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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 1 month

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Shame on a plate

Happy St. Patrick's Day, slowpokes!

When -- several minutes after Stuck in a damn bed. , after Shane blew up, and you found out that not only Dale, but Maggie saw, too.

What -- Sophia's still missing, Daryl and Carl have one more day in the house on bed rest, and you're dealing with the aftermath of your big brother Shane's actions in the previous chapter and the fact that others saw. The biggest thing you feel is shame.

Relationships -- Found family you and the gang! Lol, always a slow burn Daryl x Reader, there's also some platonic Glenn, brotherly Rick, and Maggie gets protective her new friend (you), and Papa Dale is there

Perspective -- 2nd You, 3rd Daryl

Pronouns -- none

TWs -- other than the hideous screenshot above, there's some language and discussion of abusive patterns and behaviors

How long is it? -- around 4,000 words

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

In this chapter, Reader is struggling with shame, guilt and confusion over how Shane treated them at the end of the previous chapter.

Remember, being hurt by a loved one is not okay. If they are hurting you, they are doing something bad to you. Abuse is not earned or deserved. You are worthy of being safe and unhurt.

For help getting safe, you can call the Domestic Violence Hotline (USA) at 800-799-7233, chat online, or text START to 88788.

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“No, nothin’ like it before, ever.”

Her fingers tap tap tapped against the book in her hands. “I don’t like it. Daddy’s been uncomfortable around him, then I see this happen.”

You twisted your mouth. “It was an argument between siblings.”

“If it was an argument, then why didn’t I see you arguin’ back?”

Stupid, stupid idiot. It kept playing in your head, that refrain. It had a different spin than it did at first. See, at first, your brain repeated it because you’d given yourself fault for what happened, how Shane just…you don’t know what happened. But he behaved very badly.

But then, the refrain kept repeating over and over because you didn’t walk away or fight back when Shane started hurti acting like he did.

You did nothing.

It was the one thing you were not supposed to do. The thing Shane and your Mama always warned you never to do when things got scary. The thing Shane had literally just gotten done practicing with you so that you’d know even more than you already know about how and when to fight back.

All that effort and still, you froze.

Stupid, stupid idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot.

You had to clear your throat. “Beth didn’t see, too, right? Just you?” you hushed. The girl was already timid and uneasy about your group, If she saw what happened, it was the nail in the coffin if you couldn’t fix this.

“No, I was the only one by the window.”

“So he wasn’t too loud, then.” Which meant only Margaret and Dale knew. Your shoulders felt lighter.

“Y/N,” Maggie said to you. “You seem more concerned with others not seein’ what went on.”

“Well, yeah, I’m worried they’d overreact.”

She tilted her chin up and placed her hands on her hips. “Oh, is that what I’m doing? Was my comin’ to check on you an overreaction?”

“No, no, not at all!” you quickly apologized. “Not at all! I’m, I’m happy you care enough.”

“You’re a good person and you’re my friend, which is why I don’t want to tiptoe around this. What your brother just did was bad. You know that was abusive, right?”

Maybe scoffing at her heartfelt, caring statement wasn’t your best idea, but 'abusive' was such a strong word…right? “He’s my brother, and it was a one-off, I done told you.”

“I’m not sure I believe it when you say that,” she next had the audacity to claim. “You haven’t even been makin’ eye contact with me.”

Oh, you want eye contact? I’ll give you eye contact, bitch.

Your inner tea kettle was shrieking to be taken off the burner, and you could not have cared less. “You callin’ me a liar? Calling my brother an abuser? Rich words from someone I’ve barely known two weeks!”

Before any more was said, Dale inserted himself into the conversation, the thing he said he wouldn’t do. “If you want to keep your conversation private, I suggest not raising your voices.”

Maggie’s arms were crossed. She stared hard at you, but spoke calmly. “Sometimes when things are unhealthy, those looking in from the outside can see it better. And I know what I saw.”

“A sibling fight,” you whispered as gently as you could, feeling so heated. “You, you, y-you saw a sibling fight, those can get nasty.” She’s wrong, she’s wrong, she’s not, she’s not.

“You know what? I don’t have time for your pushback if you don’t have time to consider what somebody who’s concerned about you says, Y/N.”

More shame was added to your plate.

Her leaving shouldn’t have felt so awful, but it did. You covered your eyes and exhaled, as if that would help get rid of the worst of it. You then told God how much you hated this, immediately followed by the opposite, as you cursed yourself a little more, why not? You stupid, stupid idiot.

Not only did you disappoint (and insult) your new friend, but you worried it was another strike against your group. Lori and Carl need this place, it’s safe, it’s good, it’s — you stupid, stupid idiot!

But just like that, Maggie then called your name again as Dale was stepping toward you. You turned to see her facing you once more, no longer walking away.

“If this was a dating situation, what would you think about how he behaved, what he did?” she challenged.

As unfair as you thought the comparison was, the answer hit you in the face. Pun not intended, shit, um… at any rate, having Dale close by helped to ease you into the checkmate that Margaret just finished you with.

You hated your answer.

Because if you saw Shane behaving toward a romantic partner the same way he just behaved with you, you know exactly what you’d think and how you’d react. It wouldn’t be a gray situation, it would be black and white.

More shame for the plate. More guilt. More unease, more dread.

Eyes to the grass, you swallowed your pride. “I’d see it the way you see it.”

Maggie shifted her weight from the right to left, then back again, uncertain. “Will you tell Rick?”

You hesitated, too. After all, you’re an adult. You could be married with children at your age, you couldn’t just—“Tattle that Shane…got huffy, lost his cool?”

“Don’t oversimplify, kiddo, you’re smarter than that,” Dale muttered. He and Shane don’t get on (zero idea why, since Dale and you get on so well!) so this is just more bad press against your brother and more shame for your plate.

“But it’s, it’s not that dramatic, none of this has to be dramatic,” you insisted.

Dale answered again. “Then talking to Rick about it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Rick’s family,” Maggie agreed. “So, he’s seems like the best person to help.”

A child in a grown-up’s body is what you felt like. Helpless, naïve, clueless. You stupid, stupid idiot.

They were right, though, Rick could fix this, he could talk to Shane, figure out what that was. And even better — agreeing with Maggie and Dale would get them off your back! For real, what were they doing, an intervention? Because Shaney poked you a little, gave you a little push?

The words felt sinful, but you said them anyway.“I-I’ll, um, I’ll talk to him. I’ll talk to Rick.” And, of course, you were then obligated because you despise dishonesty.

Maggie nodded, then put her thumbs in her pockets. Dale nodded and looked at the two of you, then all around. It was very uncomfortable.

It would be nice if instead of real life, this was a TV show or book, you remember thinking. The audience isn’t usually shown the awkward parts in TV or books, would be a waste of time.

“Y/N,” Maggie spoke, breaking the silence. “We have a raspberry thicket by the south-facing property line.” She pointed in the direction. “Completely overgrown. I’m gonna go back in, finish what I was doin’, but let’s go pick some together later, okay? I’ll come find you in a little while?” She smiled hopefully at you, with some pity thrown in.

Returning the smile, you hoped it made you look put-together and self-aware and confident instead of the shameful, idiotic mess you felt like. “That sounds delicious.”

The moment ended, and she went back toward the house. You heard the door open and clack shut again. A desk onto which you could slam you head would be nice, you remembered thinking.

Instead of a desk, though, Dale put a gentle hand on your shoulder.

He sighed. “Alright, troublemaker. Walk with me? We don’t have to talk, let’s enjoy the sunset awhile.”

Not two steps later, and he apologized for his timing in using the nickname that one month ago he’d christened you with. “And Y/N? What Shane did isn’t your fault.”

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Him

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Today marks one week of being stuck in this bed. Day 7.

He’d failed, that’s it. A weak-ass pussy dipshit who’d failed, and was still stuck in a damned bed after a full week.

Tomorrow, Patricia said he’d be cleared to move out. Not that it mattered much, he still couldn’t do enough to be useful. Not that he wouldn’t; he couldn’t. He’d still be on bed rest.

But hey, at least he’d be able to walk to the woods to find a place to squat and shit by himself now, right? Not even too sarcastic, it would be a step up from feeling like a total invalid.

Carol and Lori were doing a special dinner and cleaning up for the family here to try and thank them for everything. Daryl would just…lay in his bed, he figured. Except, all three of those clucking hens that he wished would stop preening him, Patricia, Carol, and Y/N, kept offering to help him eat with everyone else like they was all some big, happy, family.

This time, it wasn’t that he couldn’t; he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to face them all, not yet, it was too much. He could only take a certain level of shame, and his plate was already full.

The saving grace this past week that stopped him from drowning in his shame was his not seeing the whole kit and kaboodle of them in one sitting. Rick had told him a little over a week ago how it was no problem if Daryl left. Just Daryl, he’s pretty sure nobody else got that little talk.

He’d chosen to stay because of Sophia and Y/N. Sophia needed finding. Still does.

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You

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Carl is the kind of kid who’s double-digits, yet understands when his mother needs her baby again. Lori had snuggled with him on the bed, and both were sound asleep. Not even you knocking on the door or the door being opened/shut woke them.

Which must be why last night, Rick took the opportunity to bring up what Shane did, right there in the room.

It was a blessing that you didn’t end up having to do the hardest part, bringing it up, you suppose. Shane himself had done it for you. All you had to do was fill in the blanks.

“Said he lost control, acted a certain way,” Rick murmured. “What’d that look like?”

You didn’t want to describe it, it’d sound bad… “Shane didn’t say?”

“I’m interested in what you say.”

“Ah, you want to maintain ‘eyewitness sequeskra — eesh, that’s hard to pronounce. Se-quest-ra-tion?”

Rick did that raised brow squint thing he makes when he’s teasing, as if maybe he was about to call you ‘weirdo.’ But then, his expression faded back to serious and he spoke your name. “We both know he hasn’t been himself. What did that look like today?”

Casually, you told him about the way Shane had gotten intimidating. “You know how he’d talk when he needed to do ‘bad cop,’ it was, it was kinda like that.”

“Anything physical?”

Casually, you mentioned the jabs. “He was pokin’, like, with his pointer finger — and he’s strong, so.”

“Right there?” Rick asked, pointing to his sternum in mimic of how you’d gestured.

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a bruise?”

Your neck tightened.

Maggie had spotted it when you were berry picking. One had fallen down your shirt, so you’d pulled the fabric forward and down to retrieve it, and she (and you) saw the bruise forming. You stupid, stupid idiot.

It was fine, it wasn’t a big deal. Bruises happen.

Casually, you joked to Rick, “I get bruises from random shit all the time.”

He didn’t smile.

It actually lessened the shame, rather than adding more. You were grateful.

Continuing, he questioned, “He told me about that collarbone grab, and how he went like this?” And when he motioned with his hand, slowly pretending to clap it against the side of your head, you felt your cheeks heat.

“Once.” The insult he’d smacked you with at the same time hurt more, to be honest. Which…made it all click that what Shane did wasn’t as small a deal as you’d been thinking. Mouth shut, you licked your teeth and stared into space. “Did it to himself first, way more than once.”

Rick watched his wife and son sleeping on the bed and asked nothing more for a few minutes.

You picked at the string that stuck out of your arm wrap, feeling stupid, stupid, stupid, shameful, stupid. Per usual, then you missed your mom—and out of nowhere got swept by that flash flood of resentment toward Rick again.

Shane and you had left your mother alone to scope out the latest at the hospital, to figure out how to get Rick safely out without him decompensating. While you two were gone, what happened happened. Sometimes, you assign blame to Rick for it, as if comatose Rick was the reason your ma got killed. Sometimes, you assign her dying to Shane’s change in character, as if that made it better, gave it an excuse.

Grief gets sticky like that.

“Is that all, or is there any more?”

“He went like this,” you mumbled, and grabbed the neck of your shirt like Shane had. “That’s it, all the dirt. Happy?”

“Y/N.”

“…Sorry.”

“I know this wasn’t easy. Thank you,” he told you, putting his arm on your shoulder. You didn’t want it there, so you moved away. Rick was patient, not reacting a bit.

That was last night. This morning felt pretty normal when you woke up. Carol had shared your tent again. Shane was off in his, so you didn’t see him.

Coffee in hand, you were in in the middle of coaxing one of the pullets to waddle toward you by holding out dandelion leaves when Glenn came to see you. You’d figured he wanted to feed the baby chickens, too, or, even better, that there was good news about Maggie. (She likes him!, she told you herself the other day. She just isn’t telling, you know, Glenn himself just yet.)

“Y/N? How are you?”

“I’m warmed up good with my coffee, how about you? Sleep well?” You kept your smile in when you asked, “Talk to Maggie today?”

“Yeah, yeah, I slept fine, yeah, but, um—you’re like, okay, though?”

A flutter of dread. “Glenn, what’s up?”

“What did Shane do to you yesterday? I heard him—”

“—What did you hear, and from whom?” reverberated from the back of your throat as if it were a growl.

“Dude, chill. I’m trying to see if you’re okay.”

The way you tried to keep your voice calm ended up sounding snotty and insincere. Most likely because you were feeling very insincere. How many people saw or heard about what happened? Naked, you felt so naked and exposed! “Where. Did. You. Hear about it?”

“I heard your brother talking to Rick.”

The twist in your gut eased. “Okay, um, um — what did he, w-what, um, what did he, what did he say?” And how did you hear, do they know you heard?”

“I had the headphones in, but the battery died on your mp3 while I was going to the bathroom—”

“—Daryl has the mp3,” you thought aloud.

“He let T-Dog borrow it, who let me borrow it. I-I ate something that didn’t agree with me, so…”

Oh my ffing — “Did you sanitize it when you were done?”

“Dabbed it with hand sanitizer, yeah. Oh, also, Shane asked me to ask you if he could borrow it once it was charged again.” Glenn scratched his neck. “I told him it was on really low battery.”

You swallowed.“So he did see you?”

“He and Rick saw me with the earbuds on and I acted surprised to see them.Shane asked if he could borrow it, I told him it needed to be charged, um, hey, I can see it in your face that you’re worried, please don’t be! Shane believed me,” he assured you. “Trust me, he doesn’t know I heard him. I don’t lie, Y/N, you know that.”

“I do,” you admitted, nodding.

“Anyway, I was walking back from the woods and heard Shane and Rick talking. I figured it was about Sophia, but when I overheard something Shane said, I stopped and listened.” Glenn bent his head down and shuffled his feet. “He said that he messed up, like, snapped. Told Rick that he needed to talk to you and be on your side with whatever you told him. Y/N, he said that he,” your friend lowered to a whisper, “hurt you? Like literally ‘hurt’ you, like, did he hit you?”

You smiled to put him at ease, holding up your hands. “He poked me a little and clapped an ear, weren’t hardly no thing.” Y/N, you stupid, stupid, idiot.

It was probably good that he looked so disappointed and cautious, even if it didn’t feel good to see it in his eyes at the time. “Y/N, don’t…joke about this stuff,” he began. “Why would Shane would have gone to Rick in private if it wasn’t serious?”

“’Cause he’s a drama-king.” You made it sound almost like you were patronizing Glenn, the way you said it.

“No. No, this isn’t ‘no thing,’ you literally just confessed he did hit you — does Rick know about that, too? Shane mentioned something about a collarbone, grabbing your shirt, and shoving you, which is also not ‘no thing.’”

As he was speaking, you’d felt more and more defensive and naked and ashamed. You even had to beat down the urge you had to grab his shirt and shove him back, and prove it wasn’t a big deal!

Then, you considered how he’d take it. The look on his face, at a friend doing that to him. How you’d feel about yourself if you did that. How you’d feel if you saw somebody else do that to him or somebody else. A whole lot of rapid thoughts in the several moments where you figured out a way to respond.

The explanation you made was something you’d tried on everyone so far. “We’re siblings. Stuff like that is normal — did you never see your sisters go at it?”

“No, it’s not! And if it is, it shouldn’t be! Dude, if you saw me,” he countered, speaking louder than you’d heard him make since he cried that the bodies of those at the quarry camp weren’t going to be burned with the walkers. “Doing whatever Shane did with you to one of my younger sisters, what would you think of me? How would you react?”

Glenn’s strong emotional response wasn’t expected, so you stood there, dumb. And you knew exactly how you’d react if you saw him doing to his sisters what Shane did.

And yet, you’re still unsure if everyone else is overreacting because it sounded bad or because it actually was.

Either way, Glenn’s question raised your white flag for you. You surrendered, bowing you head in shame and covering your face with your free hand.

“Glenn, there are three other people who know. Four, if you count Shane.” With your injured arm still secured by the upper arm to your torso, you pointed at him. “Dale, Maggie, and Rick know. Which means already there are three others who know. Now, Glenn, don’t go spreadin’ this business any further, hear?”

You didn’t sound half as intimidating as the words may look, mostly you sounded defeated. Ashamed. “Talk to any one of them, talk to me, but do not breathe a word to, to anybody else or around anybody else.”

This is the part where you started to get a little weepy. “And Lori, she don’t need to know about this right now, she don’t need the stress, and not a word around my Carl, oh my gosh, not him.” This is the part where you got a little beg-gy. “Please. It, it ain’t a bad secret because those that need to know, know. Okay?”

The gavel was brought down when he said, “The way you’re scared of the others finding out makes it seem like a bad one.” He was right. Is right.

He then clasped his hands together. “Listen: I wasn’t about to tell anyone else, since Rick knows. Shane told him himself, dude, and I trust Rick. But, if it was a different case,” he went on, and shook his head as if he was telling you that all bets would be off. “Y/N, remember when Ed was around? How that felt? Dude, you literally threw yourself on him when you saw him hurt Carol.”

The comparison of your brother to Ed Peletier stung and wasn’t fair. And did Glenn forget what Shane did to Ed, to? “Glenn, that ain’t equivalent by any stretch.”

“Maybe not,” he accepted. “But just because it could be worse doesn’t make it not bad. Stuff like this starts small.”

“I know,” you whispered.

You raised the white flag higher, half with the plea that this would be over faster if you did. Lord above, you felt so small, stupid, and defenseless. “You’re right,” you ceded, your gaze reaching no higher than Glenn’s belly. “You’re right. And like you said, it’s, it’s b-bein’ handled, Rick’s got it.” Ugh, stress stutter. “And Shane did a much better job than me when he saw what Ed did, don’t leave out that part.”

“He did. That almost worries me more. Just — if anything like this happens again, or if it starts to feel the same, like — ” He raised his hands. “You’re my best friend. That means I’m on your team. Okay? Even if you end up hating me for it.” He then started to leave, give you some space. “We’re on the same search team today, too. Meet by the mailbox by 9:00, it’s in like 40 minutes.”

“Hey, wait,” you called, not wanting to look him in the eye yet but doing it anyway. And you forced the words out because they were true. “Th-thank you.”

He breathed out heavily and made an awkward (but real) smile.“I love you, dude.”

“I love you, too, man. You’re my best friend.”

The uncomfortable, clumsy encounter with Glenn left you feeling more ashamed than you already were. With Daryl, that day where you’d felt as if your very soul had been stripped bare, the vulnerability hadn’t felt shameful afterward. What you’d felt was so close, unbearably close, it was strange.

But yesterday evening and this morning, the vulnerability sucked, dude. And you’d been stuck in a cycle of shame, anger, and feeling stupid, but without those feelings going away once the truth let out.

The good thing was, the target of your anger began to change during the conversation with Glenn. You weren’t thinking stupid, stupid idiot about yourself anymore, no, it became directed at Shane. The one whose blowing up made this mess. Your view of the mess also became clearer. What happened wasn’t just one sibling bullying a little on the other and it getting out-of-hand it was…it wasn’t something to brush aside, you’ll say that. And you’re scared, you’ll say that, too.

But what you were supposed to do with all of it, that still wasn’t clear.

Still isn’t. Because sooner than later, Shane will know about the baby. Sooner rather than later, the situation with Sophia will end. Sooner rather than later, that little power struggle you’re seeing between him and Rick will come to a head.

Nope. You have no idea what to do and all you feel is shame about it.

Speaking of, Daryl’s been feeling ashamed, too, it’s kinda obvious when you look and talk to the guy. He thinks that because he’s bedbound, he’s useless. Might as well pop in before you go on the search this morning, you’ve got like 15 minutes until then.

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Him

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“Last day in this fine establishment, enjoy it while you can,” Y/N joked.

Yeah, so, he wasn’t in a joking mood and didn’t get why Y/N would be, either. An entire week in this ‘establishment’ was damned shameful. All because he stole (worse, Y/N had told him more than once not to do it) borrowed a horse that got spooked. A dumbass slip and fall. Twice.

If Sophia wasn’t found, it was on his hands.

“Did Carol convince you to come to dinner, yet? Or are you still feelin’ too poorly?”

“Just stop.” He wanted to be left alone, was that so fucking complicated?

And he wanted out of this fucking bed, out of this room, out of this house, off this shit farm, and away from this whole gaggle of dumb fucks.

He wanted Merle back. He wanted Uncle Jesse back.

…He just wanted Sophia back. He'd even prayed about it.

“Sorry, little man, not now. Yeah, nah, he needs some privacy and quiet,” Daryl then heard from out in the hallway.

The door was already closed. He didn’t even hear it shut.

“No, his head is still okay, Carl, his cognition is prolly better than the two of us put together. The man’s healin’ well, thanks be to God,” Y/N cheerfully chirped like a songbird. "Wanna visit the baby chicks again?"

More shame slithered on over, hissing at him for how he’d been a dick to Y/N, of all people.

Daryl tried to rub his chest to get rid of the tugging feeling in Y/N’s direction while trying to shut up the voice in his head that was screaming for a goddamn cigarette so he could smoke and dig the lit end into his skin.

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You

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So, that was a bust. Daryl kinda snapped at you. It sucked. Felt really awful, not gonna lie. First your brother, now the mangy hick.

Come to think of it, it's actually more on brand for Daryl to have done that, given you literally just referred to him as ‘mangy hick.’

Ugh, you wanna cry again. You wanna run back to Dale the way a little kid runs to their dad. Maybe this time you'd also run into a desk to slam your head against on the way?

Later would have to suffice for finding that desk, however, because now, there’s work to do.

“Aight, let’s roll. We’re headin’ south, looking around a small neighborhood. Tomorrow, Shane and Andrea will be hitting what we don’t cover,” T-Dog announces. “Ready to head out, y’all?”

“Head on back to your ma, okay?” you tell Carl, pecking a kiss on his head and patting your finger along the chick he's still carrying. Carl had walked you to the mailbox, it's his third and probably last ‘big trip’ of the day. He’s wearing Shane’s police baseball hat. “See you later, punk, I love you."

“Yeah, man, all set. Bye, Carl.” Glenn stands up from his crouched position by the mailbox where he was waiting.

You adjust the first aid kit in your backpack, then ease it on and snap the chest clip in place. “Ready, Teddy.”

T-Dog rubs his hands together. “Then let’s roll. See if we can’t bring Sophia back for this big dinner her mama’s got planned tonight.”

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-> Masterlist link here <-

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@spenciepoo338 ; @its-freaking-bats ; @whistlesalot ; @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer ; @dreamingaboutthewonderland ; @kwazii-kat ; @darylsmavis ; @outlanderhornet22 ; @battinsonrobs ; @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable ; @writingmybeloved ; @boomergirl123 ; @iheartathena0 ; @moonliight-luv ; @suniloli ; @supernaturalgirl02 ; @cnake-garden ; @daryldixmedown ; @sophehe ; @crashlyrose ; @virgo-sunflower920 ; @jennythe ; @theficbaker ; @vampireautism ; @rosetta196 ; @wifeof-barnes

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baldswagsummit2023 · 1 year

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ROUND 1: CHOOSE YOUR BALDIE

#baldpoll #mr clean #t dog #twd #the walking dead #amc twd #twd amc #theodore douglas

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sarcasmchandlerbing · 1 year

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The Walking Dead characters collages pt. 1

(In order: Carl, Rick & Lori Grimes, Duane Jones, Jim, Jacqui, Amy, Sophia Peletier, Morales, Merle Dixon, Edwin Jenner, Guillermo, Glenn Rhee, Andrea, Dale Horvath, Carol Peletier, Daryl Dixon, Maggie Rhee/Greene, T-Dog (Theodore Douglas), Morgan Jones, Shane Walsh, Beth Greene, Michonne, Hershel Greene, Dale, Otis, Patricia, Axel, Oscar, Tomas)

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joseefinwrites · 2 years

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watching the walking dead for the 444525848th time, and i am still pissed and salty about t-dog dying every fucking time

#the walking dead #the walking dead spoilers #theodore douglas #i loved t-dog sm

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cacker01 · 10 months

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supercalifragipopculturevomit · 2 months

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The Alienist 1.4 (2018) Daniel Brühl as Dr. Laszlo Kreizler

Film stills from "These Bloody Thoughts".

#the alienist #film stills #daniel brühl #laszlo kreizler #sara howard #dakota fanning #john moore #luke evans #caleb carr #Brian Geraghty #Theodore Roosevelt #Douglas Smith #Marcus Isaacson #Matthew Shear #Lucius Isaacson #tv show #These Bloody Thoughts #my edits

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capturethemomentsblog · 10 months

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My Salinger Year（2020）

dir. Philippe Falardeau

#my salinger year #films #movies #screenshots #movie frames #screencaps #2020s films #2020s #Philippe Falardeau #margaret qualley #sigourney weaver #douglas booth #theodore pellerin

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atruthwebothknow · 1 year

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Main characters introduced in Season One of The Walking Dead. (2/2)

#the walking dead #twd #season one #carl grimes #daryl dixon #carol peletier #Amy harrison #Theodore (t-dog) Douglas #morgan jones #merle dixon #character portrait

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leonratart · 1 year

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Some of my headcanon designs

#unwell podcast #unwell #unwell fanart #Abbie Douglas #Lily Harper #Rudy Peltham #Theodore Wesley #Silas Lodge #all the names are spelled wrong

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antebellumite · 11 months

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Antebellum Peeps ( TM ) As Dogs

some people and dogs were not included. include more at your leisure..

Albert Gallatin is a Labrador Retriever. He's smart, resourceful, basic, but he also gives very reasonable person vibes, even if he can feel a little boring at times. Still, that complete uninterestingness is what makes him special.

Samuel Howe is a Schnauzer. He's caring, social, protective of what he cares about for as long as he cares about it, AND I have never seen another dog that looks as much like a misogynist than schnauzers do. I like to think the ears and muzzle hair also fit him.

William Lloyd Garrison is a Doberman. He's proud, looks intimidating at first, and doesn't forget or forgive easily. He's also noble, and is just generally popular and well known. You can always depend on him to do what's right, even if its not exactly what you want him to do. This applis for Garrison as a dog breed, but also for him as a human being.

Floride Calhoun is a Chow Chow. She's high strung, bites strangers, and judges and ranks everyone based on their usefulness and importance to her. Her immediate instinct upon meeting someone in need of help is to first consider prosletization ( TM ) and when that person inevitably dies, she says its great that they converted to Christianity before they passed away ( what the FUCK Floride ). Both of these are very Chow Chow behaviors.

Thomas Benton is a Rottweiler. Like a doberman, but more stocky, Benton is courageous, good-natured ( when he isn't faced with Clay, Calhoun, or Foote ), and confidently self assured. He's a stereotypical police dog, however... so uhhh. He is MANLY though.

Andrew Jackson is a Canary Dog in behavior and a Greyhound in physique. He is large. He engages in dogfights. He looks fast, but is actually fairly chill and doesn't mind being lazy. He could rip someone apart. He WILL rip someone apart. He drools. He contains multitudes.

Benjamin Brown French is a Goldendoodle. Like a goldendoodle, French was created upon this Earth for one purpose. For a goldendoodle, that purpose was to remind mankind of their hubris. For French, it was to be the guiding voice of The Field of Blood. Both of them are lovable and funny unique abominations in the worst/best way.

Charles Sumner is an Akita. A very sleep deprived Akita with heart issues. He is very strong, large, bear-like, and could probably take down a tank if he could. Like an Akita, though, Sumner is long-lasting and has a thick skin! Metaphorically.

Harriet Martineau is a Papillon. She's very intelligent, petite, friendly, and has a much smaller stature than most of the other dogs on here, and despite not being American, is actually much more well-educated about American politics than actual Americans! She is also tiny but gives an air of great dignity and royal elegance as well a cuteness.

Julia Howe is a Wetterhoun. She's a water dog, with a natural talent, and despite being fairly reserved, gets along well with other people. She also has a strong will and won't back down from a challenge and is actually way more tolerant than most other people around her notice or give her credit for.

Daniel Webster is a Mastiff. Like a Mastiff, Daniel Webster is SCARY HUGE, has a reputation as being noble and almightly, and is the perfect fighting dog ( in terms of debate ). They both reportedly have the exact same mouth shape. He's also not easily provoked, similar to the Mastiff, and is pretty docile and domesticated when it really comes down to it.

Harriet Beecher Stowe is a German Shepherd. She's willing to learn, incredibly curious, smart and she's actually competant at what she sets out to do. Stowe, also like a german shepherd, is a very recognizable kind of figure, just like how german shepherds are recognizable dog breeds.

John Calhoun is a Border Collie. He, like a Border Collie, is terrifyingly smart. As in, smart enough to be ranked first in The Intelligence of Dogs. He's also adaptable ( to changes in political climate ) and great at herding ( his colleagues to secessionist ideals ), like a border collie.

Jefferson Davis is a Skye Terrier. He only ever had one person he actually loved ( his first wife ), and never moved on after her death. Like a Skye Terrier, he gives off large amounts of old man energy. He had some pretty funky facial hair too once you stop and think about it. I also think it's funny how I'm assigning Davis a super tiny dog when in real life he was like Abraham Lincoln's hight.

John Quincy Adams is a Shiba Inu. He is BOLD and ridiculously PROUD and incredibly CLEAN and GRUMPY and INDEPENDENT and UNHAPPY and DIGNIFIED and ALOOF and THERE IS LITERALLY NO OTHER DOG THAT FITS JQA MORE.

William Seward is a Siberian Husky. Seward, similar to a Husky, is stubborn, clever, capable, and despite having great intentions, does tend to have some odd ideas at times. They're both also dogs that are instantly recognizable on sight, and have something to do with Alaska.

John Randolph is a Pug. He is a pug. He just is. His health issues are infinite. He looks hideous. He is tiny. He vibrates with rage at any given moment. Every noise that he makes only alienates him more. He is such a pug I genuinely can't imagine him as anything else, even before he contracted tuberculosis.

Rachel Donelson Jackson is a Bichon. She just wants to live her life, and move on, similar to a Bichon's passive nature. Small, chill, going with the flow. I can't explain it any better than just saying that she and Bichons share the same vibes.

Nicholas Biddle is a Pomeranian. He's tiny and extroverted and happy and friendly and lively and playful! He also loves being in the center of attention like any other pomeranian. Both Biddle and Pomeranians have fantastic hair and are always alert about changes in their enviroment, and aren't afraid to challenge others. Often to their own detriment.

Mary Todd Lincoln is a West Highland White Terrier. Like a West Highland White Terrier, Mary Lincoln is tiny, and has a temper that can vary wildly depending on what's going on and who she's with. She hates being roughhandled and is normally assured, stubborn and self-confident. Normally.

Louisa Adams is a Pitbull. She's intelligent, trustworthy, kindhearted, and genuinely a good person even if it might not seem like that at first. She enjoys taking humorous situations literally, or at least with tongue in cheek, and if you wrong her she will not let it go. She's also a pretty medium-sized figure, both in society and as a dog.

Abraham Lincoln is a Great Dane. Because TALL politicians mean TALL dogs. Yet, despite being an imposing figure, he's genuinely firendly and is incredibly loving and devoted towards others, including strangers and especially children! He's just in general laidback, but make no mistake, can definately become dangerous if you provoke him.

Henry Clay is a Collie. His defining feature is that he's sensitive and keenly aware of other's emotions, as well as very goal-oriented and is terrified of any prospect of failure on his part. He can be " single-minded to the point of obsessiveness." And like a certain other collie on this list, Clay is also great at herding people towards desired politics.

Fanny Longfellow is a Golden Retriever. She's gentle, smart, affectionate, adorable, and is incredibly tolerant of outsiders. Her friendliness is the stuff of legfends, and she was incredibly popular and well known ( although not very much today ). She'll gladly pull others into her family, and she just gives really shiny Good Vibes.

Stephen Douglas is a Jack Russel Terrier. He has a bite that's ten times larger than his size and is very, very, fearlessly, active. If left bored or unhappy, Douglas will do great damage, like kickstarting Bloody Kansas. He is literally the Jack Russel Terrorist if left ot his own devices.

Margaret Bayard Smith is a Cardigan Welsh Corgi. She's very loyal, devoted, and surprisingly responsible. She has hidden insecurities and despite what others might see as drawbacks, she has shown her effectiveness, intelligence, and presence time and time again.

Theodore Parker is a Chihuaha. He's a good guy and just wants to make sure that things turn out well for his friends and family. He's smaller than you might think he should be, but what he lacks in physical strength, he can easily make up for in bullets. He also needs serious modern medical intervention.

Martin Van Buren is a Pekingnese. He's ridiculously fancy and small. Like a Pekingnese, he's also recognizably cold and determined, and tends to manipulate those around him, and tends to be stubborn and set in his ways. Yes, he truly does seem to make his own rules on how the world works, but he makes up for it by being a dandy.

Varina Davis is a Cocker Spaniel. She is fancy and her hair is fantastic, and just in general, she gives very prestigious vibes about her. She is independent if needed, but still cares for others. Despite this, she still does have a vicious streak a mile wide.

Anna Maria Calhoun Clemson is an Australian Cattle Dog. She's a very intelligent herding dog, like her father, and closely resembles him. She can actually be pretty affectionate, but knows what she wants and definitely isn't afraid to nip people or bite to get what she wants.

Adele Douglas is a Poodle, But specifically, she's of the medium-large variety. She's larger than Stephen Douglas that's for sure. She's intelligent, fancy, traditionally feminine, and is better than you in every way. She's loyal and greatly sociable and energetic. She's protective of her family, and loves them, even after they're dead.

Anne Royall is a Keeshond. She's relatively unknown, similar to a Keeshond, and can learn very quickly. She's a quick learner, intuitive, empathetic, and very persistant in what she believes in what's right, no matter what anyone else tries to tell her.

Lucretia Clay is a Newfoundland. She's calm, motherly, supportive, and a little larger than life. Her sweet nature is her most defining trait, and has I assume fantastic hair. She also has great athletic ability, which might or might not include swimming.

Hugh Lawson White is an Afghan Hound. They're both dignified and aloof with a clownish streak and have also fantastic hair. White, like the Afghan Hound breed, is very old. Or at least, I always imagine him as being old.

Jessie Benton Fremont is an Alaskan Malamute. She was big, smart, and was often in charge, as well as being very influential. She was prominent in her day, similar to an Alaskan Malamute and both her and the breed are distinguished and recognized today. Both of them also kind of had something to do with a gold rush, one Californian, one Alaskan.

Susan B. Anthony is an Azawakh. She's independent and determined, as well as intuitive and understanding about what's going on around her, similar to an Azawakh. She's typically reserved, and while not aggressive, it does take some time and sensibility to get to know her. Like the Azawakh, they're both fast, and they both organize in groups to take down enemies.

Louisa May Alcott is a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog. She's generally happy, enthused, collected, and satisfied with what she has. She's confident in nature and works well with children and her family members. Despite this, she's also vigilant, and can be outspoken and revolutionary if you pay attention...... There are four Greater Swiss Mountain Dogs, by the way. Each one contains vaguely Alcott-like traits. Make of that what you will.

Emily Tennessee Donelson is a Borzoi. She's calm, reliable, and tends to follow others' instructions, but she's also independent and can be rebellious at times. She doesn't need you or anyone, and quite frankly, she doesn't have many strong feelings about leaving if she doesn't feel respected. I realize I am painting a very weird picture of the Donelson-Jackson family here but just listen to me ok.

Robert Hayne is a Cavelier King Charles Spaniel. He's definately not shy, adaptable, highly affectionate, playful, patient, eager to please, and both of them have a higher mortality than others. Both Hyane and the CKCS breed are both highly adorable and dandy-ish as well.

Margaret Eaton is a Basenji. She's friendly, a bit gossipy, though reserved with strangers. She cannot be trained, doesn't bark, and she and the Basenji both resemble pariahs in their lifetime. She has her own goals and wants and isn't afraid to try and reach them. Eaton also just in general feels like she'd be a sort of square, short-furred kind of dog, and I also think she doesn't like wet spaces.

Henry Longfellow is a Samoyed. He's optimistic and friendly and lovable and unique and I have an instant revulsion against using the same dog breed twice otherwise, he'd be a Golden Retriever. The Samoyed's incredibly long and poofy white coat also resembles the long beard that Longfellow developes later on in life.

Sarah Polk is a Yorkshire Terrier. Fairly humble, but still elegant, important, and an air of prominence if she feels like it. She also isn't often taken seriously, despite her genuine great advice, but that's okay, because- " if no one has my back I know GOD has my back can I GET AN AMEN???"

Elizabeth Cady Stanton is a Schipperke. She's determined, steadfast, sturdy, and like a Schipperke, is great at organizing and 'herding' people into organizing movements and the like. She's also a rarer kind of dog breed because the portraits taken of her look very prim and proper, which I'm pretty sure was all on purpose, but either ways, it still works.

Maud Howe is a Saluki. She is very freelancing, independent, and just feels like a rather creative person to be around, all of which are incredibly similar vibes to a Saluki. She's shy, but despite this is also a socialite and interacts with others, playing a part and serving in various societies to help her community. She seems like a very special person, in the end, and really does deserve to be called a special breed of dog.

Sarah Goodridge is an English Setter. She's a gentlewoman by nature, intensely friendly, and she's very active and adores visitors, as well as being sensitive to criticism. There's nothing else. Promise.

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robin-in-a-hoodie · 2 years

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So i caught up with unwell podcast. There's not nearly enough fanart for it everybody grab a pen

#i did Marisol so dirty I'm so sorry #unwell podcast #lily Harper #Dot Harper #Abby Douglas #Rudy Peltham #Theodore Wesley #Nora Tendulkar #chester warren #Marisol Cabrera #i love them your honor

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 1 year

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Spell your last name, please.

What -- Daryl's back at the Green's farm after falling down the ridge twice, hallucinating you and Merle, then making it home only to get grazed on his head by a bullet. In this chapter, he wakes up after losing consciousness. S02E05 Chupacabra

Who -- slow burn Daryl x Reader

When -- ten minutes after Daryl gets grazed by that bullet courtesy of Andrea following Invisible, tugging strings, Part 2. <- Read this chapter first!

Perspective -- 3rd person Daryl

Reader's pronouns? -- neutral again, slowpokes, they/them

TWs -- a few cusses in Daryl's perspective

How long will it take me? -- 7-10 minutes

Specific chapters to refresh your memories with -- How's your head? Part 2, Invisible tugging strings, Parts 1 -> and 2 <-

The title of this chapter is weird -- I know, y'all XD. It's in reference to a common (medical) trauma question to check cognition

Where's your Masterlist? -- official one here, chronological one here.

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for better context, reread Invisible, tugging strings, Part 2 here. It's got the word-for-word part of S02E05 Chupacabra with Merle before Daryl makes his way home and sees an angel you.

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Hm? Where in the—where is he and what’s warm stuff he just swallowed? Who the hell's this holding hi—

A bunch of voices start saying stuff, and all he sees is brightness and the outline of faces.

But there��s one, familiar voice closest to his ear that soothes, “Shh, sweetheart, you’re safe. Close your eyes awhile, it’s bright in here.”

...oh shit, is this heaven? It's real? I made it?

“Oh man, sorry,” the voice chuckles. “You’re just so hurt, pet names are floppin’ out of my mouth. Which is what some of your tea just did, too. Here, I’m gonna give you the straw. You’re in the Greene’s house.”

He starts to open his eyes again as he sips down more of the warm, peachy drink through the straw. Once he’s aware of it hitting the back of his throat, he starts to slurp it down because hot damn, he’s thirsty.

Finally, he’s able lift his eyes to see the angel his friend beside him, holding a mug.

Y/N.

“It’s from the box of peach tea we found yesterday,” Y/N happily tells him.

They look miles better than they did a few hours ago. He’s relieved.

Awareness of what’s going on and what happened snaps into gear and he tries to look behind him at his side that’d been gashed open, but doing that makes his head spin.

Also he’s—got a tube in his arm?

Y/N notices his confusion. “You need fluids, dude. Maggie suggested I rub your throat to get you take the drink down while you were half-conscious. It was workin’, too, just like for a cat. You’re on your second IV bag already, the first one went in right quick.”

Not to mention, what’s left of the peach tea in the mug is empty within seconds.

“Don’t worry, there’s more of that. You weren’t out too too long,” they mumble, setting the mug down. “We already checked you over for bites, now we’re disinfectin’ your side wound. Mr. Greene and Patricia are gonna resume that, okay? Then Maggie and I are gonna clean up your head.”

The best he can do is grunt in acknowledgement. He’s tired as fuck. Mumbling and quiet conversation fills the room.

“Daryl, spell your last name, please."

Spell his—huh? “Why’d d’you need my last name?” he slurs.

“To see how loopy you are,” Y/N dryly puts it. “I’m going to ask you to tell me the number ‘thirteen’ in a few minutes, deal? Thirteen.” They then uncap a—ha, orange gatorade? That’s their favorite—and place the straw in it and direct him to, “Hold this, drink, spell your last name for me.”

“D-I, um, X-O-N.” Ouch, his voice sounds like he gargled with pebbles. Feels like it, too.

“Did you take any kind of drug this afternoon, mushrooms?”

He makes an nuh-uh type of groan in response, and mumbles, “Tossed Merle’s hard stuff this mornin’.”

He feels whoever’s cleaning his gash pause, then continue. There’s extra hushed whispering, too.

“Th-that’s, um, very good! Ohh my.” His friend clears their throat. “So I guess we’ll only clap you in irons over charges of grand theft horse,” they snort. “Now, did you get mugged, did you fall, what happened to you out there, man?”

Whoever’s cleaning out his bolt wound, they’re pouring liquid stuff and dabbing at it, and shit it is stinging like a mother-fucker, ow!

“Rough afternoon,” he groans. Then, Daryl remembers the most important thing and slurs out a rushed, “Th’doll!” while opening his eyes again and trying to sit up. Pain stops him from moving much.

“Yes!" Y/N giggles. "Straight up, everybody here could’ve kissed you when we saw you’d found it, Daryl. Can you tell us where you found it?”

This rush of heat from outta nowhere zaps his cheeks as he rests his eyes again and relaxes down onto the pillow. “Bottom of the ridge,” he tells them.

“Clever man, you said it would be the best vantage point. Now, about those injuries, what made your afternoon ‘rough’ specifically?”

“…Fell down it.”

A small noise left Y/N’s mouth.

It's the old man’s voice who asks, “Is that how you got the wound to your side, here?”

“Happened th’first time I went down. Bolt.”

“The 'first time.' Y-you fell down it more than once? That’s—” squeaks from Y/N's mouth, then some babbling. “Oh m—does he need a traction collar or, or—”

“You said ‘bolt.’ Would that be from your crossbow?” comes the old man's voice again.

“Mm.”

“It’s remarkable the injury didn’t perforate any organs, passed clean through,” he comments. “Do you have any numbness or a tingling sensation anywhere on your appendages?”

His negative groan was hopefully sufficient. He kinda wishes he had numbness, because all he feels now is sore. It’s like he got whumped by a Mack truck.

“Tap your fingers to your thumb,” the old man then orders.

He does.

“Did any of that hurt?”

Another negative groan. He tries to shake his head, too.

A woman’s voice he’s unfamiliar with hushes, “Y/N, he’s okay for now, just keep checkin’ his cognition and feeling his head. Ears and nose, too, for fluids. Maggie, sweetpea, you check his toes for movement and sensation.”

He liked the sound of the woman’s voice. It was down-home twangy and no-nonsense, in a good way.

Now his shoes are getting untied, which must be Maggie. That’s the short-haired chick, if he’s remembering it right?

His friend sighs. “That guardian angel of yours is having a very busy day, Dary-bear.” There are some rustling noises near his head. He opens his eyes to see them pull what looks like a very skinny flashlight from the first aid bag. “I’m going to use this penlight, now. Can, um,” they pause and look around the room.

Wait, how many people are in here?

“Teddy, please hold the drink for him?” they call behind them. “Let’s get that bottle drained.”

Sure enough, T-Dog walks over from wherever he was, crouches down, and holds the bottle by Daryl’s mouth so he can sip from the straw.

“Sorry you had to wake up to all this fussin’ and chaos, man. But, you heard ’em, drink this down.”

“Wiggle your toes, please?” the short-haired chick calls, similarly twangy like the blonde woman and Y/N.

He wiggles his toes.

“Now point, then straighten your feet and toes for her,” Y/N murmurs.

He does.

“Straighten, then relax your legs if you can.”

He can, and does.

“Any of that hurt or feel tingly?”

“No,” he grunts again.

“Next, look at my nose, please,” his friend says. They guide his left hand in theirs and position it so it makes a wall between his two eyes. “Keep your hand there and repeat the months of the year. I’m going to shine this near each eye a few times, just keep starin’ at my nose while I do.”

As he recites the months in between gulps of the gatorade, he notices by the time he says “October” that he’s been staring into their eyes and at their lips instead of their nose.

When they gently take his hand and lower it back down, he gets a rush that helps him feel more awake.

“Now let’s have the months backwards,” they instruct.

He does his best.

“Let me know if you feel anythin’ off,” the blonde older lady says to Y/N. “I’ll palpate when you’re done.”

“Yes, ma’am. Okay, please tell me what memory came into your head when you saw the orange sports drink,” Y/N asks him next, their hands lightly pressing around his head, almost in a massage type of way. He doesn’t know what it is or why they are doing it, or why he isn’t flinching at someone touching him, but here he is. It feels really nice—OW!—except that spot didn’t feel as nice, that hurt!

“I, um,” he croaks. For real, his voice croaked. Rough afternoon. “It’s your favorite.” He rests his eyes again and remembers how Y/N’s floppy sandals squeaked as they’d walked to the wash area together. He’d been holding their bucket. That memory helps him relax more…

“You rememb—um, y-yeah, it’s my—sorry, you remembered that?”

“Give the man credit, Y/N,” T-Dog says under his breath in a way that sounds like he’s joking.

“Theodore,” they whisper back. “He’ll think you’re serious.”

Daryl isn’t sure what that was about, his eyes are still closed and heavy.

Y/N clears their throat. “Anyway, here I thought you’d just mention that you’d given me a bottle, friend. Um, ten points if you can state the name of the generic gatorade?”

T-Dog has tapped him with the straw to get him to drink more, so he opens his eyes and manages a grunt in response while he sips, then closes them again.

“Eh, you’re right, that’d be a stretch even if you didn’t just go through the wringer. It was Sportsman’s Signature Electrolyte Rehydration Beverage,” Y/N fills him in. “Now, I’m gonna check both nostrils and both ears for stuff coming out them, just bear with me, I’m usin’ a gauze square for it, I’ll be poking it into those places. How about you remind me the name of your favorite uncle.”

“Uncle Jesse,” is his answer before Y/N even finishes saying ‘uncle.’ The tickling feeling of the gauze in his nose almost makes him sneeze, then the feel of it in his ears is just uncomfortable.

At least his eyelids and his body don’t feel as heavy as before.

He open his eyes again. Sees Y/N is scribbling something down in a notebook.

“And what number did I ask you to remember, sweetheart?” Y/N checks. “Ugh, there I go with the pet names again. Sorry, honey, ain’t nothing, please tell me what that number was?”

Number? Number, um, uh, honey…um…three…thirteen. “Thirteen.”

“High-five, perfect recall!”

He finds himself tapping his palm to theirs and almost smiling.

Whatever they’re talking about now, though, is going right over his head. He’s gonna rest his eyes again…

“GCS is a solid 14, I think? He’s oriented, it’s just takin’ him slightly longer to get his words. Long term recall was good, short term he passed, too. Seems like he’s wakin’ up. What’s your take, Miss Patricia? Do y’all even use GCS in real life?”

“Ain’t heard ‘GCS’ since workin’ third shift ER for my first job. Oh, that was years ago,” came the twangy woman’s voice. “But it’s used a whole lot. 14 means he’s doin’ pretty good now. We’ll check it again later, I’ll teach you all about RLA scoring.”

“What’s RLA stand for?”

“Rancho Los Amigos, right?” is what Daryl thinks he hears T-Dog answer, but it makes zero sense so he must’ve heard wrong. “A few buddies of mine got concussions back in the day,” T-Dog explains, but it still doesn’t make sense. He opens his eyes as if that’ll clear things up.

Lucky for him, his friend repeats “Rancho-Los-Amigos?” which really is the damn name, the woman assures them both.

Daryl tries to look back again to see his gash. He doesn’t feel as dizzy as bef—where’s his shirt?

His pulse starts to pound in his ears.

He’s got no shirt on. In front of all these people?

Cold chills and a hot waves pelt through him at the same time. If, if his shirt if off and all these people are in here, that means they saw it. His back.

“Please stop trying to twist around,” comes the voice of the old man from behind him. “The wound is clotted and I want it to remain that way before I stitch you up.”

Y/N chirps in like an oblivious damn canary before he has a chance to react or think. “Oh, Daryl, would you mind if I watched? I wanna see it done as much as I can so I can learn.”

Turns out, this was a good thing. Him not being able to react to realizing he’s got no shirt on gave him time to see that a clean towel was bunched around his stomach, as well as positioned over his back shoulder; most of him is covered.

He’s shirtless, yeah, but covered.

And he now sees that his position on the bed means that, although the door is behind him, he’s blocked by the angle and by the blonde woman with the twangy voice and the old man.

“You just paled like you seen a ghost. Brother, you feeling okay?” T-Dog whispers.

Daryl meets his eyes for a second. How is he supposed to admit to not wanting anyone to see him without his shirt without sounding like some priss?

It’s just that—he’s shit at lying and the scars he’s got are kinda obvious. He’d tried to lie to a doctor once about it, the guy saw right through it. Daryl had been over 18 by then, so none of that CPS stuff happened, but still. The look on the doctor’s face made him feel like some pitiful kid and it made him feel small and weak and like he’d done something wrong.

“Y/N, can you check his blood pressure?”

It’s pointless for Daryl to try to say it was nothing, because Y/N was beside him again and pumping up that cuff thing within half a damned minute. He ends up officially meeting the owner of the twangy, no-nonsense voice, too. Patricia.

“He’s 108 over 64, Miss Patricia. That’s good, though, not too low. Oh.” Y/N’s face drops and they pause removing the cuff. “But he is a smoker, d-do you think that means it’s-it’s too low? I-I don’t know his baseline! Honey, what’s your baseline?”

“Daryl, spell that last name again for me?” the woman asks, and way calmer than Y/N.

He spells it again. “D-I-X-O-N.”

“14 times 2 is?”

“Uh, it’s, uh 28.”

“Five squared is?”

Squared is multiplying a number by itself, so…“25.”

“Your older brother’s name was?”

‘Was?’ What does she mean ‘was?’

He perks all the way up, and with a vengeance. “His name still is Merle,” he pretty much snarls back. Merle ain’t dead.

The woman makes a one-sided smile at Y/N and T-Dog with a brow raised. “He’s definitely awake now, doin’ just fine. Hersh, I’m gonna check his skull for any issues, then let’s double check if he’s got spinal damage. Did you check his nose and ears for CSF, Y/N?”

“He’s clean.”

“Anythin’ feel off on his head?”

“Some goose eggs, especially by this area here.” Daryl feels the warmth from Y/N’s hand as it hovers over the area he’d winced at. Their fingers trail along his hair for a sec, if he didn't just imagine that... “But no wiggly bits or step-off. His pupils were good.”

“After I get a good feel for his skull and neck, Maggie and Y/N, please give his hair a quick wash before cleaning and bandaging his graze. Then which of us is gonna stitch him up, you or me, Hersh?”

“I think Mr. Dixon here would prefer fewer people in here. I’ll do it.”

Those words are music to Daryl’s ears. So many damn people fussing over nothing. Patricia is done checking his skull or whatever, now she's poking around his neck.

“How many people are in here, anyway?” he asks whoever will answer.

“Mr. Greene, Patricia, Maggie, T-Dog, Rick, and me. Carol, Lori, Shane, Andrea, Dale and Glenn and Jimmy are out in the hallway,” Y/N tells him. "Carl's still in bed, of course, so Beth's with him."

…The whole group? Even the teenage kid?

What’s he supposed to, um…why the hell are they all crowding around and waiting? For him?

The old man saves his ass again. “Let’s leave dressing his head wound until after he’s stitched up. Everyone out, please.”

The name Sophia pops into the forefront of this thoughts. If they all acted fast, maybe she could be back by tomorrow morning! “I gotta talk to Rick.”

The old man's fuse is low, that’s obvious. “You’re the patient,” he responds.

“Then Y/N, you can stay, too,” is not what Daryl expects would next leap out of his mouth like a frog over hot tar, but there it goes. They wanted to learn, the old man better let them.

Weird part is, he understands that in offering that they stay, Y/N is definitely, 100% going to see the scars if they’ll be watching him get stitched…he doesn’t know, it’s just weird; he doesn’t have any kind of dread or nothing in the pit of his stomach about it. It's better when they're around.

He looks at them for a second, a bloody rag in their hand that they're back to pressing to his head. There's one, little tug to his chest in their direction, then it's gone.

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