you still got me

victim of daryl dixon brainrot, aka madi ♡ she/her. 20s. masterlist • ask • if you're new • my fic recs • main blog requests are : open! (please read the guidelines first)

[weretheones]

All You Got | Part 1

Part 1: All You Got 

Plot: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4) 

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count:
 3.5k Warnings: description of injury, blood, violence, swearing.  A/N: oh wow i am so excited and also so nervous for this series haha. its been a baby of mine for months now, and i finally got around to starting drafts this january. its gone thru so many revisions and edits but i love how its turned out <3 FYI: if you want to follow this series, I'm planning on updating every friday, usually in the evenings (ET). 

gif credit: @daryl-dixon-daydreams​

Blood dripped between your clasped fingers, soaking the denim down your thigh. There was an unusual heaviness in your muscles, one that made keeping your attention on the door, and the wide-eyed man who’d just barged through it, exhausting. With every shaky breath you released, the aim of your gun weakened.

“Please…” 

The man ignored your plea. 

He bolted across the closet’s small stretch without even a hint of hesitancy, grabbing your wrist and twisting the gun’s aim away from his chest. Fast enough that there wasn’t a chance to fire that bullet in your stupor, even if you had the guts. 

The only logical course of action would be that gun at your forehead, cold metal pressing into cold skin, and then a bullet shattering your skull. That’s what you expected. That’s what this world taught you to wait for, with closed eyes and a last breath, laced with dust, sweat, and the iron of your flowing blood. 

Yet, no cold metal bit your skin. Your anticipation lingered with a second, then a third, inhale of that musty air. 

Rapid with apprehension and fear, your eyes blinked open. There was a quiver to your lip and chin as you tried to steady your breaths. The tension in his forearm caught your attention; muscles twitched under dirty, tanned skin as he held the weapon by his side, instead. It wasn’t threatening. His effort had only meant to disarm you, which was a momentary relief, until the noise of shuffling feet made your gut twist all over again. 

From the sound of it, the dead followed his trail, spilling into the cabin that only the closet’s thin wooden door separated you from. The growls slipping past their hungry jaws made your stomach knot with panic because if he had found you so easily, why wouldn't they? 

The stranger— that was only half true— didn’t notice the way your hands shook or the way your chest seemed to be caving in on itself. Instead, he looked over his shoulder to watch the door, long dark hair slick with sweat and curved along the thick expanse of his neck. It wasn't until he turned back with a dirty finger in front of his lips, signalling to be quiet, that he met that panicked look in your eye. 

If his frame, built of brute strength and force, was any indication of his capacity, you had no doubt this man was hell-bent on surviving— which might’ve been your only chance at survival, too, because when he finally got a good look at you, his face fell. An overwhelming hatred swarmed him as he finally recognized you. 

Everything moved too fast. His jaw clenched shut and eyes narrowed in a mean stare. There wasn’t a fence to separate you now, no tank to your left or psychopath with a sword to your right, but he saw you all the same. Merciless and violent. An obedient soldier standing next to the Governor when he sliced into Hershel’s neck. 

The gun pressed against your forehead.

It didn’t matter that you’d expected it before— you gasped. Even under only the thin light of day from the window behind, you could see his threatening scowl. Hear it. The heavy pants that left his snarled lips, the grinding of his teeth. 

A biter slammed against the wall outside, just inches away from the door— the same door that could barely withstand the force of the man who followed you inside. If the dead knew you were here, they’d bring it down in seconds. 

“I know you want me dead,” you whispered with one last flicker of hope that his survival instincts outweighed his desire for revenge, “but if you kill me now they’ll hear and then you’ll be dead too.” 

A solid arm of muscle pressed against your collarbone, pushing down your body at an odd angle while pinning you between him and a shelving unit. The kind of pressure that would’ve had your heart racing with fear, if it hadn’t been weakened so much already. His breaths came out in shallow pants and his finger hovered above the trigger, shaking with what could only be rage. Your brows raised, a desperate plea found in big, wide eyes, as his narrow stare continued to rip through you, your words, your expression, only letting up when he found something definitive. 

With a rough exhale, the gun was back by his side. 

Your lower lip quivered as his arm released you. As he stepped back, careful not to let his eyes shift off you, your weight lifted off the shelf behind you. Its feet found the floor again with a soft thud, but the groans outside didn’t grow any louder, and you finally sighed in relief. 

Of course, that was when the momentum had finally teetered a jug over the edge. The glass shattered against the tiled floor, spraying tiny shards and making a noise that was much too loud for your liking. 

A loud growl ripped through the air. There was only a second between that and the first slam of a hungry, mindless body colliding with the door. Without a word, you both charged for the door, slamming all your weight against it just as the dead did the same. You palmed the wooden frame, pushing with all your strength— you didn’t have much of that left, but whatever hadn’t leaked out of you since being stabbed at the prison, was adamant. 

The man to your right seemed to be in a similar spot, feet shuffling against the ground as he lost, then reset his footing and pushed. Though, he indisputably had a much stronger force behind his attempt. Muscles that tensed into stone as he fought against the dead and, fuck, he didn’t need a gun to kill you. He could’ve just snapped your neck like a twig. 

“Anythin’ we can use?!” 

The door nudged forward enough to almost knock you off balance, but you caught yourself just in time to spin around and press your back against the wood. You searched the room, frantic, and found nothing new. The shattered vase, the rickety shelf, and that narrow window, perched above. The same one you’d considered escaping from when you first heard that man’s steps echo through the cabin, just seconds before he charged at you and stole your gun. 

“The window!” you yelled and rushed forward. The man had been doing most of the work, anyway.

Tossing the shelf to the side, you reached up to slide the window panel open, but it wouldn’t budge. The sun sparkled in that smear of stark red your palms left behind. Panic weighed your breaths, quick and harsh as the increasing pounding of the dead and your burning thigh began to overwhelm you. Without another thought, and perhaps no other option, you turned your back to the wall and smashed your elbow through the glass plane. More little shards fell to the ground, glittering in the light like stardust. You could feel the dripping of fresh blood across your forearm, but the cuts themselves were dulled from another surge of adrenaline.

Even so, you bet they’d hurt less than the teeth of the dead ripping you apart. 

Shards lined the edge of the window. Peeling your flannel off, balled into your hand, you brushed it along the frame, once. You looked back to the man who was about to lose against the dead, sweat dripping off him like that blood on your arm. 

It would have to do. 

He nodded and without a word, you climbed over the frame.

The ground was soft, dampened by the day before’s rain, but the impact still knocked the breath out of your lungs. The extensive hurt in your body and the dizziness starting to drown your sight made balance, and especially landing that fall, all the more difficult. Palming the grass, you lifted your chest from the ground, unable to bite back the groan from the sudden ache in your muscles. 

A dreadful crack of wood echoed from behind— your fight was long from over. Even though you’d put a wall between you and the dead, now there was nothing but the forest ahead. Large trees with even bigger openings for anything to hide behind. With shaky limbs, you raised to your knees, then your feet, gripping along the cabin’s wall to support you— how the hell could you run, nevertheless fight, like this?  

There were the obvious and oppressing physical effects of your blood loss. Dizziness, clumsiness, and now exhaustion. Though, there must’ve been some distinguished mental capacity, too, because you lingered by that wall far longer than you should’ve, waiting for the man who made it very clear, only seconds ago, that he wanted to put a bullet in your head. Outside the confines of that closet, nothing was stopping him from doing exactly that. The dead already knew where you were, one gunshot wouldn’t mean the difference between his life and death anymore. 

Still, you waited for dirty hands to wrap around the frame, pulling himself to the edge of the window. Before he had a chance to drop down, another hand, grey and disfigured, wrapped around his ankle. 

You’d always been smart, always been cautious. Hell, it was probably why you’d made it so long. So it must’ve been the blood loss because there was no way you were this stupid. There was no rational reason to use whatever energy you had left limping to his side and yanking his arm, his leg, whatever you could grab onto, with all your body weight. 

Or, perhaps your guilt just went a long way. 

Whatever it was, it gave him the leverage he needed to kick the biter free and tumble forward, onto the damp soil. 

“Come on!” you yelled. 

He scuffled to his feet without hesitation. In good timing too, because the dead from the porch had been wandering toward the back of the cabin since they must’ve heard you smash the window. The second they turned the corner and their dead, yellow eyes landed on living flesh, they hurried. Sure, they couldn’t run fast, but you’d learned the hard way that a big group of them, as riled up as these were, was one of the most threatening situations you could find yourself in. 

Twice, he fired the gun. Two bitters dropped. At least six remained, and those were just the ones that’d made it around the curve of the cabin already. More were coming. 

They were always coming. 

The smell of gunpowder was nauseating, even worse than the rot that soaked the mangled body of every approaching biter. 

There wasn’t a hint of smoke in the air, but you could almost taste it— heavy on your tongue, painting your throat with soot and swarming your lungs with a dark cloud of pain. Sharp screams echoed through the expanse of trees, and then the overlapping barrage of gunfire thundered. 

And through all that, something low cut through the chaos. Even after you’d tried to cover your ears. Brian’s voice— his lies. 

“They mutilated me, burned my camp, killed my daughter…” 

A hand wrapped around your shoulder and pure instinct drove your knife into the biter’s skull. With a heavy gasp, you tried to catch your breath, tried to fill the lungs in your chest that were on the brink of collapsing.

“We can take the prison without firing a single shot—” 

The biter below you faded away, and the silver of your knife, sticking out of its skull, blurred until the only thing you could see anymore was that fence. Wrapped in barbed wire and supported with large wooden beams, but inconsequential for the tank at your side. 

“— but we have to be willing to kill.” 

Your legs gave out. On your knees, you reached over the dead biter for the handle of your knife. Just as your hand wrapped around the familiar grip, your vision darkened completely. Another gunshot rang out before you felt the damp ground against your cheek. 

“Liar.” 

— 

There was a steady beat of pain in your leg and chest, the latter weighing down your already shallow breath. The softness below you felt foreign. With eyes still shut, you dropped your hand from your chest to palm cushion. 

A bed or a couch, you guessed. 

Relief, not even confusion, hadn’t the time to sweep your thoughts before the achingly familiar groans of hunger made your chest tighten, even worse. 

Alert, your eyes snapped open to find another type of darkness— nothing but moonlight spilled past thin curtains. Figures danced between dim rays of white light; darkness painted across the walls of an unfamiliar living room like bad shadow puppets, ones that could only invoke horror instead of childlike wonder. 

Something old and wooden creaked beyond the window as one of the shadows moved, a cascade of moonlight landing on the man from the cabin— from the prison— and a crossbow, perched between his narrow eyes and bent knees. Head lulled to the side, you focused on his glare, the way his attention barely flickered to your knitted brow and parted chapped lips before he stared forward again. 

You followed the point of his bolt to a door just behind, closed shut by the weight of the couch you’d been sleeping on. 

Wide with panic, your eyes jumped back to him, and despite that horrid ache soaking through every inch of muscle, you tried to sit up. Tried to shuffle backward to put even an inch more distance between you and that door. But the pain twisted from aching to a sharp burn, and instead of distancing yourself, you collapsed down into the cushion with a violent hiss. 

“Stop,” he was quiet, drifting through the air like those rays of moonlight, but his tone was as sharp as the pain in your leg. 

There was a hint of shame behind your teary eyes. You tried to hide it by biting your quivering lip. God, you were afraid. Reduced to that girl who was scared of her own shadow— only this time, it wasn’t yours haunting you, it was the dead’s. 

Another one crossed what must’ve been a rickety porch from the constant creaking, and even with the dark shadows painted along his face, you could still feel that stern expression cut through you. 

You blinked hard, then swallowed, and tried to keep your voice steady. “You helped me,” you croaked out as if you had to say the words to believe it. 

He didn’t reply. 

That flannel you were wearing was wrapped around your leg as a makeshift bandage, and the bit of torn skin around your elbow was clean— as clean as possible without much water or any antibiotics. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

“Keep talkin’ ’n those assholes’ll grab you first.” 

You stayed quiet after that. 

It was another five minutes, at least, until you noticed that your knife was looped in his belt. Under the dim light, he saw the shift of your expression, from pain and restraint into another bout of wide-eyed concern. Only this time, there seemed to be a hint of anger laced within your clenched jaw, too. He followed your eyes to the blade, only to readjust it around his hips so that it was hidden behind the crossbow still perched in his lap. 

Something heavy hung in the air, beyond the immediate danger of the dead just outside and the lingering tension of your actions aiding the destruction of his home. Even if every beat of your heart ached for that blade to be on your hip again, to feel the familiar engraving of his initials under the padding of your thumb, you knew, regrettably, that there was no chance in hell you’d be getting it back anytime soon. A man so seemingly calculated and cautious as him would intend to keep the knife secured to his body— which was fair, considering the hell you’d just put him through.

You bit back your words, if they were to be pleading or upset you weren’t sure, and tried to focus on the lull of safety you had, even if for a moment. 

If he’d gone through not only the trouble of carrying you here, tending to your wounds, you could assume he wouldn’t be sending you to your death tonight. That he’d fire a bolt before any biter could break through and grab you. In the condition your leg was, tender with hurt and swollen to the stretch of your jeans, there wasn’t a chance for you to run, anyway. He’d have to drag you off that couch and out of that dark home if he wanted you gone. 

Whatever ease that gave you was enough for exhaustion to blur your vision again, and soon you slipped back into sleep. 

The morning’s rays of sun took place of the moon’s, landing across his taut expression as he continued to stare at the door. You briefly wondered if he’d been doing that all night. 

From the dark purple blooming under his eyes, it seemed a fair assumption. 

You sat up, with more vigour this time, able to balance yourself, properly. 

Still, he didn’t move his eyes off the door once. Not even a blink. It was like he’d frozen in time. 

With a soft sigh, you rubbed your eyes of sleep and did your best to ignore the dull throb in your leg while pushing yourself to a kneel. A delicate curl of your finger wrapped around the curtain just behind the couch, peaking an eye outside. There were a few stragglers left, wandering the ivy-ridden road ahead, but not nearly enough to have caused the noise and shadows of last night. 

“There’s a couple left,” you told him. 

When he didn’t reply, you glanced over your shoulder. 

“Hey,” you called a little louder, and his eyes finally snapped off the door, blinked, then met yours. They were swollen and discoloured as you’d noticed before, and even from across the room, you could see a rim of red. “Are you okay?” 

He huffed as he stood up. Whoever he was, he never seemed like a weak man, physically or mentally. Maybe that was a hint of your own bias, because it must’ve taken a lot of emotional strength to drop that gun from your forehead, and God, were you thankful that he had it. But the way he dragged himself around the room with heavy but suspiciously quiet steps was odd. 

Wandering into the kitchen and glancing out the back door, every movement was made as if his body was just a pound too heavy for him to carry. From the way he tried to hide it behind low grunts and snide glares, there was a heavy feeling in your gut that heaviness was conditioned into him. Like you’d always been told, your mind was too curious for your own good; you wondered the last time he didn’t have to carry that weight. The last time he really rested. 

And then your stomach knotted.  

Probably before you helped that lying asshole destroy his home. 

“Too many in the back.” He shook his head. 

You blinked and turned your attention back to the issue at hand. 

“What about the front? Maybe one of those cars can run.” 

“Nah. Checked last night.” 

“Well, maybe we can distract those biters, instead?” 

Leaning over, he peeked out the curtain above your head. Counted the dead warding off your only exit and straightened his stance again. 

“Tha’s a big maybe,” he remarked. 

“It’s better than nothing.” 

He glanced at you, then back at the window. 

“Still too many of ‘em anyway. If they catch us ’n get all riled up, those walkers in the back will come runnin’.” 

“Then is it even worth leaving?” 

“There’s no food or water ‘ere. Nothin’.” 

“So what do we do?” 

He scoffed, “You ’n I might be stuck in ‘ere, but there ain’t no ‘we’.” 

Your gaze narrowed. “I can help you.” 

“Don’t want your help.” 

“But you need it,” you snapped back. “Look in a mirror lately? You’re exhausted. Soon enough you’re gonna drop. You’ll need someone watching your back when you do and I’m all you got.” 

Observant, hooded eyes picked you apart, flickering across the part of your lips and the heave of your chest. He had a way of investigating you, dragging that deep and careful shade of blue across every inch of your shaking frame— studying you. 

A stare sharper than the cut of his cheekbones; it made you squirm, readjust your footing and swallow that annoying lump forming in your throat. And just as quick as his glare had turned on you, it fell off, leaving you to feel scorched where it’d lingered.

He turned on his heel. With that same piercing look, your attacker and saviour glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow cocked, expectantly.

“I ain’t got all day.” 

————————————————————

-> part two

A/N: ummmm hi<3 so so nervous ab posting this but its silly cuz its fanfic and ahhhhahhh anyway

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

[weretheones]

hi pretty !! i just read through the entirety of ur daryl fic, and oh my goodness </3 ur writing is absolutely brilliant and so so so beautiful ^^ after looking at ur profile i was so sad to see the inactivity, i just wanted to send in a little ask and see if u were alright, not to bother u about the fic itself, but make sure u urself are okay and staying healthy and happy :<

sending hugs <3

hi!! thank you so much for the lovely compliments, it truly means so much to receive! <3

I'm healthy and happy!! I can't lie, the last few months have been absolutely crazy. essentially my life did a 180 lol. its basically the plot to a fanfic in of itself: I end my long term relationship after years of feeling unfulfilled, manipulated, and ignored... I plan to be alone for a bit to discover myself again... promptly meet a man who is literally everything I always wished for in a partner (and so fine I cannot believe he's real Y'ALL DON'T UNDERSTAND I wish I could just post a pic of him but alas). anyway, the happy and healthy is a more recent achievement, but I feel so much better and more myself than I have in years. unfortunately, I haven't had really any time or energy to write since november. if i'm being completely honest I've usually resorted to writing when my mental health is worse off, which has been a good distraction for me but it also means that I come and go quite a bit lol.

I do miss writing, though. I miss AYG and all of you lovely readers, of course. I can't make any promises if I'll return soon or not, but I do hope to finish AYG, at least. its my damn baby!!!! I can't abandon her.

thank u again for the love and for checking in <3 mwah. I hope you're well, too, and sending hugs back.

[weretheones]

hihi :))) i found your fic a couple of months ago and completely forgot to bookmark it on ao3 and was devastated! and i found it again on here and literally jumped in joy!!! i just love this fic <3

oh YAY! im so glad you found me again :D & thank you!

I am still on ao3 under outforawalk_bitch (spike was my first baby girl<3) if you prefer to read it there.

[weretheones]

hiii, i was wondering if you’re going to post more chapters of your series? im obsessed. ♡

yes!! thank u for asking ! I have so so so much planned for all you got. like... so much. ive been going thru some health stuff & taking some time away from tumblr (and rlly all social media lol) on and off, so I haven't been nearly as productive as I wished lately... but im taking care of myself & part of that is getting back into my hobbies, aka writing <3

im working on the next part this weekend, between protests & friend dates & the gym lmao. hopefully it'll be up in the next week or two.

[weretheones]

the porn bots have once again infected the daryl dixon tags </3

[weretheones]

All You Got | Part 13

Part 13: Strangers

Plot: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count: 3.8k Warnings: typical twd content. claimers: a warning in of itself. references to attempted sexual assault. lots of gore and blood. A/N: hi again! excited to be posting this part :) its been a long time coming... happy reading!

A low fire flickered just past the trees. Maybe fifty feet away. 

“You think it's those men?” 

“Could be.” Daryl shook his head. “Could be anyone.” 

Despite walking all day and most of the night, you hadn’t been able to escape the threat of people. Even if that fire on the road hadn't been set by those men— and from the lack of cruel laughing and bruising punches, you figured it wasn't— it still meant people. Strangers. Bodies of unknown, with all the potential to be as twisted and cunning as the Governor, or as kind and loyal as Daryl. 

The small fire crackled. 

“What do we do?” 

“Can’t take a good look without riskin’ them seein’ us.” 

You bit your lip. Maybe you shouldn't have stopped moving, after all. 

There was a bush ahead. The branches looked loose enough that you could peak an eye through and take a better look at the strange fire and the stranger people. In a bush that small, it would be a tight fit, but you could do it. 

Your eyes flickered back to Daryl and those broad shoulders. He definitely couldn’t. 

So without another thought, and maybe not much choice, you crouched down. “Wait here.” 

You'd managed to move about a foot when his hand inevitably caught your wrist, and his rough voice hissed your name in warning. 

“Just trust me,” you mumbled, almost as quiet as the soft cricketing of the night air. It all seemed to drown out at the sight of that sharp caution in his eyes; blue darkened by the night and the weight of the world that rested on his shoulders. You blinked, and then your free hand was wrapped around his, the pad of your thumb brushing along his rough skin. “I don’t want them to find us, either.” 

The tension melted away like slow dripping wax; the look in his eye softened, his grip relaxed. 

You could guess that weight on his shoulders hadn’t quite lifted, not when those people were still so close and so unknown. But once his hand loosened enough for you to pull back, there was a patch of cold along your wrist where he'd held you tight. Where you'd felt the heat of adrenaline coursing through his veins, warming his skin. Daryl tried to swallow his concern as you finally slipped away and into the bush. 

You kept your head as low as possible. Crouched down and moving slow, like a wolf sneaking on its prey, though you weren't feeling quite predator-like. Not when you still had that swinging ball of anxiety slamming back and forth between your heart, lungs, and ribs. You thought of the gun at your hip. Four bullets left— no, three. You'd used one yesterday. Shit. 

The branches were thin and dry. If you pushed them too far, they'd snap in half. Some leaves rustled off the bush as you snuck your way inside. You kept your hands close, only drawing down that last branch an inch so you could peek past. The flames of the fire were the brightest thing around, even if you could tell it’d been made in a way to keep it as small and unsuspecting as possible. But smoke still drifted away in long strands, floating through the night, invading the forest air. The fire cracked, now and then, as a shadowy figure sat beside it. His head was hanging down, a lock of curly brown hair falling across his forehead as he chewed at something in his hands. A bone, maybe. 

Boots clicked along the pavement as a woman approached from the beaten-up blue truck to the right. She walked toward the fire with a languid stride. You could only see her silhouette backdropped across a glow of orange light. Her hair fell down her back in thick, black strands and something long and thin stick crossed over her back. 

You waited a moment or two, but the pair of them never gave a glimpse of their faces, and no one else seemed to be around. Still, the two strangers on the road didn’t seem to be a part of that group you came across earlier; you doubted that men like those would let a woman tag along. 

Finally free from the dying bush, you snuck back to Daryl. 

“There’s a woman,” you whispered when you got close enough. “It's not them.” 

“Just her?” 

"No, there was a man, too." You shook your head. "Maybe more in the truck." 

"You get a good look at 'em? They got guns?" 

"I couldn't see their faces. The man had a gun, and she had something on her back. It could have been a—" 

There was a laugh, then. 

A familiar one. 

Then another, and another, and they all overlapped until you could almost see that blue truck again, trunk open and all your supplies thrown around. Fear slammed back into your chest. You could’ve sworn you were back at that tree, pressed between Daryl and the rough bark, skin smoking with that fiery panic that caught right where your heart was supposed to be. 

“We gotta go.” Daryl's voice cut through the yells and fear like a dull blade. His tone was hard. Almost as stern as you remembered it from all those weeks ago. 

You nodded slowly. Smoke tinged the air you inhaled and your thoughts wandered back to those people. That woman... Unsuspecting. 

Daryl grabbed your wrist and brought you to a stand. But the forest floor had turned into quicksand, and you couldn't move yet.

“Those people on the road—” 

His jaw locked. 

“’S too late for ‘em.” His narrowed eyes flashed toward the road. That usual shade of blue was now dark and threatening as the laughter only grew louder. 

They were already there. 

He tried to move forward, to drag you out of that quicksand pit of empathy that might finally suffocate you, after all, but you didn't budge. You couldn't. 

“You heard what they’ll do to ya,” Daryl growled as if you needed a better reason to go with him. 

Instead you twisted out of his grasp. “They’ll do the same thing to them.” 

Of course, he knew that. There was a string wrapped around his pounding heart, pulling tighter and tighter because those people on the road didn’t deserve what was coming for them. No one did. But then there was you. With those big eyes, wide and glistening with fear even beyond that stubborn glow, and he hated it. Hated that he could recognize it so easily. He never wanted to see your features twisted in pain again. If those men got you— if a walker got you— if anything happened… 

"We— we have to help," you rasped out, even if instinctive fear seemed to be winning over your empathy as the seconds ticked by. Perhaps you could hear what he was thinking. The possibilities that ran through his mind and made his jaw lock he thought he might break a tooth. "We can try." 

His grip was back at your wrist, but this time it felt deeper. As if his fingers were melting into your skin, the thump of his heartbeat drowning into your own. 

“It ain’t worth losin’ you.” 

It was silent. Tension rising into the air like the strands of smoke lifting off that small, almost forgotten fire. It started as a soft wisp of burning wood, until your brain seemed to process what he'd said. Those words surrounded you, filling your lungs with that bittersweet burn, deeper and deeper with every slow, conscious breath you pulled in. 

You swallowed. It seemed to soothe the tension, an inch. 

Now wasn’t the time.

You opened your mouth to spill another retort because you’d changed these last few months, had become the type of person who would stand up for what they thought, scared or not. But before you could say a word, another ripped through the air. A guttural yell. 

“Carl!”  

---

After months of your blood-stained hands digging their way through Daryl’s tough-as-steel exterior, praying for a moment to prove yourself worthwhile of all the chances he'd given you, it was here. They were here. His people. 

Carl was in the grimy hands of one of those men with the bellowing laughs. Joe— the leader— had his gun to the back of Rick’s head. The woman you’d seen on the road, you didn’t remember her name, but you knew there was a gun on her too. There had to be. 

And Daryl went to them, leaving you in the bushes with his last words still ringing in your ears.

“Listen to me. If shit goes south… I don’t give a fuck what happens to me, you run, y’hear?” 

“Daryl—” 

“You run.” 

Your hands shook like those dead leaves on the bush, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear the click of your gun’s magazine releasing. You counted the bullets, even if you already knew how many were there. 

You hadn’t even realized you grabbed his hand. Not until his eyes flickered between it and you. 

You whispered... maybe whimpered, “I can’t just—” 

Two in the magazine. One in the chamber. Three bullets for five men— that you knew of. 

The skinny one was missing. Len. Maybe he’d finally been beaten to hell, himself. Maybe they'd left him behind. 

“I can’t do this knowin’ that those assholes might find ya.” 

Your eyes shimmered with a concern he was still getting used to receiving. He blinked, then squeezed your hand back. 

“You run,” he repeated. 

Daryl moved through the shadows of the forest like he’d been doing it his whole life— and God did it feel like that, the stretch of time filled with more yelling and pleading and laughing while he moved closer to the spot where the forest broke open. 

What the hell he was planning on doing when he got to the road’s edge, you had no idea. The mere thought made your heart squeeze tighter than Daryl had your hand. 

A shadow moved behind him. 

You gasped. Raised your gun as if it wouldn’t be the stupidest thing in the world to fire it at only a glimpse of a figure. A waste of bullets on shadows. What was likely nothing more than a lone walker, wandering with nothing but the road’s sounds to lead its path. And with all those cruel men so close, they'd come running at the shot’s echo. But just as you were about to rush out, knife in hand with nothing more than a hope that you could make it on time, the shadow raised a bow of its own. 

Not a walker. 

Your fingers fell off his. 

The softest of whispers, “Just come back.” 

Sometime between sneaking up on Daryl and when they finally broke from the tree line, Len had taken the crossbow from him, slinging his compound bow across his back. The crossbow was easier to aim at Daryl’s head while they walked onto the road.

“Found another one’a them!” 

Quiet. For a moment. 

Daryl and Rick's eyes met for the first time in months. They both had weapons aimed to the back of their heads. 

From that angle, you couldn't see Daryl's face. Only the shift in his shoulders, dropping barely an inch as he stilled. A slight wobble in his stance. Across the road, recognition sunk into Rick’s features, but they never quite found the relief you hoped to see when this day came. Of course, you had always imagined it under vastly different circumstances. Finding them on the road. Maybe at Terminus. Not in the dark of night, surrounded by men who wanted to kill— and worse. 

“Fool thought he could sneak up on us,” Len chuckled. 

He only let Daryl pause for a second before he grew bored and kicked at the back of his leg, and Daryl crumbled like a straw-man released from its post. His knees scratched along the cold concrete, palms flat for the second it took for him to regain his senses. To get that breath back in his lungs after the gut-punching sight of his friend's faces, the ones he dreamt about night after night. 

“Hey!” The one with a gun on the woman— what was her name again?— yelled, “Those arrows look familiar to you?” 

Len looked down to see the same green shoots on the crossbow’s bolts as his own compound's— the ones he'd stolen from the car earlier that day.

“Holy shit,” Len exhaled. “That was your car, wasn’t it?” 

Joe laughed, a hearty, full-lung chuckle, “Shit! And here I was thinking of turning in for the night on New Year's fuckin’ Eve!” 

“Settle a bet for us, why don’t ya? You were traveling with a woman, right?” 

Even with all the trees between you, you could see Daryl’s jaw clench. It only spurred Len on further. 

“Mhm. I bet that bitch is out there, too. Hiding in the bushes, like a little rabbit?” He knelt as if to take a closer look at Daryl’s quickly retreating composure. The vein popping in his forehead, the red tint to his cheeks. “I love me some rabbit. ‘M real good at huntin’ ‘em down.” 

Daryl’s heart was pounding hard, face flush with the anger racing through his veins like bad moonshine, turning him blind to the reasonable course of action. Keep his head down, wait for his chance... But how the hell could he do that when the road was burning hot underneath his palms? When he could see red— the red of your blood— pooling below? 

Then Len leant in even closer, and then all he could think about was rot; the smell reeking from the yellow of his teeth when he grinned, the black tar that soaked his soul. The way he wished he could see the dead rip into the bastard. 

“Think I can make ‘er squeal?” 

Daryl jumped up. He landed a punch right on Len’s nose. There was nothing quite like the smooth relief that pumped through his veins when he felt bone crack underneath. 

Len fell back. Blood coated his mouth and chin, shining in the moonlight like a damn spotlight, begging for another hit. But for all that asshole’s undeserved cockiness, he still had the numbers to back him up; another one grabbed the back of Daryl’s vest, pulled him away from a stumbling Len, and threw a bruising punch of his own. Before you could even aim your gun, Daryl was back on the ground and kicked in the gut as a third man joined in. 

“Kill ‘im! Fuckin’ idiot.” Len snarled, throwing a punch after he was done cradling his face. Daryl was dragged by the men and tossed on top of the car's hood like a doll. Fists slammed into his sides, his back, his face. Any punch he threw back was quickly met with two more. 

“Listen, it was me, it was just me,” Rick yelled out, his voice a rumble of pleading and hopelessness. He shook his head, his son pressed against that big man with the sickening grin on one side, and Daryl taking fist after fist to the jaw, eye, stomach, and shoulder on the other.  

“Oh, don’t worry. We can settle this, we’re reasonable men.” 

Your finger twitched along the trigger. From the depths of your memory, a word echoed. 

Liar. 

Joe continued, “First, we’re gonna beat your friend to death. Then, we’ll have the girl, then the boy. Then I’m gonna shoot you and we’ll be square!” 

The gun felt lighter. Those three bullets suddenly etched with the names of these men— Joe, Len, that fucker with the knife on Carl. 

“Let him go,” Rick shuttered out. The rumbling anger in him began to leak like a dam about to burst. Somehow, those three words huffed into the night air, even with a gun at the back of his neck, still managed to sound like a threat. 

And they were. 

You flinched when Rick threw his head back to collide with Joe’s face. The first shot rang out as he stumbled, clutching his face with one hand and letting his smoking gun fall with the other. Time slowed, but Rick was even slower, blinking and shaking his head as the ringing must've trapped in his ear. A bloody Len looked over with Daryl's bow in hand once again as Joe coughed, blood leaking down his face, too. In the time it took for him to stand straight again, Rick had managed to get up and punch him. 

Joe punched back harder. 

Rick fell to the ground like a bag of bricks. 

“I got him. Go find your rabbit, Len.” A groan left both of them as Joe forcefully kicked his boot into Rick's gut. “Oh, it’s gonna be so much worse now.” 

There was no doubt about it. Joe’s words echoed into the dark night, muddled with the sounds of whimpers, groans, skin rubbing against concrete. This was headed as far south as it could, tunneling straight to hell from the sounds of it, and a heavy shadow wrapped its slimy, inescapable arms around you. 

“Come on, already. Get up. Let's see what ya got," Joe taunted as he circled Rick, who couldn't seem to find his balance. 

With the back of his hand, Len wiped his bloody chin before he turned toward the forest line. A look in his eye even darker and slimier than that shadow. 

If you had thought about it first, you would have stayed still. But staggering backward felt more like instinct than thought, something you hadn’t realized you were doing until a branch snapped under your foot. 

A tense second hung in the air between you and this man, wondering if he could pinpoint the small crack amongst all the muffled cries and painful groans. 

He smiled a sickening grin. 

A chill down your back as your breath caught in your throat. His eyes narrowed in on the section of woods Daryl left you in, eyeing between the branches like you really were a little rabbit, and he was fucking starving. 

Run. He’d told you to run and here you were, frozen with uncertainty. Where would you run? How could you live with yourself, leaving them for dead? What if you shot and missed, three times? What if—

"You leave him be!" Rick yelled when Carl cried out. 

Finally, Joe caught Rick. He laughed, "The hell are you gonna do now, sport?" 

A new scream. Not from Carl or Rick. But before you could tell from whom, it had morphed into gurgling and choking, instead. 

Then Rick spat. 

Len turned around, and without those predator eyes on you anymore, you saw it. The way Joe's body turned limp, his hand grasping Rick's collar the last thing to give out before he fell to the ground. A mess of blood spurted out of his neck until the red skulls on his shirt melted into the red that poured down his body. 

From his mouth to his chest, Rick was covered in the same colour. 

It took a moment for everyone to realize what had happened. That Rick had bit Joe’s throat out like a fucking walker. An air of shocked silence lingered until a few gasps made their way around the road. By the time Len began to raise Daryl's crossbow in Rick's direction, a choice had been made, and you stepped from behind the bush. 

Gun raised.

Len's head snapped forward with the impact of the bullet. He crumbled to the ground faster than Joe, crossbow buried underneath his limp limbs. The woman used the second air of shock to grab the gun pointed at her head, twisted it to the man holding it, and fired. He fell, too. 

You stepped out of the tree line. Smoking gun and narrowed eyes exposed under the moonlight. Their eyes snapped to you, unsure only for a second before you shot the men at Daryl's side. One in the head, the other in the throat. He fell back, grabbing at his leaking neck until Daryl threw him down and stomped on his windpipe to finish the job. 

One man was left. He'd put a knife to Carl's throat amid everything, grabbed the boy to his chest and promised he'd kill him if you did anything. The woman had already aimed her gun at him, and you knew yours was empty by now, but neither stopped you from aiming yours, too. 

"Put them down!" He yelled, eyes snapping between the pair of you. The knife inched closer to Carl's neck. "I'll do it!" 

Rick stood up. Joe's knife was in his hand as he stalked toward the man and his son with nothing more than a growl. 

"He's mine." 

The man's eyes widened. "S— Stay back! Please—" 

Rick drove the knife into his chest. Once. Twice. Then dragged it up and down and you should have looked away. He was snarling like a wild animal, staring that man— that monster— right in the eye. Unleashing every drop of that boiling rage inside of him. You knew it was because of what he tried to do to his son, but something in you almost felt as sharp as that knife, stabbing over and over. And maybe that was why you couldn't look away, because the hot gun in your hand suddenly felt so light. 

Empty. 

Maybe you should have saved a bullet in case Rick tried to gut you next, for what you had done to his son, to his family. 

Just as those dark thoughts wrapped around your mind, familiar fingers did the same at your wrist. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes off of all the blood and guts only to notice that you hadn’t dropped your gun, that you were now aiming it at Rick’s head. He’d given up on his assault, dropping the mess of that dead monster to the ground with nothing more than a heavy thump. Now he was facing you, eyes narrowed and unreadable under the moonlight as Daryl's hand lowered your gun. 

The second you turned to him, you let it fall to the ground, lost in the red splattered across his face, the cut above his eyebrow, the puffiness of his right eye. 

Red, red, red. 

Something squeezed your hand. His fingers were still wrapped around you. 

You blinked, and the red cleared a bit. Enough that even in the dark of night, you could still see the shimmering blue of care, of concern, of Daryl. 

Daryl. 

Bruised but alive. Touching your skin. Drawing you back with every thump of your heartbeat.

And just like the gun, you let go of the fear, too.

————————————————————

A/N: if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

AYG taglist: @fuseburner @itsmeatballworld @rickysgrimes @stevenknightmarc @huffledor-able541 @your-shifting-gurl @hopefulatrocity @strnqer @dreamtofus @fillechatoyante @suniloli @kiaslily @poubxlle @normanplusdaryl @sseleniaa @wanhedavaliquette @murdadixon

[weretheones]

In the A/N of "Alone" you mention it having a part 2, are you every going to post it? I love your writing and I feel like that fic captures perfectly Daryl's character😭

ahh yes, I did start another fic in my drafts that was a soft part 2 to alone (meaning, I see them as continuing in the same timeline, but not necessary to read one or the other to understand either, you know?). unfortunately I hit a bit of writers block about a particular (and very important) scene which derailed me from continuing it... maybe ill come back to it some day. I did love the idea.

also omg thank you for the very kind compliment <3 it truly means so much!!

[weretheones]

AAAAA IM ABSOLUTELY LOVING YOUR FIX ALL YOU GOT KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK

thank you very much <3 its about the only thing keeping me motivated to write (when I have the time) so im glad you're enjoying it so much!!

next chapter should be out in the next day or so ❤️❤️

[theteasetwrites]

@weretheones has a PHAT ASS💥💢💦‼💯

[weretheones]

keeping this sensitive information in mind... do u think daryl is an ass man or titty man or thigh man

[weretheones]

Ive just came across you fic All You’ve got and was wondering when you update the chapters 😭

usually I try to aim for fridays, either weekly or bi weekly depending on my writing pace. I missed the last update cause I was in vancouver for the week and had no time to write between running around the city and hiking LOL. the next part is finished (technically) I just need to proof read/edit before I release it <3

[acecroft]

THE WALKING DEAD 4.04

[weretheones]

watched the walking dead: daryl dixon season finale...

[i-will-write]

[weretheones]

What abt “No rush part 2”? Asking for a friend.

This is definitely not Ari btw.

ur friend needs god 🙏

[weretheones]

All You Got | Part 12

Part 12: What's Left

Plot: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: typical twd content. references to sexual assault, nothing ridiculously explicit in my opinion but just a heads up. A/N: me? on time for a posting? impossible... enjoy ;)

Daryl insisted on traveling through the tree line rather than the road. That bandage had unsettled him— who knew who left it? The last time you’d seen people, it’d meant a week of bed rest, a bullet through the shoulder, and that broken look in your eye. 

He wasn’t eager to repeat any of it. 

But then there was you. You who couldn’t seem to stop chirping about how it could be good to find this new group— even if neither of you had any idea who the hell they were. How the gas you found would prove useful after all— even if the road was still long and dangerous. Hope seemed to infect you, filling every breath you took with an air of naivety that only made the hairs on the back of his neck raise— even if you had that pretty smile to tempt him, otherwise. 

“It might not even be there anymore.” 

He didn’t mean to be an asshole. Sometimes it just snuck up on him like an old habit. Thankfully, you mostly seemed to understand that, nowadays. 

Mostly. 

You rolled your eyes, voice a hitch higher. 

“They were broadcasting just a couple of months ago and they have signs all over the state,” you snapped. “It might be gone but it could very well still be standing, and if it is, then that’s what we need.” 

Put in his place, he shut his mouth for a moment. 

Those signs. Something about them was bugging him. It was like putting out a damn welcome mat for any Governor-type asshole this world still had slithering around. If Terminus was still around after all, and they let you both in, he’d be the first to rip them down. 

“Jus’ don’t wanna see ya broken up if it doesn’t work out.” 

His tone was softer. Concerned. 

You sighed and turned his way. 

“I know, and you’re right. It’s just… it’s nice to have a lead, again. It’s been hard not having somewhere to go, you know? Just wandering around, without an end.” 

Daryl nodded. “Guess it’s fittin’ then.” 

“How so?” 

“That’s what it means: Terminus. Endpoint.” 

“Well that sounds ominous,” you laughed. “I guess it could have a good meaning though. The end of running, hiding. All of that.” 

Daryl gave a half-hearted smile. His lips slightly curled with the only twinge of hope he had left in his chest. 

“Maybe.” 

The car couldn’t have been much further by that point. The road was littered with familiar cracks, from the glimpses of it you could see past the thicket of trees. Maybe it was time to put some concrete under your feet instead of cold earth. 

But just as you were about to say just as much to Daryl, the quiet air broke. 

“Bullshit!” 

The yell pierced the thin veil of safety that silence had wrapped around you. Daryl’s head snapped up first, hunter’s instincts and all that, but you were merely a fraction of a second behind. Within the next second, he had yanked you back behind a tree, palm pressed flat against your sternum as your back slammed against the rough bark. You bit your lip, trapping the gasp of pain as he glared around the side. He was close enough that you could watch the flick of his wide eyes, bouncing left then right then left again as he watched the road, waiting for the moment the group of men would notice that rustle in the bushes and head your way. As those blue slits of anticipation calculated your odds, you could practically hear the swear he only dared to mouth. Maybe he could hear the sound of your heart pounding against your ribs— he could definitely feel it. 

He was close— so were they— how many bullets did you have left? 

A squeeze of your shirt brought you back, snapping your eyes into focus as Daryl spoke to you through nothing but a look. Stay silent. You silently nodded as your hand wrapped around the cool handle of your gun at your hip. 

“The hell you idiots hollering about?” 

“Len’s a goddamn liar, tha’s what!” 

“I told ya, it's already claimed.” 

“Bullshit,” the man growled this time, voice so thick you could practically hear the way he clenched his teeth. “You didn’t claim nothin’!” 

You gingerly wrapped your fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand from your chest. He let it fall off silently, sparing you a glance as you checked your gun’s clip, then peeked around the bend of the trunk, too. Daryl held his crossbow only an inch from his eye, ready to fire around the tree’s cover at any second. The bush separating you from them— whoever the hell they were— was thin enough that if the men looked your way, and the light was right, they might’ve seen you. But as it was, the pair of you were as silent as you were still, and there was nothing to draw their attention your way.

You could see the men move around the car like a pack of vultures. The two arguing rounded the front with both their chests puffed out. The way they were going, it seemed as if they might solve themselves before they became a real problem. 

The one who was a proclaimed liar— Len— was tall, with outgrown brown hair and a thick beard that made his already long face look even thinner. That stained hoodie, half-zipped, hung off him. He was cockier than he deserved to be; the other man looked considerably more threatening, even if he stood a few inches shorter under his blue beanie. 

Appearances could be deceiving, though, and they proved to be when the shorter man finally snapped his fist forward and Len dodged it easily. He was thin but fast, and knew how to throw a punch as well as he could dodge one. It didn’t take long for the other man to end up on the ground, his stomach kicked twice while the others stood by idly. As if nothing was happening. Their indifference to violence was not necessarily shocking— but weren’t they supposed to be a group? They were traveling together, scouting together, but they didn’t care much about one another. 

No. These men weren’t family. They were just a group of survivors, cruel and scarred alike. Certainly not the type of men you wanted to find on the side of the road. 

But the car… 

“Should we wait them out?” You whispered. 

Daryl’s eyes never moved off them, and his jaw was clenched. Tighter than you ever remembered it before. 

“Dunno yet.” 

“Joe!”

The grey-haired one stepped forward. He had on a black button-down with red skulls embroidered and a commanding way about his voice when he finally yelled, 

“Will you two idiots stop already?”

The men listened. The beating stopped and Len laughed at the crumpled mess of a man on the concrete, even as the blood leaked out of him. He only managed to catch his footing with help from the car’s trunk. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Joe chuckled from in front of the wide-open trunk. 

“Wha’ is it?” Len asked, barely sparing the man he’d just beaten a glance before he was strolling to the others. 

“Found something else to fight over.” 

He threw a brightly coloured box to Len and your heart skipped a beat. 

Tampons. 

“This car belongs to a woman.” 

A sickening grin broke across his face. 

All their faces. 

The yellow of their teeth— the ones still left— was almost visible from here, and you didn’t need to look anymore to know that their eyes had all darkened. These men stank of cruelty and seemed to take joy in handing it out to each other. You didn’t expect they would spare a random woman of that, either. The chorus of sickening words that followed proved such: promises of first turns and declarations of the ‘lonely’ months since they last found someone to attack. 

The fear bundled in your chest. Tightening its little knot around your stomach, your lungs, reaching higher and higher until every muscle in your body felt acutely taut. A stinging mix of bile and a breath you couldn’t seem to catch burnt a hole right in the middle of your throat. 

Your finger twitched along the trigger. 

They couldn’t find you— you couldn’t let them get you. 

You didn’t realize when you’d looked toward Daryl, but a part of you knew it was only a matter of time. Whenever dread took root inside of you and seemed to burn your hope away from the inside out, he was there to calm the fire with those icy blue eyes. They were narrow now. Fierce and terrifying at first glance, but he held onto your stare firmly. And for once, you could read his mind as he so casually did yours. 

They won’t get you. 

You took a breath. It was admittedly raspy, a hitch too loud for your liking, so you made a point to be smoother the next time. 

“Think it's the same one?” 

“I hope so. Hope she got that piece of shit with her, too.” 

Your stomach dropped. 

Did they mean Daryl? 

“No. Whoever’s been shackin’ up in this van has been here longer than they’ve been house hoppin’.” Joe kissed his teeth in disappointment. “It ain’t them.” 

The knot in your stomach loosened a bit, but it was still a heavyweight; they might not have been tracking you and Daryl— not yet, at least— but they were tracking others, and you doubted they had good intentions once they found them. 

“So we stayin’ or not?” 

Another interrupted, “How do we know she’s even comin’ back?” 

“There's enough food in ‘ere to last a few days, at least. She’s either comin’ back or she’s already dead.” 

A shadow loomed closer, bigger and bigger until there was a rustle in the bushes. 

You and Daryl moved back behind the tree, without much time to go anywhere else. Bark digging into your back again, Daryl’s hands pressed around your body like a cage. You tried to find comfort in the idea of his arms surrounding you, instead of that suffocating feeling that was climbing up your chest. 

A belt buckle clinked. Then the thump of pants dropped to the ground. 

“She better be hot!” 

That thin man again. Len. 

“Waiting out here like a bunch’a assholes… better be worth it,” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else. 

You heard it, of course. So did Daryl. 

The cage slipped away, and whatever comfort it brought did, too; one of his hands dropped to his hip, steady fingers unbuckled his knife’s sheath and wrapped around the handle. You glanced up to his face, where his eyes had narrowed into slits. It was a familiar look, one you’d seen before his bolt sliced into a squirrel or a rabbit. The look of a hunter, closing in on its prey. 

Anger swarmed him. Pupils blown so wide you couldn’t see that ring of blue anymore. He was going to kill him. Take his knife and stick it in him as many times as he needed until Len stopped squealing like the nasty pig he was. Right here, right now. 

And you wanted him to. 

But, then there was reason. 

It always snuck in, eventually. 

With a shaky— perhaps unsure— hand, you caught his wrist. Wrapped your fingers around him as softly as you could and held his hand still. Kept that knife in its sheath, kept the two of you hidden and safe. 

Daryl’s eyes locked onto yours, still steaming from all that anger boiling up. It took him a moment, but eventually your gentle touch swarmed his rage. Smothered the fire. 

He got the point.  

Not now. 

Oblivious, Len sighed.

You held your breath. Closed your eyes. 

Anything to get away, until you actually could. 

— 

The minute Len went back to the road, you and Daryl made a run for it. The gas canister and all your hopes of a quick trip up to Terminus were abandoned at the trunk of that tree. 

They hadn’t heard you get away. 

However, that little fact didn’t do much to soothe the worry in your chest. A heavy ball, swinging back and forth, slamming into your heart, your lungs, your ribs. It made you nauseous. Made your head ring like a damn church bell with every pulse of your blood. 

Dead leaves crunched under your bloodstained boots. Daryl’s too. The ground was cold and hard. Unforgiving. 

Chances were, it would be your bed for the night. 

You glanced up at the sky, already a dusty navy blue. Free of clouds, free of sun. The moon was round, just at the cusp of being a full circle of white light. 

The earth would be your bed if you ever stopped walking. 

It’d been since the car. Since the men who beat each other over a simple misunderstanding, but rallied together at the thought of an unsuspecting woman. 

You. 

“Daryl.” 

He turned on his heel. Faster than you expected. 

Eventually, your feet had stopped listening to the pursuit forward. A protest from stiff and tired muscles, standing still instead of following him through the weave of the forest. You weren’t sure why. Exhaustion hadn’t stopped you much before. 

You’d probably be dead if it had. 

“I, um—” 

You shook your head. At that moment, there seemed to be a lot you weren’t sure about. 

“Can we just hold up a minute?” 

“We should keep moving.” 

“We’ve been walking all day. All night.” 

“We gotta,” he huffed. 

“They didn’t see us leave. You covered our tracks.” 

You stepped closer to him, a soft, reasonable whisper into the dark air. 

“They’re not following us.” 

“We don’t know tha’.” 

“Daryl.” 

Your eyes did most of the pleading. 

He bit his lip, then nodded softly. 

The closest tree was as good as any. With a heavy sigh, you fell against it, and for the first time since those nightmares, you closed your eyes. Just for a second. The bark was uncomfortable, digging into the shoulder that had already been bruised under a similarly rough tree. But it’d been either that or being caught. 

Daryl was still standing. Pacing the small path back and forth like he could feel something coming closer. Watching you. He tried to watch it, too, but he never could seem to catch it. Or maybe there wasn’t actually anything out there.

From that angle, he seemed to be standing almost as tall as the trees. He was certainly as stiff as them when you called out again. 

“You can sit.” 

A glance your way. It felt tense, made your throat squeeze just a bit tighter. But eventually, he found something in your expression that seemed to stabilize the irregularity of his heart, pounding out of his chest. 

He sighed, then gave in. 

Winter’s breath slipped past your lips, a cloud of mist. It was dark tonight; there was barely enough silver moonlight to see past the second ring of trees surrounding you, but you were focused on Daryl anyway. His tree. The way he fell against it, rigid shoulders and bouncing eyes that always seemed to see better than yours when it came to the forest. 

Exhaustion had dulled your senses, no doubt about it. But you could still feel the goosebumps rise. Could feel the shiver run down your spine. It was as cold as it was dark, like every night before this one, though it’d been a long time since you’d had to curl up against a tree instead of a backseat or squeaky mattress.  

When he peeled off his jacket, your brow furrowed. His mouth was still shut, from what the shadows spared, but then there was a tumbling ball of darkness coming toward you until denim landed in your lap. Your heart dropped. It wasn’t an aching pain, this time. Not a bad one, at least. A low thump of memory coursing through your veins, thinking back to all the times he’d spared an inch of comfort just for you. 

You bundled the jacket in your hands, then with your last burst of energy, pushed yourself back up and practically crawled over to his tree, instead. His jacket was always thrown overtop a couple of flannels and still loose, so it was big enough to wrap around you, and then him. 

Him who stared at you like you’d grown a second head. 

“This okay?” You asked, a touch too late. 

Still, he nodded. Eyes falling off your sweet expression to find that cold earth underneath him. 

“’S better than a fire.” 

Another meaning slipped into his head— maybe the one he really meant. His voice picked up to clarify, “The smoke, I meant.” 

“I figured you’d say no.” You spared a small smile. “But it’s still too cold.” 

Daryl looked out to the forest again. Maybe he could see something out there, or maybe staring out into darkness was better than acknowledging how close you were. You shuffled next to him, trying to give him space without compromising the jacket’s cover, but damn, he was so warm. So close already.

Did another inch make any difference? 

“You burn like a damn furnace, anyway.” 

You took in a deep breath. Every thump of his nervous heart beating waves of heat toward you, melting away that frost that seemed to line your insides some days. 

“So do you.” 

He scoffed. 

It grew quiet, again. 

Breaths in and out. Daryl even seemed to relax. His shoulder became softer and softer under your cheek— only God knew when it landed there. The comfort should have lulled you to sleep, but there was still something lingering at the back of your throat, waiting for the chance to slip your lips. 

“You wanted to kill that guy.” 

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t really an accusation, either. 

“I woulda.” His voice vibrated into you, that deep, threatening rumble of a man. “If he’d seen us.” 

But you’d seen that look in his eye. Knew the urge ran deeper than that.

Daryl seemed to notice you picking him apart, piece by piece like a damn puzzle, and his gaze slipped away. Lost in the breeze of tall trees and low bushes, where he prayed nothing would jump from. 

Still. 

There was something about the way you watched him as if you could see past the mask he spent years piecing together. For his father, for his brother, for anyone else who dared to spend more than an hour by his side. It wasn’t enough. Not for you. 

And for once in his life, he didn’t seem to mind. 

He sighed, “Shoulda put a bolt in him, anyway.” 

“If you did, they would be hunting us down right now.” 

You were right.

Of course, you were right. It didn't make his regret ache any less. He sighed, again, and let his head rest against the tree trunk. Pressed to his side, you could hear the slow inhale of his breath, rattling past his dry throat and into those smoke-stained lungs. The thump of his heart seemed stronger than any of it, though. A soothing pulse, more even as the seconds ticked by.

Yours had evened out, too.

“I’m okay, you know.” 

His head turned. A soft rustle compared to the low night breeze. It didn’t matter that your gaze had slipped off him, a moment or two ago. You could feel his stare lock onto the curve of your face. The flutter of your eyelashes as you blinked away that shimmer in your eye— the bad kind. Shift down to the way your shoulders slowly relaxed. Reaffirming those little words; wrapping a warm blanket around his heart. Making that crossbow in his hands feel as light as the way your arm brushed up against his.

He cleared his throat. You could feel his breath on your cheek. 

“Ya— Y’know, I’d die before I’d let…” 

His voice was raspy, dying off even before he lost the words entirely. It wasn’t anything you needed to hear, anyway. Not when the shine in his eyes was pointed down at you.

No more anger, not anymore. 

Something darker than the night sky. Unreadable. 

You nodded. 

There was still that inkling of dread in your chest, stomping on top of your hope like a bratty child, but he seemed to make the pound of your heart slow. Seemed to make you feel safe even if you were anything but. 

“I know.” 

The words were a bare whisper. A delicate hush that came out as softly as the way your eyes felt slipping down his face. His lips were parted with slow breaths slipping past, like those thoughts that snuck into your mind, wondering what he might do if you leant closer. Touched him in a new way. 

A breeze ran past you. Cold air biting your skin and a tinge of smoke. 

The pair of you stilled. Pulled apart. The thought was caught in the smokey wind, carried away. 

There was a fire nearby. 

A/N: shit is about to get real y'all.

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

AYG taglist: @fuseburner @itsmeatballworld @rickysgrimes @stevenknightmarc @huffledor-able541 @your-shifting-gurl @hopefulatrocity @strnqer @dreamtofus @fillechatoyante @suniloli @kiaslily @poubxlle @normanplusdaryl @sseleniaa @wanhedavaliquette

[weretheones]

having some horrible days lately, so apologies if the next part of AYG is short/late... these inner demons got hands lately

[weretheones]

All You Got | Part 11

Part 11: New Trails

Plot: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count: 5k Warnings: typical twd content. mentions of death. A/N: hey remember me? pls say yes :D

A day later, you raided the closest town. 

A new multitool, granola bars, some tampons. It wasn’t much, but at least you had the car when the night turned cold. 

And Daryl. 

Those hints of vulnerability hidden behind a surly mask hadn't disappeared yet. And best of all, he could look you in the eye again. Even if you still couldn’t always quite tell what he was thinking, the reaffirming glance of familiar blue laced with a type of gentleness you’d never noticed before— not even in those quiet moments: when he was patching you up, when he was sick with fever— warmed you up better than any sputtering car heater could. 

He’d never forget the prison. The sight of those metal fences shadowing your face. But there was a trail where your feet had landed these past weeks, littered with moments that could convince even a man as stubborn and heartbroken as Daryl that it was the right choice to stick by your side, the shadow of prison fences and all. Somehow, somewhere along the way from that dingy cabin to the car you shared, you’d made it okay. 

So things were okay, too. For a while. 

But the days went on. 

On and on and on…

Limp leaves of brown and red flew in the air around spinning tires. Ahead was a horizon of cracked pavement lit by the thin light of sunset and the beam of headlights. Except for the speeding car, the road was empty. Nothing to see but amber skies. 

Then those slipped away. The sun dipped behind tall trees, and it was only those headlights and the cold moonlight. No walkers. Not even an abandoned car. Just an empty road, no matter how many miles you traveled. 

“Where are we going?” 

For the first time in months, there was an air of hopelessness caught in your lungs. It infected your voice, wrapping around the words like rotten tendrils of ivy. 

Daryl’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. White knuckles. 

He shook his head. 

“I dunno.” 

The bus had nearly dashed all your hopes, but there was still that stubborn bit of you holding onto the far-fetched idea that something was still out there to find. To protect. Though the road had become so long over the days, the idea smaller and smaller as north, west, south, and east blended, and slowly you were disorientated. No more paths to follow. No more maps to trace. 

You could feel your grip slipping, right as the first flakes of snow fell. 

— 

Eventually, he taught you how to hunt. 

The tracks were the softest thing you’d seen in a week, not since Daryl had smiled at you by that river. Thin ovals imprinted in the dirt under a scatter of leaves that you brushed a hand across, gently. 

“Deer, right?” You looked up at Daryl. “How fresh are they?” 

He just shrugged. “Wha’ ya asking me for?” 

You crouched closer to the tracks. They were relatively deep, the edges cut into recognizable prints. With the back of your knuckle, you pressed into the dirt beside them. It gave away underneath, marking an even sharper and deeper print. The earth was soft this morning, warmed by the pleasantly bright sun despite the first fall of snow a couple of days ago. 

The sinking prints could only have been made that day. After sunrise. 

“They’re fresh,” you concluded. “Maybe an hour or two?” 

Daryl smirked, and you soon had one to match it. 

A deer would be more than enough meat for the two of you. The last time you’d had a catch like that, it’d been in the thick of last winter. Taking a deep breath in, you swore you could still smell the stew steaming from your bowl. It was enough to give your step an extra bounce. To give some fuel to that dwindling hope in your chest. 

Things weren’t always bad, even if it felt like everything was slipping through your fingers lately. 

And then an hour later, you were standing over a dead walker and a dead deer, all chewed up. 

— 

Still no home. No direction. 

The air was damp. An almost suffocating musk that infected every inch of the abandoned motel room. From the tacky wallpaper to the mismatching purple curtains, this place screamed road-trip stop. A little strip of a dozen rooms at the edge of an unnamed town dedicated for only those passing through. 

It seemed fitting to spend the night, then. 

“You can’t seriously like those things.” 

Daryl’s eyes found yours, even in the dim candlelight. 

“Love ‘em.” He threw another pig’s foot into his mouth and you cringed. 

“Ew.” 

“More for me, then.” 

That was just fine with you. 

You rolled your eyes and took another bite of canned corn. It was too sweet and a bit metallic from its years in a can, but at least it wasn’t a foot. 

The pair of you had your backs resting against your claimed, and ironically empty, single beds. After a week of sleeping in that car, taking turns curling into the backseat, it was a treat to have a real mattress to sleep on. Even if it was cheap and full of squeaky springs that dug into your spine. 

But somehow here you were, on the floor instead, sharing a late and unexpected meal against dusty, floral bed sheets. 

Daryl insisted on holding watch most nights. A simple thing that always seemed to lull you to sleep faster knowing that he was there, he was watching. You stopped doubting if he would keep you safe a while ago. He always did, after all. But tonight, it’d been your turn to do the same for him, to wait for each of those heavy breaths to come and the gentle flutter of his eyes as he fell deeper and deeper into sleep. 

That walker had almost got him. 

Really almost got him. If you hadn’t fired a bullet when you did, you would have spent the night digging a grave. All for some gas to fill a car you still had no idea where to drive. It was always just the next town, the next house, the next store, the next—

He let you throw your arms around him after the last of the dead had fallen, even if his muscles turned to stone when you did. And he listened after you told him to rest first. Perhaps the memory of that loose, unbridled fear in your eyes had turned him to putty in your hands, for the time being. 

It was only a couple of hours before sunrise when he woke up. He asked you to rest, too. Whatever you still could get. 

The last thing you wanted was to sleep, to give in to your heavy eyelids and fall away from the world. Not when you could still smell the walker’s rot, could still hear Daryl’s heavy grunts. The crack of that bullet breaking through that monster’s skull. No. No, you wanted to be here. With him. 

But you were putty in his hands, as always. 

It'd barely been halfway through his turn on guard when an old nightmare slipped its way into your subconscious. A morbid twist of Daryl’s neck ripping underneath that walker’s teeth into the sky high flames you’d never forget from the early days. As you began to toss, the squeaking of your mattress pulled him away from the window. His chest ached to hear the mumble of your fragile voice around incoherent pleads, and then that name— the same name over and over. 

He woke you up. 

The haunting touch of the dead, cold and cruel, slipped away with the curl of his warm, merciful fingers squeezing around your shoulder. It’d taken more than a few seconds to realize his features weren’t twisted in terror and pain, like all those other faces that you could barely remember anymore had been. Then there was the drumming beat of your heart as you sat up and clung onto him, for the second time that day. 

After you let go of him, he sat back on your bed, quiet and rigid as a statue. Back to his usual, touch-adverse self. 

So you sat there, listening to your breathing slow and the whistle of the night’s air sneaking past that cracked window. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally mumbled, brushing your messy hair away from your face. 

The stream of moonlight that slipped through the break in the curtains reached across your face. He followed the movement of your hand, heard the rumble of your voice, thick with sleep, and seemed to warm back up. 

Slowly. 

He swallowed. “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.” 

You nodded, fear shifting into numbness. 

“You alright?” 

The moonlight fell on him too, highlighting the concern that laced his eyes. 

“Mhm,” you hummed. 

It was about the most you could muster out; you could still feel the ruthless grasp of dead fingers around your neck. 

It wasn’t convincing, of course. That look on his face didn’t let up. 

“I’m okay,” you reiterated with a deep breath. 

His eyes flickered over you one last time before he finally conceded. 

“Alright.” 

Daryl shifted back again, looking down to the bed. The sheets were thrown back. Your legs curled up to your chest. He had this burning thought— one that had been simmering for a while now, that made him freeze up with fear of his own. Would it help to brush that one loose strand of hair behind your ear? The one you missed? Maybe then you’d hold him again. That seemed to make you feel better, somehow. All he knew was it made him feel warm and—

He stood up, somewhat abruptly. 

“I still got a couple hours, if ya wanna…“ 

“No,” you blurted. “No, I’m not— I’m not tired anymore.” 

He nodded and offered an alternative. No prying and no more nightmares. Just distractions. 

That was how the pair of you ended up on the floor. Daryl eating pig's feet from a jar and you playing up your disgust, because the reality was, you’d eaten far worse than pig’s feet in the last few years. 

“Some fresh game, diet soda, pig’s feet,” Daryl smirked as he wiped his hands clean. “You’d have yourself a white trash brunch.” 

“A delicacy,” you teased. 

“More fillin’ than your corn.” 

You rolled your eyes. 

“Whatever. I’ll stick to my corn, thanks.” 

“Your loss.” Daryl took another bite. “Merle ‘n I used to fight over these.” 

You huffed a laugh, “Seriously?” 

“Mhm. He was a sneaky bastard. Used to wait till I looked away, then swipe ‘em off my plate.” 

“Like a dog?” 

He chuckled, “Wouldn't be the first time someone called him tha’.” 

“Oh? He didn’t get along well with the ladies?” 

“Merle thought he did. Don’t think no one else agreed.” 

You gave him a small laugh. Though, truth be told, the talk of brothers, no matter how joking, was starting to weigh on your chest. It always boiled back down to him, and you couldn’t think about him right now— not if you wanted your eyes to stay dry and your heart to beat that steady rhythm in your chest. 

So you backtracked.

“You ate a lot of white trash brunches?”

“Didn't have much else.” 

“Didn’t cook?” 

“Didn’t know how. Didn’t have no one to teach me, neither. Not unless ya count over a fire.” 

Every meal you’d had in the last two years had been cooked over a fire.

“It counts,” you said. 

“Did you cook?” 

“Mhm. Loved it,” you sighed. “I was pretty good, too.” 

“Better than canned soup?” 

“Much better.” 

“My mom used to cook. Can’t remember it much, though.” 

He had a timid look in his eye, and you held your breath. Ready to share your sympathies— which felt all too frequent, these days. 

“She died when I was a kid. ‘Round the same age as Carl.” 

“Who’s Carl?” 

It was Daryl’s turn to hold his breath. 

“He, uh,” he cleared his throat. Shifted in his spot. That mention hadn’t been intentional, it seemed. A slip in memory— that you were new to him. You’d never lived at the prison, never known the people he did. That the only thing the two of you shared, beyond the old stories you shared during quiet nights, were the last two months. 

“He’s Rick’s kid.” 

He had another look. One that made the air smell like rushing waters and moss.

You felt the words bubble up your throat before you even knew what they were.

“The one I—?“ 

“Yeah.” He nodded.

The one you saved.

“Sounded like it.” 

You took a deep breath of that musty motel room air.

“We didn’t have many kids who knew how to use a shotgun. Never mind kill a man.” 

“Carl did?” 

“He had to. Growing up on the road. The first time we fought the Governor.” 

“Poor kid.” 

“He’s tough.” 

“Still. I can’t imagine growing up like this.” 

Daryl’s eyes fell to his fingers, fiddling with his thumb. Your heart squeezed when his shoulders, as broad and strong as they were, seemed to curl in on themselves. Before you could even register your concern for whatever was running through his head, another question tumbled out of you. 

“You think it might be easier?” 

He shrugged. “Ya jus’ get used to it. Shit being ugly.” 

“I guess,” you mumbled. 

But hearing those words, that thick drawl of his tired voice, made something sting inside of you like salt rubbed into a wound. From the small bits he shared, Daryl’s upbringing never sounded easy, or particularly loving. A brother who neglected him most of his life, a mother who died when he was just a boy, and a father he’d never mention. Even if his life had prepared him to survive this sick and twisted world, it didn’t seem fair. 

“It still doesn’t make it right.” 

Daryl didn’t say much after that. You didn’t want to offend him— you hoped you didn’t. Maybe that comment made it obvious you’d been thinking about his past and his family… Those scars. No matter how hard you tried to forget them, to ignore the intrusive thoughts of how they might’ve come to be, the sight was ingrained in your memory. 

So much for lightening the mood. 

It was silent. Long enough for your words to sink into the stale air, and for the both of you to finish your snacks. The empty cans sat on the dusty nightstand to your left and your head rested against the back of the mattress. Your eyes almost closed, too. 

But with that dark silence came those haunting memories again. Flashes of that nightmare. The desperation trapped in dying screams. Fire and blood. 

You stood up. Back turned to the quick look Daryl threw your way, you dug through that bag you packed full after raiding the town’s general store. It was almost bare, save the three walkers you took out, but you managed to find the last of the canned food that now sat on the floor, empty, and a stray sterile pad, kicked underneath one of the vacant shelves. 

“Should change your bandage.” 

“Alright,” he agreed, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. 

It took everything in him to keep his eyes off that pensive expression of yours. Features twisted in contemplation, and a hint of horror, maybe. You tried to hide it from him. In a way, he hid too, concerning himself with only the buttons of his flannel and the leather vest peeling off his back instead of that festering question he couldn’t seem to stop asking. Are you okay? It sat in his heart like a shard of glass, digging deeper and deeper the harder he tried to pry it away— to ignore the urge. 

The fabric of his shirt hung off the side of his body. Enough room that he knew you’d be able to sneak underneath and change his bandage without bother while keeping the rest of his torso hidden. 

As if you hadn’t already seen more than enough of his tanned skin to keep you up at night with unsolicited thoughts of every kind.

Heartbreak.

Desire. 

The bed squeaked as you sat down behind him, feet hanging off the edge as you turned to see the exit wound. You tugged the old bandage off. It was hard to tell what it looked like with nothing but that thin peak of moonlight and the low flicker of candlelight, but with the pass of your fingertips around the wound, you could tell his skin was flat again. No inflammation, no discolouration save that hint of a healing bruise. There was a fresh layer of white tissue where the bullet had passed out of him, which was the best sign of all. You ripped open the sterile pad you found and taped half over the same spot.

Then you moved to the front to do it all over again. Doing your absolute best to keep your focus on the wound and not his watchful eyes, following you as softly as that candlelight danced across his skin. 

“How’s it lookin', doc?” 

As much as he was trying to distract himself from that heavy look on your face, barely relieved with his stupid quip that you spared the slightest smile for, his curiosity was getting the better of him. Weaving in like the roots of a weed. It still felt foreign to concern himself so attentively with someone without that cursed last name of his; Merle was all he gave a shit about before, and even then, his brother usually rejected that care. Called him a pussy for giving a damn. Then they ended up at the quarry, and it turned out he wasn’t entirely heartless once another Dixon wasn’t around to taunt him. 

“Good. I don’t think you’ll need this for much longer.” 

Truth was, Daryl didn’t give a damn about his shoulder right now. Not when your eyes were hazed like they’d been when he woke you up. 

“How do you feel?” You asked. 

It took him a second to remember you meant to be tending to him, right now. Not the other way around.

“Fine.”

He rolled his shoulder as if to prove it. 

“How ‘bout you?” 

Your eyes stilled, for a moment, then snuck back up to his. As if he’d just caught you red-handed. Another hum hadn’t even the chance to slip past your lips, but you could already tell he thought you were full of it. A slight narrow of blue, flickering over the way you'd been biting your lip and your heavy eyes. He gave you a chance to brush it off again, if you wanted.

Somehow that made your resolve crumble away. Knowing that he saw past it all, but he'd never force you to bare it to him, either. But then those walls you put up years ago were ground down to sand, running through your fingers. 

“I don’t have them often. Not anymore.” 

“You said a name,” Daryl mumbled. “Alex.” 

Pouring free. 

You gave a soft nod. Hoped that ringing in your ears would go away as fast as it came on. 

“My brother.” 

Just like that, his eyes were starting to burn you again, so you looked at your hands. In your lap, where you sat on your knees, just next to him. Close enough to wrap his shoulder. Close enough that you could see his own hands resting on his thighs, fingers just brushing against the frayed edges of his torn jeans. 

You picked at the strands of your own, right beside that numb spot on your thigh where a scar was forming.

“I don’t remember it much, but I think it was from the start. When we were at Westwood.” 

“Wha’s that?” 

“It was a middle school just outside of Atlanta. Some army had set up a base there until they could find a way to move us all to Fort Benning.” 

There was a brief moment when his eyes widened. He had a curious stare that forced you to look up before a flash of green sleeping bags and the silver packaging of MRE rations pulled you back into the memory. 

“There weren’t a lot of us. Under a dozen soldiers. Few of us from the city. Most of the kids ran off with their parents— if they showed up.” 

It hit harder than the Governor had stabbed you, right then, that you’d forgotten their faces. Their voices. Their names. Memories shadowed with ghosts who you couldn’t even tell apart anymore… The smell of burning flesh lingered better than their smiles. 

“It went bad quickly.” 

He didn’t ask how. Didn’t need to really, the end was all the same. One day it was gone, and so were they, and the road became your path again. 

“You ever made it to Fort Benning?” 

The edges of his voice had dulled, filed down until the words were nothing but a feather passing along your cheek, beckoning your attention his way instead. Sometimes you wondered how he knew you were picking up the shovel, ready to dig your way into a pit of fear and regret, before the handle ever touched your hand.

You took in a breath. “Yeah. It was nothing but ash, though.” 

“We were headed there. Back at the start.” 

“Fort Benning?” 

“Mhm.” 

“What happened?” 

“Got held up on Hershel’s farm, instead. Rick ran into some guys one day— bad guys. They told him it fell. Badly.” 

Another flash of the dead. 

“It did.” 

You looked back down. 

“Did those bad guys take the farm?” 

“Nah. We left ‘fore they found us. Herd ran us out. Spent the whole winter on the road after tha’, runnin’ from place to place…” 

Ever so slightly, Daryl stiffened. You knew what that meant. 

Until the prison. 

“What was the farm like?” You asked. 

There was a pleading tone to your voice, twirling up the edges of your words in a way that reminded him of the girl who couldn’t stop asking if he’d stay or leave, who would limp behind him after he silently scolded himself for helping you so much. Back when he didn’t care if your leg hurt or not, or at least, was better at pretending so. 

“We weren’t there long.” He shrugged nonchalantly as if there wasn’t a string as taut as his crossbow squeezing around his heart. “Maybe a month. But, it was the nicest place we’d been. Had trees, big old ones. Runnin' water. Fields’a crops and a couple’a horses.” He added that last one even if Nelly had thrown him so hard he wasn’t eager to ride another horse again. “But we were always fighting each other. No one knew what the hell they were doin’.” 

Your brow raised. “Not even you?” 

“Thought I did.” He shook his head. “I tried.” 

A breeze snuck through the cracked window, flickering the flames around you. He took a breath. 

“Still am.” 

“Me too.” 

The shadows cast across your face were softer now. The sun rose on the opposite side of the motel, but he could still see that hope shimmer in your pretty smile. A softer, dusty blue lit up the sky with ribbons of amber dancing across; orange reflecting onto the colour of your eyes he knew so well. Tracing the edge of your curled lips, the curve of your cheekbones. Your hair was getting long, now loose from the toss and turn of sleep. He didn’t see it down often, but it framed your face just as kindly as the light did. 

You took in a deep breath. It sounded less strained than before.

“We should head back to the car.” 

Daryl nodded. 

Then you smirked, and just like that, the charm that made his chest fill with warmth was back. 

“It stinks like pig’s feet in here.” 

—

The wind danced around you, a whirlwind of fallen leaves and that light dusting of snow, sparking like sugar in the sun. The sky was the same as it’d been the last few days. Pale grey clouds with pockets of blue peeking through. The sun’s harshest rays were always hidden away in the name of winter. 

You spared a glance to Daryl who walked by your side, if not slightly behind. Hunter's eyes roamed over the edges of the railroad you passed through, ignoring that crunch of gravel under your feet while he waited for the snap of a branch or the squeak of a nearby rabbit. Crossbow in hand, bolt loaded like always. The sight of him trailing your steps almost made the cold air bite less. 

That hopeless air in you felt lighter than you remembered, too.

Almost fading.

The car wasn’t far, now. Maybe twenty more minutes. The rumble of empty stomachs had sent you behind the motel instead of through the town you looted yesterday, where the train tracks cut through the forest, hoping to find some breakfast before you finally filled the empty gas tank and started on the road, again. 

Ahead, a rust-coloured train car sat on the second track. A few doodles of white and black spray paint coated the sides, but half of them were covered by a hanging banner, beige and held up by four strings. The bold-blocked words SANCTUARY FOR ALL, COMMUNITY FOR ALL, THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE were painted in a similarly rusty-coloured red. Underneath the banner was a sign, wrapped in plastic but the lines of a map were as clear as a summer day. Blue, red, and green all lead to a black star in the centre-left labelled TERMINUS. 

The pair of you shared a look, your eyebrows drawn together in a mixture of confusion and shock and his eyes narrowed into slits. Inspecting the poster for any kind of warning, any threat, as if a walker was about to jump from behind it. 

“They were broadcastin’ this,” Daryl muttered, after a long and tense moment. 

Your eyes widened. “When?” 

“Before the prison,” he said, sparing you another uncomfortable look before he continued to stare at the carefully wrapped sign. “We heard it on the radio when we were lookin’ for those meds. Couldn’t make it out then, but this is it: ‘those who arrive, survive’.” 

The wind tickled your skin, goosebumps rising and bangs fluttering across your face as you lingered by that sign. In the breeze, a long strap of white fabric caught around your boot, pulled from underneath the train car. You bent down to grab it, brow furrowed at the sight of a used strip of gauze. 

Your heart skipped a beat. 

“Someone was just here.” 

The crossbow was held tighter then, as if he could be any more on edge. 

“How do you know?” He asked through a clenched jaw. 

“The blood.” It looked like Daryl’s had when you changed his bandages every couple of hours instead of days. “It’s fresh.” 

Your eyes snapped to the map again— how big it was. It covered most of the state, by the looks of it. You could roughly pinpoint the prison in the upper left corner and could imagine lines of your own where you’d travelled these months. Between pharmacies and cabins and random sides of the road. 

And whoever had left this bandage… they’d seen it, too. 

“Daryl, look at how far these go.” Your hand traced the lines of railroads, sprawling across Georgia. “This can’t be the only sign. There’s the prison,” you pointed out, “If they have signs across all these tracks then… your people could’ve seen this.” 

Slowly, your hand fell back to your side. The look in your eye was like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds; a glimpse of that brightness he missed so fondly. Sparked by the glimmering hope in your eye, Daryl could feel a flicker of warmth catch in his chest again, and the realization of what you meant sunk in.

“If any of them saw this map, would they go?”

He hadn’t even known he was nodding along until that slight curl of your lip lifted. 

“Maybe we don't need to find them, just this place.” 

Daryl chewed his lip. The lines on the map curved their way through Georgia like vines, crawling through the north, east, west, and south like the ivy he saw across every abandoned building. Who was to say this place was even there anymore? Putting signs up like that, broadcasting their whereabouts for anyone to hear. It sounded more like a last-chance pipe dream than Fort Benning, and he’d already heard how that played out. 

He’d had enough of those soul-crushing losses. Enough fill for an entire life, and then some. He wasn’t sure if he could risk that again. Not when you were just about everything he had left. 

“I dunno. ’S far.” 

“This is our best lead— our only lead.” 

He shook his head. “We dunno ‘em. Dunno if it’s even real.” 

“You didn’t know me.” 

There you were, with raised brows and that look in your eye that somehow reminded him of the forest’s comforts— soft brown fur of nimble squirrels jumping from branch to branch, the bright blue sky breaking through even the thickest trees, green surrounding him like a blanket. 

“And really, where else do we have to go?” 

A forest he’d spend his whole life exploring. 

Eventually, he gave in. A habit he seemed to be picking up when it came to you. 

“Guess it’s worth a try.” 

And there was that smile again, blooming with new hope. 

————————————————————

A/N: omg hi. I took a long and unplanned hiatus. I won't get into it too much but to recap, in case you care/are curious: I went to nyc for the dead city premiere and had a blast, graduated university, started weightlifting (kinda replaced my twd obsession LOL), got really into GOT, and am now back because for some reason daryl dixon being in paris (????) got me going once more. anyway. im excited to continue this series again!! even if it took every cell in my body to finish this chapter LOL. kinda hate it kinda love it. idk. WHATEVERRRR.

more to come. I promise. thank u for reading and being so patient with me <3<3<3 all the love.

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

AYG taglist: @fuseburner @itsmeatballworld @rickysgrimes @stevenknightmarc @huffledor-able541 @your-shifting-gurl @hopefulatrocity @strnqer @dreamtofus @fillechatoyante @suniloli @kiaslily @poubxlle @normanplusdaryl @sseleniaa

[captain-tch]

oh my god, i'm so obssessed with this series! i can actually see this storyline playing out in the show and to be honest, i prefer this storyline. reader's past and role they played in the fall of the prison - so much TENSION

addicted to this series

[weretheones]

OMG, thank you so much!?! what a beautiful, heartwarming compliment... I might be tearing up a bit...🥺 your series "the end of days carnival" is a favourite of mine and my friends (highly recommend btw)-- such a lovely sentiment means so much coming from a talented writer as yourself <3