a small blurb about Jason being needy after patrol. HEAVILY inspired by my own need for yearner Jason and ciricearts on insta
warnings: language. mildly suggestive.
word count: 526
Jason was ruthless. Hard punches, sharp cuts, burning bullets.
You were relentless. Not stopping until the enemy was down, blood knuckles, breathless.
Together you were the most feared vigilante duo next to Bats and Robin. Moreso, to some, given the fact that you two weren't afraid to maim, maul, murder.
“Those two are lethal in a fight,” Dick would say, almost proud of his little brother and his lover.
“And yet when they're around each other they melt into a disgusting pile of goo.” Tim would add on, a begrudging smile on his face despite the feigned disgust in his voice.
“Baby,” Jason would murmur against your stomach as you laid in your bed, one knee bent, book in hand. Jason was on his stomach between your legs, arms wrapped comfortably around your back, face buried in your warm stomach.
“Sweetheart,” you could feel his hand push your shirt up to place a tender kiss to your skin.
“Hm? What is it, Jay baby?” You respond softly with your free hand buried deep in his hair.
“I think I'm in love with you.” His eyes were shut as he places another kiss just below your belly button. Your stomach clenches on reflex, just enough for Jason to notice. Just enough to earn a smile from him.
“Is that right?” You muse with a smile of your own. Your eyes were in your book but you weren't focusing.
“Mhm,” Jason hums. He's using his other hand to pull down the band of your sweats. “It is.. was made for you.”
You bite down on your bottom lip as his mouth trails lower. He's kissing right below your hip bone.
“Made for me?” You question.
“Yeah.” He looks up at you with half lidded eyes. There's a desperation in them, a neediness. Not just sexual. Like his entire being, his soul, ached for you.
Your sweats are slowly being pulled lower, lower, lower until they're off. Jason's nose brushes against your underwear, lips ghosting over you.
“Please, baby...” he whispers. His warm breath sends goosebumps down your legs. Your hand in his hair tightens, eyes fluttering shut.
He was always like this after patrol. Soft, gentle, needy and clingy.
“Please what?” You respond pretending to play innocent but Jason can hear the way your breath catches.
“Please look at me,” He whines. Both of his hands move to hook his fingers into the waistband of your underwear. Finally you look down at him and he breathes a sigh of relief.
He's looking up at you with blue puppy dog eyes, desperately needy, waiting for your permission. He would never do anything without your permission first.
“What do you need, Jay baby?” You coo softly as your hand moves to cup his cheek.
“Please, please, please, please, please…” he repeats in a whispered mantra. As though he's praying to whoever will listen to him.
“Baby, sweetheart, angel, I need to fuck you. Please let me.”
You swallow the moan that bubbles up in your throat and you nod. You move to put your book down but Jason shakes his head.
“Don't, don't. Read to me, please? Wanna hear you.”
What -- Daryl's bedbound and stuck that way recovering for longer than he wants. He's not a fan.
When -- after supper following the chapter That's it. In the show, it is in season 2 following the events of Chupacabra. Note that the Slowpoke Series is canon-compliant, but you'll notice a more realistic recovery time has been portrayed than was able to be shown the TV series.
Relationships -- slow burning Reader x Daryl, but Carol's season 2 crush is coming out.
TWs -- some language and unexpected familial abuse
Pronouns -- she/her
How long is it? -- there hasn't been a new chapter in over a month, y'all...
Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here
There's a part in the story with abuse by a family member (domestic violence). It's not reader being beaten in the way one might imagine abuse, but it's still abuse.
If you're being hurt by a loved one irl, they are doing something bad to you. Abuse is not earned or deserved. You are worthy of being safe and unhurt.
For help getting safe, you can call the Domestic Violence Hotline (USA) at 800-799-7233, chat online, or text START to 88788.
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Day 1 of being stuck in a damn bed
later
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Carol brought him supper. Eggs and field greens with crackers and beans. She’d brought breakfast and lunch to him, too. Stayed this time, though.
She ate mostly in silence with him but told him about the day. When she was done eating, she went back to mending a torn shirt she’d brought with.
Sophia wasn’t brought back today.
The whole truckload of these asshats that he’s been sticking with for way too long and for who-knows-why — couldn’t find that woman’s little girl after an entire day of searching the grid he slashed in half? Goddamned bullshit.
Yet, when two of those 'asshats,' Y/N and Patricia, came in to bring him a nighttime dose of painkillers and do another exam, he couldn’t find the words to ask Y/N anything about it. He didn’t feel all pissed and upset anymore, either.
Couldn’t make eye contact much with her just yet, granted. Still felt all stupid nervous.
Ain’t nothing he could do about it for now, his soul got stripped bare with Y/N’s yesterday. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t think of Y/N as stupid. Or Carol, that lady wasn’t stupid.
Hell, maybe no one in his group was, maybe it was just that he was heartbroke about that poor lost girl and in way too much pain.
Y/N was honest and spoke plainly about the situation, which was a welcome relief from how others were getting closed-lipped about it. “Today was so damned disappointing,” she muttered. “Twelve of us took turns goin’ out in teams, man, scoured the grid you narrowed down. Then we went beyond it when we still didn’t find…” After a few moments, she sat up straighter, adjusting the sling on her injured side. “Tomorrow’s the day, then.”
Well, since they’re changing up the search area tomorrow, maybe it’s true. And, maybe Daryl will stop complaining about others and will stop being a pussy and be able to actually get up and walk tomorrow, help out by his damned self and bring back their the girl.
Except that when he implied as much, Patricia shot it down. “We can’t force you, but—”
“Sure as shit can’t,” he yipped back.
At hearing Y/N’s huff, he turned just in time to catch her licking her teeth in annoyance. Her eyebrows were raised and her stare was enough to make his heart pound, loudly.
“You won’t make it far without needin’ to be helped back, if you can get up and walk around normally in the first place,” Patricia cautioned. “Give yourself a few days.”
Yeah, so, Sophia didn’t have a few days. “I’m fine.”
“We just want you to heal,” Carol quietly spoke.
Before he could finish yipping another comeback, Patricia sighed, then surprised him by saying, “Alright. We’ll leave the room so you can get dressed. Clothes are over there.”
Y/N frowned. “Ma’am?”
The lady gently held up a hand in response.
It was a test, plain as day. Which is why before them three had even left the room, Daryl had grit his teeth and held the bedsheets across his shoulder to keep himself covered as he pushed through the pain in order to sit upright all the way.
Courtesy of Y/N, his button-down shirt was tossed to him before she scooted out of the room, and Daryl was wincing and biting back groans as he worked it on for at least three minutes. He thanked his lucky stars it was a button-down and not a t-shirt, or he wouldn’t have been able to put it on.
He should’ve just thrown in the towel right then and accepted defeat, but he had too much to prove.
And when if he admitted it was too much for him…even if he didn't look like a Q-tip, wearing a damn pair of pants while it happened was the bare minimum that could make it bearable.
But he really should’ve thrown that towel in. It took accidentally hissing out a cuss when he tried to be tough as he swung his leg off the bed for him to start thinking he was being a jackass. It took him swallowing a whimper, chewing on his lip all the while, when he stood and had to untangle the bedsheets from his foot for him to doubt he could even get the pants on.
But being stubborn as a jackass had its perks: he gripped the bed frame to help him walk and got to his clothes without knocking anything over. He also worked out that sitting to put the pants on was better because he had to bend less if he was seated.
By the time he’d gotten them plus his socks and shoes on, he was sweaty and had the shakes, he’d also needed to sit awhile before he got the balls to stand up again and hobble his way to the door.
But he made it. Choking down his pride and his groans of discomfort, he made it to the door and pulled it open.
Patricia was waiting on the chair around the corner in the living room, quietly talking with Y/N while pointing at something in a giant, red book.
“Maybe I do need that few days,” he surrendered. Didn’t come out as tough as he’d intended.
Tell you what, though, that twangy blonde woman was one heck of a lady. “Let’s get you some fresh air while you’re up, does that sound good?” she offered. “The porch is only a few steps away.”
-------------------------
You
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“Oh, Glenn.” You flop against the RV’s table and end up staring at the ding in the cabinet opposite you. You just left the front porch after Patricia helped Daryl walk there to get a breather, only to find out not 30 seconds after entering the RV that Glenn spilled the news about Lori to Dale.
Instead of Glenn, Dale responds, “Kiddo, my lips are sealed,” but you’re busy trying to sort out how to keep Shane from finding out for a little while longer if already the news is getting out, and not from Lori or you.
You love Glenn to death, but oh my gosh, he is not good at secrets. You didn’t even know he’d known, you only just now drew the conclusion when you made the connection; that that was the thing on Lori’s drugstore list that Glenn was being all secretive about, the pregnancy test.
Right now, you need to stomp down the fears leaping around your dumb little brain because you cannot make this seem dramatic, or it will point to there being a problem with Lori being pregnant — which there isn’t, a new baby is such happy news you could scream, it’s just that there’s the possibility of — with your brother and — ugh, you need to go on a walk or kick something! And Dale and Glenn won’t/can’t know why you’re so upset or it will be even worse.
“Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you knew, or I would’ve talked about it with you instead of Dale so I wouldn’t explode! Secrets aren’t cool, dude.”
“Seein' as you didn't mention the pregnancy tests, I'd say secrets have their place,” you test.
“Not really. They make things complicated and people get hurt.”
You sneer while letting out a huff, and Dale puts his two cents in.
“I’m inclined to agree with Glenn here.” He’s apologetic when he calmly next points out, “Secrets are an omission of the truth.”
Here you are, gleefully sitting on the secret that Maggie admitted to you that she really likes Glenn. Not-so-gleefully sitting on the secret that the baby may biologically be your brother's, too. Ain't like you're about to spill or you'll burst.
In your mind, you take the simmering tea kettle off the burner so it won’t start to sing. “There are good secrets and bad secrets. And most people wait a few to tell others about pregnancies, y’all,” you state, and then make an executive decision to share something truthful that’s maybe not your place to do so, but you need to save face for Lori’s sake, now. “Lori’s had a few losses, it’s not wrong to imagine the new one might won’t make it long.”
Dale and Glenn both react similarly: they open their mouth and raise their heads slightly, then bow them. Good.
Scratching his neck, Glenn apologizes again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“If she loses this one, too, those who know will grieve with her, then, simple as.” You’re satisfied and confident that you’ve saved face for Lori and your brother and Rick.
Except for how Dale peers at you. It reminds you of the gentle way one might look at a preschooler who is nervously trying to cover up the fact that they peed their pants.
One hand on your shoulder, he stops peering all knowingly and strokes his beard. “Irma miscarried, too. Our only one, none came after that,” he shares. Slowly, he sits at the spot by the RV’s right window. “We usually told people we stopped trying, which isn’t not the truth, I suppose. She and I simply stopped being, uh, ‘intentional’ about trying to conceive,” he explains.
“I’m sorry they died,” you tell Dale quietly. “Did you give ’em a name? My Ma lost one after Shane, she named them.”
“Believe it or not,” he says, hesitating before breaking into a smile and chuckling. “We were thinking about ‘Glenn’ for both a boy and girl name.”
Glenn’s cheeks turn purply-red like a beet. “Wait, seriously?”
Dale shrugs and nods.
“Y/N, no wonder I’m his favorite!”
After you play-pout, you notice, “Hold up: ‘Glenn’ and ‘Dale.’ Both are—”
“— Yes,” Dale finishes, turning pink while he laughs to himself and rubs his fingers over his wedding band. “The word ‘dale’ is from the Old English for ‘valley.’ And ‘glen’ is from the, ah, Scottish, the Scots Gaelic for ‘a valley formed by a river.’ My Irma liked the wordplay.”
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Day 2 of being stuck in a damn bed
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“You must be bored as hell in here, man. Concussion protocol stinks.”
T-Dog had just knocked and brought in the boombox that had been used a few times back at the quarry camp. He’d placed it next to Daryl on the bed, said he was here to help, then told him, “You saved my life with those meds, Daryl. And Carl’s.”
Daryl laid there like an awkward slug, he still felt off. Patricia was right, he really did get a good whack to the head. And...whole body.
He also didn’t expect a declaration like that. Not that it was a bad thing. He’d grown to have a lot of respect for T-Dog. Real decent guy. Maybe they were friends, too? He hoped so, he wanted that. And Daryl understood that him and his brother had been…he knew they was wrong, about how they’d been to T-Dog.
“No TV allowed.” T-Dog started to go on, narrating to himself, “Ain’t like that’s a problem right now. But also no reading, no busywork,” he said louder, “no getting up and moving much for the first couple days — I don’t envy you, brother. But listening to music, that they usually let you do so long as it’s quiet. You know what’s funny, though? There’s a separate, what do you call it, uh— ‘school of thought’ out there that says concussed people should be getting theyselves back to normal right from the get-go.”
The front door to the house opened again. Instead of footsteps going down the hall, there was another knock at Daryl’s door.
Before Y/N could finish her long-ass knocking pattern, Daryl called, “Just open it, s’fine.”
The knob turned and there she was, holding out a cassette tape with a plug hanging off it. “Found it. I’d forgot we’d moved it from Carol’s car. Jimmy borrowed it on the way to gun practice yesterday, left it in his dad’s truck.”
“You went without it all last night? I would’ve borrowed it, Y/N,” T-Dog razzed, “It’s been near a week since I listened to music, gonna turn into a Puritan at this rate.”
She giggled. “I fell asleep around 7:30 yesterday, man, I was out.”
“Yeah, Dale was worried that your brother pushed you too hard at that little fighting lesson y’all did.”
Making a little huh?, she pressed her lips together in what looked like a confused pout. “He was going easy. Oh — if he sounded like an asshole, that’s his way. Usually when you gotta defend yourself, there’s chaos and a lot of, um, of emotion. So, he riles you up, keeps pushin’ your buttons, so that you’ll learn to separate from the emotion and focus. Specifically, he’s tryin’ to help me not react,” she slumped as she said, “angrily. Anger makes you stupid.”
“Whatever you say, little sister. Just don’t go overdoin’ it, hear? You tend to overdo.”
With a teeny huff, she twisted her mouth and nodded.
“Speaking of, how long will you need to have your upper arm tied to your torso there?” he questioned.
She shrugged. “A few more days.”
“Alright, I’ll stop naggin’ you. How about: can I please get dibs on the mp3 the first night this guy can get out of bed? Pretty please?”
Mouth still twisted, it turned into a lopsided grin. “Deal.”
“Thank you much. Now,” he rubbed his hands together. “I do gotta ask, what music did the farm boy leave it on?”
“Hmm…” Y/N pressed the button on the side of the little music player to turn it on. Click, click, click. “Ah, Mumford & Sons. Do you know them? They’re that new band who makes bouncy banjo songs, got the raspy-voiced singer?”
“‘Bouncy banjo songs with a raspy-voiced singer,’” T-Dog chuckled. “I know them. Alright, man,” he said, turning to Daryl. “The batteries in the boombox should have plenty of juice left. You got the mp3 player to hook up to it, just use the tape deck converter. There’s a handful of CDs, too, and some cassettes.” He then made a little ha, and said, “Look like one of these is a book on tape that Dale got from the library. Shit, this was due like a month before the outbreaks, look at the date on here!”
“That’s a lotta late fees.”
“Let’s hope they waive ’em.”
This back and forth between the two of them was serving as Daryl’s minor entertainment for the afternoon. What serves as entertainment when you're stuck in a damn bed...
“D’you wonder if it’s as bad as The Case of the Missing Man?” Y/N droned.
“Oh, did you finish it, Y/N?”
“No. I tried two nights ago when I camped out in here. Couldn’t get passed chapter 4.”
“Surprised you ain’t reading it to this guy,” he told her. “Seein’ as you’re spending all that time in here, anyway.”
This was when Daryl got annoyed and uncomfortable again, there was something about the way T-Dog said it.
He didn’t think he felt (therefore looked) all nervous around Y/N anymore, that was all done, just a one-off. So why did it sound like T-Dog was teasing?
“Daryl’s suffered enough,” Y/N answered, and Daryl didn’t have time to catch her expression before she continued, “Miss Patricia’s certain he’s got a broken rib and maybe clavicle. So there’s the concussion, the ripped side by his rib, the collarbone, the stiff neck, then all the bruises, the abrasions, and that bullet graze — oh, sh — I just broke HIPAA!” she blurted out. “Ain’t never done that before, just blabbed about—that’s so—oh my g—th-that’s—Daryl, I’m so sorry!”
All Daryl could do was snort and ignore the sudden tug in the middle of his chest toward her direction. “Gonna sue your ass,” he deadpanned. Such a square.
“For real, though,” T-Dog spoke. “I still can’t believe you made your way back alive after all you went through, man. Yesterday, I joined Rick, we went to where you fell — Daryl, you should be dead. The way I see it, God’s got plans for you, brother. Just let Him do His thing.”
Awkward about what to say or how to react, Daryl responded with what was on his mind for most of the day. “Any signs out there today?”
Neither of them answered at first, meaning they didn’t find shit.
“I thought Rick talked to you already,” Y/N mumbled.
T-Dog answered better. “We’re searching a new area tomorrow, branching out.”
-------------------------
later
-------------------------
Having music was saving him from going completely nuts. The little music player thing seemed to have something for just about everybody on it, and the CDs were fine, too. He even popped in the book on tape.
Sent him right to sleep.
Dale and Carol came visiting with supper. Carol had eaten every meal with him for the past two days. It made him a little nervous, to be plain. The way she paid attention seemed less like pity or friendship and more like something more, which he didn’t want and didn’t have to offer.
But he liked how Carol was quiet and gentle, thoughtful, and had a dry sense of humor every so often (when she let it out around him, that is).
The grub was eggs and field greens again, but this time there was also rice. Granted, no meat again, but someone must have found onion grass, because it smelled real tasty. If he cared, he would’ve considered to maybe not wolf it down as fast as he did, given that Carol and Dale were in there.
Then came his friend’s signature knocking again.
He was relieved to have felt nothing at Y/N's arrival; no nervousness, no warm cheeks. Everything was back to normal.
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Day 3 of being stuck in a damn bed
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“After Andy told her there was still a chance, she stopped her and said she didn’t really need to hear it anymore,” Y/N told him quietly. Arms crossed and hood up, she was resting back on the chair in the corner of the room, legs propped against the end of the bed. “I wanted you to hear it from me so if Carol said anything, it wouldn’t be knockin’ you out of left field.”
Y/N’d gone with her brother, Andrea, and Carol to check the spot on the highway where they’d set up a mini shelter for Sophia however many days ago all that shit went down. A few of the group had gone back every day, twice a day.
And now Carol was losing hope or just plain lost it.
For real, how was it that her kid was still goddamned missing?
He and Y/N found a sign at that house, then another at the other house, then he’d found her doll—how far would Sophia have fucking gone?
Her body ain’t been found yet, neither, which meant she had to be out there somewhere.
“Even Shane tried to be optimistic for her. After hearin’ her say to Andrea how she didn’t want to hear it no more, he tried to insist Sophia might could be fine, but she held out her hand so he’d stop.”
“Shane? Really?”
Shane wrote that little girl off as a goner, last Daryl knew. What changed?
Y/N gave a small, tired, very forced smile. “We had a good talk a few days ago. He knows he hasn’t been himself and he wants to do better.”
That’s good. The way her brother’s been acting has been driving screws through her, he knew that much.
“Still, your nine days to Sophia’s…” she trailed off, and when she did, he saw it in her face. Heard it in her voice when she finished her thought. “This is either her day 7 or 8 out there, I-I can’t think right now.”
Yup. She was also losing hope or plain lost it.
The feeling of helplessness jumpstarted and rammed him in the belly.
He swore. “C’mon, Y/N. You, too?”
“Dude,” she hesitated, “understanding the possibility she’s dead ain’t wrong.”
Shut up.
“It’s, it’s a high statistical likelihood,” was her next bullshit excuse. “From day one it’s been on the tabl—”
“—No wonder she ain’t been found yet,” he snarled, interrupting her. “None of y’all shitheads actually think that little girl’s out there!”
The pain from his broken rib seared like a hot poker when he raised his voice, but as he said it, he believed every word of it and liked how it struck home.
But only as he said it.
Because one look in his friend’s eyes afterward, wet and turning red, and he felt the invisible knee to the nards and stomach and knew he’d just been a massive asshole.
Y/N giving him the middle finger was what Patricia saw after she’d knocked on the door and come in.
“What’s goin’ on?” she asked the pair of them.
Y/N wiped an eye and told her honestly, “An argument about Sophia,” before laying this out to Daryl: “Not one of us doubts she’s out there.”
Regretful as he was for being an asshole, he still pushed back, “Yeah, all y’all just think she’s dead anyway, so why bother.”
“You mangy h—” she swallowed. Licked her teeth. “Stayin’ hopeful is one thing,” she started, pointing her finger at him while clear-as-day working to not raise her voice. “But can you honestly say to us that you wasn’t also prepared to find our girl dead every time you was out there?”
Patricia held up a hand and cleared her throat. “I’m here to check your bandages, Daryl. Y/N.”
Y/N apologized to Patricia and exited the room quietly.
Patricia did her thing.
And Daryl, stuck in a damn bed, same as he’d been for three days now, lay there feeling helpless, worthless, unwanted, and now like a massive asshole, and he was goddamned angry about it.
He really wanted to kick something, chug a beer, or cry. And have a smoke. Carol’d brought him his pack, he’d managed to get a good one in through the open window earlier.
“These should be able to come off in a few days,” Patricia murmured, re-wrapping his head. “And the graze is healing nicely. We still need to be cautious about your concussion and that side-wound of yours, hence you bein’ stuck in here for awhile yet.” The lady shifted her weight to her other leg and set her hand on her side. “How do the collarbone and ribs feel?”
“Fine.”
Arching one eyebrow at him, she took one arm and did some gentle movements, then the same with the other arm.
“Those areas are already better than they were the first day, so there’s something. And the rib fracture, unless it’s just a real nasty bruise, is likely hairline, which is light years better than the alternative. Remember to breathe deep through your belly to get full breaths in, don’t expand your lungs wide, do it through your belly. And keep up the good work avoidin’ laying on your left side like you have been. Once you’re up and out, you’ll have to keep things slow so they’ll heal good.”
“How slow?”
She exhaled through her nose and spoke his name. “I need to tell you, it’s by the skin of my teeth that I’ve been convincing Hersh that you and the little boy still need carin’ for. Please work with me on this. Agree to take it slow.”
Nope. He couldn’t just do nothing, Sophia was missing! Why did everybody keep forgetting that part? “He can kick me out all he wants, I don’t give a shit — that little girl ain’t gonna get found in one piece if I keep things slow.”
“There are 9 or 10 people searching for her on the regular, Daryl. You’re gonna heal badly, permanently, if you don’t go slow,” she warned. “You and your friend both need to learn to do what your bodies need.” She paused. Smirked for half a second before tucking it away. “That came out wrong. What I meant is that y’all need rest, and not aggravate what’s gone wrong and make it worse.”
Before leaving the room, she turned back toward him. “It’s that Hershel still wants y’all not just out, off his land. Clean off.” She held up a hand as if she didn’t know what to do next. “I don’t think that’s right, and I don’t want it. And I can see how many of your group want to stay, are helpin’ out. Y’all are good people. So please, mind your manners and that mouth around Hershel, Daryl. It’s you and Y/N’s brother that are causin’ him the most concern, and ultimately, it’s gonna be Hershel’s decision.”
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later
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Carol brought him supper, again. The meal was quiet, until small footsteps and a knock along with “Mr. Dixon?” sounded outside the door.
It was Carl, asking if he could eat dinner with him. “And I brought you one of my comic books. I figured I could show you the pictures and read to you the words. They’re saying you can’t read right now. That stinks. I get to read and walk around a little, at least, I just can’t move a lot.”
Daryl waved him and his folks in, felt a brief moment of pride that the antibiotics he’d supplied had saved the kid’s and T-Dog’s life, then he asked Carl when he’d be able to run around.
“Mr. Greene is hoping I can do stuff like normal soon. I still get really tired when I move. But I wanna be strong if Sophia needs me, so I’m doing what he says is best.”
Did Y/N or Patricia put him up to this?
“Do you still think she could be okay? I know that a lot of our people are losing hope, but I still think she could be okay. Dad does, too, and Mom, and Y/N.”
Daryl thought to himself how he’d go through everything he had gone through for Sophia again for that kid, gladly. “‘Course I think she’s okay. Prolly sleeping in a queen-sized bed wherever she’s stayin’.
Rick chatted to him in between bites of scrambled egg. “Based on how the search goes tomorrow, we’ll be altering the grid again.” He asked Daryl his opinion on where would be smartest to focus the search efforts in the new area. (It was upstream, obviously. And Daryl wasn’t used to his ideas being taken seriously, it was a nice change.)
He kept glancing at Carol as the conversation went on. She’d gotten all wet-eyed when Carl first spoke up about wanting to be strong for Sophia. Stayed quiet when Rick talked.
But by the end, she didn’t seem so lost anymore.
He watched from the side as she thumbed her cross necklace, kissed it—then caught him watching and gave him a tiny smile.
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later
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He’d hobbled to the window to have another smoke. Getting in and out of bed still hurt, ain’t that bull?
It was just about dark, there was only a blurry strip of orange left at the very bottom of the horizon.
Daryl looked out at the land. Saw the campfire, saw Andrea on top of the RV.
T-Dog noticed him from his spot by a cluster of trees where he was having a smoke, too, and he waved once to Daryl before turning around to resume his own cigarette break in privacy.
Midway through a particularly deep drag (a tricky thing to do when inhaling deeply hurts because you got a cracked rib), there was some giggling outside his door in the hall to the front.
The dread that he was gonna get caught and kicked out for smoking sent a jolt into his veins. Not sure why he cared so much all the sudden.
He’d already put out his cigarette against the outside of the windowsill when the familiar sound of her laughter registered in his ears, so his muscles stopped feeling so tense.
Leaning on the sill, he then watched her and Glenn just about torpedo down the porch stairs and toward a field as if they were rac—no, wait, they actually were racing. He definitely didn’t snort to himself about it then wince because snorting hurt. The short-haired chick, Baby Spice, and the farm boy spilled onto the porch to watch—nope, scratch that, they were joining in.
Where were they even g…okay, to some old tree stump.
Y/N’d mentioned how Daryl was only 6 or 7 years older than them, but sometimes it felt like a hell of a lot more. Her and Glenn together, especially, together they acted like they was 12-year-olds.
After Daryl saw what was maybe a tie take place, he felt creepy just, ahem, staring at them from the window. So, he shut the screen back down and gimped his sore-ass self to the bed again.
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Day 4 of being stuck in a damn bed.
You
-------------------------
“Lore? How about you sit a minute?” She looks like she’s either going to pass our or throw up, so you don’t know whether to guide her to a seat or hold her hair back.
“It’s the, um—” she grabs a lock of her hair and folds it over her nose, breathing in slowly while walking in the opposite direction of the campfire. “What is that meat?”
“Rabbit.”
Through her nausea, she’s still encouraging enough to offer a genuine “Well done!” even as she tries to tamp down her gag reflex.
Yeah, Shane and you set up snares yesterday, and today one worked.
You point to the pine grove. “I finally set up my hammock over there. Let’s — it’s just, you look like you need to lay down.”
“I will, I just have to talk to Daryl first, he’s been, um—” she pauses again to exhale slowly. Her color is nonexistent right now. “He’s been smoking outside his window, and, and I’m worried that if Hershel sees—” She suddenly bursts into tears, and that makes her gag more.
The biggest problem right now is that Mr. Greene still wants your group off his land once Carl and Daryl aren’t bedbound.
That Daryl went through his awful accident is a blessing in disguise; it’s buying you all time.
Maggie is openly upset with her dad about it. Miss Patricia and her boy don’t agree, either.
You’re mad at the man, too, like — you get that your group is threatening simply by the fact that there are more of you and you’re armed — but what about your conduct here has been threatening? Minus the mishap with Andrea almost killing Daryl and how Shane has been a little dominant, you’re all helping out, keeping the campsite clean, staying quiet, respecting the property.
Like, yes, y’all killed a walker that had sprouted legit gills because he it was trapped in one of their wells, but the guy was dead. Quite literally a corpse, not even a "he" anymore; it, the corpse, was usurped by a virus. His soul had moved on.
Mr. Greene is a faithful dude, he’s supposed to be a man of God, so why would he kick…never mind, he’s scared for his family, you get it, you get it.
People have done atrocious things to each other since it all went down, no one can deny that.
Well, there’s still hope. He can and will change his mind. Carl, Lori, and new baby need a safe place.
Happily, the awkwardness of trying to sit side-by-side in the hammock makes both you and Lori crack up. You stop awfulizing in your head, and she seems calmer, too.
“What was it you were going to talk to Daryl about again?” you ask.
“He’s been smoking out of his window. I picked up the butts when I saw them. We can’t give Hershel any more reasons to not want us here. He’ll see it as disrespecting his home, his land…” Her voice goes up, and she’s back to crying. So far, you and Glenn (and Dale, just don’t tell Lori that Glenn told him!) are the only ones who know about the new one she’s got in there.
“Y/N, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this — I can’t, I can’t…”
“You already are, mama,” you whisper softly. “Lore, I’ll do whatever it is you and baby need, Ricky will, too. Come hell or high water, Lori, we will do what it takes.”
“If it even lasts that long.” She wipes her eyes and turns her head away “How long will it last, you think? Truly? And if I don’t lose this one, too, how long until one of those things catches them, rips them apart?”
“You can’t think that way.”
“We have to think that way! My son was shot, he nearly died and he, he, he can’t even walk around for more than 10 minutes without getting exhausted. And Sophia?”
You close your eyes. You know; Carol’s been sharing your tent.
“—What are the chances Sophia is alive? Truly?” she challenges. You stay quiet.
Sophia is, most likely, not alive anymore. You’ll search until she’s found for as long as it takes, but it will likely be her body that is found.
“Carol understands it, too, honey, she told me yesterday, said it again today, and I cannot imagine she hasn’t told you, too, as she cries herself to sleep. And, and even if that sweet, innocent girl is still alive, what are the chances she wasn’t kidnapped and God knows what else?"
She's out of breath. "Our families, friends — they died or were killed, and are now dead. Almost everyone we knew, Y/N. So how can you honestly tell me she,” and Lori points to her stomach, “will have a happy life? That my baby will have any semblance of a normal, safe life! Or that, that, that she’ll even survive long enough to make it out of diapers when the only way she will be able to tell someone that something is wrong is by crying, and putting herself and everyone else at risk!”
When she finally stops, she lowers her head to her knees and pulls at her hair, sobbing.
There are ideas and viewpoints floating around your head as something to respond with or comfort with, but nothing is coming together enough yet. Having been raised with fosters, you know without doubt life is never predictable and safe, even with the best-laid plans. Most importantly, you learned that no one’s life, absolutely no one’s life, is ever worthless or meaningless.
But the major thing that keeps repeating in your head is how Lori very clearly just called the new one “she.”
Before you can put that to words, Lori stumbles out of the hammock, stumbles and few yards forward, kneels, and gets sick.
Wiping your own tears, you kneel beside her, hold her hair back, and lightly massage her neck.
She first apologizes, then quickly spirals into putting herself down and panicking about how-awful-she-is-but-she-can’t-but-she-can’t, so you figure it’s a good time to interrupt.
“So. You thinkin’ you’ve got a girl in there?”
-------------------------
Him
-------------------------
“Did he read you the one where Science Dog becomes real?”
Because Carl did happen to read him that comic book, Daryl knew what that sentence meant. “Yeah.”
“That’s a fun episode! Oh, um, ‘issue,’ whatever the word is,” Y/N self-corrected. “Ain’t it just so— ‘miracle’ barely describes how well Carl is doin’.” She shifted in her spot and used her good arm to massage her bad side. “Hey, did Ricky mentioned how Carol was today?”
He shook his head. Y/N grinned.
“She was out first thing, came back last. She was vocal, outspoken about the search and where to go. Probably why she was about to fall out when she got back.” A nod. “It was really good, she didn’t seem so broken today.”
Daryl grunted. “Good. Should be.” He shifted on the mattress and tried to get comfortable again. Ouch.
“Hey, was you—um, were you—smokin’ out your window last night?” She asked the second part under her breath as if it were a big secret.
“Maybe.” Is my square gonna preach about smoking?
She nodded slowly and went to take another bite of food, but paused and lowered her fork. “Lori asked me to ask you. She, um, would’ve come herself, but she’s a mite sick. When you have a smoke, please tuck the butt in a tissue? Lori cleaned ’em up earlier when she saw them outside your window.”
“Why? Is Hershel one of them super-Baptists?”
“Daryl,” she murmured. “Please. We all gotta be on our best behavior so we don’t get kicked out as soon as you and Carl are better. He already wants us gone, you two being injured has been our savin’ grace. If, if Mr. Greene’s sees smoke butts, it might will be seen as another strike. Even as someone who smokes, do you like seein’ butts on the ground?”
He chewed. Swallowed. Grunted, “I’ll put ’em in a tissue.” After piling in another forkful, he hummed in appreciation and asked, “Who bagged the rabbit?” Been about a week since any meat.
“A snare got one. We cracked open one of them Foxfire books and set some up.” Y/N was sad about the rabbit, Daryl could tell. “Shane remembered most of the steps from Boy Scouts,” she detailed.
“He clean it, too?”
“Mm.”
“Didn’t cook tonight, too, did he?”
Carol usually made meals, but she’d hit the sack early. He’d last seen her at lunchtime (and Carol probably would have known how to cook rabbit meat a little better)
Y/N answered him with her mouth full. “He actually did, Shane and me.”
“No wonder it’s nasty.”
She made a psht in response, and then right as Daryl was taking a particularly big bite, chirped, “Then starve.”
He snarfed.
It hurt, but he hadn’t burst into a laugh like that in a while.
And in truth, he was really enjoying the food.
-------------------------
later
-------------------------
Another dream that he didn’t want hit him from out of nowhere, the same way Andrea’s bullet had.
Except, he didn’t feel disappointed when he woke up, he felt freaked out.
In the dream this time, Carol was kneeling on his bed, crying and reading the comic book. He didn’t know what to do and he couldn’t move. Then Carol kissed his cheek and asked him “Is this the one where Sophia becomes real again?”
When he woke up, he clawed his way to the window to have another smoke.
It took a lot in him to not holler out with a loud-ass cuss when he stubbed his toes on the dresser. It accidentally hurt his broken ribs and collarbone while trying to not fall over as a result. Lots of hushed cusses.
-------------------------
Day...um…shit, right: Day 5 of being stuck in a damn bed
-------------------------
Day 5 for him. Meaning it was either day 9 or 10 for Sophia.
Day 9 was the day he’d been hoping to not get to. And if it was actually day 10 for her…
It didn't matter the date, what he’d said about Sophia was still true. She was a smart kid, there are just a hell of a lot of hiding places where she could be holed up in. Farmhouses with open doors or windows, barns, empty businesses and buildings, even cars. As for food and water, wasn’t like there weren’t a creek, orchards and overrun gardens for miles around.
Here he was, still stuck in a damned bed while the twangy blonde lady waved that stupid, skinny flashlight in his eyes for the twentieth damned time!
Patricia clicked her tongue. “I get that cabin fever can make anybody get short, but irritability is one of them things that can pop up or get worse after a concussion, Daryl, so I ain’t too sure whether or not this is a change for you.”
I’d be fine if Sophia was back! Everything would be, bitch! “I’d be better if I wasn’t stuck in here.”
She took a moment. “Let’s check your balance again, then.”
He exhaled through his teeth and was enraged to find himself suddenly about to cry.
“If you can walk without tilting, we’ll both know you’re good to go,” the lady continued. “My friend, I ain’t trying to humble you, I want to see if you’ve improved enough.”
So, Daryl held the blanket over himself as he got himself out of bed and slowly stepped down the hallway. He tried to walk normal, got a little dizzy doing it. Not too much, but…
He didn’t quite hold back the tears of frustration.
Patricia must’ve felt sorry for him again, because she walked him back to the room, had him put on long pants and a shirt, then escorted him out to the porch barefoot.
“We should ought’ve brought you out here more regularly these past few days. Fresh air and sunlight can do wonders. Sit here awhile, then we’ll try a around the house.”
Her using a ‘should ought’ve’ made him think of Y/N.
Within a minute, Dale in his little On Golden Pond fisherman hat and T-Dog with a towel over his forehead saw him from their perch on top of the RV, and raised hands to wave at Daryl.
From the far left, he heard Y/N’s laughter along with Glenn’s and what was probably Baby Spice and the short-haired chick Maggie and the farm boy Jimmy’s. He stood up and — damn it, still wobbly and sore — made his way to the side of the porch to see what they were doing.
They were kicking a ball around, squealing like schoolkids.
Carl was sitting on the same tree stump that the gaggle of them had raced to last night, cheering and razzing off and on.
Seeing just, like…innocent shit like this was nice.
But, standing up made Daryl tired, and he (again) felt creepy watching them, so he shuffled back to the little bench right as Patricia was coming back outside carrying two glasses of sweet tea.
“Your two friends and Maggie got back from their search, sad as you can get. Jimmy and Beth did their own check around the pastures and the perimeter again, too. Have every day since you took those falls.” She took a sip of her drink. “Seems this kickball or soccer match, whatever they’re doing, this was their way of cheerin’ themselves up. Looks like it’s working. So long as none of y’all get hurt again, I’m happy.”
When Patricia eventually suggested it was time to try a walk around the house, Daryl did his best.
His best was shit, he was still unstable on his feet and couldn't use his arms much or breathe too deeply without it smarting.
Patricia was upbeat about it. “You have maybe a day or two left with your bandages, anyhow, Daryl. Let’s get you back to a chair, you look like you’re fixing to topple over.”
-------------------------
later
-------------------------
A loud knock and a face he hadn’t seen since the first day he was laid out in there woke him from yet another nap. So many naps! He kept needing more sleep.
“Heard you was still in the hole another day or two. Figured you could use more music to keep you from goin’ too stir crazy.” Shane handed him a cassette with a homemade label.
“This one’s from back in the day when we needed to make our own tapes so we could listen to the good stuff. I know my sister’s mp3 got a ton on it, but this one’s special. No need to skip around or charge it or plug nothin’ in.” Shane offered a flick of his hand in goodbye. “Alright, man, take it easy. Rest up.”
“Wait, how was Carol today?” Daryl called to him before he left the room.
Shane turned. He still had a slight limp from when he hurt his ankle. “Hangin’ in there. Went a little hard today and yesterday, but she seems to be in a real good place, believe it or not. Ain’t lost all hope, but she’s accepting what happened, if you get me.”
Daryl was pretty sure he got him. “Accepting her kid is gone?”
Shane’s stare was hard and felt to Daryl like a challenge. “Yeah, man, accepting that her kid is gone. We’re still goin’ out every day in the hopes we’re wrong, don’t misjudge me. And I want to be wrong, Daryl, I really do.” He licked his teeth and brushed a hand over his buzz cut. “It ain’t rocket science. That little girl is, in all likelihood, dead. Has been for days, you get that, right?”
Daryl was good at glaring contests. “I get it.”
“Look. I’m not out to be the asshole. I just don’t want none of us gettin’ ourselves killed over this. You and my sister could’ve got bit doin’ what you did at that house one week back, and in the process, she ripped her side back open and injured her shoulder worse than it ever was. And you?” He shook his head. “You almost died, Daryl.”
“It was worth it, jackass,” is not what Daryl intended to say, but that’s what he said. Daryl wasn’t planning on saying anything, in fact, because he knew he’d likely blow his cool and risk Dr. Farmer hearing it, and apparently the old guy was ready to chuck them off his land ASAP.
Y/N’s brother bowed his head and rubbed his neck. Didn’t say nothing for a solid…he didn’t know, minute, maybe? Felt awkward as hell, tell you what.
“Listen, dude, I know we ain’t buddies and all that,” Shane told him. “To be real, I didn’t trust you at all, especially when Y/N started going off and learnin’ to hunt with you. I thought you were some white trash tweaker who’d try to feel her up or worse, so I tailed y’all, spied on y’all the first three times you took her out, ready with my shotgun.”
…What the hell was this?
“But I’ve grown to respect you, and what you just said right there told me all I need to know. You’re a decent guy, Daryl.” Another rub of his newly buzzed hair. “Tell you what, I’ll come by tomorrow after the search, tell you what we find and where we looked.”
-------------------------
Day 6 of being stuck in a damn bed.
You
-------------------------
“Dude, you told him how you spied on us?”
“I was moved, Y/N, you should be proud of me,” Shane drawled, winking. “Said I’d tell him about the daily searches, so, today I did. Hey, and his balance was better today, might should be good to go the day after tomorrow. Oh,” he adds. “I lent him my mix tape as a peace offering, too.”
“Aw, romantic.”
He groans, and you twist a corner of your mouth in a tiny grin. “I’m just shocked he didn’t grunt back to you all intimidating with somethin’ like ‘I knew you was there, you was louder than a’…eh, I got nothing.”
Shane keeps the bit going, and does it pretty good, if you say so yourself! “‘Yeah, I knew you was there. Couldna been more damn obvious.’”
His copying of Daryl’s voice and mannerisms is so spot on that you crack up and clap your hands in delight.
Shane looks pleased. “That was a pretty good impression, just then, wasn’t it?”
“Alls you needed was to make it a ’lil more throaty, like a, like a, a grumpy tomcat,” you laugh.
He smiles, opening his mouth to make a funny comeback, then laughing instead. “I’ll have to practice.”
“Speakin’ of practice, can we call it?”
“Yeah, we can call it. Good work.”
Coo, practice is over. You’ve been having self-defense lessons every day the past few days, sometimes twice. Shane’s been wanted to restart teaching you ever since the incident with Ed Peletier seven-ish weeks ago. You could’ve called the sessions quits whenever, obviously, but it feels more satisfying when one’s instructor is satisfied and ends the lesson, right?
Also, Shane kinda needs that control over something — which sounds iffy, you know, you know.
But he’s been so much more like himself since the lessons started! And him instructing you in fighting is doing him good not only because it’s stroking his ego a little and shutting him up about his terrible Fort Benning idea. The lessons are helping offer him a sense of control and assuredness that he’s keeping his sister safe by helping her defend herself. That’s always been a thing for him. Call it a side-effect of having a beater in the house for the first several years of his life, maybe.
It’s a very fruitful side-effect, all things considered — today, stitches and achy shoulder combined, you bested him!
The only catch is that it…kinda involved his balls.
You still feel bad about it. It wasn’t you using practice-strength to simply get the upper hand and then stop, like practice is supposed to be. It was adrenaline/angry-at-and-his-egging-you-on strength. You fought dirty.
“Sorry again about whackin’ you below-the-belt.”
“No way, Y/N, don’t be,” he brushes off. “Don’t feel bad for doin’ what you’re supposed to do. Especially if it’s a man you need to fight off, which is why we’re doing this — you need to fight dirty. So,” he clears his throat, “if you can go for the giblets, go for ’em.” (Grandma Jean referred to genitals as ‘giblets.’) “That’s how you got the drop on me — and that’s what I wanted! You did good, got that?”
“Just — check tomorrow and, and the day after in case you got bruised testes, okay?”
“Don’t call them ‘testes’… weirdo…” he trails off and makes a face. Then, he stands and helps you up. “My boys are fine, I’m sure. Ankle’s hanging in there, too. How are you holdin’ up? Didn’t overdo it, right?”
“Nope, I feel good! And I’m so happy about tomorrow.”
His smile is polite, but not quite reaching his eyes. “Ready to attend Sunday dinner in the house tomorrow night?”
You press your hands together and make a little skip as you walk. “Do you think it means Mr. Greene’s comin’ around, too?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Wet blanket, much? “Grumpy we didn’t risk our necks to visit the jarheads at Fort Benning?”
“Y/N.”
“That was mean, sorry.” Your choice of phrasing was rude, that is, not the sentiment. Shane hadn’t mentioned the military base in a few days, so you’d hoped he’d dropped it. Places with the military, feds, even FEMA, those places had turned out badly, especially if you were a civilian. And you along with your Mama were wary of places like even before what happened to Atlanta.
Miles and miles away from the city as you were when it happened had given you a front-row seat to when it happened, when it got firebombed. It was like watching the Twin Towers collapse over again, expect this time it wasn’t on a TV screen, and the sounds of it happening in real time had been loud enough to reach you. The pops, the rumbling. Then there’s the memory of Carl’s face when he saw it all clear as day before you finally reacted, covered his ears and blocked his view.
This place, this farm, this is the safest place right now. It has good people, shelter, protection, space, food. Probably would be the safest place around for a long time if your brother group didn’t mess things up. Carl needs it, Lori and the new baby need this place.
And with the fact that your brother had been planning to leave the group, you’re worried sick that he’ll change his mind, split and leave you behind, or worse, get you all thrown off the land. If Shane didn’t take the property by force OH my gosh, why the fuck did you just think that, bitch? How could you think that about him? Stupid, stupid idiot girl!
Looking at your brother, you see him staring across the lawn to where Otis’ memorial lays. His thousand-yard stare is back. Poor Shaney. You look away so as to not be, you know, staring at him, but when he breathes out heavily after a few long moments, you turn to look.
His nose twitches before he blinks rapidly and shakes his head a little, rubs his buzz cut, and puts his hands on his belt.
“I know you don’t like the idea, but Fort Benning the smart decision,” your brother declares, doing that thing where he looks in too many directions. “The military is equipped, at least, and they’re trained how to handle things. It’s smart to seek that out.”
Whether it’s because you’re amped after being victorious at practice or because you’re freaked out after thinking something so cruel about your own brother (that he’d take over this place by force??), as you make your statement in response, you imagine it as you pulling the pin from a grenade and chucking it.
“Is that why the powers at be did what they did to Atlanta? Because they were so trained?” The pause you make, as you watch the words connect in Shane’s mind, is the time delay before the grenade’s fuse ignites and explodes. “Or maybe killing civilians or even their own was always a possibility in their eyes. The ends, of course, justifyin’ the means.”
He licks his teeth before running a hand over his mouth. “You’re really goin’ there, Y/N? Do not go there.”
But this has been festering too long. He needs to hear it and understand it. You love him. And he’s gonna have a whole lot else to deal with once Lori’s news gets out — it’s going to be messy. So this Fort Benning stuff has to go.
“But Shane, that would’ve been us with not just Mama, but Carl, Lori, and maybe even a comatose Rick if, if what happened—” your voice rises at the memory. “If what w-went on hadn’t happened, made us wait.”
If your mother hadn’t been killed, you two wouldn’t have found her dead and walking, which had revealed that she must have caught the illness before she died. And if you two didn’t find her dead and walking, you and Shane wouldn’t have quarantined, instead would’ve gotten Rick out of the hospital a day earlier and gone together with your mother and the Grimes to the city. Which means that she would’ve started showing symptoms on the road, and that the rest of you would’ve not only possibly caught it but would have possibly spread it.
Shane knows all of this, he knows it, which is why you only voiced a small part of it.
But instead of Shane standing before you with his hands on his hips…you begin to see the man you don’t recognize again. The one that’s been showing up more and more, the one that’s scary and coldly pragmatic. The one that seems like he’s about to lose control, he’s back. He’s standing where your brother was, and he’s very, very angry.
“Y/N, now, you listen good.” The man’s finger points straight at you and he gets too close to your face. When you step backward, he’s right on you. “We would’ve still been stuck outside the city limits, the wait to get in was over a day long.” With his finger, he jabs at your sternum, hard, and does it again with every hissed question.
“You remember that part?” — “The reason we were stuck in that line of cars that went on for miles?” — “Remember that?” —
You can’t think. You can’t move. The best you can manage is a stuttered “Sh-Shane—” because inside your head is nothing but white noise.
A strong, rough, sustained pinch on your collarbone and his yell of “—I asked: do you understand?” is the only reason you remember to nod as you stare at the ground and steady yourself from tripping backward.
“What happened in Atlanta was a shit show, an absolute shit show and what happened there was a disgrace, hard stop.” He spits, “but you know what? It don’t mean it was like that everywhere else—is that fair for me to reckon, uppity bitch?”
The insult doesn’t have time to sink in because he starts gesturing at his head, then yours, then his again, banging his hand against his head, then clapping his hand against your temple, hard, and now you can' think, he's too close, he’s too close, why is he so close, why does he keep hurting m— “Does that make sense, Y/N? Does that make sense to you?”
It’s not until he tugs you by your shirt and slowly shouts in your ear, “Y/N, I asked you a question: Does that make sense?” that you remember to nod again.
Your throat seizes up, so you swallow and hold your breath.
“Don’t bring up what happened with our mother again,” he orders, letting you go with a slight shove. “She was sick, we didn’t catch it, and we’d have been stuck outside that city either way.”
The man then leaves. You just stand there.
There’s no feeling of relief that he’s left you alone. Your hands are tingly, but you’re otherwise uncertain how you feel other than stupid and sick to your stomach. No, really, you might lose your supper.
You begin to walk in whatever direction, step by step, wiping the tears as they fall and trying to ignore the loud refrain in your head of stupid, stupid girl that interplays with all the noise of what did you do and why didn’t you and why did he and why would he and how could he as well a louder WHO WAS THAT?
Because it sure as hell wasn’t Shane. It can’t have been Shane, Shane’s not that.
-------------------------
Him
-------------------------
The short-haired chick came into his room looking all rattled and asking if Y/N was in there. Woke him up from a nap (so many damn naps), too, what the hell?
He quietly croaked back,“Does it look like she’s in here?” and closed his eyes to try and get back to sleeping.
“I figured she…”
Whatever it was Maggie figured, she didn’t say nothing more, she mumbled “sorry,” and closed the door again.
Was…was everything okay?
-------------------------
You
-------------------------
Footsteps and light panting sound behind you, bringing you back down to earth.
Before dread can kick in at full blast, you recognize who’s behind you even before you hear his voice calling your name, and it is a relief to know he’s there. He’ll know how to fix this. He’ll know what to do.
But what if he saw? What if he’s not the only one?
A water cooler of shame gets dumped over your head like you’ve just failed big at something. Your throat tightens again.
You idiot. You stupid, stupid girl.
Not turning your head much because your eyes are probably red, you at least control the shake in your voice. “H-Hi, Mr. Horvath, what’s up?”
“Kiddo. What just happened?”
“What do you mean?” Might as well stall when you don’t know how to say it. Maybe Dale only saw Shane looking huffy, maybe he didn’t see or hear any of what just happened and maybe, just maybe, you’re being overly dramatic about what happened. He's your brother, siblings sometimes smack each other around a little, it's not like he punched you. See, that would've been bad...
And it’s just as well you don’t know what to say back, because after hearing a door clack open then shut, you peek to see not only Dale standing before you, but Margaret, jogging from the back of the house in your direction?
She calls your name — and is holding the book you’d lent to Jimmy! Thank God, honest fodder to stall from answering Dale.
“Did Jimmy finish it?” you ask lightly.
But Maggie looks unsettled. “I grabbed this on my way downstairs as an excuse when I saw what was happenin’.”
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know in the inbox! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters)
OMG. Omg. That was a lot in a good way. I love that yea, this is a story about Daryl. But that doesn’t mean all the other relationship dynamics are not as important. I love this series a lot. And I’ve missed it. Happily a slowpoke.
What -- Daryl had a dream featuring You. It's thrown him a little, ngl.
When -- the first day Daryl is bedridden following his two falling trips down the ridge in the episode Chupacabra. In the Slowpoke Series, it's a few hours after Redemption Arcs, which takes place the morning after Thank you, angel...
Who's in this one? -- Daryl, You, Carl, Lori
Perspective -- POV 3rd person Daryl
Relationships -- slow burn, currently platonic-but-confused Daryl x equally oblivious Reader
Pronouns - she/her
TWs -- some language, and reference to Daryl's childhood neglect, and ghastly screenshots with poor editing XD
Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here
-----------------------------------
Her knock was recognizable and he got a rush in his stomach when he knew she was there. Three or four knocks, a pause, then one or two more knocks with some kind of greeting. This time, is was: “Daryl, you up for visitors?”
Was he ‘up for visitors?’
Ain’t like he’s some old dude in a nursing home, why would—oh shit, did this mean they found Sophia? Was Sophia the visitor?? “What is it?”
“It’s Carl’s first field trip out of bed other than for the toilet.”
“Y/N,” came Carl’s groan through the shut door.
“Carl,” she teased back back in the same tone of voice. “Mr. Dixon’s in the same boat, nerd, no leavin’ bed excepting for the facilities.”
Speaking for himself, the kid finally said, “I wanted to go see you first, Mr. Dixon.”
“Just—come in already,” Daryl grunted. He'd already tugged his bedsheets as high as they'd go, he was ready as he could get.
The knob turned, and as the two of them slowly walked in. He made himself relax when the nerves hit him at seeing Y/N.
It's stupid. His dumb ass started getting nervous around her this morning. Nervous around Y/N, of all the people here!
Daryl noticed Lori hovering by the doorway while Y/N and Carl walked in. She explained, “We don’t want to crowd you like yesterday. And we won’t stay too long, Y/N, Maggie and I will be going out for another sweep of our grid.”
The boy had more color than he did the other day when Daryl went to see him, which was good.
"The head wrap stuff they gave you looks cool," the kid told him. "I'm glad you didn't get hurt worse than you were. I heard you got hurt pretty bad." Slowly, Carl made his way to Daryl’s bedside and seemed beat doing it. “I would go out to help search today if I could. I was the only one of us who—well, other than you—who hasn’t gone out looking today. Beth’s older sister and Jimmy and his mom went, too.”
“Well, Mags came with us,” Y/N filled in. “Jimmy looked around the property and its perimeter only, but that’s because he got in trouble yesterday for joinin’ without permission. His mama searched with him to keep the peace.”
As the news hovered, rolled over him, then sunk in, it felt to Daryl as if were making him sink deeper into the mattress where he lay bandaged, bruised, and not much use to anyone.
He’d nearly died trying to find that little girl yesterday, found her doll. And after just about everyone went out searching today, and all them people came back with zip.
Daryl hated feeling helpless, and now he felt helpless, annoyed and angry.
Really, they all went out searching, and somehow all came back with nothing?
Carl kept chatting to him, but to his credit, Daryl didn’t snarl at him to shut up.
“I would’ve wanted to go to target practice, too. Did you know Mr. Douglas knows how to use guns? He told me he was an instructor, he’d started learning way a long time ago after something bad happened to this guy named Ronny King.”
“Rodney,” his ma corrected softly.
“I want to learn how to use a gun. How old were you when you learned, Mr. Dixon?”
Lori and Y/N reacted to the question in their own ways.
Y/N peeked at Lori and it looked like she was shrinking into her neck like a turtle as she walked to the window to get the stool for Carl to sit on.
Lori saw, shook her head and took it from Y/N’s hands, citing, “Let me, honey.” She placed it behind her son, then told him sternly, “You were just shot. Now’s not the time to discuss you using a gun.”
“But Mo—”
“We can talk about that with Dad later, okay, bud?”
“Y/N started learning to shoot when she was 8.”
That made Daryl blink, and it distracted him from his annoyance. His square, chick friend learned about using guns when she was 8?
Y/N gave her nephew a warning stare. “I learned because my own mama in our own circumstances made a decision for me that she determined would help keep me safe, the same way your mama’s makin’ one for you.”
He jut out his chin a little. “I would be safer with one. And I thought Shane taught you?”
“S-Sometimes babysitting me meant us goin’ to the range,” she allowed, eyeing Lori for help.
“Carl,” his ma told him, and with a look firm enough to make a nun cower. “That’s enough interrogating your aunt. We will talk about this with Dad when you’re able to leave bed for more than a few yards.”
“Okay,” the kid apologized, head lowering. “Sorry Mom, sorry Y/N.”
There were about three seconds of silence, tops, when the boy next asked Daryl, “Do you still think Sophia’s alive?”
Y/N froze, Lori tilted her head and looked Daryl in the eye warily.
As for Carl himself, he at least seemed hopeful. “If you could stay okay for nine days when you were a kid, Sophia can stay okay for five.”
Y/N’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He'd told her the other day about it, then decided Carl should know to keep his spirits up.
Lori, who knew nothing about this, looked alarmed. “You went missing for nine days as a child, Daryl?” she repeated.
Daryl nodded, getting dizzy when he did. Wasn’t no big secret, just some dumb mistake he made when he was little. He'd figured that Carl staying hopeful and expecting people to find Sophia would keep the rest of the people here searching.
Y/N already knew about Daryl’s little nine-day accident, and Andrea; might as well let Lori in on it if it meant more people wouldn’t give up on Sophia.
“Yeah, nine days. Was perfectly fine, and that was with me bein’ nowhere near as sharp as Sophia, and without miles of farmhouses and shit around.” Daryl figured exaggerating might help Carl feel happy, so he added, “I was dumber than a post, and even I got away with only an itchy ass from using poison oak as toilet paper.”
It did make the kid smile, but then Carl whispered as if he was nervous, “Quarter.”
Y/N wasn’t nervous at all. “Two of ’em.”
Oh, right. Daryl had forgotten about the no-cuss-around-kids rule.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” is how Lori responded quietly to Daryl, then to his relief, she changed the subject back to asking Y/N how target practice went.
“Lore, did you know Teddy was good with guns?” Y/N shared. “I’d had zero idea.”
“He and Shane talked about being instructors on one of the first nights at the quarry.”
“Man, I missed that whole conversation.”
Lori smiled and began to fix the extra blanket that was crumpled on the side of Daryl’s bed.
Daryl almost missed what was being said because he was distracted by how casually nice that was. Damned thoughtful.
It was that moment when he noticed how he’d grown pretty okay with shooting the shit with these people. Wouldn’t seek it out, probably, but he wasn’t crawling out of his skin, neither. He really liked that the kid wanted to see him, too. It helped him feel like he wasn’t as big an asshole as he felt.
“You, Amy and Glenn were busy playing ‘I never’, if I’m remembering it.” Lori spread blanket out at the foot of the bed and folded it in an accordion-type way. “Either that night or the—no, sorry, it was the night everyone started talking about Bigfoot, the kids were sitting around you three. That was one of the first nights, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, right! We used up all the Tapatío, and this guy mentioned his chupacabra.” Y/N stuck the tip of her tongue out and lightly bit it, grinning big.
“Luis and me got so freaked out that night!” Carl joined in, suddenly as energetic as a little bunny-rabbit. “His older cousin told him all about Okefenokee Swamp, and, and the gators and the Pig Man and the Thing!”
“Your Aunt Evie and I camped with Grammy and Grandad at Okefenokee lots of times when I was a girl,” Lori told them both with a smile in her eyes. “Never saw the Pig Man or the Swamp Thing.”
“But they saw her,” Y/N mouthed to Carl. “Thank God we lived more upstate.”
That, Daryl could agree with, he even made a hum.
He was from way up north, close to the Tennessee border. But with this group that he’d stuck with for who-knows-why, to get to Fort Benning they’d driven far enough southwest that they was basically in Alabama.
“Yeah, you’re from further north, too, right?” Y/N sighed. “I’m so darn homesick, man. We’re just about on the fall line now, aren’t we? Driving to the city was one thing, close enough to home, but the roundabout, southwest mess we made trying to get to stupid Fort Benning was—w-we’re basically in Alabama!”
…His thoughts exactly.
“We’re further from Lake Lanier down here, though,” Carl said. Sounded like he was both trying to cheer her up and rib her. Inside joke most likely, Daryl guessed.
Y/N shivered at the name but couldn’t stop herself from breaking into a smirk, which made Carl crack up. After making a face at him, she looked at Daryl. “Dude, you’d have had a good time at practice.” Her smile grew and she leaned toward him. “As soon as it was time to try hittin’ the targets, Jimmy tried to shoot his pistol sideways.”
“What, all gangster?” he grunted back, glad that he wasn’t alone with her again. He liked didn’t mind being alone with her, but he obviously got smacked in the head a little too hard yesterday, seeing as he felt all nervous around her now. Really nervous. Like, so goddamned nervous, man, it’s good the boy and Lori are here, otherwise he’d be barely able to look her in the eyes.
Give it a day or two, he’d be fine.
“Teddy thinks Jimmy will have to undo Hollywood and video game gun stuff the next couple lessons.” She scrunched her nose, and wondered out loud, “Don’t know why that’s what they show in movies so often, that’s irresponsible firearm use. Oh! But the angled aim I guess is needed when one’s using a riot shield, right?”
His mouth lifted into a grin. Y/N could be such a square.
With that, she yawned and leaned on the side of the bed, causing it to dip down slightly. Daryl’s heart did a funny jolting type thing when she did, he inhaled too quickly as a result, which hurt his stiched side and bruised or broken ribs, so he then winced as a result of that.
“How long do we have ’til we head out again, Lore? I’m hittin’ my limit. Looks like Carl’s crashing, too, you doing okay, baby?”
The conversation that followed didn’t reach his head, Daryl was too distracted. The, um, the movement of the bed dipping as Y/N relaxed and reached back to massage her shoulder caused the memories from last night and the dream that followed to whoosh back to Daryl even harder.
His heartbeat did that funny thing again. And the helpless feeling he’d had, with its anger and annoyance, whittled away bit by bit.
A weird sensation replaced it.
He wasn’t sure that it was, but it felt like it was pressing him even further into the mattress.
So, the dream he had last night: Y/N was…laying down with him.
Nothing was going on, her arm was simply wrapped around him and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest. He remembers pressing his mouth to her head for a second, then she reached her hand to brush it across his temple or whatever, and they just laid there. That was it.
Really, that was it, the whole dream, nothing else went on. And he relieved but also...disappointed when he first woke up, saw the bed empty beside him, and figured out it was just a dream, ain’t that bullshit? Then he listened to Y/N's breathing where she lay on the air mattress and couldn't fall back asleep for what felt like a while.
He was all screwed up, wasn't he?
Granted, two days ago, her shirt had been soaked after they’d got caught in the storm and the outline of everything was clear as damn day. Like, sure, he’d turned his eyes away, but he’d still seen it and liked it! Then, yesterday during their argument when they’d suddenly been standing all close, he’d randomly imagined gripping her waist and crashing his mouth against hers before cupping her face so he could see if her cheeks were as soft as they looked, like what the in the balls was his deal? He ain’t mature enough to be friends with a chick or something? It’s never been a problem before, he used to barely even notice or care when he thought someone looked nice.
Her calling him all them pet names yesterday was enough, but, like, what was last night?
She literally massaged him. Who does that?
The massage had felt as if there were an angel, don’t get him wrong, he’d been in so much pain. But being touched so gently but so…close, and right on his bare skin, it made him feel something similar to scared.
It wasn’t ‘scary’ in that sense, that’s not it, it felt…weird. Again, he didn’t know how to phrase it.
Worse still was that he thinks he accidentally called Y/N “angel.”
Out loud.
He still ain’t sure, his sleep was too disjointed to tell if he was awake or not, but — she’d started massaging his feet, he knew that much! His feet had hurt so bad that he’d almost cried again when she’d started to rub them because it was just such relief.
Fast forwarding to this morning, when he’d made his managed to power his way all by himself out of bed (oh, it hurt like a bitch) and out of his room to find the pisser, of course the first thing he saw when he opened the door was Y/N, all sleepy-eyed, messy-haired, and wrapped in a blanket like he was.
And, of course, the first thing she did was help him walk by putting her good arm around his back. He could feel her warmth and heartbeat beside his chest again, and when he turned his head, his mouth collided with her head. Kinda hurt. And she smelled good.
But all that sent the dream he’d had, the one where she was laying next to him, crashing back all at once.
Plus the fear that she’d see him in his boxers again and/or notice his morning wood (ain’t his fault, he’d only just woken up and he had to take a whiz real bad!) was the only thing pinging through his mind as she walked him to the toilet.
Then when her brother dropped off some of his stuff from his tent, he had a sneaking suspicion it was Y/N who’d been the one to gather it up. Mainly because she’d been the one who promised him someone would bring him some things, but also because nail clippers and a toothbrush were on top of the pile.
He then got the dumb idea in his head to be embarrassed at how his tent wasn’t real clean.
The past four days were batshit crazy; getting all nervous around a chick — probably the only person he truly feels okay with around here — is the stupidest damn thing. Still, he never had a person he felt so damn comfortable with other than Uncle Jesse, his little cousin, Merle, and his old lady neighbor from when he was a kid.
So much happened with Y/N the past few days. It was like they’d been stripped and beaten together, but got back home in one piece. He even hallucinated her talking to him when he’d fallen down the ridge. And that’s not even bringing up how he’d been chill with her seeing his scars yesterday, which was only after he okayed Dr. Farmer literally teaching her how do literal goddamn stitches on him!
Almost like yesterday, Daryl could imagine the way Merle would bust his balls. “I can’t tell if you’re actin’ like a little boy clinging to the kid who was nice to ’em on the jungle gym, or a clueless virgin nervous around the girl who’ll look him in the eyes long enough.”
Lucky for him, Carl wondered out loud: “Maybe Jimmy wanted to practice shooting sideways,” so Daryl was able to shut his mind up.
Next, Carl, who definitely looked ready to hit the sack, started miming holding a gun and aiming it to the side (as opposed to shooting it forward, just cocked to the side like Jimmy had, according to Y/N).
“No, ya nerd, like this,” Y/N snorted, and held out her good arm as if she were aiming a gun forward, then twisted her wrist sideways.
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know in the inbox! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters)
What -- Nobody is past hope and everyone deserves a redemption arc. You finally talk with big brother Shane following you catching his flirting with unreceptive, scared Lori.
When -- in between season 2 episodes Chupacabra and Secrets. In the Slowpoke Series, after Thank you, angel
Relationships -- You and Daryl are the canon compliant slow burners of the series. In this chapter, Shane gets vulnerable.
Perspective -- 2nd person
Pronouns -- n/a
TWs -- some language
Word count - under 5,000
Masterlist -- Shiny and Official one here and Chronological one here
What small but good news do you have? -- been wanting that maturity label off Invisible, tugging strings Part 2 since April, and it was finally successfully removed without glitching back again! (took about 9 removals to stick)
If you are a new Slowpoke and haven't read any other stories in the series yet, I recommend reading He hasn't been himself before this one!
..........................................
Carol first takes another sip of tea, holding the mug by the base to heat up her fingers. “It sure got cold last night.”
She says this with one of her smiles she makes to try hiding her upset. It got very cold last night—and her Sophia didn’t even have long pants on when she was chased off.
This’ll be her fifth day lost, if she’s still alive.
Echoing Daryl’s insistent belief that she can be found alive, you voice the possibility that “With all the farmhouses in this area, she’d know to head up to a barn loft to keep warm.” A barn is probably where she’s been this whole time, you’re thinking. Provided there was nothing dead in one, that’s where you’d want to hide.
Carol reverts back to the original subject, finishing telling you, “But, um, to answer you, no, he stayed asleep the whole time I was there.” She’s blinking tears away. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything about her daughter.
You’d woken up later than usual, on the Greene’s couch, after Beth and Maggie began coming downstairs. Following a flurry of good mornins during which you remembered where you were, you blindly stumbled in your blanket toward Daryl’s room, met Carol coming inside with a steaming mug of tea, and you intended to check with her how Daryl’d slept after she took over monitoring him last night.
As soon as you opened your mouth to ask—lo and behold, the man in question wobbled out of his room, wrapped in a blanket like you were and citing the need for a toilet.
You hadn’t been sure if he was okay walking without a chaperone, so you hooked your good arm under his and started to help him.
He got all grumpy at that, then told you how he remembered throwing up yesterday right after his first fall and wanted to know if it was bad.
Well, he got more grumpy after you asked him through the bathroom door to tell you if his boxers had blood in them or if there was any red or brown coming from the front, red or black coming from the back.
Really, you’d changed babies with diaper rash who complained less than that mangy hick did over a simple medical question. Lucky for you, Patricia overheard and took over.
Now you’re inwardly making fun of yourself over having felt so silly with those butterflies in your stomach last night when Daryl accidentally ca—
“—As she headed in there with him a few minutes ago, the first thing out of Patricia’s mouth was how minty the room smelled,” Carol softly giggles, taking another sip of her tea. “I think the smell is stuck in my nose.”
“Mine, too. I like it.”
When asked about the mint, all you’d told Carol was that you’d given some of the muscle rub and the peppermint oil to Daryl to help. You just didn’t specify that it was via…massage. You felt that detail might could’ve been misconstrued.
Especially given that poor dude was so out of it that: he accidentally called you ‘angel.’
It’s not deep. At most, Daryl was having a temporary bout of Florence Nightingale Syndrome, but the highest likelihood is that it was simply an injured person (him) being exhausted and loopy, therefore misattributing the giver of pain relief (you) to an angel.
You never thought you’d feel glad he went back to normal today, all grumpy and grating. It’s a relief that the butterflies in your stomach who plagued you yesterday are all gone now.
Carol calls your name and jiggles your wrist, and you blink. “Sorry, what?”
“Your brother’s coming over,” she repeats—and you’re already hightailing it.
See? Not angelic in the slightest, you can’t even face your own brother without wanting to cuss him out or shove him.
Kudos to you that when Shane calls your name and adds a, “G’morning,” with it, you respond neutrally with “Mornin’. Gonna grab my mp3, be right back.”
“You comin’ with us to the highway today, check for our girl?” Shane calls before you’re inside.
“You know it.”
“We leave in 10.”
“’Kay.”
He starts chatting with Carol as far as you can tell as you stride into the house. You suppose you have to get the music player, now, so you won’t be a liar like him. You know he's trying to get on your good side, what with his "our girl," stuff.
Knocking three times on the door to the room Daryl’s in, you await a response.
“Yeah, s’fine, come in,” he answers on the other side of it.
Opening the door, you’re met with the strong smell of mint and find Patricia still there with him, checking his pupils again as she greets, “Hi, sweetpea. I’d ask how you slept, but seein’ as you’re yawning and were still asleep on the couch 15 minutes ago…” She grins where she’s crouched in front of Daryl.
“Might will nap later,” you admit. “I’m just here for my music player.”
You just now recall that you’d meant to bring Daryl some of his stuff this morning. Toothbrush, pillow, PJ pants, that sort of thing.
Which means you’ll have to go back outside sooner, which means you’ll need to face your brother sooner.
You make a quick prayer for guidance, slip the mp3 into your pocket, and make for the door.
When you think you feel Daryl looking at you, you snap your eyes up in challenge.
He looks away so quick you nearly miss it. And the really nice nervous thrill that shivers through your belly is hopefully the last of the irrational butterflies. It’s one more thing to deal with, and toward Daryl of all people?
Mp3 in your pocket, you exit the house and begin to walk quickly toward Daryl’s tent. Your brother leaves Carol and follows at your pace despite his slight remaining limp.
He asks how you slept.
You shrug. “Could use more. You?”
“Better than I thought I would. Still up for target practice when we get back?”
“So long as I ain’t the target.”
His steps slow, and when he goes to speak, there’s hesitation. “Been talkin’ to Dale or was that one of your jokes?”
“I think it was a joke. What’s that about Mr. H?”
“Ain’t nothing, Y/N.” He stops walking altogether and puts his hands on his hips, moving his hand to muss his hair and instead meeting with the new buzzcut.
“What do you want, Shane?”
Your brother licks his teeth. “For you to just listen.”
Grimacing, you resume walking. “What do you possibly have to say to defend yourself?” you curse under your breath, even though you know you shouldn’t.
Continuing to follow you, he insults, “High and mighty today, are we?”
Your throat goes tight either from offense or because you’re so upset at what he did. Then, eyes growing moist, the anger turns to a type of sadness you can’t place. “I’m scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel here, Shaney, help me out.”
Your brother doesn’t say anything other than an apology until you two finish the walk to Daryl’s tent.
“Why we here, anyway?”
“Gettin’ Daryl his toothbrush and things,” you mumble.
It’s when you bend to unzip the door that he crouches and puts his hand on your arm. “Y/N. I meant what I said yesterday. The three people I care about most in this world are you, Lori, and Carl.”
Your turn to lick your teeth. “And Rick.” You unzip the door flap and look for Daryl’s stuff to bring him. His pillow isn’t very clean-looking.
Shane doesn’t seem to acknowledge what you said when he goes on, “And I’d do anythin’ to keep you three safe.”
“And Rick,” you say again, more pleading. “Please help me understand what’s going on with you and him.”
He starts looking not quite at you, then at anyplace else.
“Tell me the truth,” you warn. “You’re lookin’ all around the way you do before you lie.”
“Rick nearly got Carl killed and nearly got you killed. Because of that, nearly got me killed, too, if it weren’t for Otis. And Otis’ death is ultimately on his hands, too, not mine.”
After saying Otis’ name, he has to swallow and close his eyes. He probably won’t ever shake the guilt that Otis sacrificed himself so Shane could get the respirator back.
And now, opposed to seeing in your brother someone unfamiliar and scary, right now you see him clearly, and see that he’s broken in two.
You want to understand better, but you don’t yet. With only a light stress-stutter, you ask “Why are you saying Rick did all that?”
His nose twitches. “I’ve learned that Rick can’t make the tough decisions. Tough decisions save lives.”
“Tough decisions?”
“If we had gone to Fort Benning, instead of the—the CDC?” His anger bubbles up. “C’mon, Y/N, what the hell was he thinkin’? Going to a government building in a city the feds themselves napalmed, to the goddamn Centers for Disease Control,” he mocks, smiling in bitter disbelief. “A place what had mile-high security even before the world fell apart.” He rubs his head again as he coughs, “Y/N, he took the whole group, he took his family, his wife and child, into Atlanta? He knew what the city was like, yet he chose that, risked us all, instead of someplace we knew would be safe.”
You stare at the ground and don’t know if you’re supposed to say anything or not, so you don’t.
Shane sounds less angry, but more disgusted. Jealous, too. “Lori ain’t my wife, Carl ain’t my son, but I kept them alive for Rick, in Rick’s honor.” Then, he quiets. “And because we loved them. I love Lori and that boy so m…” he trails off, knowing he’s just been very honest. The hard lines on his face soften, and his posture sinks just enough for you to notice. “Then, this asshole waltzes back alive, takes ’em on back.”
He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “And now Jacqui, Sophia, and Otis; now three people are dead because of him and his choices. And look at you. After comin’ that close to getting shot as bad as Carl was, you’re out there breakin’ your body more and more every day on this goddamn wild goose chase for a dead little girl—you think I’m stupid enough to believe your stitches had to get ‘redone?’ I saw Carol washin’ your bloodstained shirts, Y/N, it—hell, and now, even Daryl almost died from this bullshit. All because of King Rick, his-his inability to—” He cuts off, finally exhales, then sinks his head in his hands and rests his elbows on his knees where he sits in the dirt across from you.
There’s an uneasy, sick feeling in your stomach, and your body feels weighed down.
“Please say somethin’, Y/N, anything.”
Unprepared, you stumble through, “I-I’m happy you, uh—it’s good you unbottled that.” You stare at the grass and wipe your eyes. “M’happy that you told me.”
“You’re happy I dumped all this shit on you?” he says in attempt to make light of something heavy.
You copy his attempt. “Better out than in.” After a few moments of silence, you then murmur, “I’m happy to share the weight, I love you.”
“Y/N.”
You raise your eyes to where he sits. He’s got the same lost look on his face you’ve seen a lot of in the past handful months after the world fell apart. Like that night at the CDC, when he’d broken down crying. When he’d escaped the hospital after trying to rescue Rick and thinking he’d died. When he’d come back with a respirator but without Otis.
“I know it’s wrong, blamin’ him.” He rubs the top of his head the way he does whenever he’s upset or thinking too much.
“That you know it’s wrong is a good thing.”
“I know I’m wrong,” he whispers. “But I don’t think it matters. Or that I care.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we wanna survive, we need to make hard choices.”
Your tone of voice bites. “Like Lori told you yesterday, it’s easy to cut losses and not help. Easiest damned thing, Shane, so that’s enough about ‘hard’ choices.”
He doesn’t snarl back. He barely reacts, in fact.
Voice gruff, he mutters, “I’ve slid, Y/N. Real far down. Done some awful things.”
“You can choose good ones next time,” you offer simply.
“Sometimes the good ones are awful things, if they mean savin’ lives.”
A twinge of dread roils in your belly. “Justifying wrongs make them worse.”
“You sound so damn naïve sometimes, kid.” He rolls his eyes before tucking his head between his knees. Yet, he next asks, “When does somebody get too far gone?”
“That limit doesn't really exist. Nobody’s past hope.”
You see his chest expand and deflate with controlled breaths. And you’re about to stand up and bring Daryl his things when he says in a low voice, “Y/N, tell me about the rope thing again. And the drowning thing, too?”
Your brow creases. He wants you to repeat those two scenarios?
“Okay,” you answer, even if uncertain why he suddenly wants to talk ethics.
First, you call to mind the details... “There are, um, people on a rope that’s hangin’ off a cliff. The rope is breaking and will break, and those clingin’ to the rope will all fall and likely die unless the person on the bottom drops off. Now, the person at the top of the rope or in the middle can’t drop off in the bottom person's place, ’cause that’ll knock off those below them anyway and lead to more death. And it ain’t fair, but for the person on the bottom, is it their moral obligation to let go. And it’s…” your throat goes tight again. You think you’re starting to understand why he asked you to tell him this.
Still, you go on: “It’s morally acceptable and, and even the duty of the person directly above the lowest person to get them off the rope in-in-in order to save lives—Shane, I don’t wanna finish.”
“The person above them can sever the rope, they can even kick the person off,” he says for you, but not in a prideful way. He’s quiet and somber, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. To you, he says, “But this thing with Sophia, I ain’t saying Sophia was at the bottom.”
His demeanor lowers your defenses, and you finish the scenario. “Only because the rope will break and lead to more death unless the weight is lessened is why it's permissible for the bottom person to let go or even get pushed off, but only because the rope will break and this is known. What the other people or person above them on the rope cannot do is directly kill the person on the bottom in order to make them let go, even though the end result might will end up the same. To directly kill a person is not right and is always evil, even if the end result will be the same.” You try to remember the exact wording that you’d learned. “‘Direct killing is morally permissible only for cases of self-defense against a direct, real-time aggressor who is intendin’ to kill or grievously harm you or another.’”
Shane’s eyes are glassy, the lost, scared expression still clouding his face. “Repeat the drownin’ one, too? Please.”
He looks so sad.
“Two p-people are drowning, but one is, uh, climbin’ onto the other to keep their own head above water. The person being used as a life raft can and should fight off the person, because otherwise they will accidentally be drowned. What they can’t do is, y’know, like, shoot the other in the face or shove them into the jaws of a hungry shark.” Which was your inappropriate grasp at making light, ugh, that was in really bad form. “Sorry,” you apologize, then speak like a grown-up: “The person bein’ unwittingly drowned cannot hold the other guy underwater to drown them instead, even if it’s to get them to stop. ’Cause again, to directly kill is evil. Unless the other person is a direct aggressor because they want you dead or harmed bad, in which case it’s self-defense.”
He sniffs and takes a deep breath. Shane’s eyes don’t have that thousand-yard stare anymore, now they simply look pained.
“Y/N, I don’t feel like myself,” he admits under his breath. “I haven’t. Can hardly recognize myself sometimes, but it’s as if I…” He throws his hand up. “I know I’m wrong but still don’t think it’s wrong.”
“This about Rick, Sophia, or Lori?” you ask. "Or Otis?" pops into your mind and out of your mouth.
“All of it, I reckon, I-I don’t know, I can’t…” His hand cups his mouth and trails down to his chin. “What I want with Lori I know is wrong. Y/N, I keep tryin’ to convince myself she wants me, loves me. That I deserve them ’cause I’m better for her and him.”
The news about the new baby tears through your insides and scatters your thoughts. “She does love you, just not in that way. And that thing about ‘deserved,’ that’s gotta go, man,” you respond, not that it’s helpful.
Nodding, he grunts, “I know.”
“Not that that helps much,” you apologize. Shane used to go to your eldest sister for this kind of thing. They were closest with each other. But that line, that idea about ‘deserving’ them because he’s better for them…that’s bad, it’s very bad.
Then, from the campsite, you hear Andrea shout “Five minutes, Walshes!”
Neither of you speak as a warm breeze sweeps over the field and across the yard.
Your big brother looks to you as if he’s a small, scared kid.
“Y/N, what do I do?”
So, you tell him the most concrete advice you can think of. “You go check the highway. Do a quick sweep of your grid. Host target practice like you and Ricky have planned, teach me more fightin’ moves like you had planned.”
He’s nodding, lost in space. “What about tomorrow?”
You lift one corner of your mouth sadly. “Check the highway. Do a quick sweep of your grid. Target practice, chores, work out. Normal stuff. Take it one day at a time. Things’ll get better, or you’ll get stronger. Either way.”
Shane wipes his eyes and blinks away any trace of having gotten emotional. “This what you had to do all them times you wanted to die?”
A cold spreads from your middle. “Do you want to die, Shaney?”
“No. I don’t wanna die, hell no, I just—” he inhales, holds it, exhales. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on with me.” He massages his neck with one hand. “Y/N, it feels like I’m either another person or I’m going batshit.”
That he’s suffering isn’t good, but hearing him say that is, because it means that he sees the problem, too.
“I’d be more concerned if you didn’t think there was somethin’ off.” You swallow and make yourself say, “I trust you.”
Now he’s shaking his head. “I don’t even trust myself right now.”
“That’s why you have me, loser.”
Shane smiles a little when you tell him that. Next, he stands, and appears to lose himself in thought again as picks up what you grabbed from Daryl’s tent. Then he freezes.
He puts the things back down, and sits again. “Y/N, I may have to go for a little while.”
“Where, a fuel run?”
He clasps the back of his head. “Away.”
Away? “Where’s away?”
“Away. For just a while.”
Away as in…leaving?
“Because of this Lori thing? Shane, there’s—”
“—It’s…more complicated than that—” he interrupts, but you interrupt right back, “—B-Because of Rick, then? What?”
“Kettle off the burner, Y/N.”
You hold in what you were going to say and count to five.
It doesn’t do the trick. “Man the hell up and get it out of your system.We can’t leave them!”
“Not ‘we,’ me. I can. It’s just for a little while, honey.”
Now he’s calling you ‘honey?’ He only does that when it’s serious.
You try to smile and play it off as if he’s just confused and needs encouragement. “Don’t act so dramatic, loser,” you tease. “We don’t have to go. Things aren’t good in some ways right now, but th-they will get better.”
“Not ‘we’, ‘I’. I think I do. I’m serious, kid.”
“Well, I, if-if you go—Shane, come on, I can’t let you go without me.”
“You can.”
“Shane. Stop, I don’t like this.”
He doesn’t stop. “If the person on the bottom has get cut off or drop off so the rest won’t fall—”
“—That is not what that means and you know it!” you push back. What is going on?
He appears to check himself. “I’m sorry, I—” He holds up a hand. “Y/N, I think me leavin’ awhile is what needs to be done. Lori does, too—no, don’t say anythin’ else about it, we won’t get nowhere.”
“You don’t need to cut yourself off. We don’t need to cut you off. That, that scenario was for a literal life or death situation, not whatever’s goin’ on here.” It’s like you can’t inhale enough.
“Y/N, I’m sorry, you’re right,” he soothes. “But I do need to leave—”
“—No, if you get ‘cut off’ or, or jump or whatever, I’m jumping down with you. You get that, right?” you almost shout.
He shakes his head as if he pities you. “This is why I didn’t tell you before.”
“You’re fixing to blame me for my reaction to my brother deciding to cut himself off from his family and risk his neck, goin’ off alone,” you pause to inhale, “because of a bad breakup, when now dead people walk and eat the living?”
Catching your breath, you watch as your words hit home.
Briefly, he covers his eyes in what looks like shame, he winces, then makes a quiet apology and says, “I’ll give it time. Ain’t like I was planning to leave tomorrow.”
Your shoulders slump. “How long you been considerin’ this?”
The way he opens his mouth and closes it without speaking is the first warning. The second is how he begins by softly calling you,“honey,” again.
“I was plannin’ to leave…over a week ago. Been planning it awhile,” he confesses.
The words sink in while you sit and blink.
It’s the next thing he says that feels like a sucker punch.
“It got cancelled when Carl got shot, but now I think I gotta…anyway, Lori knew. Dale knew, too. Andrea.”
Noises turn fuzzy and your brain grows quiet. You exhale the breath you forgot about and cover your face with your hands. They all knew? Lori knew?
You regain yourself when your brother goes, “Honey, I’m sorry.”
“Shaney, you ain’t serious.” Not one of them mentioned this to you. Did they not care?
“I don’t think they knew you were in the dark about it,” Shane assures you as if he could read your thoughts. “What’s more is I don’t reckon they thought you’d come with.They wouldn’t want you to go.”
You force yourself to exhale again, you keep forgetting to breathe.
“I’m sorry.”
“I forg—no, this is too much, this is so much,” you finally burst into tears. “I’ll forgive you, but I-I need a few hours.” Inhale, exhale. “Shane, I am so fuckin’…hurt!” Stupid. You feel so stupid. Blind and naïve and stupid.
“Take your time. God knows I took mine in fessing up.”
You sniff as much as you can, seeing as Daryl most likely doesn’t have tissues in his tent.
Shane was planning to leave, and at least three people knew about it. But not you, his own family.
The man has fallen low. Betraying Rick and Lori wasn’t enough, not caring about Sophia wasn’t enough; turns out you’re also somebody he doesn’t care about.
Maybe him going away is best, the hurt part of you shrieks. Good riddance!
And once he learns about the baby, this whole Lori thing will blow up if you can’t defuse it, and you don’t think you will be able.
The question he asked you earlier replays in your mind.
“When does somebody get too far gone?”
“I don’t believe that limit exists, man. Nobody’s past hope.”
Goddamn, you’re so tired.
Head against your bent knees, you don’t care why he’s going into Daryl’s tent. You don’t care about what he’s holding out to you, either, and you move away from whatever it is.
“All he had was damp paper towels,” Shane murmurs. “Please, take one.”
“I’d rather blow my nose on your shirt, for all I care,” you hiccup.
Andrea calls your names again. “Y/N, Shane, time to go!”
You don’t move.
Shane doesn’t move, as much you can tell from where your face lies hidden on your knees.
And, like much of this past week, you didn’t see coming what would happen next, what Shane would do. That your big brother would be so...penitent? toward you that he quite actually would remove his shirt and hand it to you?
You blink in disbelief, then find yourself close to smiling. “I can’t actually blow my nose on your shirt, you goon.”
The chicken noises he makes change your mind.
“You dick, I’m gonna actually do it. Then I’ma burn it, I ain’t makin’ nobody clean up what’s in my nose.”
“It’s cool. I deserve worse.”
The word still rubs you the wrong way. “What you deserve is a redemption arc,” you sniffle, and then cannot help but add this minor dig, “And a week without a razor might would do you good, so you’d have to suffer through havin’ chest hair again.”
Shane quietly cracks up, then, yeah, you really need to wipe your nose, so you really use his shirt after he adds how it’ll help his guilt.
When you’re good, you twist your mouth at him. You’re still hurt to the bone, but it’s easing. “You were just aching for an excuse to strip, weren’t you?” you rib.
“Mmhm. Just need me an audience and some Boyz 2 Men in the background, and I’ll be all set.” Grinning at your gagging reaction, he holds out a hand to help you to your feet. And, once he’s picked up Daryl’s pillow and begins to walk back with you, he calls you by your nickname.
His expression looks sad again, and the way he asks makes it clear he wants advice. “What else can I do to get whatever this is out of my system? Do better?”
This is also unexpected, so you bend to pick up some wildflowers. Clover, Queen Anne’s lace, and some smaller yellow ones and some daisy-looking ones. Standing up, you lift your good shoulder in a shrug. “You know how it is, sometimes we gotta fake it ’til we make it.”
He’s asking you advice. His square little sibling.
“What’re the flowers for?”
“Otis. Gonna pop them on his cairn on the way back.”
A cloud seems to pass over him. There are a few moments where nothing is said as he follows you to the rock pile.
“I’ll act right about Sophia,” he promises softly.
Even though he’s admitting his wrongs, the upset flicks on again. You reimagine pulling a tea kettle off the heat before it starts to whistle. “And you’ll give Lori space, and get her out of your head.”
Your brother grunts in assent. “I will.”
“A lot of space, hear?” you mutter while plunking the flowers on the memorial and picking up the pace to get to the SUV. “And stop flirting when you see you’ve upset somebody, that’s the biggest part I didn’t get. She looked frightened, Shane, you had to have seen her back away and cower. Is that who you are now?”
“No,” leaps from his mouth, followed by a sober, quieter, “No.”
A loud clash that was most definitely the cooking pans that were stacked to dry on the chair sounds from the campsite. You hear Lori and T-Dog laugh as you get closer.
“When you used to get all sad, what did you have to do?” he wants to know next.
“For me, it was more of a wait until things leveled out. I had to go through the motions a lot, kept myself distracted. Got help, which was the key part.” You toss his old shirt into the campfire as you two pass it. Glenn stares at you very confused, prompting you to mime him taking off his shirt and tossing it into the fire, after which you look back at him as if questioning why he isn’t also burning his.
“Distractions, okay.Guess I’ll, um,” Shane thinks aloud. As you two pass the clothesline, he takes one of his off the line and pulls it on. “Guess I might will start doing daily runs again, while we got a safe place.”
You smile politely. That advice used to annoy you a bit, too. Exercise does help, though. “Nothin’ gets it all out of your system for a while quite like a run.”
“Mm, literal and figurative, dependin’ on how hard you run.”
You scrunch your nose and pout. “Ew.”
“As if you wouldn’t have made that exact joke if I hadn’t first, weirdo.” Shane lifts a corner of his mouth before he lets himself smile big. It looks like a real one.
The words replay again.
“When does somebody get too far gone?”
“That limit doesn't really exist. Nobody’s past hope.”
You let yourself smile a little, too.
“I’ll run these inside to Daryl, you and the girls hop on in the car, then we’ll roll. And,” he says loud enough that Carol can overhear from where she stands holding the ragdoll. “Ground rules: Sophia gets shotgun if we find her there today. Cool?”
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know in the inbox! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters)
As a person with a big brother who’s been calling me weirdo since I was a child, these scenes with Shane are always so cathartic. I really love when he getting humanized, Shane wasn’t always the insane POS that he is at the end of Season 2 and I love seeing that explored!
What -- Following the events of S02's Chupacabra, you give Daryl a massage. The story begins with some discussion of post-concussive protocol for the poor guy to prep the stage for the chapter after his very bad day.
Relationships -- slow burn, canon-compliant Reader x Daryl and the two of you being closed off about possibly like-liking somebody. I mean, he doesn't even eat peanut butter!
Perspective -- You + Him
Pronouns - neutral
TWs -- some crude language
Length -- 6,000 words (15-20 minutes)
When -- a couple hours after "fondness" LOL. It starts off like nothing serious, then gets more tender, sort of like Daryl's muscles after careening down all those rocks.
Which chapters will provide more context? -- it's always good to check out the most recent chronological chapter, in this case "fondness" LOL. Spell your last name, please would be fun to read alongside this one, too. As well, I recommend reading Invisible tugging strings, Part 2 (also Part 1) and souls stripped bare if you like a bit of confused yearning.
Masterlist? -- Shiny and Official one here and Chronological one here
Him
The door opened, waking him up—the hell, where was he? How long had he been asleep?
“Hey,” the familiar voice he liked said, and his muscled relaxed.
Sure enough, there came Y/N into view, giving him a little wave as they walked around the bed. “Remember where you are?”
His memory came back to him quickly as he blinked the sleep away. He was in the farmhouse.
Still, his sarcastic croak of a response, “In bed,” earned him a tiny huff and a dry “So funny,” from his friend, who carried along a big-ass book.
Ugh, his stomach didn’t feel too hot. He’d, um, half-woken up a little earlier and saw crackers on a plate near him. And he’d been so damned hungry he’d just reached out, grabbed some, and slammed them into his mouth.
That there'd been peanut butter in between them had been a nasty surprise, except he’d already chewed and started to swallow by the time the taste hit him, he was that hungry. He was so hungry that he’d gone and grabbed more, too…dumb sumbitch.
Now the taste was all up in his nose and mouth. He curled up a little tighter, as much as his stiff joints and muscles and the new hole in his side let him. Daryl just wanted to sleep and for his stomach to stop messing with him, he felt ready to puke…
The old man’s voice met his ears next as he came around the bed, too. “I apologize. You have something of an audience. Carol and Y/N will be keeping an eye on you tonight, they’re in here now, as is Patricia.”
Y/N frowned into their massive textbook, flip-flipping through the pages as if looking for a specific section. Carol sat across from the bed on the footstool thing and smiled in her sad way.
Then, the nice twangy blonde lady (he knows her name, it's Patricia) started saying something and helping him sit up, but he wasn’t hearing a damn thing, because he w—he was—no, no, no, he was gonna upchuck—
____________________________
You
Daryl doesn’t look too g—oh, no!
“Carol, hand me that thingy, please!” you squeak, standing up as the book clatters to the floor while you frantically point to the emesis basin on the dresser beside her.
You zip to the bedside and cradle the back of Daryl’s neck with one hand, the small container in the other, and not a moment too soon.
“Whoakay, there you go, buddy,” you coo as the poor guy gets sick.
“Pat, please retrieve the oxygen tank from the boy’s room,” you hear Hershel murmur, and Pat is already up and moving.
They have an oxygen tank?! That, that should’ve been administered an hour and a half ago when he stumbled back onto the farm!
With a final spit into the bowl, Daryl makes a slight groan and exhales. He grunts an apology, gags again.
You lower the basin so it won’t be too near his mouth (and nose), but wait remain for a minute or so with him just in case he’s not done. Lightly, you run your fingers across the back of his neck and up the back of his head as you wait. And not because you have taken a shiney fondness to him, Dale, you would do this for anyone, especially a friend who had a day like this one did.
When he mumbles that he’s fine, you tell him you’ll be right back, and tuck the sheet over his back for him. You then excuse yourself to clean up, being mindful to hold your breath and not look at the basin so you won’t gag or need to use it yourself. Carol follows you into the hall but slips out the front door.
You empty and wash the basin in the downstairs bathroom and scrub your hands and forearms, and find some bleach spray to clean the sink.
Scrubbed good, you're ready to carry the cleaned container back into the room in time to see Patricia accessorizing Daryl with an oxygen mask. The ever-growing dread in your gut sprouts a new branch.
“Miss Patricia, Mr. Greene, what do we do next?”
You hope it didn’t sound nearly as worried as you think it sounded. The first pre-hospital guideline for suspected traumatic brain injury is being put on O2.
Granted, ‘suspected’ encompasses pretty much any head bump for safety’s sake—but the man had a very serious fall twice.
The reality that he’s not necessarily in the clear is now sinking in.
How would you fix whatever Daryl did to his skull, if he did something? Drill a hole in his head or something? There’s no possibility of getting proper imaging, y'all don’t even have more sterile gloves.
Daryl’s leaning back, now propped against some pillows in addition to sporting the oxygen mask. He looks miserable. You kneel beside him and place your free hand on the bed. Carol joins you.
“Oxygen will only benefit him, at the moment, even if there’s nothing more serious going on,” Hershel mildly puts it, cool as a cucumber with your EMT textbook open to the head trauma section. But then again, Mr. Greene had the skill to keep himself cool as a refrigerated cucumber while Carl was actively decompensating and dying. “The good thing is, Daryl is negative for any other indication of severe concussion, even moderate, which is surprising in the best way possible. Way I see it, it’s yet another medical miracle among your group.”
Next to you, Carol holds out one of her small tins and shyly says to Daryl, “Ginger?”
The way his eyes got all big like a kid’s was unexpected and rather cute. She pulls the mask away far enough to pop a ginger mint into his mouth. With a grunt, he closes his eyes in acknowledgment and gratitude.
“How do we know he ain’t—” oops, you mean to only use elegant grammar around Mr. Greene. Except, you don’t have a preset sentence in your head so it still comes out messy, but you do use the phrase Mr. Greene used yesterday. “How do we know that it isn’t, um, that h-his concussion isn’t a bigger cause for concern?”
“Pupils are good, blood pressure is good, reflexes are good, and upon examinin' his skull, there are no irregularities beyond two what Hersh and I both would call goose eggs,” Patricia answers first, as chill as Hershel is. “He’s gotta be kept under watch for the next couple days, of course, but that's more a precaution.”
Mr. Greene nods. “Any more vomiting—”
“—I only hurled ’cause of the peanut butter,” Daryl muffles through the mask.
Because of the…
You squint. “How would peanut butter make you sick? You aren’t allergic.”
“Don’t like it.”
Doesn’t like…what? “Dude, you don’t like peanut butter?”
“Don’t even like the smell.”
WHAT.
Mr. Greene resumes what he was saying before you can continue the interrogation. “Do you have an appetite.” It somehow sounded less like a question the way he asked it.
Daryl hums in response.
“Good. Finish up what’s on this plate and we’ll see if you’re able to keep non-peanut related foods down.” Was Mr. Greene trying to make a joke? Well, at any rate, he’s removing the cracker sandwiches to leave just the eggs and spam. Daryl accepts the plate and whips his mask off, prompting you to turn the O2 off for now. A relieved groan follows his first bite and he eagerly digs in to get another forkful. Carol must be pleased.
Mr. Greene nods in thanks that you turned off the oxygen flow. “To answer your question: if there is any more vomiting, a bad headache, changes to his pupillary response or his blood pressure as well as any alteration to his speech and cognitive function, that would be a cause for concern.”
“And we won’t want him to go unchecked too long a stretch, so I brought y’all our egg timer," Patricia adds. "It’s digital, so it ain’t too loud.”
“Should we wake him every hour?” Carol asks, nodding and clasping her hands in her lap.
“Naw, that’s more myth. Although,” Patricia reconsiders. Sighs. “It ain’t like we have him hooked to a monitor in a ward staffed with nurses breezing in and out. Hersh, what’s your take?”
“You’re the nurse, I’m just the vet,” he reminds her. “It’s your call. What were you going to have them do?”
She sighs again but nods. “Might as well be over-cautious, then. Let’s do every hour and a half to check, but don't wake him. He needs rest.” Patricia breathes deeply, then gives the instructions.
“If you stick the egg timer under your pillow, it should wake you but not him. Sit up and make sure he’s breathin’ normally. If, uh, if he’s awake, ask him his pain level for his head, listen to his speech, see if it sounds normal, check his temp with your wrist. Acetaminophen, that’s Tylenol, that’s the only painkiller he can have right now."
Just Tylenol, got it.
"Ask him a basic question or two, check his eyes like Hershel said. Maybe have him tap his fingers together. And if his BP changes much in either direction, or especially if his headache gets worse than it feels now, which isn’t too bad so he claimed,” a pointed look at Daryl, “wake me. I’m in on the top floor, room to the center-left.”
“Do I gotta wear this to bed?” the man himself grates, his mouth full even while scooping in the last bite off his plate. The guy's definitely hungry, which is usually a good sign.
And the look he earns back from Patricia is enough to make you sit straighter and lower your head despite not being on the receiving end of it.
Daryl stops chewing.
“You do and you will,” she states. It wasn’t done in a controlling way, it sounded to you like simple tough love. “Might well save your hide if you’ve got a bleed, Daryl.”
“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles.
Annoyingly, the way he displayed a healthy serving of shame/deference seems to have awoken some of the irrational butterflies in your stomach. The little creeps.
Hershel speaks to Patricia. “You know, I believe I still have a nasal cannula from when my mother was still living. It will be less obstructive to sleep—Pat, will the cannula be adequate?”
“Would be great—but how old is it? Your mama passed over a decade ago.”
“Then it’s well over a decade old,” he answers, and quits the room in such a way that strongly suggests he was eager to do so.
____________________________
Him
Putting him in the nose thing cancer people or old dudes with emphysema have to wear seemed over-the-top, but if Patricia said he had to, he guess he had to. The nose thing was more comfy than the mask. Daryl made sure to thank Patricia and Dr. Farmer—um, Hershel—for all their help.
He’d glanced at Y/N, whose head was just about glued to the pages of the big-ass medical book, and had been scribbling stuff down on a sheet of paper while asking Patricia question after question after question.
“Was supper okay?” Carol peeped when she picked up his empty plate for him.
Supper was more than just okay, it was damned tasty. “You make it?”
“The spam and eggs.”
Yo, he couldn’t inhale the stuff she made fast enough, the woman cooked some mean-ass grub. “Ain’t eaten that good in a while. It was delicious.” Not since the breakfast at the CDC that T-Dog cooked up.
When he looked up at Carol, her cheeks looked pinker. Like, red.
For a second, he almost thought it was because he told her her food was good. But nah, must’ve been getting stuffy in the room. He wouldn’t have minded if it got warmer in there, he felt kinda clammy. Probably because he’d lost blood a decent chunk of blood or whatever. So long as he was able to get back to sleep soon, he didn’t care.
He wriggled his shoulders to get more comfortable on the pillows, and felt his eyelids start to sink.
“Can I use it on him if he needs it tonight?” Y/N checked with Patricia.
...Huh? Use what?
“Just don’t go settin’ it too high, you shouldn’t see any muscle movement. Now, you know not to use it on his head, yes?”
Daryl opened his eyes again in time to see Y/N’s lips press together, then twist slightly to the side. “Oh, I was gonna put it right smack on his head then draw him a bath with it on, ma’am, for relaxation and such.”
“Never use a—oh, goodness, you had me goin’ there a moment!” The lady chuckled when she realized Y/N was joking, then lightly swatted at his friend’s arm. “I had to make sure you knew. Some people would try using them units for head pain.”
Grinning the way they do when they’ve acted like a goof, Y/N nodded and raised their hands as if surrendering. “You were doin’ your due diligence.”
“I told you, Hersh, I really want to keep this one,” the woman next said, playful smile on her face.
Daryl couldn’t help but watch how that comment made Y/N’s eyes get all—he wasn’t sure the right describe-y word to call it, but his cat would get that look when he’d be gone awhile then would come back. Y/N’s eyes did just that, but they also looked sad at the same time.
Then, his friend politely smiled and waved in the direction of the door, same direction as whatever that new dragging noise was.
How many damn people were gonna come in? He just wanted to sleep.
Patricia stood up and pulled her shirt down in the back, calling, “Thank you, sweetpea,” at the same time the old man asked, “James, what’s this?”
“Couldn’t have them sleepin’ on the floor. Jimmy filled up the air mattress.”
Daryl had neither the strength nor desire nor any fucks to give to bother looking over to see the action. He needed some shut-eye.
“How’s your stomach, Daryl?” Patricia spoke soft, just to him.
He...felt less annoyed. Eyes still closed, he raised his thumbs from where his hands were holding the sheet up. He wished he could act more grateful, but his tank was below E and he wanted to scream and cuss or just plain cry.
“Very good! Righty, we’ll get out of your hair, now.”
He did force himself to grunt back, “G’night,” in hopes it conveyed at least a little bit of gratitude.
“Y/N will be in here the first half of the night, alright? You’ll be in good hands. Sweet dreams.”
____________________________
You
Sources were true, Dale’s book is kinda ick. Even the title, The Case of the Missing Man, it’s just a bit lame. Hand under your pillow, you thumbed at the prayer beads you’d taken from the family’s house earlier today. You gave Carol a pair, too, you know she used to use them. Today felt like a week, it was so up and down and all arou—what are you doing? Don’t think about today anymore.
If you’re so darn tired that you can’t sleep, thinking certainly won’t help.
Listening to Daryl’s even, soft snores, you take a few sips of water. It’s really chilly tonight. Maybe you should go grab your other blanket and your hoodie.
You peek at the egg timer, looks like you have 70 minutes until it’s time to check him officially. Gonna be a long night. After Sophia comes home tomorrow, or….at least after you check the highway shelter and do a sweep for her, then do the shooting practice thing, oh, and maybe after another pharmacy run—oh, and then chores, you need to help with chores. But after all that, maybe you can have a nap.
It really is nippy tonight. If you’re cold, poor Daryl likely is, too, the man lost a lot of blood today.
Your side and shoulder pinch and burn as you scooch upright. Quietly as you can, you move to peek out the window, trying to gauge if you’ll be able to walk to your tent without Shane noticing.
It’s gotten chilly enough that there’s condensation on the windows.
____________________________
Him
He woke up for some reason. Thought he heard a creak.
The room felt colder than a metal toilet seat in winter. He had the sheets bundled around him as much as he could get them. He knew if he stayed still enough he’d feel warmer and not notice the cold as much, but, shit, he felt so miserable.
He didn’t even bring Sophia back yet, all he found was her doll! like, his dumb bitch ass couldn’t even climb right. Even monkeys know how to climb.
Yeah no, instead of finally bringing that little girl home safe, he flopped his way down the ridge twice and got a bolt hole in him.
And yet, the same people he’d stolen a horse from to get it done faster legit set him up in a room and patched him up.
As he was wallowing and moping about all the day's shit, feeling like a useless nobody, something warm—a blanket?—was pulled over him and tucked in gently around his shoulders.
The angel? person who placed it on him rested their hand on his upper arm a sec, and he felt their thumb rub back and forth once. His chest and stomach felt a little funny when he recognized the minty smell of whoever just gave him the blanket. The muscle-rub Y/N had on.
There was another creak in the direction of the door behind him, but he fell asleep too fast after the blanket was placed on him to mumble “thank you, angel.”
____________________________
You
Glenn had stayed late playing board games with the others, he was still on the porch. He and Jimmy are playing cards, probably spit judging by the thunk you just heard on the table along with some muffled laughter. Beth is barely awake, but she waves when she sees you. Maggie is dozing.
Andrea is awake, too, and once seeing you, she rushes over to ask after Daryl again. You assure her that he’s fine, took down his dinner well, and no, she should get rest instead of staying awake just in case. Shane’s in his tent, and you go to yours without incident. At least he knows to stay away right now.
Blanket now in-hand and hoodie on, you head back inside after remembering to grab the icy-hot rub you’d left in your tent, too. Shoot, you’d also meant to borrow Shane’s sweatpants, but he brought his stuff with him. T-Dog has a pair, but he wears them to bed…Daryl can borrow yours, they’re baggy with a drawstring, anyone could wear them.
Tiptoeing and avoiding the creaky spot by the door, you listen carefully and can hear that Daryl’s still sound asleep. You’d been worried you would either disturb or even frighten him when you pulled the comforter over him, but to your delight, he’d begun snoring.
It is strange seeing him so helpless. Dude literally chews on bark sometimes, he’s a survivor down to his bones. Him getting all the help must feel very humbling to say the least, you know he likes to keep to himself. After seeing the scars on his back, you imagine he might feel unworthy of help or care, too.
With a prayer, you hunker down onto the air mattress and hope for dreamless sleep.
____________________________
Him
Y/N and he were sitting in the dirt because the horse bucked them off. They’d just buried Sophia.
The old Mexican lady from the house was holding those prayer beads and sitting in a rocking chair outside, chickens pecking at the grass near her. Carol was crying somewhere but he couldn’t see where.
Y/N rested their head against him and squeezed his hand tight, apologizing that they had to get the bolt out of his side.
Stuck to his chest, there was a thick, twiney string that connected to Y/N’s. It was getting in the way and pulling whenever he moved. When he went to tuck it over his shoulder, it was the plastic tubing from the oxygen tank.
Merle sat across from the two of them, holding a sponge and telling him to get up.
He tried to. He kept trying to get up and follow his brother, but when he did, he started to fall down the ridge again to where the geeks were waiting to gnaw his feet off.
Y/N’s voice called for him from the walkie, and when he looked up, he saw them ripping their sling off to help him despite them bleeding through their shirt again.
____________________________
You
The timer went off, so you move in order to see him. His breathing pattern is normal and regular.
You can tell he’s dreaming, the way his eyes are moving under his closed lids. Hopefully, it’s a good dream. Best not wake him if he’s still sleeping.
____________________________
one hour later
____________________________
Him
“Baby, is your head worse, too?”
“No, it’s—” he hissed when he breathed too deeply and it hurt his ribs. “It’s goddamned everythin’ else.”
Y/N had heard him when he accidentally groaned, so then started to do a check-up thing. All he’d been trying to do was move to try to make it hurt less and he could get back to sleep. It’d hurt worse, instead, and he yelped like a little fox kit. Pansy-ass little Darylina. No wonder they just called you ‘baby’ again.
“I’m going to check your pupils again, bear with me.” Y/N spoke softly as their hand made a wall between his two eyes again. “Spell my last name, please.”
“D-I-X-O—oh wait, no, that’s…” They’d asked for their last name, not his.
“Ballsy offer,” they joked. The little flashlight shone in one eye, then the other. Y/N was trying not to crack up. “It’s good you caught the mix-up, real good sign. Okay, you can rest your eyes now if you want, but please stay sittin’ up, okay?”
He did shut his eyes, and tried to call to mind what Y/N’s last name was…
Got it, Sophia called Shane either ‘Mr. Walsh’ or “Welsh” a few times. “W, um, W-A-L-S-H?”
“Yes, well remembered.” There was the rattle of a pill bottle. “What year is it and what’s the next season we’ll be in?”
“2010. It’s, uh, it’s gettin’ to the end of summer. Gonna be fall.”
“Mind’s still sharp. Here, you can have one more acetaminophen. I got you some water. Take, swallow.”
He opened his eyes to see them holding out a single, white cylindrical pill and their water bottle.
“Are you able to tip your head back,” they checked, “or might should we use the cup with the straw?”
The warmth from their hand lightly supporting the back of his head felt nice even though they were acting as if he would fall apart like a china doll at any second.
After he took the one, dinky little painkiller, Y/N gently moved his arms around, then had him wiggle his toes and fingers and turn his head as much as he could. Halfway through is when he noticed the sheet was tucked all the way over his shoulders and thighs where he sat.
Y/N had been making sure it stayed covering him as he moved?
The strange feeling of unbearable closeness came back and he didn’t know what to do with it.
It was something so little and stupid but so damn big at the same time, to make a point to keep his, what, his modesty? When there were so many other things to worry about?
A lump formed in his throat.
Y/N looked uncertain after doing something with his left arm again. “Daryl, have you had broken ribs or a broken collarbone before?” they asked him quietly.
He swallowed down the lump so he could answer. “Yeah.”
“Does it feel like that might could’ve happened again?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh buddy,” they sighed. “We’ll have Miss Patricia check tomorrow. What a day you’ve had.”
“It was somethin’ else,” he grit. He just wanted to lay down again, but laying down hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.
Y/N brought over a pair of sweatpants. They helped him put them on, too.
“Can stand on my own,” he had to snip, mainly because of the way his body started reacting to having them so close to him. He was only human—half their chest went up against his again as they helped, all warm and soft and—yeah, he needed them to stop. He was in just his boxers, first off, second, he didn’t want to be a creep. And third, he could damn well stand on his own.
When he had pants on again and sat back down, he felt the heat from his friend’s hand hover around the back of his neck and shoulders. “I’m gonna put the TENS unit on first, then I’ll do my thing starting up here, okay?”
Not knowing what that meant, he hummed by way of an answer and shut his eyes. He figured it was for another check-up thing, so steeled himself to get through it.
Their footsteps sounded around the bed, and they ended up behind him.
The mattress dipped when they knelt down on it. This time, the heat from their body warmed his whole back, but the closeness felt okay.
Then there was the sound of a container clicking open, and two, three, four soft things were pressed to his muscles on the uppermost part of this shoulders.
“These are electrodes. Tell me when you feel a tingly or prickly sensation.”
When he felt it, he inhaled in surprise.
“Now tell me just as the feelin’ goes away. These things are supposed to disrupt the nerve signals and reduce pain. I ain’ sure if it’s immediate or over time, but…”
The next part is what threw him.
And Y/N did it just so damn gently that he didn’t flinch at being touched, the way they cupped one hand over his forehead, and with the other, gently brushed their fingers along the back of his neck. They directed him to let his head and neck into their hand.
The angel Y/N next began to apply light pressure in circular motions, starting in between his shoulders and up to the base of his head. “Let me know if what I’m doin’ worsens it, or if it gets to be too much, okay?”
Best Daryl could do was hum in the affirmative; he couldn’t speak at that moment. The damned lump in his throat had bulged up again and then some.
It was the first time something like this was done for him, and he felt…he didn’t know how or exactly what he felt except that the pain was lessening.
So why in the hell was he about to cry?
The neck rub soon turned into a shoulder rub. And try as he might, tears started spilling out of his damn eyes. He was grateful Y/N couldn’t see them.
After however long it was that they eased his pain in silence, his friend then began to quietly give him the summary of what went on while he’d been conked out.
It was something, that Y/N cared enough to share boring stuff with him. He wanted them to didn’t mind hearing them yammer on and was grateful they
Apparently, the next prayer service thing was gonna happen tomorrow morning. “Maybe the Greenes will come, that would be nice. Patricia and Jimmy are comin’, I know that much.”
Carol wanted to cook dinner for everyone, maybe tomorrow or the next day. “Tomorrow, if Sophia’s back tomorrow, maybe the day after if she comes back the day after. W-We’ll see,” they told him.
A mixture of guilt and worry fought for dominance in his brain when Y/N snorted and shared, “Dude, not only did we both get stitched today, we both fainted. High-five for fainting twins! I forgot to drink enough water, can you believe?” They hummed and figured, “You prolly can.”
Y/N next told him how them, Glenn, the teenage boy Jimmy, the short-haired chick Maggie, and Baby Spice Beth played some board games together before heading off to sleep. “Beth won at Scrabble, she killed it. Babygirl knew how to use them tiles.”
During this part, they used both hands to do a swirling motion at his neck, and it was all he could do to not let out a sob of relief. “I did win the highest word score, though,” they sighed. “I kinda had to. Glenn started, um, earlier he decided he’d charge a quarter for whenever I talk too ‘hillbilly,’ so I felt like I had to prove a point.”
He was told that there were some new toothbrushes and shit from the pharmacy run the other day. “I cracked mine open today, ohh a new toothbrush feels so nice. Nothin’ like clean, flossed teeth.” Naturally, they next worried: “Dude, did somebody bring you your toothbrush? I’ll grab it for you tomorrow morning, just tell me where it is. I’m sorry, honey, you’re at our mercy and we forgot the basics. Wait, we gave you clean boxers, right?”
He was able to snort at that, hiding the fact that he was still blubbering like a colicky newborn.
Somehow, their talking about toothpaste veered into peanut butter, and Y/N, of course, made sure to knock him for not liking the stuff.
“That means you don’t eat peanut butter tomato sandwiches, Dary-bear. What on earth did you eat in the summertime if not those?” Which sounded like the nastiest combo, but their voice and their little chuckle was so goddamn soothing and warm. This was right when they’d started to use that minty muscle rub stuff and it felt so damned nice.
But when Y/N next hit the spot in between his shoulder blades that had been killing him, he finally and most definitely accidentally let out a sob like the little sissy lil bitch Darylina he was.
Y/N gasped and immediately stopped rubbing his shoulders, then bent around to look at his profile. “Hey,” they soothed.
“M’fine,” he croaked back, sniffling and wiping his eyes as he accidentally knocked off the oxygen tube.
He really didn’t know why he was crying. It was just a lot of touch he wasn’t used to, and a lot of…for fuck’s sake, he had friends who worried that much about him, went the extra mile, who goddamn massaged him now, prayed for him and all that? Even after he again didn’t find the girl today, after he’d made things worse by stealing and losing borrowing a horse without asking first. After he’d flat-out yelled at them earlier, scared them when they were injured and hurting.
The world had ended, yet here he was being treated better than when it was up and running.
It was a lot to take in, it was…fucking weird, for one thing.
Not that it was a…bad kind of weird, though, not at all. It was a good kind of weird, and it made the lump in his throat get even bigger.
When Y/N moved to get off the bed, he was urged to blurt out, “Don’t—please!” The feeling from earlier, the one where he felt naked, came back. But because Y/N felt safe, it didn’t stop him from all but begging, “Stay just for a little longer. Please. What you were, w-what you were doin’ helped.”
Please, angel.
It took several long moments of quiet before Y/N, sounding nervous, asked, “The spot between your shoulder blades, that was helpin’?”
“Mmhm,” he gulped.
They stayed quiet for several long moments, tucking the oxygen tubing behind his ears for him once he got the nose part back in. “Do you want quiet,” they hesitated, “or, um, f-for me to keep talking?”
Please talk, I like it when you talk. “Talk.”
____________________________
You
You adjust the sheet so it makes a U shape on his back, giving you access to the spot between his shoulders without uncovering his whole back. Just because you’ve seen it before doesn’t mean he’ll want you seeing it again.
With a little more muscle balm, you press both your thumbs on either side of his spine and fan them out. Up and down the edge of his shoulder blades you rub, then down and around the curvature of his ribs.
The trick is not straining your injured shoulder, so the angle has to be just right as you’re using it (or sticking to only using your good side). This was worth it, that mangy hick went against death way too many times for him to be left alone and in pain, awake by himself.
“I read in some article once how massages and stretches and stuff can release ‘buried emotion,’ they called it. I reckon it’s more the atypical stimuli, maybe some endorphins. Probably the simple relief of tension gettin’ undone, too.”
The intimacy of this is not lost on you, even is there’s nothing sexual about it. You are kneeling on a bed, giving a shoulder and neck massage to somebody shirtless. A somebody who, earlier today, made your stomach flutter and your chest tug in his direction. You’re also very aware of the warmth coming off his body and how physically near he is, but then again, this is a new experience for you, being so close to a guy like this. You’re gonna react more to the unfamiliar and the new.
But this is innocent, and it is helping him, so you’ll help.
____________________________
Him
The spot they just hit was so sore, a groan escaped his mouth before he could choke it down.
“The stuff I’m about to use on that area is peppermint oil, it’s different than the muscle balm,” Y/N murmured.
The small noise of a cap being twisted off came before the strong minty smell of it, and the spot that was so damn sore was slowly replaced by a smooth cooling sensation that eased the worst of the pain.
He sniffed as his tears finally began drying up. The soft lulling of Y/N’s voice telling him about a book calmed his thoughts, helped him zone out. Soon, his muscles began to feel heavy and tired instead of exhausted and aching. Y/N gently bent his head forward to stretch his neck muscles, slightly turning his head side to side.
And by the time his friend began to tell the story about how they learned to ride on their best friend’s motorcycle, Daryl was nodding off even though it was funny and he wanted to hear more.
Next thing he knew, the squishy things were being pulled off his shoulders and the mattress lightly jolted because Y/N had got off and was walking back around the bed. He heard them fussing with his pillows, and his chest tugged again.
First, they asked him if he needed the bathroom. He didn’t, so Y/N started to help him recline back, but that just made him freeze. “Gonna hurt yourself worse,” he muttered, eyeing Y/N’s upper arm wrapped to their torso. He tried settling backward by himself.
“Careful, careful,” Y/N hushed, using their good side to cradle his head and neck. The warmth from their body hovered over his chest when they laid him propped against the pillows. Especially warm was where his fingertips had grazed his friend’s forearm and waist as they helped him lay back and get comfortable.
After drinking water at their bidding, the sheet and quilt were pulled back over him. Almost immediately, his body grew heavy and his eyelids drooped.
____________________________
You
Daryl fell asleep faster than a milk drunk newborn after you pulled the comforter on him. It’s been so chilly all night, yet now you’re warm enough that you’ve unzipped your hoodie.
Massaging him was a small workout in itself so that warmed you up comfortably. But it was when you’d, y’know, supported him with your good arm to lay him back that you got a very warm flush. Now, it’s as if you can still feel the spots where his fingers bumped against you. Your forearm, your waist. It was unfamiliar touch, is all…well, it warmed you up, now you can sleep easier. A long night ain't so bad if one's warm and cozy.
Even if your mind is unnecessarily mulling over the veins in his arms, but maybe that’s just the phlebotomist in you. He has very…patent veins.
You tiptoe to your sleeping bag to check the timer under your pillow.
There’s another hour until it will go off again, meaning two and a half hours until you’ll switch with Carol.
You look back at Daryl. His breathing is regular and steady. It’s sweet, he’s got a foot sticking out of the bed. Though, you don’t have to look hard to make out a purple bruise on his big toe in what light there is in the room. You consider something: if your own feet are tired after today, imagine how his must be after climbing the ridge, falling, and climbing again.
And it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do, you’re not gonna fall asleep anytime soon…
So, you take the peppermint oil and carefully sit yourself once more on the edge of the mattress. He stirs, but doesn’t wake. With some of the oil on your hands, you take his foot and begin to massage it.
He stirs again, and you’re thinking he’s about to protest.
It’s not what you’re expecting at all to hear him mumble, “Thank you, angel...” before promptly drifting back asleep.
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters!)
When -- directly after Scary as a sleepy kitten. We're back to season 2, slowpokes. We had taken a brief trip to pre-season 9 for Still beating
Is there a picture of baby Carl at the end as a prize? -- yes, just as Dale describes it to you!
What -- Andrea and Dale thought you and Daryl were a thing? Lol. But like why are you so defensive about it? While also being defensive about the mangy hick, oh, this is confusing...
Perspective -- 2nd person (you)
Pronouns - nada
Who -- You, Andrea, Papa Dale, and Glenn. Daryl's sleeping, he's concussed and fell down a ridge twice with a bolt hole in him, he needs his rest.
How long is this one? -- shorter, about 10 minutes!
TWs -- a few cusses, and reference to Carol's spousal abuse
Reading assignments -- How's your head? Part 2, then souls stripped bare if you want more emotional context, as well as Invisible tugging strings Part 1 but especially -> Part 2 , then Spell your last name, please. , He hasn't been himself, and Scary as a sleepy kitten.
All that for reading assignments?? -- reading is healthy, y'all :P
Choose your fighter: The Full + Official Masterlist vs Chronological Slowpoke Chapters Only (reading them in publishing order as opposed to chronological order is recommended)
have fun and happy reading!
“Ah, the culprit behind Andrea’s little conclusion. How are you?”
Dale finishes matching a pair of socks as he responds with a quiet chuckle, “Just fine, I hope. I see now that the conclusion caused some…offense?”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. H, you meant nothin’ by it,” you play off, and start to help his sort through the pile of clean, dry socks.
“‘Meant nothing by it’ implying there was some offense taken.”
You tuck in your lip, and meant to return eye contact, but you’re still feeling strange about the whole mix-up. With the simple words, “nazi-bike,” you tell him what you consider a fair reason to have taken some offense.
---------------------
20 minutes ago
“Y/N, I didn’t realize,” Andrea says, slowly walking beside you.
“Realize what?”
“You two.”
“Me, too? What’d I do?” Is she talking about how you’ve got the medical wrap on your upper arm, maybe? “Do you mean this?” you question, looking down at your shoulder.
She peers at you, head tilted to the side.
“You and Daryl,” she softly clarifies. “It was Dale who wondered first, after you had to excuse yourself.”
Me and Daryl? “What’d we do?” Perhaps she's referring to the search today? Andrea isn’t one to not speak her mind, you wonder why she’s not being more succinct. She doesn't know about you having shot that guy. Dale has an idea, but he's tight-lipped about it.
“So, you and he…?” she trails off.
?
So, you start to fill her in about the search. “Before Daryl found the doll, we’d—”
—OH WAIT, now you get it!
---------------------
Once you figured it out, your hands were raised in innocence and you kept your voice lowwww. “Ain’t nothing romantic happened between us two.”
And you weren’t fully sure why you were going into defensive mode so hard, either, but there you went. “C’mon, Andy, there’s a fuckin’ nazi symbol on his drug dealing, motorcycle gang bike,” you’d grit, doing your best to play if cool regardless of how weirdly defensive you’d gotten.
Forcing a smile to cover up for that fact that you licked your teeth in annoyance, you finished up, “He’s my friend, but that right there would be a deal breaker off the bat for aught else. And besides, back at the quarry, we noticed he didn’t seem into people.”
“I’m not entirely sold on that. Maybe, it’s simply that he’s shy and careful and not a pig like his brother was.”
Andrea then had peered at you as if she could see something you couldn’t, which disturbed and annoyed and for some reason thrilled you even more.
You thought about it, and supposed that he did seem to blush that time Amy was headlighting after the first rainstorm at the camp. A squall had come out of nowhere. Last time she ever wore that shirt without a tank top underneath.
Anyway, Daryl had immediately turned his head away, in fact, as opposed to (Merle, obviously, but also) even Glenn, who’d frozen when he’d seen. Amy didn’t know who’d been gaping, but you’d been on the hunt for anyone objectifying your new friend, so had been darting your eyes around like a cat getting ready to pounce, and took inventory of every glance.
That Daryl turned his head so readily was the main reason you’d felt safe enough to ask if him if he’d teach you how to hunt, in all honesty…
“It was his brother’s bike, not his,” Andrea next stated, very like the way older siblings will talk down to younger ones. “Merle was the head, and the dealer. Would you want to be held accountable for what your brother does, his choices?”
That simple reminder made your bow your head, and you could hear your pulse begin to thrum in your ears. You wouldn’t want to be held to Shane’s choices and actions. You still couldn’t (can’t) wrap your head around the fact that he’d just flirted with Lori. And kept flirting after she’d clearly been alarmed by it.
“Something Merle once said made it sound like Daryl wasn’t a big part of the gang,” Andy went on.
However, you got even more defensive at what you were taking as insistence of Dale and Andrea’s little conclusion. “And? He still rode or, or at least hung with them. He still wears the cut sometimes.” 'Sometimes' meaning that spate of a few days when he was particularly sad about Merle...
“‘Cut?’” she repeated, then remembered, “Oh, I remember learning that from Sons of Anarchy, it’s the um, that’s the Boy Scout vest that bikers wear, right?”
Ha. You were cracking up despite yourself, that was funny. Boy Scout vest.
“As for the bike,” Andrea added mildly, “painting over that symbol isn’t on his radar. I mean, routine hygiene isn’t on his radar.”
Nope, you weren’t defensive at all. “…So he’s grimy and desensitized to a nazi symbol. It’s a match.”
With a tut very-like what your eldest sister would make, she stated, “I didn’t remember what the symbol on the bike stood for at first, and I'm a civil rights lawyer. I thought they were stylized lightning bolts.” You heard her breathe deeply as she rested her arms on the livestock fence. “The symbol, the one on Merle’s bike, what’s it mean again?”
“Shoots-stah-full.” You’re bad at pronouncing it and were feeling embarrassed, so spoke it shyly. “SS is easier to say.”
“They were the secret police?” she checked.
“The secret police was the gestapo, the SS were another sort of special branch. Über-jarheads, I guess.”
“See? I only really remembered the swastika as being a nazi symbol, until you and Dale were talking about the symbol on the bike. It’s not unreasonable to think some things in Daryl’s education were forgotten or missed, too.”
That was the point in the conversation when the private knowledge of him having gotten lost for 9 days, as a young child, and without anyone looking for him, slapped you in the metaphorical face. The vivid, awful, and oh-so-fresh memory of seeing his scarred back punched you in the metaphorical gut.
Why did you react so strongly to her assumption in the first place? It’s not a big deal. You’d have probably assumed the same. Like, for goodness sake, you were the one who couldn’t keep the pet names for him from going on parade little over an hour ago. You'd cupped his cheek and kissed his forehead in relief that he was alive!
Either way, there was a (…sane?) inner battle in your head between being offended at Andrea and Dale’s conclusion versus being offended at your own negative reaction to it.
Bitch, he tossed the ‘hard stuff’ this morning, obviously he isn’t a user.
Still ran with the dealers, still was complacent and complicit with it all. And think about how cruelly he insulted you earlier today, how scary he was? You were expecting it to turn into his backhand. It’s something that was plainly done to him, you think he’s unlearned that yet? No, because you remembered how he grabbed you by your arm and dragged you back at the house until you cussed him out.
But then he apologized. Then, when you needed help, he carried you gently and made sure it wasn’t hurting you. You saw how careful he was being, and he isn’t good with touch.
Then he stole Mr. Greene’s horse instead of just asking like a normal person.
He also gave Carol that flower and told her the story to go with it, and meant it.
Before drinking about four beers last night and was hardly buzzed from it.
He carried, buried, and mourned that family of strangers with you today, he’s not some selfish deadbeat, Y/N!
Well, he chain smokes and drives a nazi bike!
And still almost died today three times to give the group—to give Carol—concrete proof that her baby girl’s been near.
Fine! Explain away the r-a-c-i-s-m.
That mangy hick saved Glenn’s life, he saved T-Dog’s life twice. He gave Jacqui extra root beer when she said she loved it, helped the Morales kids learn to throw a punch (and a kick). Y/N, he’s clearly doing some kind of weeding of the bad stuff in him and letting good things take their place, idiot, are you stu—
“Y/N. It wasn’t an attack on you, or a judgment. Amy told me how,” Andy paused to think of a good verb, “discerning you are when it comes to things like that. How strong your boundaries are. And how hesitant you’ve been to enter into a relationship for those reasons.”
She was diplomatic and tactful, you were grateful. You’d have just said ‘old-fashioned, kinda scared, comparatively prudish.’ Lol.
Crossing her arms as she walked, she then drove home, “Maybe I would have trusted your decision, if there was a ‘you two.’”
A slightly stammered “Okay,” was the best you could do right in terms of responding. Let’s be real, sentences aren’t your strong suit on a good day, never mind today.
Andrea stuck her hands into her belt loops and she ambled alongside the fence. You followed, looking out at the cows. One of them had twin calves.
“You gave him the benefit of the doubt before any of us,” she reminded you. “Are you backtracking?”
Your voice cracked when you tried to insist, “I ain’t backtracking on that, it’s j-just been a long day.”
“It’s been something else,” Andrea softly agreed. Her pace slowed a little and she placed her hand on your back as she continued toward the nearest cow field. “I saw Carol washing your stuff. Where’d the bloodstains come from?”
You shrugged. “My stitches ripped.” Ohh damn it, you said it out loud. “Wait, Andy, don’t—please don’t let Shane find out,” came out of your mouth in such a desperate tone of voice that you couldn’t not see a red flag.
“Oh, I won’t.” Andrea’s lips pursed, and she put a hand on her hip. “He’s been acting up.”
One word for it. You closed your eyes, and mumbled, “Thank you. He has been.”
“It doesn’t seem like you to hide stuff from him.”
Hide stuff? “No, it’s the…” After inwardly tugging the halyard to get that red flag down, you give up. Let it fly; you were hiding stuff from your brother, plain fact. Still are. For now, at least.
Andrea said nothing more about it. Again, you were grateful. You also felt stupid.
You stood there in silence for a few minutes, listening to the breeze, the mooing, the birds chirping, the cicadas buzzing.
Once the sun was halfway set, she lead the way back.
“At any rate, back to what we were discussing,” she relaxed her position and gave you something of a teasing smirk. “T-Dog is convinced Daryl’s a good guy, too, so what does that tell you?”
“That Teddy’s a saint,” you answered quietly, mouth twisting into an embarrassed grin. You may or may not sometimes remind her of what a catch you think T-Dog is combined with the fact that he’s single and in her age range. “Andy, where was all this goin’?”
“I have no idea, at first I thought I was being supportive,” she chuckled. “I guess: Daryl is proving to be a different man than we thought. And I’d say you know that better than anyone here.” She inhaled, then made a slight groan. “And, well, I did just shoot him, so maybe I’m biased.”
You held back a giggle. “So you’re tryin’ to set Daryl up to make amends?”
“Mmhm,” she sassed back. “Guess I’ll need a more willing victim.”
“Understood, let’s find Carol, she's half in love with him after today.”
“Perfect, let's get her. She’s probably hanging laundry,” was her initial sarcastic agreement. After a few steps in silence, she grew serious. “Carol needs to learn her worth before we can let a man near near her again. Especially one like Daryl.”
The first half of her statement sent you in for a hug. But the second sentence in her statement put you right back on defense and simultaneous offense. What came out of your mouth as you sought clarification, however, was unproductive. “Seriously?”
Per usual, Andrea remained unruffled. She held a hand up. “Based on what I know, your bar is high enough to do pull-ups on. Now, you’d help hoist someone up to your bar—and would kick off anyone who tried to lower it.” She gave you a pointed look. “Carol’s bar wasn’t only low, Y/N, it was taken down and used to beat her.”
The mental image struck right in the gut.
Blindly, you followed her past the grove of trees where Otis’ cairn lay, so offered a quick blessing in your head for him.
She turned back to look at you. “Do you understand where I was coming from, Y/N?”
You had to swallow some of the emotion down first. “I think so.”
“You and him, I’d be fine with, because your bar is set high and firm. It would imply good things about Daryl.”
After a sniff, you thanked her, that was a very generous compliment. And unfortunately, unable to not be a weirdo, you mumbled this dumb comment: “I can’t be hoistin’ nobody up until my darn shoulder is healed.”
----------------------
Now
“The motorcycle was Merle’s,” Dale lightly defends. Same response as Andrea, but with more of an understanding tone of voice. He was raised Jewish and lost family during the Holocaust, you know that.
Still, why didn't he react with more gusto, then? You hum and end up matching a sock somewhat aggressively. Which is not a sentence you’d ever have imagined thinking.
“Y/N, you can’t fault the man for accepting his dead brother's gas-friendly, easily repairable and reliable mode-of-transport that can go places bigger vehicles cannot. Him being able to go ahead and scope out the roads has been a boon. The emotional connection to the bike in itself would be understandable.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighs. “My first thought was one of…how to describe it, uh, it was an...” he considers for a moment. “I suppose the best word is ‘confidence’ in Daryl’s character, if you had taken a shine to him.”
“‘Taken a shine to him?’”
“You know, a fondness for each other.”
“A 'fondness?'”
“Though I suppose the camaraderie that you two have is a commendation for him in itself,” he went on, eyeing you with something of an exasperated look. Good humored, though.
You scratch your nose. “I think we all have some kind of camaraderie or, y’know, a ‘shine’ with him after today.” It would be impossible not to. “To be fair, I couldn’t stop callin’ him pet names earlier. There’ve been a lot of up and downs we’ve gone through together the past few days, I’m not lookin’ too deep into it.” And you were merely so relieved that he was alive after getting grazed by that bullet, which is why you pressed your forehead to his and gave it a kiss.
“And he was injured, a circumstance which tends to encourage terms of endearment,” he kindly agreed. “Nothing wrong with that, kiddo. And there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that he’s not so bad.”
Nodding, Dale points his finger after matching another sock. “For me, what solidified it was when he found out that T-Dog had the blood infection.” He pressed his thumb and pointer finger together. “The man immediately gave us those antibiotics, as well as some painkillers.”
The recollection of that blessed relief trickled from your belly down to your toes and fingertips. And hearing that it had been done ‘immediately’ sent a tightness to your throat. You swallowed.
“However, it was before that, at the quarry, when I really started to trust that the, uh,” he raised his brows, then grinned briefly. “That the ‘first impression’ wasn’t accurate in several ways. One, I imagine you will remember, it was a few days prior to the supply run to the city. The last supply run, as it were.”
You nod. You’d been barred from going due to an uptick in getting migraines the previous two-ish weeks. Must’ve been the barometric pressure or something.
“Daryl had been looking for you, found fresh tracks close to the campsite, if I recall.”
Just then, Glenn walks over with his mouth full of something—oh snap, he’s got a container of honey wheat pretzels. Yay!
He plunks it in the middle of you and Dale and begins to help with the sock-sorting and laundry folding.
Like a starving Dickensian orphan, you zero in on the pretzels and quickly stuff a few too many into your mouth. Glenn finds this very funny, cracks up, and now you’re trying not to snarf as you desperately try to chew and swallow.
“I gave half my supper away,” you do your best to enunciate as you crunch.
“Glad you’re doing better after passing out earlier.”
You press a finger to your lips and subtly shake your head, just in case your brother would somehow overhear it.
“Anyway,” Dale gets back to it, with a handful of the pretzels for his own, “after I explained to him that you were indisposed, he seemed irked, wandered off. Some time later, however, he came back to me with a sports drink in his hand, asking if you’d left your tent yet. It seems that he intended the beverage to go to you.”
The memory kicks in and, mid-motion and mid-chew, you stop reaching to grab the mate to the sock in your hand. Another sensation spreads through your belly, a nice but nervous one. Your eyes flit up at Dale, who paused to take a drink from his water bottle.
“I hadn’t seen you or Amy leave your tent at that point, so let him know,” he narrated, capping his bottle again. “Except, on his way back to his and Merle’s spot, he slowed and crouched to look under the truck. Then, he held out the bottle.” Dale next makes a chuckle that probably qualifies as a ‘guffaw,’ it’s a proper old man belly-laugh. “And to my quite vocal alarm, a skinny, pale little arm popped out from underneath and took it!”
The name “Gollum?” is the unfortunately first thing that enters into your head and, yes, you say it out loud…but it’s cool, because Glenn happens to say at the same time, “Like Sméagol.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“Look who’s talking, dork,” he pokes right back.
“My mind went to the two children hiding behind the Ghost of Christmas Present’s cloak, personally,” Dale muses, then continues the story. “Daryl wandered off on his way after that, but, naturally, I hopped down from the RV to see who on earth was under there." He lifts a shoulder. "I bend down to see who but our young Carl! The boy had already drunk half the bottle, said he felt much better for having done so. It seems he’d felt sick before and crawled under the truck to escape from the sun.”
Daryl gave your Carl a gatorade, too, and said not a word about it.
Good Moses, just when you thought you’d tamped down any notion of irrational affectionate feelings toward that mangy hick...
“With that, little Luis came dragging Miranda over with a cup of water—Miranda had been watching the boys while Lori was out foraging for mushrooms, Eliza must have been with Sophia and Carol.” Another sip from his water bottle. “Mmm. Those mushrooms were a treat,” he said mainly to himself. "Y/N, he found you later and gave you the beverage before you washed up, if I'm not mistaken? He came by with another bottle, I directed him to the quarry lake after seeing you head down with a wash bucket."
You nod. Was it obvious that you flushed when he told you the story?
Because you feel flushed, and that’s with the cool breeze outside this evening. You fold a shirt. Some undies. Match another pair of socks…then you figure you should say something, you’ve been too quiet and Dale is looking at you expectantly. “C-Carl does have a way of, uh, slippin’ out of sight.”
“Like a hobbit.”
“Just like a hobbit, Glenn, the boy coulda burgled us blind.”
Your friend remains mock-serious. “He still might.”
“He’s a tricksy one.” And with that, you take more pretzels. Maybe if you feed the butterflies in there, they’ll get tired and nap. Or, if you stuff enough into your belly, there won’t be enough room for them to fly.
“Hey, saw Shane’s setting up his own tent,” your friend mentions.
“Mm. Privacy will be nice.” You kept your face and voice nonchalant, except for maybe searching a little too intently for the matching sock that was plainly in front of yo—owww, you reached too far with your bad arm.
When you found out from Lori last night about the new baby and who the biological father potentially might could be, it’d felt like the seed of dread that had taken root in you however many months back, regarding Shane, had blossomed.
Now, after you caught him flirting with a very unreceptive and visibly shaken Lori, it feels like the plant shot up and was now pushing against your insides. It’s a wonder the irrational butterflies in your stomach even have room.
“That sound good, Y/N?”
“Huh?”
Glenn nudges you with the side of his foot. “Can you join?”
“Join what?”
“I told you, head was in the clouds,” Dale commented, kindly razzing you.
“Jimmy and I are playing board games later, we want you to come. Beth will be there, too. And maybe Maggie? I-I don’t know…” His cheeks turn purple-red. “Sound good?”
“Yeah, sounds real good. On the porch?”
“Yup.”
“Cool. I’ll be right in the house tonight, anyhow.”
“No way?”
“Way. Daryl needs overnight supervision, I think Carol might will be helping, too?”
Dale looks up from his lap. “Oh, did he enjoy the spam and eggs that she made for him?”
“Not sure, he was asleep last I knew.”
“Ah, that’s right, yes,” he remembered. “Well, maybe in that case she’ll have the pleasure of watching him eat and enjoy. I tell you, it smelled heavenly. She was very intent on making something special for him.”
The first half of what you said was totally innocuous, if maybe on the wishy-washy side.“Who could blame her? After today, she’s probably half in love with the guy.”
But then you followed it up with, “Who isn’t?” and you knew right then that you’d misspoken.
Dale’s made a point to keep his eyebrows level, as if that would help him hide his surprise and suppressed grin better.
But Glenn was under no such pretense, and your best friend dead-ass coughed his mouthful of pretzel.
“Dude—” you go to say.
He held up his hands after getting the pretzel bits off them. “I didn’t say anything.”
You held up yours, too. “I was bein’ objective.”
“Okay, Amy,” he said regarding your choice of word. Amy liked the word ‘objective.’
“Calling me that’s a compliment.”
“We are all objectively in love with Daryl?” he repeated. “Isn’t that a little…wait. Dude, are you saying you—”
“—It was hyperbole.”
“But you’re not, like, do you like him?”
“Now, Glenn,” Dale starts.
That surge of both self-defense that people would think you’d be into a grating racist or that one would be into you collided and was catalyzed with protectiveness against the poor man. That wonderful sumbitch has been on a solid redemption arc, let anybody try to deny it. “Define ‘like.’”
“Like like.”
“Bless your heart, no!” What is with people today? “However, I want you to think back over how he was when we done first met that mangy hick, to today, in terms of his behavior. Try and make like he ain’t grown. Don’t you love a good redemption arc?”
Glenn considered it. “Fair.”
The awful thought that Glenn might not believe you and might think less of you only worsens the mosh pit that is your stomach right now. “I’m gonna, um, g-go grab some of my stuff, bring it inside.”
“Wait, bumpkin, I wasn’t trying to, like—I meant it more as, um,” he can’t seem to get the wording right.
You’re making it worse, man. “Dude, it’s cool, you didn’t mean nothing by it.”
“But like—”
“—Glenn, I’ma start chargin’ a quarter for you using too many ‘likes’ per sentence.”
“Perfect, I’ll charge you for talking too hillbilly.”
Eh. You reckon admit you’ve been speaking a lot more twangy now than you had been at the quarry camp. There’d just been so many new people, you’d toned it down. Maybe being around more folk people who talk like you is why you’ve let it fly. “It’s a deal.”
“Good — you owe a quarter for saying ‘when we done first met’ Daryl,” he races to say.
“And you owe me one for how many likes you done sprinkled durin’ this here conversat—shoot! Did that count?”
“Yup.”
Dale, entertained by the looks of it, cuts in, “See, this is why I’ve been thinking that you two had a fondness for each other.”
“Aw, hear that, buttface?” you giggle, folding the last undershirt from the pile.
“Fondness.” He makes an exaggerated curious face and strokes what would be there if he had a mustache.
“You two expect me to believe there wasn’t fondness between you two?” Dale remarks with a bit of a tut thrown in.
“There still is, it’s just different now,” you insist. And immediately hop into gear to (gently) bust your friend’s balls. “Especially now that Glenny-boy here’s got his eye on a certain mystery lady.”
He’s right there with you. “And now that Y/N’s apparently hopelessly in love with Daryl.”
“There’s such fondness,” you barely manage to say without laughing, as much as it makes your newly stitched abdomen ache.
Dale sighs and throws back a gulp of his water as if it were something stronger. “Glenn, just tread lightly with the certain mystery lady, is all I ask. And Y/N, kiddo,” he looks at you. And winks? “I trust you completely with Daryl.”
“What?” Glenn protests, to which you just slap your leg and snicker “Ha!”
“If between you, there ever was a…” Dale pauses long enough for you to see the twinkle in his eye. “Fondness.”
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters!)
I’m finally back and able to read my favorite stories again! I love love love that this series, while being a Daryl slow burn, is also SO focused on the found family. Losing Dale will kill me. Haha
Jason wants you to meet his brother (Dick) and his best friend (Roy). As if that wasn't enough of a bomb, doubt starts to creep into your mind at the realization that your curves would make you stand out like a sore thumb in the Wayne family. Jason proves you wrong by taking you to a bar and letting Dick and Roy walk right into a trap.
"Hey, it's not that big of a deal-... yeah, no, it's... it's a big deal." Jason winced, brows furrowing while he flexed his hands around his mug.
Coffee- of course it was, though it was far too late in the day for even more caffeine, or so you'd scolded him once again.
You were staring at him, slack jawed, eyes widened just slightly as a brief huff of disbelief left your lips.
"Jay, you just told me you want me to meet your family. In what world is that not a big deal?!" You exclaimed, your tone a little more screeching than you'd liked.
He sighed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly, his eyes turned away as a frown etched itself onto his features.
"It's just Roy and Dick, s'not really meeting my family." He mumbled, toying with the handle of his cup, scratching his nails against the ceramic.
"Look, you don't have to, alright? I just thought-... I guess I don't really know what I thought."
Your heart ached. You've never seen him so defeated. So utterly downtrodden. His back slouched, head hung low while his gaze was focused on anything but you.
That heartbreaking glimmer in his eyes that never failed to make your own water.
Gently, you pried the mug from his grip and set it aside, taking his hands in yours.
The action made Jason avert his attention back to you, looking like a kicked puppy.
"I do want to meet them. I really, really do. Because they are your family, whether you want to admit it or not." You smiled softly, watching as he lit up immediately, a huff of relief making his chest feel lighter.
"I'm just nervous. And worried, I suppose? What they'll think, you know. I'm sure that I'm not exactly what they imagine when they think of your girlfriend." You chuckled nervously.
Jason, on the other hand, looked confused. Eyes narrowed, You-can-see-the-gears-turning-but-nothing-is-happening confused.
"What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
You cackled at the expression on his face and the goofy tone of his voice.
"Okay, let me put it like this. You're family is a bunch of buff, unfairly jacked and lean super geniuses. Not to mention how good the girls look. And Kori? She's a literal space princess! I just feel like I don't quite fit in. Can you imagine someone like me at one of those Galas? They would lose their minds-"
"'Someone like you? You mean a gorgeous, beautiful, stunning plump lady with a brain so big I sometimes wonder how your neck is still intact? You mean someone like that? Because we could use more of that, trust me." He chuckled dryly.
"Also, you're hot as fuck." He deadpanned, blankly staring at you.
You playfully rolled your eyes, tracing the space between his knuckles.
"A. I know, B. you're biased. I mean, they all probably expect you to date some super model." You explained, sighing.
You knew your worth. You knew that you were beautiful and perfect just they way you are, even beginning to love yourself.
But when challenged with a family full of hotties like the Wayne's plus Gotham's elite, it was hard not to feel just a little out of place with all your curves, bumps and pudge.
Jason's lips were pressed together in a thin line before he inhaled sharply and pinned you down with his gaze.
"Alright, first of all, they have no expectation of who I'd date because I was fuckin' dead, and when I came back my only interest was revenge and smashing peoples heads in. If anything they thought I would die alone."
The bluntness of his words and the expecting raise in his brows had you shell shocked, and pleasantly surprised.
"You're making problems for yourself that don't exist, ladybird." His tone turned soft as did his eyes, enveloping your heart in a blanket of warmth.
"So, respectfully, you don't have a point." He concluded for you, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied noise.
"Huh, I guess I don't." You breathed out, a smile spreading on your face while Jason already sported a wicked grin.
"There ya go. Now, can I brag about my hot, smart and curvaceous girlfriend to my dickhead brother and loser best friend? Because, sweetheart, you're one hell of a woman." He smirked, leaning in to get you all hot and bothered by his proximity.
You bit your lip, trying to act unaffected by his antics.
"Okay, fine," You groaned, feigning annoyance, "But only because I love you." You finished, failing to hide the smile on your face.
In one swift motion, Jason grabbed you and pulled you into his lap, your back pressed firmly to his chest. You let out a startled noise that morphed into a laugh.
"See? Just had to butter you up a bit, pretty girl." He nosed at your neck, a grin showing off his pearly whites while his arms were snaked around your middle.
"What can I say? You have a way with words." You smirked, looking back at him over your shoulder.
Jason chuckled and turned you in his lap, making you face him.
"I do have a very skilled tongue, as you know." He winked at you, kneading the fat of your hips in his hands.
You groaned and rolled your eyes before grinning and pinching his cheek.
"So, you up for tomorrow? It'll just be at a shitty bar somewhere. They won't judge you, I promise. And if they do, they can take it up with Fuck-" Jason raised one arm and flexed his bicep, "and You." With a wide smile, he lifted his other arm, and you watched as his muscles practically inflated.
You giggled, squeezing his arm with an approving nod of your head.
"I'll be there. I just have some errands to run, so I'll meet you at the place, yeah?" You replied sweetly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.
Jason's face scrunched up at your kiss, making him look like an adorable little bunny.
"Sounds good, ladybird." He replied, smiling.
There was something hiding beneath that smile, though. Something sinister. Mischievous. You squinted your eyes at him.
"... What are you up to?" You asked suspiciously, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Who? Me? I'm not up to anything." He replied sweetly, batting his lashes at you.
"Mhm." You hummed, searching for a hint in his teal eyes.
You could see his resolve cracking, his gaze breaking from your for just a split second. You continued to stare at him. Jason cleared his throat and gave you a tight smile before striking.
Quickly, he pushed you off his lap, making you stumble to the floor of your living room on shaky legs before he lowered himself to the ground, hooking one arm around your knees and hoisting you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
You screeched, digging your hands into his hoodie so you wouldn't fall.
"What the fuck! What are you doing?!" You screamed, cracking into a smile when you heard Jason cackle mischievously.
He moved quickly, rounding the couch and any obstacles with ease.
"Well, you see, I've been stumblin' over my words all day. Care to help me loosen up my tongue at bit, doll?" He grinned, hurrying to your bedroom.
"Jason!-"
Your voice burst with a laugh before you were interrupted by a loud crack when his hand met the back of your thigh.
You gasped, quickly followed by a slap against his clothed back.
"Remember that name, angel. I have a feeling you'll be using it a lot tonight."
.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.
"So, she coming?" Roy asked curiously, settling back into the deep-set lounge with his drink.
The redhead was seated in the middle, between the brothers, earning a shove and an annoyed eyeroll from Jason.
Dick snickered, taking a sip of his beverage.
"Why are you so obsessed with my girl, dude?"
"We just wanna make sure she's real. I'd hate to break you out of Arkham again, little wing." Dick grinned from behind the rim of his glass.
"Wow." Roy clicked his tongue, nodding along to the diabolical comment.
Jason only stared at his brother blankly, blinking once, then twice.
"Too far?" Dick asked, wincing slightly.
"Whaddya think, dickhead?" Roy sighed sharply.
"You should be so glad that I'm in therapy. Otherwise I woulda wiped the floor with you right now." Jason mumbled, taking a swig of his drink.
"It's the Piña Coladas talking." His brother chuckled awkwardly.
Jason just snorted, leaning against the soft cushions.
"To answer your question, yes, she's coming." Roy lit up, excitedly setting his beer down on the table.
"Really? So we get to meet the fabled ladybird, huh?" The redhead grinned, bumping his shoulder with Jason's.
He only shook his head and playfully rolled his eyes at Roy.
"Why didn't she come with you, then?" Dick asked, brows furrowed.
"Had to stop by the craft store." Jason replied simply, finishing his drink.
"Oh, so it's like that? You really did get yourself a pretty little thing, didn't you?" Dick smirked, watching as Jason chuckled in response.
"Dickhead's right. They not only make pieces of art, they are ones." Roy agreed.
Dick scoffed at the nickname.
"She's pretty alright. Looks like she belongs in the Louvre." Jason responded with a smile, then immediately regretting that decision when Roy and Dick began to look like the cheshire cat.
"Ooooo, Jay's in looooove." Roy teased with a chuckle.
"Did little wing find an even littler wing? That's adorable." Duck sniffled, wiping a faux tear from his lashline.
Jason grumbled in response, flipping them off.
"At least I didn't cheat on my girl." He mumbled sharply, hiding behind his second -or third?- glass of the night.
Dick's smile fell and he was reduced to a muttering mess, pouting like a child.
"God, you guys are actual children. Can I have one night-"
they both glanced at Roy when he stopped speaking, his lips parted as he stared at the entrance of the bar.
"You're lettin' flies in, carrot top." Jason said blankly.
Roy let out a low whistle, loosely gesturing to the bar before a smirk cracked on his face.
"Look at that piece of Eye Candy over there."
Dick followed his line of sight.
"Fuck me." He cursed, eyes wide.
"Look at those hips, jesus-"
"Now that's a woman."
Jason was mid sip, uninterested in this mystery woman ordering a drink at the bar. But, he glanced up anyway, only to choke on his drink when his eyes landed on you.
He sputtered, coughing as he felt the alcohol go up his nose.
"Woah, she got you good, didn't she?" Roy teased with a laugh, patting his back.
"Yep.." Jason croaked out, holding back a laugh.
"I'm telling ladybird." Dick said quickly.
Snitch.
"When will she be here anyway? It's been a while." He questioned, pulling up his sleeve to take a look at his watch.
"Soon, soon.." Jason replied, clearing his throat.
"Man, she could sit on me, and I'd thank her. And that rack-"
Roy continued letting his eyes trail over your body.
As amusing as Jason found this little misunderstanding, he couldn't help but grind his teeth and clench his fists.
Meanwhile, Dick delivered a slap to the back of Roy's head.
"Pervert! You don't talk about women like that." He scolded the redhead.
"Says you! As if you don't wanna be suffocated by those thighs or-or knock out on that tummy, I know you do!" Roy said sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Dick.
"Of course I do, but I didn't say it out loud, now did I?" He replied in a condescending tone.
"You fucking-"
"Oh, look, she's approaching us." Jason said nonchalantly, leaning back into the cushions with a grin, watching as the petty bickering between his brother and best friend stopped immediately.
"I call dibs! I saw her first." Roy said quickly, straightening his posture and trying to look unbothered while you approached.
"God fucking dammit." Dick cursed, being left to grumble with his Piña Colada.
He looked at Jason, who was comfortably leaned back with a smirk.
"How are you so chill about this?!" Dick asked irritated.
"You'll see." Jason grinned.
You walked towards them with a smile, the drink you'd just ordered at the bar in your hand. Roy put up his most charming face and quickly cleared his throat.
"Hello there, sweethea-"
his entire face dropped when you placed a hand on Jason's shoulder and pressed a kiss to his lips. His hands instinctively went to rest on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze.
"Hi, baby." You greeted sweetly.
"Hey there, ladybird." Jason grinned, glancing at Roy and Dick.
The redheads jaw was on the floor, speechless while his gaze flitted between you and his best friend. Dick was just as shocked, but quickly broke out of it.
"THAT’S LADYBIRD?!" He yelled, earning harsh stares from other guests.
Dick quieted down with an apologetic smile and leaned closer to Jason.
"You fucking asshole! Why didn't you do anything? You let us say all those things-" at the realization Dick went pale.
"He's gonna beat our asses." Roy mumbled, still staring at you and Jason.
"... Fuck."
You just stood there dumbfounded while Jason had a grin on his face that made a shiver run down Roy's spine.
"What things?" You asked, you brows furrowed in confusion.
Jason pulled you into his lap, resting one of his hands on your thigh.
"Don't worry about it, angel." He said softly, pecking your cheek.
"How the hell did you end with such a charity case as Jason?" Roy asked bluntly, slumped in his seat, defeated.
"Excuse me?" You sputtered with a scoff.
"That's a lot of nerve coming from someone looking like an affair baby." You shot back.
Dick burst out laughing, Jason cackling along side him while Roy only stared at you.
"And she's feisty? Fuuuuuuck.." He whined.
"Nice to meet you, ladybird." Dick gave you a friendly smile and nod, still wiping the tears from his eyes.
You returned the smile before leaning in to whisper into Jason's ear.
"Is the rest of your family also like this?"
"Like what?"
"Loudmouth assholes." You replied, staring straight at Roy who looked like you just slapped his mother.
Jason laughed, throwing his head back when he saw Roy's face.
"Ah, no. Some of them are quiet assholes."
Dick scoffed, immediately defending himself and his siblings with big hand gestures.
You chuckled as you watched.
"Don't be sad, carrot top," Jason began, giving Roy's shoulder a squeeze, "You couldn't handle her if you tried."
a/n: simply, i wrote a lot and i didn’t wanna release it in parts, so i squeezed the entire fic here. I’ve been having fun writing small excerpts and then they turn into full fics. Jason deserves all the love, so i focused on a neighbors to lovers? No mention of vigilante stuff, but tons of domesticity. With some mentions of big brother Dick (i’m a firm believer that he’s the number one supporter of Jason and just wants the best for him), a bit of steaminess if u squint, and a very devoted Jason. leave me any comments if your comfortable sharing because i wanna know what u guys think XD and if you were crying screaming sliding down the wall like i was (also despite me still being in my repenting era, i wanted to release this as an early apology cause i wanna write another angsty drabble so maybe…maybe not look forward to that) ENJOY (link to the work before this one here)
word count: 7.1k
tags: pining, tons of fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, heartfelt confessions, big brother dick shenanigans
When you got your first two-bedroom apartment, you always thought the dream would only be possible with a roommate. You didn’t have much money during college and transitioning into a full-time job didn’t allow you to freely spend outside of necessities and rent.
But you did it. You got two bedrooms and you didn’t initially know what to do with the extra room. A hobby space, a library, a guest room, or an office? There were too many possibilities.
This was your space, so you combined it all. A basket to keep all of your current craft obsessions next to a bean bag, two full shelves of books from your childhood to your university years, and a desk in the corner to write. It was everything you hoped for. A spot to leave work out of, to decompress and remember the things that made you happy.
You were proud you did it on your own. You could enjoy solitude, your hard work and give time to prioritize yourself.
But an unexpected accomplishment came with an unexpected visitor. A handsome visitor no less. Maybe being an adult wasn’t so bad all the time.
…
But meeting new people was bad. Or you were bad at it.
When you were up at two in the morning, doing normal two a.m. activities like trying to turn your entire life around, you believed that dragging yourself to one of the community events at the apartment complex would help you get to know your neighbors. Then you could scope the scene to see if you wanted to hide forever or maybe have a friendly acquaintance you acknowledged in the hallway.
Now you wanted neither as you sat, alone, at a bar stool in the well decorated community balcony. Although you were distancing yourself from the main party, you couldn’t help admiring the string lights they hung up, the pristine décor, and new furniture. They clearly went through a grand renovation before you moved in.
Despite your need to socially decompress from all the small talk, you did feel mellow in the warm lighting, listening to the slow music you quietly hummed to.
The view was great from your table, you got to see from the edge of the balcony into the city view. Gotham City did have its moments and lots of outsiders tend to see all the bad that overruns it, but when the city is calm, it has its own virtue.
As you watched the sky line, a man also decided to join in, admiring the city lights. He stood farther from where you sat, leaning against the glass and steel railing. He was probably distancing himself from the party like you were. You could only see half of his face from your current angle and distance, but he was…charming. Broody and charming.
Gotham did have the best views, but staring was bad. A little bit of hope crept into your mind at the thought of a handsome neighbor living in the same apartment building.
Another pretty man joined him. Wow, you never realized that Gotham had a lot of great views. Maybe you needed to get out more, enjoy the scenery a bit.
The two beautiful men seemed to know each other. One more talkative than the other, but they seemed close. It was amusing watching the way they contrasted one another, a man clearly dragged to be here tonight and the other fueling himself with the night vibe.
As much as you wanted to continue to be nosy, maybe it was time to call it a night, it was late and you got enough of your pretty boy fill for the evening. Which would have been the plan if you didn’t make eye contact with the second model that blessed your eyes.
You nervously observed the charismatic man walking toward you with a bright friendly smile.
“Hello, I just wanted to ask if my brother—the tall very alone one standing over there—could be tall and very alone over here, in this seat.” He dragged the stool out from underneath the glass table you were resting your arms on.
You looked at the empty seat across from you, then glanced at his presumed brother you were staring at earlier. He clearly didn’t agree to this sudden turn of events as he watched the two of you talk and he looked more mortified than you were. It was…cute. It brought a smile to your face.
“Well, your tall and very alone brother looks scared of me.” You glanced back to the man still holding the chair out.
Your comment must have been hysterical at the way the man was almost leaning forward from laughing. His dimples fully visible and his hair falling forward. Everything he did looked stunning.
“I promise he’s friendlier than he looks.” He breathlessly held his stomach still amused at your first impression of his broody brother. “He’s tall, alone, and friendly if it helps.”
You thought for a moment, debating on your options: leave or sit with a handsome man in possibly awkward silence.
“I don’t mind being alone together.” You smiled more, giving into the curiosity of the man leaning against the railing.
You were a simple human and apparently the man in front of you was too when he ushered his brother over. A man much too large for the bar stool, but you got a good look at his full face.
The curls, defined dark eyebrows, a white streak. His face had definition, a particular beauty that differed from his brother. Not less beautiful, but you were more drawn to the rougher look.
You definitely made the right choice.
Before you had any time to say anything, the conspirator left to go mingle with another bunch of attendees. You watched him hop from one conversation to another, you didn’t know whether he knew them or he just met them like you had five seconds ago.
“I think social anxiety is scared of him.” You laughed in disbelief to your new companion.
“Trust me, you have no idea. I’ve seen him wear some of the most horrendous outfits in public, willingly. What’s worse is—I hate to admit it—but he can pull it off, in a horrifying way.” The stranger shook his head, no mortification in his voice, and you almost unconsciously lulled to the sound. “But he means well, uh, sorry he dragged you into whatever he’s planning. I could leave you alone, he tends to unintentionally be pushy.”
Oh? Broody, charming and thoughtful. Was the bar low or were you easily impressed? Maybe the husky voice is blurring the distinction.
“No, it’s okay, he seemed worried about both us being ‘very alone’ as he put it.” You spoke, glancing into the eyes of the man in front of you. Greenish blue. A wave of amusement washed over you and with the most serious expression you could muster, you decided to test the waters. “From one alone person to another, let’s be alone together.” You reached out your hand to introduce yourself.
He coyly smiled at your formal gesture, leaning in to mimic your movement. You were both leaning onto the glass table, close enough to see the slight scaring on his face. Faint enough to see them only if you were close enough, wanting to drag your thumb across them.
His warm hand engulfed yours. Calloused. A firm handshake.
“Jason, alone man, and been alone for twenty-one years.” Jason gave you the most breathtaking smile, never letting go of your hand. “I’m looking forward to this opportunity…alone, of course.”
You laughed, almost giggled from how charming this man was.
“It’s been twenty-three alone years and still counting.” You mischievously smirked, glad he joined in on your antics. “I’m glad to let you join the team. I expect great things from you.”
“And I hope to learn a lot from my superiors, I’ll be in your care.” Jason’s voice was so low at the end of his statement. It caught you off guard that you almost missed the way he held onto your hand just a tiny bit longer than you anticipated. So short that you felt like you imagined it.
The warmth still lingered on your hands after you let go.
You were so engrossed in Jason’s company and Jason only had the eyes to look at you, that neither of you could see the man, who schemed your interaction, was beaming from watching the connection spark.
…
That single handshake and nonchalant agreement that you shared with an unknown neighbor actually kept it’s promise. That evening, you found out that Jason lived on the same floor as you did, that his brother visited him a lot, and he took out the trash on Wednesdays.
He didn’t tell you the last one, but you found out the last bit of information by accident when you bumped into him on your way back from the trash room. You thought the evening you met Jason would be the first and last time you would see him, but your laziness prevented you from taking out the garbage on your designated day and you were graced with seeing his lopsided smile as you passed him in the hallway.
You were so giddy from the surprise and seeing Jason’s captivating smile, you tested your luck and took the trash out on the same day and time the following week.
You listened out in the hallway, trying to hear a door open, it was honestly crazy behavior, but you continued your slow pace, but with no tall alone man in sight and a defeated sigh, you walked to the trash room with no Jason by your side and swung the door open.
Like a beam of light cascading over you, the man in question was standing in front of you, opening the trash shoot. You never thought a man in a trash room would be sexy, but with his shirt tightly straining on his body, a flushed face, and his muscles eye level with you, anything was possible.
May whoever told this gorgeous man to live at this apartment complex eat delicious meals, have working phone chargers, and a lifetime of happiness.
Somewhere off in the far distance, Dick sneezed.
You almost forgot the reason you were in the trash room after you set your eyes on Jason’s post-workout state. He kept the shoot open for you and with unsteady steps you threw your trash bag to disappear to the unknown. You were trying to not trip up with Jason’s defined arm holding the handle open and the close proximity of his chest to your face.
Maybe you need to go on a run. Why were you acting like this right now?
“Hey, neighbor.” Jason casually spoke to you. His voice felt airy, probably winding down from the exercise. “You come around here often?”
You cleared your mind from any thoughts, the trash room was not the place to start flirting, but what were you supposed to do when Jason started it? Or what you assumed to be flirtatious conversation.
“Nah, I’m new to town.” You glanced over to him, leaning your neck back to grasp his full height. Jason hadn’t missed the movement, combing your collarbone with his gaze. “But, I might stay a while.” You melodically spoke.
Before your stare and voice settled in the air, you stepped to the side to add a little distance between the two of you. Pulling away from the tension.
“Just so I can continue my alone things.” You explained trying to smoothen the mood with a playful tone.
Jason stayed quiet like he was contemplating something in his mind. Then he let the trash shoot close and with small steps the both of you walked out into the hallway.
“What alone things do you have planned tomorrow?” Jason nonchalantly asked, so casually you almost thought you heard wrong.
“Uh, work in the morning, but nothing planned for the evening, I wanted to try out a new cookie recipe.”
“Do you wanna come over to my place—I wanted to cook something for dinner, but it just hasn’t worked out yet. Maybe you can bring those cookies?” Jason didn’t look at you, suddenly interested in the pure white walls of the hallway. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
You were stunned. How was such a beautiful man asking you to come over to his place with the promise of him cooking you dinner and all you had to do was bring your shitty cookies?
“I want to warn you that my cookies aren’t award worthy. I just follow the recipe, they’re nothing special.” You wanted to ensure that Jason was really inviting you over.
“Then I can’t wait to try your ‘nothing special’ cookies.” He reassured.
…
You spent the entire afternoon making sure your measurements were precise, not a lump of flour above the rim of the measuring utensils you haven’t brought out in a while. Usually you winged the ingredients, not really worried about the quality too much since it was just you.
But now you wanted to cry.
How did you properly fold ingredients, were you whisking right, maybe you should’ve got the too expensive butter from the store?
It took three full hours to prep, bake, and try your hand at cutely packaging the cookies. It took four attempts to arrange the cookies in a way that didn’t make you want to cancel the dinner.
But after a few pep talks in the mirror and reassuring yourself that this was a hang out and not a date, then you were able to walk over to his unit number.
You hesitantly knocked on the door, five minutes after seven because you would torture yourself thinking about arriving right on the dot before you fell asleep tonight and every night after.
Your worries left your mind when you saw Jason open the door in an apron.
“You’re just in time, I’m ready to plate everything.” He beamed.
Your heart might not be able to survive tonight. But it was just dinner.
You awkwardly handed Jason your tin of homemade cookies. You tried to limit your snooping around his apartment when he told you to wait for him to get the drinks, but curiosity was coursing through you once you realized that you were being invited into a part of Jason’s life and home.
You were no longer going to be strangers. You didn’t know if this qualified to make you friends, but you knew you were two people about to eat dinner together. A dinner he made and cookies you made as thanks.
Once you were ready to eat, you stared at your plate filled with spices, fresh veggies, a meticulously cooked entrée and a…homemade lemonade? You stared up at Jason, watching you look at his food.
“I feel like bringing you cookies isn’t enough.” Although you felt guilty, you took a bite because you didn’t want to look at one more second of Jason’s shining eyes.
You could only sigh, which made Jason worry.
“I think I’m going to name my children after you.”
Jason chuckled at your exaggeration.
“I’d be honored.”
The rest of the meal was relaxing. You didn’t have to force yourself around Jason. Your conversation flowed easily and you were interested in learning about the man you met on the balcony.
…
After many trips to the other side of the apartment building and a couple of deep cleanings of your apartment, you got accustomed to having Jason walk around your kitchen, rummaging the cabinets and organizing your spices the way he likes it.
One shared meal after another. Sometimes several times a week or spaced out further when work got busy. It was nice to look forward to a meal with Jason.
Now you had text messages from him on your phone, a designated mug for him, and a couple of his snacks that he wanted you to try.
You traded recipes. Jason gave you his favorites and you mainly just gave him ones you were curious about, not very fond of your kitchen.
After several failed attempts at convincing him that it was your kitchen that was the problem and not your ability to cook, he came over more to prove you wrong.
Now you sat at your kitchen island to watch him concentrate on mixing an assortment of spices and herbs while you memorized as much of his face and hands as possible. The TV was on, but you had no interest in whatever movie played.
“I have a confession to make.” You sadly looked at Jason.
He glanced over from the pan on the stove to your face. Confusion in his eyes from your sudden change in tone.
“I actually don’t really like cookies.” You threw your hands up in a guilty pose. “Now it’s eating me inside that I had to give those to you when I first came over to your place.”
Jason hummed and tilted his head with one of his eyebrows raised in a teasing manner.
“So, the guilt finally got to you, huh?” He grinned moving his attention back to the food cooking in front of him. His nonchalant voice resonating around you.
“I can’t sleep at night anymore.” You exaggerated, walking a little closer to his side. “Well, once you became my personal chef I realized I had to make it up to you.” You could smell the food better now that you were standing next to Jason.
“I can see the guilt in your eyes.” He flatly said watching you eyeing the food.
“We always eat when we hang out and I can make simple foods, but if I can follow a recipe I was going to suggest if I should cook something, but you are also here to prove me wrong that my kitchen isn’t cursed. Which it is by the way—”
“Your kitchen is not cursed.” He warmly scolded you. “I’ll come over everyday to prove it if I have to.”
You always had to reset your brain when he used that tone with you. It just felt too…sincere. Too intimate.
You wanted him to come over everyday. You took a breath.
“I make more money than when I was still in college, but I don’t think I can afford that many grocery bills.” You teased him. “Why do you think I go over to your place?”
You wanted to evade any serious topics and humor was the best at evading. You were good at avoidance.
“So, I’m a free pantry to you?” His eyebrows rose, questioning you. “I knew you were using me!” He faked a flabbergasted voice like he just heard his life-long partner declare they were cheating on him for months.
He turned off the stove, covering the pan with the lid and turning to face you.
“I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened.” You gave him your best dejected look. “I promise I’ll pick up more shifts to help restock your fridge, but let me just taste your homemade ravioli one last time.” You begged as he moved closer to you, closing you in with the kitchen island behind your back.
His height and broad shoulders easily caved you in. You gulped watching his face lean down and inch closer.
“If I can’t trust you with my fridge, you don’t deserve my ravioli.” He lowered his voice, gazing down at you with a look that made you breathless. You couldn’t move with the counter behind you and Jason hovering dangerously close to you. “But, you can make it up to me.” He brought his thumb to your chin, barely a wisp of touch.
“How?” You stammered, wondering if the bit was still going.
“Let’s go to the farmer’s market tomorrow.” His hand moved from your face to the edge of the counter, close enough to touch your side and his voice returning to normal, but he didn’t pull away.
“Okay, uh, I’m off tomorrow.” You stared, darting your eyes between Jason’s eyes. Trying to adjust to the tension that was radiating off of him.
“Good, foods ready.” Jason pulled away, moving to the cabinet to grab your glass plates. He was too familiar with the layout of your kitchen.
That night you quickly learned how easy Jason was able to turn the tables. Your racing heart and shallow breathing were the only evidence of it ever happening.
…
The heat beat down on you. Of all days for Gotham to finally clear it’s clouds, it chose today.
Although you weren’t fond of the warm air, you liked watching all the colorful tents, the food on display, and seeing the various local products. Everything looked intricately cared for and it brought a proud feeling to contribute to the locals.
“Bags?” Jason asked, going through his mental checklist.
“Check.” You raised the reusable grocery bags in your hands.
“Hats?”
“Check.” You nudged the baseball cap on your head.
“Money?” Jason smirked.
You grabbed onto Jason’s bicep. Giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Check.” You grinned up at Jason looking at the placement of your hand. “Now let’s go!” You gleefully led him to the first tent with your hand still on him.
You had no idea how you ended up carrying all the bags, but you were trying to ease your mind that this could be considered a date. Jason didn’t call it that and you never asked to clarify, but you couldn’t help it itching at your brain.
You didn’t want to label anything, out of respect for Jason and what he wanted, but you noticed he had started to touch you more and the contact makes you giddy that you had to put all of your focus on making sure you don’t drop his produce.
You stood by Jason, looking at various jars of loose leaf tea. He was smelling all the aromas, helping to move the jars to your nose, so you could smell them too. He insisted on helping you since you refused to give him a bag, but you also didn’t have a free hand to grab the jar.
After a couple more sniff tests, he settled on a jar of prickly pear tea, a lemon-ginger flavor, and he was contemplating on some earl grey cookies. You were watching him, entranced by his concentration. His brows lowered, a small line appearing between his brows. You could see more of his face with a cap on, no messy curls on his forehead and his side profile was really something.
You broke out of your trance when he offered you a piece of the earl-grey cookie, holding it in front of your mouth.
“They’re free samples, try it.” He looked at you, waiting patiently. “I know you don’t like cookies, but these are made with the tea sold here. I saw all the tea you keep in your pantry, so I think you would like it.”
In your lost state at this man in front of you, that could’ve sounded like a proposal to you at that point.
You inched forward, opening your mouth for the cookie. You hesitated at the intimacy, but how could you tell that face ‘no.’ Staring at the small piece of cookie, baked a quarter of the original size they sold, you also saw all the scars that littered Jason’s hands. Many healed over, but you could see the faded lines.
You dangerously wanted to kiss each one.
You grabbed the piece in your mouth, but you didn’t realize that you accidentally touched Jason’s finger with your lip.
You quickly glanced at Jason, but his eyes were glossed over. His attention focused on your mouth.
What a sight.
You chewed and hummed. They were good. Jason cleared his throat at your approval.
“I’ll get a bag and the tea. I’ll be back. You can put the bags down for a bit because there’s a small line.” He quickly turned around, a small tinge of redness left on his ears with his head turned away from you.
You watched his back walk away, then settled the bags down to give your arms a break.
“Excuse me, I just wanted to tell you that you two are adorable.” A honeyed voice spoke trying to grab your attention.
Your head whipped back to the table of teas. An older lady restocking the various collection had a mischievous look in her eye. You hadn’t noticed her there at all.
“The way your boyfriend looks at you, I haven’t seen a look like that since my husband passed many years ago.” The lady gushed.
“Wha, no, I—“ You stammered, trying to clear up the confusion, but your flustered face must’ve amused the woman.
“That made my day, so I wanted to give you this lemon bar we just started selling. Go on, take it and share it with him.” She pressured you to take the free treat. You were too speechless to try to refuse it and insist that you pay before she placed it in your hand herself and she walked off to help another customer wanting a sample.
Your face felt hot and you hoped it cleared before Jason came back, but before you could fan the redness away he appeared next to you with his purchase.
“Hey, you okay? Where’d you get that lemon—”
“Let’s get some lunch!” You grabbed the bags and nudged him to the food trucks lining the edge of the market, trying to hide your face with your hat and leaving the comments from the woman behind.
…
“Wow, this might be the best empanada I’ve ever had.” You chomped at your lunch.
Jason found a waffle place and settled on a berry topping. It was wrapped perfectly to fit in his hands.
You sat across from Jason at an outdoor table with an umbrella to shield you from the sun, sitting away from the rush of people lining up to also eat. The midday lunch rush got to you and you wanted to have a bit of privacy before you went back home.
“How long have you known about this place?” You asked Jason, a slight breeze grazing your face. Watching a kid nudging his dad for a piece of banana bread he found on one of the vendor’s tables.
“Last year? It was recent, but I’ve heard it’s been around for a while. Maybe over five years?” Jason took a bite of his waffle.
“I wish I had found this during my university years. This is a bit out of the way of my walk route, but it would’ve been awesome to browse with my friend.” You saw the boy you were watching earlier smiling wide as he held his dad’s hand and the banana loaf as big as his head. You smiled at the interaction.
“But I probably would’ve sent my friend into shock.” You continued, the boy and his dad disappearing into the crowd. “I wasn’t very social during my university years.” You glanced at Jason, his waffle gone and he was neatly folding the wrapper.
“My friend would joke that I would only meet someone if they magically met me at home. Like that was the only way I could score a date.” You pitifully joked at the old memory. “Sounds absurd doesn’t it, but she wasn’t wrong—“
You saw a shift in Jason’s eyes. He had an oddly serious look, it stopped you from talking and you sat up straighter, wondering what he was thinking about.
You waited, watching him internally fight with whatever he wanted to say.
“That’s not true.” He hesitated. “You’re funny, you’re able to connect with others, you’re a great listener, and you’re honest. You don’t have the heart to be mean to others and your facial expressions are adorable.” His voice rose the longer he defended you. His serious expression further amplified with his furrowed eyebrows. A part of his face obscured by his cap, but you felt the raw emotion emanating from him.
“Anyone would be enamored with you, even if they met you in the hallway or walking down the street.” He puffed, crushing the waffle paper on the table.
You were surprised, glancing over at Jason, watching him get this frustrated. You realized you’ve never seen him this…emotional and he refused to look at you.
The sudden development and his clear thoughts about you stunned you. You joked with Jason how alone you both were, it even brought you together thanks to his brother, but you didn’t really know how alone he truly was. You don’t think he really understood how lonely you were too.
You enjoyed your shared meals, you craved his time and attention.
You got so used to his presence that the days you didn’t see him, you felt like you were dreaming. Waiting to wake up when you heard that familiar knock on your door.
Your heart raced and you hoped he cherished your time together like you did.
You didn’t want to assume his witty personality as being flirtatious, you didn’t want to misunderstand any of his intentions because he was funny, charming, and awkward in ways that you just wanted to grab his face and protect him.
You didn’t particularly need Jason as your person, that felt too selfish, but you also wanted to be somebody to him. Either next to him or from a distance.
A friend, a companion, a lover. The label didn’t really matter to you because you were open to any role. A lover wasn’t more significant than a friend would be. They both had the same foundation, to care for someone unconditionally.
You convinced yourself that you were happy alone, but not until recently you realized you weren’t living. You were asleep in the routine of life.
And when Jason entered your life, you felt like you woke up for the first time.
Like he was the only one who could wake you up.
All you knew was that you wanted to be there. Through his pain, his suffering, his happiest moments, his accomplishments, his anger. To be his person.
To also help him wake up.
Your silent contemplation made Jason panic.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get worked up—“
“I think apartment community events count.” You softly whispered, indecisive of whether you wanted him to hear you or not.
“What—“
“And secret meetings in the trash room too.” Your voice meek.
You were shaking, too tense to look at his reaction to your words.
“Despite what she told me, I still managed to meet you. And I was able to have some of the best meals. I’ve never laughed as hard as I have when we joked. I’m able to try new things.” You raised your head, overwhelmed by your feelings, but you hoped to convey yourself properly to Jason. “I’ve never felt so comfortable and safe with anyone else.”
Jason looked at you wide eyed and speechless, his mouth slightly agape. You took the disbelief as a sign to continue.
“I’m able to be all those things that you said because I’m with you.” Your voice filled with more resolve the more concrete your feelings felt, the more sure you became. You squeezed your eyebrows together, complete sincerity in your gaze, your heart filled with so much emotion.
But your eyebrows relaxed once you saw Jason’s face turn red. His ears a crimson shade. Before you could engrave it in your memory, he tilted his head down, covering his face with the front of his baseball cap.
“Wait, wait, wait—I didn’t expect this.” Jason rubbed a hand down his face, but the redness contrasted the skin of his hand. “You were so shy every time I tried to push the boundaries between us, but now your directly confessing everything at once.”
He stopped rubbing his face and rested his hand on the table. Meeting your gaze, a tint of red still on his skin but not as deep as before.
“I’ve been trying to get closer to you. I’ve been hoping to run into you since we first talked on the balcony. When we met in the trash room, I purposely tried to meet you again. I’ve looked forward to every meal I’ve cooked for you and although I haven’t been clear about my feelings, I didn’t want to pressure or rush you.” Jason took a breath, closing his eyes for a moment.
When they opened again, his eyes were completely focused on you.
“I want us to be more than friends…I want to be able to come over when I miss you, fold laundry together, buy you things when they remind me of you, I want you to call me when you need car maintenance.” He kept his eyes trained on you, but his voice faltered. “I want to hold your hand and to kiss you. I want us to go on dates.”
You raised your hand to the table, placing your hand over Jason’s, but he quickly flipped your hands so he was holding yours a little more firmly.
“I want to know if you snore while you sleep, to have your things at my place, so I see you in every inch of my life. I want you to know how much I’ve fallen for you.”
“I want that too.” Your voice trembled. “I’ve been wanting to hold your hand while we walked today and I want you to come over more often.” You choked as Jason leaned in to caress your face with his hand. A sickening sweet touch that you never knew you would get to feel. You cupped your hand over his.
“I’m so happy. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while.” Jason whispered to you, his voice so honey sweet.
You looked up to him. A gentle gaze reflecting back.
“I probably look like a mess right now.” You shakily laughed.
“Of course not, you’re breathtaking, sweetheart.” Jason rubbed a thumb on your cheek, completely enamored by you.
“As much as I would love to hear you continue, I’m worried about the stuff you bought and this heat.” You tried to focus, but the smooth touch of Jason was difficult to ignore.
“Yeah, we probably need to make our way back.”
Despite his words, he didn’t move. He lingered on your face a while longer before he looked at all the bags he accumulated this morning.
“Will you let me help you carry some of the bags?” He asked. “I also want to hold your hand on the way back.”
You beamed at him. Reaching for his hand as you stood up.
…
Your walk back was refreshing.
You were exhausted from the intense flux of emotions you released, but Jason’s grip on your hand stabilized you.
You couldn’t stop smiling, the heat no longer bothering you. You swung your interlaced hands to the motion of your steps and Jason let you do what you wanted as long as you still held on.
When you got to the entrance of your apartment building, you were graced with the AC hitting you. Your hair would definitely be messed up from the sweat and your cap.
You waited in front of the elevator doors as it descended from the last person that used it. The lobby was empty, except from the usual leasing office workers inhabiting the space, but it was just you and Jason off to the side.
As you glanced around, making sure the employees were occupied, you used your grip on Jason’s hand to pull him down enough for you to kiss his cheek. A little awkward with your cap in the way, but you were able to surprise Jason.
He stayed hunched forward, shifting his face to look at you closely and digest what you did.
Ding. The elevator doors opened and you pulled Jason in the elevator.
You felt accomplished as you pushed the button to your floor. When you moved back to Jason’s side, you looked up to him, but he grabbed your face.
His hand pushed your cap up, so he could lean in and kiss you. His hat also moving up at the angle he was in.
You closed your eyes, disoriented at the feeling and because Jason completely blocked your view of the elevator, so you only heard the doors close.
Lost in the feeling and the movement of his lips, you dropped the bags in your hand to grab at Jason’s sleeve, wanting to grasp at something.
You’ve never felt so desperate to get Jason even closer and he must have understood or he craved it more because he pushed you back against the elevator wall. You felt the cold metal against your back and you gasped.
Jason devoured the sound, motivating him to hold your waist, but it wasn’t enough for him. He crouched a little lower to grasp you behind your legs to lift you fully off the ground, inching your body up, higher and more level with his face.
The angle changed and you easily wrapped your arms around his neck while simultaneously wrapping your legs around his waist. The moment intensifying as you pulled at his hair below his hat and you swallowed the low groan that left his mouth. You were drawn to the deep sound and the feeling of the hum you felt on your mouth.
You were practically flush against his body and you were down to your last few breaths, but you didn’t want to pull your face away from Jason.
You nipped at his lower lip and he lifted his hands to cup the sides of your face, digging his fingers into your sweaty hair and rubbing the back of your ears. You opened your mouth wanting to feel more of him when you heard someone loudly clear their throat.
You pulled away, shoving Jason by his shoulders as he whipped his head to see where the voice came from. You fell to your feet trying to lean against the wall with the sudden motion, hair a mess with your cap lopsided as you looked past Jason to see Dick standing there with a hand on his waist and the other holding the elevator door open. He didn’t look at the two of you directly, more like a lost look to the side.
You breathlessly adjusted your cap as you frantically smoothed out your shirt.
Jason pulled his cap down as he sighed then redirected his attention to you, gently reaching out to you to smooth out some of your hair and help you stand up straighter. Then he grabbed the bags you both dropped on the floor as he turned around to face his brother.
“I didn’t know you were coming over. You should’ve texted.” Jason walked past his brother, annoyance laced in his voice.
“I did.” Dick replied. He looked at you then followed after Jason. “But it seems you were a little occupied.” Amusement coating his voice and visible in the way he walked.
“I see you’re getting to know your neighbors very well.” Dick teased, a giant grin on his face. “I’m glad.”
What a way to meet Jason’s brother again after all this time. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you away from the lack of awareness you had to make out with Jason in public.
You couldn’t decide if it was worse that a stranger could’ve saw you or that Dick was the one who did.
“Yeah, yeah, come inside.” Jason unlocked the door to his apartment. You nervously followed after the two.
“No seriously, I’m glad you two continued to see each other.” A genuine comment from Dick. “I’ve never seen you so comfortable with someone, Jaybird.”
A small hum from Jason as he set the bags down onto the counter.
With no indication that he wanted to speak further, you decided to talk.
“I’m sorry we’re meeting again like this. I promise I’m usually a better influence.” Hopefully your lighthearted tone would give off a better impression than the one on the elevator.
“Ha! I know you are because,” Dick moved in closer, lowering his voice. “This is the most behaved I’ve seen Jason in months.”
“Alright, enough, dickwa—Dick,” Jason cleared his throat. “But we just got back and I want to shower. It was too damn hot today.”
“Oh, I bet it was—“
“Thank you! Never come by again. See you. Good Night.” Jason raised his voice, shoving his brother out the door.
“No, please, I swear I’m done!” Dick pleaded as he was trying to hang onto the door frame, but Jason closed the door before he could start to beg.
“Are you sure he’ll be alright?” You questioned Jason.
He didn’t bother to answer your question as he closed the space between you and wrapped his arms around you, resting his forehead on your shoulder and letting his hands intertwine around your waist, falling onto your lower back.
Jason signed into your shirt. The feeling slightly tickling you.
“I wasn’t done earlier.” He whispered against you. “Then that dickhead had to interrupt.”
You laughed, loving the pouty sound of his voice.
You embraced him back, leaning your head against his.
“I think the elevator interrupted you.” You rubbed his back in soothing circles.
You closed your eyes for a moment, letting a silence fall in Jason’s apartment before your curiosity got to you.
“Jaybird?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“It’s cute.”
“Enough about him, we need to put away all the stuff we bought.” Jason lifted his head to sullenly look at the numerous bags.
“That reminds me.” You let go of him to dig around the bags, trying to find your earlier gift. “I was told to share this with you by an older woman who thought my boyfriend was adorable.”
Jason shifted behind you. Closing his hands on the edges of the counter, both of his arms on your sides. Once you found the lemon bar, you turned your body, careful to lean against the counter with Jason’s body still in front of you, around you practically.
“It’s a new product. She said I could have it for making her day, but I have to thank you because we wouldn’t have gotten it without you.”
You opened the wrapper, breaking a piece off to feed to Jason.
“How does it taste?”
Jason lingered. You anticipated what he thought, but he leaned forward to kiss you. You held onto the lemon bar, but lowered it the more heated your kiss became. The tangy taste invading your mouth.
Summary: You seek shelter at Wayne Tower with Lucius Fox. The Arkham Knight finds what he was looking for.
A/N: Blown away by the responses to chapter one, which I genuinely expected no one to read. Hope you guys enjoy this one just as much!
Chapter One
The Knight was growing restless. No longer content to sit and wait for news in his own office, he took to pacing the main room of the militia’s makeshift headquarters, thoroughly unnerving the rank and file members in the process. They were all skilled fighters of course, well trained by him regardless of where they had been before. The intimidation didn’t come from the Knight’s lethality alone, but from the energy he brought with him into every room. Something cold. Angry. Impatient. Made worse by the expressionless helmet that would hide all possible warning signs should he decide to make an example of someone.
And so every set of shoulders in the room relaxed as a report came through the radios: “Batman sighting, approaching Wayne Tower.”
The Knight came alive, stalking towards the nearest bank of monitors with a speed that seemed uncomfortably inhuman.
“Do not engage. Fall back out of visual range. We need him to make the drop,” the Knight ordered sharply. “Ambush him as he leaves the area, but I want no damage to that tower.”
“Yes, sir.”
Through the CCTV feed, the Knight watched as a patrol detachment of drones dispersed around the surrounding buildings, turning all guns away as if dispersing from the location to increase the search radius.
The Knight nodded, clapping his Sergeant’s shoulder in a rare show of approval before turning away.
“Air transport on the roof, five minutes. Send up the retrieval team. Let’s see if I can teach them how to do their damn jobs.”
***
Your legs were shaky as Batman pulled you out of the car, and you stumbled along obligingly as he continued to guide you forward, tilting your head up to take in your surroundings. You’d tried to keep track of all the turns, but the speed and erratic nature of his driving had you lost within seconds.
Wayne Tower took up your entire field of vision, brightly lit and pristine in a way that clashed violently with the sounds echoing down the street behind you. Breaking glass, gunshots, screams, and loud, brutal laughs. An extra shot of adrenaline jolted through your system.
“What’s happening?” you asked, not quite expecting an answer but hoping for one anyway as you glanced over at Batman.
“War.”
You thought you’d seen a tank out of the back window for half a second, mid high-speed turn, but you’d been so focused on trying not to hyperventilate that it had been easy to tell yourself you were wrong. Apparently not.
“Against who? Scarecrow? I always took him for a… loner type.”
No response.
“C’mon, man,” you sighed impatiently. “I’m not trying to… interfere or whatever it is you’re worried about. But I’m a human being, and we tend to feel better when we know who or what is trying to kill us. Call it a quirk.”
That at least earned you a glance before the glass doors of Wayne Enterprises clicked faintly and slid open for a very well-dressed man with dark skin and guarded eyes.
“Lucius Fox?” Batman asked gruffly.
The man’s eyebrow twitched slightly, but he otherwise kept his expression smoothly neutral.
“Yes. And you would be the young lady that Alfred called me about, I presume?” He put on a polite smile for you, and the gesture slightly eased the knot in your chest.
“That’s me,” you said, “Thanks for your help, Mr. Fox.”
“I think we can do without the formalities under the circumstances,” he said, offering you his arm in a gesture of old-fashioned gallantry that reminded you so strongly of Alfred that you took it without hesitation. “We have met before, you know.”
You blinked in surprise, expression immediately falling as you realized where you may have encountered him.
“Not at the funeral,” he said softly, patting your hand kindly if somewhat awkwardly as he began to lead you inside. “It was a Wayne Foundation Christmas party, I believe.”
You glanced uncertainly behind you, feeling weird about leaving without acknowledging your… unusual transportation method. Batman was already half-turned away, but he offered you a stiff nod in acknowledgment before turning his back completely.
“Umm…” you said distractedly. “Christmas party?”
“I believe you were attempting to keep the Wayne boys in line.”
The memory snapped into place abruptly, you trailing Jason and Dick in the only nice dress you owned, trying to minimize the damage of their combined mischief. Dick had almost certainly downed several glasses of obscenely expensive champagne when no one was looking. Jason, on the other hand, hadn’t needed alcohol to convince him to terrorize the Gotham elite.
But that didn’t mean his brother’s drunken giggles weren’t extremely contagious.
“I didn’t do a very good job though, did I?”
Lucius laughed good-naturedly as he reinstituted the building lockdown at a panel on the lobby wall.
“I’m sure it could have been much worse.”
“Uh oh,” Jason whispered, his gaze snagging on an entirely too-neutral Bruce who was wading through the crowd towards the three of you. “Scatter.”
He gave Dick’s shoulder a shove before taking your hand and dragging you in a chaotic path through the party and out into a side hallway. His eyes stayed fixed on the door for a tense minute.
“Victory” he said on a happy little sigh when the door stayed closed behind you.
You rolled your eyes.
“You know he’ll just yell at you later. And you’ll deserve it. Because you’re being a dick.”
“Am not,” he argued, looking mildly offended. “I’m being a Jason.”
His lips fell into a full pout when you pinched his arm in response.
“Ow.”
“Menace.”
“But are you having fun?”
“I’m not answering that.”
Jason’s smile returned with a vengeance.
“That’s a yes,” he said as he slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out a heavily jeweled bracelet moments later. “How long until someone notices this missing, you think?”
“Jason! Who did you - ”
“If he didn’t want me to steal it, then he shouldn’t have brought his mistress to our Christmas party. It’s rude.”
You bit your lip, eying the bracelet which probably cost more than everything you owned combined.
“You know you’ll have to give that back, right?”
“I’ll return it,” he promised, bouncing it lightly on his palm as he grinned at you. “To his wife.”
You bit down harder, and Jason’s eyes dropped to the corner of your mouth, laughing as it started to quiver.
“Let it happen,” he said, poking at your cheek. “C’mon now.”
You caved, letting out a quiet giggle that only grew in intensity as Jason cheered.
If Lucius noticed your distant expression or the deep breath you took as you entered the elevator, he mercifully chose not to comment.
“I thought we’d share Mr. Wayne’s office for the evening, if you don’t mind. I take my promises fairly seriously, and I told Alfred I’d keep an eye on you.”
“That’s fine. Is Mr. Wayne there too? I asked Alfred, but he was so focused on getting me somewhere safe, I don’t think he ever answered me.”
“He’s not in the building,” Lucius answered as the elevator doors slid open again to reveal an opulent reception area. “But I’m sure wherever he is is exactly where he wants to be. Billionaires are like that.”
You hummed noncommittally, looking over your new companion with careful interest.
“You’re very good at answering questions without actually giving me any information,” you said, tone light. Not a criticism, just an observation. A trait shared by every member of the Wayne family and that you weren’t particularly surprised to note in those close to them as well.
“Occupational hazard,” he said with a nod, his polite smile never once slipping as he led you into the palatial penthouse office.
The rich, antique decor gave you pause, freezing you in the doorway. It wasn’t what you had been expecting from such a modern building, much better suited to the manor home on the mainland than to the headquarters of a titan of industry. It screamed old money from every corner, and you willed the tightness out of your throat as it triggered memories of a house you hadn’t set foot in in a decade.
“Not exactly to my tastes either.”
Your attention returned to Lucius as he made himself comfortable behind the enormous wooden desk to your right.
“Yeah, it’s… A little much.” You took a breath, trying to refocus. “I need to call Alfred. Could I…?”
You gestured to a subtle door set into the floor-to-ceiling windows, leading out onto a private balcony.
“Of course. We’re high enough up, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Lucius made quick work of scanning your fingerprints into the security panel by the door, giving you access to the system and the ability to unlock and relock doors on your own. After a brief tutorial, you stepped out into the Gotham night air, staying close to the building as aggressive gusts of wind tugged at your hair and clothes. You pulled up Alfred’s contact quickly, crossing one arm protectively across your chest.
“Have you arrived safely?”
“Y’know, I don’t know what’s happened to your manners tonight, but it’s freaking me out a little bit, Alfred. I may even be a little offended.”
“One thousand apologies, madame. On the occasion that your life is not in danger when next we speak, I will be the picture of decorum.” His dry tone made you smile.
“I made it to the tower,” you said, shuffling a step closer to the rail and chancing a peek over the side. “Thank you for pulling a very concerning string to make that happen. Do I get to know how Batman ended up in your debt or…?
“If you arrive promptly at Wayne Manor tomorrow morning for breakfast, I may be persuaded to tell you.”
There was still concern evident in his voice, and you knew the promise he was searching for. You hoped you could keep it.
“Well, if anything can keep me alive, it’s the promise of your scones. I’ll be there.”
“You had better be. Master Bruce keeps me waiting far too often for me to waste patience on anyone else.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me you’ll refuse to attend my funeral if I die?”
“Certainly not. It is my way of telling you I will arrive with the most atrocious flowers imaginable.”
“Gas station carnations?” you guessed.
“In the most obnoxious shade available.”
An image flickered through your mind, Alfred stoic and steady, face deeply lined with grief, setting a bouquet of white lilacs on the glossy wood of a casket.
“We won’t let it come to that,” you said softly, pressing the phone closer to your ear at the sound of a nearby helicopter.
“No, we will not.”
The conversation ended quickly after that, both of you wanting to conserve as much of your phone battery as possible.
You lingered for a moment on the balcony, enjoying the open space and the chill in the air that helped sharpen your mind. You weren’t good at standing around waiting for something to happen, especially when it was very likely that the something would be bad. But this, what was happening tonight, was on a scale you couldn’t even imagine. Whether you survived the night or not, something big was happening, and Gotham would never be the same.
The helicopter noises had grown louder, then stayed steady, and you wished that whatever the damn thing was doing lurking on the other side of Wayne Tower would finish quickly so it could return to circling the city with the other GCPD choppers you could see throughout the skyline. It was just loud enough to be distracting, and not in the way you needed right now.
But before you could turn away from the city view and head back inside, something large dropped hard and fast onto the balcony in front of you. You stumbled back with a scream, reaching blindly for the doorway behind you as your brain began to process the large and heavily armored man who was pushing up from his crouched position.
Your heart stuttered in a panicked, chaotic beat, and you retreated more quickly, nearly crashing into Lucius who had appeared at the door to drag you back inside.
“Lock it down,” he said sharply, pushing you towards the security panel on the wall as he remained in place, blocking the entrance with a grim expression.
You fumbled with the touch screen, failing once before it finally flashed green and sent the doors sliding shut behind you.
Lucius remained in place, never taking his eyes from the man on the balcony even as you pulled him gently back from the glass.
“Who the hell is that?” you asked, still struggling to catch your breath as you forced yourself to survey the new arrival.
“I have no idea,” Lucius said slowly, his eyes catching on the guns strapped to the man’s thighs.
From the waist down, you might have thought this was a military man, but the illusion was shattered by the heavily reinforced armoring of his chest, shoulders, and arms. Plates of metal, perfectly shaped for protection and maneuverability. That, paired with the oddly familiar shape of his helmet, put him in a new category.
“The helmet… Is he like… a baby bat or something? One of the vigilantes get a makeover?”
“No.”
The answer was surprisingly decisive, leaving no room for argument. You dragged Lucius back another step as the man approached the doors. He moved slowly, calmly, the bright white rectangles of the helmet’s eyes fixed unmoving on the two of you.
“What do we do?”
Before you could get any kind of answer, the man on the balcony raised his hand, tapping lightly on the glass with a single finger.
“What the - ”
“I’m not here to harm either of you,” he said, voice distorted by a modulator in his helmet. “I suggest you open these doors yourself before I have to force my way in.”
The way he held himself, loose joints and relaxed muscles, somehow frightened you even more. He appeared completely confident that regardless of your choices, he would get whatever he came here for.
“Don’t suppose you know of any weapons stashed in here?” you asked quietly, not daring to turn away from the doors.
“I don’t think they’d do us any good anyway.”
“It’s two against one,” you argued weakly.
“I don’t like our chances.” Despite the situation, his voice remained remarkably calm in a way you envied. “But if you’d like to try, I’ll have your back.”
You looked to him in surprise, finding him gazing at you evenly, a stubborn spark in his eyes. Whatever promise Alfred had drawn from him was bigger than simply keeping an eye on you. And he desperately wanted to keep it.
“Diplomacy, it is,” you said, but he caught your arm before you could move towards the security panel.
“I’ll do it. Get behind the desk.”
It was a concentrated effort to keep your pace slow and steady, heart rate jumping as you eyed the man outside, the man you were about to let inside.
Lucius worked efficiently, keeping his body angled between you and the glass doors as they clicked and slid open once again.
“Good choice,” the man said, stepping slowly over the threshold.
“You said you’re not here to harm us. What is it that you do want?”
“Straight to the point, Mr. Fox?”
Lucius froze midstep.
“Do we know each other? Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten your name.”
The sound that crackled through the modulator in response must have been a laugh. A humorless one. Distorted in such a way that it sent goosebumps raising along your arms.
“That doesn’t surprise me. But it doesn’t matter. I came here for her.”
You drew a shaky breath when he pointed at you, half tempted to turn around and search for another explanation.
“Why?” you asked softly. “I don’t - I mean I’m not anyone important, I’m just - ”
“Yes, you are,” he interrupted.
You looked helplessly at Lucius, prompting him to speak.
“She has nothing to do with the Batman,” he said firmly. “I know how this looks, but I can assure you - ”
“And Bruce Wayne doesn’t give a shit about me either,” you broke in, finally finding your voice, unsteady as it was. “I’m only here as a favor to a mutual friend. There’s nothing special -”
“Well then it’s a good thing that their opinions don’t matter at all to me,” the man said, impatience creeping into his tone as he approached more quickly.
Lucius stepped smoothly in front of you, and you gripped the back of his jacket tightly.
“Don’t - ”
The man did not slow his approach, coming to a stop mere inches away before leaning further into Lucius’s space.
“I will hurt you if I have to.”
“Don’t,” you whispered again, trying to pull Lucius aside. “It’s not worth it. Just - ”
“I made a promise,” Lucius said simply, matching the other man’s slow, dangerous tone.
“Mr. Fox,” you protested.
“She will be safe.”
You blinked in surprise, looking up to meet the eyes of your would-be captor.
“Pardon me if I have a difficult time believing that.”
But the man was no longer looking at Lucius. He was staring at you. Somehow, you could feel it, through the expressionless face of the helmet. You stared back, numbly, slowly releasing your grip on Lucius’s jacket.
“Can I say goodbye first?”
For the first time, the man seemed at a bit of a loss, quiet for several seconds before answering: “Make it quick.”
He backed away several steps, turning his head away as he tapped the side of his helmet.
Then it was Lucius’s turn to be surprised as you moved around to hug him.
“I can’t let you do this,” he said.
“We chose diplomacy,” you reminded him. “This is the only way to make that plan work.”
“But - ”
“Please don’t tell Alfred,” you whispered urgently. “Bringing me here was his plan, and if something happens to me because of it, he’ll never stop blaming himself. If I don’t make it through the night and you do… Tell him a kinder story. Please.”
You could feel his hesitation, even as he slowly returned the hug.
“Please,” you said again.
“I’ll do what I can.”
****
A/N: Anybody else freaking out? I'm freaking out. Come scream with me
Summary: When you miss the last evacuation bus out of Gotham in the wake of Scarecrow's threats, you have to come up with a new plan. Meanwhile, the Arkham Knight is searching for someone.
A/N: Finally got up the nerve to post this! Please be kind. I finished the Arkham Knight game recently, so that's where the inspiration comes from. And my chronic Loving Jason disease.
You re-entered your apartment as quickly and quietly as you could, muffling the jingle of your keys in your jacket pocket, finding the right one by touch before pulling them free. The hall was dark, each apartment door uncharacteristically silent. You were Gothamites, through and through. You knew where this was leading the second the city broadcast system crackled to life that morning. Those that were able had packed up immediately, waited in the nicer areas of the city waiting on their phones for the evacuation plans to be officially announced. You estimated that most of the people on your floor were gone, and you were happy for them. Unfortunately, you’d been a few minutes too late.
You tossed your duffle bag onto the couch, leaving the lights off as you set about securing the door. Your tenuous connection with the Wayne family didn’t afford you a home in the nicer parts of the city - to be fair, you’d never asked - but it did afford you slightly above-average security. Dick Grayson had installed the four additional locks on your front door himself, and most importantly, he’d had the decency not to sneer at the quality of the building you’d ended up in. You were a Crime Alley kid, born and raised. And while your family had clawed its way somewhere marginally more respectable by the time you were a teenager, after everything that happened with Jason, Dick couldn’t pretend to be surprised that you’d made a home for yourself in a place like that. Not quite Crime Alley, which despite or perhaps because of your grief was unlivable for you. But close. And just as dangerous.
You wedged your security bar into place next, testing the stability with the edge of your boot. You briefly considered moving some of your furniture up against the door as well but determined it would be more trouble, time, and noise than it would be worth. If they could get through the locks and the security bar, an armchair or table wouldn’t do you any good.
Just as you backed away from the door, trying to slow your heart rate and think your options through, your phone buzzed to life in your pocket.
Alfred Pennyworth
You flinched a little, involuntarily, but answered anyway, moving deeper into your apartment and speaking softly.
“Hello?”
“Please tell me you managed to get out of the city.” The lack of a proper greeting was the most obvious sign that Alfred was anxious.
“Bad luck.” The disappointed sigh that followed almost made you smile. “You know I tried. I don’t have the pride or ego to assume I can survive the kind of night that warrants an official evacuation. I was just too late. There was one seat left on the bus, and it was either me or my 70-year-old neighbor. My chances of survival are better than hers, so…”
“If the people I cared about could all be a touch less noble, I believe I’d still have a full head of hair.”
“Funny.” You grabbed a utility knife from the top of your closet, propping your foot on the edge of wood trim to strap it around your ankle, concealing it neatly where the slightly bunched fabric of your jeans met the sturdy leather of your boot.
“Well. Luckily for you, there is someone quite powerful who owes me a favor or two.”
“Bruce owes you about a thousand favors, but there’s not much he can do for me at this point, Alfred. I assume he made it out safely?”
“Your first option is to flag down a squad car and request refuge in GCPD. At the moment they’re still out patrolling, but I suspect they’ll be driven back before too long.”
You parted your curtains and blinds gently, making the tiniest possible gap to peer through. The streets below were deserted. No cars, no pedestrians, nothing. Calm before the storm, you were sure. Your remaining neighbors were probably doing to same as you were: waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for something to happen that would clue them in on how best to keep themselves safe tonight.
“I don’t think I have the authority to do that.”
“You’re connected to the most powerful family in the city. Of course you have the authority. It may very well make you a target. That should be incentive enough for GCPD to take an interest. If not, you’re welcome to inform them that Bruce Wayne intends to repay them most generously for their assistance.”
Your chest tightened a little, the way it always did when someone reminded you of your “connection” to the Waynes. Because, to be quite blunt, there wasn’t one. Not anymore. All that was left, you suspected, was an uncomfortable obligation that came from guilt and grief.
“Alfred…” You cut yourself off. There was no point in having this conversation now. Not again. “I don’t see any movement outside, let alone a squad car. And if I go looking for one, I have a feeling I’ll find trouble faster than I’ll find help.”
“I see… Well, there is a second option. I’m afraid it’s a touch more… dramatic than the first.”
“Okay…” you said, letting the curtain fall back into place and looking around your dark apartment for anything that might be helpful to add to your bag or your person.
“Can you make it to the roof?”
“Probably.”
With the duffle bag tossed back over your shoulder, you moved quickly to your bedroom, where the window opened onto a fire escape. Switching Alfred’s call to the earbuds you kept in the nightstand freed up both your hands, and you eased out onto the rusted metal landing carefully, pulling your bag out behind you and closing your window firmly. A quick glance around revealed the street was still deserted, nor were there any signs of life on the fire escape or in the other windows that let out onto it.
“What’s the plan?” you whispered, moving upwards as quietly as possible.
“I called in a favor. Someone will be along shortly to escort you to safety. Or as close to safety as we can manage tonight.”
“That. Is unnecessarily cryptic, Alfred,” you complained, a panicked breath catching in your throat as an unfamiliar low rumble echoed down the street.
“You’ll soon see why.”
You gave an unconvinced grumble but were too winded to manage an actual reply, muscles straining as you pulled yourself over the top rung of the final ladder and onto the roof.
“Move away from the edge. It would be better if no one saw you waiting.”
“It would be better if no one saw me period,” you agreed, opting to stay low and crawl towards the water tank. You tucked yourself tight against it, trying to merge yourself with its silhouette as much as possible.
The sun had almost completely vanished, and what was left of its light was heavily obscured by clouds. In these conditions, this roof was probably the safest place to be. Away from the parts of the city likely to see the most action. Not lit in any way, not overseen by the windows of taller buildings. And it didn’t hurt that, as a general rule, the criminals of Gotham had learned to steer clear of rooftops. Setting up shop on any Gotham rooftop was like sending a personal invitation to the vigilantes of the city to come ruin their night.
You were considering sharing this thought with Alfred, pitching the idea of staying right where you were for as long as possible, saving that favor for later, when a faint rustling sound drew your attention.
“Please try not to panic,” Alfred’s voice sounded in your ear as you stared into the shadows cast by the stairwell access. Something was moving there.
As you watched, a silhouette separated itself from the rest of the blackness. A very distinct silhouette, one you had never seen personally but could never mistake for anyone or anything else.
“Alfred,” you said softly, still not moving, hardly even blinking. “I hope you plan on telling me how the hell Batman ended up owing you a favor.”
“In time. For now, we need to focus. Follow his instructions. Call me back when you’ve arrived safely.”
“Arrived where?” You pushed yourself hesitantly to your feet as Batman wordlessly held out a hand to you.
“Please be careful,” was the only answer you received before the soft click of an ended call.
*****
The remains of Killinger’s Department Store was a hotbed of activity and chaos. Groups of men in red military-grade body armor were engaged in the business of swiftly repurposing the space into a base of operations for the Arkham Knight and his militia. In a large and once-opulent owners office, the Arkham Knight himself paced restlessly in front of an array of recently-mounted monitors. More and more security camera feeds were becoming available as his men began to set up checkpoints and strongholds throughout the city. They needed to work faster. They needed to be better. Failure was not an option.
A brisk knock stilled him, and he called out his permission for whomever was outside to enter. A militia commander approached, face a solemn mask, betraying nothing.
“GCPD is pulling back their squad cars in response to the drone deployments on all three islands,” he reported. “They still have helicopters in the air over Bleake and Miagani, but enough of our missile defense systems are in place in Founders to keep the skies here clear.”
“And your other operation?” the Knight prompted impatiently.
The militia commander hesitated for the briefest second. Anyone else may have missed it. The Knight did not.
“The name you gave wasn’t on any of the passenger manifests from the evacuation. She’s still in the city.”
“But?”
“I dispatched an APC and two drones to the associated address. No sign of her…” He swallowed uncomfortably. “The retrieval team reported an encounter with the Batman one block from the apartment building in question. In his car, headed the opposite direction.”
“Did they engage?” the Knight asked sharply.
“No, sir. He made no move to engage and evaded pursuit.”
“Damn it!” The Knight’s fist came down, hard, on the desk. A crystal decanter, left by the office’s previous occupant, toppled over the edge and shattered explosively across the marble tiles.
In that tank of a car, Batman only avoided a fight if he was carrying a passenger, and an important one, at that. One who wasn’t used to violence. One he didn’t want to scare.
He had her. The one person in this rotted cesspool of a city that was worth a damn. The person he had given his men orders to find and bring in, unharmed, as soon as they entered the city.
Why, why would Batman take her? Why bother? He couldn’t know that the Knight was searching for her, not already. He couldn’t know anything about the Knight or his intentions. Scarecrow was the only one who had shown his hand. The Arkham Knight had yet to make his first move. So why?
With hurried steps, the Knight approached the office’s computer system, drawing up the results of the borderline compulsive research he had engaged in before this plan was even fully formed. Images of you, stretching back a decade. The Gotham press adored a tragedy, and when the subject of a tragedy was as beautiful as you? Well, that was a gift that just kept giving as far as they were concerned. There were pictures of you published in the city’s newspapers every year on the anniversary of Jason Todd’s death, looking devastatingly lovely and distraught over the death of your first love, the ward of Gotham’s favorite billionaire Bruce Wayne. A fatal motorcycle accident, the papers’ reported, had turned your star-crossed love story into a tragedy and sent the eccentric and charming remnants of the Wayne legacy, Bruce Wayne and his adopted son Dick Grayson, deep into mourning.
Bullshit.
But more than enough reason for the press to chase you instead. You were much easier to catch. They turned you into a symbol, an icon, a tragic figure for the city to rally around once a year and consider the fate of Gotham youth. Of course, you were a grown woman now, but that only added more gravitas to the anniversary stories. Now, the photographers edited your photos in a gauzy black and white that gave you the look of an Old Hollywood star. Isn’t it so sad, the reporters wailed from the headlines, that she’s never moved on? Photos of you in a black dress because you knew the drill by now, crossing a busy street and pretending not to notice the camera flashes.
But in the past ten years, you’d only been photographed with Bruce twice.
Batman couldn’t have taken you because of the Knight’s personal feelings. And he certainly didn’t take you because of his own. What did that leave?
The next picture offered a solution. You were sitting at an outdoor bistro table with Alfred Pennyworth, sharing polite smiles and an array of breakfast pastries.
Alfred. If there was one person whose heart and connections could be trusted, it was Alfred. At his current stage of life, he only left the grounds of Wayne Manor for people he truly cared for. And if he still cared for you that much, he would absolutely make whatever arrangements he could to protect you. Including calling in a very inconvenient favor.
The Knight turned back to the militia commander, grateful, not for the first or last time, that his helmet concealed his face and voice.
“Get eyes on every Wayne Enterprises building in the city. I want all angles covered, and I want to know the second someone gets eyes on Batman or that damn car.”
The commander nodded, tilting his head away to relay this information to his team via radio.
“Why’s he taking her to Wayne?” he asked, shifting slightly on his feet when he received nothing but a silent stare in response. “You want us to be able to think the way the Bat thinks, right? I’m not following this one.”
“She has connections to the Wayne family,” the Knight said impatiently, gesturing towards the monitors which were now filled with newspaper and paparazzi photos of you. “And those buildings will have the most state-of-the-art security measures in the city. He may even be able to airlift her out of the city from one of those locations.”
“Think the Bat’s on Wayne’s payroll?”
The Knight sighed in disgust, turning away again.
“No. But that woman has been made important not just to the Wayne family but to the people of Gotham. She’s valuable. We need her. Unharmed.”
“Understood.”
“And commander?” the Knight called as the man made a move to leave. “If she arrives looking anything less than the picture of perfect health, I will be holding each and every member of the retrieval team personally responsible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to hear from you again until you have something.”
****
Let me know if you're interested in more! Would love to know what you guys think
Til Death Do Us Part... Or Not (Jason Todd x F!Reader)
Words: 2k // mdni
Tw: soulmate au, angst, hurt/comfort, Jason is in his crime boss era, kidnapping, Canon typical violence, open ended, kinda a drabble
Teaser: You leave him things every time. You are sure Alfred cleans them up so you do not have to deal with the reality of them being useless offerings to a rotting body.
You don't have a soulmate.
It is pretty tragic actually.
It puts you at a disadvantage physically. Soulmates make you stronger. The red string of fate connects one soul but two bodies. Those with soulmates have better stamina, are stronger and smarter. It does come with drawbacks of course– like feeling your soulmate's physical and mental pain when it gets so excruciating that one body cannot handle it alone and the red string seeks to distribute the agony among the soulmates. It can save lives… so maybe even that is an advantage.
You don't have a soulmate anymore.
And you felt his pain the day he died. Yet, you couldn't save him.
You are incomplete now. When people find out that you don't have a soulmate anymore, they look at you with so much pity that it hurts. You hate it.
It's been years.
You had a soulmate once.
There was a night a few months ago where you woke up in pain again. It was differently excruciating. It wasn't the same horror you felt feeling him die… it was far worse than that.
The doc said it must have been an echo still lingering in the red fate. You didn't want to think about it. You just accept his explanation.
You don't have a soulmate…
And you have made peace with it.
It always seems to rain in Gotham City. The aura of doom and hopelessness is pouring down with no regard to anyone's mental health. Everything is dark and gloomy. You hate Gotham… but you could never leave. As bad as it is… it's your home.
You shake out your umbrella and slip into the grand foyer of Wayne Manor. Alfred greets you with a reserved smile and takes your bag from you.
“Are you still going outside in this weather, Ms?”
“I'll be quick,” you tell him and open the door again, hurrying down the path that wraps around the house and down a small hill.
You know every stone, every curve and dip of this dreaded path. It leads to the Wayne cemetery.
Martha and Thomas Wayne's mausoleum is looming with pride and despair over the little patch and just outside its enormous shadow, he is resting 6 feet underneath.
Rotting. He is rotting 6 feet underneath.
You brush some leaves off his grave and reach into your coat pocket, getting out a can of Flash Energy Drink. “Saw it in the store.” You sigh. “I think you would consume too many energy drinks if you'd still be around, yknow… so… here.” You put the can next to the grave stone and your hand brushes against his name.
You leave him things every time. You are sure Alfred cleans them up so you do not have to deal with the reality of them being useless offerings to a rotting body. You are thankful he does that.
You suddenly feel a tug in your chest and an eerie presence consumes you whole. You spin around, the rain is so loud now. Of course there is no one. This is Wayne Manor… No one gets in.
You shake the feeling and return to the house. You and Alfred have to start the book club meeting after all…
He watches from the shadows until you are inside. The air seems colder now. The rain slashes harder and every breath is heavy.
He walks to the grave and picks up the can of energy drink, letting the sickly sweet liquid hit his tongue. He wonders how you know he… how you always leave something he enjoys. Sometimes you read to him, too. Maybe it's just intuition.
Jason Todd. Rest in Peace.
He wants to make that gravestone crumble to bits under his knuckles. What a joke. You coming here every week is a joke… shouldn't you know?
Peace… that was never on the horizon.
Jason Todd had a soulmate once… then he died and came back to life.
He knows the red string of fate is repairing itself and tethering your soul together again… But you cannot even feel it. He can… your stupid grief is tiring.
Why don't you know? Why don't you come and… Save him?
Jason Todd had a soulmate once… and a family too.
Everyone moved on and replaced him. It must have been so easy– he was never even avenged. Nothing changed… his death meant nothing.
Jason Todd had a soulmate once… But you forgot about him just like everyone else.
》》》》
These last few days have been pretty rough. There is this impending doom lingering above your head that you cannot place nor let go of. Perhaps it is time to tell someone…
It is late when you leave the office. This is Gotham alright but you know how to keep yourself safe. Bats taught you… Jason taught you. There is not much that scares you.
You turn a corner and that same eerie aura consumes you. You shrugged it off as nothing the first time… but a second time? It being nothing is a lot less likely now. You take a deep breath and walk a little faster. You cannot hear any footsteps, you do not see anyone. This guy is good. You turn into an alleyway as the confrontation seems unavoidable, it creeps up closer and closer.
Once you are shielded from onlookers you turn around. “I know you are there!” You speak with a firm voice. So much is going through your head… How did this thing get into Wayne Manor in the first place? Why is it stalking you? Wait– has it been there the entire time? Is that why you felt so… off?
“Took you long enough to notice me,” a tall and broad figure jumps from the shadows and lands in front of you. He is towering tall, that eerie feeling is now ringing in your ear louder than ever.
Red Hood.
That makes no sense at all. What does he want from you? Has your secret identity been compromised?
“What do you want from me?” You ask as calmly as possible. Red Hood has stirred up Gothams's underworld for a while now. He took over all the major gangs. He controls the drug market, arms and ever since he's come on the scene trafficking has come to a halt entirely. You don't know what his spiel is but you can tell that he has made the streets safer… in his own way. You could think he is an ally. But there is just one thing, he kills, and no one can go against Bats no killing rule.
You've tried.
“You're just the bait, sweetheart.”
Oh.
You charge forward trying to attack him but your momentum is taken from you when an excruciating pain flares up in your chest.
It is like someone is tugging on the loose end of your red string.
You don't know how long you've been out. It felt like an eternity with all the dreams of happy times with Jason you had to go through being out. Happy memories in a bitter reality. You don't embrace them. You wince with the heartache making it hard to breathe.
You are over it. You have made peace with it. You are whole. There is no other half missing.
“You were out cooold.”
Is he mocking you?! “How did you do that?” You rasp. This is dangerous… can it work on anybody? Or just those few who have a cut red string?
You twist your wrists but he has done a good job at securing you to this chair. You are probably in a random abandoned building.
“You'll figure it out.” His voice is distorted by the red helmet. He hardly seems human.
“So what's the plan? Do you… know?”
“Know that you have been Batgirl? Yes.”
“How?”
He just chuckles and sits opposite from you. “I can't believe you just… stopped. Got out.”
What?! Your eyes narrow. Do you… know this guy?
“Anyway, let's not get nostalgic. I just wanna have a chat with Robin.”
“You scared the big bat will show up? Or worse… Nightwing?” You snarl.
He laughs. “Shitting my pants. Oww.”
You think. Why is he so sure that Tim will show up? Oh. “You placed a decoy… but then still… how can you be sure Robin comes to this location.”
“It's a 50/50 chance. I take the odds,” he shrugs and pulls one of his guns out… and a book. He sits down and starts to read. Minute after minute passes in utter silence. It is a thick silence.
“What are you reading?”
“The Art of War.”
“A classic.”
“Hm.”
“Are you going to war? Against Batman?”
He tilts his head. “What does it look like?”
“I just mean… You wear a bat on your chest. Kinda confusing.”
He doesn't answer, turning the page.
There is a long silence stretched out between you. You look at him. Study him. How psycho to read in a situation like this. It does seem like he knows you… but… do you know him?
“Do… we know each other?” You ask.
You assume he looks up even if the helmet is shielding his reaction. Red Hood puts the book down and walks over to you. He is menacingly haunting. He presses the gun to the tender spot in your chest. He has given you no reason to be terrified, but now you are.
“Do not tell me you are terrified of me?” He whispers then clicks his tongue– like he knows what you feel. “Ouch… that hurts my feelings.”
You can't get a single word out but you whimper with pain when he presses the barrel harder down. It is that same pain - tugging on your loose end of the red fate.
“S-stop,” you gasp.
“It hurts, doesn't it?” He rasps. “You really thought you could tie it up… make it all better… just fill the void with a bad copy… didn't you? You don't even consider it a possibility.”
His free hand grabs your chin. It is gentle… loving. His gloved thumb softly caresses over your lip. “I can't believe you would… whatever.” He let's go.
“Consider what–”
He cuts the rope and is gone a second later. Oh god. Your heart hasn't raced like this in a while. You have to warn Tim and Bruce. But what if he booby trapped the place?
You jump on the fire escape and make it to the street eventually. There is a payphone.
“Alf, Hi. I just wanted to tell you I picked up your order! Bye.” You hang up. “Alfred… hurry hurry hu– ALFRED!” You pick up again. “You have to warn Robin! Red Hood is out for him.”
“Batman is at your location, Ms. He is engaged with Red Hood—”
You jump when you hear the explosion coming from the other side of the town. It shakes the ground even here.
“Master Tim?! Answer!” Alfred shouts.
You hang up and turn back toward the building. A cold shiver turns your world upside down and freezes you in place.
This was not just some abandoned building… This is crime alley. This is the place you spent stormy nights, living on the streets of this rotten city as a kid… with– Jason?
》》》》
“What did he want?” Bruce asks as you are both sitting by Tim's unconscious body.
“Nothing,” you whisper. “He wanted to single out Tim.”
“Why?”
“He didn't say.”
“He must have!” Bruce's voice gets louder. “How did he know who you were?! How did he even catch you off guard like this?!”
“Bruce… I don't know,” your voice breaks. You squeeze Tim's hand and get up. You look at the row of suits that are displayed as a memorial. Yours and Jason's are right next to each other.
You turn away. “What if Red Hood is–”
“Don't be ridiculous.”
“I'm sorry, Bruce.”
“Cmon, Ms (Y/N). I will drive you home,” Alfred leads you along.
Everything is a blur from that moment on. You are considering Red Hood's every word. That it felt like he knew you… that place… can it be coincidence? That he knew what pain you felt and where you felt it. What he said about a bad copy… of him? Of the Robin before.
But how is this possible… it isn't.
Bruce is right. It is ridiculous… but… but what if?
You are laying in your bed, your back is facing the windows. You didn't lock them? Why– you always do– you know why.
The rain hits the class in calming melodies contrasting with the storm you feel inside. It isn't possible. But… what if.
The window clicks open and then shuts again. You turn and sit up, looking at the tall figure that is intruding into your place. He is dripping wet, leaving a puddle by the window. It will evaporate, leaving no trace behind… is this even real? It can't be.
He takes off the helmet and puts it on your desk.
The city lights spill in from behind him, painting a halo around his dark hair. You cannot see his face.
It cannot be real.
He kneels down in front of you. His finger timidly taps against your knee. It is familiar touch… like it is natural. Like there are hardly any boundaries between him and you. His hair is falling onto this forehead. Drip. Drip. Drip. Everything is loud. His breathing… yours. Your heartbeats.
He seems so harmless now.
“M’sorry for using you like that,” he husks.
You reach out with shaking hands, cupping his cheek. They are warm. He is warm… alive. Your eyes meet in the dim light.
“Jason,” you choke on his name. You haven't said it aloud in so long. You avoided it. It hurts. “Jason…”
He collapses into you, burying his face into your lap like you're the only place he feels safe at.
You had a soulmate once… and he is back from the dead.
What - dealing with grief as the dust finally starts to settle. Dealing with grief regarding one specific character's death in particular. You know the one.
Genre - heavier, but we get devoted husband/father Daryl out of the mix. And we don't end the chapter on a bummer, never fear. This ain't a French movie, slowpokes
Relationships - wife Reader and husband Daryl as well as your baby. Familial affection with Rick, and that balance between friend and clergy for Father Gabriel.
Perspective - 3rd POV Daryl, and 2nd POV You
Pronouns - she/her
When - time jump! we've briefly hopped to post season 8, pre season 9 (but before The best kind of damn weird). This chapter takes place during the earlier phases of recovery and rebuilding after the war. The previous chapter, Scary as a sleepy kitten, took place during season 2.
TWs - grief, PTSD (including after SA), depression, self-loathing, and some cussing. This chapter is also kinda lengthy, friends, and had to have exposition. (Might should've sliced the chapter in half, but then we'd have another two-parter on our hands :P)
But how long though? - ...20 minutes or so?
Story references and Masterlist link? - under the cut
And is there a pic at the end as a prize for finishing? - yes :D
Have fun and happy reading!
References to other chapters - what we learned in The Interview. There is also grieving/anger as seen in The first Christmas 'without' Part 2 and its conclusion in I don't hate you, a happy reference to Happy 8th of July!, reference to those lovely tugging strings as found in Invisible Tugging Strings, Part 1 and Part 2 (Part 2 I reckon is still glitched and showing as labeled mature, the poor thing's been cleared about 7ish times via help ticket XD ).
There are a lot more details you might recognize, pop on by to the Official Masterlist here, or for those who prefer linear over non-linear, the Chronological Slowpoke Masterlist here
-----------------------
Still beating
She was doing real bad. The past few days had been especially bad. Grief has nasty ways of settling in and rearing its ugly head.
He didn’t know too much about what to do to help her, he’d never been good at that stuff. And there was no fixing all that happened, especially not when the last thing that happened was the worst thing that could’ve.
Other than if TJ or Judith died, it was the worst thing. And part of his wife died right alongside Carl.
Hell, she’d been the one to wait after Carl died, then turned, to pull the trigger.
Now, she felt dead, too.
Gabe had to suggest that she check her pulse when it got bad enough.
Just then, TJ started to wriggle and hum in an attempt to root at Daryl's bicep, which pulled him out of his worry for a second.
Gently, he began to bounce to try and keep his baby lulled. He knows Y/N wanted to breastfeed only to get her production up (and so TJ’s suckle could get stronger after the surgery), but Y/N was finally asleep.
Beginning with when Denise was killed, Y/N hadn’t been making as much as she first had. Then, the Saviors stopped the RV and surrounded them, and Negan did what he did. Then Daryl himself got taken away, then there was all the fighting.
And then Carl died.
Getting her milk to come back had been proving damned hard.
A handful of not-very-good times, they’d supplemented what milk she did make with watered-down formula and/or watered-down goat's milk.
One very bad time, they’d used sugar water to fill the babies’ bellies until Jesus got back with goat's milk. Just the one time they had to use sugar water, everybody made damn sure of that.
For now, Daryl could crack into what was still left of the goat's milk in the cooler, right? The two women in the Kingdom who had little guys had sent over actual breast milk with Carol a few days ago, but it was used up yesterday. That stuff had been a God-send, he couldn’t thank the lady enough.
Between the two babies in Alexandria, TJ and Gracie, everyone had to be smart about using what formula was left. And given that the power got cut, keeping the goat's milk fresh was another problem, hence the cooler.
There was still a shit ton of clean-up had since the Saviors nabbed Alexandria’s storage, then firebombed the town. To make things worse, those assholes had their own compound destroyed, and Hilltop and the Kingdom got screwed, too. Even the beach women took another beating. Hell, and them junkyard people were literally all fucking gone except their leader chick.
So, Y/N breastfed the two babies as much she was physically able because there was no other option right now, all while working as the only other doc left standing in all five communities; she was running herself into the ground.
And with Carl gone…
It ain’t fair that she couldn’t make enough—and it was it was Negan’s goddamned fault.
Which leads to what just went on: so Mich had told him, Y/N’d lashed out at Negan and the new doctor kid with the facial hair, what was his name, Sidney?
Daryl hadn’t been at the infirmary when it happened, but, according to Mich, she’d had to pull her out of the room. Once out, Y/N asked her about TJ, Judith, and Gracie to make sure they were safe, then disappeared after Mich had turned around. Straight up bolted.
Daryl had checked the escape-closet first, but she wasn’t in there or the attic it connected to, wasn't on the roof that lead to.
He’d then checked the burned church. She’d been there, he recognized her boot prints, but she'd moved on. From there, he was able to follow her sooty tracks in the direction of the place he should’ve known to check first.
Sure enough, Y/N'd been at Carl’s grave.
His wife could barely look at him when he approached. He'd simply kissed her on the head and quietly walked her back home. Once home, he'd cleaned and bandaged her hand while she, again, tried to pump enough for TJ and Gracie.
Mich had told Daryl she’d get Rick for her, so he’d be here soon.
Daryl wracked his brain, he even prayed to learn what do to try to help carry Y/N through this shit.
At first, Y/N’d been pacing around the room, crying but trying not to, arms wrapped around her picture frame with a photo of Carl in it like it was the only thing keeping her afloat.
He'd been able to persuade her to lay down, and ended up laying in bed with her and holding her tight, TJ next to them in little bassinet.
Initially, him holding her and pressing kisses to her neck had made her feel worse. More guilty, that is. A handful of days ago, something got into her head that she needed to give him a damn "annulment."
Nah, for real, she’d even said (to Gabe) that the two of them not having ever done the deed yet was "grounds" to give him one. “Grounds to free him,” were her exact words. It was a whole thing, and the couple of failed attempts at trying to do the deed after getting hitched some months back probably made her feel worse.
Father Gabriel had Daryl's back the whole time during the conversation, though, decent dude.
And no, Daryl wasn’t angry or even real hurt that she’d thought she had to ‘free him’ and shit, he knows it was the grief and physical exhaustion that got her to that point. His woman had full-on blacked out and hurt herself that day, which is why he'd brought her to Gabe in the first place.
But the, um, the walls were thinner than Daryl had expected, which is how he overheard from the person that he was gonna love and stay with and stay faithful to until he dropped dead softly confess that she was “selfish” to keep him “stuck” with a “batshit m-mess” like her and “a baby that ain’t his.”
The fact that Y/N kept maintaining how much she loved him and how she didn’t want an annulment helped it hurt less when she’d sounded just about convinced that it was “loyalty to me ’cause we’re close, loyalty to Rick,” and because of “he’s got so much shame. He feels responsible for what the Claimers did,” that made him marry her those months ago. "He loves our ch—my child, and might love me, but it's not fair to him. He deserves better, h-he needs better, the man's been trapped all his life. I-I don't want him trapped, I want him happy!"
Gabe never played into her fears. He been no nonsense about all of it, told Y/N that she needed a damn rest, and asked her to tell him what she thought about it when she woke up.
The good thing was that after a 5 hour period of uninterrupted sleep (during which they used some of the goat's milk for TJ and Gracie), she woke up in a daze at why she’d thought an annulment was something Daryl needed or wanted.
The bad thing was, she was then socked in the gut with more unearned guilt for it, then with worry that she was too far gone, or crazy, all that.
Been a bad, bad few days.
Been a lot of Daryl showing her love that she felt not worth being shown. So that she fell asleep in his arms today was such a damn win!
After getting up to take a leak and finding that she was miraculously still asleep, he thanked whoever was up there, then tried to figure out what else he could do to help her get through today…and right at that moment, TJ started to rouse, so he got his answer: keep their baby comforted. More shut-eye could only do his woman well.
Deftly lifting the little bundle into his arms, he kissed the scar above the baby’s upper lip and tiptoed out to the hall.
Lightly he bounced, softly he shushed. He held TJ like a football and moved back and forth, back and forth. Babies smell so damn good, and make the cutest damn noises!
After a couple minutes, through the open door, he peeked at his Y/N.
Shit. She was already sitting up and blinking off the sleep.
Whatever it was she did and said today, she felt low as hell about it, that much was clear. Without looking, she grabbed the now-broken picture frame and clutched it to her middle.
"You're supposed to be asleep, slowpoke," he tried to tease.
Her clothes had ashes from where it looked like she’d knelt down then sat down in the burned church. There was some dirt on them, too, from when she’d been at Carl’s grave. Daryl made a note to shake the sheets out later and pick the tissues up off the floor.
That's when the front door opened downstairs.
Was that Ri—good, that was Rick’s voice, he was finally there. There was a second voice, too, was that Father Gabriel’s? It was soft like Gabe's voice was.
Daryl looked downstairs.
Yup, it was Rick with the rev.
He waved them upstairs, but it must’ve been the clunking of the Gabriel’s new cane that got Y/N stumbling out of the room.
“Rev! I would’ve come to you, y-you need to be takin’ it easy.” She hugged the picture frame in one hand, gripped the banister in the other and started to go downstairs, asking Gabe how he felt, urging him to sit down, had his vision worsened, all that stuff.
“Y/N, more rest won’t stop me from losing sight in this eye,” Gabriel responded in his quiet way, remaining on the second step, not going up or down the stairs. He smiled. “You could say I’m the one making a house call to a patient this time."
She held back a sob and bowed her head. Then, she subtly slipped two fingers around the inside of her wrist…
Rick stepped the rest of the way up the stairs and put his hands on her shoulders. “What's going on, weirdo?”
“Ricky, I'm s-sorry."
He leaned closer and took her in for a hug. “Heart still beating?” he murmured.
Her inhale was shaky. “Mmhm. Yours?”
“Beating strong.”
TJ perked up and began to whimper upon hearing her voice. Y/N unzipped her hoodie to—she still had a gun on her?
Okay, that'd been stealth as fuck, it hadn't even been printing. He'd been literally holding her, how had he not noticed?
Daryl shared a glance with Gabe. Minus her screwdriver, she'd turned in her weapons after what happened the other day.
Y/N handed the small gun to Rick, who looked wary, but accepted it without question. She hesitated before reaching into her boot to hand over her screwdriver, too.
Daryl slid his hand around his wife’s waist to guide her back to the room. Without looking him in the eyes, she cupped his cheek and told him he was a good father. Then, frame still gripped under one arm, she took the baby into the other.
“Let’s try havin’ a snack before I go with Uncle Ricky awhile, okay, chickpea?” she murmured, then unbuttoned the top of her shirt.
Daryl took off his vest to give her some more coverage. When he draped the vest around her, she turned her head to kiss his hand. He felt his cheeks warm when she did.
In the room again, she softly told Daryl that he and Rick could sit on the beds. First, she placed the picture frame on one of the mattresses. Next, she took TJ and went beside the end table at the window to sit down on the floor beside it. The way she sat, it was kinda as if she were using it as a shield.
“Rev, please take the chair,” she mumbled to Gabriel with a glance at the only piece of furniture in the room at the time, other than the bassinet, a nightstand, and the end table. Negan had specifically left the rocking chair as a 'gift' for her. The piece of shit...
Anyway, Daryl had got them their two twin mattresses (hey, squish them together and you get a big-ass bed) back the first trip to and from the Savior’s compound after the war ended, once the Alexandrians had begun to move back from the Hilltop. Only, no bed frames yet.
“And sweetheart, I’ll-I’ll take the pumps with me for while I’m in there. Wanna make sure you and Aaron have enough for them,” she said to him, voice still raw. Y/N turned to him and gave him a wobbly smile. “Sorry I used up so much of the tissue supply,” she tried making light, but got close to tears again, so stumbled through asking “Can I, um, Rick, m-might can I bring my pillow? Is that okay?”
Go with Rick where, and take the breast pumps and her pillow, why? He made eye contact with Gabriel, who looked just as puzzled. So, he turned to Rick.
Rick lowered his eyebrows as if he didn’t know what she meant, either. He squatted to sit down on the mattress beside Daryl, and looked at his sister. “Y/N, where are we headed?”
Glancing up from the baby to him then to Daryl, she adjusted TJ’s position on her breast while she figured out how to answer, by the looks of it. Another glance at her husband as if she were worried about his reaction...
“Rick, I thought you was here to…escort me?”
?
Daryl had no clear idea what she meant, it was the rev who understood first.
“No,” Father Gabriel told her gently. “Y/N, you aren’t under arrest.”
Under arrest? Daryl fought between the urge to get angry or dead-ass laugh. Under arrest??
It was for real, though. His wife’s tears started flowing again as she turned her attention to Rick and began to stress, “There can’t be no special treatment—”
“—Is this why you handed me your weapons? Why would you be under arrest?” Rick cut her off to question.
She stared as if he’d grown antlers. “I s-struck a patient, and, and—”
“—And I slit his throat open, which is why that 'patient' is in there in the first place,” he cut her off again, firm.
Thankfully, TJ let out a wail the same time mama wailed, “Ricky, y-you weren’t his medic!” pausing any further arguing.
Y/N gulped, pressed down on one breast, then the other. “I know there’s not much in ’em, Teddy-bear, but it-it’ll get better. It’ll come back,” she shushed, lifting him up and tucking herself back in. With a few kisses, she shushed, “You’ve gotten so much faster at drinking, my love.”
Daryl got on the floor with her and took TJ back.
She avoided eye-contact again, and her lip wobbled again as she pulled the top of her shirt higher. That told him there’d been not much milk in there. And he could see all over her face that it was switching her on the legs with more false-ass, unearned guilt.
The familiar string in his chest suddenly tugged in her direction—next thing, he was resting his forehead on hers. “Hey. You’re makin’ more every day, angel,” he whispered in her ear. "And you're a damn good ma."
The way her expression softened and her body relaxed toward his felt better than fireworks going off on the Fourth 8th of July.
And as if he were back in that Georgia-in-July heat, Daryl just about melted right there on the floor when he saw his TJ, neck lifted high, making a face-scrunching, gummy smile at him. "Look how strong your neck is getting, ’lil badass, you’re rockin’ it!”
Shit, their kid was the best damn thing.
Y/N leaned against him and reached to lightly fluff their baby’s hair and rub their baby's teeny feet.
Gabriel sat in the rocking chair quietly, hands resting on his cane. He caught eyes with Daryl and nodded his head toward Y/N, glad to see her not convinced she needed to ‘free’ her husband anymore.
Absorbed in the photo, Rick exhaled, then spoke up. “Y/N, how about we start from the beginning? What happened at the infirmary?”
She pressed tighter against Daryl as a pained noise left her throat. “Did you talk to Siddiq yet?” sounded very small.
“I want to talk to both of you.”
“And Michonne?”
He nodded. “She told me some.”
The big watch she’d kept from Dale tick-tick-ticked on her wrist. Then came the sound of light metallic clinking. Daryl didn’t have to look to see that she must’ve pulled out her brother’s necklace and was tugging on it.
“What I did ain’t excusable,” came out raspy and thick.
“It is," Rick answered.
“It’s not, especially not what I said to Sid—” a sob choked her response. She used Daryl's leather vest to hide her face before hugging it around herself like a blanket.
“Walk me through what happened first, kiddo, before you hit Negan with this?” Rick subtly gestured to the broken picture frame.
So she had smacked Negan in the face? Hot damn, Daryl was more in love with her already.
Y/N swallowed and shook her head. “They’d been lookin’ at it, the both of 'em.”
“At the picture?”
A tiny nod. “I’d left the room and when I got back, they was looking at it. Siddiq brought it over to him. Tried to make like Negan was sad, too. Fuck that!”
TJ started rooting on his bicep again, but Daryl was on it. “Sorry, pipsqueak, I don’t got the right parts for that.” He started to massage the baby’s belly, and TJ quieted.
“It’s okay to let ’em cry a little, it-it helps restock these,” his wife tried joking, nodding down at her chest.
“Y/N.” Rick was delicate about coaxing her for more details. “You got back into the room, Siddiq and Negan were looking at the picture.”
“Negan’s filthy hands were on it,” she grit. "Lookin' at Carl and me, you with Shaney." The sounds of the pendant being pulled across the chain filled the room along with TJ’s soft cooing.
“Is that when you hit him with the frame?” Rick asked.
“No. I told him not to look at it again or touch it, and if he did, I’d hurt him.”
“Angel, slow your breathin’,” Daryl interjected at the same time that he figured out why those words sounded familiar: it was similar to how she'd warned the last Claimer fuckhead, the one who’d had Carl pinned down and was gon——Daryl shut down this brain for a sec, it was best not to think about that night.
He turned his head to see Rick, red-eyed, tracing his thumb along the photo of Carl, Y/N, Shane and him. Seems as if Rick had recognized her words, too.
“And when was it that you did hurt him?” Rick pressed on.
Y/N swallowed. “About half a minute later when he tried to act like it wasn’t his fault.”
Rick’s composure staggered and collapsed. His voice was hoarse when he managed to say, “It’s not his fault.”
But Y/N was fast to shut it down. “Don’t for one more second make like it’s yours, Ricky, you get that monkey off your back,” she comforted and somehow scolded both at once. “Negan was doing what Negan does when he, when he told you that. It was manipulation, nothin’ real. How C-Carl—” another choked-down sob, more tears.
Daryl noticed her press her fingertips to the spot under her chin, beside her jaw, checking her pulse to prove it was still beating.
“Negan had nothing to do with how Carl got bit,” Rick whispered. “You know it’s true, kiddo.”
“No—our boy wouldna ended up out there, w-with-with Siddiq, if it hadn’t been for Negan.” Her tone got louder and angry, her stress stutter became more noticeable, the way she tugged the necklace turned rougher. “He and his followers was why we weren’t able to trust no n-newcomers like Sid, which is why Sid was still out there alone, and, and, and why Carl went to him! It, it was because of Negan and his, and his, his-his cult!”
TJ seemed freaked out by the louder voice, the baby’s dark, blue-black eyes grown big.
Daryl spoke Y/N’s name to try and bring her back to herself, but she seemed to have very suddenly calmed.
She was blinking at her hand.
Daryl looked, and then saw the two halves of her brother Shane’s chain, broken.
“How many times did Carol warn me that this would happen when I tugged it,” she muttered to herself. "Good thing I didn't decide to tug on the rosary, huh?"
Inhaling, she leaned her head against the wall behind her, staring into space, fingers to her wrist to check her pulse again.
From beside her, he covered her hand in his. Then, pressing his lips to her fist, Daryl took the necklace from it. He could fix it.
“I lost my temper again, I’m sorry,” she spoke to all in the room, her hand cupping Daryl's cheek a moment. Then, more quietly, she looked at Rick. “How many days’ll I be in there?”
Which sent Daryl straight back to disbelief he was hearing those words, what absolute bullshit. “Angel, you ain’t going nowhere.”
“You’re not going to a cell, Y/N,” Rick echoed.
“No special treatment,” she softly repeated. “If I were anybody else—”
Rick interrupted her “—It’s not about who you are.”
Father Gabriel had gotten up and was making his way to Y/N by then.
Y/N shook her head at the conversation, tired. “If I were anybody else, and if he were anybody else,” she caught her breath, “there’d be reper-re-rep—” a few more tries, and she had to choose a different word, “consequences. Assault and battery on an un-unarmed person—a patient—from their medical provider, that’s serious.” Her hand was back to covering her face. She sat pressed against the wall, knees at her chest.
“You and Siddiq are the only doctors left. We couldn’t just put you in a cell even if you had earned it.”
“I ain't a doctor, at best, I’m a medic,” she grunted. “And I did earn it, just ask him and Michonne. As for my,” she made a shaky inhale, “my duties, I can be escorted out.”
“And TJ? Gracie?” Daryl put out there, hoping to guilt her out of insisting she get jail time, like, what the fuck. What kind of conversation was this?
Screw this, he couldn't even sit. He stood, shaking his head and pacing around the room, still holding TJ.
The expression on Y/N's face should’ve been enough to calm him down, along the defeated, quiet way she reasoned, “I’ll pump and y’all will visit. It’s—no, sweetheart—it’s only for a few days,” when he started to dead-ass leave. As if her being in there ‘only for a few days’ would help this bullshit make sense.
But that’s when he ended up snapping, “This is goddamn bullshit! You bopped a sick fuck on the nose with a picture frame, who the fuck will care? Rick, why you even entertainin' this shit?” and he regretted doing so as soon as he barked it out.
The old, invisible knee rammed him in the nards harder when Rick cautioned, "Brother," and Gabe finally opened his mouth, and louder than Daryl had ever heard him speak. “She cares, Daryl. So do I.”
And to make it all worse, their baby had given a start in fear when he’d shouted, and now the poor kid was screaming—and TJ doesn’t scream, shit, shit, he blew up while holding his child?
“M’sorry! M’sorry," he hushed to his baby, "I love you so much, kid, I’m so sorry I scared ya. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” With a kiss on TJ’s wild head of hair, he murmured, “Pipsqueak, your old man is an idiot.”
Y/N rushed over when TJ screamed, but she didn’t take the baby away from Daryl. Instead, she caressed her husband’s forearm and the tricep and spoke to their child. “Your daddy’s got you safe,” she soothed.
He knew she was trying to look him in the eyes, but he couldn’t return it. He’d just scared an infant because he couldn’t check his temper. Their infant.
His wife’s quiet assurance cut through the rushing in his head. “Daryl? TJ ain’t hurt, sugar, and you’re not a bad father. Do some skin to skin, okay?” She pecked a kiss on his cheek. “And that's a dollar for cussing, pay up later.”
She then sat back down on the floor next to the rev. Daryl took the rocking chair, unbuttoned his and TJ’s shirts, then nestled the kid on his chest.
Y/N then told the room the rest of what happened, how after Negan croaked out with what voice he had left, saying it wasn’t his fault Carl was dead, that she’d turned around and whacked him across the face with the frame.
Siddiq had reacted by grabbing her shoulders from behind to pull her away from Negan—she had shoved back and kneed him in the dick plus rammed her head against his, dropping the frame in the process. The frame broke as a result—and when it broke, she'd lost her cool, said some shit, and threw some shit. Mich heard the hubbub and intervened, then Y/N hid herself away.
As far as Daryl was concerned, the new doc was lucky all he got was a shove, a knee to jewels, a clunk on the head, and some words and maybe a clipboard thrown at him, because Y/N could fight damned well. She'd had it drilled into her how and when to do it. Freely taught others moves, too.
When she’d showed Carol some techniques, way back, it was one of the things that sent him falling for her.
And…Y/N might’ve not said it out loud, but when she described how Siddiq grabbed her from behind to pull her away, everyone in that room got why it caused her to react strong.
What she described herself as doing would’ve been instinct.
Siddiq wouldn’t know why. Negan might, the fucker had watched the tape of her Deanna interview.
“See?” Y/N blew her nose again, sniffed, and stared at the floorboards. “It’s not right to Sid or the community to, to have what I did go unchecked. And what I said to Siddiq was so cruel. What’s worse is I meant it. Fuck, I still do.”
What she'd said was basically that she wished he’d gotten bit instead of Carl, and that it was just as much Siddiq's fault that the boy was dead as it was Negan’s.
She grimaced, then caressed the watch on her wrist. Must’ve been thinking of Dale. “Ain’t fair to…Negan, neither. If there’s anything Carl taught us, it’s that,” she whispered.
Rick lifted the frame to kiss his son’s picture, wiped a couple tears away. “When I talked with Sid, he was…alarmed. Worried. He thought it was off-character.”
Y/N went rigid where she sat. “Siddiq wasn’t there two years ago.”
Daryl lifted the baby higher on his chest and snuggled closer.
Rick shook his head. “You wishing someone dead, or, dead instead of another, is very off-character, it’s not you. No—don’t shake your head, Y/N.” Her brother maintained, “Even back then, after what happened, you didn’t wish me dead. You wished that Shane was still alive, not that I was dead instead.”
“But I still attacked you and told you I would kill you. And I-I meant it at the time, you know that.”
“And for a couple days, you left, because you didn’t actually want that. You knew it was wrong.”
“Which is why I need to get put away for a couple days. I decided to hurt a patient and his doctor, my own fr—” She wasn’t able to say what was probably the word ‘friend.’ Y/N bit her lip, and continued, “Then hurled words at him what nobody should get hurled at them.” She swallowed a cuss and grabbed another tissue.
“You’re exhausted, Siddiq knows that.” Rick pointed out. “We’re not ourselves when we’re—”
Y/N wasn’t having it. Probably too exhausted, to tell the truth.
“We’re all exhausted. C’mon, man, you just lost your son!” A sob left her and she tried to breathe through her nose. Checked her pulse again.
“You were also reacting to how he yanked you back, kiddo. That's not nothing.”
Daryl gave Rick a warning glance.
Rick saw, nodded, and held up a hand, which made Y/N turn to see what Daryl was doing. But Daryl simply kissed TJ on the head, not saying nothing.
She wasn’t fooled. When Y/N looked back at Rick after giving her husband a look of it’s okay, Daryl gave Rick another warning glare, then a nod.
“You didn’t react like that without reason, Y/N. There’s no shame to admit it was a trigger.”
She grumbled at the word. “Trauma ain’t an excuse to traumatize others.” After exhaling, she ran her hands over her face and took a moment. Hardly louder than a whisper, she challenged, “Ricky, not all my problems stem from the rapes. I’ve always been too hot-headed.”
At that moment, Daryl wanted to scoop her and TJ up and drive them away from everything, keep the two of them safe and unbothered for a month or two or four.
“Getting grabbed like that m-might, y’know, might could’ve reminded me of it—when they—" She ran a hand through her hair. "Okay, it did get me going. But, I,” she paused. “It wasn’t that I saw red or blacked out, I chose to keep goin’ once I’d started. I threw stuff because I was raging.”
Y/N fiddled with Dale’s watch, and turned to Father Gabriel beside her and almost smiled at him, close to the way she used to smile at Glenn, as if he were in on a joke. “I’d hoped I was re-domesticated by now.”
“Let us give thanks that you’re still housebroken,” he responded, taking Daryl by surprise. "You're...still housebroken, are you not?"
The way Y/N then cracked up and grinned woke up the butterflies in his stomach.
“Y/Nou’ve come miles since I first met you,” Gabriel told her softly, smiling back.
“All the way from Georgia,” she joked back, then grew more serious. “You’ve grown a whole lot, too.” She wiped her eyes, and Gabe closed his.
“And Y/N,” he shook his head. “You aren’t losing your humanity. I know you’re frightened of that, after what you told me happened to your older brother.”
It didn’t even register in Daryl’s mind that Shane’s memory would be scaring her. She loved her brother like hell, but she was always terrified of going down the same path he did.
He looked to Rick to see what his reaction was. His reaction was tear-rimmed eyes and a nod of his head toward TJ, silently asking if he could hold the baby awhile. Daryl nodded, Rick stood, and returned Y/N the frame as he walked by to pick up the little one.
Hands empty, Daryl took out his army knife and the broken chain from his pocket so he could fix his woman’s necklace. Wasn’t gonna be hard.
He heard Y/N whisper, “Hey, punk. Miss you. Miss you, too, loser.” He let his eyes travel to where she sat under the window, and watched her kiss the picture and well up. It was the old one of her and preschool-age Carl photobombing Rick and Shane, after one of them got some kind of cop award.
Clutching it once more to her belly, she and Father Gabriel then started to talk in low voices with one another.
“The red haze in your right sclera is so close to begin' clear. Did you talk to Rosie today? She’s been seeming less depressed.”
“I thought this was me visiting my patient, not the other way around,” Gabe gently hinted. “Y/N, please talk to me.”
Daryl heard her sniffle. “Rev, but I don’t want to have meant those words. I’ve been workin’ on it. It-it might be his fault, but I know he’s innocent, he’s humane—Sid even counts walkers like I do, man, yet still, I—” her breathing shuddered. “After whatever this mess is kicked in, every time I see him now, I hate him. Why do I hate a decent person?”
“Grief,” he offered simply. He gave her another shrug and small smile. “Keep doing what you have been. It will get easier every day, the same way your, um,” he was careful about his wording regarding her tits, “that you have more for the little ones every day.”
She huffed but didn’t raise her voice again, she stayed quiet as could be. “It don’t feel like none of that’s happening.”
“Our perception of things doesn’t always equal the truth, Y/N.” Gabe seemed to take a moment. Maybe he was praying.
Y/N’s fingers found her pulse again.
“We are all healing,” Gabriel next said, and smiled again. “Your heart is still beating, is it not?”
Y/N stared for a few moments, caught in the act. Eyes meeting Daryl’s for a moments, she removed her fingers from her neck, and inclined her head at the reverend. “What about yours?” she asked softly.
“Still beating. And that’s the proof,” he assured her just as softly. “Y/N, as for the way you understand your actions and your emotions toward him as not being right, I would like you to take it as a comforting sign. And, you just handed over a weapon you plainly wanted to keep concealed, you didn’t use said weapon to hurt Negan, either,” he pointed out, for which Daryl was grateful. “Perhaps, if you begin to make excuses, begin to feel no sense of having done wrong when you have, I will worry.”
Weirdly enough, he next grinned up at the ceiling. “But I am not, because you are simply broken and in need of healing. You’ll get there, as will I,” he held his hand out to the room. “As will your brother, your husband. All of us.” He sighed. “So long as our hearts are still beating.”
Daryl looked back at his wife in time to see her bit her wobbling lip and nod. Her gaze turned to Rick with the baby. He was kissing TJ’s scrawny little feet.
Her face softened seeing them, and as Daryl’s stomach fluttered again, she turned to look at him. His stomach full-on did a happy flip (and, yeah, he lost his grip on the necklace’s broken link and dropped it).
Y/N said to Rick, “Well, we still need to show ’em that Alexandria—that you—are accountable and fair. How many nights will do, you think?”
Rick shook his head. “Zero. But, because you have a point and won't take 'zero' as an answer,” he quickly added, “how about one?”
“For a piggy, you’re actin’ awful chicken.”
He was unmoved by the cop joke. “Bawk, bawk.”
And Y/N laughed, for what it was worth. And it was worth everything, hot damn was that laugh the best sound.
Daryl figured he might as well check, “What about bail, that still a thing?”
“Not with you owing a whole dollar. That’ll take weeks to pay off,” she said, back to doing her best to lighten up things. He loved her so fucking much, goddamn.
“Supervision when outside the cell,” she stated to Rick.
He shook his head again. “I have a better sentence in mind. When I saw you wearing Lori’s belt earlier today, it reminded me of it. See, and you left this at the infirmary.” He reached into his jacket pocket.
Recognition swept across her face when he held it out. “Do you think he’ll feel safe?”
“The headphone cord is too thin to choke him with, it’d snap.”
“Ricky, that joke was very dark,” she lightly chided.
He squinted, kissing TJ’s feet one more time first. “I hereby sentence you to one night—”
“—Three.”
“One in lock-up,” he spoke over her, then was fast to tack on, “with Daryl and this one as guards.” He motioned to the baby. “Supervised outings for your duties tomorrow and the day after, including the trip to the Hilltop for Maggie’s prenatal visit. And,” he held up the music player, “you’ll need to listen to music with Siddiq on this. We know it works.” He cocked his head. “Let’s start with 20 minutes per day, like you and I had.”
Some tears slipped out even though she was smiling. She mouthed I love you to him, then asked out loud, “How many days?”
Rick squinted. “Fourteen.”
---------------------------
You
“You pick the songs. Whatever you like,” you told him, staring at the photo and rubbing the ‘22’ pendant over your lips. Daryl fixed the chain for you shortly after you’d broken it. You really love him.
Sid accepted the mp3 out of your hand.
You and he each had one earbud in, one apple beside you, and Michonne sat nearby with Judith. Supervision was your stipulation, yet being proactive about ensuring it had done nothing for how humiliating it was. Still, you took an objective look and figured Siddiq should know that his safety mattered, that your people were fair and held themselves to standards.
Just looking around the place, it looked as if standards were a given here. That Alexandria’s power grid and some panels were already repaired within three weeks of Negan’s razing was almost unbelievable.
Sucks for the Saviors Cult that the community had been built to withstand up to magnitude 4.1 earthquakes and be fairly fire-safe as part of its self-sustaining (and for-politicians) model, so in the least, a good number of the homes were still standing.
Carl's gazebo was another story, as were other similar structures, like the church, but the ash had been washed off by the rain, and the communities' walls were back up.
Next to you, Siddiq asked you how to work the mp3, citing, “Carl had been the one to…”
Had been the one to work it when he borrowed it to visit you out there, in order to show you some kindness. Before he got himself bit because of you.
The words festered inside of you. Whatever. Let them fester, you felt dead anyway.
As you went to point to show him, the picture hung from your outstretched, bandaged hand. The pic you'd chosen this time was another older one from the before-times, not one of the newer polaroids. You'd been the one to take it, actually, using a disposable camera about three and a half, maybe four years ago.
It was blurry, Lori and Carl had been being silly and stopped posing, Rick was mid-comment. You loved this one.
It felt so unreal now, felt fake. Felt dead.
You checked your pulse. Still beating.
“The, um, just use-use those two buttons there for up and down to search,” you mumbled, tucking the photograph into your shirt pocket. “The left is for back, the right is for options. Press down on the middle to click.”
He went huh. “Here’s the Indian music playlist,” he chuckled. Appears he’d found the Desi Party! playlist. Carl told you he’d played it for him.
Before he’d gotten fucking bitten.
How could your heart ache so much if you were dead?
“It’s got all sorts on it,” you replied to Siddiq. Remembering your oldest sister who’d made all the playlists before handing her mp3 down to you, it all felt like she was made up. Felt like everyone was made up, fake. Dead.
“My mother was a big filmi fan,” he shared.
But you simply repeated, “Pick to whatever you like, you’re in charge of the songs.”
There was no emotion in your voice. You didn’t want to chat with him, didn’t want to nerd out about Bollywood music, and also didn’t want to face him after saying such awful things to him early today.
Hating him felt right. Granted, it felt wrong at the same time, which invited shame to take a seat on your lap.
You followed the rev’s advice and took comfort in the shame because it meant your conscience was still ordered in a good direction. Meant you weren’t fully dead yet. You checked your pulse again to remind yourself that it was still beating. Life was still going.
Father Gabriel had also told you that feeling dead didn’t make you a bad mother or a bad wife or bad person, it simply meant you were broken and grieving.
“Y/N?”
“What?” you growled—and immediately wished it hadn’t come out that way. In your head, you told Carl you were sorry, you’d do better next time. Then, you prayed to stop hating the sight of Siddiq, the sound of his voice. Wished Dale or Hershel or T-Dog or Deanna or Denise were there for, for—advice, support, you don’t know…
And because the rev has enough on his plate and needs to rest, maybe you’d risk everyone’s ire and sneak away to visit Mr. Jones at the junkyard. At least he wasn’t dead yet, too.
“I never apologized for pulling you backward like that,” Siddiq said to you, a little short. Couldn’t blame him.
In truth, you had done all you were going to do to Negan after smacking him the once, but Sid wouldn’t have known that. Wouldn’t have known how grabbing you like that would flip an alarm, either.
No use moping, if your positions were reversed, you’d have wrangled him back, too.
And yet, you just caught yourself licking your teeth and sneering in response to his apology.
But it wasn’t out of anger or hatred so much as…you still aren’t certain what the emotion was. Grief, depression, shame, all three. You supposed it didn’t make a difference. Didn’t feel like much of anything.
Briefly, you put two fingers to your neck to check your pulse again. Still beating. Still alive.
Alive, and needing to eat some crow, as it were.
“Don’t apologize, you were protectin’ our patient. What I did was wrong,” you recited. “I-I threatened a patient and then whacked him across the face.” Your conscience then prompted you to apologize again for what you’d said to him. “And, just—Siddiq, what I said to you was bullshit and m'sorry I said it. Cruel bullshit, naught else. Don’t go believing a word of it.”
He wasn’t clicking through the playlists and songs anymore.
Appearing uncomfortable, he peeked at you before he put his attention back on the mp3. “Michonne said pulling you like that was a trigger, which is why you, um…I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know.”
First, you relaxed your jaw. “Ain’t your job to know. It’s mine to learn past it.” Next, you spackled on something of a smile and added quietly, “It’s good that you, that you stepped in. Thank you.” You did mean it, for what it was worth.
How many minutes until the twenty was up, you wondered, and tried to not be obvious about checking the time on your wrist. Eyeing Michonne, she seemed more preoccupied with Judith than with being punctual regarding your penance/sentence.
“PTSD is serious. That’s why I’m sorry, I, um,” Siddiq faltered. He went back to clicking through the music choices.
“We all have at least a little PTSD, bud.” With a light nudge to try and convey camaraderie or something, you attempted to tease, “C'mon, you chosen at least one song, yet?”
“Sorry, let me just, uh…” and with a few more clicks, the first song started. It was Bohemian Rhapsody.
“You chose the playlist ‘Songs Everyone Likes.’”
He chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, figured I couldn’t go wrong with that one.”
The memory of belting out this song with Carl, Glenn, Beth, and Maggie before your group even found the prison whooshed back and you started to smile—until you remembered that Carl was gone now. He was dead.
You’d forgotten all of that for hot second, but your Carl was dead. So was Glenn. So was Beth.
Maybe you were dead, too. You felt dead—so, you pressed your fingers to your neck to feel for a pulse.
Still beating.
The lyrics of the song began to register. You know, the early parts like ‘I don’t wanna die,’ and ‘carry on, as if nothing really matters.’ Sounded a little too personal, tell you the truth.
And just like that, the song was skipped. You glanced at Siddiq.
He shook his head. “Not the right mood for it.”
“Mm.”
The intro to the next song in the shuffle was very bouncy, and ‘Dance to the Music’ started to jive through the earbuds. You didn’t sway along like you naturally would have. No urge to.
The song played, finished.
“First time I heard this was in Shrek,” Siddiq made small talk while munching on his apple. “Love that movie.”
You might’ve hummed in acknowledgment, you aren’t sure. He handed your apple to you, you took it. Held it.
The next song started, ‘Young Hearts Run Free.’
The song played, finished.
Siddiq made more small talk. “I remember that one in Romeo + Juliet. We watched that version in high school after we finished reading it.”
You hummed again. Pressed your fingers to your wrist, just in case. Your heart was still beating.
The next song started, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash.’
“A lot of oldies,” he commented once the singing began. He took the final nibble off his apple.
“But goodies,” you responded, willing yourself to sound less stiff and monotone. “Modern stuff is on this playlist, too, don’t worry.”
The song played. Finished.
The next song started. ‘Another One Bites the Dust.’ Siddiq promptly skipped it once the refrain started and the lyrics sunk in.
“Good call,” you grunted.
The next song started. ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’
“Oh n—please skip this one, too." You loved that one, but you’d queued it up for Glenn at his and Maggie’s wedding, and it was not the time to go reminiscing. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Checked your pulse. Still beating. "Please skip 'Thunderstruck' if it comes on, too?”
The mp3 player clicked as Siddiq skipped the song. Next on the shuffle was ‘Under Pressure.’
He adjusted his seat and coughed. “This one fits.”
A combination sigh/groan was your contribution, because he was right. The two of you were the only doctors major medical personnel left standing.
The song played. Siddiq’s knees and wrists bounced to the rhythm where he sat beside you. You stared at your boots. Where’d all the soot and dirt on them and your clothes come from, you couldn’t remember…
…
It was when a strong gust of cold wind blew that you noticed that the music had stopped, your earbud was out, and the sky wasn’t as cloudy anymore.
When did that happen?
You sat up and blinked a few times, your apple still in one hand, Shane’s necklace in the other.
“Hey,” you heard Siddiq call.
What, why were your cheeks wet? “S-sorry, I,” you dropped the necklace, wiped your eyes with your sleeve, and put the apple down, “must’ve, um, checked out.”
“I’m not sure how long it was after it began when I noticed the change,” he let you know. “Is…this what happened earlier?”
You closed your eyes and shook your head. “Earlier was somethin’ else. This was just—” ‘Dissociation,’ was a misunderstood word, so Denise taught you. And you didn’t want to use the word for that reason. You really wanted to keep a shred of dignity for yourself in the eyes of that guy. He didn’t even know that you’d hurt yourself when you’d ‘blacked out’ the other day…so, you decided upon a white lie highly euphemistic layman's term. “I spaced out.”
He nodded, but his brows sunk, as if he weren’t buying it.
And when he did that thing where someone slightly opens their mouth because they’ve put together a response, you changed the subject. “Listen to anythin’ good while I was in space?”
Siddiq wasn’t swayed. “Do you still feel detached?”
“A little,” you answered truthfully, breathing deep and checking your watch to try gauging how long you’d been out. Except, you had no recollection of what time it had been earlier, so it was a bust. God save you, you were a mess.
“Sid. I’m sorry you’re trapped dealin’ with this shit, it ain’t fair to you. If, if you wanna bounce early, don’t feel obligated to stay, and, and—like, if you don’t wanna do this whole music thing, it’s fine. W-we don’t want you feelin’ unsafe.”
“Unsafe? Y/N, I…” he paused. “I forgive you for what you said earlier. And I’m not scared of you. Hitting Negan wasn’t okay, but…” another pause. “Compared to the way most others are baying for his blood and how you defended saving his life, I mean—you helped me save him, Y/N—” He lifted his hands, palms to the sky. “You’re my friend, we work together, it’s not like I can’t see that you’re drowning.”
Nothing prepared you to hear that.
He was calling you a friend and was still trying to be understanding, after all that…
You wanted to slam your head on a hard surface and cry from the shame and simultaneous relief. You also didn’t want to accept it, so pushed back. “You were alone out there too long. Friends d-don’t tell friends they wish they were dead.” And mean them, you did not confess.
But of all things, he merely raised one shoulder and snorted. “I’m a really good friend?”
Tears spilled at the same time that you almost laughed. No, it's true, you almost laughed. Things felt a little unreal again, but in not a bad way. The most you could do right then was send up thanks for the mercy that came out of the mess. You pinched your wrist first, then felt for your pulse.
“Compared to a few minutes ago, do you feel more like yourself now?” Siddiq made sure.
Huh. You used to ask Shane a very similar question, when he was forgetting his goodness.
You kept feeling the small beats at your wrist, reminding you that you were indeed alive, therefore capable of healing and growth.
“Heart’s still beating,” you sniffled, making yourself smile at him. The hatred and disgust you’d felt earlier seemed to you less like a fact and more like a bad dream.
Then, from the far right of the oak, you heard Aaron’s voice saying, “Not yet, man, they’ve got four minutes left.”
Aaron and Daryl came into view. They waved to you as they walked by with their little ones, another reminder that you that you weren’t fully dead inside. Gracie was in a stroller, TJ was bundled in Daryl’s arms. Your husband lingered behind, eyes on you as he absently pecked a kiss to your baby’s covered head.
Something stirred, and your chest fluttered and tugged in their direction, reminding you again that your heart was still beating. So was Maggie’s, so was her and Glenn’s baby’s, so was Rick’s, so was Aaron’s. Life was still going. You had a child, a husband; lifelines. Their hearts were still beating, too.
The unexpected wink and the way Daryl’s gaze softened as he looked at you made you feel as if you’d been freezing and someone just handed you a cup of cocoa with mini marshmallows. The way he next moved his lips to pronounce ‘troublemaker,’ however, you ought to have seen coming a mile away.
The heaviness in your body eased a bit. A smile started prodding the corners of your mouth. Shyly, you returned the wave and mouthed ‘mangy hick,’ your wrist bumping against the photograph sticking from your shirt pocket.
Aaron noticed him acting like a dope lagging and gestured for him to keep up. “Four more minutes and we’ll come back to get her.”
Daryl called out "slowpoke," and waved your baby’s little arm to the two of you as they walked away. He kept peeking behind him, too, it warmed you. When they reached far enough, you once again took the photograph out from your pocket.
With a final peek at Carl’s picture, you sent up a prayer and reaffirmed the promise that you’d made to him. That you’d live for him, do him proud.
So long as your heart was still beating, you’d try to do him proud. “Seems you and I got four more minutes, Sid. What’ll we pick?”
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know, we’re all friends here and your comfort level is important!)
---------------------------
And here's the picture prize for getting through the long chapter!
When - 10 or so minutes after He hasn't been himself, which takes place during the Chupacabra episode of Season 2
What - the finishing touches on Daryl's medical care, how Andrea's handling almost mistakenly killing the guy. You assure her that he's about as scary as a sleepy kitten right then. Then, there's digesting big bro Shane's descent from morality along with Daryl's simultaneous growth in it. Bonus is a hint regarding the Greene's barn. So sad there aren't any barn cats in there anymore, wonder what happened...
Genre - a little angsty, a little fluffy, a little found-family.
Who - You, Mangy Hick (that's Daryl), Patricia, Andrea, Papa Dale and his not good book, and sweet little Beth (who's got the same headcanon from the Fabulously Confident Reader stories about liking choose-your-own-adventure books)
Perspective - 2nd person, and 3rd Daryl
Pronouns - did GN again this time
TWs - some language, otherwise you just have a brief blow-up. The day's been something else, y'all
Length? - 10-15 minutes
References - when Daryl made that funny in Like a traditional Sunday dinner, the incident with Ed as seen in "Deserved" Part 1 but mostly Part 2 and its cooldown in It's not the end of the wo - oh. There's the continuation of big brother Shane's descent, a slow progression in a bulk of the chapters. Be sure to check out Invisible Tugging Strings, Part 1 and Part 2 , then Spell your last name, please. as well as He hasn't been himself
Official Masterlist here (find fabulously confident reader there!) and the Chronological Slowpoke Masterlist here
have fun and happy reading!
Apologies for the lengthy delay, slowpokes, my brain has been on power-saver for about a month, might could be evident in the chapter, too XD
...........................................
“Guess I'll just move this arm like a robot—oh-ho, check it, I can still do the tomahawk chop, y’all!”
And yeah, then his friend proceeds to make barely one and a half chops before wincing. The slight pout that forms afterward makes him want to smile, it’s damn cute.
“Hurt more than I thought it would.”
The twangy blonde lady looks entertained. “Tell me why, Y/N.”
Their pout turns more embarrassed. “…Movin’ the forearm requires these here muscles.”
He liked that their accent revved up more with the blonde lady—sorry, her name’s Patricia, he knows, got it.
“Which affects what?” Patricia asks.
“My shoulder and chest.”
“Which are injured and got irritated something serious today, along with what I’m fairly sure is maybe your C6 and 7, maybe the T1, whenever you first got hurt.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they mumble.
Stop thinking Y/N looks cute. Also, what were those letter-number things?
Sighing, his friend stares at their upper arm.
So, during the, like, he doesn’t know, 5 minutes or whatever it was when the old man helped him slump to the bathroom so he could finally take a piss, Y/N’s upper arm was wrapped to their torso to prevent them from hurting it more. They keep overdoing it, and they keep taking their damn sling off, so Patricia made a compromise, he guesses.
And after doing a modeling-pose type thing with their wrapped arm and asking who was wearing their gauze better, them or him, Y/N immediately tried to do the tomahawk chop and move like a robot and why is he finding that so damn cute right now?.
Patricia winks at Y/N. “Name some of the muscles up there and I won’t put the rest in a sling."
You
“Ooh, bicep, tricep,” basics out of the way. “This, um, one of these over here is the brachialis, this is the deltoid, the teres major’s under here.” You got that muscle wrong on an anatomy midterm back during college and never forgot about it. “This here is the trapezius.” Because the dudes who do the trapeze at the circus got real big ones (or at least that’s how you remember it). “And, well, the clavicle is this bone, so the bone under it is the scapula, which means right about here’s the subscapularis muscle,” that she said you may have hurt, “Oh, duh, then ‘the major one is the pectoralis.’ And—”
“—Okay, no sling.”
Phew. “Thank you!”
“For now, anyway. Meanwhile, Hersh is givin’ me a look, let’s get to cleaning our friend, here.”
Him
The funny part is, as Patricia left, she made a face and said, “I don’t remember most of the muscle or bone names, I just took Y/N's word for it. Now, Daryl, don’t go gettin’ out of bed, stay put.”
Now he’s finally laying down, nothing else to be done to him. He’s so damn tired.
He’s scrubbed up, too. Got a big-ass bandage over his head, wrapped all around. That was a trip; Patricia and Y/N washed his head and neck over a bowl. He counted the seconds til it was over, half-listened to whatever they were chatting about to distract himself.
Once he was bound up like a cartoon character and given instruction to not get it wet, Hershel came back and walked him to the bathroom again, this time to clean everything else off.
There was a little stool thing in the shower, with the shower hose on the ground instead of hanging. “Don’t get your head or the bandage wet. There's a waterproof cover over the dressing on your side that you'll have to remove when you're finished. Now, I imagine you prefer total privacy, but if you need the help, I can assist, or I can get your friend Theodore, if your prefer.”
“M’fine.”
The simple response “I’ll be outside the door, Daryl,” surprised him. Made him feel stupid and ashamed and comforted all at the same time.
And he…he needed the damn help. Ain’t like the old guy hadn’t seen his back already, anyway.
Still, the old man mostly stayed behind the shower curtain at his request, and he didn’t see his junk or nothing, Daryl made sure to keep himself covered.
Part of him felt like some pathetic little cat getting a flea bath.
Today was something else.
So goddamned tired…
You
Not 15 minutes went by since he was escorted to the washroom and now he’s fast asleep under the sheets.
Lori and you stayed inside with Carl (and Daryl), and Carol and Rick brought in plates of food into the house for the four of you.
Carol cooked up some jerky with an egg for Daryl as a special treat with the rest of his meal. Menu for tonight is peanut butter sandwiches (sort of, they’re on saltines), hard-boiled eggs (not soft-boiled, you checked this time), with sauteed field greens.
Your poor friend must be ravenous, but it looks like tiredness won this round. He looks so different asleep. Sweet, even. It's silly, but his light snores almost sound like purring and now you're thinking about kittens.
Another moment in the quiet, and you figure you shouldn’t stand there like a weirdo anymore.
Well, his egg and the peanut butter sandwiches will keep until he wakes up, and the jerky and egg will taste great either way, but his portion of sauteed field greens won’t be nice cold. You’re only a little bummed when you slide your portion of little sandwiches onto his plate and take his portion of greens. He’s earned extra treats, he can have all the peanut butter he wants after what he found today.
You inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Close your eyes and ask inwardly for help after offering more thanks that he came back alive, and found concrete proof of Sophia.
It’s nice to be in the quiet. It feels safer better to be away from Shane right now, too. You aren’t sure what you’re going to do about the sleeping situation other than tell your brother to set up his own tent.
You also take one of the cracker sandwiches, it’s been a rough day. But when you start to nibble on it…your appetite is gone. Which is so dumb, dude, you’d been stoked at the thought of chowing down when you were high on Daryl being okay and having found Sophia’s doll.
Daryl’s chest rises and falls. You listen to his light snores, and find it, as Amy would’ve said, “interesting,” (but understandable) that your stomach has a few butterflies at seeing him so peaceful and still.
You miss Amy. Which prompts you to consider that you should check on Andrea. Earlier, Dale had come in and asked a bunch of questions for her because she was too ashamed to see people. From wherever she is right now, Amy is probably hoping you’ll help comfort her big sister.
Patricia stops you before you exit the house through the side-door. “Been meanin' to ask, I heard you tell your brother to get out, earlier. Everythin’ okay?”
That question was unexpected, words aren’t working for you. You shake and nod at the same time, which is weird, so, you open your mouth to fix it, but nothing formulates.
After a second try, all you can stumble through is “I don’t know, ma’am,” before ungracefully scooting outside.
After 5 minutes of polite conversation on the steps, mainly between you and Dale regarding Daryl’s status, Andrea is still dumbfounded that she’d almost killed someone.
“He’s really okay?”
“He’s bandaged and resting now. You only winged him, but the falls he took earlier did the most damage, Andy.” You’re trying not to be angry with her, but failing. Which sucks, because you know she was trying to protect the group…
But that she still shot it even though it was against Mr. Greene’s wishes and she knew that indicates an unhealthy variety of pride. One can't be having that kind of attitude with a firearm, it ain't good. And Daryl was almost a casualty because of it.
And like, come on, there were five of you running toward her target, it was dangerous for her to attempt to shoot from that angle! Doesn’t she understand that’s irrespons—ugh, and isn’t Shane supposed to have been doing gun safety shit with her? Isn’t that his whole wannabe jarhead schtick—great, now you’re more upset about Shane!
“I’m glad you’re enjoying those, ” Dale tells you, nodding at your cracker and chuckling. “They’re the part of dinner I rushed to help make, this evening was…something.”
He shrugs, and you remember how Daryl grunted that today was ‘somethin’ else.’
“I suppose having spread the peanut butter on crackers was a small step up from offering it on spoons to everyone,” he muses.
You can’t help but hum, a spoonful of peanut butter sounds scrumptious right now. Makes a good breakfast or snack, too.
“Did Daryl eat enough?” Andrea worries. “Does he need anything?”
“He was asleep when I brought him his supper, but I left my portion of the crackers—minus this one—on his plate.”
“Come to think of it, I’m not sure he’s a fan of peanut butter,” Dale thinks out loud. “I offered him some for breakfast one morning, and now that I recall, he backed away from it.”
Not like peanut butter?
“—Oh my God, what if he’s he allergic?” Andrea breathes.
“Nah, he ate a peanut yesterday. I was havin’ one of the little packets for lunch and he tried one, he can’t be allergic,” you assure them. And surely he doesn’t not like peanuts. That would be so sad!
It gets quiet.
Andrea stares at her feet.
“I can’t believe almost killed him.” She inhales and buries her face in her hands. “I shot someone.”
And Dale is only meaning to ease her discomfort and add some levity—but whether it’s because of the new bond you have with Daryl, or maybe because here’s something of a flashback hitting you from how you’d had to actually shoot a living person a few months ago—when Dale jokes to you, “Like I told her, we’ve all wanted to shoot Daryl,” you become livid.
After two shallow breaths of your inner tea kettle screaming, this sentence: “Guess y’all will want sunshine over here to work on her aim, then,” seethes out as you stand and book it to the fields.
The past several days especially has shown you how wrong your initial conclusions about that man were. He’s a work-in-progress, make no mistake, but shit if he ain’t working on it!
Unlike your brother, who keeps getting worse, who just tried to flirt with Lori by saying he didn’t care about a missing, abused little girl—the same little girl Daryl was willing to almost die to find!
Horrified at Shane and about today; confused, embarrassed, overwhelmed, in pain, overtired, and therefore angry about everything, you walk, hyperventilate, and finally, quietly, start to cry.
Then you accidentally drop the peanut butter cracker and cry harder.
The light swish of your boots in the grass starts to crunch when you reach the sandy part by now-boarded-up well. You walk faster, neither wanting to be near the two-part walker inside nor in the area where apparently, Daryl dumped Merle’s ‘hard stuff,’ as he slurred to you earlier during his trauma assessment.
Soon you’re by the rocks you’d climbed the other night. You step up and sit on a lower one and sniffle another minute or so until the worst of it seems to have spilled out.
When will you get a better handle on your temper?
While you’re busy wallowing in self-pity, you notice Dale’s watch ticking and are reminded that you have to return it.
You stand.
Trudge back with your tail between your legs.
He and Andrea are still on the steps.
“I’m sorry. I let my anger get the better of me,” you tell them softly.
Dale waves you over. “Come back and sit if you like, kiddo. It’s been a long day.”
“It’s been somethin’,” you mumble. “And you aren’t a bad shot, Andrea, I was being snotty.” About an inch to your left and he’d have been a goner, you leave out.
“I’m glad I wasn’t as good a shot as I’d hoped,” she sounds ashamed to say. Her head is still hanging low when she makes a one-sided smile and taps the spot next to her. “Will you be helping with shooting practice tomorrow?”
“If that’s still on, yeah.” Shane was enlisting your help with that, which means you’ll have to act civil…ugh, why worry about tomorrow, tomorrow will worry about itself. You take the watch off, hand it to Dale. “Here you go, Mr. H.”
“Ah, very good. I would hate to start losing track of the days, then we’d really be in for it. Let’s see…an hour until it’s time to wind her up.”
The breeze carries the smell of woodsmoke with it. You lean against Andrea for a moment, she leans back.
Then Shane comes into view.
When you catch his eye, you shake your head in warning in case he’s thinking about coming over and schmoozing with the others as if he didn’t just f—tomorrow will be better. Things will be better in the morning. He’ll apologize and things will be better and you’ll all have a good day and maybe Sophia will be found.
“Y/N, how about we talk later tonight?” Dale murmurs.
Did he see the face you made at Shane?
Best change the subject. “If we do, is it finally my turn to borrow that awful book I’ve heard so much about?”
“The Case of the Missing Man is not an awful book,” he chuckles back, then shrugs. “Maybe Jimmie Herron’s style isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. My Irma didn’t like his work, either.”
“Y/N, it’s really not great,” Andrea drones.
“Glenn said the same.”
“Amy had me read it so we could, um,” her gaze grows teary. She closes her eyes for a moment, then smiles and shakes her head. “‘Share the trauma.’”
You smile and shake your head, too. That sounds like Amy. “She finished it up in my tent while I was knocked out with a migraine, first thing out of her mouth to me when I woke up was how lame it was. Told me you had first dibs.”
“Then I lent it to T-Dog”
Oh, right. On the first half-week of the trek to Fort Benning, his nose was stuck in it. “He plowed on through it, didn’t he?”
“He wanted the torture to be over.”
You and she snort, Dale just chuckles again. “After you finish it, only Rick, and our young Carl—oh, and, uh your br—and Shane, they’ll be the only ones to not have done so.” He points his finger as if an idea just popped into his head. “But both Jacqui and Lori thought it was good.”
“Bless their hearts, they loved watching soaps, though, what does that tell us?” you giggle to them.
Dale lifts his hands in surrender. “See me later, troublemaker, I’ll lend you my ‘awful’ book and we can talk. I’m gonna hold you to it.” He looks at Andrea. “Young lady, will you be alright?”
“Yes. I'm just not ready to face anyone yet.”
“You know where to find me.”
She rests her arms on her knees and slouches again, stare fixed on nothing much. You go to rest your arms on your knees, too, and are immediately reminded that that particular position is a no-go for you right now.
“Y/N, after what happened with Ed, when did the feeling of wanting to hide go away?”
“Mine was an easier situation," you quietly point out. "And it wasn’t just me, Shane was the one who—" you grimace at the memory. "You were there.”
“Mm.”
To answer her question, “But I guess it wasn’t til, y’know, I faced people again that I got I didn’t have to hide. Shane's sense of 'duty' helped, too. But after I talked to Carol, saw Sophia smile at me, when I knew they were on my side, I didn’t mind so much about the rest.”
“Pretty sure everyone was on your side with that,” she mutters. “For what I just did…”
“Pretty sure even Daryl will, um, well th-that you were tryin’ to protect the group.” …oof.
She lifts her eyebrows. “You aren’t good at lying, Y/N.”
It wasn’t a lie, per se. “Objectively, you were tryin’ to protect the group.”
“I wanted to feel in-control and like I could do it.”
Oh.
She admitted that? If only your brain could come up with something heartfelt or whatever the situation called for to convey how much humility from someone so confident and self-assured means, instead of this: “I wanna be on your apocalypse survival team.”
A sigh leaves her, and she simply asks, “Just let me know how furious he is with me. I'm dreading how he’ll be when he’s up. I'm a little scared, while I’m being honest.”
“Hm?”
“Daryl.”
“You’re scared of him?”
She eyes you. “We’ve all seen how he can fly off his handle. He waved that knife at Rick and your brother, the axe at Jenner.”
Oh, right. That didn’t even consider cross your mind, that she’d be scared of his reaction to...being shot in the…head. Man, your brain is not working.
It can’t even configure a response again, now you’re just shaking your head like a confused mute.
“You don’t think I have to worry, Y/N?”
“No,” you answer truthfully. “You might would feel better if you saw him, he's probably up an eatin' dinner by now."
"I think now's too soon."
"Trust me, he’s holed up in bed now, he’s about as scary as a sleepy kitten.”
“Kittens have teeth and sharp claws,” she dryly states.
Your mind immediately hops to the exciting fact that you have yet to meet the Greene’s barn cat(s) as you stand and lead Andrea inside through the side door to get to Daryl’s room, waving to Beth reading her book as you pass.
“Beth, this is Andrea. Andrea this is Beth. She’s the one who made the pudding for Carl. She’s Mr. Greene’s youngest.”
Andrea smiles and goes in for a shake. Beth shyly waves, the returning of the handshake ending up as an awkward afterthought.
Sweet as she is, leaving her in peace is probably what she’s hoping for (the poor teenager’s home and front yard is full of wounded strangers).
And you almost make it through the full sentence before gasping in delight when you see what book she has.“We’re just checkin’ on Dar—is that a choose-your-own-adventure book??”
Him
There was this loud noise in another room, woke him for a second. Y/N’s laugh stuck out from the other sounds.
While falling back asleep, he remembered how he'd made them laugh really loud when he ripped that $20 bill that night at the CDC. How they’d belly-laughed so hard at his dumb, tipsy-ass joke had felt so damned unexpectedly good.
He’s back asleep before the amount of pain he’s in can really register.
You
“I’ll bring it over after I talk to Mr. Horvath. He’s the older man in our group, I love him to pieces, you probably saw him in his bucket hat?” you tell Beth.
Jimmy apparently has been poking fun at her reading choose-your-own-adventure books to pass the time because they’re ‘for kids,’ so, lending him The Case of the Missing Man was decided to be the best way to get back at him.
You hope y’all didn’t wake Daryl, it’d gotten a little animated for a minute. To make up for it, you tiptoe when you trek down the hall to his room, Andrea and Beth behind you.
Beth left something of hers in there before he was brought in, but she was hesitant to go in there (which you praised, teenage girls and unknown older men don’t mix). Anyway, she was hesitant because she’s a little, um, well, kinda intimidated by him.
Andrea invited her to join you two, citing “Y/N says he’s as scary as a sleepy kitten right now.”
At his door, you knock lightly and call his name. Wait for an answer, try again.
Upon listening more carefully, his snores sound through the door and let you know he’s still asleep. Slowly, slowly, you open it.
As subtly as you can, you step into room and pull the sheet that had fallen down back over his shoulder before the girls see the scarring.
Daryl stirs, then grunts something incoherent as he flinches, blinks, and tries to turn toward you.
“It’s just me,” you hush. “I was fixin’ your sheet, it’d fallen.” You tuck the sheet down over his shoulder, gently and slowly. “You’re safe in the Greene’s house. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
His muscles relax and he’s back to snoring before the pet name is finished slipping out of your mouth.
Still standing beside him, you watch his side rise and fall, rise and fall. Reminds you how grateful you are. He really does look so helpless and sweet right now.
You notice Beth peeking back and forth between you and him, but she quickly looks away.
Poor buddy. If the man is this tired, he’ll rest better with closed curtains. He’s big on privacy, besides. Carefully, you start to draw them shut. Andrea joins.
Once they’re all pulled closed and the room is dimmer, she puts her hand on your arm and gently pulls you back into the hall, Beth leading the way. You make sure the door doesn’t make too much noise as it shuts.
“Thanks,” Beth whispers.
“Scary as a sleepy kitten, right?” Oh, that reminds you, “Y’all don’t have a barn cat or two, do you?”
“N-not anymore.”
Aw, that’s sad. “I’m sorry, little one.”
“Oh, um—d-don’t get too close to the big, shuttered barn, okay?” she rushes to add.
Before you can both nod and tell her ‘of course,’ she then stumbles through, “There’s—it’s—the, um—it’s just not real safe!”
She looks so freaked out and nervous that you forget you’re supposed to respond.
Lucky for you, Andrea, smooth as ever, assures her “We’ll let Carl know not play around there,” and starts to chat about how she “steers clear of old barns” ever since she spotted “the biggest rat I’ve ever seen come out of one at a company retreat,” while Patricia comes downstairs hugging to her side what looks like a wedding photo.
Beth scurries away, you make eye contact with Andrea, then Patricia gets your attention.
“Sweet pea, about tonight,” she begins, hands pressed together with her fingertips toward you. “Daryl’s gonna need to be checked on—”
“—Of course. I’ll stay with him. Please do me a list of what to check for and how often?”
“Will do. Try and borrow that big watch again, you’ll need it. Prolly will do well to have somebody else, maybe Carol to help. I'll go find her. You know, there’s an old air mattress in the attic, I’ll have Jimmy fill it up. Just go grab your sleeping bag,” she tells you.
“Thank you!” You’d been hoping for a way to avoid Shane all night. Is this a gift from above or something?
A reminder of, “Don’t use your injured side to carry your sleeping bag in,” from Patricia sends you on your way outdoors to retrieve your stuff.
The air is cooling off as the sun sets. The sky is a hazy orange-pink.
“Y/N, I didn’t realize,” Andrea says, slowly walking beside you.
“Realize what?”
“You two.”
You, too? Is she talking about your shoulder, maybe? “What’d I do? Do you mean my wrapped arm?”
She peers at you, head tilted to the side. “You and Daryl,” she softly clarifies. “It was Dale who wondered first, after you had to excuse yourself.”
Me and Daryl? “What’d we do?” Perhaps she's referring to the search today? Andrea isn’t one to not speak her mind plainly, you wonder why she’s not being more succinct. She doesn't know about you having shot that guy. Dale has an idea, but he's tight-lipped about it.
“So, you and he…?” she trails off.
?
So, you start to fill her in about the search. “Before Daryl found the doll, we’d—”
—OH WAIT, now you get it!
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(for those wondering, the tomahawk chop is something Georgia Braves fans do)
(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know, we’re all friends here and your comfort level is important!)
Before she could even respond, the front door slammed shut, echoing through the apartment. “Roy! Where the fuck are you! I know you’re here!”
The two of them glanced towards the door and she muttered, “No, Roy…I don’t think we do.” She shoved at his chest and he set her down, watching as she ran to the door and locked it. Turning back around, her eyes scanned the room.
“What are you doing!” He whispered harshly.
She stopped and stared at him, motioning to the door. “I’m trying to save our asses, you moron!” She pointed to the dresser. “Help me shove it against door!”
They moved to one side, shoving it across the floor to the door all the while listening to Jason stomping around the apartment, throwing open doors. “This apartment smells like my little sister, Roy!” There was a pause. “The longer you hide, the longer I’m gonna bust your ass.”
The shrill sound of her ringtone startled her from sleep, and she fumbled along the nightstand beside her for her phone; her thumb slid across the screen and she brought it to her ear, words still laced heavy with sleep. “Mmm…hello?”
A chuckle sounded from the line followed by someone asking, Are you still in bed, babe?
She groaned and rolled over, squinting at the alarm clock. “Boy-Toy, it’s nine A.M. on a Saturday. Yes. I’m still in bed.”
A slight pause came from the line then he muttered, …Well, I can’t say anything because I’m still in bed too.
“Okay, well I actually have a reason for sleeping in. I save Gotham all night. Staying up playing video games isn’t reason for sleeping in.” she retorted.
~loooong requested hope you enjoy some brotherly competition~
- jason had no idea he wanted you until dick called "dibs" the first night he met jason's mysterious "friend" and newest bat-recruit
- at first, jason didn't care. like at all. but that never stopped him from being an asshole
- "my brother y/n really? what's there to like? i didn't see you as a musical theatre and dad-joke enjoyer" he'd scoff anytime dick tried to make a move
- that didn't stop richard fucking grayson.
- "hey! y/n! fancy seeing you here!" .. "it's the batcave dick i work here" .. "oh, well are you working all night? maybe we can grab some big belly burger after?" .. "we have patrol together you dork"
- honestly, it was endearing being adored, worshipped even. from handwritten poems, to a little mini batarang necklace, and all the weapons your heart could desire
- and for all his dork-tendencies, dick knew a thing or too about hand placement...
- "put me down richard" .. "you literally fell into my arms" .. "i would've landed on my feet" .. "sure princess, but aren't my arms a little better?" he'd tease, sweeping you bridal style out the back door of the gala you two had just rescued
- it was somewhere in between the gift giving, rooftop dates, and stolen glances that jason realized he might want -slightly, just a tiny bit- more.
- okay; he wanted you all to himself.
- but he's always been shit at explaining it
- where dick was obvious and flirtatious, jason started subtle: always inching closer to you, keeping a longing gaze set on your every move-even if it meant tripping himself up in battles- you noticed he would sooner get shot than let you catch a scrape
- and just like dick's coddling, it got annoying
- "jace i've been on the team for months, i think i can watch out for myself" .. "i know, i protect the people i care about" his response was almost a whisper, and before you could pry further, he disappeared, replaced with a familiar cheesy grin "hi y/n! wanna catch a movie tonight?" .. "uh, one sec dick! i need to check on jace"
- but jason was never anywhere to be found. every time he let you in, he disappeared just as quick.
- when you started toying with new weaponry jason was there, you still got butterflies remembering the way he pressed himself against you while fixing your form, his calloused fingertips lighting fires as he subtly adjusted your grip on your gun
- "jay is this right?" .. "mhm your grip is perfect, but the recoil will get you, slide your leg backwards to brace for the impact of firing" .. the minute his hand touched your thigh a shiver ran across your body, against your shaking will .. "oh, sorry i didn't mean to-" .. you cut him off "no it's good, you're good" but before you could turn around to unpack the cloud of tension in the room, jason cleared his throat and gruffly said "fire" ruining any chance of an emotional conversation. three perfect shots to the targets, and with a satisfying nod he was gone once again
- so when dick asked you out on a real date, to a restaurant whose menu alone gave you anxiety at the thought of ordering, you realized you had to give jason the ultimatum
- but for once in his (second) life, jason was way ahead of you.
- "you said yes to dick?" jason was sitting at your desk when you entered your own room, overly dramatic but it was jason todd after all.
- "do i have a reason to say no?"
- "you hate fancy restaurants. you need like a week to plan what you'll order otherwise you'll just be stressed the whole time"
- you rolled your eyes, but jason wasn't finished: "and you hate movies, sitting in one place watching a film you probably haven't heard of, pretending to enjoy the nuance"
- he wasn't wrong. "whatever jace, that doesn't-" .. "i can tell you what's gonna happen. he'll order a wine too sweet for your taste, and talk to the waiter enough to make you want to crawl under the table. then after a perfectly lovely dinner he'll take you to a rooftop to 'show you the sights' and you'll have your first kiss. but you hate the city skyline, it reminds you you're far from home. you like the sound of the ocean and the rusting of the forest. you like something real."
- your heart was in your throat. but you needed something more: "say it jason. don't tell me the future with dick. fucking say it."
- jason stood up, closing the distance between you, eyes now desperate and wild: "say what? that i've loved you since the minute i lost you? that i feel like ive known you forever? that i don't need to learn to love you like he does, i was built for it? that i feel like i was made for you? how do i put it in a few useless words"
- "you just did jay." you whispered, letting him lock his lips in yours with a smile.
- "please go break richard's fucking heart and come home to me." he grumbled, to which you agreed, letting dick down softly and promising to set him up with one of your friends in return for his kindness- a deal which he wouldn't let you forget
- years later, it was more of a household joke, dick claiming he was the catalyst to your and jason's lovestory. to which jason wholly despised, but you never minded giving dick a little credit
