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Prompt: Daryl Dixon has a big old nasty chip on his shoulder. He also has a way with words. Anger, wrath, and hate all boil down to a final mutual understanding.
Era: Season 2
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Swearing, Arguments, Angry Daryl, Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of Death, Sad Situation, Slight Self-Harm Mention
Pronouns: She/Her
Word Count: 5.2k
“Hell with all y’all,” he yelled, flailing his arms up, pacing around the group who sat huddled around the campfire, “I’ve been out there lookin’ for tha’ little girl every single day.”
“Daryl-“ Lori piped in, but got shut down almost immediately.
“Don’t ya tell me about getting’ ma hands dirty,” he retorted, pointing at her and then glancing over to the rest of the group.
Everyone was absolutely distraught finding out about Sophia being locked away in the barn the entire fucking time you all were living on the farm. It had been about two weeks. Two weeks searching for her. Two fucking weeks and none of you knew. Not even an inkling. You felt that you had failed her.
“And don’t even get me started about y/n,” he trailed off, receiving particular looks from the rest of the group.
You didn’t mind that Daryl wasn’t particularly fond of you. It was just his way of being around people. He never really made the conscious effort to even look in your direction, ever since you ended up with the group, let alone speak to you. His vocabulary only consisted of slight grunts, pissed off huffing, and curse words. Typical redneck way of being, you always thought.
The only positive attribute you could come to think of was that he’s a very observant person, and knew every single thing that happened within camp. It was probably down to the fact that he is a tracker. He was always watching, taking mental notes, tracking everyone’s whereabouts.
You hadn’t taken to everyone quite how you wanted to when Glenn helped rescue you on one of his trips into Atlanta, but you eventually warmed up to a lot of them. Except for Daryl, of course.
You were holed up in a trashy liquor store for weeks, surrounded by hordes of snarling hungry walkers. You had no concept of time after being trapped, and especially after you had to put your sister down. She was bit. Time blurred, days and nights became one, and you prayed for rescue. You got lucky with Glenn, really.
It traumatised you, losing everything, losing everyone to the world of the dead. It made you anxious, and also very snappy and alert at times. You often had to take breaks from doing the simplest of tasks, and you hardly ever went on supply runs.
This was what pissed Daryl off about your behaviour. He couldn’t understand how you survived this long, having to rely on everyone for support as you barely got by yourself. This was particularly apparent after losing Sophia. He mostly blamed himself, but he also very much blamed everyone who never went out to actively look for her. You absolutely adored Sophia and definitely wouldn’t have wished for that to happen to anyone, especially her, but you couldn’t bring yourself to help look for her. It was too traumatic for you, being out there with the flesh-eating corpses. You would freeze up even at the faintest of sounds. You’d be no good looking for a timid little girl.
Your camp was rather hidden within the grounds of Hershel’s land – not too close to the house, at his request, yet not too far out in case of walker hordes.
You stumbled along the uneven patches of grass, carrying a large blue bucket filled with fresh well water. Luckily, the well you were walking back from was conveniently positioned just a couple of hundred metres behind your camp setup.
And that’s when you heard him.
“Bitch does nothin’,” he spat, still angrily shouting to the rest of the group, “Sits on her fuckin’ ass all damn day,” he carried on, “And damn near expects everythin’ given to ‘er.”
Your heart sank. You knew he was talking about you, considering you were the only one out of the group that wasn’t present for his little lecture about how much he fucking despised you.
You gently placed the bucket down in front of your feet, trying you hardest not to make a noise. The last thing you wanted was around ten pairs of eyes on you after what Daryl had just been shouting about.
Glenn noticed your movements and made his way towards you, hoping to not draw attention to your direction.
“Ignore him,” he whispered, “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I-“ you started to say, but the heavy lump in your throat blocked anything from escaping your lips.
Daryl was just having another one of his outbursts, like he did earlier this morning with Carol in the horses stables, throwing one of the saddles in her direction and muttering harsh words under his breath.
It wasn’t long until the rest of the group noticed you were present, stood only a few metres directly behind Daryl, where he kept running his mouth about every single thing that pissed him off. He was just like his fucking redneck brother.
Daryl noticed you then, after a few moments of dead silence, turning around to face you. His eyes lingered over your direction, piercing through your skin like a red laser beam. If looks could kill, you’d be fucking six foot under already.
He meant every single word. He really didn’t care what you heard.
You stood there, trying your hardest not to let tears fall down your reddened cheeks, playing with the hem of your t-shirt. Daryl had created an entire fucking atmosphere. It was so fragile that no one knew what to say next just in case it was the wrong thing to say.
Your eyes glanced up ever so slightly from the rocky ground to look in his direction, but you avoided his immensely intimidating gaze.
“Wha’ do ya want from me, woman?” he snarled, taking a step towards you.
“Da-“ you said quietly, still avoiding his eyes.
“Nah,” he cut you off, nodding harshly and looking down at his shoes, “Don’t wanna hear it.”
He gripped the strap of his crossbow that was draped over his shoulders, secured tightly to his chest, and then hurried off behind the scattered tents towards his own.
Tears eventually fell from your stinging eyes, cascading down your swollen cheekbones, as you watched him disappear behind amounts of foliage that barricaded his lone camp.
Fucking bastard.
You knew Daryl Dixon had a big old chip on his shoulder, dodging eye contact and throwing harsh words to whoever stumbled in his way, but you couldn’t really comprehend what you had done to make him hate you so much.
~ a few hours later ~
It was dusk. 5pm, maybe.
Plates clattered, knives and forks rattled, and minimal chatter dispersed throughout camp. You heard Andrea, Dale and T-Dog compliment Carol’s evening meal of vegetable stew which was kindly provided at Maggie’s request to her father.
Hershel was not happy with what your group had done to the barn. Not only was Sophia in the barn, but it also teemed with Hershel’s friends, family and neighbours – including his wife. The man was going through a whole lot of grief which was in the hands of your groups’ actions. He didn’t want to lend anymore valuable food out to a group that supposedly killed every single person he once knew, but Maggie managed to persuade him. Even if it was just vegetables.
You laid on top of your roll-up mattress, which was spread out across a small two-person tent, trying to focus on the book you were reading. You couldn’t bring yourself to sit with the others during dinner, out of sheer embarrassment Daryl caused you earlier, so you decided to hide away for the night.
“Hey,” a soft voice spoke, “It’s Glenn,” he whispered, knocking on the side of your tent for permission to stick his head through the doorway.
You sat up, placing your book to the side of you, and began to unzip your tent at the very top.
“Hey,” you groaned, forcing a smile.
“Just checking on you, that’s all,” he said, “Have you ate anything? Carol’s stew was incredible. I can get you some if you-“
“Thanks, Glenn,” you interrupted, “But I’m really not that hungry.”
“Well, you know where I am if you need me,” he smiled, knowing to give you space.
Glenn left you alone after that. That’s all you wanted; you were very grateful he did exactly that. He was great at guessing the atmosphere, a specific mood that flooded the air, and he always knew what to say to make you feel at least a little better.
Zipping your tent back up, you exhaled a long sigh after plonking yourself back on top of your makeshift bed. You picked up your novel again, trying your hardest to concentrate, focusing on each sentence that splayed across the slightly yellow tinged pages, but Daryl’s voice continued to run through your head like an echo.
“Bitch does nothin’,”
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to rid his cruel words circling your mind.
“Damn near expects everythin’ given to ‘er,”
Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
“Wha’ do ya want from me, woman?”
Fuck off, Daryl. Fuck off.
Pulling your legs up to your chest, and burying your head within the nook you had created, you began to quietly sob. Why the fuck did he say those things? What did you ever do to him?
You wanted an explanation so badly, loathing this atmosphere he had created, but Daryl was intimidating. He’d run his mouth any chance he got, and he wouldn’t do so lightly. He just didn’t care.
Intimidating was an understatement. You hated that he had that effect on you. He probably had that effect on damn nearly everyone in your group though, which made you reconsider talking to him. It couldn’t get any worse than it currently is, you thought. And you knew you wouldn’t be able to eat, sleep, or even look anyone in the eye again if it wasn’t sorted. That was something you couldn’t live with.
However, you really didn’t want him seeing you like this; stained cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and puffy lips. It was an invitation for him to see you weak.
That’s all you were to him. Weak. Nobody. A bitch – that was his words.
Fuck it. Fuck being scared.
It was only Daryl Dixon. Yeah. It was only Daryl Dixon.
You peeled yourself off your roll-up mattress, wiping the last view remaining tears that escaped your eyes, and began to lace up your black converse.
Leaving your tent, you spotted Glenn on your way out of camp, letting him know of your whereabouts so he wouldn’t have to worry about you.
“Are you sure?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Daryl might just want to be left alone, y/n. I’m not telling you what to do, but it might be best to just leave him be.”
“No,” you retorted, “I- I have to speak with him.”
Glenn trusted you, and you were also pretty stubborn when you set your mind to something, so he let you trail off to Daryl’s desolate camp.
You’ve got this. You’ve got this. That was all you kept repeating in your head upon arriving to his space. You could barely call it a proper camp – well the ones that you were used to setting up anyway.
There was no tent, no sleeping bag, and no reliable camping tools – only his brother’s motorcycle, a fallen seated log, a hunting knife, and small embers on an open campfire.
You noticed the motorcycle first. Triumph Chopper. Nice. You knew a little bit about motorcycles since your father was a diehard biker. And a good one at that. He sometimes let you ride around the neighbourhood before you were even old enough to have a licence. He wasn’t your stereotypical protective father figure, but he always made sure you were safe.
Your eyes examined the rest of his camp, searching for the man that brought you to tears nearly every time he spoke to you.
Daryl didn’t seem to be here. Fuck. He was probably sulking somewhere, targeting squirrel with his crossbow bolts, muttering under his breath. You still couldn’t comprehend why he said those things. Why he hated you so much.
You huffed then, dragging your feet slowly, and turned around to find him towering over you.
“Oh,” you said, slightly flustered.
“Hell ya want?” he muttered, cigarette hanging lazily out his parted lips. “Pitched up out ‘ere to get away from you people.”
He passed by you, making sure to lightly nudge your shoulder with his to prove his point. He knew exactly how to rile you up.
“What I want?” you questioned, a high pitched aggravated tone dragging off the end of your sentence.
“Why ya even here anyway?” he interrupted, craning his neck over his right shoulder to eye you from there.
Daryl never really looked directly at anyone he spoke to. Except maybe Rick when they were figuring out where Sophia might have wandered off to, or when they were mapping out what to do with that whole Randal scare.
His broad shoulders, housing that stupid angel winged vest that he always wore, continued to face you. The threaded detailing of its curves arching outwards at first, to which you followed them immensely with your eyes, then running inwards across his shoulder blades, and eventually flicking outwards again to create the wings of an angel.
An angel. You scoffed.
“Askin’ ya a damn question, y/n,” he asserted, continuing his harsh stare through his hooded eyelids.
He was intense. This might have been a bad idea after all. You so desperately wanted to haul your feet back to camp, but that would have been too embarrassing. You had to face this situation head on, even if it meant feeling terribly uncomfortable at his presence.
“Why-“ you started, voice cracking slightly, “Why do you hate me so much?”
He scoffed, dragging his eyes away from your gaze, and dropping his head to look at the dirt that buried beneath his shoes.
“Ain’t likin’ no one in this damn group,”
His voice was hoarse. It unsettled you – not knowing what his next words were.
“Daryl-“
“Nah,” he barked, “Why can’t y’all leave me the fuck alone?”
You exhaled. His demeanour changed so fucking quickly, it frightened the hell out of you.
“Huh? How ‘bout tha’?” he continued, marching over to his motorcycle, “Why y’all gotta ask me the damn questions?”
He laid his crossbow down near his rear wheel, propping it up ever so slightly so it was easier to grab. His cheeks hollowed as he puffed on his cigarette, taking swirls of smoke into his mouth, which trickled back out through his nose as he exhaled.
“Did you know you’re really fucking intimidating?” you shouted, having miraculously gained this newfound confidence once you began to shut off your demeaning thoughts.
You physically shook with every word that left your trembling lips. All you wanted were answers. Answers to why he was being such a fucking dickhead.
“Intimidatin’?” he scoffed, “Wha’re you, like, twelve?”
His words hurt. You felt every single one pierce you like one of his crossbow bolts. It would probably be less painful if he aimed his crossbow to the centre of your chest right now, and shot you right then and there.
You were always more affected by words. You would rather someone physically attack you, than emotionally abuse you. At least then you’d have something to show for it.
Little did you know Daryl had never laid a finger on anyone. Although his verbal attitude always seemed like it would lead to physical violence, it never did. He would shout, holler, and scream before his mind even came close to that type of aggression. That wasn’t him.
“I’d rather you fucking hit m-” you choked, “I’d rather you fucking hit me than scream all this shit at me every time we-“
“Don’t ya dare say that,” he mumbled, eyes darting to your position where he watched you bawl uncontrollably.
“You’re such a dickhead, Daryl,”
He was silent for a moment, chewing at his bottom lip. He did that when he was nervous, or didn’t know what to say next. His thoughts spiralled into traumatic turmoil as you continued to stand there, nervously playing with the hem of your t-shirt.
Hit you?
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Did he really have that effect on people? Is that what Carol thought when he muttered those cruel words to her in the stables this morning? Is that what you always thought when he went off on you for even the slightest of things?
He knew that he didn’t always have the right approach, especially if someone pissed him off, but resorting to physical violence? That wasn’t him.
Everyone was completely unaware of his dysfunctional family. Dead mother. Abusive father. Addict brother (now maybe even dead brother to his knowledge regarding Merle’s whereabouts). It was something he never discussed, never highlighted in midst conversation, and never used self-deprecating humour to wrestle through his troubled past.
That just wasn’t Daryl. Instead, he’d keep it to himself, mostly – but others definitely had to pay the price for it. And it just so turns out that you were the perfect candidate.
You didn’t irritate him personally, he thought. It was how much you relied on the group for everything, and barely reciprocating the same amount of effort.
Daryl always fended for himself. It was his way of living, and it had always been this way, since before he even learned to string proper sentences together. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around why you needed so much protection. Why you had Glenn and Maggie run into town to get you supplies. Why you couldn’t hold a pistol without shaking. Why you didn’t help look for Sophia.
You and Daryl never really saw eye to eye. You heavily respected the man, nevertheless, especially since he was the main supplier of food for your group, even if you didn’t particularly enjoy the taste of burnt squirrel – but you tolerated each other.
And it was going just fine until the last straw was picked, pulled apart, and stamped on just a few hours ago.
“Why-“ he said, “Why the fuck would ya say somethin’ like tha’?”
“What? That you’re a dickhead? That’s because you are, Daryl-“
“Nah,” he mumbled, “Why the fuck would ya say you’d rather get hit?”
“Because it’s the fucking truth,” you stated, “I’d rather you’d use physical violence so it’s over and done with. I’d rather you’d hit, slap, fucking beat me than curse at me every fucking time you saw me.”
He shook his head vigorously. He really couldn’t believe what was coming out of your mouth. Had you even noticed how Ed treated Carol back at the quarry? How could you be so inconsiderate?
“Ya don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he shouted, choking on his words, flailing his arms around again, “Ya don’t get to say shit like tha’.”
You were silent then. Did you just cross a boundary?
Fuck.
“Ya ain’t got a clue wha’ people ‘ave been through,”
Yeah. You definitely crossed a line.
You glanced up to meet his eyes, which turned from enraged to heart-shattering in the matter of seconds. You had never seen his eyes so sad before as you were used to his longing squints, crinkled eyelids, and frown lines.
This was a totally different side of Daryl that you really had never seen before; you felt somewhat embarrassed for him, seeing him so vulnerable and just lifeless.
“I’m-,” you trailed off, your words awkward and clunky, “I’m sorry. I better go.”
You turned around, sharing one last glance from over your right shoulder, and you were off.
Your feet moved faster than you could even comprehend. Stumbling back to your tent, you kicked your shoes off, zipped your tent back up, and eventually laid down to relay what exactly just fucking happened.
Daryl was never the one to spill his feelings. He was never the one to talk about anything like that.
He bottled up that shit, like he always had done. Like he was always taught to do from being a young boy.
Merle would infuse it into him, “Ain’t nobody gonna love ya like I do, baby brother,” he’d declare, patting him on the shoulders, where he was reminded of his father’s infliction, “Ya gotta be a man now.”
And that is exactly what Daryl inspired to be – by the words of his big old brother.
He didn’t know any different, except following Merle around, taking on odd jobs here and there just to get by. Pickpocketing. Drug dealing. Theft.
It was by some odd miracle that the apocalypse came just at the right time for the Dixon brothers.
It was getting late now, feeling the cool air stick to the fabric of your tent, creating water droplets that began to trickle down its sides. Everyone was getting ready to hide away for the night, hopefully without any interruptions from lone walkers, bandits, or feral creatures.
You laid there, sprawled out across your roll-up mattress, recounting everything that was said between you and Daryl once again. This was becoming a frequent thing, you thought. He consumed every inch of your mind, his voice bellowing through your inner ear, and his broad frame illusively nudging you ever so slightly.
Rolling over onto your left side, trying to rid his phantom touch from your skin, you began to tuck your sleeping bag behind your head for comfort.
You sighed. You still didn’t get your answer from him.
~ the next morning ~
It was freezing cold when you eventually woke up. You must have crashed from mental exhaustion last night after a certain redneck’s words continued to spiral your thoughts.
You dreamt of him.
It was a particularly distant dream. All that you remembered was his saddened face, looking down ever so slightly, working to fix one of his crossbow bolts. He was sat on the porch steps of Hershel’s house, yet it appeared to you that he was waiting for someone.
After what seemed like a lifetime watching, waiting for him to eventually move, you saw a dark figure tower him from behind. It looked like him. It looked like Merle. Although, the figure seemed slightly older, grumpier, and stern-looking. It started to consume him after-
And that’s when you woke up, being dragged back to sound of chirping birds and human chatter.
You rubbed your puffy eyes, and groaned at the sore facial muscles that pained every inch of your face.
“Fuck..” you moaned, moving your hands from your eyes to massage the knots in your shoulder blades. That fucking blue water bucket must have ripped some bumps in your upper back yesterday.
It ought to have been around 8am, you guessed. You could never really tell the time accurately these days. All you knew was daytime and night-time, and they often blurred.
You heard Rick, Shane and Glenn just outside your tent discussing plans for the winter.
“I’m gonna talk to Hershel,” Rick said, “Maybe he could let us stay in the house.”
“I mean Lori is pregnant, man,” Shane piped in, “Wouldn’t be fair on her havin’ to sleep under the stars every night until the baby is born.”
You couldn’t see them, but you felt Rick’s expression in the air. Shane really has the fucking nerve talking about Lori like that in front of Rick, even if he did mean it from the kindness of his heart. Take kindness with a pinch of salt.
“He’s got a point, Rick,” Glenn asserted, “We can’t really be having a stillborn baby. It’ll eat her from the inside out.”
Empathy seeped through every word Glenn spoke. You could tell he really meant what he said, not like Shane’s comments.
“Ain’t gonna take no for an answer then,” Rick exclaimed, shuffling his cowboy boots along the gravel, and trailing his way up to Hershel’s farmhouse.
Listening to their last words, you quickly grabbed your toothbrush and shoved your converse over your freezing feet. You were hoping the coast was clear now as you were still incredibly embarrassed from yesterday, and you didn’t want to bump into anyone unexpectedly today.
You unzipped your tent fully, ensuring to peak your head out ever so slightly to see if anyone lingered around your area. No one. Thank God.
Leaving your tent, you trailed over to what Carol liked to call the ‘restroom’, but really it was just a bowl of cold water and a dry rag. You admired her effort though. She really did feel like the ultimate stereotypical mother of the group – cooking, cleaning, washing. It made you miss your own mother.
Snapping you out of your straggling thoughts, you heard his voice.
Shit. Fucking shit.
You didn’t want him seeing you like this. You didn’t even want to look at him.
His hoarse voice inched closer and closer, until you realised you couldn’t keep ignoring him.
“Hey,” he repeated for the fourth time, “y/n…”
“Fuck..” you muttered under your breath, carefully placing your toothbrush down next to the bowl of water.
You couldn’t do this right now. Not looking like this. All you wanted to do was hide, scramble back to your tent, and escape under the covers to never been seen again.
“Need ta talk to ya,” he mumbled, sadness coating his voice.
You clenched your jaw shut, feeling the aching pressure on your back teeth, trying to relieve as much stress as you most possibly could in the moments before you turned around to face him.
“Will ya jus’ turn around?”
Stubborn ought to be your middle name.
“I don’t wanna talk to you, Daryl,” you muttered from the corner of your mouth, still stood with you back to him.
If he was allowed to be pissed at you, for God knows how many fucking months now, you were definitely allowed to be pissed at him.
“Look,” he stated, “I ain’t never been able ta get close with anyone.”
You nodded your head slightly. You got that right.
“And..” he trailed off, nibbling the inside of his cheeks, “Ah, fuck..”
Daryl wasn’t great at expressing his feelings with words. He never spoke about his emotions, thoughts or sensitivities with anyone. It was just too uncomfortable for him.
“All am tryna say is-“ he paused for a moment, exhaling a deep nervous breath, “Am sorry.”
Sorry?
You eventually turned around to face him.
“You’re sorry?” you questioned, scrunching your eyebrows together, “How about you begin by answering my fucking question, Daryl.”
He huffed, soothing the back of his neck with his left hand.
“Am no good..” he trailed off, digging his nails into the skin beneath the hem of his sleeveless burgundy t-shirt.
“Forget it,”
“Nah wait,” he scuffled toward you, grabbing your arm ever so slightly, “Am sorry for makin’ ya cry yesterday.”
“And you still haven’t answered my question,” you demanded again, “Why do you hate me so much?” you questioned, emphasising the word hate this time, which leaked off your tongue like poison.
Accusing him of hating you, however, really started to not still right with you at all, ever since his apology just a few seconds ago, but you didn’t know how else to explain this feeling you got from him. Was it hate? Was it disgust? Was it just something else entirely?
You never would have even thought that the word sorry was in Daryl Dixon’s vocabulary. His lingering touch on your arm made you writhe in discomfort. He was never usually a touchy person, especially from what you gathered other the past couple of months. He would flinch at the slightest of gestures directed towards him, avoid shaking hands with his fellow comrades, and steer clear of eye contact almost every time someone looked in his direction.
You moved away from him slightly, just enough for his arm to drop to his side.
“Seein’ ya sob in front of me yesterday..” he uttered, dragging his feet away from you, “Made me realise how much of a dick ‘av been.”
“You got that right.”
“And for the record, I don’t hate ya,” he announced, continuing to drag his feet backwards, “Hate. Hate is a strong word.”
He was right. Hate was a strong word, but you couldn’t help how you felt. You never used that word to describe anyone before, even if they were annoying, obscene, or infuriating. You disliked people, but you never thought of hatred. Maybe it was because your parents always told you hate wasn’t a nice word when you were a child. Maybe it was because you learned to see the optimism of people, and knowing that change was always doable. That was before the fallen world that you know of now, though – and times have changed.
“Well.. Can you at least tell me why you said all of those things yesterday then?”
“Jus’ want what’s best for everyone,” he murmured.
“What is that exactly? Making people feel worthless? Makin-“
“Always had ta do everythin’ for me,” he interrupted you immediately, “Even before all of this. Jus’ can’t stand when people don’t do their bit. Tha’ little girl.. She deserved more than she got.”
You nodded. He was right. You couldn’t deny your lack of effort within the group, especially since it was now staring at you right in the face.
“Mhm..” you mumbled, still nodding your head ever so slightly, “I know that I need to do better.”
Tears began to soak your eyes. You knocked your head upwards, trying your absolute hardest to not let them fall. Daryl had seen enough of your whimpering.
“It’s just-“ you choked out, coughing away the lump that had formed in your throat, “I’ve not had the time to grieve, I guess. My mother.. My sister..”
Daryl saw how much you were trying to hold it together. And he understood, completely. He lost his mother quite young. His brother is probably dead too.
He sighed, grasping his left hand tightly around his secured crossbow strap, chest rising and then falling again.
“I get it,” he said, dragging his feet further away from you, “Might not seem like it, but I do.”
You nodded again, eventually moving your head down to look at him. You noticed that his knuckles, on the hand that held his crossbow strap, were slightly scabbed over in dried blood. You were never the one to pry, but—
“What happened to your hand?”
His eyes widened. He must have forgot about his hand.
“Nah, it don’t matter,” he muttered, quickly shoving his beaten hand into his pocket.
“Ah shit, sorry,” you said, shaking your head. Well done. You made him feel uncomfortable again, “Guess I have a habit of making you feel uneasy.”
It was silent then. The awkward silence that fell between the both of you could have been sliced directly in the middle with a blade.
“Daryl!” Rick’s voice bellowed through the air, “C’mon, we’ve got stuff to do!”
He began to part from your conversation quickly, marching towards Rick and the others, but then he halted. He peaked over his right shoulder, his back continuing to face you.
“Am always ‘ere.”
Maybe this was the beginning of a newfound friendship with Daryl Dixon. Oh Lord.
-
A/N: This is my first ever angsty Daryl x Reader oneshot. I really enjoyed writing this even if it took me two weeks to finish, but I think I am getting better and quicker at writing. I adore angry Daryl, with a bit of heartfelt in there too. He could shout at me any day, whoops. All likes, reblogs, and comments will be much appreciated.
