carol peletier and daryl dixon are THE dynamic duo btw. they just are. daryl dixon is a chronically neglected and abused redneck survivalist raised by wolves who thinks he's worthless and is trying to learn the power of cooperation and trust in other people without automatically withdrawing into himself as he's learned to. carol peletier is an archetypical battered wife who got her hands on a gun, became a one woman army, and now has to grapple with her newly acquired, truly spectacular capacity for violence and what that makes her. they like to eat soup in one another's general proximity and also sometimes hug. truly a friendship for the ages
daryl dixonâs character arcs are like perhaps for the sake of the christmas spirit i can once again let hope into my heart despite the dangers and let my heart of gold shine through. and carols character arcs are like well okay MAYBE i was a little quick to start executing the hostages
Warnings - Talk of drug use, illness, needles, identity, possible transphobia.
Setting - S4 Prison
Summary - Daryl thinks youâre doing drugs, but ends up learning something new about you.
Type - Fluff
A/N: this is my first published fic!! i have briefly proofread, and iâm pretty happy with it. hope you enjoy :)
You sat on the edge of the bed in your cell, positioning the needle over your thigh, gripping at your flesh trying to gauge where to inject yourself. your palms were sweaty and you couldnât get a good grip on the syringe, with Hershel in Block A, treating the prison flu, you had nobody to do this for you. Hershel had told you the week prior that he would be going to take care of the sick, and he took extra steps in showing you how to inject your medication, but this was the first time you had tried on your own, it was proving difficult.
You took a breath and widened your eyes, grabbing your skin and moving your face closer, trying to get the needle in the perfect spot before you pushed it in, âjust do it, idiotâ you thought to yourself.
You heard a scoff and jumped, looking up with a surprised expression, Daryl stood at your door, holding the curtain you had put up against the frame.
âDidnât take you for a fuckinâ junkie.â He said, a scowl across his face.
âWhat? No! I-â you began,
âI donâ wanna hear it.â Daryl said, starting to turn away and leave.
âDaryl!â you jump towards him, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around, he looked taken aback, offended, you werenât sure, but before he could do or say anything, you grabbed his arm and yanked him into your cell, peering your head around the curtain to check nobody else was witness.
You held the syringe in front of his face, waving it as you annunciated âThis is not heroin,â in a whisper-shout.
He looked puzzled and almost like he was challenging you, as if he was asking âoh yeah? what is it then?â.
âI am not a junkie, this is my medication! Now if you would give me a hand with sticking it in my thigh I would be grateful.â
You spoke to him in such a way he stood speechless for a moment, like he was a child who just got an angry finger waved in his face for his attitude.
âWell?â You ask, impatiently.
He flushed red for a moment and sheepishly nodded, taking the syringe from your hand, you sat back down and rolled your trouser leg back up, exposing the piercing site, jab marks from the previous weeks lingering.
Daryl sat beside you, needle in hand, inspecting it, and just as you thought he was about to stick you with it, he hesitated.
âJust lemme see whatever you put in here, I donât wanna be responsible for nothinâ.â
It was your turn to hesitate, you scoffed and looked at him, gauging whether he meant it or not, whether he really needed to see why you were secretly medicating yourself every week, when his expression didnât falter, you reached into the box under your bed, and pulled out the small vial containing your lifeline.
You placed it into his hand, avoiding all eye contact, this man was the one you worried about telling, he wasnât as loud as Merle was about his opinions, but they were brothers, they were hicks, surely they had their opinion in common?
He rolled the vial in his palm, exposed the small text written on the label, and brought it up to his eye. The bottle read âTESTOSTERONEâ in a bold font. Daryl studied it before peering over the bottle and into your eyes, he looked at you almost knowingly, his eyes told you that it was okay, you were okay.
This was the softest look Daryl had ever given you, he had just said so much more with his eyes than you had ever heard from his mouth, it meant a lot.
He gave the bottle back to you, and took the syringe between his teeth, using one hand to move your trouser leg up, and the other to grip a chunk of your flesh, rolling it between the tips of his fingers until the chunk felt right, he took his hand from your trousers and retrieved the needle from his mouth, poking it into you, and pressing down on the plunger at a slow pace.
You watched him, how he nibbled on his lip and furrowed his brow in concentration, how gently he treated you, you watched as he handled you with such care, you looked so deeply into him that you didnât even realise he had removed the needle. The sudden sound it made when he tossed it onto the table next to your bed startled you awake from your trance, and you found yourself staring at the side of Darylâs face, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darting to all places other than your eyes.
âSorry.â You said, he nodded.
âThank you for doing that.â
âSâalright.â
The silence was so loud.
âHow did you learn to do that?â You asked, breaking the silence so suddenly you caught yourself off guard.
âDo whaâ?â he questioned, raising a brow and looking at you through his fringe,
âInject, it seemed like you knew what to do.â
He nibbled on his lower lip again, looking around the room, as if he was trying to find the words.
âMy Mama,â he replied, âbefore the fire, before everythinâ, she was sick, I had to give her her medicine sometimes, she was in a lot of pain, kept her in bed all day, smokinâ, readinâ her magazines, Merle took care of her when he wasnât at Dadâs, but sometimes I had ta.â
He kept his eyes on the ground before timidly looking toward you, you looked at eachother for a moment, before you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tight, you were telling him it was okay, you were thanking him for not freaking out over you being trans. You were very private about your identity before the world fell, and you thought you would have to be the same now, you had told Hershel very reluctantly, but he told you that God loved you, and that he accepted you, and now Daryl knew, and he treated you with more care and understanding than before. You thought maybe your family, your new, found family, would be okay with it too.
Daryl wrapped his arms around you, and squeezed before pulling away from the hug and standing up by the door.
âGotta go, Rick needs help with the fence.â he told you, punctuating his sentence with a half smile.
âOkay.â
He turned away and lifted the curtain.
âDaryl?â
âMm?â He hummed.
âThank you, I thought-â You began,
âI know what itâs like. Feelinâ like you donât belong. What youâre doinâ, who you are, is fine by me.â
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