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Main masterlist Daryl x Reader masterlist Halloween masterlist AO3 link
Summary: What was supposed to be a normal trip outside the walls turned into you & Daryl running for your lives, leading you to hunker down overnight in one of the most unlikely places imaginable.
Era: Alexandria, probably pre-Saviors but I guess it could be post
Genre: Fluff & angst
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings: Swearing, no use of y/n, some descriptions of walkers, slight allusion to death, talk of graveyards & the people buried in them, barely proofread because I'm sick of harping over this
A/N: Hi. Hello. I'm finally posting another Halloween fic. In December. A week before Christmas. But we're not gonna talk about that. Or how I've been in the fucking trenches for weeks. Or how I hyperfixated on small things about this fic that mean absolutely nothing in terms of the fic as a whole. Or how I couldn't come up with a more clever title than this. But it's finally done, and it's here. It's by far not my best work, but I hope you all enjoy it 🤗 Here's the link to what I picture the outside of the mausoleum to look like, and here's one for the inside. Shoutout to my angel @angelicarlert for the sweet comments & helping me on the spots where I was stuck 🖤
“Can we go around them?” you called out, voice breathless as you picked up the pace to move in tandem with your run partner.
“Nah.” His baby blues didn’t so much as stray even an inch from the edge of the forest ahead, not even as your steps met his rhythm. “S’too many.”
Your panicked gaze darted between trees, taking in the nauseating sight of walker after walker stumbling over fallen branches only to be trampled by its comrades in a split second. The forest was alive with the sounds of crackling leaves and shattering bones, but you were far too panicked to tell the difference. They almost appeared to be manifesting out of thin air, rising up from the dirt and emerging from within the trees themselves. They had to be. It was the only, albeit illogical, explanation for the sheer number of them.
“Well, where are we supposed to go?”
“We’ll find somethin’.” Despite the words being spat at you like a promise, you both knew it wasn’t guaranteed. “Jus’ keep movin’.”
“We’ve been 'moving' for a while now, Daryl,” you protested, jumping and nearly tripping over a fallen log, the golden-brown leaves crunching when your boots met the earth. “I don’t think there’s anything around here.”
His response was short, snippy, a firm indication that you’d reached the end of your discussion. Conversing about your bleak circumstances wouldn’t alter them. “Jus’ c’mon.”
You huffed, lips pressed in a taut line, ignoring the ever-growing burning in your thighs and the sounds of moans, groans, and snapping limbs quickly growing too close for comfort. Because what choice did you have?
The whole thing started simple enough—another run outside the walls for the necessities, gathering whatever you could as the community geared up for winter. After clearing out nearby gas stations and pharmacies, you’d had to wander further, the two of you finding yourselves in an unfamiliar neck of the woods, hopeful it possibly meant there’d be somewhere nearby that hadn’t been completely cleared out. So you took the road less traveled, kicking up pebbles and chatting away while your run partner listened with one ear and monitored for danger with the other.
You’d become somewhat of a dream team, the two of you, though Daryl rolled his eyes at every mention of the phrase. Every time supplies began to dwindle, you and your companion were sent out, bags damn near empty to fit any and every can of food, box of tampons, and roll of gauze you could get your hands on. It started as an offer, you wanting to get more experience with tracking, hunting, things Daryl was good at. Now, you were called upon anytime a run was needed, and something of a friendship blossomed between you and the archer.
And that’s all you were—Alexandria’s dream team.
But somewhere along the way, things changed. It was slow, gradual, because everything with Daryl, even friendships, was a slow-burn. The small talk to fill the silence evolved into real conversations with depth, that meant something, that left you thinking about them for hours after. Walking you back to your house after sunset turned into staying for an hour on your porch with you to look at the stars. Dropping you off became you inviting him in for a drink before progressing into him staying the night “since he was there already and it was getting late.” Only on the couch, of course. Nothing that would cross any lines, nothing Daryl “slow-burn” Dixon deemed moving too fast.
Now, you were threading through trees after encountering a horde bigger than anything the two of you could handle alone. Hell, it was probably bigger than anything the whole of Alexandria could handle. You’d had to backtrack, sidetrack, run in circles and squares and shapes you couldn’t name, but no matter where you ran, they just kept coming. Were you surrounded? What direction were you going? Would you find your way back?
In theory, your plan was simple: run, and when you could no longer run, hide. In execution, it proved to be much more difficult. You hoped for a cabin, a church, an old fallout shelter belonging to some guy named Bill who died way back at the start, anything that would act as a barrier between you and the creatures that called you their prey. But the longer you ran, the more grim your outcome looked.
And to top it all off, like some sick horror movie cliché, the sun had begun to set. Which meant it would be dark soon, and you’d have to blindly navigate your way around this monster-sized horde.
Sprinting up an incline in the forest floor, the trees had begun to thin out, pulling a sigh of relief from deep in your lungs. After a few more grueling steps, you broke through the tree line next to Daryl, dust and pebbles kicking up around you as you stumbled onto a dirt road. You squinted through strands of fallen hair, your gaze landing on something rather unexpected, especially for how far into the woods you figured you must’ve been.
The small cemetery was littered with ancient headstones, many of them cracked, overgrown with moss, weathered by decades of hail and heavy rain. There were probably only about twenty or so, the largest of them propped up in the back. But in the very center stood what might’ve been your saving grace.
A mausoleum.
The granite, once a light beige, was stained a greenish-grey in patchy and uneven splotches. Vines crept down from the roof, tapering out as they approached the ground, and the arched wrought-iron doors were like something straight out of a fantasy video game. At the apex were some decorative carvings, though whether they were in fact just decorative or something akin to a family crest, you couldn’t be sure.
Daryl was the first to reach the edge of the graveyard, a hefty sigh leaving his lips as his eyes fixated on the stone structure. “Ya gotta be shittin’ me.”
You hunched over, hands on your knees as you panted, every deep inhale drying your mouth somehow more than it already was. “Can we hide in there?”
“Only one way to find out,” he huffed. Before you’d had enough time to catch your breath, Daryl started off, not giving either of you a moment to second-guess your next move. With one last deep breath and a sea of undead on your heels, you did the same.
Striding up behind him, you nearly tripped over a row of makeshift stones leading to the center, the slabs of concrete drowning in overgrown grass and decorated with the same wear and tear as the gravestones. At another quick glance, a commonality caught your eye—all of them had the same last name. Clearly, you’d discovered a family cemetery of sorts, and as you trailed behind your rough-and-tumble redneck companion, you found yourself wondering about them. What kind of people were they? Were they close like you were with the people you’d come to love like family? And did they ever think the world would descend into horror such as this?
Stepping up to its rusty doors, you were surprised to discover the lock, or what had once been the lock, scattered on the ground in jagged, corroded pieces, evidence of a previous traveler who’d likely had the same idea as you two. There were no signs to indicate how recently the lock had been broken. No footprints in the dirt, no soft swears coming from the other side of the door…nothing. It could’ve been five months or five minutes, and the stomach-churning realization that this hiding spot might already be taken hit you like a freight train. No words were exchanged, only a quick glimpse, communicating your next moves in silence–a skill you’d acquired after months of being “the dream team.”
Daryl took the initiative, motioning a hand over his shoulder to signal for you to stand behind him. His other hand gripped his crossbow, finger on the trigger & ready to act now and ask questions later. Your hand was wrapped tight around the handle of your knife, knuckles turning white against the brown leather cushion. Your lungs filled with a deep but damn near silent inhale, afraid anyone lying on the other side might hear.
He peered over his shoulder, and with a nod from you & his crossbow locked and loaded, he slowly nudged the door open with the tip of his boot, the squeal of its rusty hinges scraping your eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. Once the gap was big enough, you both tiptoed inside, weapons raised and aimed at whatever—or whoever—might be lurking on the other side.
Thankfully, you were met with an empty room, your synchronized breathing the only sounds penetrating the silence.
The interior was simple—a single altar at the center and three stained-glass windows, one decorating each wall. Their once pristine colors had begun to fade, the bright blues, greens, and reds dulling into something muted and lifeless. Two concrete tombs rested on opposite sides, built into the wall like benches, like they’d expected passerbys like you might come along one day seeking sanctuary. The air was musty, thick, suffocating levels of dust dancing in the last of daylight streaming through the ornate glass. It wasn’t the sanctity of a church basement or a cabin where you could light a fire and cook some stranger’s long-abandoned canned goods, but it was your safest option. Your best bet at a chance for survival.
Once you’d determined the coast was clear, you loosened the death grip on your knife, slipping it back in the leather holster on your belt loop. Daryl lowered his bow, cautiously, like he still thought something might pop up out of the corner and lunge for you. Only when you found your way to the wall and sank to the floor did he let his guard down, lowering his weapon completely and pulling the door shut as quietly as he could, sealing you in your hiding place.
Hiding.
From the dead.
In a house of the dead, of all places.
Your gaze wandered to various corners, scanning over every inch of your surroundings before landing back on the archer. “We’re gonna be stuck here for a while, aren’t we?”
“’Til we come up with a plan to draw ‘em away,” he sighed, resting atop the tomb across from you. He positioned himself beside the window, angled in such a way that he could peek through little bits of broken glass to monitor your surroundings as the situation unfolded.
Your back collided with the cool concrete, a ‘thud’ reverberating through your chest. “Great.”
The two of you sat in silence, afraid to take a breath too sharp or speak above a volume so hushed you could barely hear your own words. Instead, you listened to the growing sounds of the deceased traipsing around just outside. You wondered how many there were, but you didn’t dare look. You remained frozen on the floor, and each passing second stretched on like hours.
Soon thereafter, night came, shrouding you completely in darkness. Neither of you dared to flick on your lighters, fearful that even the tiniest flame could draw the attention of one of the dead lurking outside. And being trapped in a space the size of a backyard storage shed with no other way out meant even one walker spelled danger with a capital D.
Peering through the broken corner of the nearby window, crossbow held tight to his chest, Daryl surveyed what he could, the pale moonlight seeping through the clouds providing little visibility. Walker moans and groans were faint, almost inaudible through the small opening, much of it drowned out by the rustle of nearby pine branches. “Looks like they’re slowly startin’ to wander off. Hopefully be able to leave in the mornin’.” He glanced at you for only a second, just long enough to nod to the tomb you’d been resting against. “Ya get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
Those familiar flutters in your stomach came to life, the way they’d done countless times before. The ones that crept up every time you stood across from him on your front porch, dreading saying goodnight. The ones that flittered in your gut while you rested on your kitchen counter, finger twirling in your hair and a flush lighting up your cheeks after one too many glasses of wine. These ones, though…these were different. They were smaller, much smaller, a needle weighed down by a haystack of your more cumbersome emotions and the laundry list of uncertainties regarding the situation at hand. Though the sentiment was appreciated, rest was the last thing on your mind.
“How am I supposed to sleep?”
Your question slid off your tongue like he would somehow have the answer, like he would respond with something quick and witty and unintentionally funny, yet helpful. You couldn’t make out his facial features, only his silhouette illuminated by what little moonlight trickled in, but you didn’t need to. You could practically feel the subtle smirk from across the room.
“Lay down ’n close yer eyes,” he quipped. “Heard ’s’a good place to start.”
As much as you wanted to laugh, to smile, to tell him how “clever” it was, your mouth didn’t even so much as quirk up at the corners. Quick and witty and unintentionally funny? Yes. Helpful? Not so much.
You hugged your legs tight to your chest, eyes boring into him through the blackness. “We’re stuck in a fucking mausoleum, Daryl!” you whispered, your words a freshly-sharpened knife slicing through the silence. “We don’t know where we are, how long we’ll be stuck here, or if anyone might come looking for us! How am I supposed to get any shut-eye?”
Your response took him by surprise at first. In all the time he’d known you, he’d never so much as heard you raise your voice, let alone snap like that. Especially at him of all people.
However, you were right, and he knew that. You could hope the walkers would move along by the time the sun came up, but in reality, there was no telling what those sad sacks of rot would do. What if more than a day passed? You’d have to come up with some kind of plan for food and water. And when you did eventually get out, how would you get back? Where were you? You’d been running in different directions for so long, you weren’t sure where home was. If you were gone long enough, someone from the group might come looking for you, but there was no guarantee that they’d find you. Would they think to check unfamiliar territory? If they did come across this little cemetery, would they dare to check it? And if they eventually did find you, what would be left?
Question after question after question, and none with a single answer in sight.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, you just needed to make it to morning. Take it one day at a time, just like you’d been doing since the outbreak started.
You rubbed your upper arms with your hands, working frantically at your frigid skin in hopes that whatever friction you could conjure up would keep the goosebumps at bay. All you had in your bag was a half-empty plastic bottle of water, a lighter probably older than you were, a protein bar, two tampons, and a pack of tissues. Nothing that would feed you for more than a day. Nothing to keep you warm.
Nothing that prepared you for a night camped out in a cemetery.
“I’m sorry.” Your head fell, chin resting on your knees, a black cloud of shame shadowing you. “It’s not that I don’t trust you to keep watch. You know that.” You peered up through lashes spritzed with the threat of tears, and your next words came like a confession, like you were too embarrassed to say them out loud. “I’m just scared.”
“Be more concerned if ya weren’t scared.” His crystal-blue gaze landed on you for half a second before turning his attention back to the window, fearful to take his eyes off the chaos outside for too long. “Look at the damn situation we got ourselves in.”
“Scared and so fucking cold,” you hissed, rubbing your arms furiously while trying to remain quiet. Your efforts were futile, and what heat you were able to create died before you had time to fully register it. However, you knew one sure-fire way to keep warm.
Physical affection came slowly to Daryl. Anyone who’d known him for more than five minutes could deduce that. You’d hugged him once, maybe twice if you counted that time he helped you limp back to your tent on the farm after twisting your ankle. You could picture the scenario clear as day—your arm draped around his neck and his across your back, helping to steady you with each step. It was the first time he’d gone out of his way for you, and the first time you felt those flap-flap-flaps in your stomach you’d become well acquainted with. But only once-maybe-twice was enough for you to know this man was built like a radiator, and cozying up to him like you’d been itching to do for months was your key to not freezing to death.
“Can…Can I…”
Your request expired on your tongue before it was done, its remnants hanging in the air between you. Your mind was spinning, debating whether to try again, make the move yourself, or not say another damn word until morning. You were certain the heat pricking your cheeks would be enough to keep you nice and toasty until then.
Stupid, you scolded, stupid, stupid, stupid—
But the moment he nodded, your worries dissolved into nothing.
Daryl was smart, much smarter than most people gave him credit for. He knew what you were asking. You didn’t need to finish your sentence for that.
Rising to your feet, you tiptoed through the dark at a snail’s pace, ensuring you wouldn’t bump your hip or stub your toe on the altar and accidentally yelp in surprise. He moved too, shifting to the floor to ensure there’d be enough room for both of you to sit comfortably. It also positioned Daryl as a barrier between you and anything or anyone that might stumble through those wrought-iron gates, but that was neither here nor there.
Once you’d safely crossed the threshold, you lowered to the ground beside him, arms extended to feel for the edge of the tomb to help maneuver you down. You shifted closer, just a hair, until your hip met his, and those silly stomach flips & flutters returned at full force. Maybe it was the intimacy of the whole thing, the closeness that was new but felt routine, like you’d done it a thousand times before.
Only then did he allow himself to thread his arm behind you, slanted across your back to support you, just like that day on the farm. He was about as relaxed as Daryl could be in circumstances such as yours, muscles tense and frame rigid in case he needed to jump up at a moment’s notice. Your head fell to his shoulder, his chocolate locks tickling your forehead and his signature scent of whiskey and cigarettes greeting your senses.
A radiator was fucking right.
Daryl was warm in a welcoming way. That was the only way you could explain it–a homely, familiar, all-encompassing way that soothed your soul and thawed your frozen bones from the inside out. You practically melted into him, welcoming the heat and the comfort his presence brought. The moment felt right, like clicking the last piece of a puzzle into place. Like maybe everything happened for a reason, and things were playing out exactly the way the universe intended them to.
“Thanks, Daryl,” you mused, voice soft against the shell of his ear, and you could’ve sworn you felt him shiver. Not a cold shiver, but a small yet pleasurably tingle-up-your-spine shiver. The kind you’d felt many times before, and the thought of him experiencing the same, as a result of you, brought a small smile to your face.
But he didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He simply acknowledged your appreciation with an “mhm” that rumbled from deep within his ribcage. It was a very classic Daryl response you’d grown to love, one of your favorite little quirks of the better half, according to you, of your dream team.
With a yawn, your eyes fluttered closed, muscles turning to jelly as you finally allowed yourself to relax. You focused on the closeness, the heat, and the rise and fall of Daryl’s chest, letting his breathing drown out the sounds of the walkers outside. Exhaustion soon took over, arm stretching across him as your body melted into his, and before either of you knew it, you’d begun to drift off into dreamland. Cozied up to the man who’d become the star of your dreams. Right where you were supposed to be.
And despite the precarious circumstances, you knew, ultimately, things were going to work out just fine.
yk I do hate when people complain about age gaps OR use the whole "but theyre so sibling vibes" argument when it comes to ships, but beth and daryl... bro she was 16 and he was, like, 40 something when they met. Idc if she's 18 now, she was 16 when they met um and I hate you you disgust me.
"Oh but he risked his life for her" um hey. So daryl always acts protective toward younger characters in the show AND he's like her older brother. he's old enough to be her father actually. Hey he's taking care of her cause her father is dead. Can you stop being freaky for a moment and let daryl dixon act like a step dad—nay, the dad that stepped up. Girl Dad Daryl. Can you let this happen.
thank you so much @dixons-sunshine for the tag!! 🥹🩷 I've never done anything like this before so it's a first :3 (there is a blank template beneath the cut)
(i did both game joel and pedro joel because i couldn't choose one 🙃 also no particular order)
no pressure ofc! but tagging some moots if they want to do it!! @littlelovingideas @hannyhann @darylsdelts @dixonsstinkysock @ellasdixon @b1eedthefreak @gnabnahclvrr + anyone else who wants to, feel free :D
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