Maggie Atwood 💀 @maggie-atwood - Tumblr Blog

Of All People | Daryl Dixon x Reader

synopsis: When Rick’s group first arrives in Alexandria, they’re met with cautious stares and strict protocols—but nothing surprises them more than the community’s head guard: you. Calm, sharp, and untouchable, you’ve shut down every romantic advance since the walls went up.

So when Daryl Dixon walks in—bloodied, brooding, and barely speaking—and you suddenly start acting like you're ready to risk it all.

The men of Alexandria are confused. Rick’s group is suspicious.

And Daryl?

He’s just trying to figure out why the scariest, most beautiful woman in the safe zone keeps looking at him like he’s something worth staying for.

w/c: 4.9k

warnings: usual TWD gore

a/n: i'll be honest right now, after having the worst writer's block for a year, i genuinely thought i'll never post on this account again. and then i decided to rewatching the walking dead. lmao enjoy some dixon fluff

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Dunno 'er (Part 1)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be just another hunting trip turns sideways when you cross paths with a group of armed, bald creeps who seem more cult than crew. Captured and dragged into their cold, clinical regime, you and Daryl are forced to pretend you’re strangers—just two more bodies in their machine. With your daughter back home, waiting for your return, survival isn’t just about making it out alive—it’s about holding onto what’s yours. You've got to fake it till you make it baby.

Era: Post-six-year time jump.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, some fluff, slow-burn psychological tension, undercover drama, emotional hurt/comfort, dark humour, cult dystopia, established relationship, survival thriller

Warnings: Graphic violence, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, captivity, cult themes (indoctrination/assimilation), sexual harrassment, emotional distress, weapon use, reference to childbirth trauma and motherhood, forced separation, mention of infant loss (as a lie), emotional manipulation, strong language, suggestive dialogue, unhinged banter, mentions of torture, and oppressive regime ideology.

Auther's note: Nothing much to say really if you like this you're gonna love part 2 (it has smut hehehe 😈). Why don't I just write stupid short fluffy stuff so you don't lose your mind tryiing to ptoofread your long ass fics? Oh idk cause i hate myself 😃 Anyway enjoy and lemme know what ya think🙈

The woods were quiet in that honeyed, late-afternoon kind of way—the hour when the light poured down through the pines in long golden shafts and everything seemed suspended, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Somewhere off to the left, a bird called out low and slow, and the trees rustled with the lazy hush of wind threading through branches. It was peaceful in that deceptive, makes-you-forget-you’re-still-in-the-apocalypse kind of way.

Dog was in a world of his own, padding soundlessly through the underbrush with his nose low and ears alert, every inch of him the seasoned scout, weaving between the trees in wide, lazy arcs like he’d done a thousand times. Daryl walked slightly ahead of you, crossbow slung across his back, grumbling to himself like some kind of backwoods thundercloud in a leather vest. Every time his boot hit a stick or his elbow bumped a branch, he muttered louder.

“Y’know,” you called after him, smiling like a fox, "for someone of your supposed stealth caliber, you sure sound like a one-man marching band.'

He glanced over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t the one who’s soundin’ like they need an inhaler.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you huffed, tossing your arms in theatrical exasperation. “If I knew we were doin’ cardio, I’da worn my good bra. I thought this was gonna be quality time with my husband—not a vivid reminder that breastfeeding ruined my center of gravity.”

That pulled a twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. "This is quality time," he retorted. "You bitchin', me enjoyin' the view.'

You attempted a scowl his way but faltered completely, just grinning like an idiot. Teasing aside, he would never get used to you calling him your ‘husband,’ and he would never admit to it, but it made his chest flutter slightly every time.

You trotted forward a little until you were close enough to bump his shoulder with yours. “Dani said you looked like a Sasquatch when you dropped her off this. Dunno where the hell she is learning those words from but she told me to tell you that you need ‘less scowl and more sparkle.’ Her words.”

“Told her she was lucky to even get a walk to school. Sulkin in the morning cause we were headin’ out later.”

“You love it,” you said, looping your arm through his as you walked. “You let her ride on your shoulders the whole way there and gave her your bandana so she could ‘look tough like Daddy.’”

“She’s five,” he muttered. “Don’t need to be lookin’ tough.”

“She made you wear her pink backpack the whole way home.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Said it was heavy and her legs were tired.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She rode on your shoulders the entire walk.”

“She said her arms were tired, too.”

You grinned. “Ya know she drew a picture of it in her journal and told her teacher, quote, ‘My daddy’s real strong ‘cause he can carry me and my stuff and he only complains a little.’”

That one cracked him, just a little. His mouth tipped into a slow, reluctant smile and he shook his head. “She’s too damn smart for her own good.”

“Gee, wonder where she gets that from,” you said sweetly, leaning into his side. “Not from you, that’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Oh yeah?” he raised his eyebrows in question; “What did she get from me then?”

“The patented Dixon brand of sulking in silence until someone guesses what’s wrong. She does it when I don’t cut her sandwich right.”

Daryl made a face like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Not when it was true. Not when you were looking at him like that.

“She’s a drama queen,” he replied, wiping a smudge of dirt from your face to get a reaction from you, which of course worked, with you swiping his hand away to do it yourself. “Gets it from you,” he finished with a smirk.

“She gets it from me?” you echoed, all mock-offended. “You’re the one who gets all worked up when someone goes near your bike.”

He shrugged, noncommittal—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smirk he was trying to swallow.

“You mean to tell me,” you went on, walking backwards so you were facing him, “that you, Daryl Dixon, most dramatic man in the tri-county area, think I’m the diva?”

In two long strides he caught up to you, now toe-to-toe, his hands found your waist like second nature—fingers curling around your hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

He dipped his head, murmuring low, close to your mouth. “I think you talk too much.”

“Jokes on you - you married me.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said—gruff, teasing—then kissed the corner of your smirk just to shut you up.

You laughed into it, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t heard anything more true. “Mhmm.”

You smiled at him, leaning in slowly, lips brushing his—soft, smug, almost taunting. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, tugged just enough to make you gasp, then kissed you proper—slow and greedy, like it was his favorite habit.

You lingered, lips still brushing his; “hey, y’know, I was thinking—it’s pretty quiet out here—”

“Don’t,” he said immediately, sidestepping you.

You gasped, mock-offended. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

He gave you a look—half fond, half warning. “Always know what you’re gonna say. You get that look in your eyes when you’re about to start somethin’.” He pointed lazily at your face. “That one. Right there.”

“Oh, but it’s already started,” you said, catching up to him with a wicked little smirk.

You slung your bow off your shoulder, circling him with that slow, swaggering walk he always pretended not to watch. “Tell you what - first one to drop dinner wins,” you said, all innocent-like. “Loser’s gotta go down tonight.”

Daryl blinked, once. Then narrowed his eyes. “You serious? What is it with you n’ that?”

You gave a dramatic little shrug, like it didn’t mean anything at all. “Because it usually works out pretty well for me - that’s why.”

By ‘pretty' well you mean 'mind-blowing-level' well but that goes without saying.

“I mean, unless you’re scared,” you said, drawing out the word like it was a dare. “S’fine if you don’t think you can perform under pressure.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched—trying not to smile.

“Aww,” you teased, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. “What’s the matter, babe? You chicken? C’mon. Rules are simple; win, and I’ll make you see stars. Lose, and I get to sit on your face. Sound fair?”

He rolled his eyes like you were exhausting, but his hand was already going to his crossbow. “…You’re on. Ten says you scare everything off with your talkin’ before you even get a shot off.”

You were already stepping backward into the trees, walking in reverse with a wink. “Mmhm. Go ahead - put your money where your mouth’s gonna be—literally.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared you down like he was already fucking you with his eyes. He walked over to you, stopping when you were face to face with him, his hand going to your ass and delivering a playful squeeze.

“When I win,” he said, voice low and rough, bringing up his finger to point at your mouth; “I’m gonna sit back and letcha prove just how smart that mouth of yours really is.”

"Hmmm," you hummed, stutting further into the underbrush with a sway of your hips before calling back to him; “better shoot straight then, baby.”

——

Your arrow cracked through the trees like a knife —clean, sharp, final. You didn’t even need to check. You already knew you’d hit it.

Daryl exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man holding back a lot of things: irritation, pride, arousal, maybe all three.

You turned on your heel with a grin so smug it could power a small city. “Ha! Well, well, well. Looks like I win.”

He didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look. To anyone else, that look would’ve read like a death glare—sharp, lethal, the kind of stare that promised blood and followed through—but you knew better, knew the twitch in his jaw wasn’t rage but restraint, the low simmer of a man three seconds from calculating whether the tree line offered enough privacy to absolutely rail you into the moss without a single goddamn witness. You ignored his stare; for the most part.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder with a victorious little sway. “Last time you looked at me like that, we ended up with Dani—so unless you’re prepared to give her a sibling, I suggest you remember the deal. I won fair and square, Dixon.”

Still nothing from him. Just that tight-lipped, jaw-flexing silence that always meant he was trying real hard not to rise to your bait.

You clicked your tongue, triumphant, and started backing away toward the fallen squirrel with a grin that was all teeth. “Better start hydrating now, baby,” you called over your shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear a single complaint when you’re down there fulfilling your husbandly duties later.”

That got you a grunt. Low. Muted. Real damn close to a groan. Which meant you were winning twice.

“You know,” you added, voice sing-song, “I’m starting to think you let me win. Missed your favorite meal, huh?”

“Get your damn squirrel, woman, and let’s go,” he snapped—but his voice cracked just enough to tell you exactly where his head was at.

You smirked, stepping into the trees with a little extra sway in your hips. “Eager,” you murmured. “I like that.”

You turned with a victorious little strut, weaving through the brush toward the base of the tree where your prize had dropped. The woods were quiet, still golden with afternoon light, the kind of peace that made you feel safe in a way you knew better than to trust.

You bent to withdraw your arrow and scooped up the squirrel by the tail, turning it over to check the shot placement—clean, right through the chest—when a sharp rustle hit your ears. Not the kind made by an animal. Not random.

The sound that cracked through the hush was sharp and calculated, a deliberate misstep masked as accident, but you knew better than to believe in coincidences this far from the walls.

You didn’t make a noise Because just up ahead, Daryl was standing still—not stiff, not frozen by fear or surprise, but loose in that heavy, deliberate way he only moved when his senses were screaming louder than his words ever could, the kind of stillness that meant something had gone very wrong and his body was already three steps into the fight before the threat even had time to finish blinking.

Your eyes scanned the clearing, carefully, patiently, reading the space the way others might read a prayer—quiet, reverent, alert—and it didn’t take long to count them.

There were five of them, strangers in dark clothes with cruel faces, positioned like they’d done this sort of thing before—two flanking, two circling, one front and center like a stage actor performing for an audience he didn’t think could fight back.

One of them held Dog by the collar, gripping so tightly the poor mutt was practically vibrating with restrained fury, his snarl pulled taut like a bowstring and his teeth bared in a promise that would’ve made most men hesitate, though this one clearly wasn’t most men, because he didn’t seem to care.

Three more stood behind Daryl, their stances loose but not casual, one of them spinning a knife in lazy loops that didn’t look practiced so much as ritualistic, the rhythm hypnotic in its disregard for the tension winding the air between all of you.

But it was the man in front—the one who made your stomach coil and your fingers press just a little harder against the bowstring—who really mattered.

He stood tall and unmasked, built like a man who knew how to make his body a weapon, the kind of posture that said he didn’t need backup to be a threat. A jagged scar curved down the side of his face like a branding iron pressed into bone, catching the light with every tilt of his head — not the kind of wound that happened by accident, but one someone chose to wear like a name. His skin was pale, almost waxy in the half-light, but his features were all bite: sharp cheekbones, cruel mouth, and eyes the color of shattered ice. He had that look — the kind that made people cross the street, that made authority hesitate, that said he’d hurt things for fun and walked away clean every time. Al Pacino’s Scarface looked like a knockoff toy version of him. This guy was the real deal.

“Well, shit,” he drawled, voice smooth and slow, like he was savoring every syllable as he gave Daryl a long, sweeping once-over, his eyes dragging across him not with curiosity, but with the kind of sick appraisal that made your skin itch. “Ain’t this a surprise.”

Daryl didn’t react - just stared him down as if that would be enough to make them go away. The man stepped closer, boots soft on the mossy forest floor, hands swinging loose at his sides in a mockery of casual calm, the kind of predator confidence that didn’t need to raise a weapon to make a threat known.

“Didn’t think we’d find anyone worth our time this far out,” he continued, words syrupy with false friendliness, though the blade underneath it was unmistakable, “usually it’s just loners, runners, half-starved little roaches crawlin’ through the woods hoping not to be noticed.”

Still, Daryl said nothing. His eyes flicked—barely—past the man’s shoulder. Toward you. His gaze was quick, tense. Go.

You stayed exactly where you were, crouched in the shadows, the bowstring already kissed and humming beneath your fingers, your breath ghosting slow against your lip as you waited—not with fear, not with panic, but with the bone-deep patience of someone who had done this before and would do it again.

The man didn’t step forward. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, squared in the clearing like he’d already laid claim to it, his hands at his sides and his voice calm enough to scrape the nerves raw.

“My name is Marshal,” he said, not bothering with flair or warmth, the syllables crisp and almost bureaucratic, like he was introducing himself at a staff meeting instead of standing over a bloodstained forest floor. He didn’t wait for a handshake. Didn’t expect one. The name was a statement, not a courtesy.

Daryl said nothing. Not even a twitch of his jaw.

But Marshal, to his credit, didn’t seem offended. If anything, the silence appeared to amuse him, like he’d been hoping for it. He let his gaze wander lazily over Daryl’s frame, not in assessment, but with the idle confidence of someone who always assumed they held the upper hand.

“You know,” he said eventually, his tone lighter now, but no less pointed, “the quiet ones are always the ones with the best secrets.” He tilted his head just slightly, the edge of a smirk curling one side of his mouth like a reflex more than an expression. “So I’ll ask nicely—only once. You out here alone?”

Nothing. Daryl’s jaw ticked. Without realising, you pulled back harder on the string.

“That a yes?” the man pressed, voice light but sharpening at the edges. “Or you just don’t like my face?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.

Daryl’s jaw ticked—just once, sharp and hard—and the tension pulled so tight inside your chest you thought it might snap.

“Yeah I’m alone. Just me and the Dog out here.” The lie rolled naturally off his tongue, however it didn’t seem to do the trick.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Knife Guy shifting behind Daryl, like he was about to pat him down or worse. That was the moment. That was it.

The itch in your fingers was too much. You let go.

The arrow sang through the clearing, slicing the air in a single, unbroken line that barely rustled the leaves it passed, and in that fraction of a breath between release and impact, the world stood still in the way it always did just before violence made itself known.

It struck the man in the chest with a dull, wet crack—not a scream, not a roar, just a sudden and final exhale as his body recoiled, legs buckling beneath him like a marionette with its strings severed, the momentum of the shot folding him backwards onto the earth as though the ground had opened up to reclaim him.

The silence that followed was not shock but calculation, the space between impact and response stretched just wide enough for one heartbeat—yours—and then it all rushed forward at once.

The nearest man spun toward you with a shout tearing from his throat, his feet thundering over the forest floor as he charged with his weapon raised, but you were already moving, already rising, already meeting him head-on with the kind of brutal, practiced grace that turned instinct into muscle memory.

You caught his arm before the swing could land, your fingers locking around his wrist as you turned with the motion and brought your knee hard into the bend of his leg, using his own speed against him, driving him down into the earth with a thud that forced the breath from his chest and the balance from his bones.

Before he could recover, before anyone else could reach you, your knee was braced against his back, your handgun was out, and the cold metal of the barrel was pressed flush against the side of his skull.

Click.

The sound of the safety disengaging cut louder than any shout, and in that moment the clearing froze again, every movement suspended in an uneasy stillness, the tension folding in on itself as weapons hovered half-raised, as Dog growled low and furious in his captor’s grip, as Daryl’s eyes flicked between you and the men like he was already choosing which one he’d drop first.

The man beneath you stayed very still.

“Easy there little lady,” the man said, but still not lowering his weapon “no one else has gotta die here… not unless you make it so.”

“Sounds pretty tempting,” you said, gun pressing harder into the man’s temple. Dog let out a whine, as if begging you not to make things worse; but that was kinda out of character for you.

“So you aren’t alone,” The guy said to Daryl, voice slightly rising in volume.

“I am… dunno her,” he replied, eyes darting between you and scarface.

You arched a brow, not breaking focus, but somewhere behind the tension you appreciated the quick thinking, the way he slipped into the lie without hesitation, the way it played into your hands like you’d planned it together.

“Yep,” you said, your tone breezy despite the gun still pressed to the stranger’s temple, “figured I’d be a good Samaritan and step in to save the poor guy and his dog. Y’know, just doing my civic duty. You boys believe in that sort of thing, right?”

The sarcasm slid off your tongue like silk, but the truth was already shifting beneath the surface of the moment, something you could feel in your stomach before your mind could name it.

You spoke again, this time with more stern; “Listen here Mr Clean; you’re gonna let this guy and his dog go, and we can all go on our merry way.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat; something told you that these guys wouldn’t go for the bait.

“Or what?” Marshal asked, his voice low and almost amused, like the whole exchange was nothing more than a curiosity, a story he’d tell later. “You gonna shoot him, then kill all of us?”

He looked you over from head to toe—not with fear, not with caution, but with the kind of condescending smirk that said he didn’t believe you had it in you.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he said this;

“Do it.”

For the first time since your arrow flew, your grip wavered—not with fear, not with doubt, but with confusion, because there was no tremble in his voice, no hint of bluster or false courage, just calm, almost bored resolve.

You studied his face, searching for a crack, a flicker of guilt, something—anything—that would mark him as human, but there was nothing there beyond ice and conviction.

“What, getting nervous now?” he asked, cocking his head as he gestured wide to the men around him, to the man you were pinning, to the man holding Dog, to Daryl, to the still body behind him cooling in the leaves. “See, there are plenty more where he came from. He’s replaceable. We all are”

Your stomach turned slowly, something cold creeping along the edge of your spine, and when you looked to Daryl, his expression mirrored your own—no longer tense with violence, but with something deeper, something stranger, a knowing that this wasn’t just another ragtag ambush in the woods.

You looked down to the man beneath you, expecting resistance, maybe a flicker of fear, but instead you found him staring back up with calm, hollow eyes, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to plead or protest.

“To serve The Creed is to survive.”

You blinked once.

The words didn’t register at first, not fully, not with the weight they carried.

They sounded rehearsed. Like a motto. Like something he’d said a hundred times before.

You looked around the clearing again, to the others, to their expressions—unmoving, unwavering, untouched by the death or the danger or the very real threat of violence.

Either they were the best bluffers you’d ever seen…

…or they were completely unhinged.

You drew a long breath, slow and deep, and exhaled it like you were shedding something heavy.

Then, with a soft mutter beneath your breath—“I’m not gonna shoot ya”—you eased the gun back from the man’s head and stood slowly, offering him your hand like a peace gesture carved from something sharp and ironic.

He hesitated, just briefly, perplexed, then accepted it nonetheless .

You helped him to his feet with a small, polite smile, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders as he looked at you, clearly confused, clearly unarmed, clearly wrong to assume anything.

From the edge of the clearing, one of the armed men let out a low, amused chuckle — the kind that reeked of dismissal and cheap bravado. His gaze dragged lazily down the length of you, then flicked back to his companions with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Knew she didn’t have it in her,” he muttered, like he was doing them the favor of stating the obvious.

You met his gaze without blinking, something colder curling behind your eyes — not fire, not fury, but that hollow kind of calm that came just before something terrible.

“Right.” SNAP.

The motion was fast, practised, fluid—nothing about it hasty or messy. Blink and you missed it.

You stepped forward, reached around the man you had just pulled up from the dirt, and without a single wasted moment, you braced your hand at the back of his head and twisted sharply to the side.

The sound that followed was quiet but final—a soft, vile crack that echoed louder in the silence than any gunshot.

The body dropped like dead weight.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look down.

You just stood over him, breathing slow and steady. The rest of them stood stunned, as if the script had suddenly changed and no one had passed them the new lines.

Except for him.

Except for the one who had been watching you the whole time like he had been waiting for this exact moment, like he’d known what you would do before you did it.

He turned to face you fully, his head tilting slightly, and the grin on his face never once slipped.

“Now you’re definitely coming with me bitch.” His voice was almost reverent, almost amused, eyes glittering with something dark and pleased. “You just cost me two of my brothers. ”

You stepped into the clearing with your bow now drawn, arrow notched, your posture calm, steady, lethal.

The third arrow rested against the string like a promise.

“Three if you keep talkin’.l”

The scarred man laughed—full-bodied, amused, like you’d just entertained him far better than he’d expected to be today.

“Oh, I like this,” he said. “This is fun. This is real fun.”

Then his voice changed. It was subtle. But you heard the shift. A coldness bleeding in around the edges.

“Bag ‘em both,” he said.

Before you could let your arrow fly—before you could even fully shift your weight—something slammed into your ribs from behind, a hard, focused jab from the butt of a rifle or a boot or maybe just someone’s elbow delivered with military precision.

Your knees gave out before you even realized they’d locked. The ground came up hard and unyielding, slamming into your shoulder and hip, bark and grit grinding into your skin, your cheek mashed into the loamy earth that smelled like rot and pine sap. Your lungs stuttered against the weight of it, each breath arriving late, shallow and wrong, your limbs jerking in spasms that looked more like refusal than resistance. You weren’t out, not fully, Dog's erratic barking was still very much echoing through all of Virginia, but whatever was coursing through you had hijacked your body, pulled the strings loose and left you twitching, scrambling, powerless.

Daryl moved before he thought. “Hey—” The word cracked out sharp and rough, more breath than voice, but it carried. It punched through the silence like a warning shot, a reflex yanked from the gut, unfiltered and fast.

And then he stepped.

He didn’t lunge, not fully. Didn’t throw the first punch. But the second your body hit the dirt, he surged toward you, a single pace, like muscle memory alone had yanked him forward. He didn’t even realise he’d done it until the barrel of a rifle knocked sideways into his ribs and a hand shoved hard against his chest.

“Don’t try it,” someone snapped, the safety click loud and deliberate, like punctuation on a threat.

“I told you,” Daryl said through clenched teeth, “I don’t fuckin’ know her.”

“Mhm,” you muttered into the dirt, “and yet you’re still talkin’.”

You were halfway upright, already shifting your weight to stand—ready to hold your ground, to meet whatever came next with teeth bared and spine straight—but something struck the side of your head—not with the full intent to kill, but with enough weight behind it to scatter your thoughts like broken teeth in the dark.

You barely heard the crunch of leaves before Daryl’s voice cracked through the static one last time.

Then nothing.

———-

You woke to the sound of your own breath—shallow, uneven, catching in your throat like it had been fleeing something long before your eyes opened. The cold wasn’t the natural chill of the woods —it was the kind that clung to poured concrete, lifeless and stale, a chill that sank into your bones and made your skin feel thinner.

The light overhead was a jaundiced white, flickering just enough to make the silence feel haunted. A low electrical whine buzzed at the edges of your ears, almost imperceptible but persistent, like a mosquito in the dark.

When you moved, you felt the rope first. Not coarse, not kind—just tight enough to rub skin raw if you tested it. Your arms were cinched behind the back of a metal chair, your ankles fastened to its legs. A pulsing ache had settled into your shoulders.

Across the room—bare, concrete, windowless—Daryl sat slouched in a matching chair. His posture was deceptively slack, but you knew better. His fingers twitched faintly behind the ropes, already reading the bindings like a map, already planning. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Blood streaked down his temple, painting a line along the crease of his jaw, and his hair hung damp against his face, but none of it masked the panic beneath his scowl. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, like his lungs hadn’t caught up with the sight of you still standing.

His gaze scoured your face first—your pupils, your mouth, the side of your head where the blood had dried—then dropped down, darting across every inch of you like he was counting injuries. Like he was checking for anything you weren’t showing. His eyes burned into the rope at your wrists. Your knees. Your posture. Your breathing. Every tiny thing you didn’t say.

You good? he mouthed, jaw tight, eyes wide and wild with restraint.

You gave the smallest nod, not because it was true, but because it was the only answer you had. Survival wasn’t pretty—it didn’t leave much room for poetry. Your lips were split. Your head throbbed. But your spine was still holding, so that was something.

His jaw twitched. He looked back at the door behind him, then back to you.

Then—barely a whisper, rough as gravel and sharp with hope—“Think you can slip outta them ropes?”

"workin' on it,' you whispered back. You can worry about your rope burns getting infected later if you managed to get free. You couldn't do that if you were dead.

The door opened with a groan of metal dragged against metal, loud and long and intentional. Marshal stepped in, wearing a grin too wide to be real, accompanied by two other foot soldiers who stood guard by the door. The man's familiar scar ran from temple to jaw on one side of his face, cutting through the smile like a wound that never healed right.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just let the silence stretch thin and mean between the three of you, like he was waiting for the atmosphere to sweat.

Finally, Marshal stepped forward, boots echoing on the floor, his hands loose at his sides like he had all the time in the world to get what he wanted.

“So,” he murmured, circling the space between you. “Still sticking to the story? You two don’t know each other?”

You kept your eyes steady on his face, refusing to glance at Daryl. Any slip, any twitch, could give you both away.

The man’s boots tapped a steady rhythm across the floor, the kind of pacing meant to unnerve, each step heavy with intention, like he was winding something up inside the room. “I’ve seen a lot of liars,” he began, dragging the words out with lazy confidence, his voice pitched just low enough to make your skin crawl. “I’ve been lied to by the best—hell, I’ve trained people to lie. But even the good ones crack when someone they care about’s in the room.”

He came to a slow stop in front of Daryl, studying him the way someone might examine a mutt at a shelter—curious, condescending, waiting for signs of obedience. “She’s awful protective of you,” he continued, and though his tone hovered on the edge of admiration, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth was anything but kind. “Kinda sweet. Funny, too. For a stranger.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head, just kept the man’s gaze. But the cords in his neck stood out beneath the dirt and sweat, tight as drawn wire, and though his body stayed still, the tension radiating from him was loud enough to be deafening.

The man turned to you, slowly, like he was savouring the moment, dragging it out just to see how much discomfort he could pull from the air. “And you,” he said, eyes glinting, “I gotta say, I like your style. All that mouth. All those arrows. Righteous little bitch, huh?”

“Actually, that’s 'Little Miss Righteous Bitch' to you, Marshal Microdick.” You gave him your sweetest smile, the kind that usually came right before bloodshed Daryl exhaled through his nose, low and sharp, shooting you a look that said plain as day: You just had to make it worse, didn’t you?

Marshal's smile grew wider, his eyes never leaving your face as he moved to crouch in front of you. This guy had a PhD in being creepy; looking up at you now, his eyes bore into yours, it made you feel so irrevocably exposed. His stare didn’t undress you; it dissected you — like you were the frog in a middle school science class, and he was the kid who smiled too much while holding the scalpel. “Tell me something,” he said, his voice falling softer now, almost curious. “You got any kids?”

The question landed wrong, jarring in its shift, as if someone had skipped a page in a story. There's deflection and then there's deflection. You just called his dick tiny and now he wants to know about your family status? You looked to Daryl, to see if you had misheard the question, only to see that he was staring back at you, face slighty pale. Yep, you heard the man right. Your breath caught for the smallest of moments before you answered, a beat too fast to be smooth. “No.”

It wasn’t believable. You knew it as soon as it left your lips. And from the way his eyes narrowed, the slow smirk that pulled at his face, he knew it too. The knife appeared in his hand with unsettling ease, as if he hadn’t drawn it so much as conjured it from the very bones of the room.

His presence was so close now that you could taste the rot on his breath, could feel the heat of his body where the cold had ruled before. The blade teased the fabric of your shirt where it dipped over the valley of your breast, and you went still—not out of fear, but out of instinct, knowing that any twitch, any tremble, would only feed him. If he simply pushed forward, that was it. You were dead. Behind your back, your fingers curled against the rope.

Daryl surged forward in his chair, the scrape of the legs loud and jarring, his growl nearly animal. “The fuck you doin'?”

Marshal didn’t acknowledge him. He dragged the blade through your shirt with a kind of methodical cruelty, not rushed or frenzied, but deliberate — like he’d done it before and wanted you to know it. The fabric didn’t tear so much as it surrendered, parting inch by inch beneath the tip, splitting with a sound too soft to match the violation of it. First your bra came into view, then the smooth plane of your abdomen, the curve of your navel, the soft rise of your lower belly — until your shirt was no more than a pathetic flap clinging to your spine, the flimsy remains of modesty hanging on by a thread. The light betrayed, the sweat that covered your upper body apparent.. From behimd you heard footsteps shuffling closer. The 'guards' apparently needed to keep a closer eye on you now that your shirt was no more.

Daryl’s shoulders shifted with a sudden, barely-contained jerk, his wrists twisting hard against the restraints like he could brute-force them apart on willpower alone. His breathing was shallow, nostrils flared, eyes fixed on you with a rising panic he couldn’t mask anymore—like every inch of his body was screaming to move, to reach you, to stop whatever the hell was about to happen.

You forced yourself to breathe, slowly, deliberately, as the chill hit your skin, and when his fingers reached for the button of your jeans, you flinched despite yourself. He peeled back the waistband, just enough. Enough to see.

Your scar. Pale and unforgiving. A line etched by love, by pain, by survival.

He sat back slightly, something sharp and curious glittering in his eyes now, as if the final piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. “Interesting,” he murmured, dragging the point of his knife along the edge of the scar. “Saw this earlier—back in the woods. Just a flash. But up close? That’s a birth scar. Can’t be more than a couple of years old tops.

You closed your eyes, expecting to feel the white hot slicing of your flesh, but it never came. The chill that swept through you then was not from the room. Daryl’s voice cracked the air in response, not loud, but deep and fierce, a line drawn in blood. “Stop.”

That single word seemed to please the man more than any scream would have. He turned to Daryl with something wicked behind his eyes, something giddy, like he’d finally peeled back the last layer of a game he’d been playing alone. “Didn’t take much to get you talkin’, huh?”

Still, Daryl didn’t rise to it. He looked at your defeated face, then at your abdomen; “she’s someone’s mom.”

There it was—truth spoken like a prayer, low and reverent and shaking beneath the weight of restraint. His eyes flashed to yours, then to that familiar scar on your abdomen that he had traced, kissed, caressed a million times, only now it hurt to look at, because it meant leverage for those who wanted to hurt his family.

“The baby,” you said, and the words caught sharp behind your teeth like barbed wire, dragging as they came out. “She didn’t make it.”

You kept your eyes pinned to the floor, as if looking up might shatter the last fragile thread holding your composure together. The lie burned on your tongue, every syllable tasting like grief you didn’t want to imagine. But your voice didn’t crack from pretending — it cracked from the truth underneath it, from the unbearable thought of her not surviving, even in fiction. Your chest ached with the pressure of it, tears welling in your eyes, hot and honest. You didn’t look at Daryl. You couldn’t. One glance and whatever was left of your control would splinter to pieces.

You sat motionless, the remains of your shirt clinging to your ribs, the scar exposed, your skin aching with shame and fury and the deep, gut-level fear of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. You finally met Daryl’s gaze just for a heartbeat, and the grief that passed between you was heavy and wordless—because he was pretending not to know you to protect you, and that lie was a noose around both your throats.

The man stepped back at last, brushing off his hands like your body was something he was done dissecting. “You got pretty lies,” he said, too calm now. "Cry pretty too."

You glared at him with a glassy stare. Usually now you would make some bitchy remark about his bald head, but you couldn't fimd the words.

Before Daryl could protest, before you could brace yourself, the two men who were standing idly by were on you—grabbing, lifting, and dragging you.

You didn’t fight. Not then. Not because you were afraid, but because your fight was still calculating. Still waiting. You turned your head just enough to catch one last look at Daryl, whose eyes were burning with fear.

The door slammed shut with a finality that stole the air from your lungs, and the cold rushed in again, swallowing you whole.

——-

They didn’t simply shove you through the doorway—they dragged you like something unwanted and inconvenient, a burdensome weight rather than a person, their hands impersonal and rough as they gripped your upper arms and forced you forward until your boots scraped against the concrete with resistance. One of them, the taller one with the dead eyes, pressed the cold muzzle of a rifle against your spine with just enough pressure to remind you who held control, and when the rusted door finally groaned open on hinges that screeched like an animal in pain, they didn’t hesitate—they tossed you inside like you were nothing more than trash at the end of their shift.

You hit the ground hard, the collision knocking the breath from your lungs and sending a jolt of agony up your shoulder as it took the full brunt of the fall. Your hip followed, then your knees, scraping raw against the grit of the floor as dust and gravel scattered beneath you, clinging to your torn clothes and skin as if eager to mark you further. Your hand landed on something sharp—metal maybe, or broken plastic—and you hissed through your teeth, curling your palm protectively while trying to gather what little dignity you had left.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the slow settling of your breath and the final clunk of the door as it slammed behind you, sealing in the cold and sealing out any remaining illusion that you were still in control of your fate.

You stayed on your knees longer than you should have, arms shaking from the tension you’d been holding since they first separated you from Daryl. The silence was thick, suffocating, broken only by the fading echo of footsteps and the distant hum of something electrical—a light perhaps, or a fan that hadn’t worked in years but still emitted that nauseating buzz. The air smelled of mildew and rust, thick with the sour scent of old sweat and something that reminded you of dried blood, and though you hadn’t yet looked around, you already knew what kind of place this was.

When you finally lifted your head, blinking the grit from your eyes, you took in your surroundings with the caution of someone half expecting to see bones. The cell was narrow and windowless, the walls poured concrete, cracked and flaking in places where time had eaten through the paint. Old graffiti—names, tallies, desperate phrases carved with fingernails or knives—clung to the back wall like ghosts, and in the far corner, a cot sagged with the weight of neglect, its mattress stained, its frame bent inwards like it had given up the effort to hold weight long ago. Near the center of the room, a small drain was embedded in the floor, surrounded by a ring of dark discoloration that your brain refused to label, and scrawled into the concrete above it, deep and angry, was a single phrase that made your stomach tighten.

TO SERVE THE CREED IS TO SURVIVE.

The words from earlier - that man's final words

You closed your eyes, heart pounding, the words branding themselves into your brain. You wanted to laugh, maybe, or scream, but your throat was too dry for either, so instead you leaned your head back against the wall and let the ache in your bones settle while you clutched at the fabric of your torn shirt, trying to warm yourself, trying to feel something other than helpless. But the silence didn’t last.

Somewhere beyond the wall, muffled but close enough to bleed through the cracks, you heard the sound of voices—low at first, then louder, angrier, the kind of cadence that made your body stiffen instinctively. You held your breath and shifted toward the source, pressing your ear to the chill of the wall as you tried to decipher what was being said.

Then you heard it—a grunt, unmistakable, raw with defiance and pain—and your heart stopped mid-beat.

Daryl.

You froze, every muscle going rigid, and then a second sound cut through the tension like a blade—something sharp, like a fist against flesh, followed by the low scrape of a chair dragging across concrete and the dull thud of boots shifting unevenly beneath weight.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening.

You could picture it clearly—the way he would sit with his chin low, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his hands curling into fists even though they couldn’t swing, the look in his eyes daring them to try harder. Your breath hitched as you imagined his face—the blood, the stubborn set of his mouth—and when the door creaked open again somewhere down the hall and another voice joined the fray, colder, more practiced, you knew without a doubt that this was the man in charge.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening—didn’t need to watch the blows land or hear the chair legs screech to feel the echo of it vibrating in your ribs like a warning. You knew Daryl’s body like your own. You could hear the way he held pain in his breath, could imagine the stubborn set of his jaw as his fists curled against rope and frustration, knew he’d be taking hits with that same quiet defiance that made people hate him or fear him or both. And you knew—without a shred of doubt—that he hadn’t said a word.

Not until they made him.

Not until they started looking for cracks.

There was a lull in the rhythm now. You heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged, the low murmur of voices you couldn’t quite catch. Then came the familiar cadence of boots on concrete, slower this time, almost casual in the way only true danger could be.

Marshal.

His voice cut through the corridor like a blade dulled by disuse—still sharp, but serrated around the edges. “Y’know, the thing about people,” he said, tone light with that salesman swagger you remembered too well, “is they’ll tell you everything you need to know without ever opening their mouths. You just gotta know where to look.”

Silence followed.

You leaned closer to the wall, breath held tight in your chest, every nerve alive with the kind of tension that left you aching.

“I found somethin’ on her,” the man continued. “Thought it was cute at first. Real sentimental.” You could hear fabric shifting, something small and metallic being fished from a pocket, and the pause that followed was deliberate, practiced, designed for maximum effect.

Another voice stirred behind the silence—one you would’ve missed if you didn’t know it like muscle memory. Daryl exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that came with effort, like he was trying to swallow something back before it could escape.

The man chuckled softly. “See, I thought maybe it was just a trinket. She looks the type, doesn’t she? Nostalgic. Soft around the edges, even with all that bark.” His voice dropped a little, laced with something colder now. “But then I took a closer look.”

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, fingers curling against the concrete as you waited for the hammer to drop, because you didn’t know what he was holding—but Daryl did.

“Know what this is?” the man asked, his voice eager and chirpy. “She was wearin’ this on her ring finger. It’s a wedding ring.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Custom made, even. Not bad work. Bet it was handmade. I’ve seen one like it before—twisted copper, that rough-welded join. Real pretty.”

Daryl said nothing.

But the air shifted. Your breath hitched in your throat before you even knew why, some muscle memory reacting faster than thought, and without meaning to, your thumb brushed across the skin where the ring should’ve been—an automatic, unconscious gesture born from countless mornings waking up beside him, from years of grounding yourself on the familiar twist of copper wrapped around your finger. But this time, there was nothing. Just skin. Bare and foreign. The absence was so stark, so wrong, it made your stomach twist, your heart lurching in your chest like it couldn’t find its rhythm. That ring had never left you—not through blizzards or ambushes or illness or childbirth. You had clutched it through nightmares, twisted it when words failed, kissed it during times you needed Daryl with you but he couldn't be there, and now it was gone, ripped from you without you even knowing, and held by the same bastard who had tried to peel you open with a knife. Daryl had made that ring for you, and asked you to be his forever. That ring means more to you can words can comprehend.

The man hummed as if savouring the discomfort. “I reckon she never takes it off. Women like that… they don’t take things like this off unless they have to.”

Still no response.

But that silence—it deepened. Got denser. Tighter.

And then came Daryl’s voice, low and flat, the kind of tone he only used when the restraint was about to crack. “You oughta give that back.”

The man didn’t laugh. He just tilted into the quiet again, dragging it out like he wanted to catch something—anything—in the stillness.

“Why?” he asked, but the word was laced with interest, not confusion. “Why would I give it back?”

Another pause.

And then Daryl answered, too slow, too cautious, like he was measuring every syllable against a cliff’s edge. “’Cause it’s hers.”

Nothing else. Just that.

You couldn’t see his face, but you knew the look in his eyes—that storm of fury behind the ice, that helpless rage masked as indifference. You imagined him still bound to the chair, bleeding from the mouth, hands flexing behind his back with the kind of restraint that tore muscle from bone, and yet somehow still managing to sound like he didn’t care.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not quite.

Because Marshal let out a sound—low, curious, not convinced but not dismissive either. “Hers, huh?” he repeated.

There was a moment there, so fragile it barely held, where you could feel the man teetering between suspicion and satisfaction, like he wanted to push a little harder but couldn’t quite figure out where to press. The silence stretched again, elastic and dangerous.

And then the crack came.

Not in the lie but in the man’s patience.

The first punch landed, so harsh you swore you felt it, like it was you who had just been hit and not Daryll. You heard the dull smack of fist against flesh, followed by the scrape of a chair leg as Daryl’s body recoiled but didn’t fall. Then another—harder, this time—and a wet sound that meant blood.

“You're gonna break. Just a matter of time,” the man said, colder now, less amused.

Daryl spat—on the floor, maybe at his feet, maybe just to get the taste out. “You asked a question. I answered.”

Another hit followed.

Then footsteps retreated, not rushed, just done for now.

You backed away from the wall as silence crept in again, this time different—heavier. It sat in your chest like stone.

It felt like hours before they opened your door again.

When they finally dragged him in, his boots dragged behind him and his shirt was soaked with blood, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—they found you instantly. He said nothing, didn’t reach for you, didn’t flinch when they threw him into the opposite cell and slammed the bars shut with a sound like a gavel.

But that ring, the one you didn’t realize was gone until just now, that small, sacred thing—they still had it. And Daryl knew it.

And that was almost enough to break him. Almost.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

There was no breath left for it, no courage or comfort that words could offer now—not when the distance between your cells felt like a chasm, not when the only thing separating you from him was a strip of concrete and an iron silence too wide to cross.

He sat where they left him, slumped against the wall like gravity had finally caught up to him, one leg crooked, one arm trembling just slightly at the elbow where he tried to shift his weight and failed. Blood was drying at his temple, smeared across the side of his face like paint, and there was a bruise blooming over his jaw, so dark it swallowed the shadow. But his eyes stayed on you, steady, hollowed, wild. It hurt to even look at him now, in that state.

It reminded you of that time he came home late, muttered something about a long day and being tired, barely even looked at you as he slipped through the door. That in itself wasn’t strange—Daryl had always been quiet when he needed space—but what threw you was how he didn’t even spare you a glance, didn’t give you the usual kiss hello, that soft, wordless way the two of you always reconnected after time apart. You’d racked your brain trying to figure out what you’d done wrong, replayed every moment from earlier that day and came up empty. Eventually, you chalked it up to a mood and let him have his space, curling up on the couch with Dog for the night.

The next morning, you found out why. He’d tried to sneak out early to head to Denise’s, hoping to get patched up without you knowing. What he didn’t count on was you lying there wide awake—because of course you hadn’t slept. And when he turned toward the door, you saw it: the black eye, the swollen jaw, the way his knuckles looked like they’d been through a grinder. You’d flipped, right there in the doorway. Turns out he’d run into a couple of less-than-neighborly types. He gave the usual “you should see the other guy” deflection, but he hated that look you got when you saw him like that—wide-eyed, sick with worry, on the verge of tears or homicide, maybe both.

That’s why he’d avoided you altogether.

You’d made him promise not to do that again. To stop shielding you from the aftermath like you weren’t part of it. But you both knew he would, if it meant sparing you the worry.

But not today - he knew that you heard what went down just momemt sago, and it was useless to pretend not to.

You curled in tighter, hands pressing against your knees, clutching the torn fabric of your shirt as if it could still hide the places that had been exposed, the places that still burned. Your skin felt cold where the scarred man’s fingers had lingered, colder still where your ring used to rest.

Daryl’s gaze dropped. Not away from you—but down. Down to your hands. Your bare fingers.

His breath caught. He didn’t mean it to. It was too small to be a gasp and too soft to be a curse, but you saw it, felt it across the space like a tremor underfoot. And then his jaw locked. His hands, still bound in front of him, curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened beneath the dried blood. Not because of pain. Not even because of anger. But because the truth had landed now, fully. Your ring—his ring—was gone, and not by your choice.

You saw it, the realization settle into the lines of his face like dust. He didn’t ask where it was. He didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew.

“He must have taken it off me when I was out,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, brittle and breaking in your throat. “It feels wrong not wearing it, like—” Your voice cracked before you could finish. “ Like I'm missing a limb."

He didn’t answer right away.

Just sat there, staring at your hand, his brow furrowed like he was trying to rewrite time itself, like maybe if he looked hard enough, it would just reappear on your finger, copper catching the light the way it always had when you fidgeted with it during long watches or sleepless nights.

His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Not sharp. Not angry. Just tired.

“I know.”

And you did.

You knew he believed you. You knew it without question.

But there was still something in his face—something fragile and dangerous and flickering behind his eyes like a fuse that had been lit but hadn’t yet reached its end. Not rage. Not yet. Just fear wearing the mask of restraint.

He shifted, dragging himself up with visible effort until he could lean back against the wall properly. The movement sent a wince through his features, and his left hand went instinctively to his side where the bruises were darkest. But his gaze never left yours.

“They touch you?” he asked, voice rougher this time, like the words tasted like blood on the way out.

You hesitated, and that pause alone was enough.

He turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that you saw the cords in his neck tighten again, that silent storm building. But then he breathed in, slow and jagged, like he was wrestling with the need to stay grounded—for you. For her.

“I’m okay,” you said, which wasn’t true, not even a little, but it was the only thing you could give him right now.

He closed his eyes at that, not like he believed you, but like he needed to pretend he did. For just a second. For the sake of sanity.

Across the floor between your cells, the silence stretched long and heavy, like a third body laid out between you. You looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, it wasn’t the pain or the bruises or the blood that made your chest tighten—it was the way he looked at you like you were still whole. Like even here, even now, you were still the girl he slipped that copper ring onto by moonlight, with hands that shook like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He didn’t move for a long time, not even to sit up straighter, just let his head tilt against the back wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his gaze flickering to your face and then away again like he couldn’t quite hold it without cracking. The blood on his shirt had started to dry in heavy patches, and every shallow breath he took looked like it cost him something he didn’t have to spare. And still, he hadn’t said a word. Not yet.

You wanted to reach through the bars. Crawl to him. Stitch your hands into the bruises on his ribs and tell them to give him back. But your body stayed locked to the wall, knees drawn up, arms crossed tight over your torn shirt, and your fingers—gods, your fingers—wouldn’t stop tracing that empty groove on your hand where your ring should’ve been. You’d touched it a hundred times a day without noticing, the curve of it like punctuation to every thought. Now it was gone, and the hollow space it left burned.

“…I ain’t ever wanted to kill someone that bad.”

The words rasped out of him like sand dragged across stone, slow and sharp, and they hung there between you, suspended in the cold with nowhere to settle. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded and rimmed in purple shadows, but now he turned fully, jaw clenched against pain, and the look he gave you wasn’t just fury—it was grief, raw and unravelled.

“Not since the Sanctuary,” he said, and the way he said it, like he was reaching through memory to some long-buried rage, made your stomach twist with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying aloud.

You didn’t answer him. You just looked back, open and hollow, the silence between you not cutting this time, just bearing down slow like fog in the woods.

“When he grabbed your shirt,” he murmured, and already you could hear the break coming in his voice, that thin edge he tried so hard to sand down, “I thought he was gonna—” He stopped, swallowed, shook his head like he could throw the image off if he just tried hard enough. “Didn’t matter why. Didn’t matter what he was tryin’ to prove. All I could think about was gettin’ my hands around his neck.”

You pressed your forehead to the bars. Your knuckles had gone bloodless.

He exhaled harshly, stared down at his lap, and for a moment you thought he might stop there, might wall himself back up like he always did when something hurt too much. But then he spoke again, and his voice was quieter now, almost unsure.

“And then I saw it. Your scar.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. But the words hit like cold water, and your spine curled in instinctive defense.

“Never really got why ya didn't like it,” he went on, a little steadier now, “Guess it puts it into perspective...How close I came to losin’ you. How close we came to losin’ her.”

You clenched your jaw and said nothing. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.

“He made it ugly,” you whispered finally, and it wasn’t even the words—it was what they meant. What they’d twisted inside you. That something sacred could be used as a threat.

“Nah,” Daryl said, and it was the first time in hours his voice didn’t sound broken. “He tried. That’s all. He tried. But he don’t get it.”

Your eyes flicked to him through the dark, heart caught in your throat, waiting.

“I remember when she was just shy of 2 years old,” he said, and something in his expression softened, like memory was the only comfort left to him. “You were sleepin’. Out cold. Couldn’t blame you—you hadn’t slept for shit in weeks. She was wide awake though. Just starin’. Fussin’, but not cryin’. Just lookin’ at you like you were the moon and the stars n'... somethin’ else she didn’t have a words for yet.”

Your breath caught, chest rising in a silent hiccup.

“She kept pokin’ your stomach,” he went on, and there was a warmth now, like even here, even in hell, he could conjure the glow of your home. “Kept touchin’ that scar. Over and over, real careful, like she was tryin’ to figure out what it was. I asked her what she was doin’, and she looked up at me, so serious, and said, ‘Mama’s got a zipper.’”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It was cracked and watery and half-swallowed by a sob, but it was real.

“I told her that's how she got here”, he said, rubbing at his jaw like he could still feel her small hand in his. “Like we unzipped you and there she was—all red and mad and louder than a goddamn siren.”

You buried your face against your arm to muffle the sound you made.

“She thought it was magic,” Daryl said softly, smiling. “Still does. Says it’s her magic door.”

You tried to breathe around the ache in your chest. “And now he used it like a weapon.”

“He can’t touch that,” Daryl said. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

You didn’t reply, didn’t need to. Your silence was agreement, was gratitude, was a desperate tether to him across the cold and the dark.

You stayed quiet for a long time after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say—there was too much, in fact—but because your throat felt thick and raw, like you’d swallowed a scream and hadn’t managed to keep all of it down. You held your knees tight to your chest, fingers digging crescents into your arms, the cold from the concrete floor bleeding up through your spine, but that wasn’t what was making you shake. It wasn’t the chill. It was the memory.

You were still trying to scrub it from beneath your skin—the way his hands moved with that awful, clinical deliberation, like he’d done it before, like peeling you open wasn’t an act of violence but one of strategy. Fingers curled beneath your shirt like they were reading a map, like your body was just terrain to him. You hadn’t felt fear for yourself, not at first. Not until he saw it. Not until he stopped smiling.

That scar—your scar—the one you barely remembered unless Dani asked about it, the one that lived in the blurry corners of mirrors—had never once made you feel ashamed. Sure, you occasionally cringed at it, how it contrasted so heavily with your skin, but it was a shallow insecurity. That meant nothing in comparison to how you got it. Your scar had meant survival. It had meant sacrifice. It had meant her. But tonight, when his eyes landed on it as if it was something he could exploit, something he could weaponise, you felt it shift inside you—like he’d tried to rewrite what it meant without your permission. He’d looked at it and seen leverage. He’d seen life.

And you’d lied, again and again, your voice breaking under the strain of trying not to name her. You’d bitten your tongue so hard it had bled, afraid that if you said it—if her name slipped, if the wrong syllable cracked in your voice—they’d know. They’d take her from you in some unthinkable way, even from miles away. You hadn’t even let yourself imagine her face. You were too afraid it might disappear.

But now it was full dark.

And Dani was alone.

You let out a breath that wasn’t steady, rested your forehead against the bars, and felt the cold press against your skin like punishment. The ring finger on your left hand ached with phantom weight, and you rubbed at the empty space instinctively, even though it made you feel worse.

“I’ve never—” The words caught on the raw edge of your voice, so you swallowed hard and tried again. “I’ve never spent a night away from her before.”

Across the dark, Daryl stirred. He lifted his head, humming in quiet acknowledgment, but didn’t speak — didn’t push. He hated being away from you and Dani, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Runs happened. Patrols needed bodies. And when it came down to it, both of you knew how to handle yourselves out there. You weren’t some stay-behind-the-walls housewife — hell, you were one of the best shots in Alexandria — but even so, your time away from her was always measured in hours, not nights. You could stomach a day trip, a supply loop, even a walker-clearing route that ran long, but you’d always made it home by nightfall. That was the unspoken rule. The line you didn’t cross. Because when the sun set, Dani would be tucked in between the two of you — warm and safe and dreaming in her corner of the bed. And now that line had been shattered. For Daryl, being away hurt. But for you, sitting in this cold cell with no idea if she was scared, crying, alone — it wasn’t just pain. It was unbearable.

“She never falls asleep where she’s supposed to,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice low and fragile, like you were afraid saying it too loud might shatter the memory. “Even when she starts in her own bed, she always finds her way back to ours. Tiptoes in like she’s some kinda thief, all quiet and sneaky, even though she always brings Spaghetti with her and he rattles — you know that damn giraffe has the loudest little bell stitched in his neck.”

A breath of something close to a laugh passed through your nose, but it caught in your throat halfway. You pressed your cheek against the cold bar and closed your eyes, trying to picture it — the creak of the floorboards, the soft pad of her feet, the way the blanket lifted and that tiny furnace of a child wedged herself between you and Daryl like she was born to belong there.

“She always curls into me first,” you said, the ache blooming sharp in your chest now. “Little arms around my waist, nose tucked against my stomach, just like how it was when I was pregnant. She says it makes the monsters go away. And I stroke her hair real slow until she settles and falls asleep.”

You paused, voice nearly trembling with the memory.

“She always hums. Not a song — just this little noise, like a sleepy cat. You can feel it through her ribs.”

There was a silence after that, heavy with feeling, and then Daryl’s voice cut through it — quieter than before, like it was meant only for you. “She never stays on your side, though.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “No. She doesn’t.”

“She always ends up rolled over on me,” he said, and there was something so painfully tender in the way he said it — like it physically hurt to remember. “Uses me like a goddamn jungle gym. Then she falls asleep with her arm across my throat like she’s tryin’ to choke me out.”

You let out a wet laugh, burying your face in your arms.

“And then if I move,” he added, “even a little — I mean, just tryin’ to breathe — she gets all huffy and dramatic. Throws that little arm over her eyes like I’ve wronged her somehow. Then flips back over to your side and acts like I don’t exist.”

“She’s a mama’s girl,” you said softly, chin trembling.

“She’s a damn traitor,” he muttered, voice rough but curling at the edges with that rare kind of smile that lived somewhere behind the gravel. “Wakes up a daddy’s girl every single time—no matter what.”

Then, softer, like it slipped out without thinkin’: “It’s alright though. I’ll take the mornings, and you can be her favourite the rest of the time.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “Best part of my day,” you whispered. “Waking up like that. With both of you. Her all tangled up between us, snoring like a piglet.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but when he did, his voice was softer than ever. “It's the best part of my day, too.”

Your hand curled against the cold floor, aching with the absence of her weight, the way her little fingers always found yours without looking, the way her whole body seemed to relax the second it touched skin — yours or Daryl’s, didn’t matter, just so long as it was home.

“She’s gonna wake up,” you said, barely audible now. “And we won’t be there.”

There was nothing in the world more awful than that thought. Not pain. Not captivity. Not even death. You pressed your cheek to your arm and blinked hard against the tears that clung to your lashes. “She’s gonna wake up scared,” you whispered. “She’s gonna look around and—”

“She’s gonna be fine.”

Daryl’s voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t soothing, wasn’t even certain—but it was solid. It cut through the dark like a root finding earth.

You looked over at him slowly, heart tight.

“I promise,” he said, the syllables uneven but anchored. “We’re gettin’ outta here. You’re gonna hold her again. Gonna tuck her in. Gonna... tell her some dumbass bedtime story about how Mama and Daddy escaped a bunch of bald freaks and came runnin’ through the woods like some forrest trolls.”

A laugh pushed out of you before you could stop it—wet and shaking, the kind that hurt your chest. “That the bedtime version?”

He shrugged faintly, wincing again. “Gotta leave out the part where you snapped a guy’s neck with your bare hands. Might give her ideas.”

“She’s your kid,” you muttered into your arm, letting the tears fall without apology. “She already has ideas.”

He gave a quiet huff, something close to a laugh. “Last week she told me she’s gonna be a monster-catcher. Said she needs a big stick and a helmet with spikes on it.”

Your chest ached with something warmer than pain. “Spelled her name on the stick with a backwards N, didn’t she?”

“Mhmm. Wrote it twice,” Daryl said, his voice soft with pride. “Said if the first one rubbed off, the monsters would still know it was hers.”

“She said you helped her paint it,” you whispered, that bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He nodded once. “Told her I’d make it glitter-proof. Said you’d be mad if it ended up in Dog’s fur again.”

You exhaled slowly, like trying to fold yourself around the sound of her voice in your memory. “I don’t want her to think we left her.”

“She won’t,” Daryl said immediately, like the idea offended him. “You didn’t. We didn’t. We’re comin’ back. That’s it.”

There was no poetry in his tone, no sentiment. Just truth. Hard and clean.

You didn’t answer right away. Just let the quiet hold you both, not in silence, but in something steadier. Something shared.

Eventually, your voice found its way back, worn thin but clearer than before. “They’re gonna watch us closer now. We’re not gonna be able to fake it forever.”

“No,” Daryl said, adjusting his position with a grunt, one arm braced along the wall behind him. “Just till we get outta here.”

You nodded faintly, already feeling the gears in your brain shift into something sharper, colder.

“We figure out the shifts. How often they switch guards. Which ones carry blades and which ones don’t. Who blinks first. Who watches the gates. We act useful until it makes them lazy.”

Daryl tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You really up for playin’ nice with these assholes?”

Your mouth twitched. “Nice is flexible. I’ll be civil. Until I don’t need to be.”

“Attagirl.”

You leaned back against the wall, not for comfort, but to look at him properly again—at the weight of him across from you, bruised and bloodied and still yours. That thin stretch of space between your cells felt narrower now, less like a canyon and more like a line in the dirt that both of you already knew how to cross when the time came.

“We’ll get back to her,” he said again. “No matter what it takes.”

And this time, when the words reached you, they didn’t land like a promise. They landed like a vow.

_____

At some point in the endless dark, your body gave out—curled stiff against the wall, head tipped sideways, sleep dragging you under like a tide. But your dreams were shallow and feverish, half-shaped memories tangled in terror, and every sound outside your cell pulled you half back to the surface, heart pumping in your throat, ears straining for a voice that never came.

Now, morning—if it could be called that—bleeds in through the cracks of artificial light. The overhead fluorescents hum back to life with an electrical sigh, flooding the corridor in a washed-out white that burns the back of your eyes. There’s no sunrise here. Just power. Control. Permission to wake.

You were already awake.

Opposite you, Daryl shifted with a wince, jaw clenched tight against a groan as he rolled his shoulder. You watched the stiffness in his body, the way he flexed his fingers like they didn’t want to obey. His gaze found you in the quiet, and you held it for a second too long before the sound of boots marching snapped it.

But then the footsteps came.

They moved too efficient for you to stay seated. No slamming doors. No barks or shouts. Just the faint, synchronised drag of boots against the floor outside, followed by the mechanical hiss of the cell locks disengaging. You and Daryl were already on your feet before they opened the doors.

He didn’t look at you, not directly. But you felt the twitch in his jaw, the unspoken question that passed between you in silence. You gave the smallest nod back. Ready.

They led you out of your cells and through a different corridor this time—no graffiti, no rust, just bare, bland walls that hummed with faint electricity. You couldn’t here anything other than the artificial hush of a place designed to swallow sound.

When they finally brought you to the room, you thought at first it might be another cell.

He was stood at the center of the concrete chamber with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, spine ramrod straight, not a wrinkle in sight. He was younger than you expected. Mid-forties maybe, sharp-featured, clean-shaven. Everything about him looked deliberately scrubbed of history—like he had burned his past away to make room for something purer.

Marshal stood motionless by the doorway, his usual sneer absent, the silence around him sharp enough to draw blood. It was the first time you’d seen him quiet, and somehow that unsettled you more than any of his smirks or taunts. Something about his stillness spoke of obedience, of a hierarchy so firmly entrenched that even his cruelty bowed to it.

The guards guided you and Daryl into the centre of the room with practised precision, keeping just enough distance between your bodies to make the separation deliberate. No contact. No whispers. No comfort. When Daryl was moved into place, his shoulder brushed briefly against yours—a single, accidental point of contact. Or perhaps it wasn't accidental, and the two of you were losing all sanity by not being able to touch each other - it was anyone's guess. He kept his face forward, locked in a mask of unreadable resolve.

The man at the center of the room—unassuming in build, dressed in uniform so plain it could have been borrowed from any one of the men beside him—did not speak immediately. He simply regarded you both in silence, his eyes cold and analytical, his head angled with a quiet sort of curiosity, like a man observing the structural integrity of something already cracked. He wasn’t asking if you would break. He was calculating when.

And then, with all the ceremony of someone setting a glass down on a table, he spoke.

“There is an infection that lives in the world.”

The words left his mouth with a measured calm, each syllable laced with precision rather than urgency. His tone was not raised, not even slightly, but something in the quiet demanded attention, made your ears strain for every word. There was no theatrics, no raised voice or dramatic flourish—just the steady cadence of a man who knew he never needed to shout to be heard.

“It festers in communities. In settlements. In families.”

He moved slowly as he spoke, not pacing—but measuring distance. The way a surgeon might measure an incision.

“It takes the form of attachment. Affection. Mercy. And when allowed to grow unchecked, it spreads through the body like rot.”

He stopped in front of Daryl, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

“The Creed,” he announced, “removes infection. Before it kills the host.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“We are not here to offer comfort,” he continued. “We are here to build something that will not die. That will not bend. That will not be weakened by nostalgia or grief or love.”

He finally turned, his gaze landing on you.

“If we are to rebuild, we do it clean. Cold. Absolute. Every cell of the body must serve the same function. To serve The Creed is to survive. To waver is to contaminate.”

Still no raised voice. Still no need.

Behind him, mounted on the wall in scorched iron, the symbol loomed—an unbroken chain of identical hands, each gripping the next. No variation. No faces. Just function.

“Commander,” Marshal called out, stepping forward with a measured gait, his arm lifting slowly, deliberately. His fist was clenched tight around something unseen, knuckles pale from pressure. And then — without flourish, without even turning — the Commander held out his hand. And of course, Marshal dropped something into the man's hand immediately upon being beckoned, like the obedient Marshal he was.

“Hey Marshal,” you said sweetly, tilting your head like you were asking about the weather, “blink twice if he’s pegging you under duress.”

A snort broke the silence—one of the Creed men on the left, a younger guy who looked like he hadn’t fully grown into his rifle yet. He tried to smother it into his sleeve, but it was too late.

Marshal didn’t move. Just turned his head—slow as a cocked rifle—toward the offender. That single, glassy-eyed glare was enough to choke the air out of the room. The younger man stiffened like he’d been slapped, spine ramrod straight, the color draining from his face.

You leaned back a little, grinning. “What?” you said innocently, eyes still locked on Marshal. “Your safe word get revoked?”

Still nothing. Not a flinch. Not a word. He just stared at you with that carved-from-ice face, something unreadable and venomous glittering behind his eyes. You heard a grumpy redneck mutter 'Jesus Christ' under his breath from beside you.

The smirk faded from your lips—just a little.

Because suddenly, you got the feeling he was quiet, not out of rage, but satisfaction. He knew something you didn’t. And that was never a good sign.

The Commander regarded the object he had just been handed with clinical detachment, rolling it once between his fingers, not like a sentimental object, but like a contaminant. A defect in the system.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look at Daryl.

Instead, he walked—slowly, with eerie precision—toward the hearth at the center of the room, where a small controlled flame crackled low in a steel brazier. The fire wasn’t for warmth. It was too precise for that. It burned like part of the architecture, like something ritualistic.

He held something out between two fingers like it was nothing more than a scrap of trash. But you saw it. The shape. The glint. Your ring.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like your body forgot how to hold itself up. Every thought in your head screamed at you to reach for it, to snatch it from his hand, to put it back where it belonged before it got any colder—but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not unless you were ready to take a bullet to the skull for lunging at a glorified cult leader with a loaded entourage.

“A symbol,” he said calmly, almost conversationally. “Of choice. Of devotion. Of weakness.”

The word settled like ash. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping from you to Daryl. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Simply final.

“There is no place for it here.”

And with no ceremony, no smirk, no grand display, he flicked the ring into the flames like it was nothing. Just a gesture. Just punctuation.

You couldn't breathe.

The copper glinted once as it spun through the air, and then it was gone. Swallowed by fire without a sound, as if it had never been at all.

A small, strangled gasp caught in your throat, but you bit it down hard, like you could crush the sound before it gave you away. Tears surged behind your eyes with such force it made your vision blur, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up too tightly to speak, too tightly to breathe, and your fingers twitched at your sides with the phantom impulse to lunge—grab it, save it, stop this.

But you didn’t move.

You stood your ground, even as something in your chest caved inward. Even as your ribcage became a coffin for what that ring meant—the promise, the history, the busload of bullsshit the both of you had survived to be married at all.

You could still feel the weight of it on your hand. Could still feel Daryl’s fingers slipping it on, rough and reverent, back when forever was something you fought for with teeth and blood and hope. And now it was gone.

And you just stood there. Because you had to.

Because this performance—the pretending, the restraint—was the only thing keeping you alive. And if that meant swallowing your scream and letting the ashes cling to your skin like grief, so be it.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. But your body reacted like you’d been struck—something inside you recoiling so sharply your knees locked, your breath caught high in your throat, and the air left your lungs without permission.

Daryl’s eyes never left the fire. His face didn’t change. Not to them.

But you saw it. The flicker of something dangerous curling in his expression like smoke off a fuse.

The Commander turned without waiting for a response.

“Begin their assimilation.”

The words were dull, mechanical.

A switch flipped. A process resumed.

As they pulled you out of the room, your body remembered movement before your mind did, and the silence followed like a second shadow. If this was just the start of assimilation, then great — things were already going to shit. They’d taken your ring. You just had to hope you could last long enough and come out the same person.

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