Summary: In the dark of the night, he pulls you close. In the harsh light of morning, his pride pushes you away. But when the countdown begins and the blast doors start to seal them, Daryl's tough-guy act completely vanishes. Because if the world is going to blow, he’s getting you out alive —or dying trying.
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader
Genre: fluff, slow burn, comfort, angst
Warnings: brief mention of toxic family environment/abuse, canon-typical violence/explosions, mild swearing.
He felt his body lighter than usual. The hallway's air conditioning, now refreshing due to the alcohol in his blood, didn't bother him as much as when they first arrived. The windowless walls and the industrial air of the place made him claustrophobic.
Daryl walked slowly down the bedroom hallway, his boots feeling heavier here on the floorboards than they ever did in the woods. Instead of entering the room the doctor had offered him, he stopped by the door, leaning against the wall. Only the low hum of the air vents filled the space. He stared down the empty hallway, thinking, his head heavy from fatigue and the drinks. Without Merle’s chaotic shadow telling him what to do or how to act, his own mind had been running too fast lately. He thought that despite the horrors out there, a part of him still preferred the woods over a charming little cubicle that felt more like a trap. He thought about Merle, wondering where that tough bastard could be... especially without one of his hands. And he thought about you.
About how your eyes had started crossing paths with his, at the quarry without an ounce of fear. You looking for edible berries and checking the fish traps. The smiles you’d give him in the morning, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the camp. In those moments alone, away from the group, Daryl didn't feel that constant urge to snarl and fight. He felt like you could see him beyond the rough facade of a Dixon, like you knew he wasn't just like his brother... And to Daryl, that was dangerous...
The sound of a door opening caught his attention. Daryl turned his head toward the noise and saw you.
With your hair wet, wearing a shirt and your legs bare, he swallowed hard. The dim hallway light illuminated your figure at the far end. Your eyes met. You looked serene, secure.
Daryl noticed you approaching him, taking your time. You didn't say a word, just looked at him and then down at your own hands. Only now did he notice you were holding something. In your hands was a bottle of water and two aspirin pills.
"Figured you'd be needing this, after all that alcohol," you said softly, your voice a complete contrast to the hum of the vent and the chill of the hallway.
" I don't need a babysitter." Daryl looked at your hands and then up at your face, but he reached out to your hand anyway. His thick hand and rough fingers brushed against yours as he took the bottle and the aspirins. That tiny spark of contact made his blood run hot. "Thanks," he muttered, swallowing the pills.
The two of you stood there, close to each other. Daryl could feel the warmth and the scent of shampoo radiating off you, while you caught the scent of alcohol mixed with the woods clinging to him. The moment was cut short by the sound of a door slamming and hurried footsteps coming from the other end of the hallway. Daryl immediately stepped into a defensive stance, blocking you with his back. Shane walked past, agitated and huffing, clutching the side of his face with a scowl of pain. Two seconds later, Lori appeared, pale and shaken. Her eyes caught Daryl's, and the fear in her face was unmistakable; her hands trembled as she opened the door to her and Rick’s room and vanished inside.
He just stood there, watching without a word, but his jaw clenched hard. He’d seen that exact routine too many times growing up in a house with an aggressive, abusive father. The alcohol in his system suddenly felt heavy, making his stomach churn.
"...Daryl?" you called softly, touching his arm.
Daryl blinked and turned to look at you, but his gaze had shifted. It was sharper, guarded by what he’d just witnessed.
"Ya oughtta be in ya room," his voice came out sharp, raspy, as he took a step back, pulling away. "Ain't supposed to be walkin' around dressed like that. This place is a damn rat trap with folks losin' their minds."
You crossed your arms, unfazed by his tone. "I can take care of myself, Daryl. And Shane doesn't scare me."
His jaw locked the second the words left your mouth. His blood boiled with pure irritation now. To him, this was no time for you to be playing brave and tough when you were cornered in this place with people with alcohol in their veins.
Daryl lost the little patience he had left. To prove just how naive you were being and that he was right, his thick hand snapped around your wrist in a swift motion, not to hurt you, but with an unquestionable firmness. With a rough shove, he finally threw open the door to the room he had been avoiding all night. Daryl pulled you inside and slammed the door shut, leaving the dim hallway and the hum of the AC behind.
In the gloom of the bedroom, lit only by the faint moonlight, he didn't let go of your wrist. He took a step forward, pinning you against the wall. His breath brushed right against your face.
"How 'bout now?" Daryl whispered, his voice raspy as he stared intensely into your eyes. "Ya scared now?"
You didn't flinch. Even with your back pressed against the wall and his chest nearly brushing yours, you held his gaze in the dark. Slowly, you raised your free hand and touched his arm, feeling his muscles tense like steel cables.
"No," you answered, your voice steady yet soft. "I'm not scared of you, Daryl."
The answer hit him like a heavy blow. Daryl caught his breath, his heavy breathing faltering for a second. That was the last reaction he expected. He wanted a fight, wanted you to pull away or hit him just so he could prove to himself that he was a dangerous monster who drove everyone away and that you're wrong. But you stayed right there, reaching into his chaos.
Slowly, the grip of his hand on your wrist loosened. His rough hand slid down, releasing you, and Daryl took a step back, running a hand over his face with an exhausted sigh. The weight of the alcohol and his own memories seemed to crash down on his shoulders all at once, leaving him terribly tired.
"Ya too damn stubborn, y'know that?" he grumbled, staggering toward the twin bed in the room.
He let his crossbow drop beside the bed and collapsed onto it on his back, without even taking off his boots. Daryl stared up at the dark ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes.
You walked silently to the side of the bed. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by his heavy breathing. Kneeling beside the mattress, your elbows resting on the edge, you watched him.
"I'm going back to my room," you said softly, your voice gentle but firm. "Just wanted to make sure you took the pills."
The second the word going floated into the air, his arm yanked off his eyes in a sudden jerk. The silent terror of being left alone with his own demons in that cubicle spoke louder than any Dixon pride.
Before you could even make a move to stand, his large, calloused hand moved fast. His rough fingers slid along the side of your neck, burying themselves firmly into your hair, still damp from the shower. The grip was rough, but it carried a desperate urgency. He pulled you upward, bringing your face mere inches from his.
For a second, the world stopped. His mouth was millimeters from yours, his warm, alcohol-scented breath fanning over your lips. But Daryl didn't push for a kiss. It still felt too dangerous, too intimate for him to handle.
Instead, he tilted his head to the side, burying his nose into the curve of your neck, and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the sweet, clean scent of your shampoo.
His grip on your hair softened into an almost imperceptible caress, his large fingers cradling the back of your neck as if he were anchoring himself in the middle of a storm.
"Stay, Y/N," he whispered your name against your skin, his voice so raw and low.
You blinked, your heart hammering against your ribs. He had called you by your name for the very first time. The surprise left you frozen for a second, especially because Daryl Dixon never asked for anything from anyone. Slowly, you pulled your face back just enough to look into his eyes in the dark.
"Are you sure, Daryl?" you asked in a whisper, wanting to give him a chance to back out if his pride got the best of him.
Daryl let out a heavy breath through his nose, his fingers still loosely tangled in your hair, refusing to let you go completely. He averted his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.
"Ain't lettin' ya walk out there with Shane prowlin' around," he grumbled, his rough voice trying to sound purely practical. "And I ain't gettin' up to walk ya back to ya room. My head's splittin' open."
A soft chuckle escaped you at his excuse, knowing exactly how to read between those harsh words. "Alright," you gave in quietly.
Before you could even think about how to get comfortable, his arm wrapped around your waist with a possessive tightness and pulled you in. The twin bed at the CDC was narrow, way too small for a man his size, which meant there was no room for hesitation. When you lay down, your body fitted perfectly against his.
Daryl turned onto his side, pulling you flush against him until your back was pressed to his chest. His heavy arm rested over your waist, holding you there as if you were the only real thing left in that scientific nightmare. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the texture of his shirt against your back, and his breathing, which slowly grew deep and steady against your neck. The scent of wood and alcohol mingled with your clean shampoo, filling your senses. Tucked tight into that small bed, the world outside seemed to fade away.
When you woke up in the morning, his side of the twin bed was already cold. Daryl was gone.
After getting dressed, you walked out to the common area where Dr. Jenner was serving breakfast. The mood among the group was normal, free of the shadows of what had happened the night before. You spotted Daryl sitting in a far corner, sipping coffee, his defensive scowl firmly back in place as if the last few hours had never happened.
You approached carefully, holding a mug, and tried to speak to him quietly. "Hey... is your head feeling any better?"
Daryl didn't even look you in the eyes. He turned his face away, his posture rigid.
"I'm fine," he spat the words, his voice cold and sharp, a tone that made it crystal clear he didn't want you near. "Go eat with the others. Quit crowdin' me."
The senseless hostility stung, but you knew his defense mechanism. He was pissed at himself for letting his guard down last night, for letting you see the man behind the wild Dixon facade. Before you could answer or push further, the entire atmosphere shifted drastically.
The last gulp of coffee went down bitter, matching the regret pooling in his gut. Daryl stayed seated over there away from the rest, watching you stand with the group. He knew he’d been a total prick to you just minutes ago. But the moment daylight hit that room, it brought back the crushing weight of who he was: a Dixon. A rough, broken piece of trash who didn't know what the hell to do with the memory of his own fingers buried in your damp hair, or the sound of your quiet voice saying you weren't scared of him. Vulnerability terrified him way more than the monsters outside. So, he snarled, pushed you away, and put his walls right back up.
But fate didn't give a damn about his pride.
In a flash, the ceiling lights started flickering, draining the color from the room. The blast doors began to slide shut, like the whole place was sealing itself up. Daryl bolted to his feet, his right hand instinctively reaching for the stock of his crossbow. On the massive central screen, violent red numbers started ticking down fast in a countdown. The generators were dying. The AC that had been suffocating him just cut out completely.
The group's panic hit the walls. Shane started screaming like a madman, Rick’s voice echoed demanding answers from that crazy doctor, and Lori was yelling for the kid. Daryl felt his chest tighten; the scientific trap he’d been dreading was finally snapping its jaws shut on 'em.
Gotta get out. It was the only primitive thought left in his head.
The doctor finally gave in, and the heavy thud of the metal latches opening on the emergency exit was the cue. The group stampeded, trampling over each other toward the sliver of light. Daryl moved among the first, his eyes locked on the exit, but his tracker instinct—that damn internal clock that only seemed to work for keeping tabs on you—made him look over his shoulder to make sure you were right behind him.
His stomach dropped into a massive, freezing void. He saw Carol pulling the girl, he saw Glenn, he saw the others... but he didn't see you.
"Where is she?" he muttered, his blue eyes scanning the panicked crowd in sheer desperation.
"Daryl, we gotta go! The door's closing!" Shane yelled, his heavy ex-cop hand slamming onto Daryl's shoulder to shove him toward the exit.
Shane’s touch was the breaking point. The terror that you’d given up, that you’d chosen to stay behind with Jacqui, Andrea, and Dale in this godforsaken place to die, blew away whatever damn sanity the hunter had left. He wasn't leaving you. Not if he had to tear this whole building apart with his bare, calloused hands.
"Get the hell off me!" Daryl roared, driving a violent elbow straight into Shane’s chest, sending the man stumbling back.
Without looking back and tuning out the group yelling his name, Daryl bolted back into the darkness of the CDC. The adrenaline was pounding so hard in his temples he could practically hear his own heart hammering.
Where are you? Why'd ya run off?
He rounded the corner of the metal corridor in long, heavy strides, chest heaving, and that’s when his world finally caught its footing again.You came running from the opposite direction, eyes welling with tears, your face pale. You didn't want to die here. You were trying to get out.
The relief was so violent it almost knocked the wind out of him. Daryl didn't slow down; he charged forward like a piece of shrapnel straight toward you, and before you could even dodge or say a word, his thick hand clamped around your wrist—again. The grip was tight, rough with the sheer force of desperation, his calloused fingers locking onto your skin with a possessive need he’d never shown before.
"I thought you..." his voice cracked, choked by the panic still scratching at his throat, but he swallowed the rest of it. Didn't matter what he thought. You were here now.
Daryl gave a sharp tug, yanking you behind his broad back in one clean motion, using his own body like a blast shield against the dark corridor. He started running back toward the exit, dragging you along, refusing to loosen his grip on your wrist by even a fraction of an inch.
Over the deafening roar of a distant explosion, he glanced back for a split second, his intense blue eyes locking onto yours, laying bare every bit of truth he’d tried to hide at breakfast.
"Stay close to me!" he bellowed, his raspy voice echoing off the metal walls. "I ain't leavin' ya in here! Move!"
The tough-guy act was completely gone. If this place was going to blow in a matter of minutes, Daryl Dixon only had one truth burned into his soul: he was gettin' you out of there alive, or he was gonna die tryin'.
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