Summary: You hate seeing Daryl hurt, he hates you seeing him weak
The second Daryl walked through the gates, you knew something was wrong.
To anyone else, he probably looked the same as always. Crossbow slung over one shoulder, hair hanging messily around his face, boots dragging dirt across the ground like he had just come back from any other run. His expression was closed off, jaw tight, eyes low like he did not want anyone looking too closely.
But you knew him better than that.
You noticed the way his hand stayed pressed against his side.
You noticed how his steps were slower than usual, how he shifted his weight every few seconds like standing straight hurt more than he wanted to admit. You noticed the quick twitch in his face when he thought nobody was watching.
A wince.
Small. Barely there.
But enough.
Your heart dropped before you could stop it.
“Daryl.”
His head lifted at the sound of your voice, and for half a second, something softened in his face. Then it was gone again, hidden under that usual stubborn look he wore whenever he thought caring too much might give him away.
“M’fine,” he muttered before you had even asked.
You crossed your arms. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t have to.”
He tried to move past you, but you stepped into his path, eyes dropping straight to his side. His vest was dark, but not dark enough to hide the patch of blood spreading near his ribs.
Your stomach twisted.
“Daryl.”
This time, his name came out quieter.
He followed your gaze and scoffed like the blood was nothing more than mud on his boots. “Ain’t bad.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Had worse.”
“That isn’t as reassuring as you think it is.”
He huffed, looking away from you. “Don’t need fussin’ over.”
“I’m not fussing.”
“Yeah, ya are.”
“No,” you said, stepping closer, your voice firm even though your hands were already starting to shake. “I’m making sure you don’t pass out because you’re too proud to ask for help.”
Daryl’s eyes flicked back to yours. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. You could see it building in him, that familiar need to push care away before it got too close. Before it felt like something he might start needing.
But then he shifted again, and the movement pulled another wince out of him.
You saw it.
He saw you see it.
His shoulders dropped slightly.
“C’mon,” you said, softer now.
He grumbled something under his breath, but he followed you anyway.
You led him to the small room you had been using for medical supplies, shutting the door behind you before anyone else could come in and make him feel more exposed than he already did. Daryl stood awkwardly near the table, eyes scanning the room like he would rather be anywhere else.
“Sit,” you told him.
“Ain’t a dog.”
“Then stop acting like one and sit down.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was no real bite behind it. He lowered himself onto the chair with a rough breath, trying to hide the way pain moved through him. You noticed anyway.
You always noticed.
“Jacket off,” you said, reaching for the first aid kit.
He gave you a look.
“Don’t start.”
“M’not startin’.”
“You’re thinking about starting.”
He looked away, muttering, “Bossy.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened when he carefully shrugged out of his vest and pulled up the edge of his shirt. The cut along his side wasn’t deep enough to kill him, but it was ugly. Jagged. Angry looking. Dried blood stuck to his skin, and fresh blood still seeped slowly from the wound.
Your face must have changed because Daryl’s voice dropped.
“Told ya. Ain’t bad.”
You swallowed. “Stop saying that.”
He went quiet.
You dampened a cloth with clean water and knelt in front of him. “This is going to sting.”
“Can handle it.”
“I know you can.”
Your answer seemed to catch him off guard. His eyes lowered to you, but you kept your attention on the cut, carefully cleaning around it. The second the cloth touched his skin, his muscles tensed under your fingers.
You paused.
“You okay?”
He scoffed. “Ain’t made of glass.”
“No,” you said quietly, dabbing away the blood. “But you’re not made of stone either.”
Daryl didn’t say anything after that.
The silence between you softened. Outside, you could hear the distant sound of voices, footsteps, someone laughing near the houses. Life carrying on like your whole world had not narrowed down to Daryl sitting in front of you, injured and stubborn and trying so hard to look like he didn’t need anyone.
You hated that about him sometimes.
Not him. Never him.
Just the way he had been taught to survive by pretending pain didn’t matter.
“You should’ve come straight to me,” you said.
His fingers twitched against his knee. “Didn’t wanna worry ya.”
You looked up at him then.
There it was.
The truth, tucked beneath the roughness in his voice.
Your expression softened despite yourself. “You think hiding it worries me less?”
He looked down, hair falling into his eyes. “Figured you got enough to deal with.”
“You’re not something I deal with, Daryl.”
His jaw shifted.
You went back to cleaning the wound, gentler now. “You scare me when you do this.”
He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
And you did. That was the worst part. You knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. You knew he wasn’t trying to shut you out just for the sake of it. Daryl had spent too much of his life believing care came with conditions, that needing someone made him weak, that pain was only worth mentioning when it was impossible to hide.
So you didn’t push too hard.
You just stayed.
You pressed gauze carefully over the cut, then reached for the bandage. Daryl watched your hands as you worked, his gaze quieter than usual.
“You mad?” he asked.
You glanced at him. “A little.”
His face tightened.
“But mostly I’m scared,” you admitted. “And I hate that you think you have to pretend with me.”
The room went still.
Daryl’s eyes lifted to yours, and for once, he didn’t have anything sharp to say. No grumble. No deflection. No stubborn little comment meant to make the moment smaller than it was.
He just looked at you.
Then, low and rough, he said, “Don’t know how not to sometimes.”
Your heart ached.
You tied off the bandage and let your hands rest lightly against his side, careful not to press too hard. “Then practise.”
His brows drew together slightly.
“With me,” you said. “Practise not pretending with me.”
Daryl looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of emotion in his eyes.
For a few seconds, he stayed silent. Then his hand moved, rough fingers brushing against yours before settling over them. The touch was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask for comfort even now.
You turned your hand beneath his and held on.
He didn’t pull away.
“That mean I gotta let ya fuss over me?” he asked, voice quieter now.
You smiled faintly. “Yes.”
He huffed, but the sound was softer than before. Almost amused. “Knew there was a catch.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
You gave him a look. “You’re very dramatic for someone who claims he doesn’t need looking after.”
“Shut up.”
But there was no heat in it.
You stood and reached for a clean shirt folded on the shelf. When you turned back, Daryl was still watching you. Tired now. Less guarded. The pain had caught up with him, leaving his shoulders heavy and his expression worn.
You handed him the shirt. “You should rest.”
“M’fine.”
Your eyes narrowed.
He sighed. “Alright. M’not fine.”
It was quiet. Reluctant. But it was something.
You smiled softly. “Thank you.”
He shook his head like he thought you were making too big a deal out of it, but when you moved closer, he didn’t lean away. He let you brush his hair gently out of his face. Let your fingers linger near his cheek.
“You scared me,” you whispered.
His eyes dropped.
“Sorry,” he said.
It was barely more than a breath, but you heard it.
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. For once, Daryl didn’t tense or complain. He closed his eyes for half a second, leaning into it so subtly you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.
But you always paid attention to him.
When you pulled back, his hand caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to keep you close.
“Stay?” he asked, so quietly it almost didn’t sound like a question.
Your chest warmed.
“Yeah,” you said, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I’ll stay.”
Daryl nodded once, eyes still lowered, but his grip on you loosened into something softer. Something trusting.
And even though he would probably deny it later, even though he would grumble and pretend he hadn’t needed any of this, he let you lead him to the bed in the corner. He let you help him sit. He let you pull the blanket over him when he finally gave in and lay down.
When you sat beside him, his shoulder pressed lightly against your thigh.
Not by accident.
You looked down at him, and he looked away almost immediately, embarrassed by his own need for closeness. But he didn’t move.
So you rested your hand in his hair, slow and gentle, and felt him relax beneath your touch.
“You don’t always have to be tough,” you murmured.
Daryl’s eyes stayed closed.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. “Only with you, maybe.”
It was the closest thing to a confession he could give.
