Chapter Text
The calm before the storm.
That's what they always say, at least.
You'd been lying back against Daryl's pillow — nursing a bruise that wouldn't quit throbbing — before anything even seemed to be amiss. The tent was still, the air clear, and the sun completely set.
The quarry was quiet, but you could still make out the hushed whispers in the distance, and the occasional clink of pots and pans as the others ate their evening meal. You'd refused the invite, begrudgingly — not having the fortitude to sit through another one of Shane's lectures, or to feel pitiful glances linger over your bruised jaw (and bruised ego).
Or, perhaps you'd simply grown fond of the faint smell of whiskey and gasoline coating this tent. Maybe it reminded you of home more than any soup could, or any company other than the Dixon brothers — or even the patrons of Joe's Bar.
As you laid back against that raggedy pillow, toeing the ends of Daryl's sleeping bag whilst staring up at the blank, canvas ceiling which looked like an endless, grey sky — you felt at peace.
But, then you heard it.
That unmistakable shrill bleating. A scream.
So, you ran barefoot through the grass, probably popping open a stitch or two on the way, until your steps were interrupted by a gunshot — ringing out clear and loud against the pitch black night.
You glanced around, catching the smoke trail taper off from the pistol that had been fired, held in the trembling hands of Morales as he caught your eye. Then, at his feet, your gaze rested upon the biter he'd put down — a bullet embedded in its skull.
The man looked at you briefly, a mix of guilt and fear flashing across his face, before he ushered his family further behind his back, trying to get them all huddled into the RV.
Then, he left you there — alone and weaponless — as more of the undead started to infiltrate the camp.
You'd like to say that this was when your body kicked into auto-pilot, drawing on its military training and combing together a sense of false bravado to get you to do something — anything.
But, it didn't.
Instead of running away, searching for a weapon, or even screaming for help, you froze.
The new faces you'd only just started to remember were dropping like flies, falling at your feet and collapsing in the distance — almost like the towers that had crumbled during the decimation of Atlanta. More gunshots were fired, and indistinguishable yells cluttered the air as though they were fighting to be heard over one another.
And you stood there — alone and weaponless — starting to wonder if it was even worth it anymore.
After all, maybe you should have taken the hint.
You'd been dropped from the sky like a lead balloon not even a day earlier, and everything on the ground had been equally as horrifying ever since.
From ex-cop dictators who scowled at every turn, to an abusive asshole husband, to the dead then making a march on your moment's respite — it seemed like there was nothing good even left down here.
"The fuck are ya doin'?" a voice snapped, yanking your wrist.
Well, maybe there was one thing.
Dixon stood before you — the younger one — his chest heaving as he cocked the shotgun in his hands.
"Get behind me," he ordered, barely sparing you a second glance. "Now!"
That is what finally shook you into auto-pilot — his voice.
So, you stood behind him, staring only at his back as he took the brunt of the assault — reminding you of the days you'd spend clinging onto his waist as he shielded you from the wind and rain on his bike.
The air became scented with gunpowder as more rifles were brought into the fray, and eventually you even got thrown a pistol of your own, once Rick Grimes spotted you empty-handed. So, you took aim — not as accurate with your left as with your right — and started to shoot at the biters alongside Daryl, rather than cowering behind the man.
"The hell they all comin' from?" he yelled, taking a moment to reload as you covered him.
He had a point, you thought, they weren't letting up.
The biters seemed to come at you in an endless stream — emerging from the shadowy forest with no break in sight.
"Ask your damn pilot," Shane growled back, from somewhere behind you. "The noise probably lured 'em here like a carrot on a stick."
Your jaw clenched at his words. He knew that couldn't be the only reason.
Like Daryl had said before, any noise booms all over the quarry — echoing for miles so that the source is untraceable.
You shook your head, yelling over the sound of gunfire. "Should be careful what you say about someone holding a-"
You glanced back at him, only to see that he was guarding Amy's body at his feet — and an inconsolable Andrea, slumped over her sister.
And your next shot faltered.
It took all night to secure the camp again.
Bullet shells were all scattered at your shoes, along with the corpses of the dead — some of whom had previously been the living. But the sun still rose, the same as it did every day, as though nothing had even changed.
Your good arm ached, and your stitches tugged uncomfortably, but that was nothing compared to the cries of Andrea, and those familiar faces who you'd soon be tasked with burying. You shuddered, and became suddenly aware that you were still in your nightclothes — and that you'd splattered Daryl's shirt with blood.
"Y'aright?" the man asked, watching as you huddled your arms to your chest.
But you couldn't bring yourself to turn around and face him.
With a new day came new insecurities — brought to light by the morning sun, which cast equally heavy shadows to weigh you down. You felt ashamed that Dixon had caught you frozen, and wondered whether you'd have actually snapped into action if he hadn't shown up.
"I'm fine," you answered, half-heartedly. "We're just lucky you got back when you did."
He looked at you skeptically — you could feel it — but he didn't argue back, instead turning on his heels to help with the bodies.
You grabbed his sleeve.
"Wait," you said, barely above a whisper.
But this time, Daryl didn't come back at your call.
"Nah, 'm done waitin'," he shook his head, kicking up some dirt with his boot as he snatched his hand away to stuff it into his pocket. "If ya'll hadn't told me to wait then maybe I'd have my brother back."
You could hear the hurt in his voice — the pain he tried to conceal behind the gruff backbite of his words. You'd guessed that something must have happened in Atlanta, given that Merle Dixon was nowhere to be seen.
But even though you understood the emotion behind Daryl's tone, it still made tears prick at your eyes — the first that had welled up since the day everything fell apart.
And this time, he turned around.
Perhaps he'd heard the faintest of sniffles leave your mouth, or perhaps he'd gotten a sinking feeling in his stomach — just like the one you'd had ever since your feet touched the ground. Either way, Dixon turned around.
But it wasn't your glassy eyes he focused in on.
"Who fucking touched ya?" he growled, lifting your chin up for him to see.
With the new day came brighter light for him to finally catch a glimpse of that bruise blooming over your skin — and he definitely didn't like it, not one bit.
But strangely, you felt his touch more intensely than the pain — despite how gentle he was. It made your cheeks tingle and burn like fire as he inspected the graze, eyeing it so closely that you could feel his breath settling there.
"It doesn't matter," you dismissed, quietly, as you glanced away from him-
Ashamed.
You didn't want him worrying about you again, or thinking that you couldn't handle yourself when he wasn't there. But most of all, he was giving you whiplash.
You couldn't tell why he was so abrasive one second, and so attentive the next. It made you want to know what exactly had happened to Daryl Dixon when the world ended — and why he kept looking at you like that, as though he'd seen a ghost.
"It damn matters!" he yelled back, making you flinch beneath his hand.
But then his eyes softened, and — intentional or not — his thumb rubbed a small circle over your cheek, as though trying to soothe you.
"Ya think I don' know what gettin' socked in the jaw looks like?" he asked, a lot softer this time.
You crumbled, leaning into him, just hoping that he wouldn't pull away. But you still shook your head, glancing over his shoulder — at the pile of corpses being hauled onto trucks.
"No," you whispered, trying your best to explain. "It really doesn't matter anymore."
And this time, he understood.
In the hours that followed, however, Dixon seemed to grow more and more agitated. You'd thought maybe it was the midday sun beating down on him as he shovelled graves, or that perhaps he was still worked up about his brother.
But it didn't take you long to realise that he was pissed at you.
Shane had ceremoniously dumped the story of how you'd gotten into a fist-fight with Ed — completely callous as always, as he tried his best to rattle Daryl. He didn't seem to care at all that the man was now dead, and his widow and child were standing not three feet away, listening to him slander both their father and you — the one who'd beaten the bastard bloody.
And ever since then, Daryl had been watching you like a hawk, his eyes settling on your bruise as he scowled so deeply that it made his face look like someone else's.
You knew you shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but you were certain that Dixon felt the same way — that man was an asshole. If he weren't for the fact he was already six feet under, then you thought Daryl would probably put him there, himself.
Except, now that he was, Dixon didn't have anyone to take his anger out on. So, he was left to stew in it, to mull it over in the Georgia heat as he debated who exactly to swing his shovel at. So, instead, you decided to go talk to Carol — who was looming about the man like she didn't quite know what to do with herself.
"I'm sorry about your husband," you said curtly, resting your hand on her shoulder.
Even though you didn't really mean the words, they somehow still managed to sound sincere — probably because you were showing your sympathies for Carol, and not Ed. The woman nodded, but it felt cold, detached, as her eyes rested on the body bags being loaded into the truck — each with a blood splatter to the head.
"I ain't," a voice spat, belonging to Daryl.
You shook your head at him, and shot a warning glance. He had a point, but he didn't have to be an asshole about it.
After all, there were already plenty of those here.
"Dixon," you seethed, behind gritted teeth.
But he held his ground, plunging his shovel into the earth and spitting on the grass.
"Ain't no rest for the wicked," he concluded — and it somehow felt as though his words were meant for you.
In the minutes that followed, Carol excused herself — probably because she noticed how thick the tension had gotten, and didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. After all, that woman had honed a sixth sense when it came to predicting outbursts, so you couldn't blame her.
Since, right now, you were on the verge of one.
"Get over here," you growled, tugging on Dixon's shirt with your good hand.
You were tired of making a scene in the middle of the camp, where all eyes could bare down on you. And you especially didn't want to do it now — not when they were burying their dead.
So, you dragged him back to that clearing, the one from the first night at camp where you'd stared up at the moon and stars whilst smoking cigarettes. It looked different in the daytime — more exposed, more vulnerable. The Georgia sun was beating down on the both of you, making you sweat as you hiked the short distance in silence — save for your puffed breaths.
Then, once you reached the summit, you let loose.
"Why do you have such a chip on your shoulder?"
The man scowled, and seemed as though he wanted to bite something back. But you didn't let him.
"I thought you'd be happy to see me!" you cried, voice raising with frustration. "I sure as hell was."
A warm breeze rustled past you, but it still made you shiver — as did Daryl's expression. The man had never seen you like this, never once known you to get so rattled and wound-up before. But you just couldn't hold it back any longer. All you craved was the warmth and gentle shyness you'd grown to expect from him.
Not this cold persona he was putting on.
You shook your head, fist trembling as you squeezed it tightly. "I would've crashed that bird ten times over, gladly, if I'd known you were there waiting for me at the bottom," you admitted.
And this time, the man's eyes softened.
"You're not the same person I remember," you told him, sadly. "And don't go saying I never knew you because I did."
You paused, letting your words sink in,
"It was only a month, but I knew you."
And that's when you saw him. The former mechanic, Dixon.
Perhaps he'd had to become like this to survive, to keep people away. But now, here with you, he no longer had to pretend to be someone he wasn't. Sure, he'd been a man wrapped up in a gruff temper back when you knew him, too. But he was never cold.
He was always fiery.
Daryl sighed, kicking up some stones at his feet as he struggled to meet your glare — despite it not being much of one any more. He just seemed downtrodden, like a child having been scolded.
Like he couldn't bring himself to tell you the truth.
"Atlanta," he mumbled, so quiet you barely heard it.
He finally looked up to meet your eyes, and you could see his question clear behind them.
"Why were ya in Atlanta?"
You opened your mouth but no sound came out. You couldn't decipher the meaning hidden in his words — what exactly he wanted to know.
"A weekend trip," you replied, shortly.
But Daryl seemed hurt by your answer — and you had to admit, it did feel anticlimactic.
"You din't tell me," he rebutted, his voice traced with emotion.
And you struggled to form a response.
"Was I-" you stuttered. "Was I meant to?"
You watched as the anger bubbled up inside of Dixon, flashing over his face and making it contort into a picture of complete pain. He batted away a low hanging branch beside him, sending its leaves scattering through the air before they gently floated to the ground.
"It was the goddamn end a' the world," he muttered, eerily quiet.
Just like the calm before a storm.
"People dyin', fightin' each other for guns, gettin' bit in the streets," he went on, his voice ramping up with every passing moment. "And what was I doin'?" he asked, staring you dead in the eye. "Fuckin' lookin' for you!"
The word sat heavy in the air, untouched for a few seconds as the both of you just watched each other — waiting for someone to make the next move.
Except, you didn't have anything to say. You had no excuse, no reasoning, and no fucking idea he'd been feeling this way.
Dixon sighed, letting the tension roll from his shoulders — like a coil unwinding.
"A week," he finally said, completely deflated. "Searched all of Georgia for a goddamn week 'fore Merle hauled my ass here."
He was looking at his hands now, fumbling with them like he'd lost all his nerve.
"Ne'er once thought ya jus' up and left without sayin' a damn thing," he said quietly, furrowing his brow as though the pain he felt were physical
You reached a hand out to the man. You weren't sure whether it was to comfort him or yourself, but either way you did. Your fingers looped around his sleeve once again — but this time, they just rested there.
"Yer house looked untouched," he whispered, as though he were talking to himself — or as if you'd finally broken through his defences.
Though, even before the world had ended, you'd never seen Daryl like this. You'd never seen him so vulnerable. He kept looking around, as if trying to find someone to blame. But there was no one.
So now he was shouldering it all himself.
"There was no sign ya were even there," he explained, continuing on like he couldn't bring himself to stop — like he'd come unravelled under your fingertips. "No sign at all 'part from Mike an' Doreen," he told you, "or what was left of 'em."
Your heart stopped.
"My grandparents?" you asked, voice trembling. "They-"
"'m sorry," Daryl replied, and shook his head.
The two of you sat down after that, feeling the grass beneath your palms and the warm breeze that made it sway. Neither of you had any fight left in you, nor any words for a while. It almost felt like you'd reverted back to before — to the days you'd sit side by side at Joe's bar hours after closing time.
Daryl's hand ghosted over yours, but there still seemed to be something holding him back — weighing him down.
"The Camaro," he spoke, prompted by your gaze, "the Camaro was still there." His thumb ran over the back of your hand. "Tha's why I thought," he cleared his throat, "I thought ya-"
"I took the bus," you said, stopping him before he could say it.
You'd never felt guilt like this before. If you'd have known the world was going to end, you never would have caught that coach into the city, and you'd have cherished that rainstorm you'd spent with Dixon — the last time you'd seen him smile.
"I didn't leave you behind, Daryl," you told him — the name feeling foreign on your tongue.
But it did its job, because the man looked straight back at you, as though you'd called out to his soul.
"As much as I wanted to get out of that place, I wouldn't ever leave without saying goodbye," you reassured him, locking your fingers with his.
He still smelled faintly of cigarettes and gunpowder, but no longer like whiskey. It made you miss your jacket — the one he'd given you — since it reminded you of better times and more vibrant nights.
"A fucking grave," Dixon said, staring out towards the golden sun. "Me an' Merle buried your grandparents and mourned an empty grave for ya."
And your hand began to tremble atop of his.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you asked — but you felt ashamed for not being able to figure it out for yourself.
The man shook his head, letting out a sigh that deflated his chest — as though he were taking the last drag from a cigarette.
"Because yer fuckin' right," he answered. "Why would ya even have to tell me if ya did leave?"
His words were heavy, but they weren't harsh. They were only the truth.
"You ain't mine or nothin'."
Your expression faltered. No, you weren't his, you realised, but maybe you wanted-
You cupped your hand over his cheek.
His skin was soft, but the stubble was rough beneath your palm — tickling it as you settled there. He was warm, the both of you were, the Georgia sun heating you up and glistening you with sweat if you sat under it too long. But Daryl didn't pull away. He seemed to lean into your touch, and his eyes even softened as you tucked a strand of hair behind his ear — the action dripping with affection.
"Dixon, I-" you whispered, but a branch snapped behind you.
You pulled apart immediately — like opposing magnets having been forced together.
Shane emerged from the brush, sweat-coated and breathless as he stood there — less than amused.
"Hate to interrupt whatever the hell's going on here," he remarked, instantly getting your hackles up. "But we need you back," he announced, "Jim's been bit."
//
Daryl Dixon returned to his tent alone that evening, packing up his things in preparation for their trip to the CDC. With one thing settled, something else had become disturbed.
He guessed that was the law of nature these days.
But still, he couldn't help but wonder what you were going to say — what your expression had meant as you held him like putty in your hands.
Just like he'd always been in the face of you.
So Daryl collected his things, letting Merle's bottle of half-drunk whiskey clink about in his backpack, and stuffing his crumpled packet of cigarettes into his pocket.
But what he didn't account for — when he started to roll up his sleeping bag — was how easily he'd become engulfed by the lingering presence of you. He held his pillow at his fingertips, the fabric coated with nostalgia. He'd caught your scent almost immediately, like leather and fresh rain in his hands.
And he couldn't help but think back to a certain thunderstorm — to the time he'd seen you laughing as you ran through the summer rain.
So, Daryl Dixon gathered up his things, and hoped that wherever they were headed would be full of better days — and opportunities to make you laugh like that again.
Even if it was just once.