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You had been pitching the idea of a silly little picnic date to Daryl for weeks. At first it was just a joke, something to tease him with when you caught him in a rare good mood. But the more you thought about it, the more it started to feel possible. And if it was possible, why the hell not.
When Rick started assigning people to scout out locations that might still be worth looting, you jumped at the chance and immediately offered to go with Daryl. It felt like the perfect compromise. You could get him out of Alexandria under the pretense of being useful and if you were lucky, you could steal a little time together along the way. In the privacy of your own head, you called it a date. To Daryl, it was a mission. You knew that was the only reason he said yes. It was useful, necessary, and therefore acceptable in his book. You took the win anyway.
Today was the day.
And honestly, it started off pretty nicely. You enjoyed the long bike ride, the steady hum of the engine cutting through the quiet. You were pressed against his back, arms wrapped tight around his waist, and you could feel the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. It was peaceful in a way you rarely got anymore.
You spent most of the trip talking about everything and nothing at all, the way you always did, while Daryl listened, grunting or chiming in every so often. He kept his serious face on, like it was strictly business, but you knew him well enough to tell it was doing him some good too.
The scouting went about as expected. A couple of places turned out to be decent finds, enough to make the trip feel worthwhile, but most of them had been picked clean long ago. Still, you did not mind. You had already gotten what you wanted out of the day, or at least, you thought you had.
The last location was a massive industrial warehouse sitting adjacent to the skeletal remains of a supermarket. Somehow, the warehouse was still half-full. It was the kind of honey pot that made your heart race – canned goods, tools, things that could actually keep people alive. You might have actually gotten the chance to take some of them on the ride home had you not heard a sudden shout from outside.
A man came running past the open doors, panic written all over his face. He was being chased by something, and it did not take long to realize it was a herd. A big one.
You and Daryl were forced to abandon the warehouse, but you both could have gotten away easily. You would have, too, if not for your stubborn ass, as Daryl so lovingly liked to call it.
You wanted to help him. The man looked terrified, the same desperate fear you remembered from the day you’d found Father Gabriel cowering on that rock a long time ago.
“We can help him!” you had shouted, your voice cutting through the noise, even as Daryl kept hauling you toward his bike.
Gravel skidded under your boots as you fought him, panic and adrenaline buzzing in your veins like a live wire. You wrenched yourself free and yelled to the stranger again. It was loud enough that several rotting heads snapped in your direction, the dead peeling off from the mass and stumbling toward you instead of the man.
It was only then, with the smell of decay suddenly too thick in your nose, that you realized how wrong you’d been. The herd was bigger than you thought. They were pouring out from between the buildings like a dam breaking, their groans layering over each other until the sound felt suffocating.
After that, everything went to hell.
The stranger didn’t make it. In the chaos, he was dragged down anyway, his screams sharp and human before being swallowed whole by the wet sounds of tearing. The noise lodged itself deep in your chest. You barely had time to process the horror before you and Daryl were forced to abandon the bike – shoving it hastily into a dense thicket of brush – and run.
That alone should have been miserable enough, but you also managed to sprain your damn ankle in the process.
And on top of all of that, Daryl was furious.
The woods were quiet now, save for the rhythmic crunch of dead leaves under your boots and the constant hum of nature. No walkers had shown up in the last twenty minutes, but the silence between you and Daryl was louder than any herd.
He walked at least fifteen paces ahead, his crossbow raised and ready. He was far enough away that you couldn’t talk to him without raising your voice, but close enough that he could spin around and put a bolt through anything that even thought about coming near you.
That was Daryl Dixon. Even while giving you the silent treatment, he was hyper-aware of your safety. Still protective. Still the man you fell in love with.
You questioned that sentiment, however, when your leg began to give out. The limp was impossible to ignore now, each step heavier than the last as you shifted most of your weight onto your good leg, half hopping to keep up with his pace. Daryl kept moving, apparently too pissed to notice or care.
“This is very gentlemanly of you, I gotta say,” you half shouted toward his back, stopping for a moment to catch your breath.
He kept walking like he had not heard a thing. You knew he had. So you raised your voice just a little more. “This is how you treat the love of your life, huh. So romantic.”
Daryl finally stopped and glanced to the side. For a brief second, you thought you had finally gotten through to him. Then two rotting bodies staggered out from behind a thick tree in a patch of tall grass.
Oh, great. He had stopped for walkers. Not for you.
You scoffed loudly, the motion sending a sudden twinge through the area just under your left ribs.
“Fuck,” you hissed, the sound involuntary. You grabbed your side, more startled than anything. You had almost completely forgotten about it, the pain buried under the adrenaline of the escape. You remembered being shoved hard into a metal shelving unit back at the warehouse, but you hadn’t realized until this moment that it had left a mark. It wasn't unbearable, likely just a deep bruise, but the throb was making itself known now that your heart rate was slowing down.
You took a careful breath, testing it, then straightened. Okay. Not great, but manageable. You made a mental note to check it properly later, preferably on your own. The last thing you needed was Daryl noticing it and getting even angrier, though a part of you doubted he was paying you any mind at all right now.
The familiar snap of a bolt cut through the air, burying itself cleanly into one walker’s eye socket and dropping it to the ground. Daryl moved to pull the knife from his hip and drove it into the other walker’s temple with practiced ease. He retrieved the bolt from the skull of the first, wiping the blood off on his jeans, and continued walking without looking back.
“We should cut east soon,” you broke the silence again after several minutes, lifting your gaze toward the descending sun, its light barely breaking through the dense canopy overhead.
The woods felt thicker here, shadows stretching long between the trees. You kept walking as you talked, trying to ignore the dull throb in your ankle. Daryl had slowed at some point, now walking closer to you than before, still a step ahead but no longer putting distance between you.
“If we keep going this way, we’ll start circling,” you went on, eyes narrowing as you studied the path ahead. Something felt wrong. The trees were familiar, but not in the way they should have been. This was not the route you usually took back to Alexandria. “Do you know a shortcut I don’t know about or-”
Your boot snagged on a thick tree root before you could finish the thought. You stumbled forward, momentum pitching you off balance. You would have gone straight down if your hand had not shot out and caught the rough bark of a nearby tree. The jolt sent a brief flare of pain through your ribs again, a sharp reminder that made you grit your teeth, but it was nothing compared to the lightning bolt that tore through your ankle when you put weight on it to steady yourself.
You hissed through your teeth, screwing your eyes shut as you fought to stay upright.
Daryl spun around. His eyes locked onto you, and for the first time since the warehouse, the anger was gone, replaced by a flash of raw panic. You could see the effort it took, as if he were swallowing whatever words wanted to come out. You shifted awkwardly, trying to regain your footing on your own, stubbornly refusing to ask for help.
After a second, Daryl stepped into your space. He slid a hand under your arm, his grip firm and stabilizing. But he still didn’t say anything.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled his hand away.
Before you could ask what the hell that was about, Daryl turned his back to you and crouched down.
“What are you doing?” you asked, confusion cutting through the pain as you stared at the back of his vest.
“Get on,” he said simply, turning his head just enough for you to catch his profile.
Your first instinct was to laugh it off, to argue, to tell him you could walk just fine. But the ache in your ankle flared again, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second. You swallowed your pride, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
“You wanna tell me where we’re going first?” you asked lightly, trying to peer around him.
He didn’t turn around. “Just shut up and get on my damn back.”
There was no room for debate in his voice. No anger either, not really. Just stubborn resolve.
You hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then carefully leaned forward, arms sliding around his shoulders as you shifted your weight onto him. He adjusted instantly, one hand hooking securely under your thigh to keep you steady as he pushed up to his feet with a quiet grunt.
The sudden height made you gasp, fingers tightening in the leather of his vest. “You know,” you muttered near his ear, “if you drop me, I’m haunting you. I mean it.”
“Won’t,” he replied, already moving again.
You naturally reached for the crossbow in his hand, fingers closing around the familiar weight. Daryl loosened his grip without comment, letting you take it from him. You slung it carefully over your back, the strap settling against your shoulder blades, before relaxing fully against him. The familiar scent of leather, sweat, and the faint trace of cigarette clung to him.
You pressed your face briefly into the side of his neck, more instinct than thought, and whispered, “Thank you.”
Daryl didn’t answer. He just adjusted his hold on your legs, hitching you up higher, and kept walking.
The forest moved around you as he carried you, branches brushing past, leaves crunching under his boots. The silence stretched until it got too loud to ignore.
“He could’ve made it,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “If we’d been faster. If we hadn’t wasted time- We could’ve pulled him out. I could’ve done more-”
“Ya did what ya could,” he said, not letting you finish.
You froze for a moment, the words sinking in slower than they should have. You had not expected him to respond at all.
“That’s not true,” you insisted, lifting your head so your chin hovered near his shoulder. “We both know it. He was scared, Daryl. He was still alive.”
“He was already dead,” Daryl said, voice firmer now. “Just didn’t know it yet.”
You frowned, frustration twisting in your chest. “You don’t know that.”
“I seen that look before,” he replied. He adjusted his grip on you. “People runnin’ on panic, not thinkin’. Herd that size, that close. Ain’t a damn thing we coulda done without gettin’ ourselves killed too.”
You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. “So we just leave people now? Is that who we are?”
He stopped walking. The sudden stillness made your heart stutter. Daryl tilted his head just enough that you could see part of his face, eyes sharp but not angry.
“I was tryin’ to save ya,” he finally said. “And ya made it real hard today.”
You opened your mouth to argue again, then closed it. The image of the man’s face flashed behind your eyes, terror wide and helpless. You realized then that Daryl wasn’t mad about the stranger. He was terrified of the silence that would have followed if you hadn’t made it.
You sighed, the fight draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion. “I just hate that we left him,” you said softly.
“Don’t mean it was wrong,” Daryl replied as he started walking again, his voice softer but still rough around the edges in that way it always got when he was trying to comfort you without actually saying the words.
You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. The rhythm of his steps lulled you for a moment before you huffed a soft laugh.
“Wow,” you said, tilting your head back enough to look at the darkening sky through the branches. “So this is you talking again. Guess the silent treatment’s officially over.”
He snorted under his breath. “Ain’t silent. Ya just don’t listen.”
“Oh please,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “You didn’t say a single word to me for like an hour.”
“Ya talk enough for both of us,” he muttered.
“And you love it, Dixon,” you teased as you shifted on his back, nuzzling further into his neck, breathing him in. You couldn’t see his face, but you could practically hear the smirk in his breathing.
The forest began to thin again, trees giving way to a small clearing. Your gaze drifted forward, unfocused at first, until something familiar caught your eye. A squat shape. A slanted roof. Wood darkened by age and weather.
You stiffened on his back. “Hey. Wait a second.”
Daryl slowed, then stopped.
“That cabin,” you said, lifting your head, recognition hitting you. “I know this place.”
He glanced back at you slightly. “Yeah?”
“Michonne and I came across it months ago. You knew about it?”
“Found it on a run a while back,” he admitted. “Figured we’d hole up. Let your ankle rest. Head back in the mornin’.”
You frowned. “Daryl, I wanna go home. We’re not that far. We can make it.”
“Nah,” he said, already shifting his weight and starting forward again, clearly aiming for the cabin. “Not with your heavy ass on my back.”
You smacked his shoulder. “Rude.”
“And ya ain’t walkin’ on that ankle.”
“I can limp,” you argued. “I’ve done worse.”
He did not slow. “You’re not limpin’ all the way back.”
“I’m fine,” you protested weakly. “It’s just a sprain.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced.
You opened your mouth to push back, then stopped. Now that the adrenaline had fully drained from your system, the pain was catching up to you. Your ankle throbbed dully with every step he took. The ache beneath your ribs had crept back in, sharper now that you were aware of it again.
You exhaled defeatedly. “Fine. But we leave first thing in the morning. No detours.”
He huffed, the sound a mix of amusement and resignation. “Wasn’t plannin’ on startin’ a vacation.”
Funny, you thought. You’d left home half-hoping this would turn into some kind of mini vacation date. And for the most part, it had been exactly that – as close as things ever got to one now.
“Good,” you said, pressing your cheek back against his shoulder with a small, content laugh. “Because I miss our bed. And a shower. And not almost dying.”
Daryl adjusted his grip on you as the cabin came fully into view. “Yeah,” his voice was a little softer this time. “Me too.”
The inside of the cabin looked exactly as you remembered. The air was stale, heavy with dust and old wood. A thin layer of grime coated nearly every surface, undisturbed except for the faint, dusty tracks you and Michonne had left behind months ago. There were otherwise no signs of anyone else.
Daryl set you down carefully near the door and retrieved his crossbow from your back before moving past you, already in scavenging mode. You limped farther inside, doing a slow sweep while he checked the back room and the narrow loft. Drawers and cabinets came up empty, their contents long since picked through even before all those months ago. You found nothing but rusted cans, splintered shelves, and a spider that sent you hopping back with a hissed curse.
In the end, the haul was depressingly thin. A worn blanket folded into the corner of a crate, still intact despite its age, and a half-empty box of matches tucked behind a loose floorboard. You shook the box once, listening to the rattle, and decided it counted as a win.
While you were emptying your pack onto the small wooden table, lining up what little you had managed to bring, Daryl got to work without a word. He wiped the couch down with a rag from his pocket, scrubbing at it with visible effort. The grime barely lifted, the leather permanently darkened by years of neglect, but he gave it a few more swipes anyway.
You watched him with a faint smile. “Look at you,” you said lightly. “Cleaning up our bed for the night. Thank you.”
Daryl answered with a low grunt, already shifting his attention elsewhere. His eyes flicked to the table where you’d laid everything out. A couple cans of food, a lamp, water bottles, and a book sitting neatly on top.
He stopped short. Stared at it. Then snorted. “Ya brought a book?”
“I thought this was gonna be a cute little date,” you said, shooting him a pointed look as you leaned against the table to take the weight off your foot. “And you’re not exactly a conversationalist, Daryl, in case you didn’t know.”
He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if you squinted hard enough, shaking his head as he turned toward the door. Without another word, he grabbed a length of rope and stepped outside, already slipping back into survival mode to set up the perimeter.
You watched from the doorway as he strung thin rope across the entrance, tying empty cans to it so they would clatter at the slightest movement. Another line went up along the side window, more cans hanging unevenly, ready to announce anything foolish enough to get close. He wedged a piece of wood behind the doorframe so it would stick when opened, not enough to block it, just enough to slow someone down.
By the time Daryl came back inside with an armful of wood for the fireplace, the sky had fully surrendered to night.
You both sat on the floor and ate straight from the cans, knees brushing, the quiet between you easy and unforced. When you were done, you pushed yourself up to move to the couch, but the motion required a twist of your torso.
A sharp, hot ache shot through your ribs, stealing your breath. You froze, sucking in a harsh inhale through your nose, schooling your face into something neutral. If you were lucky, Daryl wouldn’t notice and make a big deal out of it.
But he was already looking at you.
He watched you for a second too long, his eyes narrowing. “Ya hurt?”
You waved it off, forcing a grin as you shifted carefully to sit. “Yeah. I’ve been limping for miles, genius.”
Daryl exhaled through his nose, clearly not buying the deflection. He crouched down in front of you. “Show me.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted, already twisting to reach for your boot laces. “It’s probably just a bruise. The ankle’s the real problem.”
As you bent forward, a sharp sting flared again in your side, and your hand moved on instinct, pressing against your ribs to guard them. You didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the motion like a hawk.
“Hey,” he said quietly, and before you could protest, he guided you back until you were lying against the couch cushions. They creaked under your weight, dust puffing up faintly.
Daryl reached for the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to see, and you couldn’t help yourself. “You trying to undress me now?”
He shot you a look that was equal parts warning and fond annoyance.
The lamplight caught the dark bloom spreading along your side, ugly and tender-looking. His jaw tightened slightly as he took it in, thumb hovering just short of touching. Whatever he decided, he let your shirt fall back into place with care.
“Ain’t much I can do for that,” he muttered, brows pulling together in a frown.
You wrinkled your nose. “It’s fine. I’ll have Denise look at it first thing when we get home.” You reached out, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from his face, your thumb pressing lightly between his brows to smooth the worry lines before moving to cup his cheek. “Stop worrying.”
He stilled under your touch, eyes flicking up to yours. For a second, Daryl didn’t say anything, the tension in his face finally easing even if only a little.
“Can’t help it,” he finally said. He nudged your hand away gently, but his fingers lingered, thumb brushing your knuckles before letting go.
Then his focus shifted, all business again. He moved lower, settling in front of your legs, hands warm as he carefully unlaced your boot. He took his time, easing it off instead of tugging, like he knew exactly how much pressure was too much.
Daryl looked at your ankle for a long moment, fingers probing gently, testing the swelling with careful pressure. You watched his face as he worked, the crease between his brows deepening every time you sucked in a breath or flinched just a little too hard.
“Hurts?” he asked quietly, eyes still fixed on your ankle.
“Only when you touch it,” you said, then winced as he pressed a particularly tender spot. “Which is unfortunate, considering that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
Daryl huffed a soft breath through his nose. You watched the top of his head for a moment, the silence stretching. “Are you still mad at me?”
His fingers stilled for a fraction of a second before he shook his head. “Ain’t mad.”
You gave him a look he did not bother meeting. “Yeah? Because you made me hop after you for miles without saying a word. Kinda felt like mad.”
He glanced up then, only meeting your eyes for a brief second before his gaze flicked away again, like he had already said too much. “I was focused.”
“On ignoring me?” you pressed lightly.
He sighed, longer this time, and went back to easing the pressure on your ankle with careful fingers. “Didn’t wanna say somethin’ I couldn’t take back,” he said finally, his voice low and reluctant, like pulling the words out cost him something.
That caught you off guard. Your frustration softened. “I just wanted to save him.”
“I know,” he muttered. He paused, his hands resting on your leg. “When I saw that herd... and you runnin’ toward it like that...” He swallowed, the movement harsh in his throat. “Thought I was gonna lose ya.”
You swallowed hard. “You should’ve told me instead of going quiet like that.”
He shrugged, eyes fixed on his hands. “Ain’t good at that part.”
You knew that. You had seen him angry at other people, seen how it came out loud and sharp, all teeth and shouting. He had never done that with you. Not once. For a fleeting, selfish moment, you almost wished he had. At least then you would have known where you stood instead of guessing.
Silence settled between you again, but this time it was filled with the distant sounds of the woods and the steady rhythm of your breathing. You shifted slightly and called his name softly. When he still didn’t look up, you reached out and gently guided his face toward yours.
“I don’t need you to never be mad,” you said, searching his eyes. “I just need you to not shut me out.”
Daryl held your gaze, something unguarded passing between you, then he nodded once. You stayed like that for a long moment, the tension finally breaking, before he dropped his eyes again and went back to tending your ankle.
After another quiet moment, he leaned back on his heels, like he had reached a conclusion he did not love but accepted anyway. “Swellin’s not too bad. Gonna be sore. You’ll live.”
You exhaled dramatically, throwing your head back against the cushion. “Wow. Inspirational. You’re done playing medic?”
“Yeah,” he said, already pushing himself up. “Don’t move.”
“Too late.”
Before Daryl could walk away, you reached out, hooked a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, and gave a firm tug.
He stumbled a little, caught off guard. “What’re ya doin’?”
“C’mon,” you said, scooting over to make space on the narrow couch. “I almost died today. I deserve cuddles.”
He scoffed, shaking his head, though there was zero heat in it. “Ain’t how this works.”
You didn’t argue. You just pulled him down. He came willingly, albeit with a grumble, letting you lean up and press a quick, soft kiss to his lips before settling against his side. Your head found his shoulder easily, your body fitting into his like muscle memory had taken over. You tucked your face into the warm space beneath his jaw and sighed, the smell of dust and Daryl filling your lungs.
Daryl shifted slightly, adjusting so he could hold you closer, pulling the blanket snugly over both of you. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head, and for a long moment neither of you moved, just letting the quiet settle around you.
As your eyelids grew heavy, you took a mental inventory of your grand romantic getaway. You had watched a stranger get eaten alive, nearly snapped your ankle in half, and you were currently cuddling on a couch that smelled distinctively like dead mice and old mildew.
You couldn't help but smirk into the rough fabric of his vest. If you were grading this on a curve, it was a solid two out of ten. But you were warm, you were safe, and you were currently drooling on Daryl Dixon without fear of retribution. You’d take it.
"Worst date ever," you mumbled against his chest, the words slurring with exhaustion.
Daryl’s chest rumbled beneath your cheek, a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He tightened his grip on you just a fraction.
"Told ya," he grunted.
You didn't have the energy to argue. You just let the dead weight of the day pull you under, content in the knowledge that next time, you were just going to steal a bottle of wine and hide in the pantry.