#slug writes

Daryl steps a bit closer, eyes narrowing. He watches me like he’s trying to solve a particularly hard puzzle. Damnnit. He’s onto me.

I quickly shift the focus from me and onto Carol, who’s standing nearby. There’s a pleading look on my face as I say, “Oh, look, Carol! That reminds me of…uh…those cookies you wanted to make.”

I’m a terrible liar. I can tell by the look Carol gives me when she turns to face Daryl and me. She raises an eyebrow like she’s saying ‘Really? Cookies?’ and I immediately know I fumbled the direction change.

Daryl catches onto my failed attempt and snorts out a laugh. Heat floods my face again. Fantastic. Just what I needed—him laughing at me.

“Ain’t like ya gotta lie to me, City Girl,” Daryl gruffs.

This just makes the flush on my cheeks darken even more. I splutter, struggling for an acceptable response.

“Um…I’m…I’m—I’m not! I swear!” I glance over at Carol, eyebrows knitted together in desperation.

Carol sighs and gives me another “Really?” look before heading toward her house. As I watch her walk away, I cross my fingers behind my back, praying she’ll return with a plate of cover cookies.

All the while, I can feel Daryl’s gaze burning into my very being.

Those blue eyes of his are carving a path into my soul.

I watch nervously as he steps close, his voice dropping—subtle, but charged.

“Nah,” He murmurs. “Ya lyin’ to me. I can feel it.” My heart kicks up another couple of beats, and my cheeks darken a few more shades. At this point, I probably look like a full-on tomato. Exactly the aesthetic I was going for: panicked produce.

I finally come to my senses when he steps closer, and that’s my cue to exit stage right before my heart explodes.

You pull yourself together enough to sit up and give Castiel a perplexed look. The softness in his tone throws you off—he’s never spoken like that before. It’s always been gruff statements and blunt questions. 

Castiel frowns, his expression painfully earnest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, sounding more sure of himself. 

Your face cycles through a complicated set of emotions—confusion, then amusement—before finally settling on sympathy. Cas just doesn’t understand human emotions. “Cas,” you say softly. “I’m laughing because I find you funny.”

Castiel’s eyebrows scrunch together while his hands hover over your shoulders. “Funny?” There’s a beat of silence as he thinks. “…Is laughter a positive response?”

A small huff of air leaves you as you shake your head in amusement. “Yes, Cas,” you say, laughter lacing your words. “It’s a good thing.”

His eyebrows scrunch together even further, clearly confused, but also visibly relieved. “So… I didn’t hurt you?”

Your expression softens as you realize Castiel thought he did something bad. The sound of your pants rubbing on the carpet fills the air as you give him a small, reassuring smile. “You did nothing bad.”

Castiel’s shoulders relax a fraction, and he allows a tiny smile to tug at the corner of his lips. There’s just something about the gentle way you guide him. The way you teach without treating him like a child makes a warm feeling bloom in his chest.

His now soft, ocean-blue eyes trace your delicate features with an almost reverent look. He finds himself leaning in without even realizing it, drawn closer instinctively. His hand comes up, hovering hesitantly. Castiel stares at you for a few beats before ultimately dropping his hand back in his lap. 

Your breath hitches as you watch Castiel’s eyes roam your face. Butterflies flutter in your stomach at his unsure but hopeful expression. Oh. Does… does he feel the same way? Maybe?

His eyes dart down to your nose, then slowly drag down to your lips. His breath stutters as he leans closer, gaze fixed on you. 

You start to spiral into panic, nails digging into the carpet as the urge to lean forward fills your veins. Is he about to kiss you??? Oh my god. Is this actually happening—

Your body tenses up as his breath ghosts over your lips like a question. But, before you can close the gap, Dean bursts into the motel room.

You both frantically pull apart, scooting away like nothing was about to happen. Like the angel you’ve been crushing on for months wasn’t about to kiss you.

I quickly shift the focus from me and onto Carol, who’s standing nearby. There’s a pleading look on my face as I say, “Oh, look, Carol! That reminds me of…uh…those cookies you wanted to make.” 

I’m a terrible liar. I can tell by the look Carol gives me when she turns to face Daryl and me. She raises an eyebrow like she’s saying ‘Really? Cookies?’ and I immediately know I fumbled the direction change. 

Daryl catches onto my failed attempt and snorts out a laugh. Heat floods my face again. Fantastic. Just what I needed—him laughing at me.

“Ain’t like ya gotta lie to me, City Girl,” Daryl gruffs.

This just makes the flush on my cheeks darken even more. I splutter, struggling for an acceptable response.

“Um…I’m…I’m—I’m not! I swear!” I glance over at Carol, eyebrows knitted together in desperation. 

Carol sighs and gives me another “Really?” look before heading toward her house. As I watch her walk away, I cross my fingers behind my back, praying she’ll return with a plate of cover cookies.

All the while, I can feel Daryl’s gaze burning into my very being. 

Those blue eyes of his are carving a path into my soul. 

I watch nervously as he steps close, his voice dropping—subtle, but charged.

“Nah,” He murmurs. “Ya lyin’ to me. I can feel it.”

My heart kicks up another couple of beats, and my cheeks darken a few more shades. At this point, I probably look like a full-on tomato. Exactly the aesthetic I was going for: panicked produce. 

I finally come to my senses when he steps closer, and that’s my cue to exit stage right before my heart explodes.

Daryl hesitates. For a second, I swear he might say something—might stop me. But he doesn’t.  

I skid around the corner, practically sprinting to get away from the awkward tension between the two of us. Just as I’m about to duck into a shed, I run into Carol. Literally.

The cookies she was carrying fell to the ground in a clatter. Of course. Because the universe hates me.

I gasp in pure terror before dropping to my knees and starting to scramble to pick up the cookies.

A single bead of sweat slides down my temple as I gather the cookies, muttering under my breath. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening!”

I stop mid panicked murmur when Carol grabs my wrist, preventing me from snatching up any more cookies. “Honey…they’re just cookies,” She says sympathetically, with a concerned look in her eyes. “Whatever’s really going on isn’t on the ground.”

I freeze in place like a deer in the headlights of a car barrelling straight towards it. Even my breathing stops as I slowly glance up at Carol—the smallest, stiffest, most minuscule movement.

Before I even realize what I’m saying, I blurt out, “I have a crush on Daryl!” Shit. Thanks, mouth. Now, I’m fucked. I watch every emotion in existence flicker across Carol’s face as a grimace stretches across mine. It’s like she’s going through all the stages of grief, but for emotions. Oh god. I think I just broke Carol Peletier.

A knowing look spreads across Carol’s face as she gazes down at me from her half-crouched position. “I know, sweetie,’ She says softly, like she’s trying to comfort a wild animal. “It’s kind of obvious.”

Now it’s my turn to go through all the stages of emotions. Disbelief and panic stretch across my face, followed by embarrassment creeping in like a heatwave. “Y-You know?! How?! Oh god, who else knows?”

Carol bends down to my level and helps me start picking up the scattered cookies with a gentle smile. “Well… Daryl definitely doesn’t know,” she says, trying to make me feel a bit better. “You know how oblivious he is when it comes to love.”

My face contorts in incredulous disbelief as I shoot up from my crouched position. “Hold on now! I never said I love him!” 

A very amused snort leaves Carol as she calmly stacks the cookies she was carrying back onto the plate she had them on. “Honey, it’s clear you do.”

Cracks in my composure start to come through as my emotions catch up with me. The look on my face tells Carol that I’ve known all along—I was just in denial. “I don't know what to do,” I whisper, my voice wavering with vulnerability. 

The sympathy is practically painted thick across Carol’s face after I get done saying that. She slowly stands like she’s not trying to spook me, like she’s bringing herself to my level instead of towering over me. “Sweetie…You need to tell him.” She pauses when she notices the panic flicker across my face like a dying lightbulb. “Avoiding the truth will only make everything worse.”

The panic just grows at her words—her attempt at comfort clearly failing short. “Tell him?!” I exclaim, the dread creeping into my voice. “Carol, I can barely look at him without malfunctioning!”

A small smile curves across her lips while she lets out an amused hum. “Sweetie, you’re not a robot. You won’t actually explode.” She takes a slow step forward and gently grabs one of my hands. “Running won’t save you from the truth. Talking might.”

I pull my hand out of hers and stagger back—too overwhelmed right now. “I-I can’t!”

There, Daryl stands in all his gruff glory, scowling like a bug bit him on the ass. He looks like he’s been pacing too—jaw tight, eyes sharp, like he’s been fighting with his own thoughts before bringing them to mine.

My breath hitches as my cheeks warm. I’ve always had a thing for Daryl all worked up. There’s just something about him—upset and sweaty—that makes me weak in the knees.

Daryl notices I finally opened the door and shoves his hands in his pockets while turning to face me. “Did I do sumthin’? Or are ya just… scared’a me?”

I freeze once again—not expecting that response from him. I thought he’d be mad. I didn’t think he’d be hurt. My eyebrows climb up my forehead as I stare at Daryl in disbelief. God. Did I do this? Did I make him think that?

“I’m not scared of you,” I whisper before I can help it.

He shifts his weight awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His jaw works as he chews on a thought he doesn’t know how to say. “Then… why’s it feel like ya are?”

I huff and stubbornly cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not scared. I’m overwhelmed. There’s a difference.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. Because of course he does—he’s Daryl. “Well, I ain’t tryin’ to be the thing overwhelm’n ya!” He snaps at me, annoyance rising once more.

My face contorts with anger at the tone he used. “Really?! Don’t talk to me like that!” Then, I find myself taking an irritated step forward and blurting out, “I like you, that’s the problem!”

I watch Daryl pause, trying to process my words—his face blank as he thinks through what I just said. While I wait for his response, fear spreads across my face like oil in a lake. I splutter for words before slamming the door shut right in his face. 

My cheeks begin to heat up once more as I quickly yank the locks into place. A sharp exhale leaves me as I collapse against the door like I just ran a marathon. My breathing is ragged, and my heart is almost pounding out of my chest. I didn’t mean to say it. God. I didn’t mean to say anything.

The silence settles, only interrupted by my laboured breathing. I don’t hear footsteps on the other side of the door. I don’t hear any movement. There’s just… nothing, which means he’s still out there. And I don’t know if I want him to stay or to go. 

On the other side of the door, Daryl stands with his head resting on the door. He takes a deep breath and tries the door handle—only to find it locked. “Damn it,” he curses under his breath, upset that he can’t reach me.

Neither of us knows what to do next. I can feel him there. Not moving. Not leaving. Just… waiting.

There’s a soft rap of his knuckles against the door. “C’mon... Just open the door,” he mutters against the wood.

A small sigh tumbles out of my parted lips while my head falls into my hands. I take a few deep breaths before slowly forcing myself back to my feet. The lock unlatches with a little click. And then I open the door.

“...Thank ya,” he breathes, as if the words cost him something. He’s still obviously upset—his cheeks flushed a little pink, frustration clinging to him—but he seems to be calmer now.

I hesitate, almost like I’m gonna shut the door again before slowly starting to nod. My hair bounces and sways—falling in my face.

Daryl’s eyes track the strands of hair in my face. He reaches up—hesitates—and drops his hand before touching me. “…Yer hair’s in yer face,” he mutters, like that’s the safest thing he can say.

A trembling breath leaves my parted lips as I tuck the hair behind my ear with shaky fingers, suddenly very aware of every inch between us. “...I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, my tone of voice unsure.

Daryl swallows, his throat bobbing while he shifts his weight awkwardly. His eyes flick away for a second, like the floorboards are easier to look at than I am. I don’t think he knows what to say either. “Look, I ain’t good at talkin’. But I’m here.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I finally look up to make eye contact with Daryl. “I know,” I whisper while trying to calm myself down. “Thank you.”

Daryl clears his throat and gives me a curt nod. There’s still some residual pink on his cheeks despite him having calmed down. Is he… Is he blushing?

Oh my god. Did I make Daryl Dixon blush? 

There’s a brief moment of me just gaping at Daryl—completely in disbelief. Then, I manage to blurt out, “Are you blushing?!” This, of course, makes everything worse.

Daryl gives me his signature scowl before storming off in embarrassment. His clunky boots crunch on the gravel as he stomps away, probably to go kill something. 

I definitely just made Daryl blush. Holy shit.

There’s a beat of silence where my brain buffers before I dash after Daryl. But by the time I get off my porch, he’s gone. I curse under my breath and spin in circles while looking all around for him.

Nothing. I just stand there thinking about his rosy cheeks.

—————

The Next Morning: The Community Kitchen

I’m going to get my routine morning coffee when I recognize the tangled mess of brown hair in the sea of Alexandrians.

Of course. Because, again, the universe hates me. It has the worst timing in the history of the worst timing. 

I quickly snatch someone’s abandoned cup of coffee off a table and bolt out of the kitchen. My sneakers pound across the gravel as I high-tail it out of there and back to my house. I get about halfway back before someone shouts my name.

I immediately recognize the voice as none other than Daryl Dixon. Shit. 

 There's an awkward smile on my face while I slowly turn to face the man I’ve dreaded seeing all night. “Uh… hey, Daryl! Nice seeing you around.”

His startlingly ice-blue eyes pierce into my gaze as he suspiciously examines me. “Ya runnin’ from me?”

I swallow nervously and shake my head over-exaggerated. My voice comes out shaky and a pitch higher than usual. “No?” It, of course, sounds more like a question than a statement.

He grunts in response, his eyebrows knitting together. He looks me up and down—examining me. “Ya sure?” he asks, voice low and throaty as usual.

But it gets me nonetheless. The rasp in his voice ignites a weird, fluttery feeling low in my belly as a flush creeps from the tips of my ears to my cheeks. I splutter and stumble over my words. “Um… no? YES! I mean, yes, I am sure!

Daryl grunts once more before growling and stalking off in the other direction.

I just stand there, staring down at my fidgeting hands while my neck flushes red too. A sigh leaves me as I start back toward my house, dejectedly dragging my feet behind me.

“Open the door,” Carol says, fond exasperation covering up the worry in her voice.

My eyes widen as I realize Daryl didn’t come looking for me. A twinge of disappointment shoots through my veins. I kind of wanted him to search for me—to get a chance to apologize. I hesitate before turning the knob and pulling the door open.

Carol notices my dilemma, the hesitation in my posture, and steps inside. A sad sigh leaves her lips as she shuts the door behind her, giving us some privacy. “Honey, you can’t keep avoiding him forever.” She leans back against the front door, giving me a sympathetic once-over. “You can’t keep running and then deflecting.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him!” I exclaim, the frustration audible in my voice. A wince immediately follows at my tone. “I didn’t mean to say it like that… I didn’t avoid him. I just didn’t know what to say.” Running felt safer than making it worse. “Is… he mad at me?”

Carol pauses, her eyes roaming over the complicated set of emotions on my face. This time, a sigh leaves me as I gesture for her to come further inside. We walk into the living room and sit down next to each other. She takes one of my hands into both of hers and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“No, sweetie, he’s not mad at you,” Carol says, sympathy clear in her voice. “He’s just confused, like you.” A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “You’re both oblivious to the other's feelings.”

I freeze, lips half-parted around a response, processing the implication of her words. Is it possible Daryl likes me back? “...What feelings does Daryl have about me?” I ask Carol, unsure of where she’s trying to lead me right now.

Carol lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head in amusement. “See? Oblivious,” she remarks, that familiar teasing lilt in her voice. “He’s been trying to show his feelings since that moment that started all this.”

She scoots closer, squeezing my hand once more in reassurance. “The way he watches you,” Carol starts, listing off all the ways she knows Daryl likes me. “The way he stays when he could leave. The way he backs off instead of pushing.”

My breath almost violently hitches as I finally realize what Daryl’s been doing this whole time. Daryl doesn’t put in effort for people he doesn’t care about. He doesn’t choose restraint over instinct just for anyone.

My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest as I stare at Carol with wide eyes, speechless. She immediately notices my silence and gives my hand another sympathetic squeeze. “Take your time. It’s a lot.”

A slow breath leaves my flared nostrils as I process everything. This entire time, Daryl’s liked me; we could’ve avoided all of this if we’d just communicated. “You’re right,” I whisper, my voice trembling just slightly.

Carol’s eyebrows furrow. “And what do you want now?” she asks. “Do you want to confess?”

My throat bobs as I swallow nervously, looking down at our joined hands. “I don’t know,” I murmur, my voice cracking halfway through.

The room falls quiet, heavy but not uncomfortable. Carol’s thumb brushes slow circles over the back of my hand, grounding me. “That’s okay. This is a process,” she says, mostly winning at comforting me.

I exhale softly, my shoulders relaxing with the breath. A shaky smile tugs at my lips—just enough that, if you were really looking, you’d notice.

Carol notices, because, of course, she does—she’s Carol. She purses her lips and pats my hand as she stands up. “C’mon, honey, I’ll make you some tea.”

A sigh of relief leaves my lips, parted around a response, as I stand up and follow her into the kitchen. “Thank you, Carol. You always know how to help.”

Carol lets out a small hum of acknowledgment while grabbing the kettle off the counter and starting the stove up. She silently sets it down and pours in water.

As she does, she leans against the counter directly next to the stove and gives me another once-over. She tuts and brushes my hair back from my face. “ You look terrible. Have a little faith.”

An unsteady, wet, and bitter laugh bubbles up in my chest as tears well up in my eyes. My lower lip trembles as I finally break down, sobbing into my hand.

You turn and head towards the cockpit without slowing, ignoring everyone's reactions to your new suit. Tony’s grin and low whistle. Natasha’s subtle smirk. Sam’s eyes sweeping over you—calculated, professional. Steve’s small nod of approval. Bucky’s neutral grunt. 

Their reactions roll off you like smoke. Your aim isn’t to impress anyone; approval isn’t the goal. Power is the point.

Your training is evident as your footsteps are silent, carefully honed, as you finally reach the cockpit—Nick Fury seated there like he’s been waiting for you.

“Agent,” Fury acknowledges, his one eye trained perfectly on you. A beat. “Can I help you?”

You lift your chin, impassive, and meet Fury’s gaze. “Director,” you repeat in the same tone he used, with the same weight. “I’d like to formally thank you for the new suit.”

Surprise flickers through Fury's eye for a brief second. You’re not exactly the sentimental type; usually, you’d brush off things like that. He quickly clears his throat and pulls that stoic mask of his back on. “Noted. Now, get to your seat.”

You nod once, a smirk tugging at your lips as you turn on your heel. Tight curls sway with the movement as you saunter toward the open seats.

The light catches the crimson seams of your suit as you pass everyone by and take a seat in the corner. A strategic spot. Your dad always taught you to sit in the back—keep an eye on everything going on.

There’s a low hum as Fury starts the Quinjet up, before swatting twice on the roof—the universal signal to get ready. You buckle just in time; a second later, everyone’s jolted back as the jet banks upward at a steep angle.

Your hands instinctively shoot out to grab onto the armrests as the G-forces pin you to your seat. Blood rushes to your head, pooling in a thick fog behind your eyes. The room spins as the feeling of faintness washes over you. You fight the feeling, clawing your way back to full consciousness. Not now. Breathe. All around you, the team reacts in their own ways.

Tony—the closest to you—dramatically clutches at his arc reactor.  Natasha, never one to lose her composure, clenches her thighs together to stay still. Sam plants his boots flat on the floor and grips his straps. Steve barely moves, sighing like this is routine. Bucky’s metal arm whirs as he braces, jaw clenched.

“Are you trying to kill us, Nick?!” Tony exclaims, clearly being his usual theatrical self. 

“It’s Fury to you,” Fury yells over the jet’s engines. 

A smirk curls across Natasha’s lips as she glances at Tony. “Only I get to call him Nick.”

You can hear Tony’s exaggerated gasp from several feet away. “Nick! I thought we were more than this!” 

“Fury,” Fury deadpans, clearly unimpressed with Tony’s theatrics.

You can’t help but snicker under your breath at Tony. He’s always like this. You find the sarcastic one-liners, the trauma hidden behind humor entertaining… sometimes.

Out of the window, the Hydra base comes into view—its entrance is an open maw of crumbling concrete and wild vines. This place has clearly been abandoned for a while now.

Or so it wants you to think.

Tony perks up from his act of melancholy and starts scanning for heat signatures.

“Anything?” Steve asks, standing and already taking point as the leader. 

Sam leans over Natasha, squinting out the window next to you. “Nothing visibly moving.” 

Natasha shoves Sam back into Steve’s seat next to him. “Personal space, Wilson,” she says, though there’s a small smile on her lips the whole time.

Sam smirks and holds his hands up as if in mock surrender, shooting Natasha an unapologetic look. “My bad, Romanoff.” 

Tony rolls his eyes so hard that only the whites are visible. “Kids! Stop fighting!”

Bucky, who’s been quiet this whole time, huffs in mild annoyance. “Can you all not, for once? We have bigger things to focus on.”

You tear your gaze away from the window and finally glance over at everyone. Your lips quirk up slightly as you take in the scene. “You all act like siblings bickering,” you say, Italian accent thickening with subtle amusement. 

Bucky snorts, then immediately tries to hide it by clearing his throat and looking away. 

Tony shoots upright in his seat and juts a finger out at Bucky. “I heard that! That was a laugh from the Winter Soldier.” 

Bucky growls and whips around in his seat, glaring daggers at Tony. “Don’t fucking call me that!” he shouts while his metal fist clenches. 

Your face contorts in anger as you abruptly sit up and jab a finger out at Tony. “Stark, not cool. You know he doesn’t like being called that—brings up bad shit for him!”

Tony freezes for half a second—just long enough to register he crossed a line. He slowly raises both hands defensively. “Okay—wow. Too far. Noted.”

Tony lowers his hands, and the cabin finally settles back into its usual hum.

Bucky lets out a sharp exhale and avoids eye contact, unsure how to take you backing him up. His metal fist unclenches as he takes a deep breath and mutters a quiet, clipped “Thanks.” 

Steve finally glances up from the mission brief he was reading and notices the lingering tension. One look at his best friend tells him all he needs to know. He sighs and gives Stark a disapproving look.

Tony purses his lips, parting them to go to say something—then hesitates. 

You roll your eyes and redirect the team’s attention back to the mission with a pointed glare and a gesture toward Steve. “Rogers, what do you have for us? Positions yet?”

Steve gives you a small nod of approval—thankful for the distraction. “I have positions. Tony and Sam—air coverage. You’ll be scoping out the base from above.” His eyes dart to Natasha. “Nat, you get us in. Disable security and open the doors.” His gaze shifts to Bucky. “You’ll take down the armed guards—the ones in riot gear.” His attention moves to you. “Moretti, you’ll be on point with me.”

Surprise flashes through your eyes for just a split second. On point? Interesting. Dad would be proud of you. You barely have any time to process the implications of leading with Steve before Fury announces you’re almost there. 

“ETA five minutes. Get ready, Avengers,” he yells over the engines while the base inches closer.

The team starts the last checks, holstering weapons and standing up while Fury starts the smooth descent down.