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.
original one-shot | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5
Part One - Encounter | 2.3k words
summary: your car breaks down on the middle of the road. a very attractive biker stops to help
as many of you asked for, here's "back to you" as a series! I'll post everything in a chronological order every 2/3 days!
"back to you" taglist: @leslierabbit @t0xicsl33p @taliapotter @moss4brainss @saintloverie @little-mops-booknook @firefirefeline @babycheech @dixonangel | dividers by: @chrisssiren
By all accounts, your day should have gone perfectly. Nothing about it had suggested otherwise when you'd left home that morning. You'd spent the morning attending to meetings on your dad's company, that he insisted you to be a part of everything even when you hadn't even finished college yet. The weather had been beautiful and your car –a sleek black Mercedes your father maintained was more reliable than most marriages– performed with the sort of effortless grace one expected from something whose monthly payment rivaled many people's rent.
You were dressed neatly, cream slacks and a silk blouse, every detail carefully considered, every strand of hair obediently in place. It wasn't vanity, exactly. You had simply grown up in a world where appearances mattered, where composure was treated as both virtue and armor, and where being caught unprepared felt like a moral failing. Which was precisely why standing on the shoulder of an isolated Georgia highway in four-inch heels while smoke rose rather alarmingly from beneath your hood felt less like a normal inconvenience and more like a personal humiliation.
"Awesome." you grunted, shoving the door with much more strength than necessary when you got out out of the car to look call out for help, and the cherry on top of your day was put right there. On the top left of your phone you read 'no signal'. "Fucking great."
After fifteen frustrating minutes spent pretending to understand anything you were looking at, you had finally accepted the uncomfortable truth that your expertise with automobiles began and ended with knowing which button started them. You had stared helplessly into the engine compartment, hoping that if you looked concerned enough, mechanical knowledge might somehow manifest itself through sheer determination.
Unfortunately, cars appeared unimpressed by wishful thinking, and the Georgia heat had begun slowly dismantling all the effort you'd put into your appearance that morning. By the time you heard the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching in the distance, you had already composed three separate speeches in your head regarding the unfairness of the universe.
The motorcycle slowed as it approached your stranded vehicle before eventually pulling a few feet ahead of you. You braced yourself for either an overeager man who would mistake basic politeness for encouragement, or a well-meaning retiree determined to explain your own car to you while addressing you exclusively as sweetheart.
You weren't ready to face the rider who removed his helmet, revealing slightly overgrown dark hair and eyes so startlingly blue that they nearly distracted you from the fact that he was, quite frankly, unfairly handsome, not like the men you were used to, there was nothing polished about him. His clothes were worn, his boots scuffed, and the leather vest hanging over a faded shirt suggested a man far more interested in practicality than fashion, yet the overall effect was annoyingly attractive in a way the carefully groomed men who attended your father's charity dinners couldn't dream to be. He looked first at the smoke escaping from your engine, then at you, then at your shoes, and though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, his expression remained overall unreadable.
"You break down?" he asked.
You glanced pointedly at the engine.
"Nah, I like to stand beside highways in expensive shoes and contemplate my terrible decisions."
To your surprise, amusement softened his features, and the small smile that appeared transformed his entire face in a way that felt almost unfair.
"Weird pick for a hobbie."
There wasn't a trace of mockery in his voice, only quiet humor, and immediately you felt a twinge of guilt for your sarcasm. "Sorry," you sighed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "It's been a day."
He simply grunted, then, without fanfare or unnecessary questions, he stepped forward and peered beneath the hood. You watched him for several moments before raising an eyebrow.
"Shouldn't you ask before touching things?"
"If ya want I'll just take off and leave ya where you are." He grunted.
"Sorry, do your thing."
"Mhm."
After another few moments spent muttering incomprehensible mechanical phrases beneath his breath, he straightened and wiped his hands against a rag he seemed to have produced from nowhere. "Radiator's shot. You ain't drivin' this."
You stared blankly.
"Wonderful. That means absolutely nothing to me."
"Means no driving. Car bad." he repeated as if speaking to a toddler.
"Ah," you nodded solemnly. "now you're speaking my language."
To your immense satisfaction, a small grin showed. Brief and quiet, gone almost before it arrived, but unmistakably there. And suddenly you found yourself absurdly pleased with the idea that you'd managed to make this handsome stranger smile.
"I got a shop in town," he offered after a moment. "Can have it towed there. Fix it up."
You blinked. "You own a repair shop?"
"Mhm."
"Ya stop to rescue strange women on the side of the road often?"
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You looked miserable." The simplicity of the answer caught you entirely off guard, you were expecting something along the lines of "Only the pretty ones" – you got that often. But there was something deeply refreshing about a man whose motivations appeared to begin and end with simple kindness rather than the expectation of reward. You glanced down at your ruined afternoon, your ridiculous shoes, and the expensive car currently attempting to expire, and despite everything, you smiled.
"Well," you said softly, "I appreciate your concern for miserable women, uh–" you stopped, realizing you hadn't asked for his name.
And for the first time since he'd stopped, the stranger smiled fully, the expression warm and so stupidly beautiful.
"Daryl."
You smiled back.
"Daryl" you repeated, already suspecting that your busted radiator might end up being the luckiest disaster of your life. You presented yourself too, motioning your hands to shake his. His hands were calloused and permanently stained from keeping them on engines so often, and yet the contact of his skin to yours so slightly made you shiver.
The tow truck took about an hour to arrive, by the time it did, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't feel a sting of disappointment from having to say goodbye to the redneck you'd practically just met.
During the waiting time, he sat with you on the sideway, mostly just listening to you, at least at first, then gradually revealing small details of himself. You found out he had a brother, and that overall, your lives were very different. As your car was getting towed, you handed him a small paper with your number written in tidy handwriting to which he took in suspicion.
"What's this?"
"My number?..." you answered, unsure, and suddenly embarrassed. "I don't suppose your shop operates entirely on telepathy? So you call me when it's done." you nervously added.
"Oh–" understanding dawned across his features. "right, yeah, I'll call." he lifted the small piece of paper and awkwardly scratched his neck, and to your immense delight, the tips of his ears turned pink. Suddenly that intimidating, broad-shouldered biker looked shy. The sight was so endearing you nearly smiled yourself silly.
"I hope so."
Neither of you knew then that the repair would only take three days. That you'd spend those three days thinking about a man you'd known for less than two hours, and by the third day, you had become thoroughly annoyed with yourself.
It was absurd, really. You found yourself wondering ridiculous things while sitting through meetings and answering e-mails. Had he always been so quiet, or had you simply done enough talking for both of you? Did he smile like that often? Was he thinking about you too? Most embarrassingly of all, after you picked up his call letting you know that your car was ready, you caught yourself changing outfits twice before reminding yourself, quite sternly, that you were only picking up your car. Nothing more.
The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped in, and immediately you were struck by how perfectly the place matched its owner. It wasn't polished or modern, and it certainly lacked the sleek professionalism your father would have preferred, but it felt lived in. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, old photographs occupied the walls, and somewhere in the background, classic rock played softly enough that it blended with the hum of the ceiling fan.
When your eyes found him you automatically smiled. Daryl was bent over the hood of a truck, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his forearms, entirely absorbed in whatever he was doing. You doubted he had even heard the bell. Which meant you had several uninterrupted seconds to appreciate the view.
"Daryl." you greeted nervously.
He looked up, then smiled.
Not the polite little smile he'd given you on the side of the road. Not the amused smirk that seemed to appear whenever you said something ridiculous, this one happened before he could stop it, and the sight of it softened something inside you immediately.
"Hey."
"Hello to you too." you couldn't help but to smile back.
He wiped his hands on a rag, though the effort seemed largely symbolic considering the amount of grease currently decorating him. "Car's ready."
"I had hoped so! Otherwise this would've been a very expensive social call."
That earned a quiet snort.
"Thought I would understand if you called just to see me." you half-joked, his ears turning pink again.
"Ya very convinced for someone I found basically abbandoned on the side of the road." this time, you were the one who laughed.
As Daryl disappeared into the office to retrieve your paperwork, you found yourself wondering whether he seemed disappointed, the thought appeared out of nowhere and settled itself squarely in your chest. Because suddenly it occurred to you that this was it.
You'd pay him, drive away, and if it depended on life's odds only, you'd most likely never see him again. The idea left a strange heaviness in your stomach.
Daryl returned with the keys in one hand and several forms in the other. He explained what had been wrong with the car, and you nodded along with all the enthusiasm of someone pretending to understand a foreign language.
"So she's healthy again?" you asked.
"Mhm."
"And she won't explode?"
His mouth twitched. "Shouldn't."
"Excellent. I've always hated surprises."
He smiled again.
God.
The full transaction lasted less than five minutes, still, neither of you moved, a strange reluctance hung in the air.
Daryl shifted awkwardly, and you adjusted your purse strap.
"Well–"
"I uh–"
You overlapped eachother. You both smiled awkwardly.
"Ya can go first." he motioned for you to say. The poor man looked genuinely uncomfortable, as though he wanted to say something and had absolutely no idea how, perhaps that was what gave you the courage.
"Can I ask you something?"
His eyebrows rose slightly.
"Mhm."
"You don't... happen to drink whiskey, do you?"
The question seemed to catch him entirely off guard.
"Huh?"
"As a thank-you," you clarified quickly. "For rescuing miserable women stranded on highways and saving their outrageously expensive cars." Immediately, he shook his head.
"You ain't gotta do that."
"I know."
"Really."
"I know."
"So don't."
You smiled.
"Daryl."
"Mhm?"
"I'm asking because I want to."
If he was a cartoon, his head would've shaped into a question mark, because men like Daryl Dixon didn't spend much time being pursued.
The tips of his ears burned hot again, and to your immense delight, he looked down. He was adorable.
"Just a drink?" he asked quietly.
You smiled.
"Just a drink."
It turned out that "just a drink" became one too many.
And then dinner.
Because once Daryl relaxed enough to stop worrying about saying the wrong thing, you discovered that beneath the shyness and quiet grunts lived a man with a dry sense of humor and a kindness so effortless that it almost hurt. He listened when you spoke. Really listened. He remembered things you mentioned in passing. He laughed softly at your jokes, even the terrible ones, and whenever you caught him looking at you, there was always that same expression in his eyes.
Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. By the time the bartender announced last call, neither of you had noticed the hours passing.
Outside, the air had cooled considerably, and the streetlights cast soft pools of gold onto the sidewalk.
"Thanks." Daryl murmured as the two of you lingered beside his bike.
You blinked.
"For what?"
He shrugged.
"Tonight."
It was palpable neither of you were eager to say goodbye. You stood there smiling like idiots, no one willing to leave first.
"You know," you said softly, "for a man who can rebuild an engine, you're surprisingly bad at this."
His brow furrowed.
"Bad at what?"
"Taking signs."
And with it came the most endearing blush you'd ever witnessed. "Never said I was good at it."
"No?"
"No."
You stepped closer.
"So what exactly are you waiting for?" he swallowed dry. Then, with all the caution of a man handling something precious, Daryl reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His fingers trembled slightly, and your hands traveled one to his arm and the other to the nape of his neck, pulling him in to close the distance you couldn't wait for him to do so anymore.
His lips were warm, a little dry, tasting faintly of beer and whiskey. One hand settled lightly against your waist, hesitant enough that it made your chest ache, and you found yourself smiling against his mouth because somehow, impossibly, the intimidating mechanic with the beautiful eyes seemed far more nervous than you were.
When you finally pulled away, Daryl looked slightly dazed. His cheeks were red and eyes impossibly soft.
"You got any idea what you're doin' to me?"
You smiled innocently.
"No."
His laugh was soft and helpless.
"Imma need more of this." and he leaned to kiss you again, for the second of so many times you'd loose count on that night.
butch who says things like “gotta get back home to the mrs,” “the wife’s got special plans for us this weekend” when they talk about their femme at work
(farm era) daryl dixon’s girlfriend who is just the judgiest bitch alive. she sits doing her chores, gossiping with anyone she can, but especially with daryl of course. they especially love gossiping about shane, and once she finds out about shane and lori and the pregnancy? god daryl has to force her to keep her mouth shut cause she’s ready to tell everyone
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