all the stimulation you could ever need.

his tattooed hand grasped your chin between two fingers, shoving it his way and causing your eyes to open, still heavy. "eyes on me, baby." a whisper of his voice. "wanna watch you cum."

his words did it for you.

the band snapped again, yet another orgasm falling over you again. your eyes rolled back, hands pawing at the man who steadied you, watching your whole body shake. he liked taking notice, noting exactly how your body twitched and moved.

"good girl, that's it, s' good." mumbling the sweet praises as you fell apart in his hands for what felt like the hundredth time that night. "yeah, baby, that's it." your whimpers filling his ears.

every time different, every time ending the same.

He flinched and looked up at you with a stunned look on his face. Daryl didn't drop the knife; if anything, his grip tightened. “Ain't gonna do nothin'.”

Picking up on what he was implying, you stood up and walked over to him. You'd been in the same place he was, and you knew how dangerous this line of thinking could be. You crouched in front of him and held your hand out.

“Please give me that.”

Daryl hesitated and turned his head to avoid your gaze. You weren't going to stop, though.

“Daryl, please.”

Taking a shaky breath, he nodded and slowly handed you the knife. You laid it to the side and sat down beside him. He was anxiously fumbling with the hem of his shirt, and you could tell that he was trying not to look at your face.

“What's goin' on in your head?”

For a moment, Daryl hesitated again before speaking quietly. His voice wavered, and his tone was much more timid than you were used to.

“Somethin' ain't right with me. Can't sleep or stop thinkin'. It should've been me, y'know?”

The group had lost someone on this last run, and Daryl took it harder than expected. Your heart broke hearing what he had said, and you reached over to gently grab his hand. Initially, he tensed, but then he softened into your touch. Your fingers interlaced, and you did your best to stay calm. Panicking or making him feel guilty would only make things worse.

“I know it might feel that way, but I'm really glad that it wasn't you. You mean a great deal to me, and I wouldn't be the same if I lost you.”

Even though he was refusing to make eye contact, you watched as his eyes filled with tears and he quickly tried to blink them away. Watching him struggle felt sickeningly familiar, and it made your chest ache.

“I wasn't actually gonna do nothin' - was just thinkin' 'bout it. I'm real tired, sweetheart. Maybe things would be easier if everythin' just stopped.”

“Your pain might've been gone, but you would've just passed it on to me.”

You weren't saying this to shame him; it was simply the truth. You would be lost without him, and it was devastating to see him like this. You controlled your reaction, though.

To your surprise, your words got through to him, and that's when he broke down. He was crying, but it wasn't dramatic, loud weeping. This was his body finally releasing what it had been holding. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and his hands instinctively covered his face. As a child, he'd been taught not to show emotion in front of others, but you were different. You were safe.

Without saying anything, you pulled him closer and held him through it. Daryl's body shook against yours, and his hands were still shielding his face. You regulated your breathing in an attempt to encourage him to match it and carefully ran your fingers through his hair.

“I've got you, baby. Ain't goin' nowhere.”

Usually, he wouldn't let anyone hold him like this, but he allowed it. His breathing was starting to even out, and his tears had slowed down. Daryl removed his hands from his face and lay his head in your lap. Seeking out your comfort like this made him feel weak, but he couldn't help it.

You continued stroking his hair, and you used your fingernails to lightly scratch his scalp. This sometimes helped him sleep, and you hoped that it would soothe him. He was still taking measured breaths, but he was calming down. After a moment, he broke the silence and turned his head to look up at you through damp eyelashes.

“I'm sorry for breakin' down on you like I'm some kind of pussy. Ain't s'posed to get like this.”

“Don't ever apologize for bein' human, baby. I'd rather see you like this than have to bury another person that I love.”

Trying not to get emotional again, he nodded and dragged his calloused palm over his face to clear his tears. Your words were comforting, and your touch helped in ways that he couldn't even begin to describe. He felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, and he couldn't help the small smile that pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Thank you for bein' here with me, darlin'. It helps more than you could ever know. I hope that I ain't scare you or nothin'.”

“You didn't scare me at all, my love. I've been in your position - I used to try to bleed out all the bad in my life. It doesn't help, though.”

Hearing that hurt his heart, but he was thankful that you were being honest. Daryl didn't want you to feel the same darkness that he did, but he appreciated you sharing that with him. He knew how hard it was for you to be open about your mental health.

“I'm sorry that you felt that way. Do you ever get that urge now?”

“Sometimes, but I've got good people around me and reasons to stay. Just like you do. I know it's hard to see that, though.”

”I feel it, but it ain't somethin' that I'm used to. I'm not sure that I even deserve it.”

“You deserve everythin', baby. Let me help you carry this.”

Relaxing into your touch again, he felt himself getting drowsy, and he nodded against your lap. If you kept this up, he would be asleep in a few minutes. You used your free hand to trace the features of his face, and smiled softly as you watched his shoulders fully drop.

“You wanna move back to the bed or stay here?”

“Can we just lie like this? It feels good.”

You watched Daryl cringe a little at the neediness in his voice, but you didn't stop your movements. You continued what you were doing and nodded.

“Of course, my love.”

Within minutes, his eyes fluttered shut, and his body sagged against you. Daryl was fast asleep, and you allowed yourself to rest. The two of you slept like this - your back against the tent wall and him sprawled across your lap until the early morning.

The sun was low over the tree line casting the camp in a haze of gold and dust. It should’ve been peaceful. A kind of quiet you prayed for in the world now. But tonight, that stillness felt like a noose tightening around your throat.

Daryl stormed out of the woods, boots crunching the dry leaves, his crossbow slung over his shoulder like a badge of honor. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and there was a cut on his cheek, blood crusted along the edge. His eyes flicked to you as you sat by the fire, arms wrapped tight around your knees, but there was no softness there, no hint of the man who used to hold you through the night and press lazy kisses to your face in the early morning light.

“You’re late,” you muttered, voice small, tight.

He scoffed, dropping the crossbow onto the ground with a loud clatter. “Had shit to do,” he muttered, voice low, rough. His drawl, the one that used to make you feel so loved, now scraped over you like sandpaper.

You tried not to flinch.

“You always got shit to do,” you snapped, more anger in your tone than you’d intended. “That why you barely look at me anymore, huh? Why you can’t stand to sit still long enough to have a fuckin’ conversation?”

Daryl’s head snapped up, and his mouth twisted into a snarl, nostrils flaring. “Don’t start,” he bit out, voice low but sharp, like a blade glinting in the dark. “Ain’t the time, ain’t the place.”

“Well when is the time, Daryl?” you shot back, standing now, fists clenched tight at your sides. Your voice cracked, a sharp, raw thing, barely holding back the tears that burned behind your eyes. “When’s the right time for you to give a shit? After I’m gone, huh? After you’ve pushed me so far away there’s nothin’ left to fix?”

He stared at you, breathing heavy, chest heaving like he’d just run for miles, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt maybe, or regret, but it burned out just as fast, swallowed by the fire of his pride.

“Don’t fuckin’ do that,” he growled, voice rising, hands clenching into fists. “Don’t turn this shit on me like you’re the victim here. You don’t know what I been dealin’ with out there—riskin’ my ass every goddamn day for this group, for you! You wanna talk about who gives a shit? I give a shit alright? I been givin’ a shit, even when it ain’t easy!”

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to sit here and be grateful you haven’t dropped dead yet? That’s the fuckin’ bar now?” you snapped, voice cracking again, hands trembling as you wiped at the tears that had finally started to spill down your cheeks.

Daryl’s face twisted, something ugly and bitter curling his lips. “Maybe you should be grateful,” he spat, voice low and mean in a way that made your chest ache. “Ain’t like you’re worth much else anyhow.”

The world seemed to tilt, the air rushing out of your lungs in one sharp, ragged breath. You felt the words like a slap, the sting blooming slow and deep, and for a moment, you just stared at him, waiting, praying for him to take it back, to say he didn’t mean it, that it wasn’t true.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, breathing hard, staring at you with that same stubborn fire in his eyes, like he was too far gone to care what he’d just done.

Your lips trembled as you tried to speak, but no words came out, just a broken, gasping sound. And then you were moving, turning on your heel and stumbling away from the fire, away from him, from the suffocating weight of his anger and your own breaking heart. You barely heard him call your name, voice low and hoarse, but you didn’t stop.

You didn’t look back.

For the next two days, you avoided him like the plague. Running the edges of camp, slipping into the woods to gather firewood or fetch water when you knew he wasn’t around. Glenn tried to talk to you once, asking if you were okay, but you just shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat, and told him you were fine.

You weren’t.

Every time you saw Daryl, even from a distance, something inside you twisted, your heart clenching tight like it was trying to protect itself from breaking any further. He looked rough, haggard and hollow eyed, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his lashes, but you didn’t let yourself care.

You couldn’t.

The third day, Rick announced a run. Canned goods, maybe, or medical supplies—and you volunteered without thinking, just to get the hell out of camp. Daryl did too, of course, because he always did, and when Rick divided the group, you barely registered that you’d been paired with Glenn, while Daryl and Rick took the other side of the small town.

The last thing you heard before you split up was Daryl’s voice, rough and low, calling your name like a prayer.

You didn’t answer.

The first shot had rung out, splitting the air like a whipcrack, you thought for one wild second, that maybe this was it. Maybe you’d never have to look him in the eyes again.

A shout. The crack of gunfire.

You froze, heart lurching in your chest as the world erupted into chaos. Glenn grabbed your arm, pulling you down just as bullets shattered the front window, sending glass raining over the floor.

“Stay low!” he hissed, voice tight with panic, dragging you toward the back exit. But the gunfire followed. It was sharp, vicious, too many of them to fight head on. You tried to keep your head down, lungs burning, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Then it happened.

A sharp, searing pain tore through your side, knocking the air from your lungs. You stumbled, collapsing against a shelf of pill bottles that clattered around you.

“Shit—! No, no, no—” Glenn’s voice cracked as he dropped to your side, hands pressing over the wound in a desperate, shaking attempt to stop the bleeding.

Your breath hitched, a choked, broken sound, and your hands clutched weakly at his arms, your fingers slick with your own blood. The world tilted, your vision narrowing, the edges darkening like ink bleeding across paper.

You heard Daryl’s voice distant, panicked, shouting your name, but it felt like it was coming from somewhere far away, like you were underwater, sinking deeper with every passing second.

“Hold on, please, just—just hold on—” Glenn begged, tears in his eyes, his hands trembling against you.

But you knew…

When Daryl finally reached you, it was like watching something break in real time. His boots skidded across the ground as he dropped to his knees beside you, voice rough, choked, shattered.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he rasped, hands hovering over your face like he was afraid to touch you, afraid you’d crumble beneath his fingers. His breath stuttered, his eyes wild and glistening, and you saw it. Him. The man you loved, the man who was yours, crumbling in front of you.

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t fuckin’ do this to me, alright?” His voice cracked, thick with something raw, something broken. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean none of it, I swear. Just—just stay with me, please. I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You tried to lift your hand, but it felt so heavy, like your bones had turned to dust. Still, you managed to curl your fingers weakly around his wrist, your skin slick with blood. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like, shaking so hard you thought he might fall apart right there beside you.

Your lips trembled, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Daryl, I—” Your voice broke, ragged and faint. “I’m sorry too. I never wanted it to end like this.”

“Don’t,” he begged, voice cracking into a sob that shook him to his core. “Don’t say it like that. We’re gonna get you back, you hear me? Just hold on, baby, please. Just—just hold the fuck on.”

But you knew. And so did he.

Your breath hitched once, twice, then slowed, a shuddering exhale that sounded like the end of the world. Your eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open, locking onto his one last time, and you managed the barest whisper, barely audible beneath the sobs wracking his chest.

“I love you.”

Then the light in your eyes dimmed, your hand slipping from his wrist, leaving him grasping at air, at nothing.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The world stilled, holding its breath, and Daryl stared down at you like he could will you back to life if he just tried hard enough.

“Nonono—come on, sweetheart, c’mon—” His voice broke, desperate and raw, his hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing over cooling skin as if that would bring you back. He pressed his forehead to yours, tears leaking hot and unrelenting down his cheeks, whispering your name like a prayer, a mantra, a desperate plea to the universe.

But you didn’t stir.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

The world kept spinning, indifferent, while Daryl sat there on the cold, blood soaked ground, holding the woman he loved as the last warmth drained from your body.

He never got the chance to tell you he was sorry.

Never got to take it back.

Never got to make it to right.