Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The morning came slow, soft, and silver, as if the world itself still wasn’t convinced it wanted to wake up. Fog clung low among the trees, drifting in thin ribbons that curled around the trunks like lazy spirits. Birds were starting to stir, timid chirps breaking through the quiet. A woodpecker tapped in the distance—steady, stubborn. 

Daryl’s tired eyes scanned the trees again before they snapped down to the sound of tapping and a faint rustle beside him. Y/N was still sleeping, or trying to, shifting occasionally with uncomfortable breaths. Her hair had fallen across her face in a matted mess of leaves and dirt. Her ample chest rose and fell heavily, deeper than someone simply resting. She looked worn down, the kind of tired that settled bone-deep, the kind that came from running for too long on too little. His gaze slid to her leg. The splint he'd made last night held, though she’d tossed once or twice, grinding her teeth with the movement. The swelling hadn’t worsened, at least from what he could see in the dim light. A good sign. He shifted, pushing himself up onto a knee, and poked at the embers with a stick. The fire brightened a little. Not much left for warmth, but enough to take the edge off the morning frost. As he worked, he felt her eyes on him. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he grumbled without turning. 

A beat of silence. Then her voice—sleep-rough and thick —came out softer than he expected. “Just tryin’ to figure out if that hair of yours always stands up like a rooster’s ass in the mornin’… or if I’m special.”  Daryl froze. Then he snorted.  She grinned at the rare reaction. He shook his head and tossed the stick aside, finally glancing over his shoulder at her. “You talk too much for someone with a busted leg.”   

“Hurts less when I’m distractin’ myself.” She winced as she tried propping herself up on an elbow. “Or annoyin’ you. That works too.”  

“Yeah, I noticed.” He moved to help before he consciously decided to. His hands hovered first—hesitant, unsure—then he slid one behind her back and the other beneath her good knee, easing her upright. For someone who looked like she might bite his hand off for touching her wrong, she leaned into his support pretty naturally. When she was settled, he crouched beside her and held out the water bottle. “Drink. Then we’re headin’ out.” Her eyes flicked to the trees, then to her splinted leg. Fear made a brief appearance in her expression before she tucked it away beneath bravado. “I ain’t gonna slow you down too much, am I?” she asked lightly, but there was something real beneath it. “You already did,” Daryl said bluntly, then jerked his chin toward her leg. “Ain’t your fault.” 

She stared at him for a moment like she couldn’t decide if she should punch him or thank him. Eventually she sighed. “Well… thanks for not leavin’ me, I guess.” “Ain’t leavin’ people to die. Not anymore.” Her eyes softened just a little. She didn’t ask what anymore meant. Didn’t push. Maybe she knew better than to dig somewhere she wasn’t invited.

 Daryl moved to pack up camp—rolling the blanket, tying his bedroll, checking his gear. He worked with efficient silence, the kind that came from habit and necessity. When he was done he walked up next to her then bent down and turned his back toward her, jerking his head. “Come on. Get on.” 

Her face cycled through about five expressions—surprise, embarrassment, stubbornness, pride, resignation—before she sighed dramatically. “You’re lucky I’m injured, Dixon. I don’t usually let a man pick me up before buyin’ me dinner.” 

Daryl huffed. “Yeah, well… don’t usually carry strangers through the damn woods.”

 “Sounds like we’re both makin’ exceptions.” She swung her arms over his shoulders. He hooked an arm under her thigh, adjusted her carefully, and stood with a grunt. She fit against him… different than he expected. Soft. Warm. Solid. Not fragile, just injured. The scent of her—earth, sweat, something floral that somehow survived the end of the world—drifted across his shoulder.

 “You okay back there?” he muttered as he started forward through the trees. “Just enjoyin’ the view.” 

He paused mid-step. She grinned against his shoulder. “Your shoulders look real nice from up here, that’s all.” He muttered something about “damn women” and kept walking. 

~small time skip~ 

Daryl felt the unfamiliar weight of Y/N on his back, her soft body a stark contrast to the rough canvas of his pack. Each step was a protest against his aching muscles and his wary heart. The Georgia wilderness, once his sanctuary, now felt like a gauntlet. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, and the forest was rapidly surrendering to the encroaching gloom, turning familiar paths into a maze of deepening shadows. He navigated tangled roots and fallen branches, his senses on high alert for the tell-tale shuffle of the dead, the low gurgle that meant danger was near. 

He adjusted his grip on her thighs, trying to keep her steady without jostling her injured leg. She was heavy, a solid presence against his back, and the warmth of her body, though welcome against the chill of the evening, felt like an invasion of his carefully guarded space. His shoulders already burned, and the rhythmic throb of his own pulse echoed in his ears, a counterpoint to the distant, guttural moans that promised further danger. This was not how he’d planned his little hunting trip. He was supposed to be back at the prison by now, dropping off his kill, maybe fixing a fence. Instead, he was hauling a loud, injured woman through the deepening twilight, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. 

“You know, Daryl,” Y/N’s voice, a little softer now, but still carrying that undeniable bite, broke the heavy silence. Her breath was warm against his ear. “For a guy who looks like he could wrestle a bear, you certainly grumble a lot.” 

Daryl didn’t respond, just shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable balance. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He was tired. Bone-deep tired after staying awake most of the night on watch, And the thought of the long, dangerous trek ahead with this new, fragile cargo made his jaw clench. He was a survivor, yes, but he was also just one man. And she was a liability, a magnet for trouble. Every instinct screamed at him to leave her, to cut his losses and return to the safety of the prison. But the image of her, trapped and defiant, swinging that branch at the walker, kept him moving. He couldn't shake it. He wouldn't. 

“It’s just… it’s a bit of a shock, you know?” she continued, apparently undeterred by his silence. “One minute I’m trying to make a sales quota, the next I’m pinned under a tree, fighting zombies with a stick, and then I’m getting a piggyback ride from a… well, a very quiet, very strong stranger.” She winced, a sharp intake of breath. “Ow. That was a bad jostle. Maybe try to avoid the giant tree roots, Mr. Woodsman?” 

Daryl grunted, a low, noncommittal sound that he hoped conveyed his irritation. He saw the root, he just couldn’t always avoid them, especially with her on his back. The ground was uneven, treacherous, and the fading light made every step a gamble. He had to keep moving, but he had to be careful. A stumble could be disastrous, not just for her leg, but for both of them. Walkers were drawn to noise, to weakness. And they were making plenty of both. 

“So, ‘Mr. Woodsman’,” Y/N pressed on, her voice a little higher pitched now, a clear sign of her pain, but still laced with that stubborn sass. “Do you always go around rescuing damsels in distress? Or am I just special? Is it my charming personality? My dazzling wit?” 

Daryl risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Her H/C hair, loose and wild, brushed against his cheek. Her bright eyes, though clouded with pain, still held that defiant spark. He saw the tremor in her lips, the way she bit down on them, trying to keep her cries of agony silent. She was trying to distract herself, he realized. 

“You’re loud,” he said, his voice low and rough. 

Y/N let out a weak, painful chuckle. “And you’re a man of many words, are you, Daryl? I bet your conversations are legendary. ‘Grunt. Nod. Stare menacingly.’ Am I getting close?” 

He felt a flicker of something that might have been amusement, deep down, but he quickly squashed it. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Every shadow held a potential threat. Every snap of a twig could be a walker. He was carrying a beacon, a loud, squirmy, injured beacon, through the most dangerous kind of wilderness. 

They moved deeper into the forest; the light is almost completely gone now, replaced by a pale, ghostly luminescence filtering through the thick canopy. The air grew colder, and the sounds of the night began to stir – the hoot of an owl, the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth, and the ever-present, distant moans of the dead. Daryl pulled his jacket tighter around himself, wishing he had a thicker one for Y/N. The thin blanket from his pack was doing little against the biting chill. 

“You know, I’m kinda cold back here,” Y/N murmured, her voice a little more subdued now. “And my leg feels like it’s trying to escape my body. Do you have any… I don’t know, magic pain-killing berries in your survival kit? Or maybe a tiny violin to play a sad song for my poor, broken bone?” 

Daryl sighed, a long, weary sound that escaped despite his best efforts to keep his emotions locked down. He knew she was in pain. He could feel the occasional tremor that ran through her body, the way she subtly shifted to ease the pressure on her leg. He hated it. Hated the helplessness, the vulnerability of it all. He was good at fighting, at hunting, at surviving. He wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t good at caring for someone so openly, so intensely vulnerable. It brought back old feelings, old fears, the weight of responsibility that had always felt too heavy for him. 

“No magic berries,” he grunted, his eyes scanning the tree line, searching for any sign of movement. “Just gotta keep goin’.” 

“‘Just gotta keep going’,” Y/N repeated, a hint of mockery in her tone, but it was softer, almost fond. “That’s your life motto, isn’t it, Daryl? The stoic, silent type, powered by sheer stubbornness and probably a lifetime supply of jerky.” She paused, then added, “You know, you could talk to me. It’s a long walk. Even if it’s just to tell me how much of a pain I am. I can take it.” 

He considered her words, a strange mix of irritation and a grudging admiration stirring within him. She was right. She was a pain. A huge, unforeseen complication. But she was also tough. Most people would be sobbing, screaming, or just shutting down. Not her. She was fighting, even with her mouth, even through the agony. There was a resilience there that mirrored his own, a spark of defiance that he recognized, even if he didn’t want to admit it. It was the same spark that kept him going, day after day, in this brutal world. 

“Ain’t got much to say,” he repeated, the familiar excuse. He pushed down the urge to tell her about the prison, about the people, about the constant struggle to keep them safe. It felt too personal, too exposed. He wasn't one for sharing. 

“Everyone’s got something to say, Daryl,” Y/N countered, her voice now a gentle murmur against his ear. “Even if it’s just how much you hate the taste of canned peaches, or how you wish you had a new set of crossbow bolts. Small things. They make you human.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, her weight settling more fully against him. He felt a strange jolt, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with physical exertion. “Or maybe you just don’t think I’m worth talking to.” 

That stung, a little. He knew he was gruff, that he pushed people away. It was safer that way. But he didn’t think she wasn’t worth talking to. He just… didn’t know how. Words had never been his strong suit. Actions, that was his language. And right now, his actions were screaming that he was carrying her, protecting her, despite every logical reason not to. 

“You’re worth it,” he mumbled, the words feeling clumsy and foreign on his tongue. He immediately regretted them, felt his cheeks flush in the fading light. He hated this. Hated how she could cut through his defenses with such ease, how her vulnerability made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. 

Y/N was silent for a moment, and he braced himself for another sarcastic jab. But it didn't come. Instead, she just sighed, a soft, shaky sound. “Thanks, Daryl. That… that actually means a lot.” 

The quiet settled between them again, but it was different now. Less oppressive, more like a fragile truce. He kept walking, his focus absolute, his senses stretched thin. The darkness was almost complete, the path barely visible. He needed to find a better place to hunker down than the small overhang they’d used last night. Something more secure, more hidden. 

Suddenly, a low growl, closer this time, ripped through the stillness. It wasn’t distant. It was right there, from the tree line to their left. Daryl froze, every muscle tensing. He could feel Y/N stiffen on his back, her breath catching in her throat. 

“What was that?” she whispered, her voice tight with fear. The sass was gone, replaced by raw terror. 

“Stay quiet,” Daryl hissed, his hand already going to his crossbow, which was slung over his shoulder. He couldn’t just pull it off with her on his back. He needed to shift her, carefully, quickly. 

He moved to the side of a large oak tree, pressing his back against its rough bark. “Hold on,” he grunted, twisting his body slightly. Y/N almost cried out as her leg shifted, but she held on tight, burying her face into his shoulder. With a practiced movement, he unslung the crossbow, pulling it forward, holding it ready. The bolt was already loaded. 

The growl came again, closer, followed by the distinctive, dragging shuffle of decaying feet. Through the gloom, Daryl could make out a shape emerging from the trees. A lone walker, its head tilted at an unnatural angle; its mouth agape, a low, guttural moan escaping its throat. It was a recent one, judging by the clothes, but its flesh was already starting to rot, giving it that sickly, grey-green hue. Its eyes, milky and dead, fixed on them. 

“Oh, god,” Y/N whimpered, her body trembling against his.  

Daryl ignored her, his focus entirely on the approaching threat. He couldn’t afford to miss it. Not now, not with her on his back. A clean headshot was essential. He took a deep breath, steadying his aim. The walker was clumsy, slow, but relentless. It was closing the distance, its outstretched hands reaching, grasping at the air. 

He waited, letting it get a little closer, wanting to be absolutely sure. The air grew heavy with the stench of decay. Y/N was clutching him so tightly he could barely breathe, her knuckles white against his shirt. He felt her fear, sharp and cold, but he pushed it away, focusing on the target. 

When the walker was barely ten feet away, its milky eyes locking onto them, Daryl squeezed the trigger. The bolt flew true, a silent, deadly projectile. It buried itself deep in the walker’s skull with a sickening thud, puncturing bone and brain. The creature dropped instantly, its momentum carrying it forward for another half-step before it collapsed in a heap, its limbs twitching for a moment before going still. 

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the rapid thumping of Y/N’s heart against his back, and his own ragged breathing. 

“It’s… it’s dead?” Y/N whispered, her voice shaky, muffled against his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Daryl said, his voice flat, already lowering the crossbow. He quickly reloaded it, his movements economical and practiced. He couldn’t let his guard down. One walker often meant more. 

He pushed off the tree, resuming his slow, careful pace. The encounter had drained him, leaving him feeling even more weary. The weight of Y/N on his back seemed heavier now, a palpable representation of the burden he had willingly, yet reluctantly, taken on. He was her protector now. It was a role he hadn't asked for, a responsibility he hadn't wanted, but it was undeniable. He had saved her, and now he had to keep her safe. The thought settled deep in his gut, a cold, hard knot. 

“That was… that was terrifying,” Y/N finally managed, her voice still trembling. She slowly lifted her head from his shoulder, though she kept her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Thank you, Daryl. You… you really know how to handle those things.” 

He grunted in response, still scanning the shadows. He didn’t want thanks. It just made the burden heavier. He wasn’t doing this for praise. He was doing it because he couldn’t leave her. Because something inside him wouldn’t let him. It was a weakness, he told himself. A dangerous, foolish weakness. But he kept walking, one heavy step after another, deeper into the dark, silent forest, carrying her towards a future he couldn't yet see, a future where his solitude was no longer his own. 

Chapter Text

The relentless, fiery ache in Y/N’s leg intensified with every jostle, each involuntary gasp a testament to her suffering. Hauled precariously over Daryl’s shoulder, her short temper flared against his gruff silence, a constant, low-burning frustration that simmered beneath the surface of her agony. Every root he tripped over, every uneven patch of ground that made her splinted leg swing, sent a fresh wave of blinding pain shooting up her body. She bit down on her lip, a thin line of red appearing, trying to keep the screams locked in her throat. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her break. Not yet. 

The sun, a tired orange ball, had sunk fast, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters through the dense Georgia wilderness. The air grew colder, biting at her exposed skin, and she shivered, pulling the thin blanket Daryl had given her tighter around her shoulders. It did little to combat the chill, or the deep, bone-wearying exhaustion that had settled into her very core. She was tired of the pain, tired of the fear, and most of all, tired of the silence from the man carrying her. 

“You know, for someone who just saved my hide from becoming zombie chow, you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine,” Y/N grumbled, her voice hoarse, but still retaining a surprising edge. Her breath hitched as Daryl’s boot snagged on a thick vine, sending a jolt through her already tortured leg. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound, despite her resolve. “Ow careful damn it, My leg is not a bouncy castle!” 

Daryl didn’t respond, his jaw set in a grim line, his gaze fixed on the darkening path ahead. His muscles, she could feel, were taut and trembling with the effort of carrying her, but he gave no other sign of his discomfort. He just kept moving, one heavy, deliberate step after another, his focus absolute. The constant sway of his body was both a torment and a strange comfort, a steady rhythm in a world gone mad. 

“Are you even listening to me?” she pressed, her voice rising slightly, frustration overriding her pain for a moment. “Or are you just going to grunt and stare at trees for the next ten miles? Because, spoiler alert, trees don’t usually have riveting conversations.” 

He shifted his grip on her, adjusting her weight slightly higher on his back. As he did, his head turned, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes met hers over his shoulder. In that brief, unguarded instant, a flicker of genuine concern crossed his face, a raw vulnerability Y/N hadn't expected. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual stoic mask, but she saw it. A tiny glimmer of green in the deep blue of his gaze, a flash of worry that betrayed the gruff exterior he so carefully maintained. It was enough. 

A strange warmth spread through her, quickly battling the cold fear and pain. He wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be. He cared. Even if it was buried deep under layers of silence and stubbornness, it was there. And that realization, in this brutal, lonely world, felt like a precious gift. 

“Oh, look at that, is that a smile?” Y/N quipped, seizing the moment, a playful challenge designed to break through his hardened exterior. Her voice, despite the tremor of pain, had a lighter, teasing quality now. “Or was that just a grimace? It’s hard to tell with all that… wilderness charm you’ve got going on. You know, you really should work on your bedside manner. For future damsels, of course. Not that I’m one, mind you. Just a woman having a really, really bad couple of days.” 

Daryl merely grunted, a low, noncommittal sound that vibrated through her chest. He didn't look back; his gaze fixed ahead, scanning the shadows that deepened with every passing minute. Yet, Y/N noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, a subtle reaction to her barb. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was more like… discomfort. As if her words had brushed against a nerve, he preferred to keep hidden. He was trying to ignore her, she knew, trying to shut her out, but he wasn’t entirely successful. That tiny crack she’d glimpsed was still there; a fragile opening she was determined to widen. 

“Seriously though,” she continued, softening her tone, letting the teasing fade into something more genuine. She leaned her head closer to his ear, her voice a low murmur. “What was it like? Before all this? You know, when the world wasn’t trying to eat itself? You said you’re from Georgia. Were you always out in the woods? Hunting, I mean?” 

She felt the subtle shift in his shoulders, a slight tensing that indicated her question had hit home. This was new territory, a step beyond their immediate, brutal circumstances. She was asking about him, about the man beneath the survivor. It was a risk, she knew. Most people in this world didn't like to talk about 'before.' It brought back too much, too many ghosts. But she needed to know. She needed to connect. 

The silence that stretched between them was tense, heavy with unspoken things. She could feel the rapid thump of her own heart against his back, hear the rustle of leaves under his heavy boots, the distant, mournful cries of unseen birds. He didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, Y/N feared she had pushed too far, that he would retreat further into his shell. 

Then, so low she almost missed it, he spoke. “Yeah. Always been in the woods.” His voice was rough, a little strained, as if the words themselves were a physical effort. 

“What about family?” She asked, her voice gentle, pressing just a little, but carefully. “You got people out here? Or… at the prison?” 

Another long pause. She could feel him considering, weighing his words. She knew this was hard for him. She could sense it, deep in her gut. He was a man who kept his past locked away, sealed tight. 

“Got a brother,” he finally said. His voice is even lower now, almost a whisper. “Merle.” The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history, with a complex mix of emotions Y/N couldn’t decipher. “He’s…not at the prison.” 

“Oh,” Y/N said softly, letting the silence settle for a moment. She didn’t push for more details. She understood. She had her own ghosts from before, memories she kept tucked away, too painful to bring out into the light. “I’m sorry, Daryl.” 

He didn’t respond, just kept walking. But Y/N felt a subtle shift, a tiny crack in the wall Daryl had built around himself. It wasn’t much, just a hint, a fleeting glimpse into the man beneath the hardened survivor. But it was enough. It was a start. She knew he wouldn’t open up easily, but the fact that he had opened at all, even just a sliver, gave her a fragile hope. 

The forest grew darker still; the trees closing in around them like silent sentinels. The rustling in the undergrowth seemed to draw closer, threatening to interrupt their fragile truce, pulling them back to the brutal reality of their world. Daryl’s grip tightened on her legs, a promise of protection. She knew they couldn’t stop, not yet. Not until they found a safer place. But for now, in the quiet intimacy of the deepening woods, a fragile connection had been forged.

A glimmer of green in the bleak landscape, a tiny seed of hope planted in the heart of the apocalypse. 

Chapter Text

They staggered a path through the brush looking for a suitable spot to rest for a while and Daryl was about to just give up and rest in the path when it happened; the waning light and a pushed-up root sent him stumbling down a small hill before he could right himself. 

Y/N cried out as she was thrown to the side in the fall, rolling a couple feet away, Daryl hit his leg hard on a small boulder as he fell and let out a deep grunt of pain from his tightened jaw, he rolled once and came to a stop at the bottom of the hill. 

After a moment of heart thundering silence, Daryl pushed himself up, his leg throbbing. The fall had been clumsy, uncharacteristic, and it had jarred a bone-deep weariness he usually managed to ignore. He leaned heavily against a rough-barked oak, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to clear his head. The dull ache in his leg mirroring the exhaustion in his bones. He hated this feeling of being off-kilter and vulnerable. It was dangerous. 

Y/N, propped herself against a nearby tree and winced, a soft moan escaping her lips with every pulse from her broken leg. The makeshift splint, though effective, did little to numb the relentless agony that shot up her leg with every tiny shift of her weight. Her face was pale, streaked with dirt, but her eyes, though clouded with pain, still held that fierce spark. She watched Daryl, her chest heaving, a silent question in her gaze. The adrenaline from the fall was fading, leaving behind a heavy fatigue that threatened to drag them both down. 

“You okay?” she managed, her voice hoarse, but still holding a tremor of concern for him, despite her own suffering. 

Daryl just grunted, pushing off the tree, trying to shake off the lingering disorientation. He hated being asked if he was okay. It made him feel weak, exposed. He limped slightly as he moved to retrieve his crossbow from where it landed when he rolled; his movements slower than usual, a frustrating drag on his innate efficiency. The quiet of the woods, usually a comfort, now felt heavy, almost suffocating. Pregnant with unseen threats. He dusted off and checked his crossbow with practiced ease, but the slight tremor in his hands didn't go unnoticed, even by him. He was tired, more tired than he wanted to admit. 

Just when a fragile, uneasy calm threatened to settle over them, a low, guttural growl pierced the quiet. It wasn't a lone sound; it was deeper, rougher, followed by the distinctive, dragging shuffle of multiple decaying feet. Daryl’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, instantly scanning the dappled shadows of the trees. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden surge of adrenaline. 

“Oh, fuck,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes wide with fear. She tried to push herself further back against the tree trunk, as if she could somehow melt into the wood itself. Her injured leg screamed in protest, but she ignored it; her attention fixed on the approaching sounds. 

From between the dark trunks of pine and oak, three figures slowly emerged. Three walkers, their flesh a mottled mix of grey and green, their tattered clothes hanging loosely from their skeletal frames. Their heads were tilted at unnatural angles; their milky, dead eyes locked on her and Daryl. They moved with that relentless, slow shuffle, their outstretched hands grasping at the air, their low moans filling the space with a chilling promise of death. They were coming for them. 

Daryl cursed under his breath, a low, savage sound. Three. And he was still feeling the effects of his fall, his leg protesting with every movement. He couldn’t carry Y/N and fight three of them at once. He couldn’t even effectively move her to a safer spot right now. Their position was bad, exposed. They were vulnerable. He needed to buy them time, to take them down fast. 

“Stay still,” Daryl commanded, his voice a low growl, his eyes fixed on the approaching threat. He moved, albeit slowly, positioning himself between Y/N and the shambling dead. His crossbow was up, aimed and at the ready. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his aim, to push through the pain in his leg, the lingering fog in his head. He had to be perfect. One shot, one kill, for each of them. 

The first bolt flew, a silent, deadly projectile. It buried itself deep in the skull of the lead walker with a sickening thud, dropping it instantly. Its limbs twitched for a moment, then went still. Two left. 

He reached for another bolt, his fingers fumbling slightly, a frustrating lapse in his usual agility. The two remaining walkers, drawn by the sound of their fallen comrade, picked up their pace, their moans growing louder, more urgent. They were closer now, the stench of decay thick in the air. 

Daryl loaded the second bolt, his movements sluggish, his leg sending a sharp protest with every shift of his weight. He aimed for the second walker, a larger one, its jaw hanging slack, revealing rotted teeth. He fired. The bolt struck true, but not clean. It hit the walker in the shoulder, a glancing blow that made it stumble and roar, but didn’t stop it. It kept coming; its head still intact; its hunger undiminished. 

“Damn it!” Daryl snarled, pulling out his hunting knife, knowing he didn’t have time to reload the crossbow again. He lunged forward, moving to intercept the injured walker, determined to take it down before it could reach Y/N. His movements were still off, though, a fraction of a second too slow. He sidestepped the walker’s lunge, bringing his knife up, aiming for the head. He plunged the blade in, twisting it, but the walker was surprisingly strong, its decaying hand clamping onto his arm, its teeth snapping dangerously close to his face. He gritted his teeth, wrestling with the creature, trying to push it away, to get a clean shot at its brain. 

As Daryl struggled with the second walker, the third one, which had been lagging slightly behind, suddenly lurched forward. It had seen its chance. It shambled past the struggling figures, its milky eyes locking onto Y/N, who was still propped against the tree, her injured leg splayed out, making her a helpless target. Its low growl turned into a hungry gurgle as it closed the distance, its rotting hands outstretched, fingers twitching, ready to grab. 

Y/N watched it come, a chilling fear gripping her. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst from her chest. Daryl was fighting, but he was too far, too entangled. He wouldn't make it in time. This was it. The thought, cold and stark, filled her mind. 

But then, something else flared within her. Not just fear, but a raw, untamed fury. A primal surge of defiance that refused to give up, refused to be a victim. She had survived this long damnit. She had faced down a tree and a lone walker, even with a broken leg. She was not going to die here, not now, not like this. Not while Daryl, her reluctant savior, was fighting for them both. 

Her eyes darted around, searching, desperate. Her hand, trembling, closed around something rough and sharp buried in the loose soil beside her. A rock. Not a small pebble, but a good-sized piece of jagged granite, its edges sharp and unforgiving. It felt heavy, solid, in her palm, a clumsy but potent weapon. 

The walker was almost on her now, its putrid breath hot on her face, its outstretched hands reaching, ready to tear. She could see the grey, dead skin, the milky eyes, the slack jaw. Panic threatened to overwhelm her again, but she pushed it down, fueled by a fierce, desperate will to survive. 

With a guttural cry that ripped from her throat, a sound she didn’t even recognize as her own, Y/N swung. All her fear, all her anger, all her desperate need to live, channeled into that single, clumsy motion. The rock, a crude extension of her own fury, connected with a sickening crunch. It hit the walker squarely on the side of its head, just above the ear, with surprising force. The sound echoed through the quiet woods, a brutal punctuation to the desperate struggle. 

The walker stumbled, its head snapping sideways, a gurgle dying in its throat. It paused, momentarily stunned, giving Y/N a split second to react. She swung again, her arms burning, her shoulders screaming in protest, but she didn’t care. This time, she aimed for the same spot, putting every ounce of her remaining strength into the blow. The rock struck again, harder, tearing through decaying flesh and bone. 

The walker crumpled. It fell to the ground with a wet thud, its limbs twitching for a moment, then going still. Its head was a mangled mess, the rock still clutched in Y/N's trembling hand, stained with dark, viscous fluid. 

Daryl, having finally dispatched the second walker with a brutal, precise stab to the head, spun around, his eyes wide with shock and a flicker of something he couldn't name. He had seen the third walker break free, had seen it lunging for Y/N, and his blood had run cold. He had expected to find her… worse. But instead, he saw her, panting, wild-eyed, the jagged rock still clutched in her hand, sitting next to the fallen corpse of the third walker. 

Her chest heaved, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes, bright with a mixture of terror and triumph, met his. The raw, primal fear was still there, but beneath it, a new fire burned. A fierce, unyielding determination. She looked at the grisly scene, at the mangled head of the walker she had just killed, then back at Daryl. A thin line of blood trickled from a cut on her palm where the sharp rock had dug into her skin, but she didn’t even seem to notice. 

“You… you got it,” Daryl said, his voice rough, a hint of awe in his tone. He hadn’t expected that. Not from her. Not with her leg. 

Y/N just nodded, her jaw tight, unable to speak, still processing the raw act she had just committed. The fear was slowly receding, replaced by a strange, exhilarating rush. She had saved herself. She had fought back. And she had won. The taste of blood and adrenaline was sharp in her mouth. 

She looked at Daryl again, really looked at him. He was covered in grime, a fresh cut bleeding on his arm from the struggle, his handsome face grim but his eyes holding a new, unreadable expression. He had come back for her. He had fought for her. And she, in turn, had fought for herself, and in a way, for him. 

The silence that fell between them was different now. Not heavy with unspoken words but charged with a new understanding. Daryl walked over, his limp more pronounced now, and carefully took the bloodied rock from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. Her skin was cold and trembling. He glanced at her cut palm, then back at her eyes. 

“You did good,” he said. His voice softer than she had ever heard it, a rare, genuine compliment. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way he looked at her, a glimmer of respect, of recognition, that softened the harsh lines of his face. 

Y/N felt a strange warmth spread through her, a counterpoint to the cold fear that still lingered. She had been a liability, a burden. She knew it. But in that moment, she had been a survivor. She had defended herself. She had found a strength she didn’t know she possessed. 

Daryl knelt beside her, checking her splinted leg, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” he muttered, almost to himself. 

“Like a son of a bitch,” she admitted, a weak, pained smile touching her lips. “But… I’m alive.” She looked at him, her eyes still holding that fiery determination. “We’re alive.” 

He nodded, his gaze meeting hers, an acknowledgment of their shared ordeal, their shared victory. The immediate threat was cleared, but the long journey to the prison still loomed, silent and fraught with tension. Yet, something had shifted. Daryl saw Y/N not just as a burden, but as something more, something resilient. And Y/N, in the raw, brutal act of survival, had discovered a fierce, protective instinct within herself, a strength she would carry with her into the unknown future. The wilderness was still dangerous, but they were in it together, bound by the desperate acts of a dangerous rescue. 

Chapter Text

Daryl grunted, a low, strained sound that vibrated through Y/N’s chest as he shifted her higher on his back. Her weight was a constant, aching reminder of his predicament; a physical manifestation of the burden he’d reluctantly taken on. His muscles screamed in protest, each step a testament to the long hours they’d been moving, the relentless march through the unforgiving Georgia wilderness. The scent of pine and damp earth filled his nostrils, mixed with the faint, sickly sweet smell of decay that always lingered in this broken world. The late afternoon sun, a weak, pale disk, offered little warmth, only casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters ahead of them. 

His hands, calloused and rough from years of hard living, gripped her thighs, holding her steady. He could feel the soft give of her skin beneath his fingers, a stark contrast to the rough fabric of his own clothes, and the hardened muscle of his frame. Her injured leg, still splinted and awkward, swung gently with the rhythm of his steps, a constant, low-level throb of pain that he could almost feel himself. He kept his gaze fixed on the path ahead, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of danger. The woods were always watching, always waiting. 

“You know, for a guy who just got his butt handed to him by a couple of brain-dead shamblers,” Y/N’s voice, hoarse but still carrying that undeniable sassy edge, cut through the quiet, “you’d think you’d be a little more careful where you step. This isn’t exactly a paved road, Mr. Woodsman. More like a minefield of ankle-breakers.” 

Daryl just grunted in response, a noncommittal sound that he hoped conveyed his irritation without inviting further conversation. He was tired, bone-weary, and every fiber of his being was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, getting them to the prison. Her constant chatter, while sometimes a strange distraction, was mostly just a reminder of how much he wanted silence. He could feel the rapid thumping of her heart against his back, a frantic rhythm that mirrored his own, but he pushed it away, focusing on the task. 

“And what’s with all the heavy breathing?” she continued, apparently undeterred by his silence. “You saying I'm heavy? Or are you trying to scare away the wildlife with your manly exertions? Because I’m pretty sure the only thing you’re scaring is my poor, broken leg. It’s got enough to deal with without feeling like it’s riding a bucking bronco.” She winced, a sharp intake of breath. “Ow. See? Bron-co. Told ya.” 

He felt the subtle shift of her weight as she tried to adjust, and he tightened his grip on her legs instinctively, trying to minimize the jostling. He knew she was in pain. He could feel the tremors that occasionally ran through her body, the way she would subtly bite her lip to keep a cry from escaping. Her sharp tongue was a defense, he realized, a shield against the fear and the agony. It was the same way he used his silence, his gruffness. Just different weapons. 

“Almost there,” he mumbled, the words feeling rough on his tongue. He hated talking, hated having to explain himself. Actions were always clearer. And right now, his actions were screaming that he was carrying her, protecting her, despite every logical reason not to. 

“‘Almost there’,” Y/N mimicked, a hint of a pained chuckle in her voice. “That’s what you said an hour ago. And two hours before that. Are we walking in circles, Daryl? Because I swear I just saw that same mossy rock formation. Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘I don’t need a map, I know these woods like the back of my hand’ types. Because if we end up back at that tree that broke my leg, I’m going to personally break yours.” 

He didn’t respond, just kept walking, his jaw set in a grim line. He was too tired to argue, too focused on the fading light and the looming threat of nightfall. The woods were growing darker, the shadows deepening, and the distant moans of walkers seemed to be drawing closer, a constant, low hum of danger. He needed to find a safe spot, or better yet, reach the prison before the last vestiges of light disappeared again. 

He could feel the warmth of her body against his back, the soft brush of her H/C hair against his cheek when the wind stirred. Her arms, surprisingly strong despite her injury, were wrapped around his neck, her hands occasionally brushing against his skin. It was an uncomfortable intimacy, a closeness he wasn’t used to, didn’t want. He was a man of solitude, of distance. But with every step, that distance was eroding. 

“Seriously though, Daryl,” her voice softened, losing some of its edge, “you’re doing good. I know I’m a pain. A really big, really heavy, really chatty pain. But… thanks. For not leaving me. Most people would have.” 

He felt a strange jolt at her words, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t a compliment he craved, but the sincerity in her voice, the quiet acknowledgment of his effort, cut through his defenses just a little. He didn't respond, just tightened his grip on her legs, focusing on the path. He wasn't doing it for thanks. He was doing it because… he couldn't not do it. That was the problem. That was the weakness. 

The rhythm of his steps became a steady pulse, a slow, deliberate march through the encroaching gloom. Y/N, despite her complaints, seemed to settle into it, her body swaying with his, her breath coming in soft, even puffs against his ear. The constant motion, the warmth of his body, the unwavering strength of his stride, began to work on her in an unexpected way. 

Her pain was still a searing fire in her leg, a relentless torment that made her want to scream, to cry, to just give up. But beneath that, something else was stirring. The sheer, undeniable fact that he was still moving. Still carrying her. Still protecting her. He hadn’t stopped once. He hadn’t complained, hadn’t faltered, not truly. He was exhausted, she could feel it in the tremors that ran through his powerful frame, hear it in his ragged breathing, but he was relentlessly pushing forward. 

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the damp fabric of his worn shirt, the hard muscle beneath. His scent, a mix of sweat, woodsmoke, and something uniquely Daryl, was strangely comforting. It was the smell of survival, of strength. Her soft hands, which had once been used for typing reports and shaking hands at sales conferences, were now gripping his neck, relying entirely on his strength, his persistence. The contrast was stark, a vivid reminder of how much her world had changed, how utterly dependent she was on this gruff, silent man. 

A promise had formed between them, she realized. It wasn't spoken, not with flowery words or grand gestures. It was etched in every weary step he took, every careful adjustment of her weight, every time he scanned the woods for threats. He would get her there. He would keep her safe. It was a simple, truth, and in this brutal world, it was everything. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of his steps lull her, letting the warmth of his body seep into her chilled skin. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was tempered by a growing sense of security. With Daryl, she felt… safe. As safe as one could be in a world overrun by the dead. 

“You know,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper now, the sass replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “My mama always told me I was too loud. Too much of everything. Said no man would ever put up with me.” She let out a soft, shaky laugh. “Guess she didn’t count on the apocalypse, or a quiet, stubborn redneck who apparently has the patience of a saint.” 

Daryl didn’t respond, but Y/N felt a subtle shift in his shoulders, a slight tensing that wasn’t anger, but something akin to discomfort. He wasn't used to this kind of talk, this open vulnerability. But she needed to say it. Needed to acknowledge the thing that was growing between them, a fragile connection forged in shared hardship and unexpected kindness. 

“It’s just… it’s been a long time since anyone bothered,” she continued, pressing her cheek harder against his shoulder. “Since anyone cared enough to… to carry me. Or fight for me. So… thank you, Daryl. Really.” 

The understanding that settled between them then was profound, deeper than any words could convey. It wasn't romantic, not yet, not in the traditional sense. It was something more primal, more fundamental. It was the recognition of two survivors, two broken people, finding a sliver of solace in each other's presence, a nascent connection blooming amidst the decay. He was her protector, her anchor in the storm, and she, in her own way, was a strange, vibrant counterpoint to his solitude, a splash of color in his muted world. 

He kept walking, the silence between them no longer heavy, but filled with this new, fragile understanding. The ache in his muscles was still there, the weariness a constant companion, but it was now overlaid with something else, something softer. A grudging respect, a flicker of admiration for her stubborn resilience, for the way she kept fighting, even through unimaginable pain. She wasn't just a burden. She was… something more. Something he hadn’t anticipated, something that was slowly chipping away at the carefully constructed walls around his heart. 

He felt her shift again, her head lifting from his shoulder, her body tensing. He immediately scanned the perimeter, bracing for another threat. But she wasn't looking at the trees. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, past the dense canopy, past the last line of trees. 

“Daryl,” she breathed, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and relief. “Look.” 

He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing, pushing through the last vestiges of twilight. And then he saw it. Through the gaps in the trees, a dark, imposing silhouette against the bruised purple of the twilight sky. High, concrete walls, topped with razor wire, watchtowers looming like silent sentinels. The prison. Their sanctuary. Their home. 

A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. He had made it. They had made it. The long, arduous journey, the constant threat of walkers, the endless pain, it was all worth it. The prison walls, usually a symbol of their guarded existence, now felt like a promise, a temporary haven from the relentless brutality of the world outside. 

He picked up his pace, a renewed surge of adrenaline pushing him forward. The last few hundred yards felt like miles, but he pushed through, his gaze locked on the imposing structure. He could almost taste the safety, the respite, the chance to finally put her down and tend to her injuries. 

Y/N let out a soft sigh, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. Her head dropped back against his shoulder, her arms tightening around his neck. “We’re really here,” she whispered, the raw emotion in her voice unmistakable. “We’re really here.” 

Daryl didn’t respond, just kept moving, his focus absolute. He could see the faint glow of lights within the walls, hear the distant, familiar sounds of the camp. Soon. Soon they would be safe. But even as the relief washed over him, a new thought began to form, a new worry. What would happen when he brought this sassy, injured outsider into the guarded community of the prison? How would they react to her, to the disruption she represented? And more importantly, how would he navigate this new chapter, this unexpected connection that had been forged in the crucible of the wilderness? The answer, he knew, would reshape their lives, and the fragile peace of the group, in ways he couldn't yet imagine. 

Chapter Text

The heavy prison gate groaned, a tortured shriek of metal on metal, before thudding shut behind them with a sound that echoed like a final, damning pronouncement. Y/N flinched, the sharp noise jarring through her already aching body, her arms tightening around Daryl’s neck. One moment, they were in the wild, untamed wilderness, fighting for every breath, every step. The next, they were sealed inside, the harsh reality of her new world pressing in with the weight of the concrete walls and the cold, unblinking eyes that watched their every move. The air, once filled with the scent of pine and damp earth, now carried a faint, metallic tang, and the lingering, almost imperceptible smell of stale blood and fear. 

Daryl’s gait, though still tired, had a renewed sense of purpose now that they were within the familiar confines. He moved with quiet, practiced ease, navigating the uneven ground of the courtyard. Y/N, despite the throbbing fire in her leg, pushed past the pain, her head lifting from his shoulder. Her eyes, wide and assessing, took in every detail of her grim new surroundings. The high walls, scarred with bullet holes and grim stains, rose impossibly tall, topped with cruel coils of razor wire that glinted dully in the fading light. Watchtowers stood like silent, armed sentinels at each corner; their windows dark and uninviting. 

The courtyard itself was a patchwork of worn concrete and struggling patches of dirt, where a few sad-looking vegetable plots tried to eke out a living. Makeshift shelters, tarps strung between posts, and a few scavenged tents dotted the area, creating a strange, temporary village within the permanent stone. A small, smoking fire pit glowed in the center, casting flickering shadows that made the already stark faces of the survivors even more severe. Weapons were everywhere – holstered pistols, rifles slung over shoulders, knives tucked into belts. This wasn’t a home; it was a fortress, a prison not just for the dead, but for the living too. 

Y/N’s gaze swept over the faces that turned towards them. They were a mix of ages, men and women, but all shared a common hard-edged weariness, a deep-seated suspicion. Their eyes, once full of curiosity, now held a guarded, almost hostile glint. She was an outsider, an unknown variable, and in this world, unknowns were dangerous. She felt their judgment, their silent questions, pressing in on her, but she met their stares with a defiant tilt of her chin, her own gaze unwavering. She might be injured, a burden in the most literal sense, but she wasn’t broken. Not yet. 

Daryl continued to move, his pace steady, his gruff demeanor a solid shield against the curious stares that followed them. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, didn’t offer an explanation. His focus was solely on getting Y/N to the infirmary, a small, converted cell block he knew would be clean and quiet. He could feel the weight of her body, the soft give of her skin against his calloused hands, and with it, a new, unfamiliar tension. Her presence here, within these walls, was a disruption, a challenge to the fragile peace they had carved out. But he had brought her in, and now, he would see her safe. That was his only thought. 

They passed a small group gathered near the fire. A man with a thick white beard and kind eyes, who Y/N thought vaguely looked like a farmer santa , looked up, his expression shifting from concern to something more curious as he saw Daryl carrying her. Nearby, a young woman with short hair and a determined set to her jaw, stood beside an Asian man with a guarded but kind face, who looked at them with a mixture of surprise and quiet understanding. Children, too, were there, their faces smudged with dirt, their eyes too old for their years, peeking out from behind adults. 

Y/N, feeling the tension like a physical thing, couldn’t help herself. Her mouth, accustomed to deflecting fear with sarcasm, opened before she could think better of it. “Well, this is certainly… cozy,” she quipped, her voice a little hoarse, but still retaining its characteristic bite. She gestured vaguely with a hand that wasn’t gripping Daryl’s neck. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Very… post-apocalyptic chic. Are the barbed wire accents new, or have they always been in vogue?” 

A few people near the fire exchanged glances. The Asian man, to Y/N’s surprise, offered a brief, tight smile, a flicker of amusement in his eyes before it faded. The woman with short brown hair lips twitched, but she quickly composed herself. Farmer Santa, however, merely raised an eyebrow, a silent, knowing look that suggested he’d heard worse, and perhaps, understood her coping mechanism. Most of the other faces remained impassive, their suspicion deepening, their gazes hardening. This wasn’t a place for jokes, not for outsiders. The unspoken message was clear. 

Daryl grunted, a low, warning rumble in his chest. He didn’t slow down, didn’t look at anyone. Her sass, usually a source of grudging amusement for him in the solitude of the woods, now felt like a spotlight, drawing unwelcome attention. He just wanted to get her inside, to the quiet, where they could deal with her injury without an audience. The last thing they needed was for her to stir up trouble the moment she arrived. 

He pushed open a heavy metal door, its hinges screeching in protest, revealing a dimly lit corridor. The air inside was cooler, still, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust. This was the infirmary block, a series of small cells converted into medical bays. He carefully maneuvered Y/N through the narrow doorway, her injured leg brushing against the frame, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain from her. 

“Easy, easy,” she muttered, her voice tight, but she didn’t complain further. 

Daryl led her to an empty cell, where a cot with a thin, worn mattress was covered with a clean sheet. A small, scavenged medical kit sat on a rickety table beside it. He gently lowered her, easing her weight from his back, the sudden relief in his muscles almost overwhelming. He felt a profound sense of exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that had been pushed aside by adrenaline and the sheer will to keep moving. As he helped her settle onto the cot, supporting her back as she carefully swung her injured leg forward, their eyes met. 

In that shared glance, weighty promise began to form between them. A fragile connection amidst the chaos of their arrival. Her eyes, still bright with defiance, held a flicker of gratitude, a deep thanks that went beyond the sarcastic jokes and the grunted acknowledgments. His own gaze, usually guarded and unreadable, softened almost imperceptibly. He saw her pain, her fear, but also her fierce, unyielding spirit. And she, in turn, saw past his gruff exterior, past the exhaustion and the irritation, to the raw, protective instinct that had driven him to carry her all this way. 

It wasn't a romantic moment, not yet. It was something more fundamental, more primal. It was the recognition of two souls, forged in the crucible of this brutal world, finding an unexpected anchor in each other. He had saved her, yes, but in doing so, he had also opened a door within himself, a door he had kept locked for years. And she, with her vibrant presence and defiant spirit, had walked right through it. 

The promise was simple: I’m here. I’ve got you. For Y/N, it was a lifeline, a desperately needed assurance in a world that had taken everything. For Daryl, it was a burden, yes, but also a strange, new kind of warmth, a burgeoning sense of purpose that went beyond mere survival. 

Just then, Farmer Santa appeared in the doorway, his kind eyes taking in the scene. He moved with a gentle solemnity, carrying a small basin of water and a clean cloth. “Daryl, good to see you back,” he said, his voice quiet, his gaze lingering on Y/N with a professional but not unkind curiosity. “And you brought a guest.” 

Daryl nodded, his eyes still on Y/N for a moment longer before he turned to Hershel. “Leg’s busted,” he mumbled, his voice rough. “Twisted real bad. And she’s got some cuts.” He gestured vaguely to her hands and arms, where superficial scrapes from their journey were visible. 

“I can see that,” Hershel said, setting down his supplies. He walked over to the cot, his gaze direct and calm. “Hello, dear. My name’s Hershel. What’s yours?” 

Y/N swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The pain was starting to assert itself again, now that the immediate threat was gone. “Y/N,” she managed, her voice softer than it had been moments before. “Thank you, Hershel.” 

Hershel offered a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s get a better look at that leg, Y/N. Daryl, you look like you’ve been through hell and back. Go get yourself some water, something to eat. We’ll take care of her.” 

Daryl hesitated, his gaze flicking back to Y/N. He didn’t want to leave her, not yet. Not with the promise still hanging in the air between them. But he knew Hershel was right. He was exhausted, and he trusted Hershel with medical matters more than anyone. 

Y/N, sensing his hesitation, offered him a small, genuine smile, devoid of any sass. “Go on, Daryl,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ll be fine. You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

Her words, gentle and understanding, were enough. He nodded, a single, curt movement, and turned to leave. As he walked out of the infirmary, the heavy metal door swinging shut behind him with a dull clang, a strange mix of relief and unease settled over him. The relief of having her safe, within the walls, where he knew she would get the care she needed. But the unease… that was new. It was the unsettling feeling that came with a profound change, a shift in the quiet, solitary world he had carefully constructed for himself. 

Her vibrant presence, even confined to a cot, had irrevocably altered his quiet world. He could still hear her voice, still see the defiant spark in her eyes, still feel the phantom weight of her on his back. She wasn’t just a burden anymore. She was… something more. Something he didn’t yet understand, something that promised to challenge him, to pull him out of his self-imposed isolation. The prison, once a sanctuary, now felt different, charged with a new, unsettling energy. He knew, with a certainty that resonated deep in his bones, that nothing would ever truly be quiet again. And as he walked down the dimly lit corridor, the wary stares of the other survivors following him, he knew this was just the beginning. 

Chapter Text

The sterile air of the prison infirmary, usually a quiet, almost reverent space, did little to stifle the vibrant, restless spirit of Y/N. Propped up on a thin cot, her leg elevated and expertly splinted by Hershel, she chafed under the forced stillness. Her ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, a constant reminder of her predicament, but it was her mind that truly raced, a whirlwind of thoughts and observations that refused to be quieted. She was a woman used to movement, to the bustling energy of small-town life, and this enforced inactivity felt like a cage. The silence, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets or the distant, muffled sounds of the prison, pressed in on her, threatening to drown her in its oppressive calm. 

She hated it. She hated being helpless, hated being a burden. The antiseptic smell made her nose wrinkle, and the stark white walls of the converted cell felt too much like a hospital, a place where bad things happened. Her eyes, bright and restless, scanned every corner of the room, every shadow, every crack in the concrete, searching for something to focus on, something to distract her from the gnawing boredom and the insistent pain. She missed the sunlight, the open sky, even the terrifying unpredictability of the woods. At least out there, she was moving, she was doing something. Here, she was just… waiting. 

Daryl Dixon, a man whose natural habitat was the silent, watchful periphery, found himself observing her from a distance. He hadn't left the infirmary for long, just long enough to grab a quick, cold meal and a bottle of water, then he'd returned, settling onto a rickety chair near the doorway, his crossbow resting across his lap. He expected to see a wilting flower, a woman broken by pain and the sheer terror of their world, perhaps even crying silently, or asking for comfort. He had carried her for miles, heard her cries of agony, witnessed her exhaustion. It was only natural to expect her to be subdued, to retreat into herself. 

But instead, he witnessed something entirely different, something that sparked a flicker of recognition deep within him. He saw the fire, the half feral defiance that had made her swing a rock at a walker with a broken leg. Her eyes, though still reflecting deep weariness, darted around the room with an almost fierce curiosity. Her jaw was set, not in pain, but in stubborn resolve. She fidgeted constantly, shifting her weight, trying to find a comfortable position that simply didn't exist. She was a coiled spring, ready to snap, ready to move, even when her body refused to obey. She was not wilting. She was restless. 

Hershel, a man of quiet wisdom and endless patience, limped around the infirmary, checking on other patients, murmuring soft words of encouragement. He occasionally glanced at Y/N, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, as if he sensed the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. He had given her some of the coveted painkillers, but Y/N, ever stubborn, had insisted on taking only half the dose, claiming she didn’t need “all that mess” in case someone else needed it more. Daryl had just grunted at that, a grudging respect stirring in his gut. 

After what felt like an eternity of silence, broken only by the soft creak of Hershel's scavenged prostetic leg and the distant sounds of the prison, Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. The quiet was too loud, the stillness too suffocating. Her mind, sharp as a honed blade, felt like it was actively rusting in the boredom. She cleared her throat, a little louder than necessary, and Hershel paused, turning his kind eyes towards her. Daryl, from his chair, didn't move a muscle, but his gaze sharpened, anticipating. 

“You know, Hershel,” Y/N began, her voice a little raspy from disuse, but quickly finding its familiar rhythm, “I’ve been thinking.” She paused for dramatic effect, though she was mostly just trying to find a comfortable position for her leg. “This place… it’s got potential. Real potential. But it’s missing something. A certain… je ne sais quoi.” 

Hershel chuckled softly, a warm, rumbling sound. “And what might that be, Y/N?” 

“Well, for starters, the decor is a little… minimalist. I mean, I appreciate the raw, industrial vibe, but a few throw pillows wouldn’t go amiss. Maybe some fairy lights? A nice potted plant? Something to really tie the room together, you know?” She gestured vaguely towards the bare concrete walls, her expression one of mock seriousness. “And the color palette! All greys and browns. A little splash of cerulean, perhaps a vibrant fuchsia, would really liven things up. Don't you think?” 

Hershel merely smiled, shaking his head gently. “I’m afraid our interior decorating budget is rather… limited these days, Y/N.” 

“Oh, I understand,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Times are tough. But creativity doesn’t cost a thing, does it? We could scavenge some old bedsheets, dye them with berry juice, make some curtains! We could paint murals on the walls! Imagine, a mural of a field of sunflowers, right here in the infirmary. Wouldn’t that just lift everyone’s spirits?” She looked around, her eyes sparkling with the absurd vision. 

Daryl shifted slightly in his chair, a barely perceptible movement. He hadn't heard anyone other than Beth talk like this in years, not with such lighthearted, almost frivolous, energy. It was jarring, a stark contrast to the grim reality they all lived in, and yet… it wasn't entirely unwelcome. He found himself listening, despite himself, a strange curiosity stirring within him. 

Just then, a few other survivors, mostly those with minor injuries or illnesses, shuffled into the infirmary. A younger man, maybe in his early twenties, with a bandaged arm, sat down on a cot nearby. A woman with a hacking cough settled into a chair. They looked tired, defeated, their gazes fixed on the floor. 

“And the lighting!” Y/N continued, undeterred by the new audience. “These bare bulbs, flickering like a haunted house. We could string up some lanterns, give it a more rustic, cozy feel. And scent! Who decided antiseptic was the signature fragrance of survival? We need potpourri. Or at least, some pine needles and woodsmoke. Something that smells like life, not… well, not like dying.” 

The young man with the bandaged arm chuckled, a short, surprised sound that quickly died in his throat as he remembered where he was. Y/N caught his eye and offered a conspiratorial wink. 

“See?” she said to Hershel, as if proving a point. “It’s about morale, Hershel. People need beauty. They need a little bit of frivolous joy to balance out all the… you know.” She gestured vaguely towards the world outside, the world of walkers and despair. “The fire and brimstone.” 

Her sharp tongue, honed by years of navigating small-town gossip and endless cups of sweet tea, now cut through the grim atmosphere of the infirmary with surprising humor and resilience. She wasn’t just complaining; she was performing, using her wit as a weapon against the crushing reality of their world. She was injecting life, however absurd, into a place that felt utterly devoid of it. 

“And the food!” she exclaimed, her voice picking up speed. “I mean, I appreciate the effort, truly. But gruel for breakfast, gruel for lunch, and… what’s that? More gruel for dinner? We need variety! We need spices! We need a proper Mississippi BBQ, Hershel. Slow-cooked pork, coleslaw, hushpuppies, sweet potato pie… oh, Lord, I miss sweet potato pie.” She closed her eyes for a moment, a look of pure longing on her face. “A good pie can solve a lot of problems, I tell you what.” 

The young man with the bandaged arm laughed louder this time, a genuine, hearty laugh that made his shoulders shake. The woman with the cough even managed a weak smile, a flicker of light in her tired eyes. Hershel, watching Y/N, had a wide, open smile now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He clearly found her infectious energy and outrageous suggestions both amusing and strangely comforting. 

Daryl, from his corner, felt a strange sensation in his chest. A warmth, almost. He watched her, truly watched her, as she spun her tales of imaginary interior design and decadent meals. Her face, still pale and streaked with dirt from their journey, was animated, her bright eyes sparkling. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone; she was just being herself, using the only tools she had left – her sharp mind and her even sharper tongue – to cope, to survive, to bring a tiny bit of light into the overwhelming darkness. 

He recognized something in her, a stubborn refusal to be broken, to let the world win. It was a different kind of strength than his own quiet, watchful resilience, but it was strength nonetheless. He saw the way she made others smile, even for a fleeting moment, and he knew that was a rare and valuable thing in their world. He had expected her to be a liability, a drain on their resources, a constant reminder of the fragility of life. But here she was, radiating a strange, feral energy that was impossible to ignore. 

“And another thing,” Y/N continued, her gaze sweeping over the small group, as if gathering them into her audience. “The silence! It’s deafening in here. We need music! Someone must have an old guitar, a harmonica, anything. We could have singalongs! Imagine, a rousing rendition of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ while the walkers are scratching at the gates. Talk about confusing the enemy.” She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Or maybe just confusing us. But at least we’d be entertained.” 

The laughter in the infirmary grew, a small, fragile bubble of joy in the grim concrete cell. Even the woman with the cough found herself giggling, her shoulders shaking. Y/N had managed, in just a few minutes, to transform the heavy, oppressive atmosphere into something lighter, something almost hopeful. She had broken through the silence, cracked open the shell of despair that often settled over them. 

Daryl found himself drawn closer, almost without realizing it. He pushed off his chair, the legs scraping faintly on the concrete floor, but no one noticed, too engrossed in Y/N’s performance. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on her. A rare, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a slight upturn at the corners that would have been invisible to anyone who didn’t know him intimately. It wasn’t a full smile, not yet, but it was a genuine reaction, a softening of his usually grim expression. 

He recognized a kindred spirit in her eyes, a refusal to let the darkness consume her. She might be loud, she might be sassy, she might be a total pain in the ass sometimes, but she was real. She was alive. And she was fighting back in her own unique way, not with a crossbow or a knife, but with words, with humor, with an unyielding belief in the small, beautiful things that made life worth living. 

She glanced up then, her eyes sweeping over the room, and her gaze met his. For a moment, the laughter and chatter in the infirmary faded into the background, the world narrowing to just the two of them. Her bright eyes, usually so full of playful mischief, held a deeper, more vulnerable light now. She saw his quiet presence, his unexpected smile, the faint softening of his usually hard features. She saw that he was listening, that he was watching, and that, in some strange way, he understood. 

A silent current passed between them, a profound acknowledgment that transcended the pain, the chaos, and the brutal reality of the apocalypse. It wasn't about the jokes or the silly suggestions; it was about the shared understanding of what it meant to survive, to endure, and to find a sliver of hope even when everything seemed lost. It was about the recognition that, beneath their different defenses – his gruff silence, her sharp wit – they were both fighting the same battle, striving to hold onto their humanity in a world that constantly tried to strip it away. 

Daryl’s gaze lingered, a quiet intensity in his eyes. He saw the strength in her, the resilience that mirrored his own, but also a vulnerability that she tried to hide behind her sassy facade. He saw the genuine fear that still flickered in the depths of her eyes, the pain that she bravely pushed aside. And in that moment, he felt a pull, a profound connection to this absolute chaos gremlin of a woman, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years, not since he had allowed himself to truly care for anyone. 

Y/N held his gaze, her own heart thumping a little faster. The smile on her face softened, becoming more genuine, less a performance for others and more a quiet offering to him. She saw the hint of a smile on his lips, a rare and precious sight, and a warmth spread through her chest, countering the cold fear that still lingered. She had been afraid of being a burden, of being judged, of being left alone. But Daryl, the quiet, gruff redneck, was still here. He was still watching. And he was smiling. 

The moment stretched, a fragile moment hanging in the air between them, before Hershel’s gentle voice broke the spell. “Alright, Y/N, I think that’s enough excitement for one day. You need to rest that leg.” 

Y/N blinked, shaking her head slightly, as if coming out of a trance. She offered Hershel a tired but still defiant smile. “Yes, Doctor. You’re right. I suppose even a world-renowned interior designer needs her beauty sleep.” 

Daryl, still leaning against the doorframe, didn’t move, but his gaze remained fixed on her for a few more seconds. He watched as she settled back against the cot, the spark in her eyes dimming slightly as the exhaustion finally started to win. But even as she closed her eyes, a faint smile still played on her lips, a testament to the fire that burned within her. 

He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that she wasn't going to be quiet for long. Her vibrant presence had already irrevocably altered the quiet, solitary world he had carefully constructed for himself. He had come to the infirmary expecting to see a burden, a problem to be dealt with. Instead, he had found a spark, a fierce, unyielding flame that somehow resonated with his own hidden embers. He wondered what she would do next, what new chaos she would bring, what new light she would shed on their grim reality. And to his surprise, he found he was genuinely curious to find out. The prison, once a sanctuary of predictable routine, now felt charged with a new, unsettling, yet undeniably intriguing energy. 

Chapter Text

The dull throb in Y/N’s leg was the first thing that greeted her. A persistent, low-grade ache that made itself known the moment she surfaced from the hazy depths of sleep. It was a constant reminder of the tree, the walker, the reality of a world that didn’t care for broken legs. She blinked, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light filtering through the high, barred window of the prison infirmary. The air was cool, sterile, carrying a faint scent of antiseptic that did little to soothe her simmering frustration. She hated being still, hated the forced inactivity, the feeling of helplessness that clung to her like a shroud. Her mind, usually a buzzing hive of thoughts and sarcastic comebacks, felt trapped, bouncing off the stark concrete walls. 

She shifted, wincing as a sharp spike of pain shot through her leg, making her clench her jaw. Her gaze swept around the small, converted cell, taking in the worn cot, the rickety table with its scavenged medical supplies, and then, her eyes landed on him. Daryl. He sat in a chair by her cot, not looking at her, not speaking, just there. His long legs were stretched out, his worn boots resting on the dusty concrete floor. His head was bowed slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration as his calloused fingers meticulously cleaned his crossbow, wiping down the wood stock with a small, oil-stained rag. The movements were fluid, practiced, a silent ritual of maintenance in a world that demanded constant readiness. 

His presence was a solid anchor in her pain, a stark contrast to the wild, untamed chaos of the woods where he’d found her. She remembered the sheer terror of that moment, the raw agony of her leg, the desperate swing of the branch. And then, him. A gruff, silent force of nature, pulling her from the jaws of death. Now, he was just… present. A silent guardian, his very stillness a comfort she hadn’t realized she craved. It was a strange, unsettling feeling. This dependence, this trust that settled over her like a heavy blanket. 

The infirmary door creaked open, and a moment later, Maggie appeared, a small bowl of something steaming in her hands. Her eyes, usually so sharp and wary, softened slightly as she looked at Y/N, then flicked to Daryl. A subtle, knowing glance passed between them, an acknowledgment of his unusual attentiveness. Maggie walked over, her steps quiet on the concrete. 

“Hey, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice carrying a gentle warmth. “Hershel sent you some more broth. You need to keep your strength up.” She set the bowl on the rickety table next to Y/N's cot; the rich, savory smell momentarily cutting through the antiseptic. 

Y/N managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Maggie. Tell Hershel it smells amazing.” She glanced at the broth, her stomach rumbling faintly. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the smell hit her. 

Maggie nodded, then turned her gaze to Daryl. “Daryl, Rick’s asking about the perimeter check. Said he needs an update on the east fence.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes lingered on him, a hint of curiosity in their depths. She was clearly observing, trying to gauge the depth of his involvement with this new outsider. 

Daryl didn’t look up from his crossbow. “Done it,” he grunted, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Clear. Tell him.” He continued to polish a bolt, his focus absolute. 

Maggie’s lips twitched, a faint smile playing on them. She knew Daryl. This wasn’t his usual behavior. He was usually the first one out the door, eager to get back to the solitude of the woods, to escape the confines of the prison walls. But here he was, sitting vigil by a stranger’s bedside, cleaning his weapon with an almost exaggerated calmness. It was a clear sign, one that didn’t go unnoticed by the seasoned survivor. 

“Alright,” Maggie said, her voice still soft, but with a hint of amusement. She glanced at Y/N, a quick, reassuring smile. Before she turned and left, the door creaking shut behind her. 

Y/N watched Daryl, her eyes tracing the lines of his rugged face, the strong set of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. He was a man of few words, his emotions often hidden behind a gruff exterior, yet she sensed something deeper, a tenderness that belied his rough edges. It was in the careful way he cleaned his crossbow, almost a meditative act. It was the way his presence filled the room, a quiet strength that made her feel oddly safe. A care that resonated deeply within her guarded heart, a place she hadn't allowed much light into for a long time. 

She thought back to their journey through the woods, the way he had carried her, protected her, even when she was a screaming, sassy burden. He hadn't left her. He hadn’t complained, not truly. He had just kept moving, relentlessly, until he got her to safety. It was a primal protectiveness that startled her, and yet, drew her in. She had always used her sharp wit as a shield, a way to keep people at arm’s length, to avoid vulnerability. But with Daryl, she felt a strange urge to drop her guard, to let him see past the bravado. 

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and this time, Glenn peered in, a quick, almost furtive glance around the room. He saw Y/N, then Daryl, and a brief nod passed between him and the crossbow-wielding sentinel. Glenn was carrying a small, dented tin cup. 

“Hershel said you might be thirsty, Y/N,” he said, his voice a little shy, as he walked over and carefully placed the cup of water on the table next to the broth. He didn’t stay long, just a quick check, his eyes darting between Y/N and Daryl, there was a slight tension in the room. He was another who understood the subtle language of their group, the way people gravitated, the way new connections formed. He saw Daryl’s constant presence, and he knew it meant something. 

Y/N offered Glenn a grateful smile. “Thanks, Glenn. I really appreciate it.” 

Glenn gave a quick nod and a small, almost imperceptible smile before he, too, slipped out of the infirmary, leaving them once again in the quiet hum of the prison. The air felt charged, almost electric, with the lingering glances and the quiet observations of the group. They were all watching, she realized. Watching Daryl, watching her, trying to figure out what this new dynamic meant for their already fragile community. 

The silence settled again, thick and heavy, broken only by the soft click of Daryl’s crossbow as he reassembled it. Y/N watched him, fascinated by the ease and precision of his movements. He was a man of action, of instinct, and everything he did carried a brutal efficiency. But there was also a quiet grace to him, a contained power that was both intimidating and alluring. 

Her throat felt dry again, despite the water Glenn had brought. The broth was still steaming, but she needed to drink first. She reached for the cup, her fingers brushing against the cool metal, but her injured leg, still aching and stiff, protested as she shifted. A soft gasp escaped her lips, a small sound of pain she hadn’t meant to make. 

Daryl’s movements stilled. He didn’t look up, his eyes still fixed on the crossbow in his lap, but Y/N felt the sudden tension in his body. He was listening. Always listening. 

“Need more water,” he mumbled, his voice low, rough around the edges, but firm. He didn’t ask, he stated. It wasn’t a question, but an instruction, a quiet command directed to the empty doorway. 

Y/N blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to respond, much less to act. She looked at the door, expecting someone to appear, but the hallway remained empty. It was just the two of them. 

Daryl, without looking up, then spoke a little louder, his voice carrying more authority this time. “Hershel! She needs water.” He didn’t shout, but the words resonated in the quiet room, cutting through the silence with an undeniable force. 

Almost immediately, Hershel’s kind face appeared in the doorway, with a gentle smile on his lips. He carried a small pitcher of water and a clean glass. “Right on time, Daryl,” he said, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He walked over, poured Y/N a fresh glass, and placed it carefully on the table. “Anything else, dear?” he asked Y/N, his gaze warm and reassuring. 

Y/N shook her head, a small, grateful smile on her face. “No, thank you, Hershel. This is perfect.” She picked up the glass, the cool water a welcome relief as she sipped it slowly. 

Hershel nodded, his gaze lingering on Daryl for a moment, a deeper understanding passing between the two men. He saw the shift in Daryl, the way he had taken on this new responsibility, this protectiveness. It was rare for Daryl to be so vocal, so assertive, especially about someone else’s needs. It spoke volumes. Hershel offered another soft smile, then turned and left, leaving the door slightly ajar this time. 

The simple act, Daryl’s quiet instruction, his low but firm voice, resonated deeply within Y/N. It wasn't a grand gesture, no heroic rescue, no dramatic confession. It was just water. But it was his water. His concern. It was a clear declaration of his protection of her, a spark igniting a fragile hope for connection in her guarded heart. He hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t even met her eyes, but his actions spoke louder than any words. He was taking care of her. He was watching out for her. 

This quiet moment solidified Y/N’s growing belief that she might not be a liability in Daryl’s eyes, but something more. She was a burden, yes, injured and dependent, but he saw past that. He saw her, the woman beneath the pain and the sass, and he cared. It was a terrifying, exhilarating realization. In a world where connection was a dangerous luxury, he was offering her a lifeline, a quiet, unwavering promise of protection. 

She took another sip of water, her eyes still on Daryl, who had finally finished cleaning his crossbow and now rested it across his lap, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall. He was still silent, still gruff, still the solitary hunter. But something had changed. A subtle shift in the air between them, an invisible thread that had been woven in the crucible of the wilderness, and was now tightening, strengthening, within the stark walls of the prison. 

She felt a warmth spread through her chest, a feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room or the soothing broth. It was the warmth of being seen, of being cared for, of having someone, however reluctant, stand guard over her. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced in a very long time, a fragile hope blooming in the desolate landscape of her heart. 

Y/N cleared her throat, a soft sound, and Daryl’s head tilted almost imperceptibly in her direction, a silent acknowledgment. 

“You know,” she began, her voice a little softer than usual, devoid of its usual sassy edge, “for a guy who claims he doesn’t want company, you’re doing a pretty terrible job of proving it. My ex-boyfriend never even brought me water, and he liked me.” She paused, a faint, teasing smile playing on her lips. “Of course, he also never hauled my broken butt through a walker-infested forest, so I guess you win that round.” 

Daryl grunted, a low, rumbling sound that was almost a laugh. He finally looked at her, his eyes, usually so guarded, holding a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. Amusement? Affection? She couldn’t tell. But his gaze lingered, holding hers for a moment longer than usual, a silent question in their depths. 

“Just tryin’ to get you better so you ain’t a burden,” he mumbled, his voice rough, but there was no real heat in his words. It was a deflection, a familiar shield, but she saw past it. 

Y/N chuckled, a soft, genuine sound. “Oh, I know I’m a burden, Daryl. A very charming, very witty, very loud burden. But hey, at least I’m interesting, right? Beats staring at concrete walls all day.” She took another sip of water, her eyes still sparkling. “You know, this place could really use some art. Maybe a nice mural of a Mississippi sunset. Or a giant crossbow, in honor of its silent, brooding protector.” 

Daryl just grunted again, but Y/N saw the faint, almost imperceptible upturn of his lips, a ghost of a smile that quickly vanished. He turned his gaze back to the wall, but the tension in his shoulders had eased, and his posture seemed a little less rigid. He was listening. And he was, in his own quiet way, enjoying her chatter. 

The conversation, if it could even be called that, faded into a comfortable silence. Y/N continued to sip her water, the warmth in her chest growing, chasing away the chill of fear and isolation. Daryl remained by her side, a silent, warm presence, his crossbow resting in his lap, a symbol of his strength. The prison walls, which had felt so stifling and cold just hours before, now seemed a little less daunting, a little more like a sanctuary. 

As the day wore on, and the light outside began to fade, casting long shadows across the infirmary floor, Y/N found herself drifting off to sleep again, the dull ache in her leg a distant whisper now. But this time, the sleep wasn't a desperate escape from pain and fear. It was a peaceful surrender, a quiet trust. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that when she woke up, Daryl would still be there, a silent sentinel in the dark, a constant presence in her new terrifying world. And she wondered, with a flutter of anticipation, what other subtle signs of connection would pass between them as her recovery progressed, as this fragile, bond continued to deepen. 

Chapter Text

The last sliver of daylight faded, leaving the prison medical bay cloaked in a deepening gloom. Hershel, with his gentle hum and quiet movements, had long since retired, his work done for the night. Glenn and Maggie, after their brief, watchful visits, had returned to their own corners of the prison, leaving behind only the distant, muffled sounds of the community settling down for the night. Still, Daryl remained. He sat in the same rickety chair, his crossbow now propped against the wall beside him, his presence soundlessly loud in the quiet room. He had no reason to stay, no explicit duty. His perimeter check was done, Y/N’s leg was splinted, and she was asleep, her breathing soft and even. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. 

A single, scavenged lantern, its wick trimmed low, cast a flickering, golden glow across the small cell. It danced across the rough concrete walls, making shadows stretch and shrink like silent, watchful specters. The air hung heavy with the persistent scent of antiseptic, a stark reminder of her injuries and vulnerability, but beneath it, Daryl could pick out the fainter, sweeter scent of Y/N – something like wildflowers and damp earth, a lingering trace of the wilderness they had just escaped. He watched her, his gaze fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin blanket. Each breath was a reassurance, a testament to her stubborn will to live, to the fight still burning within her. He had carried her, protected her, seen her face down fear with a rock and a sharp tongue. Now, in sleep, she was simply vulnerable, and that vulnerability stirred a fierce, unfamiliar set of feelings in him. 

Thoughts he couldn’t articulate swirled in his mind, a jumble of raw instinct and burgeoning emotion. He wasn’t a man for words; his feelings were usually expressed through action, through the efficiency of his movements, the rock steady aim of his crossbow. But here, in the stillness of the night, with Y/N sleeping just a few feet away, those thoughts pressed in on him. He remembered the feel of her weight on his back, the soft brush of her hair against his neck, the surprising strength in her hand when she’d gripped his shoulder. He remembered the spark in her eyes, even through her pain, and the unexpected warmth of her laughter, a sound that had cut through the grim quiet of the infirmary like a ray of sunlight. 

He had always kept people at a distance, a self-imposed isolation that had become both a shield and a sanctuary. It was safer that way. Less to lose. But Y/N, with her vibrant presence and fierce defiance, had somehow slipped past his defenses. She was a disruption, a challenge, a constant, buzzing energy that refused to be ignored. And now, seeing her so still, so utterly dependent, something shifted within him. It wasn’t just the burden of responsibility he felt; it was a deeper, more profound connection, a representation of the way she had already begun to carve out a space in his seemingly hollow heart. Hell he hadn’t cared for anyone other than Merle for so long before the apocalypse that between the solid familial bond with the group and whatever it was he was beginning to feel for this cosmic firecracker he might just lose his mind worrying. 

He thought about the group’s reactions earlier. Maggie’s knowing glance, Glenn’s quiet observation, Hershel’s gentle, almost approving smile. They had seen it, too. They had seen his unusual attentiveness, his reluctance to leave. It was out of character for him, and he knew it, hell they all knew better than that. But he couldn’t help it. He just… needed to be here. Needed to know she was okay. Needed to feel the quiet rhythm of her breathing, a constant beat against the frantic, dangerous pulse of their world. 

A soft groan escaped Y/N’s lips, a small, pained sound that cut through the silence. She stirred slightly, her head turning on the thin pillow, her brow furrowed in a restless sleep. Daryl tensed, his body going rigid, his eyes sharpening. He leaned forward instinctively, his hand hovering near his crossbow, ready for anything, even though there was no immediate threat. It was a reflex, a response to her vulnerability. 

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, heavy with sleep and pain, but still holding that spark. They were unfocused for a moment, hazy with the lingering effects of the pain and the deep exhaustion. Then, they landed on him. On his face, illuminated by the dim lantern light. On his searching gaze, filled with an intensity she had never seen before. Her breath hitched, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. 

In that moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The prison walls, the distant growls of walkers, the ever-present threat of their brutal reality – all of it faded away. There was only the quiet hum of the lantern, the soft rhythm of her breathing, and the profound understanding that passed between their eyes. 

Her gaze was sleepy, trusting, utterly vulnerable. It held no fear, no judgment, no sassy deflection. Just a raw, open acknowledgment of his presence. She didn’t ask why he was there. She didn’t need to. She simply knew. Knew that he had stayed. Knew that he was watching over her. Knew that, in this terrifying, unpredictable world, she wasn’t alone. 

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, a fragile, genuine expression of gratitude and something more. It wasn’t the wide, teasing smile she used as a shield; it was a soft, tender curve, a silent offering of trust. Her eyes, still heavy-lidded, seemed to deepen in color, reflecting the flickering lantern light like warm embers. She didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with the dry ache in her throat and the emotion that swelled in her chest. But her gaze spoke volumes, a silent language understood only by the two of them. 

Daryl felt it too, that silent language. A powerful current passed between them, a connection that transcended words, transcended their individual pains and fears. He saw the trust in her eyes, the vulnerability she offered him, and it ignited something deep within him, something he had kept locked away for years. It was a fierce protectiveness, yes, but also a burgeoning tenderness, a profound sense of belonging that he hadn’t dared to feel since before the world ended. 

He didn't move, didn't speak. He just held her gaze, allowing the silent exchange to wash over him, to solidify the fragile bond that had been forged in the crucible of the wilderness. He saw her as more than just a burden, more than just a survivor. He saw her as Y/N, a woman of vibrant spirit and surprising resilience, a woman who, against all odds, had managed to crack open his guarded heart. 

Her hand, pale and slightly shaky, moved almost unconsciously, reaching out from beneath the blanket. It was a slow, hesitant movement, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she was doing it. Daryl watched it, his breath catching in his throat. He saw the vulnerability in that simple gesture, the quiet plea for connection. He didn’t hesitate. He slowly, carefully, reached out his own hand, his calloused fingers meeting hers. 

Her skin was soft, warm, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred texture of his own. Their fingers intertwined, a gentle, hesitant clasp that was both fragile and immensely powerful. There was no rush, no sudden movement, just the quiet, steady pressure of their joined hands. It was a silent promise, a wordless agreement to face whatever came next, together. 

A soft sigh escaped Y/N’s lips, a sound of profound relief and comfort. Her eyes, still fixed on his, held a depth of emotion that startled him. He saw a reflection of his own unspoken feelings there – the fear, the hope, the desperate yearning for connection in a world that constantly tried to tear them apart. He could feel his ears getting hot and internally damned his shy nature but he didn't let go. 

He didn’t know what this meant, what future lay ahead for them. He only knew that in this moment, in the shared silence of the prison infirmary, with their hands clasped tightly together, he felt a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in years or maybe ever. It was a quiet, fragile peace, born from the brutal reality of their world, but it was peace nonetheless. 

He watched her eyelids flutter again, her breathing deepening, the painkillers finally pulling her back into a deeper sleep. Her grip on his hand remained, soft but firm, a tangible link between them. He didn’t pull away. He just stayed there, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand in a small arc, a comforting gesture. 

The lantern continued to flicker, casting its warm glow over their joined hands, over the intimacy of the moment. The prison walls, once a symbol of confinement, now felt like a sanctuary, a fragile bubble of safety around them. Daryl, the solitary hunter, the man who preferred the ghosts of the woods to the stifling air of human connection, found himself bound, not by necessity, but by a burgeoning, undeniable affection. 

He watched her sleep, his gaze focused and true, a silent sentinel against the darkness. Her vibrant presence had been a disruption, a challenge to his silent inner world, but it had also brought a new, unsettling, yet undeniably intriguing energy into his life. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that nothing would ever truly be quiet again. And as he sat there, holding her hand, watching her chest rise and fall, he wondered, with a flutter of anticipation, what other signs of connection could pass between them as her recovery progressed. He knew this shared silence was just the beginning of their story, a start that would rock his foundation like an earthquake, hinting at a future neither could yet comprehend.