#Shane's descent so sad y'all

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Invisible, tugging strings, Pt. 2

Happy Easter Monday!

When - Right after Invisible, tugging strings Part 1, which you gotta read first

We’ve made it to the Chupacabra episode of Season 2, y’all! 

What - our mangy hick does his best to make it home after falling down the ridge twice and hallucinating You and Merle. Back at the farm where you are, you just want him back safe and want to know why. You. Are. So. Worried. About. Daryl?

Who - The Slowpoke Series means a slow cooking, canon-compliant Daryl x Reader. Daryl and Merle’s scenes take place in this one, and I can only hope I was able to do it adequate justice. I admire how the show did that part of the episode. We also have platonic Glenn, Dale, and big bro Shane.

Perspective - 2nd you, 3rd Daryl

Pronouns - neutral again, why not?

TWs - cussing, injury (and pictures from the episode showing Daryl looking nasty as well as some where Rick and T-Dog were sprayed with so much water to show sweat), and Merle’s dialogue is left word for word; he says the n-word. Two asterisks were used instead of spelling it. I ain’t writing that word.

Word count - same as Part 1 (give yourselves 15 minutes, 4,000ish words)

Stuff to read first - gotta read ’em all! It would help contextualize to first read A measure of reverence Parts 1 and 2, but you’ll be okay so long as you’ve read souls stripped bare and Invisible, tugging strings Part 1.

Why are so many of your stories two-parters? - it’s how it be, slowpokes

Are there many lame screenshots this time? - too many

Can I check out the Masterlist? - please do! There’s the official Masterlist here in purposeful nonlinear publishing (which also includes the Reader Requests), and the purely chronological one here. They both have the same Slowpoke stories, just in a somewhat different order :)

This is the third time uploading this one, y’all, and the maturity label (updated July 2023) was cleared about 8 times, but the algorithm keeps insisting it’s mature and reverting it back lol. When I got a human response from the help desk, they mentioned it was a glitch. C’est la vie, it’s kinda a bummer not more people will read this chapter, but it was still fun to write!

Happy Easter Monday!

As always, feedback in some way is very, very welcome.

...............................................

It felt so much better to keep his eyes closed, but someone’s standing over him now. Must be whoever Y/N said would help him get up.

What was that they said about ‘missing’ and ‘bully?’

He strains to get his eyes open so he can see whoever is above him. His eyelids feel so damned heavy, man, he just wants to close them again.  

All he can see is the green of the treetops at first. The outline of a person’s head come into view once his vision stops being blurry. Then it clears.

A smile finds its way to the corners of his mouth. He’s missed him. Felt so lost and out of place without him. His own blood.

“Why don’t you pull that arrow out, dummy? You could bind your wound better.”

Yeah, that was him alright. He’s missed him so much.

“Merle.”

...........................................

And Merle’s got that grin that means he’s about to rib him. “What’s going on here? You takin’ a siesta or something?”

“Having a shitty day, bro,” he croaks back. If he was able to, he’d full-on hug his brother right now. Nah, for real, he’d hug him!

Merle smirks and shakes his head slightly. “Like me to get you a pillow? Maybe rub your feet?”

The comfort or whatever it was that Daryl had upon seeing and hearing his brother again starts to twist, only a tiny bit. He’s not super serious when he offers back, “Screw you.”

His big brother ain’t taking no lip, though. “Nuh-uh. You’re the one who’s screwed, from the looks of it.”  

Ha, ‘screwed.’ Because the bolt is screwed in his side, funny stuff.

Daryl starts to grin through the pain at the stupid joke when his big brother lets this fly: “All them years trying to make a man out of you, this what I get?”

The tugging in his chest tries to pull him up as Y/N’s words come back and echo in his mind. “As lost as you’ve felt without him—when he bullies you, if-if you can’t stand up for yourself, please try not to believe the lies, okay? Cruel don’t mean true, a lot of the time it’s the opposite.”

Merle’s stare works its way up and down. Daryl feels like trash.

Gets called it the next second; “Look at you. Lyin’ in the dirt like a used rubber. You’re gonna die out here, little brother, next to your own puke. And for what?”

“A girl,” is all he can answer at first, it’s all that comes out. Before Merle can tell him he’s a whipped retard being lead by the dick if he was doing all this for some chick, he explains, “They lost a little girl.”  

See, Merle? It’s worth it, it’s worth all of this. She’s just a little kid, her mama needs her. Remember her, the little scared girl, with the scared ma with buzzed hair? How much you wanted to shiv the dad’s potbelly?

But all his brother tosses back is “So you got a thing for little girls, now?”

“Shut up.” Joking about stuff like that ain’t funny, it’s messed up.  

Then, he remembers it’s all in his head; Merle isn’t really here. Which means he’s the asshole dreaming up his big brother mouthing off like this. But the imaginary knee doesn’t wham his nards about it, because it’s…stuff his brother would say.  

Doesn’t mean the guilt doesn’t knee him good regardless when his own blood reminds him, “’Cause I noticed, you ain’t out there looking for old Merle no more.”

That ain’t fair. “Tried like hell to find you, bro,” is all he can manage to voice out loud. But you were gone. Merle, I came back for you—where’d you go? Why’d you split, didn’t you know I’d come?

“Like hell you did,” his brother grates. “You split, man, lit out first chance you got.”

What? “You lit out. All you had to do was wait.” You didn’t trust your own kin. Is it that I’m not good enough or not smart enough? I could have saved you, and your damn hand. “We went back for you. Rick and I.” He finds himself nodding as much as he’s able, because he knows he did right. “We did right by you.” Even T-Dog tried to save your ass, bro. Even him, even Glenn.

“This the same Rick that cuffed me to that rooftop in the first place?” Merle points out. “Forced me to cut off my own hand? This him we’re talkin’ about, now?”

Daryl lowers his gaze as best he can – to see his brother’s hands both still attached. As he stares him down, Merle wiggles his pinkie as if to remind Daryl that he’s just part of his imagination, not real. Then his brother’s glare turns mocking. “You his bitch now?”

“I ain’t nobody’s bitch.” He loves his big brother, but goddamn, there’s no one else that can make him feel so small.

“You’re a joke, is what you are. Playing errand boy to a bunch of pansy-asses, n**gers, and Democrats.”

Another sharp tug in his chest. That word never really bothered him before, but it kinda does now.

And he can’t help but think of how much red Y/N would see at hearing Merle use it. They’d probably huff, start clawing, then after they’d calmed down, start griping about how damn cartoonish Merle sounded spouting that stuff. He can almost hear it now: “That whole sentence sounded like some lazy Hollywood type wrote a script for a ‘stereotype, blue-collar, Dixie racist,’ to make themselves feel good. Nobody talks like that, good Moses.”  

Their words from earlier repeat in his mind again. “As lost as you’ve felt without him—when he bullies you, if-if you can’t stand up for yourself, please try not to believe the lies, okay? Cruel don’t mean true, a lot of the time it’s the opposite.”

Then, he remembers again that it’s all in his head; he’s the piece of shit cooking this up. All of this weird shit, it’s all from his messed up, trailer trash excuse for an imagination.

“You’re nothing but a freak to them,” his hears his brother tell him.

Maybe Y/N’s words were “cruel don’t mean true,” but that doesn’t mean ‘cruel’ is ‘dishonest.’ At least cold, honest truth is truth.

“Redneck trash. That’s all you are,” Merle goes on.

And Daryl knows it. It ain’t cruelty, it’s honesty. He’s got balls big enough to handle it.

Y/N’s words grow softer, sadder. “As lost as you’ve felt without him—when he bullies you, if-if you can’t stand up for yourself, please try not to believe the lies, okay? Cruel don’t mean true, a lot of the time it’s the opposite.”

His brother’s voice is louder, angrier. “They’re laughing at you behind your back. You know that, don’t you?”  

Daryl knows that, too. No point in denying it.  

…Except maybe a little. ’Cause Y/N wouldn’t, they’re an actual friend. “We make a mighty good team, just sayin’.” “Daryl, may I hug you again?” Nah, two-faced ain’t their style.  

Carol wouldn’t neither, the woman’s too gentle for her own good. “Please be safe. I’ll be praying for you.”  

Even T-Dog, that dude’s always been decent to him. So has the old man…and the boy…Andrea…Glenn…Lori, Rick, even Shane…

…And it’s as if Merle can hear those doubts. “I got a little news for you, son. One day, they gonna scrape you off their heels like you was dogshit.”

Merle’s right, he knows. He knows that he’s dogshit, he knows…he…he just needs to close his eyes, it all hurts less when his eyes are shut. His body feels so heavy…

The blessed dark takes over, and a voice that makes him feel safe hushes, “Honey, don’t die, don’t get bit.”

“Hey.” Merle jostles him back awake.  

Wanting to do nothing less but knowing he’s got to, Daryl strains to open his eyes again. When his vision clears, he sees disapproval warping his brother’s face, just like he’d feared.

“They ain’t your kin. Your blood. Hell, if you had any damn nuts in that sack of yours, you’d go back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me.” With a nod, his big brother then bends down and takes Daryl’s chin in his hand. His glare turns worried and his eyes turn sad, even if the words coming from his mouth don’t match it.

“Now you listen to me: ain’t nobody ever gonna care about you except me, little brother. Ain’t nobody ever will.”

He knows. Without Merle, Daryl was always alone…he can’t keep his eyes open, they keep falling shut…

But his brother stops him from falling asleep again by gently tapping his chest.

In his tough-love way that Daryl’s missed, he finally sounds like he cares. “No, come on. Get up on your feet, before I have to kick your teeth in.”

Merle is standing over him now and gives his feet a light kick. “Let’s go.” He crouches back down and pulls at Daryl’s feet. “Let’s go.”

His brother goes too low for Daryl to see him without craning his neck, and something weird begins happening to his big brother’s voice. It’s fading.

Soon, all that Daryl can make out is a rasping sound almost as if there’s a dog by his feet. Maybe there is a dog at his feet, because something keeps pulling at them.

What if it’s a chupacabra?

Mild fear grips him and he manages to swing his head down enough to see what’s going on so he can close his eyes again.

And he’s met with a geek trying to gnaw through his goddamned shoe.

......................................

You

Back inside, you get another dose of dread so strong you feel like you’re hooked up to an IV line like Carl was a half-hour ago.

Daryl needs help.

“Y/N, are you gonna faint again?”

You smile and shake your head as you get a hold of your emotions and send up a prayer. “The caffeine crash after the espresso thing this morning is throwin’ me for a loop.”

“What’s it doing?”

“I just got sucker-punched in the gut with this random sense of dread.”

“Creepy,” he muses.

“Very.”

“And coffee tastes so gross.”

“Bitter, blackish-brown water tastes gross?”

He giggles, and the dread within you eases.  

Keep him safe and get him home, please. Get our mangy hick back home.

......................................  

Him

He’d fought off the one, then another made its way to him. He ain’t sure how he got the strength to do it, but he’s still breathing. No bites, neither.

He’s back on the ground, laying there and staring at the leaves and branches and clouds as he catches his breath.

Thank you, he offers to whatever might be up there. Thank you.

He doesn’t stay that way too long, the warm trickling from his side urges him to get up. Something in his head had shrieked at him to rip the bolt out. It ended up saving his life.

His fingers are numb and shaking from the adrenaline, but he’s able to sit up and re-tie the his ripped shirt to get the wound bound tight. He remembers how Merle’s (or were they his own?) first words to him were about getting it out.

“Son of a bitch was right,” he grumbles to himself.

Next, he stumbles over the the doll and secures it in his belt, then he stomps over to where he sees the green little walkie chilling on the water, slides it into his pocket after clicking it off and on and getting nothing.

Guess he’s on his own.

He’s so damned woozy, man, and his stomach’s ready to lurch again.  

Food. He, um, he just needs food, yeah. He needs to find him a fucking, uh, something—a squirrel or something. Yeah, squirrel’s got blood in them, and he’s lost a lot of blood by the looks of it.

How does he do that again, get one of them teeny guys? Does he make a snare or like, shoot—wait, yeah, he’s gotta shoot one. Gotta shoot one of them slippery ’lil sumbitches.

Oh shit, yeah, first he gotta rinse off the bolts, haha. Hot damn, he feels so weird like he’s on a bad trip or hangover or some shit right now.  

As for those two undead, poxy bastards what tried to do him in? Up theirs — he’s gonna slice off their ears like they was bounties and wear them, see if any more wanna mess with him!

......................................  

You

“That was risky.”

“We did it for them,” you remind your brother of your middle sister’s family and the way you’d put them down given them their final rest, then buried them.

“They was family, and it was risky.”

“Today was just one last measure of reverence for a family who’d been put through hell at the end.”

“And now you’ve got an arm out of commission,” he states, clearly displeased. “Did you bury the ones who broke in, too?”

“Yes.”

Shane’s reaction to your affirmation isn’t what you are expecting. You were expecting more disapproval.

Instead, his eyes get wet and he pulls you close to kiss your forehead and says nothing else. He just curls his arm around your shoulder and gazes into the fields.

Your brother seems more like himself, now. You can see him again.

In the quiet, you listen to the mooing of cows in the distance, the flies buzzing, the chickens, the faint murmur of voices from the campsite and house.

“Shane? Tomorrow, teach me how to fight back even with my dominant arm out. So long as you button your dang shirt up tomorrow.”

Cracking up, he floofs out his (ugh) unbuttoned shirt to rub it in. “Deal, you got it. First reasonable thing I done heard all afternoon.”

“Now, be on your best behavior when I tell you somethin’, loser.”

Half-worried, half-teasing, he asks, “Well, what’s the somethin’, weirdo?”

You’re almost nervous when you quietly share, “We found something might could’ve been a sign of Sophia.”

He makes a sigh. “What might that could’ve been?”

“The shed had a small, hidden, makeshift sleeping area?”

He shifts. His brows push close. Turns his head to look at you. “You serious?”

“Dead seri—no, no, wrong phrase, wrong phrase!”

He just cracks up and shakes his head.  

Then he says what you really wish he wouldn’t. “You sure it wasn’t from the kids who lived there?”

Shane, stop, please stop. You shrug his arm off. “There weren’t spiders in it, spiders would’ve holed up in there right quick, like within three days.”

“It’s something, I’ll give it that.” There’s a ‘but’ coming. “Y/N, even if she was there a day or two ago, it still don’t mean she’s still alive now. It’s been four days.”

“I know.”

Shane does a double-take as if he’s struggling between how to respond. “I mean, I hope she is, you know that, Y/N, I ain’t—” He licks his teeth and rubs his peach-fuzz. “But let’s be clear: riskin’ our necks for this will lead to more of the same. Carl was shot, Y/N, he almost died and you got bullet fragments right along with him, Otis is dead, you’re injured, T-Dog is injured, I’m injured—” He stops himself from whatever else he was going to say.

There’s a flock of birds soaring overhead. You gaze at them, them stare into space as you rub your chest again to dispel the fear that Daryl will be the next statistic.

“Y/N, I’m glad you got home okay.”

“I’m glad you did, too.”

He hums and looks over. “Where’s Daryl at?”

“He dropped me off. I-I wasn’t able to climb up the ridge, not with this.” You nod at your slinged arm and feel a twinge of guilt that you’re hiding your resewn sutures from him.

“Fool idea to go back by himself,” he mutters.

You don’t disgree. “I keep worryin’ about it.”

“Nah, don’t.” Shane wraps his arm back around you. “That sumbitch will outlive us all.”

At that, you can’t help but grin. “Probably.”

......................................

Him

This ridge is about to be his bitch! Just a few more feet, and he’ll make it to the top! (So long as he don’t screw up at the finish line like last time.)

All he needs to do is catch his breath, get some strength back. It’s like he’s floating in air but is made of lead at the same time. Weird shit, right?

Daryl turns to face out. The light kinda hurts right now, but he sees some birds. Almost smiles at them. If it were only that easy to get up and go huh? His body just ain’t doing what he wants it to right now.

“Please. Don’t feed the birds,” sounds from above him, snapping him out of it.

He turns to look at who—shit, Merle’s back. Daryl’s caught between wanting him and wanting gone.

Of course Merle would catch him taking a break and staring at birds like a little sissy instead of powering through, great. Real fucking great, now his brother’s laughing at him.

Go, go, go, get your lazy ass up there and show him — ow, goddamn, it hurts so bad!  

“Aw, what’s the matter, Darylina? That all you got in you?

He tries to climb all the faster and harder. Screw you.

His big brother isn’t done. “Throw away that purse and climb.”

As Daryl does his best to get a strong grip on the roots so he can hoist himself up, something within him breaks and reverses. He’s just so tried, so dizzy, so nauseous, in so much pain and so angry. “I liked you better when you was missing,” he rasps.

Merle just snickers. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m on your side.”

Bullshit. “Yeah? Since when?”

“Hell, since the day you were born, baby brother. Somebody had to look after your worthless ass.”

The string in his chest tugs, hard. “As lost as you’ve felt without him—when he bullies you, if-if you can’t stand up for yourself, please try not to believe the lies, okay? Cruel don’t mean true, a lot of the time it’s the opposite.”

If there’s one thing he hates, it’s lies. And he sure as shit knows Merle did not look after him or his worthless ass, he’s got the scars to prove it. “You never took care of me,” he grits out, using a root as a foothold and a thick, woody vine as a grip to climb. “You talk a big game, but you was never there.” Then, he remembers, “Hell, you ain’t here now. Guess some things never change.”

“Well, I tell you what: I’m as real as your chupacabra.”

“I know what I saw!”

“And I’m sure those shrooms you ate had nothin’ to do with it, right?”

“You best shut the hell up!” Daryl shouts back, so angry and he-doesn’t-know-what-else that the searing pain in his side and head meld into a dull thumping.

His brother who isn’t even there starts to mock him harder, laughing at him and mimicking his voice. “Or whaaaat? You’re gonna come up here and shut my mouth for me?”

Damn right, I will. Gonna kick your teeth in.

“Well, come on and do it then, if you think you’re man enough.”

Stop laughing, jackass.

“Hey! Kick off them high heels and climb, son!”

Come on, climb! Get your ass up there, shut him up!

“You know what? If I were you, I’d take a pause for the cause, brother. ’Cause I just don’t think you gonna make it to the top.”

He keeps laughing, make him stop laughing. Daryl lunges upward and reaches for the summit so enraged he can barely think straight.

Or maybe he just can’t think straight right now?

“Come on, come on, little brother,” Merle coos, holding out his hand as his strange, creepy laughter abruptly stops. His expression turns icy. “Grab your friend Rick’s hand.”

For real, maybe Daryl can’t think straight.

Or see straight. Because he finally got his ass over the ridge, but where the hell did his big brother go? Did Merle light out again, run off? Huh?

Fucking typical!

He can’t seem to keep his balance as he screams into the trees, “Yeah, you better run!”

......................................  

You

It’s sunset, where the heck is he? All around the treeline and road where he’ll most likely be riding back, you scour through Dale’s binoculars. The walkie has still proven useless, he hasn’t answered.

“Daryl’s spent a night out by himself before.”

Not since the quarry, though, Andrea. “You’re right. He’s prolly fine, I know, I’m-I’m in a weird mood today.”

For some dumb reason, you want the med bag. Cautiously climbing down the RV one-armed, you reason that maybe you’ll feel more in-control of you’re holding it? And you’ll grab Andrea the bottle of sunscreen while you’re in there.

You begin to knock on the door, but the door as well as Glenn bang into you before you’ve knocked twice.

“Ow!”

“Shoot, sorry, Y/N! Did I—did I just make your stitches worse?”

“Shh!” you hiss as quietly as you can. “Shane’s right over there!”

“Kiddo, are you alright?”

Pressing your finger to your lips to tell Dale it’s fine, please stop, you mutter to Glenn, “The door rammed into my bum shoulder, which is directly over them.” And it smarts bad, like, what the hell, man? “You really stormed out of there without noticin’ a body in front of the door?”  

Your friend covers his face with his hand and whispers several apologies within the course of a few seconds.

“Glenn, why does Dale look like he’s trying not to look upset?” you challenge. You’re still roiling after he whammed into your bad side, and seeing Dale upset was even worse.

“I was just returning that crappy book and I—” Glenn gets quiet. “—I-I told him about Maggie,” he confesses under his breath.

Great, more drama. “Well, I’m just here for the med bag and to grab some sunscreen for Andy,” you mutter. It doesn’t come out remotely friendly, not when your injuries just got whammed in the exact spot they ache.

He apologizes again, you check yourself and forgive him (and call him a buttface). He calls you a bumpkin, which makes you snort even while you’re feeling huffy, and he walks toward the tents.

Rubbing the tugging part of your chest that hasn’t let up for at least 20 minutes now, you accept the med bag Dale was kind enough to grab for you. “Should you be carrying that, Y/N? It’s on the heavier side.”

“I just feel like I should be holdin’ it, I dunno.”

He raises his brows but doesn’t protest. Then they furrow very low on his face and he asks, “You seem like you’re becoming friends with this Maggie.”

“It’ll be okay, Dale.”

His brows lift again briefly before resting in a normal position. “I’m simply glad that you seem to have a kind of rapport with the family here, a, um, mutual friendliness.” He gestures out the window. “It is a very good thing when our situation, however short-lived it may be, is somewhat delicate.”

“We’ll all turn into friends soon enough. You’d really get on with Mr. Greene.”

“Because we’re both old men?”

“Mhm, antique.” You shoulder the med bag on your good side and catch eyes with your brother. Shane mouths “Why do you got that?” but you’re unable to respond because Andrea suddenly shouts, “Walker. Walker!”

The surge of adrenaline shivers into your body and you peer at the treeline where she’s pointing.

This hasn’t happened here yet.

Then the words Patricia asked a few hours ago come to mind. “Any walkers you find on our property, tell us. Don’t do nothing, just tell us first.”

“Shane, don’t put it down, we need to get Mr. Greene.”

“Huh?” is his only response as he limps toward the pickaxe resting against the tree.

“Just the one?” Rick you hear call to Andrea.

“I bet I can nail it from here.”

“Andrea, don’t! The Greenes have a rule about it,” you shout at the same time Rick is telling her, “No, no, Andrea, put the gun down.”

“You best let us handle this,” Shane calls with too much cockiness confidence as he limps away.

“Shane, wait. Hey—” The kettle starts to simmer inside you.

Rick places his hand by you in support. “Shane, hold up! Hershel wants to deal with walkers.”

“What for, man? We got it covered.”

“Shane!” you shout one final time before saying to Rick, “I’ll run and get Mr. Greene. Go with them.”

“Thank you, Y/N!” he breathes, and takes off like a shot to join your brother, T-Dog, and Glenn as they run toward it.

So much unnecessary drama over one walker, good Moses. The host says let him handle it, why is that so complicated?

You book it to the house, regretting it immediately because pain seethes with every step. But you and Glenn are the fastest, so you’re using what you have in order to help.

“Miss Patricia!” you yell as you sprint closer to the porch. “Mr. Greene? Maggie, Jimmy, Beth, whoever can hear me!”

Lori and Patricia hurry outside, you tell them what’s going on, and immediately point and start racing even faster to catch up to where the others are charging.  

As you plow through the pain, med-bag still on your back, you get a horrible flush of terror.

The tugging in your chest wrenches forward.

That’s Daryl.

That’s the way he moves his arms when he walks, there’s the tattoo he has on his inner arm, there’s his crossbow! 

He’s, he’s got on just his undershirt, now, but — oh my God — “No, stop! It’s Daryl!”

......................................  

Him

Why are those assholes stampeding over? The hell they want? They wanna mess with him? Huh?  

But—the fast one who’s taking their sling off, racing up behind the four in front…

Is that the one who just shouted his name?  

He knows that voice. He likes it.

Psht, but look at the shirtless chest-shaver over there, limping with a pickaxe. And the big, tall, black dude? Homeboy planning on playing baseball, or what?

And was it the scrawny Asian kid with the wrench thing who just asked “Is that Daryl?” There some other redneck here who looks like me, or what? And why do you care, huh? You gonna laugh at me, Data?

But the one he likes looks into his eyes and says “Honey, what happened to you?” in a way that makes his chest feel all—what the hell is happening with his chest, it’s like it’s being pulled. Makes him lose balance even more than he was, shit. And why is the one he likes all teary eyed, too? Who messed with them? ‘Cause he’ll straight knock down whoever messed with them.

Goddamn, why are these guys here, what the hell is going on—they want a show or something? And what’s the deal with the curly-haired, pale pretty-boy with the extra-long revolver? Three guesses what he’s trying to prove.

Wait—Rick. That’s Rick. The one who chained Merle. He’s reason Merle’s gone.

Daryl notices that fast one, with the voice he knows and likes, who made his chest go funny —oh, that’s Y/N!— has a hand on Rick’s shooting arm, but that’s because fucking Rick is aiming a gun straight at his head again.

Already chased off one Dixon, now going for the set, huh? Do your worst, bitch.  

“That’s the third time you’ve pointed that thing at my head,” he barks at him. “You gonna pull the trigger, or what?”

What’s weird is how before he was even done barking at Rick, Y/N exhaled all heavy and started grinning all big and coming toward him.

It’s okay, though, Y/N can come closer. He knows they’re safe. He doesn’t get why they’re teary and smiling at him, but he likes them.

The strong guy with the baseball bat is smiling at him, too. Hold it, why are—why are all these dumbasses smiling or hunched over and catching their breath, what the hell’s the ma—

......................................  

You

The bullet went through your chest before it hit his head. The pain was so intense and your horror so deep, that you weren’t able to make a sound.

Or was that your own cry you heard so loudly right before Shane yelped your name, then Andrea’s?

It’s strange how despite being shot, you were still able to crawl to Daryl.

Rick’s screaming “No! No!” blends with your pulse in your ears while you beg and pray and demand that Daryl did not just get shot in the head and killed.

There wasn’t the familiar numbness that took over you this time, it’s-it’s rage.  

This morning, you’d seen Daryl’s very soul. All afternoon you’d been filled with a horrible dread for his safety because he wasn’t with you and that felt wrong for some reason.

Then, when he finally came back, you’d all thought he was a walker, and for those gut-wrenching moments as you ran toward him, you settled yourself for the worst.  

Was all of that to prepare you for this moment?

To be filled with relief that he was back and alive, only for you to have a hole ripped through your chest as he got shot in the fucking head in front of you?

No. That’s not how this goes, that’s not how this works, no, no, no, he needs to be alive!

......................................  

Him

What the…hell…

That was a gunshot he heard before he fell back and felt like the spot above his temple caught fire, right? 

What’s weird is Daryl saw the sumbitch stop aiming...

There’s a gentle, warm thing on his chest and on his cheek. He can sense someone bent next to him, someone familiar. They smell good. He feels whatever landed in his mouth being taken out, some kinda string? Now it feels like a hand on his cheek and his arm.

Something then presses against his forehead. He’s pretty sure it’s the safe person again. There’s warm air, too, he can feel their breathing. Feels weird, but an okay weird. Some drops of warm, wet stuff then fall on him, the thing pressing his forehead lifts off, and a soft, squishy thing pushes against it for a second.

The voice he liked that made him feel safe, um, Y/N, that was Y/N’s voice, they’re saying something but he can’t make it out.

Now he’s being—ow, ow, he’s being lifted up, shit, it hurts!

He open his eyes.  

Sees an angel his friend. Y/N.

The tugging in his chest stops. He’s home.

The rush from getting shot aside, he can finally let his eyelids droop shut.

There’s a whole bunch of commotion. Footsteps running toward him in the grass. A higher pitched voice shouting “Oh my God!” and another crying, “Rick!”

As the two people who lifted him get their arms under his shoulders and start to support his weight, he hears the voice he feels safe around say “Careful with that side, Shaney, he’s got some kind of bandage there, it’s soaked,” and “Rick, I’m gonna lean his head on you, okay? It’s opposite the graze and the other side feels like he got smacked already, there’s dried blood.”

Well, if Rick is here, Daryl figures he might as well joke, “I was kidding,” to make up for barking at him.

Y/N’s giggle that they make after hearing a dumb jokes is that last thing he hears as h……  

......................................  

You

“Oh, buddy—guys, he just passed out,” you tell Rick and Shane, the thankfulness and pure relief within you making you feel like you could burst or float away. Between every thought of what care he needs is thank you, thank you, thank you! He’s home.

You press another kiss to his forehead before Shane and Rick start moving too fast.

Andrea’s distraught cries reach your awareness, and she stops repeating “Oh my God!” to ask “Is he dead?”

“Unconscious. You just grazed him,” is what Rick answers, and angrily, too.

“Y/N, did you get grazed, too? I saw you fall!” she panics.

Which is when you realize the pain in your chest has vanished. You forgot all about it, in fact.

You look down.

Dude—okay, you aren’t bleeding? That’s good, but what just—you could’ve sworn you’d been shot when he fell. Seriously, you figured the bullet went through you, too. But, looking down, no. You aren’t shot, aren’t bleeding, you have no more sensation that your chest was cracked.  

All you feel now is, well, the burning ache where you’re restitched, and your darn shoulder that you undid the very tricky-to-untie sling that Patricia secured that was specifically to avoid you taking it off (hey, you needed both arms when you reached Daryl).

You have no idea what happened to have made you imagine it, but you don’t care. He’s back and breathing. He’s home.

“But look at him,” Glenn pants. “What the hell happened?”

You wish you knew. “We’ll find out when he wakes.”

“But what about—he’s wearing ears!”

Oh, Moses, those are ears on the string around his neck. Ew! What the fuck?

You catch eyes with Rick and glance at it to relay “get it off!” then look away because your stomach won’t let your eyes linger on it, it is so vile. “I’ll hold his head steady.”

He nods, and once you’ve got Daryl’s head cradled in your hands, he rips it off. “Let’s keep that to ourselves,” Rick stresses to the group.

“I’m gonna run and tell Mr. Greene and Miss Patricia what’s goin’ on,” you say, then hurry toward the family, Lori meeting you halfway and taking the med-bag off your shoulder.

“Guys,” T-Dog speaks up from the back. 

Lori makes a small gasp. You turn.

He’s holding up — Eliza’s ragdoll. The one she gave to—

“Isn’t this Sophia’s?”

----------------------------------------------------------

> Masterlist link here <  

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338​​​​​ @its-freaking-bats​​​​ @whistlesalot​​​​ @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer​​​​  @dreamingaboutthewonderland @kwazii-kat​​​​ @darylsmavis​​​​​  @outlanderhornet22​​​​​ @battinsonrobs​​

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore,  just let me know, we’re all friends here!)  

#twd #the walking dead fanfiction #The Walking Dead #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl twd #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #reader x daryl dixon #daryl x you #reader insert #reader-insert #canon compliant #daryl dixon x you #daryl x reader #slow burn #Shane Walsh #Shane's descent so sad y'all #theodore douglas #T-Dog #Lori Grimes #Andrea Harrison #andrea twd #Dale Horvath #glenn rhee #carl grimes #Rick Grimes #chupacabra

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

White lies.

When - after Otis’ memorial/funeral, so we’re still in S02E03 Cherokee Rose. This chapter is maybe an hour after Yesterday was rough. Shane’s descent has begun picking up pace ever so slightly.

Relationships - #DarylDixonGetsAHug. We have our sibling relationship with Shane, our slow-burning-y’all-get-hitched-down-the-road Daryl x you building that good foundation, we got Papa Dale in the house, and we have our platonic Glenn x you. Rest assured, you tease him about Maggie.

Perspective - 2nd person

Pronouns - who?

Genre - trail mix

TWs - some language and stress

Plot points/references - eh, it’s been a long week, I’m tired y’all, just give this here a once-over and you should be good :P

You knew your brother didn’t want to. You’d told him, you told him he didn’t have to. “Shane, you can tell her later, with more privacy,” you’d whispered to him.

“It’s okay,” he’d stammered back under his breath.

So, he does this thing with his head when he is at a loss for words: looks up and down, but doesn’t look at anyone or anything in particular for more than a second. Gets jumpy, needs to move. His sentences aren’t always complete or ordered correctly. He’d fluff his hair, too, if he had any left to fluff.

And you’d never seen Shane struggle so much to speak as at that memorial service, not even those few months ago when he’d struggled to tell you how he found your older sister’s and her partner’s bodies dead after the world started unraveling.

The entire group, only minus T-Dog who was with Carl, had been staring at him in expectant silence after Patricia begged him through her tears to tell her what happened. She wanted to know if Otis’ death had meaning.

The unkind, overtired, and lacking-patience part of you couldn’t help but wonder why it wasn’t clear already that her husband, may he rest in paradise, had just devoted his last hours saving a child’s life.

“We were about done,” your brother strained to get out. “Almost outta ammo, we were down to pistols by then.” He made a strange attempt at a smile in an effort to make it more bearable. “I was limpin’, it was bad. Ankle all swollen up.”

And up until that point, you believed every word Shane said. You knew they were honest. But something about the way he was speaking...God forgive you, but it changed, okay?

You gazed up at him when you heard the difference. Red flag, red flag, red flag started flitting through your mind. You felt chilled. You felt sick. You felt scared.

Shane even looked different as he kept speaking, telling that little story of how Otis sacrificed himself.

Now, it’s not that—you don’t doubt Otis did so. What little interaction you had with him, and how his family so readily accepted what your brother told them, only lent credibility to his goodness and his selflessness.

But God forgive you, but almost every other word that came out of your brother’s mouth during that service you hated because you couldn’t believe them. It felt like a lie—no, you know it was because you know what Shane lying looks and sounds like. You’ve seen it.

But why would he have been lying is the question.

Exactly, he wouldn’t!

What kind of awful, selfish person are you for thinking such awful, selfish, ludicrous things at a time like that, huh?

Unless...okay, this is what must’ve happened: Shane told a better story than what actually happened for the benefit of Otis’ grieving widow, son, and friends.

Yeah. Shane had to do stuff like that before, he and Rick both in their line of work. Which must also be why Rick was frowning like that at him, too, during the service; Rick understood.

When somebody dies poorly, you don’t tell the family that. You tell the family white lies.

You say the person died comfortably, or at least quickly, and always with dignity. It’s simply what’s done. You stick as close to the truth as possible, like you knew Shane had at the beginning and the end of the story. But in the middle, one needs to smooth it over and sugarcoat the truth for the sake of the family, just like when you saw Shane spinning that yarn.

Yeah. That’s what happened. That’s why Shane lied, is all. He’s traumatized and laden with survivor’s guilt, it’s not that deep, he’s not maliciously hiding anything, you remind yourself. It was just a white lie.

And white lies are different, like how Rick told Carl that Sophia was ‘just fine.’ They’re the only kind of lie with which you’ll readily participate, but even then...

“Kiddo, everything okay?”

“Dale, hey, um, y-yeah, I’m peachy. Tired,” you brush off, pulling out your earbuds and putting on a cheerful face as you turn off the mp3 player. Thank you, Dale, for snapping me out of that thought-spiral. With a shrug, you repeat “Yesterday was rough.”

“I know that with your current crop of injuries—”

You snort at the phrasing of that.

He shakes his head and grins. “I know they won’t let you go on that pharmacy run with Glenn and the young lady.”

Grumbling slightly, you mention “And Daryl won’t let me go search by the creek with him.” Not after he found out about the stitches. So dumb...

When Rick heard that Margaret was going to the local drug store for a supply run, he’d offered to Hershel that Glenn and you were their ‘go-to-town experts.’ However, he was also very quick to correct himself about how you were in no shape to go at the moment.

Right, that reminds you: “Oh, and I need to finish that list, Glenn asked me to do him a list of supplies to look for. What meds or things have you been without, Mr. H?”

He considers for a moment. “Statins are generally good for people of my age, though I must say: physically, I feel much better than I did before civilization collapsed.” Somewhat teasing, he reminds you “But, perhaps some surgical tape so I can have my extra roll of electrical tape back.”

“Ah, I knew you’d remember what I couldn’t.” You’ll add that to the list. Statins and surgical tape. Magnesium, disinfectant, antibiotics, probiotics for T-Dog and Carl because they’re both on doxycycline and strong antibiotics like that mess up your gut, antivirals if they miraculously found any, allergy meds, pain management, triptans, gauze and bandages, a pulmonary expectorant, fiber supplements, activated charcoal, adrenaline/epinephrine pens, the usual things like sunblock and bug spray, period supplies (even though cycles have been all over the place), clean socks and undergarments, maybe some nicotine gum for Daryl...oh, of course, more batteries...calamine lotion...

“So, are you heading with your brother back to the highway?” you hear Dale ask you. You turn to look at him as he hints “Or are the doctor and he insisting that you stay put, I hope?”

Duly noted, Papa Dale. Still, you pause and try to avoid a concrete answer. Arm in a sling and stitches in your abdomen notwithstanding, you feel too uneasy to stay in one place. “Maybe, um, I might need to stay here to keep tabs on Carl. Teddy may go with him, I asked him if he would a little earlier.”

Then you realize it. “Never mind, maybe I should go with Shane, I don’t want to be the one to tell Carl that Sophia ain’t back yet. That little punk knows I’m bad at lying, and that I don’t like it, besides.” And you don’t want to leave Shane alone, but that’s neither here nor there. You sigh. “The little man’s gonna push the question about why he can’t see her yet and I can only tell white lies or avoid answerin’ for so long.”

“His parents will handle things,” he assures you. But there’s too long a moment of hesitation before he remembers, “If, if Sophia didn’t make her way back to the highway, or, or is found elsewhere.”

So Dale is on the other page now, too. It’s been almost 72 hours that she’s been missing, but everybody seems to have already...fuck it, whatever. They can think what they want.

Earlier, Shane even wanted to discuss what they’d do if they found her bitten.

Yeah, that topic gave you all points with the Greenes. Not. Ugh, the shame you felt at seeing Maggie’s and Hershel’s horrified look with each other as they shook their heads in disgust, along with Beth’s confused and disbelieving glance. Small favors Carol wasn’t in earshot.

But hey, at least Daryl is still hopeful and hell-bent on looking for her. He’s the most likely to track her down, anyway, so you’ll count that as a win.

“Well, I’m going to be keeping watch duty. Seems like my official post,” Dale continued as you two slowly headed to the RV.

“That reminds me, here.” You remove the watch he’d lent you and hand it over. “Thank you. It was a godsend.” How many times you’d checked Carl’s pulse and respiratory rate with it, you can’t count. “And I think I got all the, um, uh, blood off it,” you add under your breath. With an awkward chuckle, you then (morbidly) comment, “Thank goodness it’s splash-proof.”

Bless Dale’s heart, he barely widens his eyes, instead nodding thoughtfully. “I’m glad it was such a help.” A grin and a nod of his head toward the RV. “Sometimes, I feel like a rotisserie chicken when I’m on top of the darn thing, slowly roasting and sweating in the heat for hours on end.”

Your smile finally relaxes and becomes genuine. “I don’t envy you that.”

Well, until Dale frowns and worries “Kiddo, are you sure you feel alright?” and you throw back at him “I’m just tired!”

Oops.

Hand covering your face, you apologize “Oh Moses, that came out very, uh, snappy. I’m sorry.”

Still frowning, Dale quickly softens his expression. Then, delicate as always, suggests “Maybe staying here is best, in that case. Perhaps taking a rest? I don’t imagine you slept much last night or the night previous.” He gestures to the RV door.

Yes, dad. “Why are you so kind, Mr. Horvath?” you ask, slowly trudging up the stairs. “And so patient, like, how do you do that? Sometimes, I swear, I snap like I get commission for it.”

“Would you prefer the alternative?” he teases. “I can behave rudely.”

Annnd he’s made you smile again.“Hmph, well now you’re bein’ kinda sassy.”

“Come on, troublemaker, I’ll help you set up your tent. It’ll be a lot cooler than in here, come to think of it.”

“Did I tell you I loved you yet today, Dale?—Oh, wait up Daryl!” You hop down the RV steps (OW, what the fuck, why did you do that when you have stitches? You can be such an idiot, ouchhhh) and reach into your sling (hey, it makes a great pocket) to jog over and give him your green camo walkie.

He stares. “Was jumping off there the best idea, Y/N?”

“It was the very best,” you monotone. Shit, did that hurt. You hold up the walkie to him. “Please take this with you.”

He adjusts his grip on his crossbow. “Ain’t the batteries shot?”

“Beth gave—the teenage girl who lives here—gave us four AAs, enough for two of them.”

“Why bother?”

You rein in the urge to roll your eyes. “Your safety.” Your voice still betrays your mild irritation, however. You cannot help but adore that mangy hick now, but those rough edges of his don’t suddenly not scrape. “Plus, Carl is gonna ask to talk to Sophia with them. You havin’ the other makes an honest excuse why he can’t.”

“When’s he gonna be awake?”

“...He’s on pretty strong pain meds right now, he might could be sleeping most of the day, but...”

He takes the walkie from your hand and pockets it. “Let’s keep them off though, yeah?”

You nod in agreement, but worry, “What if you have an emergency?”

“I won’t.”

Dale’s coming down the stairs with your tent bag interrupts any would-be huffing from you. “You’re off, Daryl?”

Ah, it’d been too long since you’d heard that grunt/hum thing Daryl does in response to things.

Dale rubs the back of his neck as he steps down to the ground. “Alone?”

“Like I just told Rick, I’m better on my own. I’ll be back before dark,” is Daryl’s curt reply, and...no, it’s okay. You shouldn’t take that personally, why are you taking it personally? It’s Daryl, he’s crass.

Sure, he taught you to track and enlisted your help out there in times past, but for many things, they are infinitely easier when done solo. It’s not a big deal. You feeling slighted about him pointing that out is an overreaction, you’re just tired, and, and—ugh, now you’re welling up? Great.

“Well, be careful out there, son,” Dale bids him, eyeing you and your pretend yawn that will provide explanation for your wet eyes. He lifts the tent bag. “I’m gonna put this under that grove over there, looks like a nice spot.”

“Thank you, Dale, I’m right behind you.” As he walks away, you gesture to the yellow walkie you’re holding onto and tell Daryl “This’ll be on so you can reach us, if you stay within three miles. Don’t die, don’t get bit.”

“Rest up, just don’t—” He stops you from walking away. “Don’t mess yourself up anymore, okay?” He shrugs. “And, alone is easier, but I didn’t mean to...be a dick or nothin’.”

“I didn’t take it personally, man.”

He does his hum/grunt thing again.

“Okay, might could’ve taken it very personally,” you admit. “At least you’re always honest, I like that about you. Do you even tell white lies?” You join him in walking toward his bike.

“I don’t like lyin’, I guess. I don’t see the point. Well, I mean I see the point, but I don’t...whatever, what are ‘white’ lies, again?”

“When a person don’t—sorry—doesn’t tell the truth in order to give somebody comfort or to keep them from bein’ hurt. They’re supposed to only be told about littler things, but.”

He straddles the bike. “So, how you told me you didn’t take that thing I said personal.”

You snort, nodding your head. “I reckon that was a white lie, wasn’t it?”

“When we had that fight in the truck and pulled over, and you said it was because we almost hit a fox?”

“I’d forgotten all about that. I ain’t sure if that was outright or white to be honest.”

“And when the kid’s parent’s told him Sophia’s back, that was a white lie.”

“Y-yeah.” What Rick and Lori did for Carl. What Shane did for Patricia and Jimmy and the Greenes. Right? Just white lies. Nothing else.

There’s a pause, and you were about to wish him safe on his search again before heading to the area Dale is helping set the tent up.

But Daryl states simply that “Guess I’ll have to bring her on back, then. That way we won’t have to lie to the kid.” And it’s just so...it doesn’t seem like a put-on, is all you’re saying. Say what you want about him, but that man is always truthful in terms of his thoughts and intentions.

An overwhelming urge to throw your arms around him again hits you like a truck. “Careful there, Dary-bear, you’re fixing to be my favorite person.” Even with that nasty symbol on his brother’s bike. Oh, good idea, you’ll put spray paint on the supply run list. “Hey, and Beth—she’s the teenage g—”

“—‘The teenage girl,’ you told me.”

“Beth’s making Carl chocolate pudding. So,” you drawl, feeling lighter and hopeful again. “Let Soph know when you find her that homemade pudding is waitin’ for her. Maybe not as good as her mama’s, but...” You smile.

And miraculously, so is he. Sort of, anyway. “Pudding sounds damn good, actually.”

“Eh, maybe I’ll sneak you a cupful. Hey, Glenn’s off on a run soon, are there any supplies you can remember us needin’?”

“Could always use more smokes.”

NO. “Sorry, the pharmacy don’t sell those or alcohol.”

“Shit.”

Don’t lie to him, Y/N. “Sorry, I just made that up. They probably have some, I just don’t want you dying of cancer.”

He scoffs and mutters “That was another white lie, then?”

“Might could’ve been.” You shuffle your feet. “You must get annoyed when people worry about that habit?”

“Yeah, I ‘might could.’”

Your lips twist to one side. “Don’t poke fun at my double modals,” you chide, nudging him gently.

A natural lag in conversation seems to indicate it’s time to part ways. “Alright, man, don’t die, don’t get bit. We’ll see you two later.”

But again, he stops you gently with his hand, even though he’s already started his bike and pressed the kickstand up. “Make sure you rest up, for real. It’s just—you don’t need to be the only one babysittin’ your brother or the kid, okay?”

“Ain’t no shame in them needing help.”

“Ain’t no shame in you needing rest, neither. They ain’t gonna kick you out ’cause you got hurt and need to take it easy for a while.”

To which you cannot help but request “Daryl, may I hug you again?”

He blinks. “Now?”

“Yeah. Everybody is gonna be linin’ up to do it once you bring back our girl, might as well get me some hugs in ahead of the game.”

He doesn’t move off the bike. “You really think she’ll be found?”

“You don’t?” Brows lowering, you cross your arms by tucking your free arm around your sling.

“Nah, I know she is.”

“Well, good, so do I.”

He’s squinting at you…and keeps squinting at you. So, you frown and stare back.

“You ain’t lying.” A statement, not a question.

“No.”

“And not a white lie.”

You shake your head. “No.”

He continues to stare—then abruptly pushes the kickstand down, swoops his leg off his bike, makes the briefest of glances around, and before-you-know-it, you’re pulled in for a surprisingly solid hug. His hold is stiff, maybe, but genuine. Around your injured shoulder and side, his embrace is gentler, you notice.

The man smells like cigarettes, sweat, and gasoline. His skin is covered in grime and dried salt, his clothing filthy. And you find you don’t care a hoot.

When you sense his grip begin to loosen, you pull away at the same time he does. With a mildly awkward pat on your arm (he did that earlier, too, it’s kind of endearing), he avoids all eye contact and casually hops back on his bike. And just like that, he’s off.

From behind, you hear “Hey dude, you got that list?”

“Yeah, man, think I covered all bases. Oh, add ‘spray paint.’”

“Spray paint?”

“The motorcycle.” That ‘SS’ symbol will get gone, mark your words.

“Solid idea.” Glenn grabs the piece of paper, scans it, and goes “Guess I got my work cut out for me.”

“Lori helped. She’s better at rememberin’ what’s needed or nice to have,” you explain, walking back with him to the grove where Dale and the others are setting up camp.

“Lori mentioned some other stuff, I just gotta write them down.”

“Oh, what’d she forget?”

“Nothing!”

Okay...private then? “I put period supplies on that list, too, dork.”

He laughs uncomfortably and you can’t help but wonder if there’s something unsaid that isn’t just him being silly about menstruation. Glenn isn’t the type to get uncomfortable about that sort of thing, he had sisters. “Sucks you can’t come with us this time,” he then sighs.

“I do wanna spend more time with Maggie, she’s been nothing but kind so far. You’ve talked with her, right?”

“Yeah...she seems cool.”

“Dude, and she’s so pretty.”

“She is really, uh, I-I guess, um, yeah.” Ha, look at his face. Somebody’s blushing.

A week or so ago, you’d both chatted about having had crushes on each other (past tense) at one point or another during the time at the quarry, actually. He’s another person who’s honest to a fault, and you love that. You’re glad he’s your friend.

“Sounds like somebody’s nervous to spend time alone with pretty Margaret...”

“Ugh, and when she told me about the run, she said something about me knowing ‘how to get in and out quick’ and it didn’t even click that she was talking about..like, not that,” he groans.

You can’t help but burst out laughing, wince when your stitches tug, then make fun of him for being “Painfully embarrassing!”

He playfully moans back “Shut up,” and elbows you, immediately apologizing afterward when he thinks he’s somehow injured you further.

Waving his concern away, you start to sing-song “Glenn’s got a crush,” while trying to tone down your smirk to a minimum.

“Coming from the one hugging the redneck every time I turn around today,” he cracks up despite himself.

“Aw, Glenny boy’s jealous!” you snark back.

“I’m too cool to get jealous.”

“So cool, the coolest.”

“And I get to ride a horse today.”

“WHAT?”

Oh, has he got on a very satisfied smirk of his own right now.

“Everything okay, kids?” Dale calls over, currently assisting Carol with her setup.

“Y/N’s just jealous I get to ride a horse today.”

“Ah, I understand.”

Grin still on your face, Glenn says he’s got to go get a quick riding lesson before they go, and heads off to the stable. You walk over to Carol, giving her the walkie and let her know “Daryl’s got the green one. He’s keepin’ it off but will radio when he finds her or if he gets hurt.”

She bites her lip, but nods and tries to smile. You don’t know what else to do but give her a soft kiss on the forehead and turn back to your tent.

You notice a figure hobbling over, and look up to see your brother moving way faster than he ought.

“Where’d you pop out from, loser? And slow down, that ankle ain’t gonna heal up if you keep doing that.” Thank the Lord he changed out of Otis’ clothes. He looks miles better now. Still has that 1,000 yard stare, but at least he isn’t putting salt in the wound by wearing that poor soul’s overalls.

“I just grabbed this from the RV, and Lori, um, told me I can st—I-I’m about to head out, check the highway,” he spills out all at once.

You’ve got no idea what any of that means except the last part.

“Is everything comfortable between you and Lori? It’s seemed very strained,” you voice plainly.

“Psht, yeah, what d‘you mean?”

Lie. Another lie. And you don’t care if it was a white lie or otherwise, so you swallow your disappointment and unease and change the subject. “Is Teddy going with you to the highway?”

He looks confused and shakes his head. “Dog’s in no shape—hey, I can do it,” he insists as you bend to try and set up the tent poles into the grommets. He grabs the poles from you and roughly gets them into position.

“Shane. You’ve got a bum ankle. It’s smarter to go with somebody.”

“You’ve got a bum shoulder and stitches in your gut, so that person ain’t you.”

“They’re just below my ribs, it’s hardly my ‘gut,’” you mutter. “Take Andrea, then. Weren’t you just showin’ her how to do gun stuff?”

He makes no response to that, only directs, “Okay, just hold that with your foot and I’ll pop the other side into place.” Once he gets the last pole into position, the tent bends up from the middle. “Right, let’s drive the stakes in. I’ll poke ’em down, you stamp on them.”

“Copy that.”

Another minute and your little camo tent is all set up. Shane grabs your pillow and sleeping bag and tosses them inside unceremoniously. Then you grab his arm and drag him in, too.

“Scoot back. Lay down. Rest your ankle a second.”

“Y/N, I gotta head out,” he protests.

“And I said you gotta rest your ankle.” And you put both earbuds into his ears, then point to your sleeping bag and have him place his ankle onto it. “Rest and elevate for exactly 10 minutes.”

You click through until you’ve got the track he needs. Going to California wouldn’t solve anything, but it was his comfort song and could get him out of his head for a spell. “That’s exactly three replays. You mentioned the song was precisely 3 minutes and 33 seconds, right?”

He doesn’t reply. You can tell the song has started by the way his brows lift and his eyes shut. But before you leave, his eyes open and he takes out one of the earbuds, waving you over. “C’mon.”

“Not the boss of me,” you whisper, taking the earbud and slowly easing yourself down to the ground, hand over your stitches to provide some support  He sticks his hand under your neck to help you down, grabs your pillow, and hands it to you. You then position the pillow so you two can share.

“You wanna talk?” you offer quietly. “I wanna listen.”

He pauses. Inhales. And for a moment, you think he’ll actually share with you. But he shakes his head and lays back again. You close your eyes and send up a prayer for some kind of help.

And the next thing you know, you’re waking up, the song is still replaying, and Shane isn’t in there.

#the walking dead #twd #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon #twd daryl #slow burn #canon compliant #shane walsh #dale horvath #glenn rhee #platonic glenn rhee #Shane's descent so sad y'all #the slowpoke series #fanfiction #daryl x you #Daryl Dixon needs a hug #Daryl Dixon gets a hug

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Scary as a sleepy kitten

When - 10 or so minutes after He hasn't been himself, which takes place during the Chupacabra episode of Season 2

What - the finishing touches on Daryl's medical care, how Andrea's handling almost mistakenly killing the guy. You assure her that he's about as scary as a sleepy kitten right then. Then, there's digesting big bro Shane's descent from morality along with Daryl's simultaneous growth in it. Bonus is a hint regarding the Greene's barn. So sad there aren't any barn cats in there anymore, wonder what happened...

Genre - a little angsty, a little fluffy, a little found-family.

Who - You, Mangy Hick (that's Daryl), Patricia, Andrea, Papa Dale and his not good book, and sweet little Beth (who's got the same headcanon from the Fabulously Confident Reader stories about liking choose-your-own-adventure books)

Perspective - 2nd person, and 3rd Daryl

Pronouns - did GN again this time

TWs - some language, otherwise you just have a brief blow-up. The day's been something else, y'all

Length? - 10-15 minutes

References - when Daryl made that funny in Like a traditional Sunday dinner, the incident with Ed as seen in "Deserved" Part 1 but mostly Part 2 and its cooldown in It's not the end of the wo - oh. There's the continuation of big brother Shane's descent, a slow progression in a bulk of the chapters. Be sure to check out Invisible Tugging Strings, Part 1 and Part 2 , then Spell your last name, please. as well as He hasn't been himself

Official Masterlist here (find fabulously confident reader there!) and the Chronological Slowpoke Masterlist here

have fun and happy reading!

Apologies for the lengthy delay, slowpokes, my brain has been on power-saver for about a month, might could be evident in the chapter, too XD

...........................................

“Guess I'll just move this arm like a robot—oh-ho, check it, I can still do the tomahawk chop, y’all!”

And yeah, then his friend proceeds to make barely one and a half chops before wincing. The slight pout that forms afterward makes him want to smile, it’s damn cute.

“Hurt more than I thought it would.”

The twangy blonde lady looks entertained. “Tell me why, Y/N.”

Their pout turns more embarrassed. “…Movin’ the forearm requires these here muscles.”

He liked that their accent revved up more with the blonde lady—sorry, her name’s Patricia, he knows, got it.

“Which affects what?” Patricia asks.

“My shoulder and chest.”

“Which are injured and got irritated something serious today, along with what I’m fairly sure is maybe your C6 and 7, maybe the T1, whenever you first got hurt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they mumble.

Stop thinking Y/N looks cute. Also, what were those letter-number things?

Sighing, his friend stares at their upper arm.

So, during the, like, he doesn’t know, 5 minutes or whatever it was when the old man helped him slump to the bathroom so he could finally take a piss, Y/N’s upper arm was wrapped to their torso to prevent them from hurting it more. They keep overdoing it, and they keep taking their damn sling off, so Patricia made a compromise, he guesses.

And after doing a modeling-pose type thing with their wrapped arm and asking who was wearing their gauze better, them or him, Y/N immediately tried to do the tomahawk chop and move like a robot and why is he finding that so damn cute right now?.

Patricia winks at Y/N. “Name some of the muscles up there and I won’t put the rest in a sling."

You

“Ooh, bicep, tricep,” basics out of the way. “This, um, one of these over here is the brachialis, this is the deltoid, the teres major’s under here.” You got that muscle wrong on an anatomy midterm back during college and never forgot about it. “This here is the trapezius.” Because the dudes who do the trapeze at the circus got real big ones (or at least that’s how you remember it). “And, well, the clavicle is this bone, so the bone under it is the scapula, which means right about here’s the subscapularis muscle,” that she said you may have hurt, “Oh, duh, then ‘the major one is the pectoralis.’ And—”

“—Okay, no sling.”

Phew. “Thank you!”

“For now, anyway. Meanwhile, Hersh is givin’ me a look, let’s get to cleaning our friend, here.”

Him

The funny part is, as Patricia left, she made a face and said, “I don’t remember most of the muscle or bone names, I just took Y/N's word for it. Now, Daryl, don’t go gettin’ out of bed, stay put.”

Now he’s finally laying down, nothing else to be done to him. He’s so damn tired.

He’s scrubbed up, too. Got a big-ass bandage over his head, wrapped all around. That was a trip; Patricia and Y/N washed his head and neck over a bowl. He counted the seconds til it was over, half-listened to whatever they were chatting about to distract himself.

Once he was bound up like a cartoon character and given instruction to not get it wet, Hershel came back and walked him to the bathroom again, this time to clean everything else off.

There was a little stool thing in the shower, with the shower hose on the ground instead of hanging. “Don’t get your head or the bandage wet. There's a waterproof cover over the dressing on your side that you'll have to remove when you're finished. Now, I imagine you prefer total privacy, but if you need the help, I can assist, or I can get your friend Theodore, if your prefer.”

“M’fine.”

The simple response “I’ll be outside the door, Daryl,” surprised him. Made him feel stupid and ashamed and comforted all at the same time.

And he…he needed the damn help. Ain’t like the old guy hadn’t seen his back already, anyway.

Still, the old man mostly stayed behind the shower curtain at his request, and he didn’t see his junk or nothing, Daryl made sure to keep himself covered.

Part of him felt like some pathetic little cat getting a flea bath.

Today was something else.

So goddamned tired…

You

Not 15 minutes went by since he was escorted to the washroom and now he’s fast asleep under the sheets.

Lori and you stayed inside with Carl (and Daryl), and Carol and Rick brought in plates of food into the house for the four of you.

Carol cooked up some jerky with an egg for Daryl as a special treat with the rest of his meal. Menu for tonight is peanut butter sandwiches (sort of, they’re on saltines), hard-boiled eggs (not soft-boiled, you checked this time), with sauteed field greens.

Your poor friend must be ravenous, but it looks like tiredness won this round. He looks so different asleep. Sweet, even. It's silly, but his light snores almost sound like purring and now you're thinking about kittens.

Another moment in the quiet, and you figure you shouldn’t stand there like a weirdo anymore.

Well, his egg and the peanut butter sandwiches will keep until he wakes up, and the jerky and egg will taste great either way, but his portion of sauteed field greens won’t be nice cold. You’re only a little bummed when you slide your portion of little sandwiches onto his plate and take his portion of greens. He’s earned extra treats, he can have all the peanut butter he wants after what he found today.

You inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Close your eyes and ask inwardly for help after offering more thanks that he came back alive, and found concrete proof of Sophia.

It’s nice to be in the quiet. It feels safer better to be away from Shane right now, too. You aren’t sure what you’re going to do about the sleeping situation other than tell your brother to set up his own tent.

You also take one of the cracker sandwiches, it’s been a rough day. But when you start to nibble on it…your appetite is gone. Which is so dumb, dude, you’d been stoked at the thought of chowing down when you were high on Daryl being okay and having found Sophia’s doll.

Daryl’s chest rises and falls. You listen to his light snores, and find it, as Amy would’ve said, “interesting,” (but understandable) that your stomach has a few butterflies at seeing him so peaceful and still.

You miss Amy. Which prompts you to consider that you should check on Andrea. Earlier, Dale had come in and asked a bunch of questions for her because she was too ashamed to see people. From wherever she is right now, Amy is probably hoping you’ll help comfort her big sister.

Patricia stops you before you exit the house through the side-door. “Been meanin' to ask, I heard you tell your brother to get out, earlier. Everythin’ okay?”

That question was unexpected, words aren’t working for you. You shake and nod at the same time, which is weird, so, you open your mouth to fix it, but nothing formulates.

After a second try, all you can stumble through is “I don’t know, ma’am,” before ungracefully scooting outside.

After 5 minutes of polite conversation on the steps, mainly between you and Dale regarding Daryl’s status, Andrea is still dumbfounded that she’d almost killed someone.

“He’s really okay?”

“He’s bandaged and resting now. You only winged him, but the falls he took earlier did the most damage, Andy.” You’re trying not to be angry with her, but failing. Which sucks, because you know she was trying to protect the group…

But that she still shot it even though it was against Mr. Greene’s wishes and she knew that indicates an unhealthy variety of pride. One can't be having that kind of attitude with a firearm, it ain't good. And Daryl was almost a casualty because of it.

And like, come on, there were five of you running toward her target, it was dangerous for her to attempt to shoot from that angle! Doesn’t she understand that’s irrespons—ugh, and isn’t Shane supposed to have been doing gun safety shit with her? Isn’t that his whole wannabe jarhead schtick—great, now you’re more upset about Shane!

“I’m glad you’re enjoying those, ” Dale tells you, nodding at your cracker and chuckling. “They’re the part of dinner I rushed to help make, this evening was…something.”

He shrugs, and you remember how Daryl grunted that today was ‘somethin’ else.’

“I suppose having spread the peanut butter on crackers was a small step up from offering it on spoons to everyone,” he muses.

You can’t help but hum, a spoonful of peanut butter sounds scrumptious right now. Makes a good breakfast or snack, too.

“Did Daryl eat enough?” Andrea worries. “Does he need anything?”

“He was asleep when I brought him his supper, but I left my portion of the crackers—minus this one—on his plate.”

“Come to think of it, I’m not sure he’s a fan of peanut butter,” Dale thinks out loud. “I offered him some for breakfast one morning, and now that I recall, he backed away from it.”

Not like peanut butter?

“—Oh my God, what if he’s he allergic?” Andrea breathes.

“Nah, he ate a peanut yesterday. I was havin’ one of the little packets for lunch and he tried one, he can’t be allergic,” you assure them. And surely he doesn’t not like peanuts. That would be so sad!

It gets quiet.

Andrea stares at her feet.

“I can’t believe almost killed him.” She inhales and buries her face in her hands. “I shot someone.”

And Dale is only meaning to ease her discomfort and add some levity—but whether it’s because of the new bond you have with Daryl, or maybe because here’s something of a flashback hitting you from how you’d had to actually shoot a living person a few months ago—when Dale jokes to you, “Like I told her, we’ve all wanted to shoot Daryl,” you become livid.

After two shallow breaths of your inner tea kettle screaming, this sentence: “Guess y’all will want sunshine over here to work on her aim, then,” seethes out as you stand and book it to the fields.

The past several days especially has shown you how wrong your initial conclusions about that man were. He’s a work-in-progress, make no mistake, but shit if he ain’t working on it!

Unlike your brother, who keeps getting worse, who just tried to flirt with Lori by saying he didn’t care about a missing, abused little girl—the same little girl Daryl was willing to almost die to find!

Horrified at Shane and about today; confused, embarrassed, overwhelmed, in pain, overtired, and therefore angry about everything, you walk, hyperventilate, and finally, quietly, start to cry.

Then you accidentally drop the peanut butter cracker and cry harder.

The light swish of your boots in the grass starts to crunch when you reach the sandy part by now-boarded-up well. You walk faster, neither wanting to be near the two-part walker inside nor in the area where apparently, Daryl dumped Merle’s ‘hard stuff,’ as he slurred to you earlier during his trauma assessment.

Soon you’re by the rocks you’d climbed the other night. You step up and sit on a lower one and sniffle another minute or so until the worst of it seems to have spilled out.

When will you get a better handle on your temper?

While you’re busy wallowing in self-pity, you notice Dale’s watch ticking and are reminded that you have to return it.

You stand.

Trudge back with your tail between your legs.

He and Andrea are still on the steps.

“I’m sorry. I let my anger get the better of me,” you tell them softly.

Dale waves you over. “Come back and sit if you like, kiddo. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s been somethin’,” you mumble. “And you aren’t a bad shot, Andrea, I was being snotty.” About an inch to your left and he’d have been a goner, you leave out.

“I’m glad I wasn’t as good a shot as I’d hoped,” she sounds ashamed to say. Her head is still hanging low when she makes a one-sided smile and taps the spot next to her. “Will you be helping with shooting practice tomorrow?”

“If that’s still on, yeah.” Shane was enlisting your help with that, which means you’ll have to act civil…ugh, why worry about tomorrow, tomorrow will worry about itself. You take the watch off, hand it to Dale. “Here you go, Mr. H.”

“Ah, very good. I would hate to start losing track of the days, then we’d really be in for it. Let’s see…an hour until it’s time to wind her up.”

The breeze carries the smell of woodsmoke with it. You lean against Andrea for a moment, she leans back.

Then Shane comes into view.

When you catch his eye, you shake your head in warning in case he’s thinking about coming over and schmoozing with the others as if he didn’t just f—tomorrow will be better. Things will be better in the morning. He’ll apologize and things will be better and you’ll all have a good day and maybe Sophia will be found.

“Y/N, how about we talk later tonight?” Dale murmurs.

Did he see the face you made at Shane?

Best change the subject. “If we do, is it finally my turn to borrow that awful book I’ve heard so much about?”

“The Case of the Missing Man is not an awful book,” he chuckles back, then shrugs. “Maybe Jimmie Herron’s style isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. My Irma didn’t like his work, either.”

“Y/N, it’s really not great,” Andrea drones.

“Glenn said the same.”

“Amy had me read it so we could, um,” her gaze grows teary. She closes her eyes for a moment, then smiles and shakes her head. “‘Share the trauma.’”

You smile and shake your head, too. That sounds like Amy. “She finished it up in my tent while I was knocked out with a migraine, first thing out of her mouth to me when I woke up was how lame it was. Told me you had first dibs.”

“Then I lent it to T-Dog”

Oh, right. On the first half-week of the trek to Fort Benning, his nose was stuck in it. “He plowed on through it, didn’t he?”

“He wanted the torture to be over.”

You and she snort, Dale just chuckles again. “After you finish it, only Rick, and our young Carl—oh, and, uh your br—and Shane, they’ll be the only ones to not have done so.” He points his finger as if an idea just popped into his head. “But both Jacqui and Lori thought it was good.”

“Bless their hearts, they loved watching soaps, though, what does that tell us?” you giggle to them.

Dale lifts his hands in surrender. “See me later, troublemaker, I’ll lend you my ‘awful’ book and we can talk. I’m gonna hold you to it.” He looks at Andrea. “Young lady, will you be alright?”

“Yes. I'm just not ready to face anyone yet.”

“You know where to find me.”

She rests her arms on her knees and slouches again, stare fixed on nothing much. You go to rest your arms on your knees, too, and are immediately reminded that that particular position is a no-go for you right now.

“Y/N, after what happened with Ed, when did the feeling of wanting to hide go away?”

“Mine was an easier situation," you quietly point out. "And it wasn’t just me, Shane was the one who—" you grimace at the memory. "You were there.”

“Mm.”

To answer her question, “But I guess it wasn’t til, y’know, I faced people again that I got I didn’t have to hide. Shane's sense of 'duty' helped, too. But after I talked to Carol, saw Sophia smile at me, when I knew they were on my side, I didn’t mind so much about the rest.”

“Pretty sure everyone was on your side with that,” she mutters. “For what I just did…”

“Pretty sure even Daryl will, um, well th-that you were tryin’ to protect the group.” …oof.

She lifts her eyebrows. “You aren’t good at lying, Y/N.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se. “Objectively, you were tryin’ to protect the group.”

“I wanted to feel in-control and like I could do it.”

Oh.

She admitted that? If only your brain could come up with something heartfelt or whatever the situation called for to convey how much humility from someone so confident and self-assured means, instead of this: “I wanna be on your apocalypse survival team.”

A sigh leaves her, and she simply asks, “Just let me know how furious he is with me. I'm dreading how he’ll be when he’s up. I'm a little scared, while I’m being honest.”

“Hm?”

“Daryl.”

“You’re scared of him?”

She eyes you. “We’ve all seen how he can fly off his handle. He waved that knife at Rick and your brother, the axe at Jenner.”

Oh, right. That didn’t even consider cross your mind, that she’d be scared of his reaction to...being shot in the…head. Man, your brain is not working.

It can’t even configure a response again, now you’re just shaking your head like a confused mute.

“You don’t think I have to worry, Y/N?”

“No,” you answer truthfully. “You might would feel better if you saw him, he's probably up an eatin' dinner by now."

"I think now's too soon."

"Trust me, he’s holed up in bed now, he’s about as scary as a sleepy kitten.”

“Kittens have teeth and sharp claws,” she dryly states.

Your mind immediately hops to the exciting fact that you have yet to meet the Greene’s barn cat(s) as you stand and lead Andrea inside through the side door to get to Daryl’s room, waving to Beth reading her book as you pass.

“Beth, this is Andrea. Andrea this is Beth. She’s the one who made the pudding for Carl. She’s Mr. Greene’s youngest.”

Andrea smiles and goes in for a shake. Beth shyly waves, the returning of the handshake ending up as an awkward afterthought.

Sweet as she is, leaving her in peace is probably what she’s hoping for (the poor teenager’s home and front yard is full of wounded strangers).

And you almost make it through the full sentence before gasping in delight when you see what book she has.“We’re just checkin’ on Dar—is that a choose-your-own-adventure book??”

Him

There was this loud noise in another room, woke him for a second. Y/N’s laugh stuck out from the other sounds.

While falling back asleep, he remembered how he'd made them laugh really loud when he ripped that $20 bill that night at the CDC. How they’d belly-laughed so hard at his dumb, tipsy-ass joke had felt so damned unexpectedly good.

He’s back asleep before the amount of pain he’s in can really register.

You

“I’ll bring it over after I talk to Mr. Horvath. He’s the older man in our group, I love him to pieces, you probably saw him in his bucket hat?” you tell Beth.

Jimmy apparently has been poking fun at her reading choose-your-own-adventure books to pass the time because they’re ‘for kids,’ so, lending him The Case of the Missing Man was decided to be the best way to get back at him.

You hope y’all didn’t wake Daryl, it’d gotten a little animated for a minute. To make up for it, you tiptoe when you trek down the hall to his room, Andrea and Beth behind you.

Beth left something of hers in there before he was brought in, but she was hesitant to go in there (which you praised, teenage girls and unknown older men don’t mix). Anyway, she was hesitant because she’s a little, um, well, kinda intimidated by him.

Andrea invited her to join you two, citing “Y/N says he’s as scary as a sleepy kitten right now.”

At his door, you knock lightly and call his name. Wait for an answer, try again.

Upon listening more carefully, his snores sound through the door and let you know he’s still asleep. Slowly, slowly, you open it.

As subtly as you can, you step into room and pull the sheet that had fallen down back over his shoulder before the girls see the scarring.

Daryl stirs, then grunts something incoherent as he flinches, blinks, and tries to turn toward you.

“It’s just me,” you hush. “I was fixin’ your sheet, it’d fallen.” You tuck the sheet down over his shoulder, gently and slowly. “You’re safe in the Greene’s house. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

His muscles relax and he’s back to snoring before the pet name is finished slipping out of your mouth.

Still standing beside him, you watch his side rise and fall, rise and fall. Reminds you how grateful you are. He really does look so helpless and sweet right now.

You notice Beth peeking back and forth between you and him, but she quickly looks away.

Poor buddy. If the man is this tired, he’ll rest better with closed curtains. He’s big on privacy, besides. Carefully, you start to draw them shut. Andrea joins.

Once they’re all pulled closed and the room is dimmer, she puts her hand on your arm and gently pulls you back into the hall, Beth leading the way. You make sure the door doesn’t make too much noise as it shuts.

“Thanks,” Beth whispers.

“Scary as a sleepy kitten, right?” Oh, that reminds you, “Y’all don’t have a barn cat or two, do you?”

“N-not anymore.”

Aw, that’s sad. “I’m sorry, little one.”

“Oh, um—d-don’t get too close to the big, shuttered barn, okay?” she rushes to add.

Before you can both nod and tell her ‘of course,’ she then stumbles through, “There’s—it’s—the, um—it’s just not real safe!”

She looks so freaked out and nervous that you forget you’re supposed to respond.

Lucky for you, Andrea, smooth as ever, assures her “We’ll let Carl know not play around there,” and starts to chat about how she “steers clear of old barns” ever since she spotted “the biggest rat I’ve ever seen come out of one at a company retreat,” while Patricia comes downstairs hugging to her side what looks like a wedding photo.

Beth scurries away, you make eye contact with Andrea, then Patricia gets your attention.

“Sweet pea, about tonight,” she begins, hands pressed together with her fingertips toward you. “Daryl’s gonna need to be checked on—”

“—Of course. I’ll stay with him. Please do me a list of what to check for and how often?”

“Will do. Try and borrow that big watch again, you’ll need it. Prolly will do well to have somebody else, maybe Carol to help. I'll go find her. You know, there’s an old air mattress in the attic, I’ll have Jimmy fill it up. Just go grab your sleeping bag,” she tells you.

“Thank you!” You’d been hoping for a way to avoid Shane all night. Is this a gift from above or something?

A reminder of, “Don’t use your injured side to carry your sleeping bag in,” from Patricia sends you on your way outdoors to retrieve your stuff.

The air is cooling off as the sun sets. The sky is a hazy orange-pink.

“Y/N, I didn’t realize,” Andrea says, slowly walking beside you.

“Realize what?”

“You two.”

You, too? Is she talking about your shoulder, maybe? “What’d I do? Do you mean my wrapped arm?”

She peers at you, head tilted to the side. “You and Daryl,” she softly clarifies. “It was Dale who wondered first, after you had to excuse yourself.”

Me and Daryl? “What’d we do?” Perhaps she's referring to the search today? Andrea isn’t one to not speak her mind plainly, you wonder why she’s not being more succinct. She doesn't know about you having shot that guy. Dale has an idea, but he's tight-lipped about it.

“So, you and he…?” she trails off.

?

So, you start to fill her in about the search. “Before Daryl found the doll, we’d—”

—OH WAIT, now you get it!

---------------------------

---------------------------

(for those wondering, the tomahawk chop is something Georgia Braves fans do)

> Masterlist link here

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338 @its-freaking-bats​​​​ @whistlesalot​​​​ @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer​​​​  @dreamingaboutthewonderland @kwazii-kat​ @darylsmavis​​​​​  @outlanderhornet22​​​​​ @battinsonrobs @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @multiifandomhoe @writingmybeloved @boomergirl123 @iheartathena0 @moonliight-luv @suniloli

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore,  just let me know, we’re all friends here and your comfort level is important!)  

#twd #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead #reader insert fanfiction #reader insert #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl twd #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x you #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead daryl #twd daryl #andrea twd #andrea harrison #dale twd #dale horvath #PAPA DALE #beth greene #patricia twd #canon compliant #the Slowpoke series