Hey there, welcome to my (extremely multi-fandom) blog. I'm so glad you're here! ♡
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
✦ a little about me ✦
22 y/o. girlie who finds solace in movies, books and TV shows. I love diving into new worlds and getting to know new characters! Because I love expressing my love for these interests, this is really just a safe space for me to yap about whatever i'm currently into. also I’m currently in my final year of college!
🎶 Music I listen to includes The Neighbourhood, Lana Del Rey, Sabrina Carpenter, Ariana Grande, girl in red, blackbear and keshi. I also have a Shawn Mendes blog: @shawnfordays
🐐 I have a poodle, although if I had to be an animal I think I'd like to be a wild horse or mountain goat
Besides reading, I like to bake - mostly cakes and cupcakes 🧁 and my favorite ice cream flavor is peanut butter ! I also love açaí; I think it can cheer me up no matter what
✦ some of my big loves ✦
The Walking Dead - currently watching!
Lord of the Rings
Narnia
GrishaVerse
The Hunger Games
The Maze Runner
Divergent
Caraval/OUABH
Heartstopper
The Vampire Diaries
Secret Shanghai Universe (Chloe Gong)
Better than the Movies
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆📖 tag library 📖˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆𓂃
here you'll find my personal tags that help me locate reblogs easily :,) here's to rereading all your beautiful fics <3
#mops bookmark -> saved for later/currently reading (general)
You can anticipate random thoughts, freak-outs, and fic reccs :) My DMs and asks are always open if you wanna chat about anything under the sun; let's be moots! 😊
Summary: Daryl Dixon finally gets two weeks apart from his high-maintenance girl. He figures he'll enjoy the peace and quiet like the lone wolf he claims to be. Instead, the lovestruck mechanic spends every minute missing her.
Daryl Dixon × Female reader • Mechanic BF a/u • no outbreak • age gap • fluff • Alcohol consumption • separation anxiety • sprinkle of Merle • short fic
MASTERLIST
The click of her red heels echoed down the driveway of their shared place, a suitcase hanging from Daryl's hand, his grip loose around the handle as they made their way to the Jeep. Inside the suitcase was enough clothes for a month-long trip, even though the bridal shower would only keep her away for two weeks.
Two weeks.
Fourteen whole days of peace and quiet.
Of him doing whatever the hell he wanted without a menace following him around like she owned the place. Which she did.
Sure, she was the best thing that ever happened to him.
That didn't mean he hadn't occasionally daydreamed about a little solitude.
With her out of the house, he could crack open a cold can of ravioli and wash it down with a beer for breakfast. He could track muddy boots through the house without worrying about getting scolded. He could light a cigarette while he took a piss if he felt like it, and he could spread out across the whole bed instead of waking up with an elbow in his ribs because she'd turned to violence to get all the blankets in her sleep.
Yeah...
He couldn't get her luggage into the trunk fast enough.
"Don't forget to water Seymour," she reminded him for what had to be the fifth time that day, still worried her Venus flytrap would be neglected during her days away. "Every day, Daryl. If I come back and he's shriveled up, I'll key your motorcycle."
Daryl scoffed. "Threatenin' me over a stupid plant, y'brat?"
She pointed a finger at him. "Seymour, not a stupid plant."
He rolled his eyes toward the sky.
From inside the waiting vehicle, a rock song blasted through the speakers while four women poked their heads out of the rolled-down windows, watching them with amused smiles. One still had rollers in her hair, and another was already nursing a drink like the party prep had started hours ago.
Daryl winced knowing what came next.
Then, as one, their glossy mouths opened in unison.
"HIII, MR. DIXON!!!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
The moment the car door swung open, he was hit with the nauseating scent of vanilla and cherry blossom body lotion. From the back seat, the bride-to-be—wearing a short white veil that would remain on her head until the end of the trip—made space for her, and the rest erupted into applause, cheering for the final member of the bridesmaid party.
"Don'tcha worry, sir," one of them said, eyes hidden behind cheetah-print sunglasses. "We'll take real good care of your girl."
"Yeah, Mistah." Another chimed in around a mouthful of gum. "We'll bring ha' back 'n one piece."
Daryl just grunted, loading the suitcase into the trunk before shutting it with a solid thud, then he offered her a hand to help her climb into the tall vehicle.
"This thing runnin' alright?" he asked, unable to switch off the mechanic part of his brain. The last thing he wanted was a phone call from the side of the highway because the engine had given out halfway through the trip.
"Yeah..." The blonde behind the wheel said with a grin that wasn't nearly reassuring enough. "That light's always on." She shrugged. "Don't worry."
"What light—"
"Daryl, it's fine," she interrupted with a chuckle before he could start diagnosing the vehicle right there in the driveway.
Daryl turned his attention back to her, his eyes softening just enough for only her to notice.
Instead of kissing her goodbye in front of a car full of women who would never let him live it down, he reached across her and pulled the seat belt over her shoulder, clicking it into place.
She smiled, her gaze dropping to his rough, calloused hand still holding onto the latch plate.
If there was one thing she'd learned since being with Daryl, it was that the words I love you came in many different shapes.
Sometimes it was bringing back her favorite candy bar from the gas station without her asking.
Sometimes it was draping his jacket over her shoulders after warning her to bring one herself, knowing full well she'd insisted she wouldn't need it.
And sometimes, it was fastening her seatbelt without saying a word.
"Enjoy your days as a free man, Daryl," she whispered, teasingly.
He smirked. "Don' y'doubt it."
He closed the door and gave the side of the vehicle a firm pat for good luck.
The blonde pulled away with a little too much enthusiasm, the vehicle making a sharp turn that came dangerously close to clipping his trash can before disappearing down the road.
Daryl watched it go until the sound of laughter and electric guitars faded into the distance, before he went back inside and kicked the door shut behind him.
His hands found his hips as he stood there, taking in the silence like he was admiring the view from the edge of a cliff instead of staring at an empty living room.
He took a deep breath.
'Bout time.
The sense of freedom lasted exactly three hours, twenty minutes, and seven seconds.
Because somewhere along the way, the solitude he'd wished for had backfired like a monkey's paw.
Intead of comfortable silence, the quiet pressed in from every corner of the house, making every little sound headache-inducing. The hum of the refrigerator. The settling of the water pipes inside the walls, even the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots all seemed louder than they ever had before.
He sprawled across the couch, arms draped over the backrest and legs stretched as wide as he pleased, only to hate it. With a heavy sigh, he sat up again and wandered aimlessly through the house, unable to settle anywhere for long until his his next attempt at relaxing.
The hell's wrong with me? He'd grumble to himself, annoyed down to his core that he was acting this way.
He tried to brush it off as worry.
She was halfway across the state with a car full of women who could probably end up on the evening news before a pot of coffee finished brewing.
Of course.
That had to be it.
It wasn't that he missed her, he was just... concerned, is all.
Because why the hell would he miss her?
Her perfume still clung faintly to his shirt. Her favorite mug was still sitting in the sink from that morning, waiting to be washed. Hell, there were still strands of her hair in the drain from her last shower, for crying out loud.
They'd barely been apart a day and she would be back before he knew it, yet the thought did little to settle the restless feeling in his chest.
Back on the couch, the TV droned on in the background, playing the soap opera she made him watch every evening. He still didn't understand half the dramatic plot, couldn't remember most of the characters' names, and yet somehow he found himself reaching for the remote and leaving it on out of habit.
Then, when even the sound of his own breathing started getting on his nerves, louder somehow than the TV, Daryl reached for his last resort for a loud distraction.
He called his brother.
Making his way to the kitchen, he cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear while pulling open the refrigerator door, absentmindedly picking at a loose piece of skin around his cuticle as it rang.
"Y'ello?" Merle answered. "Hell y'want, baby brother? I'm in the middle of a pool game."
The clack of pool balls and the chatter of a crowded bar carried through the line.
Daryl stared into the well-stocked refrigerator.
She'd meal-prepped his dinners for every single day she'd be gone. Even after he'd told her it wasn't necessary, she'd nagged him about eating something besides junk.
"Y'can keep a conversation goin' and still suck at pool, ya bastard," Daryl snapped as he pulled out the top container.
"Not when I got money ridin' on this game!" Merle snorted. "Hey, say hi to Buttercup fer me. She there? Pass her the phone... Need a sweet thang's blessin' right now."
Daryl peeled the sticky note she left off the lid.
His throat bobbed. "...She ain't here," he said quietly.
"Did she finally leave yer ass? 'Bout time! Maybe I can give her a ride next," Merle joked, and a second later, hell itself broke loose in the bar.
"The fuck?! Dirty shot! Y'touched the ball! I saw it—"
*Crash*
*Screaming*
"Nah! Y'mama—"
Daryl ended the call and tossed the phone onto the counter.
"Ol' good fer nothin'," he grumbled towards the phone, before he folded the note and slipped it inside his wallet.
Once it was late, and he had smoked his way through a pack of cigarettes instead of his regular one before bed, Daryl peeled himself out of his clothes until he was in his boxers before climbing under the covers.
He glanced at the time on his phone screen, her smiling face staring back at him from the wallpaper, and when the hour they had agreed on calling each other came, he finally gave himself permission to call first.
After the first ring, she answered, and a breath he hadn't realized he was holding slipped free.
He pictured her curled up somewhere with her legs tucked beneath her, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around her finger—the same little habit she always did during calls.
"Hi, baby," she hummed through the phone, her voice sweet yet unmistakably raspy after hours spent with loud mouths.
Before he could respond, a chorus of women echoed behind her.
"Hiii, Mr. Dixon!!!"
She immediately shushed them, but Daryl didn't even bother getting annoyed this time. "Yer gettin' ready for bed?"
"Yeah, though I'm not sure I'll sleep very well..." she chuckled. "I've become too used to your snoring."
He folded an arm behind his head. "That right?" He drawled, getting a strange sense of satisfaction from knowing she wouldn't sleep as well without him.
"Mhmm... How about you?"
He stayed quiet a second longer than necessary before letting out a forced chuckle. "With a bed all t'myself?" He huffed. "...Gon' sleep like the dead tonight."
He had lied through his teeth.
The days that followed felt like a time loop, one he couldn't break no matter how hard he tried.
Every morning, he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, literally and figuratively, as if his body had searched for her in its sleep until he found himself rolled into her empty spot, and there he'd lie for a minute, stealing what little peace remained in the scent still clinging to her pillow before forcing himself to get up.
His breakfasts became the picture of stubbornness.
Unwilling to eat anything other than what she'd normally make him, he survived on a cup of black coffee and a cigarette, both in one hand, while the other managed to mist the damp soil around Seymour before he headed to work.
At least the shop offered a distraction.
Engines were easier to understand than missing someone, though his mood didn't improve. If anything, it got worse. By the third morning, his crew had split into two camps: the ones who wisely avoided him, and the idiots who kept poking him with an imaginary stick, wanting to know what had crawled up their boss's ass that day. And the day before. And the day before that.
Though the nights were the hardest, because no matter how late he got out of work or how far he'd endlessly driven around, he knew she wouldn't be back home waiting for him.
Rather than facing the emptiness, he started joining Merle at the bar.
He didn't even go there for the alcohol; he just wanted noise. The click of glasses, the hum of the ice box, the thump of a dart hitting the target.
He even ended up in a fight one evening, dragging a man halfway over the counter after he merely asked why he hadn't brought his "arm candy" to the bar like he had before, the comment sending him back into the spiral he had come so damn close to escaping.
Peace only came when his head finally hit the pillow and the phone call connected hours later.
They rarely said much.
Most nights, it was enough to simply hear the other breathing as sleep crept in. She sounded happy on the trip, always describing her outfits in detail and about whatever disaster her friends had gotten into that day. Sometimes he chuckled. Other times he just shook his head and muttered that her friend group was trouble, which was rich coming from a Dixon.
He never said he missed her.
Never said he loved her.
But the truth of it was crashing down on him harder with every passing night.
He wanted her back.
Wanted the house to smell like her again, wanted her heels beside his boots by the door, wanted her voice echoing from another room while he pretended not to listen.
He wanted her so badly that some nights he came close to grabbing his keys, driving straight to where she was staying, and hauling her home over his shoulder like a caveman—keeping her wrapped up in his arms until the sun came up and this miserable, empty house stopped feeling like hell.
On the tenth night, he almost did.
Laying in bed, he set her books aside—the one she'd been halfway through reading before leaving—and pressed the phone a little tighter to his ear as it rang.
No answer.
His brows knit together as he tried again.
Still nothing.
A third time.
"C'mon, girl..."
At first, his mind settled somewhere reasonable.
Maybe she was in the bathroom, maybe she'd left her phone in the hotel room, maybe the summer rain pounding against his own windows had weakened the signal.
But then his thoughts took a darker turn.
She'd gotten into an accident.
She was hurt.
Scared.
Without him.
Before the images in his head could spiral any further, he was already on his feet. He yanked on his shirt, his jeans, shoved his feet into his boots without bothering with socks, and hurried for the front door. His hand had just wrapped around the knob when his back pocket vibrated, her name lighting up the screen.
The knot in his chest loosened so fast he almost tripped.
He answered before the second ring, and it turned out not to be a call at all, but a FaceTime.
"Jesus Christ," he barked, rougher than he meant to, squinting at the blurry image on his screen. "Y'alright?"
The camera seemed to be aimed at her forehead, while flickering lights in shades of red and purple flashed in the background while music pounded loud enough to rattle his speakers.
Then it clicked.
Here he had been losing his mind, while she was out in a club.
"Hello? Hello?!" She squinted at the screen, then hiccupped. "W-Why... Who's this? Why're y-you calling so much?!" She shouted over the pounding drums and gritty rock lyrics blaring around her.
It didn't take a genius to figure the rest.
From the slur in her words, the heavy eyelids struggling to stay open, and the unfocused look in her blood-shut eyes, Daryl knew she was absolutely wasted.
"Idio—" He took a deep breath. "Dammit, sweetheart, it's me."
"Sweetheart?" She frowned. "Don't call me that, you old pervert." She jabbed a threatening finger at the front-facing camera, blocking Daryl's view for a second before it wobbled away again. "I got..." She hiccupped. "...a man who'll beat you up!"
He was caught somewhere between annoyed and proud.
Annoyed that she was mistaking him for some stranger.
Proud that even in her drunken haze, her first instinct was still to threaten whoever was bothering her.
That's my girl.
He walked back toward their bed, watching through the phone as she moved through a crowd of sweaty, glitter-covered bodies until she finally found a place to sit.
She crouched down on the floor, the bare legs of another woman in snake-skin boots visible behind her in the frame—the music becoming distant enough where they could hear each other without yelling. With a relieved sigh, she slipped off her heels, rubbing her sore foot with her free hand after a night of dancing.
She sniffled. "W-wish Daryl was h-here to carry me," she whined. "Don't wanna do this shit no more..."
Daryl held back a smirk.
If there was any truth to the saying that drunk people couldn't lie, then maybe he could take advantage of the opportunity. Just for a moment, he could play along as some stranger and see what was going on in that unguarded, little head of hers.
"Yeah?" he asked, lowering his voice. "Who's that?"
"My partner..."
"And why ain't he there withcha?"
"Girl's only tri—" Another hiccup, "trip..."
Daryl caught her zoning out for a moment before her tear-streaked face brightened again, and she let out a delirious giggle. "I'm tired, but it's fun here, I guess..." she admitted. Then she paused, thinking. "Though I'm choosing camping for... for mine."
His brows knit together. "For your what?"
"For my bridal getaway, duh!"
Daryl choked, quickly turning away and patting his chest as if he'd swallowed wrong.
"T-that right?" he managed. "Did yer man pop the question?"
She shook her head.
"But..." He swallowed hard. "Y'want him to?"
She went quiet for a moment before she lifted her index finger to her lips, shushing him as if what she was about to say was a secret shared only between her and the mysterious stranger on her phone screen.
Daryl leaned closer to the screen, waiting for her to give him a simple yes or no answer, when the phone was suddenly snatched from her hand, resulting in him cursing out loud over the interruption.
When the camera turned, it revealed one of her friends, looking relieved, because apparently, they had been searching for her and now they were heading back to their room because the bride-to-be was throwing up.
The friend leaned closer into the camera, pierced nostrils on full display, then waved with a drunken smile.
"Hiii, Mr. Dixon!" The friend slurred, somehow still self-aware enough to recognize him. "Gon' take her to bed. Niiiight niiiight!"
He was ready to slip into the authority role he foolishly thought he had upon the group of women, a scolding already sitting at the tip of his tongue for being a bunch of drunken idiots. "Wait, hold yer damn horses—" But the call ended before he could get another word out.
He was left staring at his own reflection in the small black screen, along with the realization settling heavy in his chest.
She wanted to get married?
The next morning at the mechanic shop, Daryl wasn't in a bad mood exactly, just occupied with the work in front of him, grease slicking his fingers as he changed a tire, and the drunken words of a woman that he couldn't stop thinking about.
Wasn't it too soon?
What if her drunken words were just that?
Did he even want to be tied down?
He wasn't sure why the thought hit him so hard, as if those days apart hadn't already been enough of a wake-up call about how pathetically in love he really was, how the man he had been before she came into his life had long since hung up his coat.
He wasn't nearly as much of a loner as he used to believe, not if it meant denying himself the want to be with someone.
At least he had a few more days to sit with it, and maybe, when he saw her again, the knots in his head would finally start to loosen and make sense of it all.
But one thing about timing was that it never asked for permission.
As Daryl tightened down the last lug nut, someone called his name. The voice cut through the drone of air hoses, impact wrenches and idle engines, so unexpected that for a second he wasn't even sure he'd heard it right.
He looked over his shoulder.
The first thing he saw was a pair of raccoon slippers, his brows knitting together at the familiarity.
He knew those slippers.
His gaze traveled upward until it landed on her.
And everything else in the shop disappeared.
She stood just within arm's reach, looking like she had crawled out of hell on her hands and knees. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun, an oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, and those ridiculous slippers had replaced the heels she always insisted on wearing to face the outside world.
There was no dress, no makeup, just thick black sunglasses hiding what he guessed was one hell of a hangover, and a tired smile tugging at her lips.
She had never looked more beautiful.
"Surprise," she said sheepishly, her voice rough from the night before.
The wrench slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the concrete.
She gave a weary chuckle. "Turns out the bride-to-be got food poisoning..."
He slowly crossed the distance between them.
"Guess your vacation got cut short, Dar—"
He didn't let her finish.
He cupped the back of her neck with a grease-stained hand and pulled her right back where she belonged—where he wanted her to stay until their hairs turned gray and there were no more pages left on the calendar.
His lips found hers in a kiss so sudden it knocked her glasses askew. They tumbled to the floor as the loose bun she'd thrown together gave way, her hair spilling over her shoulders.
Her hands flew up in surprise, lingering there for a heartbeat before they settled against his cheeks, her eyes fluttering closed as she melted into the lips she'd missed.
He hadn't needed more days.
He'd only needed to see her again for his heart to finally catch up with what it had known all along.
The once-busy mechanic shop erupted behind them.
A chorus of hollers, whistles, and shocked laughter bounced off the garage walls at the sight none of them had ever expected to witness.
Their stubborn, gruff boss was making a scene worthy of a late-night soap opera.
One mechanic wolf-whistled.
Another let out a howl.
Many clapped.
Daryl didn't care.
He probably never would again.
He'd kiss her in front of the whole world if he felt like it. Be a complete fool in front of anyone watching. Because somewhere over the last few days, he'd stopped caring about looking tough and started caring about never letting her wonder how he truly felt.
Their lips parted, but he didn't let her go. His forehead rested against hers as she smiled up at him, all wide-eyed and shiny-toothed, clearly surprised he had done that in front of a crowded room.
"Daryl!" She laughed breathlessly. "What's gotten into you—"
"Marry me, woman."
Her breath hitched.
Gasps erupted throughout the shop.
And Daryl had never been more sure of anything in his life.
One Year Later
The sharp crack of pool balls echoed through the bar as another game broke across the green felt. Glasses clinked together, a ballgame played on the television above the liquor shelves, and the usual crowd nursed their beers with cigarettes dangling from their lips, smoke hanging in the air like fog.
Daryl stepped inside with his fingers laced through hers.
Meanwhile Merle leaned against the pool table, a cue stick resting in his hand while one of her friends entertained him. She twisted the blue chalk cube against the tip of the stick, her fingers moving in slow circles, shamelessly enjoying stringing the older Dixon along.
"That's it, sugar," Merle drawled with a crooked grin. "Put that wrist to good use..."
Then he spotted the couple and jerked the cue toward them.
"Over here, y'two!"
The four women turned in unison.
A year ago, Daryl would've winced.
Now he only shook his head, already knowing exactly what was coming.
"Hiii, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon!!!!"
She dissolved into giggles, hiding her smile against his shoulder before peeking up at him from under her lashes.
"Well," she whispered. "Guess they'll never let that go, huh?"
Daryl only shrugged, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Ain't lettin' it go either, sweetheart."
Her smile softened, the twinkle in her eyes outshining the glint of the diamond on finger.
"Me neither."
🛞THE END 👠
Hope you like it, arstynana. Thanks for showing love to my silly fics!
Note: I love me some pathetically inlove Daryl who isn't much different from a dog when reader leaves. A day apart feels like weeks. Pacing around an empty house, looking for distractions the same way a lonely mutt might chew through a boot because it still smells like its owner.
Somehow ended the fic with a proposal I hadn't planned. Hell yeah.
Also, full circle? Sort of. The other fic started with a kiss and this one ended with one too, but roles reversed.
Reader's friend group is 100% inspired by Bratz Rock Angelz. She came back with a secret tattoo just for Daryl shhh 🤫
you know helping the bleeding man in the alley next to your apartment is risky, yet something compels you to do just that. after that night, you don’t ever expect to see him again. but frank castle keeps surprising you.
warnings/tags: wound care, descriptions of blood and injuries, strangers to lovers, reader is a trauma nurse, some very minor angst, brief encounter with a creepy man, no use of y/n, pet names (angel), tension and mutual pining, use of alcohol, frank might be kinda ooc at times but idc i’m just having fun, may or may not have been heavily inspired by how matt and claire met in daredevil season one!
author’s note: i originally started this early last year. i’ve been on a bit of writing break this summer, but i wanted to try to finish this in celebration of frank being in spiderman brand new day! big smooches to @fru1t4fr0gs and @myrrh-dock for the encouragement with this <3
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
You’ve always gone back and forth on whether to believe that being a light sleeper is a blessing or a curse.
On one hand, you take comfort in knowing that you’re more likely to wake up quickly at the sound of potential threats. On the other hand, it can be exhausting to wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night.
Hell's Kitchen isn’t exactly a quiet place. The average night is filled with sounds of police sirens and noisy neighbors. Shouting, stomping, fucking, fighting – you name it. Over the course of the year that you have lived here, you have grown accustomed to it – and with the help of melatonin and a white noise machine, you're able to drown most of it out. Usually.
Usually does not typically include the sound of gun shots in the alleyway below your apartment in the middle of a random Thursday night, however.
The initial shot causes you to jolt upright in your bed. Before you can process what you heard, another shot fires from somewhere outside your window, this time unmistakable.
Instinctively, you roll off of your mattress and onto the floor, using the bed as a barricade in case any bullets come flying through your window. Your heart feels as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest, and you try your hardest to regain control of your breathing while not moving a muscle.
Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and then two while you wait for the sound of another gunshot that never comes. You’re unsure of how long you lie on your floor before finally sitting up and reaching into the drawer of the bedside table directly above your head. You pull out the Glock 42 that you purchased prior to moving to this part of town, though you haven’t truly worried about needing to use it until right now.
As quietly as you can, you crawl with the gun in hand to the opposite side of your bed, closer to the window. Your curtains are closed, and you intend on keeping them that way, but there’s a big enough gap between the fabric and the window for you to peek outside.
At first, you see nothing out of the ordinary. There’s enough light from a streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway that you’re able to make out the trash bins and a dumpster that belongs to the bakery next door to your apartment building. You watch with bated breath, waiting for any kind of movement.
Just when you’re convinced that the shooter (or shooters) have fled the scene, a flash of movement catches your eye from the far end of the dumpster. You can tell that it’s a man – he had been hiding behind it, just out of your field of view. His head peeks around the corner, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear.
He steps out from behind the dumpster, taking several wobbly steps before leaning against the metal siding for support. Thanks to the streetlamp and tonight's full moon, you’re able to see that the side of his head is caked in what is presumably blood – whether it’s his or someone else’s, you have no idea. You watch as the man pulls back his coat, revealing a white t-shirt soaked in dark red near his shoulder.
You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes from your lips. You immediately cover your mouth with your hand, backing away from the window to search for your cell phone. He has clearly been shot, you need to call for help—
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper as renewed panic begins to surge through you.
Your fucking phone is dead. You press the power button repeatedly, hoping for it to miraculously turn on. You worked a sixteen hour shift at the hospital yesterday and crashed as soon as you got home. Didn’t eat anything for dinner, didn’t shower, didn’t even change out of your scrubs…and didn’t plug your phone in to charge.
You peer out of the window again. The man is still slumped against the dumpster, seemingly clutching at his wounded shoulder in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
You rack your brain, knowing that you need to do something. You’re a trauma nurse for Christ’s sake. You see this kind of thing and worse every day. You can’t just leave him to bleed out in the street while you watch from the comfort of your apartment.
You fear that if you turn your bedroom light on, he’ll see the light from the cracks in your curtains and attempt to run away. So you fumble around in the dark until you find a pair of slippers and a coat, cramming your pistol into an interior pocket.
You want to help – but you have no way of knowing why he was being shot at. The assailant could have a reasonable excuse as to why they put a bullet in this man’s shoulder. He’s injured, yes, but what if he deserves to be?
Your brain and your heart go back and forth with each other the entire trek down the apartment building’s stairwell. Ultimately, your heart wins, and you ease open an emergency exit door that leads directly into the alley where the man still sits with his back against the dumpster.
The second that he notices you step out of the building, he forces himself to his feet. He turns away from you, but not before you note just how much blood is all over him. He tugs the hood of his jacket over his head and begins to walk in the opposite direction, still obviously unsteady on his feet.
“Hey!” You call after him against your better judgment. “Judging by the way you’re walking and the amount of blood on you, I’d bet that you’ve lost a fair amount.”
You notice that he has a bit of a limp that causes him to walk slowly, but he doesn’t stop or so much as look back at you.
“’M fine, lady,” he grunts over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, just go back inside.”
You know that you should listen to him. Every rational and logical part of your brain is screaming at you to do as he says – turn around, go back to your apartment, and lock the fucking door.
But the pain etched in his voice roots you right where you stand. If he had any desire to harm you, why wouldn’t he do so right now? There’s no one else around. But he isn’t jumping at the opportunity to attack you – he’s actively trying to distance himself from you.
“I can help you,” You implore, your voice a bit louder this time. “I’m a trauma nurse. Let me help you.”
He stops, bracing a hand against the brick wall beside him for support. He glances back at you over his shoulder – just enough to give you a view of his side profile. Even from here, you can tell that his nose looks broken.
“See,” you continue, opening your coat enough to let him see the mauve colored scrubs that you had fallen asleep in. “No cops,” you add, reading the hesitation on his face. “I just wanna patch you up so I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience.”
Still, he says nothing. He turns, eyeing you up and down like he’s weighing the pros and cons of putting his trust in a stranger.
Truthfully, you should be doing the same right about now.
You shiver, closing your coat once more at a sudden gust of wind. “Or bleed out,” you shrug. You take a step backwards, towards the emergency exit you had come out of. “At least I know that I tried.”
You turn around, grabbing the door handle but freezing before pulling it open when you hear him finally speak.
“Wait,” he starts, his voice gruff and strained. You look back at him expectantly. “No cops?” he reiterates.
“No cops,” you promise. “Just a nurse trying to do what she went to school for.” You pause. “And maybe get some good karma out of it.”
You hold the door open for him, motioning with your head as if to say after you. He hesitates for a second longer, and then begins to limp towards you. The thought crosses your mind to help him up the stairs to your apartment on the second story, but you quickly remind yourself that you do not know this man. You’re already being risky by simply offering him help – you should at least attempt to keep some amount of space in between the two of you.
He hobbles up the stairwell, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding pressure to his shoulder wound with his t-shirt that is already soaked through with blood. You can tell he’s in a decent amount of pain, despite how he tries to conceal it.
You open your door for him before you can talk yourself out of it, mentally saying a prayer to whatever higher power may be listening that you don’t end up regretting this.
“You can take a seat on the couch,” you say as you close the door behind you. “And remove your coat and shirt, if you can. I’ll gather my supplies.”
You instinctively begin to shrug out of your own coat, but then remember the pistol that rests in the pocket and decide it’s safer to resume wearing it. He is a complete stranger, and a bloody, bruised one at that.
With his back still turned to you, he slowly slips off his coat and then carefully pulls the blood-soaked t-shirt over his head. He hisses in pain, which isn’t shocking considering the intense bruising that decorates the thick muscles of his back.
Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should before you start gathering the necessary supplies from around your small apartment. Towels, sterile saline, medical shears, gauze, bandages…
When you reenter the room a moment later with everything you managed to scrounge together on such short notice, he’s already sitting on the couch, fiddling absentmindedly with the wilted petals of the dead flowers in a vase on the table in front of him.
Your eyes are instantly drawn to the entry wound just under his clavicle, near his left shoulder, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. Though it still leaks dark red, it isn’t gushing as you had feared it would be.
“I’m going to do a basic assessment first,” you tell him as you take a seat on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, your voice doing little to conceal how nervous the newfound close proximity makes you. You reach for his left hand, which you take in your own. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head after a split-second. “No.”
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”
He does so without hesitation, the calloused, blood-streaked fingers flexing against your palm.
“Good,” you murmur, bringing two of your fingers to check his radial pulse.
He makes a low sound, something halfway between a laugh and a grunt. “Am I dead?” He hums, voice gravelly but light with amusement.
You roll your eyes. “Not yet.” You pause, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath his skin. “I’m just making sure you’ve got good blood flow to this arm and hand.”
“And?”
“And you got lucky,” you tell him, dropping his hand to reach for a towel and the bottle of sterile saline. “Another inch to the left and the bullet would’ve nicked your subclavian artery. You would have already bled out behind that dumpster.”
“Lucky,” he scoffs, the word dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m lucky, it’s only because I chose the right alley to get shot in tonight.”
You snort a laugh without meeting his gaze as you begin to wipe away the excess blood from his skin, the words and the rough timbre of his voice sending goosebumps across your skin.
“Try not to make it a habit,” you mutter, forcing yourself to focus on the wound instead of the pair of dark brown eyes that appear almost black in the dim lighting of your living room.
The man is silent while you work to clean up all of the blood that is dried to the skin of his neck and chest.
“What about you?” He asks when you pull the now red-tinged towel away for a final time. “Do you make a habit of bringing strange, wounded men into your home?”
“Can’t say that I do. You’d be the first.” Then, because the way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the one who lost a liter of blood, you speak again before he has a chance to respond in that voice that makes it hard for you to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing here.
“There‘s no exit wound, so that means the bullet is probably still inside. I’m going to leave it there, because attempting to extract it here could do a lot more harm than good.”
He gives a nonchalant half shrug. “Wouldn’t be the only bullet to live inside me.”
“Oh?” You quip, somehow only mildly surprised by the admission. “You collecting them?”
The corners of his mouth tug upwards into something resembling a smirk. “Something like that.”
As curious as that makes you, you don’t pry. You don’t think you could possibly like the answer. You do the rest of your work in the kind of silence that doesn’t actually feel quiet because it only gives your thoughts time to get louder and louder.
You blot a few fresh droplets of blood. What the hell is this guy involved in?
You place a sterile dressing over the wound. If this isn’t his first time getting shot, how many times has he been shot?
You secure the dressing to his chest with medical tape. What is his name?
As soon as you pull your hands away, he starts to stand in front of you. “Oh,” you squeak, “No, I wouldn’t stand up quite yet. You should give it a few minutes to make sure your bandage doesn’t soak through—”
The man, now towering over you, shakes his head. “This should hold me together. I’ve had worse.”
Jesus Christ.
“At least let me give you something for the pain,” you try to reason with him, standing up. When you do, your chest is only a few inches from his, still bare in front of you. You instantly start to put some space between you. “Seriously, that’s going to fucking hurt—”
He chuckles low, cutting you off. “Extra strength ibuprofen doesn’t really do much for me these days, but I appreciate it.”
You’re at a loss for words for a moment, and you aren’t even sure why. It’s not like you should be thinking of an excuse to make the man hang around your apartment for any longer than necessary. You’ve done what you set out to do - bring him inside, make sure he isn’t going to bleed out, and patch him up. Mission accomplished. Now all that’s really left is to send him on his way and lock the door behind him.
“Right,” you huff a humorless laugh. “Well, I would tell you to stay out of trouble, but something tells me it wouldn’t do much good.”
He grabs his jacket and blood-soaked t-shirt off of the couch, choosing to forgo the latter and instead slip only the zip up hoodie back on.
“No, probably not,” he deadpans, the huskiness of his voice making your apartment feel hotter than it actually is. “Thank you, though. I appreciate this. You didn’t have to help me.” He pauses, looking you directly in the eye, his expression grave and unreadable. “And if you were smart, you wouldn’t have. So let’s keep this the one and only time you do this, yeah?”
The way he’s looking at you gives you very little confidence to fight him on that. Every smart retort that pops into your head dies on your tongue under his stare.
You only nod, and after another wordless, tense moment, he begins to show himself out.
“You at least gonna tell me your name?” You call after him, willing your voice not to crack.
He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder when he answers with another humorless laugh.
“I promise, it’s better for us both if I don’t, angel.”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Three days pass, and with each one, you’re a little more convinced that the man with the haunted, espresso-colored eyes who sat bleeding in your living room was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.
Then you see the blood-stained hand towel you had used to wipe his skin clean, and you’re reminded that it was not a fever dream. He really had been here, and you had helped him, and you have no reason to believe you’ll ever see him again now.
That is, until a knock from outside your bedroom window wakes you up at seven o’clock in the morning on your day off.
At first, you think you dreamed it. But then you quickly remember what happened last time you heard something from outside this very window, and before you’re fully awake, you’re swinging your legs over the side of your bed and walking the short distance to the window. You peak out of the curtain, and upon first glance, you see nothing.
What would there be to see, anyway? You’re on the second story. Someone would have had to climb your fire escape to—
You glance down and freeze, your entire body going rigid at what lay on the platform of your fire escape.
Flowers.
It’s nothing extravagant. A small bunch of wildflowers tied together mid-stems with a string. But still, flowers. On your fire escape at seven o'clock in the morning.
A folded piece of paper rests beneath the stems, enticing you to open the window and see what it says. To see who the hell they could possibly be from, though a specific, bruised face already pops into your mind in answer.
You look around again, peering both ways down the alley outside your window. There’s nothing but a few trash cans and the same dumpster that your mysterious, after hours patient had hid behind.
If not him…then who the hell else? You can’t even recall the last time someone gave you flowers. The dead, wilted ones currently on your coffee table are from a street vendor that sells them down the block from the hospital you work at. You bought them for yourself.
Once you have convinced yourself that no one is lurking in the alleyway, watching for you to open your window, you do so, quickly grabbing the small bouquet of multi-colored wildflowers and the piece of paper before shutting (and locking) your window once more.
The handwriting on the folded note is a masculine scrawl.
The flowers in your living room need to be thrown away
Thanks again, angel
- F
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
You installed a security camera outside of your bedroom window the following day.
Its position allows you to see your fire escape, as well as the mouth of the alleyway outside of your bedroom.
You didn’t do it because you’re creeped out, or because you feel unsafe. You did it because if he were to come again, you don’t want to miss him. You don’t want to be left wondering if it’s really him.
The man with a scar just under his clavicle, the man who left flowers on your fire escape and then ran before you had a chance to get out of bed, the man who called you angel, the man whose name starts with F.
You’ve been referring to him as Frederick in your head for two months now. You spent an embarrassing amount of time scouring baby naming websites for male names that start with F, and Frederick stood out the most. It means peaceful ruler, and the irony of that makes you laugh considering the circumstances under which you met, but unless he ever returns and tells you his actual name, you will continue to let yourself believe it’s Frederick.
Fred, for short.
After two months, you begin to doubt that will ever happen. You helped him, and he returned with flowers to thank you, and that is the end of that. You eventually stop glancing out your window at every little bump in the night, you stop checking the Ring camera footage hoping that one of the notifications is him, and you resume life as normal.
So when a tapping sound randomly wakes you in the middle of the night after more than two months without a trace of him, you first assume it’s only the thunderstorm raging outside. You think so little of it that your initial response is to simply turn over, pull your comforter tighter, and close your eyes.
Then you hear it again.
Just a bit louder this time, but now undeniable. Knuckles against glass. Still, you hesitate, the fear of realizing that someone is outside of your window, on your fire escape in the dead of night momentarily paralyzing you. Then, still half asleep, you remember what happened last time there was a knock on your bedroom window, and you quickly grab your phone off of your nightstand, jerking it from the power cord.
Your most recent notification is informing you of movement on your security camera. The description reads a person is standing on the fire escape knocking on a window.
You pull up the live footage as your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. Your hands go clammy, anticipation surging through—
His hair is longer and his beard has grown in full since you last saw him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.
Your trembling thumb hovers over the microphone button for a moment before you’re able to work up the courage to press it.
“No flowers this time?” You speak into your phone, loud enough for him to hear you over the rain that pours down around him. Right away, he glances at the camera located in the upper corner of the window, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace.
“Sorry,” he huffs. “Didn’t exactly have time to pick any in between getting my ass kicked and climbing your fire escape at three in the morning.” He pauses. “So what’s it gonna be, angel? You gonna let me in or do I need to walk to the closest emergency room?”
You don’t answer him over the camera. Instead, you put your phone down, flick your nightstand lamp on, and then take a few steps to your bedroom window. Your curtains are closed, and you take a deep breath before pulling them open.
You’re actually doing this again. Letting this stranger, this injured man, into your home again in the middle of the night.
Only this time, he’s sopping wet.
He doesn’t say anything when you first open the window. He just ducks beneath the frame with a sharp hiss, one forearm braced against the sill as he carefully maneuvers one leg through the opening. For a moment, he pauses halfway inside, his shoulders tense beneath the rain soaked fabric of his hoodie. His eyes squeeze shut as he shifts his weight, and a low, involuntary grunt escapes him.
You automatically reach out, your hand hovering near his elbow.
“I’ve got it,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
You don’t argue, but you still stay close while he swings his other leg through the threshold of the window and then straightens his posture as much as he can manage. One arm instinctively folds across the right side of his ribcage, guarding it, while rain droplets drip from the ends of his hair onto your bedroom floor.
“Sorry about the mess,” he grunts, glancing down at his boots that squeak against the hardwood.
You offer a small shrug. “I need to mop anyway.”
Now that he’s inside, you take a closer look at him. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and another reddish, puffy knot at his temple. His bottom lip is slightly cracked, caked with dried blood. There’s bags beneath his brown eyes, as if he has hardly slept since you last saw him.
“You look like hell, Fred.”
Thick brows scrunch together. “Fred?”
You nod. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me your actual name. Which I’m assuming is not Fred, then?”
Air blows through his nose in a near silent laugh, his chest shaking with the movement before another pained grimace flashes across his face. “Not Fred.”
Your eyes rake downwards where he still clutches his side. “Let me guess,” you sigh, “ribs?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Think so.”
You jerk your head in the direction of your bedroom door. “Go to the living room. I’m gonna see if I can scrounge up some dry clothes that might fit you.”
He hesitates, another ghost of a laugh escaping him as his eyes trail downwards. “Maybe grab some pants for yourself while you’re at it, yeah?”
By the time your brain processes his words, he’s already walking towards your bedroom door, leaving you wide-eyed and warm-faced. You glance down in confirmation of what you’re already painfully aware of: you aren’t wearing any pants.
A t-shirt just long enough to conceal the curve of your ass, but no pants.
You recover from the embarrassment quick enough, springing into action to find a pair of pants for yourself as well as a change of clothes for the drenched man in the other room. Luckily, you still have a bag of random clothes your ex had left at your place forever ago that you had forgotten to throw out. He’s a bit stockier, more muscular, than your ex, but they are similar in height. These might be a little bit tight, but they will at least be more comfortable than wet, cold clothes.
When you enter the living room with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants only a minute later, he has already removed his jacket and undershirt.
His eyes flicker downwards and back up again, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk at the realization that you had taken his advice and put on a pair of pajama pants before his gaze lands on the men’s clothing in your hands.
“Ex boyfriend’s,” you explain, probably quicker than necessary as you place them on your coffee table. “They got pushed to the back of my closet. Should fit you well enough.”
His gaze softens a tad at that. “Thanks.”
You nod, then glance down, your attention instantly drawn to the right side of his ribcage. The skin there is already darkening, a bruise beginning to bloom beneath a patch of angry redness and subtle swelling. You take a small step towards him, a tentative hand coming to his side. Your fingertips brush the skin there ever so lightly, and he lets you, the muscles there tensing.
“Take a deep breath for me,” you murmur.
He inhales, his torso stiffening and muscles in his jaw clenching before he releases a shaky exhale.
“Again.”
Though it clearly brings him discomfort, he’s able to take a reasonably deep breath, which puts your mind somewhat at ease.
“You know, telling me exactly what happened would help me assess the injury more accurately,” you hum, dropping your hand from the warm skin of his side and crossing your arms over your chest.
He snorts. “Got kicked. Boot to the ribcage.”
Considering he had a bullet in him last time he was in your living room, the answer is only mildly alarming.
“People seem to enjoy beating the shit out of you.”
He raises a brow at you. “Is that my official diagnosis?”
You sigh, eyes flickering back down to the puffy, red skin of his otherwise toned abdomen. “It’s impossible to know for certain without an x-ray,” you shrug. “It’s probably just a bruised rib or two. Possibly fractured. Not much to be done either way.”
“Yeah,” he grunts, reaching down for the t-shirt on the coffee table in front of him with a grimace. “That’s what I figured.”
Now it’s your turn to cock a brow. “Why’d you come here, then?”
You can’t help the question as it slips out. He has clearly had more than his fair share of injuries - the evidence of them are littered across his body in old, fading bruises and scar tissue. A cracked rib is minor in comparison to the marred skin of his chest where you had patched him up just two months ago.
For once, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug as he maneuvers the dry t-shirt over his head.
“Guess I thought it would be a safe place to lay low until this storm blows over.”
A crack of thunder booms in the distance as soon as the last word leaves his lips. Part of you wants to press for more, but you figure that is likely as honest of an answer as you will get from him, so you hold back all the other questions that threaten to spill from you.
What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? Why here? You really had nowhere else to go?
Who the hell are you?
Instead, you say nothing. You simply pick up the pair of sweatpants still sitting on the table next to you, and hand them to him in offering until he accepts them.
“There’s a bathroom just down that hallway,” you tell him with a small nod in the direction of the guest bathroom. “You can throw all of your clothes in the dryer, if you’d like.”
For a moment, he only stares at you. His mouth parts slightly as if he’s going to speak, but then changes his mind and only nods.
“I’ll get you an ice pack. If you’re going to hang out here, you’re going to ice that rib, Fred,” you sigh as you start to walk in the direction of your kitchen. “And you’re going to take some ibuprofen—”
“It’s Frank.”
You stop in your tracks, quickly turning to look at him. “What?”
“My name,” he clarifies, voice gruff, “it’s Frank.”
Your surprise undoubtedly shows on your face at the revelation. You repeat the name, more to yourself than anything, with a slow nod.
“Nice to meet you, Frank.”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
To your disappointment, but not your surprise, Frank had already left when you woke up later that morning.
Frank. At first, it felt odd to finally know his actual name after calling him Fred in your head for over two months. You got used to it quickly, though. By the fourth, fifth, sixth time that he shows up on your fire escape, you forget how it ever felt to not know Frank Castle’s name.
His appearances became somewhat predictable.
Every two to three weeks, you wake up to soft tapping on your window in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he has cuts, sometimes bruises. Sometimes both. You patch him up to the best of your abilities, you offer him food and water, you let him sleep on your couch until daylight comes, and then he slips out of your front door so silently that it doesn’t even wake you.
That is, until his most recent visit, when you woke up and found him still snoring softly in your living room. He had shown up on your fire escape, as he always does, with a split lip and black eye. The injuries hardly warranted a nurse’s consultation, but you welcomed him in, anyway.
You walked into your living room that morning fully expecting him to be gone. When you realized that he hadn’t moved, you couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. Early morning sunlight was trickling in through your curtains, spilling across his face and catching on the bruises that colored his skin.
It was by far the most at peace you’ve seen him in all of the months that you’ve known him.
But Frank is a light sleeper. As quiet as you tried to be, he woke as soon as you started moving around your kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee.
He seemed just as surprised as you were that he had slept so long. And then, when you offered him breakfast, he surprised you both again.
He stayed.
He stayed while you cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them together with a splash of milk and extra shredded cheese - just like your grandmother always did when making omelettes, you told him. He leaned against your kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, quietly watching you move around your apartment as if he had done so a hundred times before. As if it was any other Tuesday morning.
Conversation flowed easier than it had ever had. You told him about some of your patients from the past week. About a little boy who had proudly showed you his dinosaur bandage after getting stitches, and about the elderly man who shamelessly flirts with every nurse in your unit despite having recently celebrated his fiftieth wedding anniversary.
More than anything else, you talked about yourself, because Frank asks more questions than he answers, but you did learn that he hates mushrooms with a passion, and takes his coffee black.
That was a month ago now, and you haven’t seen him since.
Not a word. No late night visits, no flowers or thank you notes left on your fire escape in the dead of night. You had given him your phone number scribbled on a post-it note the fourth or fifth time that he showed up to your place, but he hadn’t made any use of that, either.
The first couple of weeks, you didn’t think anything of it. It was normal to go a few weeks without seeing him. But now that it’s been a whole month, you’re worried.
Why hasn’t he come by? Is he okay? Did he skip town? Did he get into some kind of altercation that he wasn’t able to walk away from? Is he even alive?
You stay up late each night, unable to find sleep, your thoughts racing with all of these questions that you have no way of finding the answers to.
You’ve spiraled over the unknown more than you care to admit. From randomly checking your security camera footage in the middle of a shift to searching for his name in local obituaries, you’ve let his extended, unexplained absence consume you. When you’re awake, you’re wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and when you’ll see him again. When you’re asleep, his brown eyes and scarred skin appear in your dreams.
Friends and coworkers have started to notice how distracted you’ve allowed yourself to become, too. Hence the reason you’re at a crowded, noisy bar at 10:30 on a Wednesday night.
A couple of coworkers had all but drug you with them after your shift earlier today, insisting that you needed to get out, have a few drinks, and get the mystery man who you refuse to admit actually exists off of your mind.
For the first hour or two, it worked.
You mingled, gossiped, laughed. But now? Two martinis in, exhausted from a twelve hour shift, and listening to some twenty-one year old sing karaoke off key? You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering back to the very person that you had hoped to drown from them.
When you tell the coworker who had invited you that you’re going to head home because you’re exhausted, she tries to convince you to stay for one more drink. When that doesn’t work, she tries to convince you to let her walk you home, and although you appreciate the offer, your apartment is only a few blocks from here and you really just want to be alone with your thoughts and the crisp night air.
Very quickly, you regret not letting her walk you home, or ordering yourself an Uber, or flagging down a fucking taxi.
“Hey, sweetheart. You need a ride somewhere?”
Something in your gut tells you the sudden, masculine voice is talking to you without even looking. You stumble the slightest bit, but you keep walking, giving no acknowledgment that you had even heard him. Your hand instinctively goes to your purse that rests against your hip. Inside is your Glock that you’ve still never actually had to use.
Footsteps thud against the pavement behind you. Your fingers twitch against the leather fabric, preparing to reach down inside.
“Hey!” The voice calls out, louder this time, right behind you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder. “I’m talking to you. Don’t be rude now—”
Three things happen at once.
You shove your hand down into your bag to grip the gun nestled inside, you come face to face with the tall but scrawny man still grabbing your shoulder, and a faceless, hooded figure emerges from the shadows of the nearest alleyway.
“Doesn’t seem like she’s very interested to me,” a deep, gruff voice booms from beneath the hood. It startles the man enough to release his hold on your shoulder and take an immediate step back. It startles you, too, but for different reasons.
You instantly recognize that voice. You’ve thought of it every night since you last heard it a month ago. You’ve thought of it every night since you first found its owner bleeding outside of your apartment.
And if the voice isn’t confirmation enough, the thick, dark beard peeking out from beneath the hood is plenty.
“Oh, I was—” The scrawny man stutters, taking a few steps backwards, attempting to put some distance between him and the unexpected presence, “—was just seeing if she needed a ride—”
“Wrong woman,” Frank barks, lifting his hood enough to reveal eyes so dark that they look black beneath the streetlamp, fixed on the man with an unwavering intensity that silently promises violence.
The man continues to stumble backwards and your grip on the Glock, still tucked out of sight, relaxes.
“S—sorry, man,” he squeaks. “I don’t want any problems. Swear—”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
The man doesn’t say another word before scampering away in the opposite direction, leaving you alone with Frank Castle.
Are you hallucinating? Did someone spike your fucking drink at the bar? Or is he actually standing in front of you, beard fuller and hair longer than you’ve ever seen it, looking at you like he doesn’t know if he should stay or disappear again?
“Hey, angel.”
The words seem to snap you out of a trance. One second, you’re standing there, staring at him with squinted eyes, and the next, you’re pulling your pistol out of your bag, the muzzle pointed directly at his chest.
He takes an involuntary step back, his hands raising in front of him in shocked defense. “Christ, what the fu—”
“I had that handled.” You wave the gun around haphazardly for emphasis.
Frank grabs the barrel of the Glock, pushing it downwards. “Would you stop swinging that thing around?” He pauses, leaning in to take a closer look at you. “Are you drunk?”
You’re unable to stop the laugh that escapes you at that. “Why don’t you tell me? You know, since apparently you’re stalking me.”
“Stalking you?” Frank scoffs, almost offended. “I ain’t stalking you.”
You shove the gun back into your purse without taking your eyes off of his incredulous expression. “Oh, no? You just so happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time after ghosting me for a month?”
He falls silent, giving a small nod to himself as his gaze wanders up and down the street before settling on the cracked pavement beneath his boots. Anywhere but your eyes. “I wasn’t trying to stalk you, alright? I was in the neighborhood and saw you go into the bar. Just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” He pauses, meeting your gaze once again, his dark eyes as intense and unyielding as ever. “And it’s a good thing that I did.”
It’s your turn to scoff at that. “Right. So you care enough to make sure that I get home safely…” You take a step closer to him, your stare unblinking as you look up at him in the light of the streetlamp, “but you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me? Couldn’t leave a note? Couldn’t climb my fire escape at any point in the last month to let me know you hadn’t been gunned down in a random alley in Hell’s Kitchen?”
Frank’s jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. No answer.
You snort a humorless laugh, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”
You start to turn around, to walk away, when the small, petty part of you easily influenced by alcohol begs you to open your mouth again. “And just so you know, Frank, I checked the obituaries to see if you were dead.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already walking in the opposite direction.
He lets you go and does not try to hide the fact that he follows you the rest of the way to your apartment, not turning around until you’ve safely entered the building.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
That night, Frank Castle appears in your dreams.
It isn’t the first time he’s been conjured by your subconscious, but it is the first time that you wake up and have to question what is fantasy and what is reality due to how utterly lifelike it had all felt.
You hear a gruff voice calling you angel. You see tortured brown eyes staring at you the way they had beneath the streetlights, heavy with the weight of everything he had refused to say. But instead of staying silent when you start to walk away, he stops you. He calls out for you with a restrained grunt of your name, and asks you not to go.
When you jerk awake to the sound of your alarm, your heart is racing, and for a few disorienting moments, you have to remind yourself that you’re alone in your bedroom. Frank Castle is not here. He’s not snoring in your living room, he’s not waiting on your fire escape for you to open the window and let him inside.
You don’t know if he ever will be again.
It’s the kind of dream that leaves you in a melancholic headspace for hours after waking.
You try your hardest to go about your day as normal. You clock in for a twelve hour shift at the emergency department, feeling severely unrested and slightly hungover. You drink more coffee than you usually do to get you through the first few hours of the morning, in between patients.
First, a seven-year-old boy with a fractured elbow. Skateboarding accident. Next, an elderly woman with a nasty grease burn. Bacon accident. Then, a construction worker with a mangled finger. Nail gun accident. And now…
“There’s a man in Central 12. Says he hit his head. Possible concussion.”
You briefly look up from your task of restocking a crash cart to give your charge nurse, Jenny, a nod of confirmation. “I’ll be with him in just a moment.”
She’s silent for a second. “He asked for you by name.”
That gets your undivided attention. You look up again, this time noticing an amused expression on Jenny’s face that piques your interest even further. “Do you know who it is?”
Jenny shrugs. “Never seen him before. Says his name is Fred?”
You drop the oxygen mask you’re holding out of surprise. “Fred?” You echo as Frank’s face flashes through your mind.
She nods, the amusement on her face quickly shifting into confusion. “Yeah, why? You know him?”
You can’t bring yourself to say yes until you walk to Central 12 and see him with your own two eyes.
And even then, when you see Frank Castle sitting on the exam table in his normal attire of bruises and all black, you still have to question whether or not you’re actually awake, or in your bed, still dreaming.
You close the door before speaking. “You know, showing up to my job isn’t really helping you with the stalker allegations.”
His broad shoulders lift with silent laughter as he looks around the room, not meeting your gaze. “Tried to go by your place this morning,” he says simply. “You weren’t there, so I took a guess…figured you might be here.”
You hum, crossing your arms over your chest as you come to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes skim over his face, looking for any sign of visible injury. “Here I am,” you exhale. “Let me guess. You didn’t actually hit your head?”
Another snort of laughter as his gaze meets yours. You’re aware that it could be your imagination playing tricks on you, but you swear that for a split-second, his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up.
“I’m having a hard time remembering,” he grunts, a spark of something humorous appearing and then disappearing from his stare. “Maybe you should check me over and make sure I’m not concussed while you hear me out.”
Maybe it’s the rough timbre of his voice, or maybe his choice of words, or maybe the way he’s looking at you, but whatever it is makes goosebumps spread all the way down your spine.
There’s a waiting room full of people waiting to be seen just down the hallway. People with actual injuries. People who might really be concussed. People who don’t come in and out of your life like ghosts.
At least a dozen different reasons as to why you shouldn’t indulge him come to mind, but none of them stop you from reaching for the penlight clipped to your scrub pocket.
“Follow the light.”
He obeys without complaint, lips quirking slightly at the corners as his eyes track the beam left, right, up, and down.
“Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea or vomiting?”
You already know the answers before he opens his mouth.
“No. None of that.”
You click the pen off. “Tell me your full name.”
He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh. “Francis David Castle Sr.”
That answer does take you by surprise. Not the fact that his first name is actually Francis. No, what surprises you is the suffix. Senior. Because if Frank is actually Francis David Castle Sr., then that can only imply…
“You have a son?”
His expression changes almost immediately. The slight amusement disappears from his face, but he doesn’t drop your gaze. “Had,” he grunts. “Had a daughter, too.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. His choice of words makes it clear. Had. Past tense. No more.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” you murmur sincerely.
Frank nods, so small that it’s nearly imperceptible as he clears his throat. “Yeah. Me too.”
You don’t press the subject further. Not here, not now. You just lock the information away with every other fact he’s hesitantly handed over since meeting him. Like his name and how he takes his coffee.
“Alright. Last question,” you say gently. You swallow down the small lump that has unexpectedly formed in your throat, forcing your attention back to the matter at hand. “Why are you here right now, Frank?”
He studies you for a long moment before answering, making the small exam room suddenly seem suffocating.
“I’m here to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and expression equally grave. “For disappearing the way that I did. For…making you worry. I didn’t think…” he trails off, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. “Hell, I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”
You nod slowly, taking a seat on the stool in front of him before responding. You glance down at your hands in your lap. “Why did you?” You ask, voice meeker than you intend for it to sound. “Disappear?”
Another moment of silence that feels eternal. “Thought it’d be better for you. Safer.” You meet his gaze at that. His lips purse, and you think that’s as much of an explanation as he’s going to give, but then his lips part again. “…and I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone care about me like that. Kinda forgot what it feels like.”
He swallows thickly at that, like he’s holding himself back from saying anything more. Without thinking, you wheel yourself closer to him until your knees are nearly brushing his where they dangle from the exam table. He stares down at you, and you up at him, and the rest of the hospital outside of these four walls seems to fade away.
“Safer?” You murmur. “You know you’re talking to the girl who invited a bleeding stranger into her apartment in the middle of the night, right?”
He chuckles low, his broad shoulders rising and falling with it. “Exactly,” he sighs. “You won’t keep yourself safe, so I guess it’s up to me.”
You quirk a brow. “So you were stalking me last night, then.”
He hesitates just long enough for you notice the faint, barely visible blush that blooms beneath his beard. “Stalking is a strong word.”
“I knew it.”
The blush on his cheeks grows a deeper pink and he rolls his eyes, now avoiding yours. “Look, I wasn’t…wasn’t trying to follow you or anything weird. Just…every now and then, I’d check in. Make sure nobody’s hanging around your building.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “Make sure that nobody has connected you to me.”
Although that might possibly be the most honest Frank Castle has been since you first met him, it somehow leaves you with more questions than answers.
It’s never been a secret that the man who shows up on your fire escape bloodied and bruised on a regular basis has his fair share of secrets that reek of violence and destruction, but hearing it come from his own mouth that merely being associated with him could potentially jeopardize your safety…
It’s the kind of honesty that should send you running in the opposite direction. But then again, there’s a lot about Frank Castle that should have sent you running in the opposite direction a long time ago.
Yet here you are. Not running. Not even telling him to leave. You weren’t able to walk away from him the very first time that you found him bleeding outside of your apartment, and you sure as hell aren’t able to now.
Slowly, you rise from the stool you’ve been sitting on. Once at eye level with him, you take a small, tentative step closer, stopping when your thighs brush against his knees. Usually, the two of you are only ever this close when you’re examining a black eye or busted lip, but right now, there’s no injuries in sight. Just his big, chocolate brown eyes and slightly chapped lips inches from your own.
“You were wrong about one thing,” you murmur, voice breathy. Your hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling atop his thighs, the touch intimate in a way that’s brand new. “You disappearing wasn’t better for me. It only made me feel like I was losing my mind.”
The air in the room turns thick and heavy at the admission. Borderline asphyxiating. At first, he says nothing, but brings one hand to rest against your hip. His grip is loose enough that you could easily step away if you wanted to, but tight enough for you to know that he hopes you don’t.
“Yeah,” he grunts, voice low. “That makes two of us, then.”
The confession comes as a pleasant surprise that gives you enough courage to ease yourself just between his legs, further into his embrace. His eyes flicker down to your lips for not the first time since stepping foot in this room, this time undeniable and unabashed.
You clear your throat a bit in a failed effort to break the tension. “Well, good news,” you breathe, “I don’t think you’re concussed.”
He chuckles low, his gaze unwavering. “That is good news. I’d hate for you to think I’m not thinking clearly right now.”
And before you even have a chance to wonder if he’s really about to do what you think he’s about to do, he leans forward and closes the small amount of space separating your lips from his.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Your phone rings at 8:30 that night, just one hour after you get home from your twelve hour shift at the hospital. You’re stepping out of the shower when your screen lights up with an unknown number.
Normally, you ignore or send them straight to voicemail. More than half of the calls that you get these days are robocalls, but this particular number isn’t being flagged as a potential spam risk. In fact, it’s a local number, with a Hell’s Kitchen area code.
And though there’s no way of knowing for sure who it is, you secure your towel around your midsection and answer as if you do.
“I was starting to think you’d lost my number.”
You’re first greeted by silence. Then a familiar, rough chuckle that makes goosebumps bloom on your still damp skin.
“Nah.” There’s another beat of quiet. “Just took me a while to work up the nerve.”
You snort a laugh and take a seat on the edge of your mattress. “The man who gets into gunfights on a regular basis was afraid to call a girl?”
He doesn’t deny it. “I didn’t say it made sense.”
You hum in response, trying to fight down the flight of butterflies in your stomach at the mere sound of his voice in your ear. “So, where are you bleeding right now?”
Another low laugh pours through the speaker. “No blood yet tonight,” he sighs. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” You chirp with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
More silence. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to force the words out, “I’m calling to ask you something I should’ve asked you earlier.”
You grin despite the small bundle of nerves in the pit of your stomach.
“You got any plans tomorrow night?”
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
When you hear a knock on your front door at exactly seven o’clock, you’ve already been dressed and pacing your apartment for nearly half an hour.
Even though you already know who is on the other side, you instinctively glance through the peephole. You see a freshly shaven Frank Castle - looking around almost nervously and holding a small bouquet of wildflowers.
Just like ones he had left on your fire escape several months prior.
You take a steadying breath, smoothing your hands over the front of your outfit and hope that it’s good enough for whatever the hell you’re going to be doing tonight. When you had asked what he had in mind, he had laughed, painting a vivid picture in your mind of the light blush that was undoubtedly blooming on the apples of his cheeks.
“Haven’t figured that out yet,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sure I’d even get this far.”
You struggled to see Frank Castle taking you to a five star restaurant, so you picked something somewhat casual but still cute. Comfortable, and weather appropriate, but cute.
At least you hope so. You don’t even remember the last time you had to select an outfit for a date. A date or…whatever this is.
Before you can overthink that, you open the door for him.
For a second, neither of you say anything.
Frank’s eyes travel over you slowly, but not in a way that makes your skin crawl like it would if it were literally anyone else. He looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he’s trying real hard not to look at you, and that makes you feel warm all over.
“…Hi,” he says at last.
You can’t help but smile at how simple yet nervous the singular word sounds coming from his lips. “Hi.”
His gaze drops to the flowers in his hands as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “These are for you.” He holds the bouquet out to you in offering. “Figured the others probably needed to be replaced a long time ago.”
You exhale a shaky laugh, thinking of the flowers he had left on your fire escape just days after you first met. You had kept them in a vase in your kitchen for long after they wilted, not wanting to throw them away.
You don’t tell him that, though, or that you intend to keep these for even longer.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
….i had originally planned for this to be longer, but life and my brain had other plans, so i hope it’s still cute as is. sorry if the ending seems rushed. maybe one day i will pick this story back up and write a part two with my original plans for this fic, if people are interested and inspiration strikes!
thank you for reading, as always comments/reblogs are very appreciated <3
A/N: saw the new spiderman movie and im a sucker for the punisher as well, i just had to write a Frank fic so here we are!!
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
WORD COUNT: 1.4k
WARNING: !!!! Spider-Man: Brand New Day spoiler !!!!
SUMMARY: You're surprised to see Spider-Man and an unknown girl at your boyfriend's hideout. Learning about what the kid is going through you discuss what you'd do if it happened to you, if you forgot about Frank.
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
Walking into the old warehouse that’s Frank’s hideout you notice that something is off, instantly. Some of the traps have been triggered, that’s obvious and your heart rate jumps instantly as scenarios fill your mind where Frank is ambushed by criminals, hurt and alone. But then you realize there’s no signs of fighting, no blood, no bullet holes in the walls, it’s like someone just walked in, accidentally tripped over the wires and was then invited inside by Frank himself.
You make your way down into the bunker where he lives, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder so you don’t drop it and cautiously look around once you’re in the tiny kitchen area. You remember the first time you were here, Frank didn’t want you to see where he lives, he was afraid his lifestyle would scare you away for good.
“Frank, you could live under a rock and I’d still love you,” you told him before kissing him softly and making yourself home.
You’ve offered him to move in with you several times before, but one, you live in a literal shoebox that’s filled to the brim with your stuff, he wouldn’t be able to fit a single sock in there and two, you kinda both agreed that keeping his weapons and all kind of weird tech stuff away from your home is a great idea, so he stayed in the warehouse, you stayed in your apartment and you rotate between the two places.
Looking around you notice two extra cups on the table, three plates in the sink with some chili smeared on them, instant signs that he is not alone. You drop your bag by the wall and as you walk further inside you see two sleeping figures in the back room. A girl on the top bed and…
Is that Spider-Man?
Your eyes widen just when two hands grab your waist, pulling you back.
“Shh, don’t wake the kids,” Frank murmurs into your ear and pulls you into his bedroom.
“Is that fucking Spider-Man sleeping in the back?” you gape at him once you turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders instantly. Frank growls, like he is irritated, but you see something else in his eyes too.
“He is in trouble and now he is hiding his girlfriend here as well. Fucking nuts.”
“Girlfriend? Spider-Man has a girlfriend?”
“Well, he is clearly in love with her, but she doesn’t remember him or some shit? I don’t know, he rambles too much and makes no sense to me most of the time,” he sighs, his gaze settling on your face as he pulls you closer against him. “Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”
You love how his voice turns softer when he is talking to you and though he would never admit, his whole being turns mushier once you’re around.
“I could get off work earlier and thought I would surprise you.”
Leaning in you kiss him softly and when he hums happily against your lips you can’t help but smile.
“Have you eaten?” he asks pulling back. “Saved some chili for you.”
“You’re sweet, but I’m good. I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can go to bed.”
“Go ahead, Princess,” he winks, giving your ass a gentle smack as he lets you go.
Twenty minutes later you’re climbing into bed next to him, wearing one of his shirts. He drops the book he’s been reading instantly and opens his arms so you can climb into his embrace under the covers.
“Mm, you smell good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I used your soap, I literally smell like you,” you chuckle.
Moving around Frank rolls to his back and you lie half on top of him, chin resting on his chest. His hands are aimlessly wandering your body, slipping under the shirt, drawing circles on your soft skin.
“Are they in trouble?” you ask, nodding towards the other room where the two guests are sleeping.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You’re gonna help them, right?”
“It’s his business, not mine,” he growls with a frown, but you pinch his peck lightly. “Ow!”
“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t care about that kid. We both know you do.”
“What gives you the idea?” He asks, arching an eyebrow at you.
“The fact that he is sleeping in the other room. You haven’t let anyone here before.”
“I let you.” His gaze softens and a tiny smile tugs on his lips.
“Okay, you let me here and you love me, right?”
“Of course I love you.”
“So that means you let people here who you love and care about.”
Frank opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t argue. He sighs in defeat as you smirk at him.
“Sure, I’ll help him,” he mumbles, giving your hips a squeeze.
“Because you’re a good man,” you tell him, pressing a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it.
You both go silent for a while. Listening to his steady heartbeat you stare at a photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above his dresser. You love that picture, it was taken on your birthday last year, it was still at a time when Frank was fighting himself over you. It took him a long time to allow himself to love you and not feel bad about it. He was so paranoid that something would happen to you, he tried to stay away from you over and over again, but he always ended up crawling back to you until he just gave up and accepted that he can’t live without you.
And you feel the same.
You have never loved a man like you love him and it’s scary and sometimes you hurt each other but you wouldn’t want to live a life without him in it.
“You said she forgot him? The girl, she forgot Spider-Man?” you ask, still looking at the picture.
“Yeah. The kid said something about… a magic spell or some shit? I don’t know.”
“That must be horrible.”
Frank just hums, but doesn’t say anything. Lifting your head you look at him, finding him already watching you.
“If I forgot you, would you come after me and try to get me back?”
His eyes darken as he thinks about your words. His fingers that have been gently caressing your sides stop and you feel him gripping you, like you’re about to slip out of his hold.
“I don’t know. That would be a chance for you to not be a target anymore,” he then says.
“But I told you I would rather be a target than live without you,” you remind him. Reaching up you cup his face gently, running your thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instantly.
“I know. That doesn’t mean I stopped worrying about you.”
You understand him and his worries. It hasn’t been a battle only he’s been fighting, you tried to prioritize your safety as well, but you felt miserable every time you put distance between you and him. At last you had to realize it’s a price you’re willing to pay to love him and be loved by him.
“I would want you to find me,” you tell him after a few beats of silence.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I would want to get to know you again and fall in love with you again.”
You see that soft shift in his gaze again, his hands squeezing you tighter. Pushing yourself up you move up on his body until you can kiss him. At first it’s soft and gentle, but it turns deep and passionate quite fast, as if you’re actually about to forget him and you want to drink up every bit of each other one last time, though that’s not happening. You still remember and love him just like a minute, an hour, a day or months ago.
“I think,” you whisper, panting against his lips, “I think I could never forget you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, biting your lower lip playfully.
“Mhm. I love you way too much to ever forget about you.”
Grabbing his hand that’s on your naked thigh you pull it up until it’s laid over your heart.
“You’re here. Forever.”
“Forever,” he breathes out through hazy eyes as your heart pounds against his palm. Then he kisses you, repeating that word over and over again with his actions, showing you that he feels the same way.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
Hiiiyaa!! I was wondering if you would consider writing about YEARNINGGGG daryl x sunshine reader? 🥹 What he loves about her, how he loves admiring her from afar, and him finally working up the courage to confess etc
I’m so obsessed with ur writing and I would loveeeeeee ur take on this <3
hi kay! 🤍 i was so happy to receive this request from you, sunshine!reader absolutely has my heart. especially for daryl, i think it's a perfect fit! since all my stories have this kind of vibe to them, i tried to portray their whole story here. i really hope you like it! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
When Daryl first met you, he wasn't sure he’d ever like you.
Nothing personal, he doesn't really like anyone. Never has gotten close enough to, and why go through all this trouble anyway when most people don't see him as anything more than some no-good lowlife redneck?
Still, it’s different with you. He just… doesn't get you, no matter how hard he tries. You’re so strange, it’s really offputting and yet, he can't bring himself to look away.
He’s never met anyone like you. Didn't think such people even existed!
Like, it’s the fucking apocalypse and you’re still going out of your way to see the good in everything. Spoiler — there isn't any! But wait, no, you’re not even making an effort. It’s like this comes naturally to you, which is fucking confusing.
He wonders what’s gotten you like this, with that warped worldview that has you stop in your tracks to admire flowers on the roadside while actively fleeing a group of walkers.
Something must have happened, right? To have you lying to yourself and the others like that?
What’s even weirder, no one else seems to be bothered by it. They all adore you! Like, he does get where that’s coming from. From a neutral standpoint, you probably seem… nice. So fucking considerate, listening to everyone’s problems to cheer them up later. Like when Glenn was whining about how Maggie didn't like him back or some shit. He probably thought he was doing a hell of a good job keeping that whole thing a secret, but everyone knew about his crush. So it’d make sense that Daryl supposes that’s what you two were talking about on the roof of the RV, when you should’ve been keeping watch.
He wasn't eavesdropping or anything! Just… his tent was nearby anyway, and it’s not like you were being subtle about not doing your job. Of course he’d keep close in case any walkers made it over to the RV after all. With your airhead tendencies, you had a habit of forgetting stuff, like your gun. Which would be kinda fatal if that RV were surrounded by walkers, mind you. Glenn was a bad shot anyway.
Yeah, that’s the only reason he was there. Couldn't help listening in on the conversation, your bright voice was too damn loud. Did anybody still care about survival these days? Hmph.
Glenn really did seem devastated, to be fair. Kid was totally smitten with that farmer’s daughter. Daryl isn't even sure which one Maggie is — the blonde? Or the one they met in the woods?
The one that’s “so pretty I think I might never find another girl like that”, apparently. God, fuck this romantic crap. As if there aren't more attractive women around anyway, like you for example. Objectively speaking. You’re a ditzy pain in the ass, but he’d be blind not to realize your beauty.
“Don't beat yourself up over that! She’s probably just got a lot going on right now, y’know. With us interrupting their peace, and Otis dying… I’m sure she’ll realize what a great guy you are eventually.”
Daryl could basically see your gentle smile. How you’d reach out and give Glenn a comforting hug, and he’d get a whiff of your scent, wildflowers and lavender. There weren't perfumes or shampoo or anything like that available nowadays. Not like anyone would care about that shit while their lives were at stake! Except for you, of course.
He came across you on your morning walk last week, having just emerged from the forest with a couple of squirrels dangling from his belt. That was weird — he caught himself wishing he didn't catch anything, even though they had to eat, just because he knew you didn't like the sight of dead animals.
Your brows scrunched together in that adorable way when your gaze fell upon them, but you didn't say anything, of course. Regained composure awfully quickly, though he noticed how you avoided looking anywhere else but his face.
“Awake already, Daryl?”
He just huffed, ‘cause what should he even answer to that? Obviously, he was. And yeah, maybe your dazzling smile had him at a loss for words, too. That’s why he doesn't like it.
You nodded, falling into step next to him as you made your way back to the farm. So quiet, like you somehow knew he wasn't up for talking. With Sophia on his mind and everything.
While Daryl felt more uncomfortable with every step that brought you closer to the farm, your silence was confusing. So he cleared his troath, mumbling a gruff “What’re you doing out ‘ere anyway?”
Immediately, he wishes he hadn't spoken up at all. Your eyes found his, and they were so soft he almost didn't listen to what you said. “Oh, I was looking for flowers.”
His brows furrowed. “Flowers?"
A nod. Cheerfully, you explained. “Yeah, to dry. I’ll put them in my bag, between my clothes. Smells nice, you know!”
He scoffed. Of course you’d do that. Who even cares about what they smell like anymore these days? Shook his head, “Ya shouldn't be out here. ‘s dangerous.”
You just shrugged. “Oh, there aren't many walkers around this early. I was being careful.”
He didn't look convinced, so you winked and patted the holster resting against your hip. “Got my gun right here, no need to worry.”
“Ain't worried.” He grumbled.
And it’s true. Why should he be? Doesn't even like you after all. Could care less if you died for some stupid reason, like walking around and collecting flowers for Christ’s sake. Only downside, the group would be pretty upset. They all loved you so much, it was annoying, actually.
Daryl wouldn't miss you, no. In fact, it would take a huge weight of his shoulders if he didn't have to deal with your presence all the time! Because honestly… it made him feel strange all over. He couldn't even really trust himself around you anymore. Got all messed up inside, it wasn't even funny. Whenever you smiled, he was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. Like, if he didn't see it again soon he’d combust or something.
That was really the main reason he wishes he’d never met you. It’s undeniable that while he might wish you were gone, he’d feel terrible if the walkers got to you — just like everyone else. You had a way of worming your way into people’s hearts. Not his, of course. But he couldn't deny that he was weirdly drawn in by you.
Because, like he said, you were strange. Not in a bad way, but not good either. Enough to have him pondering just how you can keep it up, when everything clearly isn't sunshine and rainbows.
So sweet, it’s unbearable. He really thought he might have to leave the group when you approached him that day back at the quarry, right after they lost Merle.
You looked so sympathetic, as if you really felt sorry for him while the rest of the group was gathered around the campfire, laughing and joking like they were, if affected at all, glad not to have the rough redneck around anymore.
He wasn’t hurt or anything, nah. Hell, he understood that they weren’t mourning. But this was cutting it a bit far, right? Lori, Rick and Carl’s happy family reunion aside, there was still rotting corpses all over the place. Not like they had a future. There’s bigger things to care about.
Yet, you looked like every small thing mattered. Made your way over to his tent, further away from the campfire, like this was more than a minor inconvenience for you.
“You okay, Daryl?”
He didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look, mean, to scare you off so he’d finally be left alone with his thoughts again. You didn’t seem to take the hint. Instead, you plopped down on the tree log right next to him, looking into the dark forest.
“Must feel terrible, losing Merle like that. Not knowing where he is, if he’s, well… I’m sure he’s still alive, though. He seemed super tough, just like you.”
You gave him a sideway glance and then he lost it. He didn’t need your damn pity!
A scoff, “What d’ya even care, huh? Yer probably jus’ glad he’s gone.”
Daryl glared at you, but the expression he found in your eyes threw him off a little. You looked… confused. Not called out.
“Why would I be glad about that?” You genuinely didn’t know what he was talking but, he didn’t expect that. Had him stuttering, trying to explain to you why white trash lowlifes like him and Merle didn’t matter to you. His voice trailed off after a while, because you looked more and more confused.
Shook your head vehemently, “But Daryl, it’s really not like that. I think it’s terrible Merle got left behind. We should all look out for each other!”
He was stunned. Didn’t know what to say, so he just refrained to staring into the pitch black treeline instead. Hoped you’d leave, honestly, because he was still conflicted about believing you.
Your voice was gentle when you spoke. “I just came by to check on you. Y’know, since no one else did. They think you want to be left alone, which I get! Absolutely. But you looked so sad… I thought I’d check if you really didn’t want company. Just to be sure.”
He huffed, trying to calm his racing pulse. “Well, I don’t.”
His words were gruff, mumbled, but dripping with venom. As soon as they left his mouth, he felt bad for some reason he couldn’t quite grasp. Looked up, wary of your reaction, but you managed to surprised him once again.
You smiled. Got up, dusting off your pants. “Okay.” And then you nodded your head towards the campfire, “I’m still gonna get you some food, alright? Can’t have you eating raw squirrels when we’ve got fancy canned noodles.” His own, smaller fire wasn’t even burning. To be honest, he hadn’t given much thought to food at all.
Stunned, he watched as you walked over to the fireside, preparing a plate just for him. Didn’t even stop you, that’s how weirded out he was.
No, Daryl definitely doesn’t like you. That first instance to fuel his dislike was followed by many others, demonstrating your careless attitude towards the world.
Sometimes he thought you didn’t even care about the apocalypse. You were mentally so cut off from what was happening in the world right now that he honestly questioned your sense of reality at times. There must be something wrong with you.
Then again, he would be a fool not to see how others reacted to your lighthearted ways. They were… healing. People laughed along to your silly jokes, smiled when you talked their ears off about unimportant things. Like, the butterfly you saw on your morning walk. Or when you rambled on and on about how it was actually nice spending so much time in the woods, far away from the polluted (now bombed out) city, “one big camping trip” is what you called it.
He’d be lying if he denied that it made people see the bright side of things, but he was worried you were making them soft. Because, well. Daryl hasn’t ever been on a fancy camping trip like the one you’re talking about, that shit’s always been too damn expensive, but this really is a completely different thing. There’s dead people walking the earth and attacking the living, it’s no fucking vacation!
He kept his opinion to himself, though. Didn’t have a heart to wipe that cheerful smile off your face, no matter how annoying he found it. You’d be dead soon anyway — softness didn’t survive in this world.
Imagine his surprise when you actually made it past the farm.
His eyes went wide when he saw you, bleeding from a gash on your arm and with a streak of dirt smudged across your cheek, walking towards the highway. There was a fucking bounce in your step too, like you weren’t barely dragging yourself across the road with your last strenght.
You actually survived? The place was overrun with a whole horde of walkers, there was no way you fought yourself past them. And yet you did, somehow, judging from the dried blood on your knife.
A wave of relief washed over his heart at the sight. No, wait — not relief. He didn’t like you, why would he be happy to see you? Surprise, that’s what it was. Wonder. Full blown wonder at the sheer impossibility of this whole situation.
Okay, he might not have been happy, but he was making his way over to you anyway. No sappy greetings but an arm slung around your waist, supporting you as you walked towards the others. He respected your endurance.
From that day on, Daryl saw you in a different light. Still frowned whenever you said somethind so optimistic it was bordering on delusional, but he knew you could hold your own, so he didn’t try to keep you back when you went out for fresh flowers in the morning.
The winter that followed the fall of the farm was tough — the group could use a little sunshine. He didn’t mind you being there.
Even went out of his way to keep up the facade you were building. One day, you saw a bunny hoppling into some bushes. Got all excited and followed it immediately. He could’ve shot it right then, but he didn’t. Instead, he went after you carefully, in case you missed a walker in your excitement about the fluffy animal.
You actually managed to approach it, and it allowed you to pet it. His eyes softened at the sight. He stopped just short of the tree you kneeled under, didn’t want to scare the bunny away when you looked so happy. Adorable...
Uh, not in that way though. Not you. Just, how you smiled at cute things even when you were on the brink of starvation and freezing without as much as a real weather-appropriate winter jacket. “Strange” would fit better. That’s how he always used to described you, after all.
He kept quiet about having seen you and the bunny when you raved about it to Beth later that day, in some cabin they had found to spend the night in. Sat out on the porchsteps instead, busying himself with skinning the group’s dinner. You wouldn’t know what it was. He’ll just tell everyone it’s squirrel… Gotta keep the group fed, after all, and as much as it hurt him, hunting wasn’t easy when half the forest was hibernating. As long as you were happy, he’d be content with white lies.
Daryl tolerated you, yeah. If he didn’t know any better he’d think you’ve grown on him, with every shared watchtower shift rambling about whatever. And each walker you killed at the fences, too — you’d toughened up, he was proud to see that. Even though he had nothing to do with it, of course.
However, what ultimately brought you closer together was the fall of the prison.
If someone would have told him about the battle right after the farm was overrun, he wouldn't have seen you as anything else than a soon to be dead person. No way you’d survive that, too. With bad people and real guns involved.
But you had changed, more even than he gave you credit for. You were a survivor, just like the others. And that day, it was you who saved him. for a change.
Rick had shoutet at everyone to run. The fences were down, walkers snarling just behind the trees, attracted by the gunfire. Hershel was dead. There were corpses all over the grass, the undead would have a field day. It was devastating. The group’s future crushed right in front of their eyes.
Not like Daryl had really believed in it. He wasn't even thinking about that. Focused instead on taking out as many of the governor’s men. Mechanically, he shot again and again. Ducked to reload the rifle, then repeated it. His ears were ringing, he didn't even register the dull thuds of bodies falling down. Guilt and anger filled his heart to the brim.
Naturally, when he felt your hand pulling at his arm all of a sudden, he was thrown off at first. Stared you blank in the eye as you screamed at him over the blaring of gunfire, didn't even hear your words.
He tried to shake you off, get you to loosen the grip on him, but your fingers closed around his elbow like a vice. You pulled him behind the car he’d used for cover, then.
“Daryl! Daryl, can you hear me? We have to go, now!”
He blinked, and suddenly, all the noise seemed to fade out, quiet down. Nothing existed but you, and he realized with shock that you were still here, still in danger.
“Hello? Daryl, please. Rick said to go, I can’t leave you behind like that!” Your brows were furrowed, a desperate expression in your eyes. Sharp and urging in a way he hadn't seen on you before. The need to protect you soon overpowered his wish to kill every one of the men who had done this to them.
Daryl caught himself. He had to get you away from here. Glanced over the hood of the car, checking for a way out.
He cleared his troath. “A’right. Van’s too far. We’re goin’ through the woods, got it?”
Relief flooded your face, and you gave a quick nod. Braced yourself, ready to flee at his command.
“Now." Everything was a haze. Daryl grabbed your arm and pulled you up, then you ran to the edge of the forest as fast as you could. Bullets hit the earth below your feet, sending chunks of grass flying, but miraculously, you made it to the trees unscathed. Only after running on through the forest for what felt like an eternity did he slow.
You gasped for breath, anxiously looking back into the direction you’d come from. Everything was quiet. You’d made it. You’d really made it out.
Daryl felt immense relief. He looked at you, heart beating out of his chest. Adrenaline cursed through his body, and the situation only caught up to him slowly. The prison was gone.
Images of everyone you’d left behind flooded his brain, all those people that had become so important to him over the past months. His jaw tightened. They couldn't all have made it. He failed to protect the group, again.
However, he didn't have time to ponder on it for long. Instead, a strangled sob pulled him back into reality. His head snapped to you beside him. You had sunken onto the ground, head buried in your hands. Your shoulders were visibly shaking. Fuck… you were crying.
It shouldn't have shocked him this much. You were still that same girl from the quarry, badass or not, you’d always stay you. He forgot about that.
Awkwardly, he sat down next to you, just stared for a while, unsure of what to do. He’s never seen you sad before. After a while, he carefully placed one hand on your shoulder in a rusty attempt at comfort. When you leaned into his touch instead of shying away, he pulled you in his arms. And since he’s not good with words like you are, he just held you for a while.
Things had shifted since that day. You had pulled yourself together a little later, and by the time it got dark, you had built a makeshift camp for the night. There hadn't been much talking, thankfully. Neither of you had the emotional energy to speak about what you had lost. Truthfully, Daryl just wanted to forget. He supposed you were the same.
The days bled into one another. It was quiet, too quiet. A silence so heavy that Daryl was weirdly glad whenever it was interrupted by the appearance of a walker. Almost had a heart to drag out its death, but then again, he didn't want it to get to you after all.
He had taken on the role of your protector. It felt comforting, knowing he was of use. The loss of the group had left a strange emptiness, both of you were unsure of where to go from here. He knows you wouldn't have wanted him to be the sole survivor aside from you if destiny had given you a choice, of course. He probably wouldn't have chosen you either, but it stings whenever he thinks about it.
He also knows that you don't really need him to protect you. He’d think it nice of you to let him because he needs to feel like he has a purpose, but… it isn't even like that. You’re different.
He's expected everything, pain, rage, ignorance, but not this.
You’re barely yourself anymore. A shadow of the woman you were just days ago… You rarely talk to him. He didn't ever think he’d miss your rambling, but he does, painfully so.
It’s like there’s a hole in you, eating up your light from the inside. The first day, after your initial breakdown, you still hoped. Convinced Daryl to go back a little bit, see if anyone else had survived. But no matter how long you spent looking, there were only ruins.
With every day that passed, you’d become more quiet.
He can't take it. It physically pains him to look at you, all sunken into yourself. All sad.
Tried to get you to be happy again, but it’s no use.
“Hey, uh… Found somethin’ in that cabin yesterday, thought ya might like it.”
Shoulders tense, he pulls something out of his bag. Hands it to you across the small fire. It’s a bottle of shampoo, floral.
You don't even manage to smile. Your face twitches, you look up, try to lift your lips, but your eyes are dull.
“Thanks. It looks nice.”
Nice? That's it? Daryl’s face falls. He averts his gaze, biting the inside of his cheek. He knows that the old you would have loved even the idea of soap. And this was some fancy brand, too, a girly shampoo. You would have loved it.
He clears his troath. “Gonna find some place with a shower, if ya wan’ me ta.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
His brows knit together. “… Don't look fine t’me.”
You look away. “Sorry.”
“Don't gotta ‘pologize. We ain’t… ‘m just sayin’, I get it.”
You don't answer. Knees pulled up to your chest, you stare into the fire.
He hesitates, but shifts, sitting closer to you. Shoulders touching, mirroring your position. His presence is grounding, emitting a warmth that hasn't got anything to do with the fire.
“Gonna take first watch, yeah?”
You don't answer, but your head comes to rest against his shoulder. A silent sign of appreciation. There’s a pang of hope in his heart… You’re still in there somewhere.
That’s Daryl decides he’s gonna get you back somehow, no matter what it takes.
So he makes a plan that same night, while you're asleep against his side, unconsciously shifting closer to his body, seeking warmth.
Yet the next day, nothing works out as he expected it to.
At some point into the night, Daryl surrendered to sleep. There was a makeshift alarm system after all (and also, your body felt so soft against his skin that he just couldn’t help it).
Four or five hours of sleep is plenty for him, he’s used to less by now. Usually, he tries to let you sleep a little longer though, in that routine you’ve established over the past week. You need it more than him, and he likes having some quiet alone time to check the traps around your camp, examine the weather and sharpen his knife (yours too, if he noticed you using it a lot).
Today, though, of all days? You’re somehow awake before him.
He panics at first. How did he not wake up? He’s a light sleeper, so it’s practically impossible for you to have gotten up and roamed around already.
Relief only finds him when his eyes land on you by the small fireplace, heating up water from the stream nearby in a scavenged metal pot.
At first, he’s thrown off by the sight. You look so… lively. But you’re depressed, so that can’t be right. Man, he must be worried delusional at this point.
He blinks, then tries to forget about it. Focus on cheering you up like he planned! Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he gets up and brushes clumps of grass off his pants. Strolls over to you then, his shadow falling on your crouching figure next to the fire.
Daryl’s eyes land onto the pot in suprise. There’s no canned food left, he told you last night that he’d go hunting today.
“What’re you makin’?” His voice is still deep and cracked from sleep, so he akwardly cleares his throat.
You look up, and something in your face is off. You look too — chipper for someone who was hopeless hours before. “Well, good morning to you too! Are you alright, by the way? You were sleeping like a log.”
He grunts, mumbling out a mere “Nah, ’m fine.”
You busy yourself with the water again, which is boiling by now. To test if it’s the right temperature, you dip a finger inside. Daryl can barely restrain himself from hurrying toward you and slapping your wrist away — isn’t that way too hot? You’ll hurt yourself! But you just hum in satisfaction as you feel the water, moving on to throwing some herbs into the pot. There’s some dirt still clinging to them — obviously, they’re freshly picked — but you don’t seem to mind.
After stirring for a while, you chime up again. “… It’s tea. Thought you could use some warmth since you gave me the only blanket we have.”
Daryl eyes the liquid. Been a while since he had tea… Of course he’d give you the blanket. What is he, some asshole who doesn’t know how to treat a woman right? Also, his natural body temperature is way higher than yours. He’s got more muscle, is bigger in general… And also, he doesn’t know in what position the two of you were when you woke up; but he dosed off with you splayed across him, legs tangled and all. No way he’d get cold like that.
Hmm. He doesn’t share any of the thoughts passing through mind, just takes the cup you offer him. His mind is elsewhere already… And he’s too busy to give your strange demeanor any more thought than he already has, lest it distract him from making you happy again.
Daryl excuses himself swiftly after finishing the tea, telling you he’ll be off hunting. He does take his crossbow, in case some stray animal crosses his path (and as a means to protect himself, of course). But really, what he’s hunting for is something different.
His search is quick and efficient. He moves fast — can’t leave you alone and without his protection for too long, it just wouldn't sit right with him. Still, a couple of hours pass, because he has to fight of a bunch of walkers down by the river and gets distracted by the trail of a deer once.
He’s back a little after noon. Without any food, he realizes too late and a little embarrassed, when he’s already setting foot into the camp — but you’re already waiting for him with a bunch berries you collected.
God, you’re confusing him. He thought you’d practically given up on life altogether? Now you’re sitting there all leisurely with the blanket spread out beneath you, like this is a fucking picnic. He decides just to ignore your antics for now and be happy that the matter of food is taken care of.
Daryl retreats after lunch, sitting down by the stream. Tries to get his thoughts into order. Should he really do this? What if you don’t like it? It’s probably stupid altogether. But now that he has them…
He eyes the wonky bouquet he carefully assembled lying next to him on the grass. And sighs. Okay, he might as well try it now. He knows you hate the thought of picking flowers only to discard them, ‘cause then they’ve died for nothing.
With that, it’s decided. He’s gonna do his duty to the flowers.
And he does. Approaches you sitting beneath an old oak tree, perched on one of its moss-covered roots. You’re completely immersed in observing an anthill in the bushes, don’t even notice him standing there.
Awkwardly, he shifts on his feet. That movement is what snaps you out of your haze finally, and you turn around to face him, eyes widened slightly like you’re suprised to see him.
“Ahem. I uh… got ya somethin’.”
With that, he basically shoves the bouquet at you, face flushed, timidly awaiting your reaction.
It’s nothing fancy. They’ve sat hidden away under his discarded vest for some time now and some of the stems are crushed. Only local wildflowers, too… But he did spent all afternoon assembling them. Plucked a blade of grass, too, to tie them together. Tried a mini bow, which turned out kinda wrinkled but it’s the thought that counts.
Daryl expected you to give him a tired smile like with the shampoo, but you completely take him off guard by beaming at him at the sight of the bouquet.
“You got me flowers?” You’ve stood up before he could blink, carefully taking them from his hands and examining every single plant with the utmost care.
“… Thought ya could use a little pick-me-up,” he answers bashfully. A bit embarrassed, but inwardly relieved that you look so happy.
You grin. “Gettin’ soft now, Dixon?”
Poor Daryl looks at you all taken off guard. He never thought he’d hear a joke from you again, not with how you were acting since the prison.
The stunned silence says it all. You bite your lip, looking at the floor.
Your voice is gentle and collected as you speak. “… Guess I made a pretty bad impression this last week, huh?”
He breathes, letting out a dry sound close to a bitter chuckle. “Ya were miserable.”
“And you were still so nice to me.” You look up at him, eyes soft. “Thank you, Daryl. For those, too.” With a happy smile, you glance at the flowers in your hands. “The bow is so cute!”
It’s there, under this tree, that Daryl realizes that he has you back, finally, and liquid gold floods his heart. Even though you were so sad yesterday… you managed to somehow pull yourself together and repair your own psyche overnight. And now he stands there with all the equipment to fix a soul — useless in his hands.
And he couldn’t be happier, his eyes glowing with relief.
But then you hug him enthusiastically, though careful not to crush the flowers, and he realizes that he was wrong. He smiles into your hair… And it smells like soap. Must’ve used the shampoo in the river when he was gone.
God, he missed you.
When you pull away, you lead him back to the camp, rambling about how you want to put the flowers into fresh water for a while. You’re gonna use the pot if he’s okay with it — of course he is — because there’s nothing to be cooked for dinner tonight anyway, you don’t have anything. There’s more berries in that place you found though, you tell him happily.
Daryl chimes up, leaves crunching under his boots. “... Been thinkin’ we could dry ‘em or somethin’. Ya haven’t done that in a while.”
You turn to look at him, smiling. “How’d you know which ones to pick?"
Like he doesn’t know all your favorite scents, please. He’s seen you do this since last summer. He doesn’t say any of that, though. Just a gruff, “Ya ain’t the only one who knows plants."
You don’t drop the subject, though. “Yeah, but how did you remember my favorites? Or was that just coincidence?”
Now here he has to step in. He does know them and it’d be a shame if you thought he chose flowers for you at random instead of with the utmost care!
“… D'ya remember that day at the farm?”
“Ohh…” It dawns on you, then, and you grin at him from the side, still walking. “You mean back when you still hated me?”
He blushes. “Never claimed ta hate ya.”
“You didn’t like me, though.” A giggle bubbles out of your lips as you reminiscence.
Daryl shrugs. “Didn’t wanna get attached. Ya were bound to end up walker meat sooner or later.”
You laugh. “Yeah, right. Admit it, you just can’t handle optmism!”
“I can, now.”
Your smile falls, and the words hang heavy in the crisp evening air between you. There’s more to them than a simple admission, and you cherish this subtle way he used to tell you that he cares. You knew that already, though — his actions since the quarry have spoken louder than words, even if he was unconscious of that.
“… Thank you for the flowers, Daryl.” There’s a twinkle in your eyes as you look at him again before stepping a little closer to walk right by his side, arm brushing against his with every bouncy step you took.
It’s almost too much to handle. He doesn’t anything, just focuses on steadily waking to the camp for now, lost in thought.
… Daryl doesn't like you, so why is he falling in love with you?
Since that day, Daryl has learned many things about you. The fall of the prison remained an event that changed something in him just like it brought out a part in you that didn’t know before.
Eventually, you reunite with the group. It’s almost like before… there’s hope again.
Alexandria is incredible. It took him some time to adjust, but he has completely arrived now. Your immediate willingness to make this place a home for the group certainly helped.
He’s thankful for that — even though it’s nothing different than you’ve done all along. Keep up their spirits. Shed sunlight on the bright side of things.
The difference is that he knows what it takes you to be like that, now. It’s not a mask, not really — you are like that, you really believe in it. But the time in the woods after the prison really put things into perspective for him. You might be an angel, but it takes a lot of energy from you to fly.
Daryl for his part is determined to make sure you always have enough power to shine.
… Which, when he realized it, was a little scary at first. Though he quickly surrendered to the idea of sacrificing his power to strenghten yours, to make life easier for you as your loyal protector — ‘cause that’s really what he’s been doing all along — he also discovered another truth.
... He’s in love with you.
Of course, he never meant to confess or anything. Being by your side is enough, more than enough. Seeing you smiling and happy is what keeps him alive. He doesn’t need any more of your love on top of it, any more of the very same source of light you already so generously distribute.
But again, he forgot to factor in you, who weren’t really part of the equation to begin with. The effect you have on him catches him unguarded once more.
And somehow, he ended up telling you everything. Up on the wall on guard duty, something you did together since you’ve grown very close beforr the reunion with the others, having shared the belief of being the only ones left.
It just slipped out, before he could stop himself. He grew awfully quiet, trailed off in the end. A moment passed as the reality of his words dawns on him.
But you? Don’t look stunned or repulsed at all, he realized as he stared at you.
“… I was wondering when you’d work up the nerve to tell me.”
“Huh?” Daryl felt akward all of a sudden. Did he embarrass himself without even realizing?
You stepped closer to him, eyes twinkling. “Oh, come on. It was pretty obvious.”
His voice was low as he answered. “Since when?”
A smile. “Mhm… I always had my suspicions. But I was sure that day after the farm was overrun.”
He was stiff as a board now, broad shoulders tense as he felt your hand trailing up to rest on his bicep. “Yeah?”
You just nodded. “Yeah. “
He gulped, eyeing your face, impossibly close. “Why? Jus’ ‘cause I came up and helped ya walk?”
“No. Well, yes, that was pretty sweet of you. But no.”
“Then what was it?”
“…You smelled like lavender.” Triumphantly, you grinned at him.
Daryl felt his face warm. He hadn't thought about that in a while… But ever since you explained that little trick when you meet him by the woods, he’d been putting dried flowers between his clothes as well. Didn't think anything of it at first, he just felt like trying it out. Test it or something. He knew it was ridiculous. Worked pretty well, though. Even if he wasn’t sure why he did it.
He had a pretty good idea now.
“What, getting shy now? You were in such a confessional mood.” You teased, standing on your tiptoes. His hands had slid down to rest on your waist, and he could barely think straight anymore.
“If it helps…” You were so close now, he could feel your breath fanning across his jaw. It felt incredible. “The smell of blood and sweat usually masks it. Really, I’m sure no one else noticed.” And your eyes flick up to his again, softening.
The corners of his lips lifted into a barely noticeable smile. “Don't care ‘bout any of ‘em.”
“… Me neither.” You look at each other again, and it’s like everything feels light all of a sudden. He doesn't know who crossed the last bit of distance, but somehow, your lips land on his.
The kiss is even better than he imagined. Just like you… unbearably sweet. And at the thought of being able to kiss you like this again tomorrow, or again this same evening, and maybe every day from now on, his heart jumps in his chest.
Daryl feels a little stupid. He could have gotten this way earlier… Just been too busy being grumpy.
Did he really think he didn't like you? It seems impossible to believe now. Far back, not more than a distant memory.
Maybe he just liked you a little too much all along. From the beginning, when you approached him even though he tried so hard to scare you off.
Or maybe he skipped the liking part all together and went straight to loving you. Yeah, that makes sense. Of course it’d be confusing, but really… who can blame him?
You’re sunshine incarnated.
Daryl isn't sure why you chose him, but he swears he’ll earn it. Make up for all the times he was mean to you on purpose. No matter how long it takes, because the truth is plain to see… He’s smitten.
And he’ll gladly spend his whole life keeping all clouds far, far away to see you shine.
𝜗ৎ You worked at a local gas station in the town and the one time you were asked to work a night shift, Daryl found his way into the station. Daryl was the one to step in when some random man started to bother you. After thanking him all he said was “ ‘s nothing sweetheart”
𝜗ৎ After you encourage with Daryl you started to notice him finding his way into the gas station more often
𝜗ৎ Daryl was smitten with you the first time he saw you. He wanted to ask you out so bad, but he was way too scared, scared you won’t think he’s attractive enough, that he isn’t good enough. Overall Daryl thinks he isn’t good enough for a pretty thing like you, so he never says anything
𝜗ৎ one day though, he gives in by offering to buy you a drink from the station when it’s all quiet and just the two of you. You accept it and end up getting to know each other
𝜗ৎ Daryl ends up asking if you’re free that weekend and asks if you’d like to go to the local pub with him, which you do
𝜗ৎ Daryl knows he’s not the greatest man in the world, he doesn’t have a stable job and he has issues. He had given up on changing long time ago, partly because he thought change wasn’t possible for him and because he didn’t have any reason to change for. Until you came into his life though, and now he makes small changes to be more deserving of you
𝜗ৎ He found a job and most of the pay check will be spend on you. If you’ve mentioned wanting to buy something or if you’ve even just been eyeing something, Daryl will be buying it as soon as he gets his check. He started drinking less and less alcohol after you came to his life
𝜗ৎ Daryl isn’t big on pda or saying sweet words, it’s not like he doesn’t want to be an affection boyfriend, it’s just that he doesn’t know how to. And so he shows he cares differently: fixing things for you before you even notice them jamming, if he notices you running out of hair conditioners he’ll stock up them for you
𝜗ৎ In the quiet and private Daryl loves to have his hands on you. He’ll pull you as close to him as physically possible, draw circles on your thigh and kiss the top of your head, forehead, nose, cheek, and lastly lips
𝜗ৎ Even though Daryl doesn’t sweet talk much, almost never, he’ll randomly remind you how much you mean to him “ you mean so much to me darlin’ “ he’ll whisper one night to you
hii can i request daryl seeing reader in a dress for the first time? they are not together yet but in his mind she is "the one" for him so during that one alexandria welcome party he starts glaring at everyone that tries to flirt with her? and also just wanna say that im obsessed with your works <3
based on this edit, however lets just pretend the windows never had curtains. i can do a whole ass series with this i swear to god because on my life daryl gives black cat energy and reader will be the only girl he ever likes to be around with romantically.
keep ur requests coming guys!
daryl sees you in a dress at the welcome party at alexandria and he fell in love.
“Ain’t nothing sadder than an outdoor cat that thinks he’s an indoor cat”
That saying had been stuck in Daryl's mind ever since an asshole said that to him a while ago. That's how he feels the minute he stepped in Alexandria. It was hard to feel like he belonged because even before the world had gone to shit, he was never about the white picket fence suburban bullshit. He had lived out in the wild with Merle and his dad for as long as he knows. He wasn't going to be able to fit in like Rick or Michonne and truth be told he does feel left out.
So he stood there behind a tree from the outside looking into the window. The laughter and chatters of the people echoed in his mind as he contemplated going in. He looked down at himself as he scoffed. Who was he joking? No matter how bad he cleans up, people will look always look at him like he is dirty.
But then he noticed you coming into the frame. You stood there leaning on the wall, looking slightly deflated. Daryl also took a moment to take you in fully. You looked beautiful. He had never seen anyone as beautiful as you, not even before the outbreak. The way your skin glows, not a spot of dirt and blood on your body and even if you did--you would still look pretty. The dress that you were wearing was simple, it was the type that people would wear when they go on a picnic or a date. It was nothing spectacular.
But when you wore it? You looked ethereal and it made Daryl question if you were real.
He felt his breath hitched when he admired you from a far. Not really believing himself as his mind filled with thoughts that were useless. It's not like someone like you would ever go for him.
His moment was ruined when a smug pricked walked towards you, standing way too close and he could see that he was invading your personal space. He gave you a sly smirked as his eyes travelled down your clevage.
"Fuckin' asshole" Daryl gritted his teeth. His hands bawling up to fists as he felt like bashing the guy's jaw in. Why do men like him even exist in this world. Can't keep their shit in their pants and respect people.
You gave the prick a smile, but this wasn't like the smile you had always thrown to him. It didn't make your eyes squint because you were smiling so hard. Daryl could easily tell how fake it was. Suddenly, you started to daze because you were bored at whatever he was mansplaining to you.
Daryl doesn't do that. He would never correct you.
Your eyes suddenly met his when you looked out the window as it widened in surprised. Daryl quickly looked away as he started to walk off. You didn't even spare Spencer a glance as you rushed out of Deanna's house.
You ran for him, like legitimately running that it was so un-ladylike but you didn't care.
"Daryl! Wait up!" Daryl stopped in his tracks once he heard your voice as he turned around to see you bent down--hands on your knees as you tried hard to catch you breath as Daryl just stood there staring at you. You got up as you let a loud sigh.
Then you smiled at him.
The smile that he knew was genuine, for him.
When he finally got to see you up close, he felt like he stopped breathing. Even when your hair that you spent so much time and effort doing was all over the place, even when sweat was dripping down your forehead because of how fast you ran--you still looked gorgeous.
"What?" You asked, "You think I look pretty?" You grinned widely at him as you playfully twirled. Daryl's heart stopped when he got to smell the sweet scent wafting off of you. You took the wrong step and accidently tripped. Daryl was fast enough to catch you before you fall.
"Thank you" You mumbled as you got back up on your feet. Daryl just hummed in respond, "Why didn't you come? I waited for you"
I waited for you.
The words replayed in his head over and over again.
"Not my thing" He grumbled.
"Well, it's not mine either but I thought you were coming so I waited" Daryl didn't know what to respond because now he feels bad for leaving you hanging, "But hey, you tried! So I think that's something"
Daryl hummed again, "You don't speak a lot do you?"
"Don't know what to say" You noticed how it was hard for him to meet your eyes so he would either look down or look behind you.
"That's fine, you saved me from that prick--Spencer" You groaned as the thought of him made you cringed.
"That his name?" Daryl suddenly got interested and you noticed this. You gave him a playful smile as you started walking beside him.
"Yeah, he is Deanna's son. He is the most insufferable person I have ever met. Don't get me wrong, he is a nice guy--"
"Not nice" Daryl interrupted, "You should stay away from him" He warned. Even if you did stay away and he was the one coming at you-- he would stop at nothing to scare him off.
You looked at him, surprised but you listened to him anyway.
"Is there something on my face?" You asked suddenly and it caught him of guard. He shook his head but he still couldn't look at you, "Then, why can't you look at me?"
You suddenly stopped as you stood in front of Daryl. You softly repositioned him as you tilted his head. He almost flinched away but he stayed.
"See" You stated, "Now, I can see what you look like"
Daryl didn't know what to do, it was like his brain had stopped functioning. He knows he was someone who was stubborn but he had no idea why he was listening to you right now.
You were someone that makes him hard to resist you.
You just stood there, face too close as his eyes trailed yours.
"You have pretty eyes" You muttered unconsciously as you finally backed off and continued walking.
Daryl did not know how to act around you but maybe, just maybe--
You would be the reason he wanted to stay in Alexandria.
the group is settling into alexandria. well...most are. daryl is still trying. the community holds a welcome party for you all, including bonfires, live music, drinks, and nice clothes. clothes that no one in the group thought they'd be wearing ever again.
daryl's sitting a good few yards away from the crowd of alexandrians, chewing on a toothpick to avoid talking to anybody. he's thinking to himself this is some bullshit, everyone dressed in suits and dresses acting like the world ain't over outside these walls. just moaning and groaning under his breath like always.
but then you walk into the crowd. you're wearing a flowery strappy sundress that falls mid-thigh on you. you're no longer in your disgusting, bloodied up clothes and your hair is no longer matted and gross. you're clean, glowing, and beautiful. daryl's mind goes silent for the first time in a long time.
he watches you make your way through people, before taking a seat beside maggie as she hands you a drink with a smile on her face.
carol interrupts daryl's wandering eyes.
"not complaining anymore, huh?" the small smile on her face grows into a knowing smirk.
daryl sits up immediately, swatting her away with his arm in the air.
"man shut up. dunno the hell you talkin' about" he mutters under his breath.
carol walks away cackling. daryl pretends to not look at you the rest of the night.
you definitely notice. the blush creeping on your cheeks gives it away.
Hey there, welcome to my (extremely multi-fandom) blog. I'm so glad you're here! ♡
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
✦ a little about me ✦
22 y/o. girlie who finds solace in movies, books and TV shows. I love diving into new worlds and getting to know new characters! Because I love expressing my love for these interests, this is really just a safe space for me to yap about whatever i'm currently into. also I’m currently in my final year of college!
🎶 Music I listen to includes The Neighbourhood, Lana Del Rey, Sabrina Carpenter, Ariana Grande, girl in red, blackbear and keshi. I also have a Shawn Mendes blog: @shawnfordays
🐐 I have a poodle, although if I had to be an animal I think I'd like to be a wild horse or mountain goat
Besides reading, I like to bake - mostly cakes and cupcakes 🧁 and my favorite ice cream flavor is peanut butter ! I also love açaí; I think it can cheer me up no matter what
✦ some of my big loves ✦
The Walking Dead - currently watching!
Lord of the Rings
Narnia
GrishaVerse
The Hunger Games
The Maze Runner
Divergent
Caraval/OUABH
Heartstopper
The Vampire Diaries
Secret Shanghai Universe (Chloe Gong)
Better than the Movies
𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆📖 tag library 📖˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆𓂃
here you'll find my personal tags that help me locate reblogs easily :,) here's to rereading all your beautiful fics <3
#mops bookmark -> saved for later/currently reading (general)
You can anticipate random thoughts, freak-outs, and fic reccs :) My DMs and asks are always open if you wanna chat about anything under the sun; let's be moots! 😊
While writing this intro post, I never thought I would be seeing one of my favorite bands ever- in the whole wide universe- live for the first time, for the first time they were in my country. But here we are 😭🥲😭🥲😭🥲😭🥲
KAY GOT TO SEE THE NBHD LIVE! YES SHE DID! it was the best experience of my life and I’ve been searching for the words for the past week since the concert..
summary: Daryl has never given you a second thought, so when you go on a run together for the first time, he's expressly impressed with your skills, and maybe a little turned on
Daryl has always seen you as fragile, not in a cruel way exactly, he'd only known you within the prison walls once they welcomed new people in. He'd always taken you for a delicate, helpless girl. He honestly didn't see how you made it that far, based purely of his first impressions and how you ported yourself on the community, eyes too soft for the world outside.
You kept your distance from the fences, made your tasks focused exclusively on helping Hershel with crops or other people with inventory. You didn't mind spending most of your mornings in the courtyard garden with dirt beneath your nails that were once neatly painted with a thoughtfull design, but you never vontunteered on runs, made it your thing to be within the limits of that property at all times.
Your lack of movement bothered him for some reason. How you never stood near the arsenal tables when people cleaned guns, and every time he'd catch sight of you, you'd be slithering between the rows of crops carrying a bucket against your hip, sunlight warming your skin and humming a good old song like the whole ugly world hadn’t rotted itself to pieces.
Then the sickness spread through the cell block like wildfire.
One day Glenn was coughing into his sleeve, sweating through his shirt while Maggie fussed over him, then Sasha got sick, then two more, then suddenly Hershel was running himself ragged trying to keep everyone alive while Rick scrambled for antibiotics they didn’t have enough people to retrieve, because half the group was either sick or refusing to leave the prison in case things got worse, and tensions sat thick in the air for days, heavy and ugly and exhausting.
Daryl was checking bolts at one of the tables when Rick approached him with that look already on his face, the one that meant he was about to suggest something Daryl wouldn’t like.
"She's riding with you."
Daryl barely looked up. “Who?"
Rick nodded over his shoulder.
You stood near the fence with Carol, arms crossed tightly over yourself against the cold morning air, the morning sun shining against your skin. Irritating. Immediately, his jaw tightened. "Ain't happening."
“She volunteered.”
“She ain’t been outside those fences once. What happens when we get back with one more casualty and someone less to take care of things?"
“She said she can handle herself."
Daryl finally looked at Rick fully then, irritation crawling sharp beneath his skin. “And ya just believed that?”
Rick’s mouth twitched slightly, tired more than amused. “We don’t exactly have options right now.”
"She's going on the car. Carol rides with me."
Daryl looked back toward you again, watching you shoot Tyreese another one of your stupid smiles. Your movements were calm, steady, not nervous enough for someone about to leave the prison after months inside.
Still, he scoffed under his breath. Great, now we carry dead weight.
He did as he said, childishly refusing to ride with you. He expected you to start panicking the second things got serious. Daryl was previously annoyed as he expected hesitation, fear, freezing up at the wrong moment and forcing him to step in before you got yourself killed, because he couldn't have it on him.
The pharmacy had already been picked half-clean by previous scavengers, shelves overturned and glass shattered beneath their boots while dust drifted through weak sunlight spilling from broken windows overhead, Daryl motioned for everyone to spread out while he checked the back storage rooms, crossbow loose in his grip.
Daryl lost his track of you, who had disappeared somewhere down the next aisle without a word. Ten minutes passed quietly, then came the growl, Daryl spun toward the sound, a walker stumbled from between collapsed shelves directly behind one of the others, jaw snapping open, rotten hands reaching‐ thunk.
The rotten body collapsed to the ground immediately, a bolt protruded clean through its skull. Daryl just stared.
The shot had come from halfway across the store. Slowly, his eyes tracked upward. You stood balanced on a fallen rack with another bolt already notched into your crossbow, poker face, breath steady. Daryl genuinely thought maybe he’d imagined it because he had never, not once, seen you carrying that thing around the prison.
“What the hell?" he muttered before he could stop himself.
You blinked down at him. “What?”
"Since when ya know how to use that thing?" You only shrugged in response, like it was obvious, and he is stupid for asking.
Daryl stared another second too long before scoffing quietly and turning away again, but something uncomfortable shifted beneath his ribs, something hot and strange and sharp enough to irritate him immediately. Suddenly, all those months replayed differently in his head.
He reflected on the way you never looked scared, only purposefully distant. On the way you moved quickly and how your eyes constantly tracked exits. He'd mistaken your distance for weakness, but it hit him like a bolt when he realized, you didn't want to get too close. Close was dangerous.
Another walked bursted from the stockroom a few minutes later and before Daryl could lift his weapon you stepped forward smoothly, knife flashing once beneath flickering fluorescent light before the corpse even hit the floor properly, efficient and clean, enough that Tyreese let out a low whistle.
“Well damn.”
Daryl couldn’t stop watching you, you shifted completely under his eyes. It was like outside the perimeter of the prison you were a different person entirely. Seeing how lifeless your gaze looked when you moved there, he started to understand why you wanted to keep your distance.
You were afraid, yes. But it was of how far you'd go to survive.
Outside, things got worse.
A small herd wandered through the parking lot before they reached the truck, forcing everyone to move quickly between abandoned vehicles while the sound of groaning echoed off storefronts around them, Daryl automatically moved closer to your side, ready to intervene the second you slipped up.
Except you never did.
You moved like this was your second nature, retrieving bolts with quick practiced movements, conserving energy instead of wasting it, and every time Daryl thought he understood you, another contradiction surfaced.
At one point he caught you kneeling beside a dead deer near the edge of the woods, fingers pressing briefly against the carcass before quietly muttering, “Too stiff. Been dead for a while.” Daryl stopped walking.
“You hunt?”
“I used to." Jesus Christ.
He wondered what else you had to uncover. Then came the shot that finally lodged itself under Daryl’s skin for good.
You and Daryl were further from the vehicle, as Carol carried it with supplies, she missed a walker almost sneaking in behind her, and before anyone else could think to react. You fire hit a bolt straight through the walker’s eye socket.
You smiled a little, embarrassed more than proud when you picked up you had audience.
“Shit," he whispered, grinning openly now "that was hot as hell."
The last part was something nearly above a whisper, but still, it was enough for you to hear. Something ugly twisted in Daryl’s stomach instantly, the words echoed louder than it should’ve, slipping his tongue by mistake. Even he was surprised.
You ducked your head slightly at the compliment, cheeks warming just enough for him to notice, though that moment kept a silent agreement you'd not acknowledge you'd heard it. Daryl hated the strange irritation that flared through him.
“Lucky shot.” he muttered sharply, shrugging and slinging his crossbow over his shoulder harder than necessary, something insisting to bug on his chest and make his heart hammer on his ears.
I…. I just spoiled a major death for myself… putting myself in time out because I should know better than to deliberately open up a TWD comment section.,…. But doesn’t matter I’m still devastated…
I…. I just spoiled a major death for myself… putting myself in time out because I should know better than to deliberately open up a TWD comment section.,…. But doesn’t matter I’m still devastated…
♡ "back to you" taglist: @leslierabbit @t0xicsl33p @moss4brainss @saintloverie @firefirefeline @babycheech @dixonangel @gglittergoddess @tuesday469 @lavandine @bbning @clussyposts @kiki-reedus
Daryl waited for you.
He waited in the trailer for two whole months, stubbornly clinging to routines that no longer made sense. He kept the porch light on every night even after the power failed. He checked every car that managed to pass the road with the irrational hope that somehow, against all reason, you'd be behind the wheel with Benjamin in the backseat. He kept expecting the sound of your voice, kept thinking he'd hear you fussing over him. But nobody came.
Merle, of course, had no patience for hope, or a tragic love story, specially not one that involved you.
By the first week, he had already grown tired of watching his baby brother sit on the porch every evening like some faithful dog waiting for its owner.
"Boy, she ain't comin'."
Daryl barely glanced up from the knife he was sharpening. "Quit it."
"I'm serious."
"Didn't ask."
Merle snorted.
"Didn't ask? What are you? Thirteen?"
Daryl's jaw tightened. "Shut up."
"Nah, you gon' listen." He sat down heavily beside him, cracking open a beer. "You waitin' on a woman that ain't even thinkin' 'bout you no more."
Daryl's eyes narrowed.
"Don't."
"I'm just sayin'."
"Don't."
"World ended, baby brother. Rich folks got themselves bunkers and private compounds. Hell, if she made it, she probably snuck herself into some fancy-ass shelter with enough food to feed the next generation and a bunch of rich people drinkin' wine and bitchin' 'bout the apocalypse."
"Shut the hell up."
Merle raised his hands dramatically.
"What? You know I'm right."
"Nah, I know yer an asshole."
Merle scoffed. "Boy, I been tellin' you since day one. She was slummin' it with ya."
Daryl stood immediately. "Watch yer mouth."
"Or what?"
"Or I'm gonna forget you're ma brother."
Merle simply laughed.
"You think I don't remember? Every damn night after work you'd disappear with some rich brat you met on the side of the road. Thought you'd gone stupid."
"She ain't no brat."
"Oh, come on. You really thought y'all had a future?"
Daryl didn't look mad, he looked sad. Even his family replicated what your parents tried to glue to your heads. You didn't belong together.
Merle noticed, and for some miracle, his expression softened slightly.
"Ain't sayin' she didn't love ya" he admitted quietly. "Girl gave ya Ben, didn't she? That's somethin'."
Daryl's eyes dropped.
"Yeah."
"But if it weren't for that boy, she'd've left years ago." And there it was again.
"Look, I'm just sayin'... maybe if she made it, she had to make choices that didn't envolve you."
Daryl swallowed. He knew there was some sense to Merle's line if thought. You were stupid rich, but still, he never heard from you about a plan B bunker casually there to be lived in, he figured that's something he'd know at some point, still, he wondered. But ever stopped looking. Not even when Merle called him a fool, or after the trailer was overrun and they were forced to leave.
When he joined Rick's group, he never mentioned you, not once. He felt like explaining it out loud made your absence real, and that made him stupidly vulnerable. So nobody knew. Nobody knew he had someone, maybe thinking if him too. Nobody knew he had a boy, old enough to be in high school, if fate had been kind.
Nobody knew that every time Carl laughed, Daryl's chest tightened with memories of a little boy who used to sit on his shoulders and tug on his ears.
When Sophia disappeared, Daryl made it a personal quest, he had to find that girl. Every time he faced Carol's despair from losing her only child, he'd think if you, what if you'd been though something like that and he wasn't there for you?. And the thought made him shiver.
No one knew his real reasons behind it. He was pure if heart enough to be this invested if he didn't have kids too, but all that crossed his mind was you and Benjamin, and how he had to cling to hope that if he could find this little girl, then maybe he could find you too.
He'd considered, many times, to open up about his past to Carol. When he saw her mourning someone that she wasn't sure was really gone, he saw himself on her, he wanted to approach and say he understood the feeling better than anyone could. But before he could wonder more about tearing down his walls, the barn happened, and the girl appeared. Lifeless, her body only moving by command of that devious infection. And Daryl build his walls right back up.
He recalled feeling physically sick, not only because Sophia was gone, but because a terrible thought had wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed hard. What if that was what waited for him? What if after years of searching he found you or Ben like that? Would he even survive it? For the first time since the world had ended, he was afraid of hope itself. Because hope implied answers, and answers had the power to destroy him.
The weeks that followed only taught him that monsters had always worn human faces long before the dead began walking. They had built more than a shelter, but a home, at the prison, and before he could stop to breathe, once again the world crumbled beneath his feet, and he felt stupid for ever hoping again. After the governor's attack, he got separated from everyone, stranded with Beth Greene.
Daryl found himself in the strange company of someone too young and too stubborn to accept his usual grunts as conversation. Beth had a gift for prying into people's souls while smiling sweetly enough that refusing her felt almost cruel. What began with innocent questions eventually became more personal, until one evening she casually asked whether he'd ever been married. Daryl had answered with the first thing that came to mind. "Sorta."
The answer immediately fascinated her. She laughed, insisting that "sort of married" wasn't an actual category, and spent the next ten minutes pestering him with increasingly ridiculous theories. By the time he surrendered, he'd found himself smiling. And then, quietly, with the fire crackling between them and the stars spread overhead, he told her everything. About you. About the rich girl with the broken-down car who had changed his life. About Benjamin. About the breakup neither of you had wanted. About loving each other anyway. Beth listened with tears shining in her eyes and the kind of hopeless romantic expression only she could wear without embarrassment. "You've been in love with her for fifteen years?" she'd asked in disbelief.
Daryl had looked away immediately, embarrassed. "Closer to sixteen now, ain't never let go." Beth had laughed softly and shaken her head.
"Oh, Daryl, that's the saddest and sweetest thing I've ever heard." He'd scoffed, muttering that she was crazy, but she simply smiled and asked the question he'd spent years avoiding.
"Do you think they made it?"
The answer had come before he could stop it. "Have to." His voice had broken around the words. "Don't know how not to."
And as if the world kept pulling distasteful jokes with him. He lost Beth too. After that, Daryl it felt like a piece of your memory had gone with her, because for the first time since the world shifted completely, someone else had known about you. Someone else had known learned your name, and Ben's. She had known about the life he'd lost, about the love he carried around like an old wound, and somehow she'd made him feel less alone with it.
So when he carried her lifeless body out of that hospital and heard Maggie's screams echoing around him, something inside him broke all over again. Sitting outside afterward, his face buried in his hands, tears streaming freely while the others grieved around him, Daryl found himself thinking of you as he always did in moments of unbearable pain. And despite the pain, despite the losses, the growing certainty that the world was cruel beyond reason, one stubborn, irrational part of Daryl Dixon refused to let go.
They spent more time wandering than he could count, after going though extreme hunger, they were forced to eat dog and found some kind of shelter. That's when they found out they were being chased by a man who allegedly wanted to help, Daryl was already too scarred to trust that easy, but something that came out of that man's mouth broke his brain entirely.
The man was tied to the pillar, explaing his mission and the story of his community, when he mentioned a name. Deanna.
"What's that you said just now?" Daryl grunted, his heart beating rapidly to his ears.
"Uh-um that we're all assigned functions by our leader, she uh-"
"Yeah, I got that part, what's her name?" Daryl cut him impatiently
"Deanna."
"And the place is called?"
"Alexandria."
Daryl's breath broke rhythm, he turned to Rick and said in a whisper "We gotta check this place."
"Why?"
"It's- uh... It's a long story."
"Might be an important one to make it worth putting ourselves on risk for." Rick impatiently added.
"Trust me in this." Daryl pleated. "Please."
Rick reluctantly agreed. He trusted Daryl's instincts, afterall. He turned to the tied down man on the pillar and cut the cord, his pupils staring straight into the stranger's.
"Show us the place."
mops’ nook @little-mops-booknook - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
