Daryl Dixon x Greene!Reader
Summary: Getting caught up shit creek without a paddle during the end of the world is bad enough without the added stress of a broody archer and a festering leg...
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The thing they don't mention about the world ending is the smell, that semipermanent odor of decay that permeates everything...
The shed had been abandoned long before the world went to shit. Tools rusted on their hooks, a riding mower sat dead in the corner, and the whole place smelled like motor oil and rot. But it had four walls and a door that latched, and that was more than you had found in weeks.
It'd been three days since you'd holed up that musty barn. Long enough to know the farm beyond the tree line had people. Long enough to watch their patterns, see how they moved.
The gash on your thigh had stopped bleeding two days ago, but it was angry and hot to the touch.
You'd cleaned it as best you could with the last of your water and some whiskey you'd found in a gas station, not fit for drinking but hopefully acidic enough to cut the infection. Now you just had to wait it out—see if infection took hold or if your body would fight it off.
You were dozing, back against the wall, when the door creaked open.
Your hand went to the knife at your belt, but you were too slow— fucking fever made you sluggish. By the time you had it out, there was a crossbow pointed at your chest.
The man in the doorway was lean, hard-edged, with a sleeveless shirt that showed arms corded with muscle and old scars. He didn't look surprised to find you there. Just...watchful.
"Easy," he said. His voice was rough, Georgian if you had to guess. "Ain't gonna hurt you if you don't give me a reason."
You kept the knife up, even though both of you knew the crossbow had the advantage. Your leg throbbed like a son of a bitch. Sweat stuck your shirt to your back.
"How long you been here?" he asked.
His eyes flicked down to your leg, to the makeshift bandage dark with old blood. Then to your pack in the corner. The empty water bottles. The paperback western lying spine-up on the floor beside you.
"Yeah." He lowered the crossbow slightly, just enough that it wasn't aimed directly at your heart anymore. "You look real fine."
You said nothing. Just watched him, trying to read his next move. He wasn't rushing you, wasn't yelling or making threats. That should have been reassuring. Instead, it made you more uneasy.
He stepped into the shed, and you tensed. Sweat beaded down your face, highlighting the feathering of your tensed jaw. But he just moved to the side, giving himself a better angle to see her while keeping the door in his peripheral vision. Smart man.
"That your book?" He nodded toward the paperback.
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. "Then why you carryin' it?"
Your jaw tightened. "Sentimental value."
He studied you for a long moment. There was something in the way he looked at you. Not pity…not suspicion exactly. More like recognition. Like he saw something familiar and didn't particularly like it.
"You been watchin' the farm," he said. Not a question.
"Seemed like you had your shit together. Thought maybe..."
You trailed off. Thought maybe what? That you'd work up the nerve to walk up to the door? That you’d figure out what the hell to say to a father you hadn't seen in twenty years?
"Thought maybe you'd try to take what we got," Daryl finished for you.
You looked away. Your leg was on fire. The shed felt too small, too close. This man with his quiet questions and his careful watching, he was worse than someone coming at you with cursing and punches. Those you knew how to handle.
"You got people?" he asked.
"How long you been alone?"
Daryl was quiet for a moment. "Your folks teach you not to trust nobody?"
Your head snapped up. Yourr hand tightened on the knife. "What?"
"Just askin'." He shifted his weight, crossbow still ready but not aggressive. "Got that look about you. Like you been taught the world's gonna hurt you if you let it close enough."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
You didn't know what was worse, the way he said that or how he looked at you when he said it… like he knew because he'd learned the same lesson.
You hated the knowing in his eyes. Hated that you were trapped in this awful shed, feverish and weak, with a stranger peeling down your defenses with a few well placed words.
"That leg's infected," Daryl said. "You stay out here, you're gonna lose it. Or die. Probably die."
"I'll manage." You bit back, eager to claw back some of your dignity. Who was this guy anyway and where did he get off acting like he understood shit.
"Sure you will." He lowered the crossbow completely, let it hang at his side. "Or you could come back to the farm. We got a doctor. Medicine. Food."
"Ain't askin' you to join up or make friends or any of that shit," Daryl cut you off. "Just sayin' we got what you need to not die. Rest is up to you."
You glared at him. At the door behind him. At the crossbow that he'd lowered, giving you an opening if she wanted to take it.
You thought about your father. About the farm you'd been circling for days, trying to decide if you were brave enough or stupid enough to walk up to that door.
"Don't want charity." You ground out, staring hard at the floor to drown out his burning gaze.
"Ain't offerin’ charity." His words came easily- too easy for your liking. He moved toward the door, then paused. "You comin' or not?"
You looked at the paperback on the floor. Felt your infected leg. And finally up at this half feral man who'd found you at your weakest and hadn't taken advantage of it…that counted for something these days.
You thought about your step-dad taking that bite. Saving your life even though he'd spent years making you wish you'd never been born.
Slowly, painfully, you sheathed the knife and pulled yourself to your feet. Your leg nearly buckled, but you locked your knee, bit out a growl and held your own.
Daryl watched you struggle, didn't offer to help. That made it easier.
You grabbed your pack, shoved the paperback inside. Each step toward the door felt like hell. Daryl moved ahead of you, crossbow ready, scanning the tree line.
"Farm's about a quarter mile," he said over his shoulder. "You need to stop, you say so."
You didn't answer. Just followed him out of the shed, into the fading afternoon light, toward the farm where your father was waiting.
Toward whatever came next.
