Chapter Text
After taking an arrow through the side, getting chewed on by a walker, and falling down a ravine - twice - Daryl is getting pretty fed up with the world. So, naturally, the world decides that he should also get stabbed. And shot.
In hindsight, he probably should have gone straight back to the farm after managing to climb up the cliff. Then he could’ve avoided the stabbing, at least. But he had seen that house, on his way back. A little red a-frame nestled among the trees.
He isn't sure what it is about the building that speaks to him. Maybe it's how clean and untouched it looks, or how it's situated in an open field with sight-lines in every direction, or how the sunlight comes down through the trees and frames it in a golden spotlight. Whatever the case, Daryl can't help but be drawn to it. If I was a kid, he thinks, I’d’ve holed up here for the night. And if I’m thinking that, then Sophia…
It doesn't take any more than that glimmer of hope to convince his wounded body to cooperate as he shambles his way toward the house. The pain is bad, but he distracts himself by scanning the upstairs windows as he draws closer. Of course, he doesn't really expect to see Sophia’s innocent face staring down at him - but he can't help the twang of disappointment that twitches in his chest when he sees that they are lifeless and empty. The front porch steps creak ever so slightly as he ascends them. Trying the closed door, he finds it locked. A good sign, maybe? He shakes his head to clear it. This isn't the time to be naive. He goes to one of the windows, pulling up. It slides open easily. Bracing himself, he slips through, knife at the ready.
As soon as his feet touch the hardwood interior floor, he hears frantic footsteps upstairs. There are only a few, in quick succession, and then a door slams. Daryl freezes, scanning his surroundings. His heart is beating loud, adrenaline mixed with anticipation and that nagging bit of hope. Someone is in the house . Not a walker, judging by the sound. And the footfalls had been light. A child, maybe. Sophia. It has to be .
He thinks about calling out for her, but the more rational side of his brain wins out. If it isn't her, or if there are walkers nearby, he doesn't want to announce his exact position. So he creeps forward instead, knife clutched in a reverse-grip, arm poised to strike. He clears the downstairs first, just to be safe - and to give Sophia time to come out on her own, if she really is up there - but the house remains still and silent, seemingly devoid of life. Except that he knows it isn't.
The stairs are sturdy, thank God, and don't creak as he makes his way to the second story. He considers drawing his crossbow, but the house is too cramped inside. The staircase is especially narrow, and he finds himself hurrying up, not wanting to get ambushed in such a bad position. Climbing the final step, he surveys the layout in front of him. It's a single hallway, with three doors branching off to either side. Only one of them is closed: the last one on the left. Daryl knows from looking at the outside of the building that the other rooms are too small to have room for any sort of closet, which means that the slamming sound he had heard earlier must have come from that one closed door. Which means she's hiding in there.
He stalks toward it, breath shallow. It takes an incredible amount of patience to check each of the other rooms quickly, just to be sure, but it looks like he had been right. No closets, and no Sophia. So she's in that last one .
He's only steps away now, closing in fast. The door is thick and wooden, with external hinges that tell him it swings into the hallway. There is no lock. He places a nervous hand around the knob, braces himself, and turns.
Before he can even begin to pull, the door bursts open.
Something comes flying out, a frenzied bundle of swinging arms and kicking feet. Daryl recoils, using one arm to keep the thing at bay while he tries to back up. Blows rain down on his body, battering his shins, his chest, his arms. Then there's an unmistakable flash of steel - a knife - and Daryl feels a sharp pain blossom from his bicep. He grunts, redoubling his efforts to subdue the attacker. Even as he does, however, he catches a glimpse of his assailant’s face. Greasy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, wild mudstained features. A kid. Not Sophia, but still, a kid.
It doesn't take long for Daryl to get the upper hand in the scrapple: he's almost twice the girl’s size, with decades of fighting experience lurking under his muscled exterior. He grabs her wrist before she can stab him again, squeezing until she cries out and drops the blade. Then he uses his other arm to pin her to the wall, elbow against her chest. The girl struggles wildly, grunting and twisting like her life depends on it. Which, Daryl realizes, she probably thinks it does.
“Hey!” He snaps, still straining to stop her from escaping, “Quit squirmin’. I ain’t tryna hurt you.”
The girl doesn't seem to register his words.
“Hey!” He says again, more forcibly this time, “I said stop!”
This time something clicks. The girl stills, arms going limp at her sides. Her eyes, however, remain fiery and desperate. An animal caught in a trap, Daryl thinks. He knows the look all too well.
“You gonna run if I let go?” He asks.
The girl is silent. She just looks at him with those crazed eyes. Daryl sighs to himself. Well, there was only one way this could really go, since he wasn’t going to kill her. He decides to take the chance. Pulling back his arm, he takes a careful step back. The girl glances down at his hands, then back up at his face. She furrows her brow in confusion. Then she speaks:
“Fuck you.”
Daryl’s mouth opens slightly. “I jus’ saved your damn life.”
“No,” The girl says, “You attacked me. Like, literally out of nowhere. So yeah. Fuck you.”
“Attacked you? I wasn’t the one who jumped outta the damn closet with a knife!”
“And I wasn’t the one sneaking around somebody else’s house like a fucking serial killer!”
“Serial kill…” Daryl trails off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He realizes that he's engaged in a petty argument with what looks like a damn twelve year old. “I’m sorry, alright? Wasn’t lookin’ for you anyways.” He looked down at his feet.
There's silence for a few beats. Then: “Sooo… who were you looking for?”
Daryl shoots her a glare. “Doesn’t matter.” But a second later he regrets the sharp tone. “Another girl. Name’s… Sophia.”
“Huh.” The girl in front of him says. “Well, unless she looks exactly like me, I haven’t seen her around these parts.”
Daryl gives her a hard look.
“Right…” The girl shuffles awkwardly. “Not the time for jokes. Well, I hope you find her. But could you, you know, get out of my house now?”
The words jar Daryl a bit, though he isn't sure why. Distantly, he remembers that his arm and abdomen are still bleeding, and he should probably get back to Hershel’s farm before he dies of blood loss. At this rate, he might not even make it anyway. He turns to leave.
But then something about what the girl had just said strikes him. My house. That means she's living here alone, doesn't it? Probably. And if she had anyone else, she would’ve mentioned them to try and scare him off. That makes him pause mid-stride. He turns around.
“You got a name?” He asks.
The girl looks at him quizzically. She had picked her knife up off the floor, but just holds it loosely at her side.“Uh, yeah. Why do you care?”
Daryl shrugs. “Jus’ wondering.”
He has to wait a full minute, watching her face contort in indecision before she finally speaks again. He can't really blame her. She has no reason to trust him - quite the opposite, really - and it's always hard telling a stranger your name these days. But eventually she says, “It’s Ellie.”
“Hm.” Daryl hesitates a second longer, but he knows what he's going to say even before the words slip out of his mouth. “I gotta place… me an’ some others. Good people. Y’know, if you wanted to… come.”
The girl - Ellie - stares at him suspiciously. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Daryl expected that answer, of course. There's a reason this girl is still alive, and it isn't because she's trusting. Then again, he thinks, he had given her every reason. And she seemed to be pretty lonely out here. So there was a chance she would come around.
“Alright,” He says, “If you change your mind, I’ll be down in the kitchen patchin’ up my arm.”
He turns and begins trudging down the stairs without giving her a chance to speak. The silence is good. It means she's considering the offer.
There are no bandages in the kitchen. Ellie, or somebody else, had apparently looted the place pretty thoroughly. Nevertheless, Daryl is able to find a few ratty napkins and a spool of twine in a drawer, which he uses to stop the flow of blood from the knife wound in his arm. It's interesting, he finds himself thinking. He's pissed off at the walker for almost biting him, and he's pissed off at his horse for throwing him off that cliff, and he's pissed off at himself for letting an arrow get driven through his side in the process - but he doesn't feel any sort of anger towards Ellie for literally stabbing him. There's something too familiar about her wild energy, and that look in her eyes…
Daryl exits the kitchen still weak and in pain, but more or less patched up. He strings his crossbow across his back, sheaths his knife, and starts walking toward the door. The others must be noticing his absence, by now. Or maybe they aren't. It isn't like any of them care all that much about him. But he has to get back to Carol at least, has to tell her about the doll he found.
Just as he's about to open the door, he hears a light creak on the staircase behind him. He looks over. Ellie is standing there, on the bottom step. She has a backpack on now, and a faded bandana is tied around her neck. She sees the small smile form on his lips and scowls. The message is clear. Not a fucking word . So Daryl doesn't speak. He just opens the door and walks out, limping slowly toward home.
Ellie follows closely behind.