Chapter Text
You groaned with exasperation as the cursed firing pin spring shot out yet again. You had spent a solid thirty minutes trying to put that stupid gun back together. Shane had shown you a few times by then, but somehow you could never get it right. You were, after all, just a material girl designed for a material world; yet you were stuck in a violent nightmare instead. On any given day you’d be at work or getting ready for a girls night, but the apocalypse had other, more horrifying things ins tore for you.
Daryl stepped into the RV for a gun, shaking his head with annoyance at the sight of your failure. Well, multiple failures. See, you started with a standard Glock, but the recoil spring in that one was too hard to set in place. Then, you switched to the Beretta, where you found your current firing pin spring issue.
Daryl stared down at all the bits and pieces sprawled on the table in front of you.
“Y’gon’ take every damn gun apart ‘til we ain’t got none when we need ‘em?” He complained. You glared.
“Well, excuse me if taking apart guns to clean them wasn’t my hobby of choice before shit hit the fan.” You shot back.
That day was the beginning of a long standing feud between the two of you. A feud that was frankly one sided. You never had a problem with the smelly hunter. In fact, you often made meager attempts at impressing him or even going as far as to be friendly. Unfortunately, you were always met with rude snark and bitterness.
One time, at the CDC, you had a little too much wine with dinner. You were stumbling through the hall, attempting to find the room you had previously claimed, when you had the misfortune of walking right into Daryl.
“Oh! I’m sorry.” You giggled.
“Damn it.” He grumbled with an annoyed sigh. “Can’t ya watch where the hell you’re goin’?”
“I’m sorry, really—“ You tried to apologize again but he had no intentions of hearing it.
“Don’t drink if ya can’t handle yourself.” He snapped. “Got the dead roamin’ the damn earth and you get shit-faced the first damn chance ya get!”
In your drunken, emotional state, you sniffled and cried quietly to yourself that night. Why was he always so damn mean? You missed your friends and family so much, and you couldn’t even bare to think about your cat.
When Sophia got lost everything was worse. You’d offer to help with the search and you’d always hear the same response; “I already got one little kid to look for. I don’t need two.”
You also tried to console him when Sophia’s body came staggering out of that barn.
“You’re a great tracker, Daryl. We were all just too late.” You’d say.
“Ain’t no we! You didn’t do shit but stay back and twiddle your fuckin’ thumbs! Get on somewhere. I don’t need your caudlin’.”
When the farm fell, he’d always snap at you for lagging behind the group when you were on the move. You couldn’t help it. You were so tired and hungry.
“Keep up, damn it. Can’t afford to keep slowin’ down!”
When you were all clearing the prison, he wouldn’t even let you shoot.
“Jus’ stay back and hit the fence. Distract ‘em. You can’t shoot for shit.”
Since then, you reasoned to just avoid him. You’d never met anyone who could make you feel so bad about yourself. You decided to stop asking yourself why he hated you. You weren’t going to try and change it anymore. You were just going to exist the best you could, as far away from him as the prison yard would allow.
Which brings us to now. Inventory is your main task at the prison. Some people make it hard. Carl never checks out his weapons, nor does Daryl. But with Carl losing his mom and Daryl being such an ass, you never say anything. You just make notes on the weapons they’re most likely to take without telling you.
Beth sometimes grabs formula without letting you know, but taking care of a baby is hard work for a teenage girl to be doing full time. You have no intentions of nagging her. So, as usual, you just check your inventory every day and report to Rick or Hershel, usually the latter.
When your inventory is done for the afternoon, you decide to find Carol and help her with laundry. Maggie is on the tower today with Glenn, so she’s all by herself out there scrubbing everyone’s smelly clothes.
“Hey. Need some help?” You ask her, pressing your lips into a thin smile. She returns the same expression and nods.
“Please? For such a small group we sure go through a lot of clothes.”
“No problem.” You say as you get down on your knees and begin scrubbing and ringing out a pair of jeans. “Jeez. These really stink.” You mumble. Carol giggles.
“Daryl.” She sighs.
“Does he ever shower?”
“I mean.. never would be a strong word. Rarely, though, that might be the accurate description.” She jokes. You chuckle.
“Hey, (Y/N)?” Rick asks as he approaches you. You look up from Daryl’s stained jeans. “Could you take a car out to the main road? Daryl’s broken down out there. He can’t carry all those supplies back.”
“Me?” You raise your eyebrows, tossing a quick glance to Carol. If anyone is accustomed to your strained relationship with the archer, it’s her. Daryl would often complain about you to her, and she’d just as often give you a reassuring pat on the shoulder when she’d notice his harsh treatment.
“Well, yeah, if ya don’t mind.” Rick nods. He is a little more oblivious to how rude Daryl can be toward you, but he isn’t blind to the visible tension the two of you share. He just assumes it was never that serious.
“Um.. Sure.” You shrug. A pit in your stomach is already festering, growing bigger as it feeds on your anxiety. You had been very successful at avoiding Daryl since you’d been at the prison. The only solace you find is in the fact that you had grown more confident since you guys found this place. Being in charge of inventory gave you a much needed sense of control. From there, you realized just how much you really did have control over, and soon enough the scared girl you once were had become a productive young woman. Now, you have to put that confidence to the test, facing the man who kind of stole what little faith in yourself you had to begin with. You vow to yourself that today will be the day you stand your ground to Daryl Dixon.
You brush off your jeans and accept the keys from Rick before making your way to the vehicle parked near the gates. When you start the engine, Carl drags open one gate, then the other, and you head out. You notice Daryl right away when you make it to the main road. He’s smoking a cigarette, leaned up against the red truck he had taken into town.
You can’t help but wonder why he was on a run by himself to begin with. It isn’t like Rick to send anyone off on their own. Then again, knowing Daryl, it’s not that hard to figure out why he might be a solo kind of guy.
You pull the car up beside the truck. He glances up at the vehicle but immediately looks back down at the ground when he realizes it’s you. He makes sure to seem indifferent.
Instead of letting his lack of a greeting (or gratitude) phase you, you just step out of the driver’s seat and pop the trunk open before approaching the bed of the truck and beginning to transfer all of his loot into the car. When the trunk fills up, you resort to packing the back seat.
By the time Daryl finishes his cigarette, he notices there are a few more items still in the truck. He huffs and impatiently grabs the three items, shoving them in the back seat and slamming the door shut, mumbling something about you taking your sweet time.
“What was that?” You speak up before sitting back down in the driver’s seat.
“Move over. I’m drivin’.”
“That’s not what you said, first of all. And no. I drove here just fine, I can drive back.” You roll your eyes.
“Quit bein’ difficult damn it! I’m tired. Been workin’ all day out there riskin’ my neck.” He snaps.
“I’ve been working too.” You shrug, sitting down and starting the engine.
“Scribblin’ on a clipboard ain’t nothin’ like what I do.” He argues, still standing by the driver side, waiting for you to give in and let him drive. You won’t, though. You won’t cave in and bow to him like a puppy with its tail between its legs like you used to. He lost the privilege of your kindness — or maybe cowardice — a while ago.
“Actually, I woke up and spent two hours on the fence impaling skulls, then I helped Hershel hoe the ground for spring crops before I scrubbed the common area of the cell block on my hands and knees. Then I did inventory, then I washed your smelly ass jeans. So, no, I don’t just scribble on a clip board.” You correct him. “And, while we’re on that subject, you’re supposed to check out your fucking weapons. Would make the scribbling part a lot easier for me.”
He clenches his jaw and his fists at your insubordination.
“I don’t know when you grew a smart ass mouth but I ain’t got time for it so quit your bitchin’ and move outta my seat.” He demands.
“Or you could stop wasting time and just get in the passenger seat.” You roll your eyes.
“God, do you ever stop bein’ such a damn burden?!” He shouts. You run your tongue over your teeth and nod.
“Burden?” You repeat.
“Yeah. A burden.” He drawls. “As in, makin’ shit harder for everyone around you.”
“Hmm.” You hum thoughtfully. “Okay.”
With that simple response, you shut off the engine, toss the keys on the ground beside him, and stand up. With your knife in your belt for protection, you start walking toward the woods. You realize that he is absolutely unbearable. You won’t subject yourself to even a five minute car ride with him.
“Where the hell are you goin’?!” He calls out after you. You ignore him. “C’mon, (Y/N), get in the damn car!”
By this point you’re blending into the trees and he’s losing sight of you. He groans and slams the car door shut, snatching the keys off the asphalt before he marches off after you. He swears when he gets his hands on you, he’s dragging you back by your ankles and cramming you in the trunk with the rest of the shit he looted today.
“(Y/N)!” He shouts. You sigh.
“Fuck off! You wanted to drive so bad, be my guest! Whole car to yourself!” You call back.
“Quit bein’ so damn—“
You whip around, eyes blaring with fury.
“So what? Burdensome? Annoying? Stupid?” You cut him off, recalling some of the insults he had bestowed upon you in the past. “I’m so fucking sick of you! All I ever did was try to be nice to you! And all you ever gave me in return was cruelty!”
You’re shaking now. He’s stopped a few feet away from you, silent as you unleash your pent up frustrations on him.
“You know,” you begin, not as loud and shrilled as before. “I didn’t even want to come help you. Because I knew it would be like this. I only came because I was asked to. So you wouldn’t have to try to carry shit back to the prison and go through more trouble. I didn’t talk to you, I didn’t try to be friendly or otherwise vexing. Yet, somehow, that wasn’t good enough. If my presence alone makes you so miserable, then I’ll walk.”
With that, you turn around and start storming back toward the prison.
“(Y/N)—“ He tries to protest but it just triggers another wave of anger.
“What?!” You throw your hands up. “What did I ever do to you?! Just leave me alone!” You shout, turning back to him. “Why do you hate me?!”
“I don’t hate you!” He fires back.
You scoff and cross your arms. “Sure seems like it.”
“Well if ya would just listen to me I wouldn’t get so mad!”
“I’m not your fucking dog, Dixon! I shouldn’t have to listen to you for you to treat me like a human being.”
“Treat you like what?” He scoffs. “All I ever did was try and look out for ya! Ya can’t do anything right! How the hell am I supposed to keep ya safe if ya can’t follow a simple fuckin’ direction?”
“Look out for me? How? By making me feel like shit about myself? Reminding me every chance you get how much you just can’t fucking stand me? You don’t treat anyone else like that. Nobody.” Your eyes are watering now. The rage is slowly wearing down into what it really is at its core: hurt. He hurt you time and time again and you always tried to make it right, even when you had done nothing wrong. Shit, (Y/N), get it together. Don’t let him see you like this.
“Well why the hell are ya so worried ‘bout what I think?” He asks.
“I don’t know!” You snap, turning away from him again. You hug yourself and sniffle. “Just leave me alone.” You beg quietly. “Go drive yourself back. I’d rather walk.”
He stands there silently, mouth opening and closing like he has words to say but can’t find them in his sea of thoughts. He doesn’t want to make you cry. He doesn’t even know why you piss him off so much. He does know that seeing you there, hugging yourself as your shoulders rise and fall with silent whimpers makes him feel like shit. He steps toward you slowly, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder. You flinch at his touch and he retracts his arm.
“I don’t hate ya.” He finally speaks. When you don’t respond he realizes he has to continue. “I just don’t want ya gettin’ hurt.”
“Yeah, right.” You mumble. “All you do is hurt me.”
He swallows a dry lump. Is that true?
“I don’t mean to.” He insists. “I just.. Ya don’t belong in this world. You’re nice. Ya ain’t violent, you’re pret—“ He stops. Your ears perk up. Was he about to call you pretty?
“What I’m tryin’ to say is… Ever since I first saw ya I knew ya had to be looked after — kept safe. Ya ain’t like most people. I’d feel too bad if ya… If ya got hurt.” He admits softly. You turn your head a little, peeking behind you to try and catch a glimpse of him.
His hand finds your shoulder again and this time you don’t shrug him away. You sniffle and wipe your eye clean of tears.
“So you’re mean to me to protect me?” You summarize. He realizes how stupid that must sound.
“I just get frustrated when I see how vulnerable ya are. Can’t clean a gun and put it back together, can’t aim to save your life, can’t—“
“Couldn’t.” You correct him. “I couldn’t do those things, but I’ve learned how. You just haven’t been around to see it. Or encourage it.”
He nods. “‘M sorry.” He mumbles. “Maybe you could, uh, show me sometime.”
“Show you what?” You turn back to him.
“Dunno.” He shrugs. It’s a lot harder for him to speak freely when you’re actually looking at him. “What ya can do.”
“Oh.” You nod. “Maybe you could stop being such an asshole.” You suggest.
He smirks a little.
“I can try.”