The Things He Never Said
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader
Genre: Angst | Hurt/No comfort
Warnings: Major character death, graphic injury/implied violence, angst, emotional distress, unrequited/unspoken love, canon-typical apocalypse themes, this will hurt your feelings
Era: Season 2
Word Count: 1.6k
Summary: He loved you the only way he knew how. The world didn’t let him keep you.
Loving Daryl Dixon meant learning to live with what he never said.
You watched him now, your hands were busy patching a small hole in his vest. Needle weaving in and out of worn fabric you've mended more times than you could count. He sat on the edge of your bed, quiet, staring at the concrete wall in front of him–lost somewhere in his own mind.
He was probably just thinking about the run. He always did before one.
You'd been the one to convince him. The group was running low on food– lower than Rick liked–and even though Daryl said it was a bad idea, once you agreed to it, he just couldn't say no. He never said no to you.
You nudged his boot with yours. He cleared his throat, finally looking at you.
"Where's yer knife?"
You nodded to your pack resting against your bed. He grabbed it pulling the blade free and pressing his thumb carefully to the edge of it.
"Ya always let it get too dull,"
You smiled softly. "You always sharpen it."
He shook his head, like it bothered him how much you relied on him–how much you leaned on him–like it was something heavy.
You knew it didn't.
He stood and headed for the doorway of your cell. Then he stopped. Turned back toward you and for just a moment your breath caught–heart stupid and hopeful–thinking this might be it.
"Make sure ya double-knot yer boots."
And then he was gone.
You'd always known Daryl wasn't the romantic type. You never expected a candlelight dinner or pretty words. Still you couldn't help the ache you felt at the absence of three little ones.
Rick's voice echoed through the prison, calling the group together. Time to go.
Daryl walked close enough that your arms brushed every few steps, close enough to feel like a promise.
"If this stuff leaks in my pack again, I swear." You mutter, shifting the weight on your shoulder.
Daryl snorted like it's the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "As long as ya don't got anythin' nasty in there, ya should be fine," he nudged you with his shoulder. "Last time I almost made ya sleep in the watchtower with the way ya smelled."
You narrowed your eyes at him, biting back a laugh.
"Will you two be quiet."
You glanced past Daryl toward the man walking a few feet ahead, rolling your eyes playfully. "Come on Glenn," you teased. "It's not our fault Maggie didn't want to come."
He huffed, shaking his head, and you looked at Daryl with an amused smile.
The prison fence came into view, relief washing over you all at once. You'd been on plenty of runs–but making it back safe was always the sweetest part.
That's what you were.
Safe.
Until you weren't.
The walkers came out of nowhere. Nothing you hadn't handled before.
You didn't even realize you'd tripped–over a rock, a root, something stupid–until the ground slammed into you and rough fingers closed around your shoulder.
The pain was instant. White-hot. Blinding.
Your scream tore through the woods as teeth sank into you.
A bolt flew past your head, dropping the walker. Daryl was there before you could even breathe, crashing to his knees at your side.
His eyes were wide. Terrified. His hand shook as he brushed your hair back from your face.
"It's fine," he said–sharp, steady, like he could will it to be true.
He lifted you in his arms without hesitation. "I got you."
His eyes flicked up pleading–toward Rick, toward Glenn, toward anyone. Then they were back on you.
"I got you," He repeated.
Like if he said it enough times, you wouldn't slip through his fingers.
Time slowed down in a way that made every breath feel borrowed.
Rick helped Daryl lay you on your bed. He didn't say much–just gave Daryl's shoulder a firm pat and a look that said everything before ushering the others out of the cell.
Daryl paced.
Back and forth.
The room felt smaller with every step.
He refused to look at you.
That hurt more than the bite.
"Daryl," you called to him softly, a gentle smile pulling at your lips.
His eyes finally lifted. When they met yours he almost broke. You always smiled through everything–he never understood how you could do that.
"Sit," you coughed, wincing. "Please."
He nodded, sitting at the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands on his jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.
"You'll have to finish my food," you said quietly.
His shoulders tensed.
"You gotta make sure you read to Judith," you added, another cough tearing through you. This one burned. "Lord knows Rick'll forget, she's gonna be real smart–I can tell."
He looked at you then, really looked at you.
"Remember to grab your extra bolts before you leave," you whispered. "You always forget."
Tears blurred your vision. "And if your vest rips…make sure you patch it. If you can't, ask Carol. She'll–"
"Stop."
His voice cracked, anger sharp and desperate.
"Daryl, I know this is hard, but–"
"No," he cut in. "Stop tryin' to say goodbye. Yer not leavin' we can fix you. Hershel's good–we can do that for you."
You shook your head. The pain in your shoulder was unbearable now, heat crawling through your veins, your skin slick with sweat.
"Not this time." Your voice was soft, steady.
You'd already made peace with it.
He fists clenched.
"You made the end of the world feel so bright." You said, and he looked at you like it was something holy.
Your fingers reached for him. He hesitated–then took your hand, like it might disappear if he didn't.
"I–"
He stopped.
Shook his head. Let go of your hand and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
And still–he didn't say it.
Daryl realized there was no version of this where he didn't lose you.
Your breathing had slowed. The room had gone impossibly quiet.
He looked at you–at the person he'd spent months protecting, caring for, laughing with–and he understood what you wanted before you had to ask.
"I'm sorry." he whispered. His voice cracked. His hands began to shake. "I should've done better. Shouldn't have let my guard down."
He was spiraling.
You shook your head even though it hurt. "No,"
All you wanted was to pull him close, to tell him it would be okay. That he'd done nothing wrong.
"Daryl, it's okay."
You reached for him again. This time he didn't hesitate–his hand covered yours, warm and steady despite the way his shoulders trembled.
"You've been so good to me," you whispered. "You've been perfect."
He wiped at his eyes, turning his face away like he didn't want you to see him break.
"It won't be easy," you said softly. "But I don't want anyone else to do it."
He nodded, he knew.
He moved closer, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. You were the only person who'd never left his side. The only one he'd been so sure would make it out of this world with him.
He wanted to tell you everything–about the nights he dreamed of you waiting for him on a porch, a white fence, kids running through the yard. About the way he pictured you standing beside him at an alter, crying that soft, beautiful cry of yours.
He wanted to tell you so bad.
Instead he grabbed his knife.
It felt heavier than it ever had.
He lifted his head just long enough to press a kiss to your hair.
You coughed, your eyes fluttering as you fought to keep them open. You wanted one last look at him. You wanted his eyes to be the last thing you saw.
"Don't forget to take care of yourself."That was the last thing you said.
Your eyes slipped shut.
Your breathing slowed–
then it stopped.
Daryl had survived the end of the world–he didn't know how to survive the quiet after you.
His eyes stayed glued to your chest, the absence of that subtle rise and fall that meant you were breathing. Alive.
He stayed with you long after you were gone.
He tightened the laces on your boots. Smoothed your hair where it had fallen into your face. He knew you hated when it got in your eyes.
He reached for the knife at your waist, checked how sharp it was. Starting to put it back–then he stopped.
He held it tightly for a moment before slipping it into his belt.
He glanced at you, never for too long. He couldn't.
Rick called his name. Stepped into the room. Told him it was time. Told him that Carl had dug your grave.
Daryl nodded even though he didn't understand how the world was still going. How time hadn't stopped without you.
Daryl sat alone in the watchtower, staring out into the night sky.
You loved it up here. Loved the way the world felt so quiet, far above all the chaos.
He looked down to your grave. Close by the tower–Carl said it was so you could see the sky better.
"I–"
His voice caught in his throat.
"I love you."
He knew that loving him meant learning to live with the things he never said.
And when he did–
it was too late.