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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 2 months

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Stuck in a damn bed.

What -- Daryl's bedbound and stuck that way recovering for longer than he wants. He's not a fan.

When -- after supper following the chapter That's it. In the show, it is in season 2 following the events of Chupacabra. Note that the Slowpoke Series is canon-compliant, but you'll notice a more realistic recovery time has been portrayed than was able to be shown the TV series.

Relationships -- slow burning Reader x Daryl, but Carol's season 2 crush is coming out.

TWs -- some language and unexpected familial abuse

Pronouns -- she/her

How long is it? -- there hasn't been a new chapter in over a month, y'all...

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

There's a part in the story with abuse by a family member (domestic violence). It's not reader being beaten in the way one might imagine abuse, but it's still abuse.

If you're being hurt by a loved one irl, 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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Day 1 of being stuck in a damn bed

later

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Carol brought him supper. Eggs and field greens with crackers and beans. She’d brought breakfast and lunch to him, too. Stayed this time, though.

She ate mostly in silence with him but told him about the day. When she was done eating, she went back to mending a torn shirt she’d brought with.

Sophia wasn’t brought back today.

The whole truckload of these asshats that he’s been sticking with for way too long and for who-knows-why — couldn’t find that woman’s little girl after an entire day of searching the grid he slashed in half? Goddamned bullshit.

Yet, when two of those 'asshats,' Y/N and Patricia, came in to bring him a nighttime dose of painkillers and do another exam, he couldn’t find the words to ask Y/N anything about it. He didn’t feel all pissed and upset anymore, either.

Couldn’t make eye contact much with her just yet, granted. Still felt all stupid nervous.

Ain’t nothing he could do about it for now, his soul got stripped bare with Y/N’s yesterday. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t think of Y/N as stupid. Or Carol, that lady wasn’t stupid.

Hell, maybe no one in his group was, maybe it was just that he was heartbroke about that poor lost girl and in way too much pain.

Y/N was honest and spoke plainly about the situation, which was a welcome relief from how others were getting closed-lipped about it. “Today was so damned disappointing,” she muttered. “Twelve of us took turns goin’ out in teams, man, scoured the grid you narrowed down. Then we went beyond it when we still didn’t find…” After a few moments, she sat up straighter, adjusting the sling on her injured side. “Tomorrow’s the day, then.”

Well, since they’re changing up the search area tomorrow, maybe it’s true. And, maybe Daryl will stop complaining about others and will stop being a pussy and be able to actually get up and walk tomorrow, help out by his damned self and bring back their the girl.

Except that when he implied as much, Patricia shot it down. “We can’t force you, but—”

“Sure as shit can’t,” he yipped back.

At hearing Y/N’s huff, he turned just in time to catch her licking her teeth in annoyance. Her eyebrows were raised and her stare was enough to make his heart pound, loudly.

“You won’t make it far without needin’ to be helped back, if you can get up and walk around normally in the first place,” Patricia cautioned. “Give yourself a few days.”

Yeah, so, Sophia didn’t have a few days. “I’m fine.”

“We just want you to heal,” Carol quietly spoke.

Before he could finish yipping another comeback, Patricia sighed, then surprised him by saying, “Alright. We’ll leave the room so you can get dressed. Clothes are over there.”

Y/N frowned. “Ma’am?”

The lady gently held up a hand in response.

It was a test, plain as day. Which is why before them three had even left the room, Daryl had grit his teeth and held the bedsheets across his shoulder to keep himself covered as he pushed through the pain in order to sit upright all the way.

Courtesy of Y/N, his button-down shirt was tossed to him before she scooted out of the room, and Daryl was wincing and biting back groans as he worked it on for at least three minutes. He thanked his lucky stars it was a button-down and not a t-shirt, or he wouldn’t have been able to put it on.

He should’ve just thrown in the towel right then and accepted defeat, but he had too much to prove.

And when if he admitted it was too much for him…even if he didn't look like a Q-tip, wearing a damn pair of pants while it happened was the bare minimum that could make it bearable.

But he really should’ve thrown that towel in. It took accidentally hissing out a cuss when he tried to be tough as he swung his leg off the bed for him to start thinking he was being a jackass. It took him swallowing a whimper, chewing on his lip all the while, when he stood and had to untangle the bedsheets from his foot for him to doubt he could even get the pants on.

But being stubborn as a jackass had its perks: he gripped the bed frame to help him walk and got to his clothes without knocking anything over. He also worked out that sitting to put the pants on was better because he had to bend less if he was seated.

By the time he’d gotten them plus his socks and shoes on, he was sweaty and had the shakes, he’d also needed to sit awhile before he got the balls to stand up again and hobble his way to the door.

But he made it. Choking down his pride and his groans of discomfort, he made it to the door and pulled it open.

Patricia was waiting on the chair around the corner in the living room, quietly talking with Y/N while pointing at something in a giant, red book.

“Maybe I do need that few days,” he surrendered. Didn’t come out as tough as he’d intended.

Tell you what, though, that twangy blonde woman was one heck of a lady. “Let’s get you some fresh air while you’re up, does that sound good?” she offered. “The porch is only a few steps away.”

-------------------------

You

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“Oh, Glenn.” You flop against the RV’s table and end up staring at the ding in the cabinet opposite you. You just left the front porch after Patricia helped Daryl walk there to get a breather, only to find out not 30 seconds after entering the RV that Glenn spilled the news about Lori to Dale.

Instead of Glenn, Dale responds, “Kiddo, my lips are sealed,” but you’re busy trying to sort out how to keep Shane from finding out for a little while longer if already the news is getting out, and not from Lori or you.

You love Glenn to death, but oh my gosh, he is not good at secrets. You didn’t even know he’d known, you only just now drew the conclusion when you made the connection; that that was the thing on Lori’s drugstore list that Glenn was being all secretive about, the pregnancy test.

Right now, you need to stomp down the fears leaping around your dumb little brain because you cannot make this seem dramatic, or it will point to there being a problem with Lori being pregnant — which there isn’t, a new baby is such happy news you could scream, it’s just that there’s the possibility of — with your brother and — ugh, you need to go on a walk or kick something! And Dale and Glenn won’t/can’t know why you’re so upset or it will be even worse.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you knew, or I would’ve talked about it with you instead of Dale so I wouldn’t explode! Secrets aren’t cool, dude.”

“Seein' as you didn't mention the pregnancy tests, I'd say secrets have their place,” you test.

“Not really. They make things complicated and people get hurt.”

You sneer while letting out a huff, and Dale puts his two cents in.

“I’m inclined to agree with Glenn here.” He’s apologetic when he calmly next points out, “Secrets are an omission of the truth.”

Here you are, gleefully sitting on the secret that Maggie admitted to you that she really likes Glenn. Not-so-gleefully sitting on the secret that the baby may biologically be your brother's, too. Ain't like you're about to spill or you'll burst.

In your mind, you take the simmering tea kettle off the burner so it won’t start to sing. “There are good secrets and bad secrets. And most people wait a few to tell others about pregnancies, y’all,” you state, and then make an executive decision to share something truthful that’s maybe not your place to do so, but you need to save face for Lori’s sake, now. “Lori’s had a few losses, it’s not wrong to imagine the new one might won’t make it long.”

Dale and Glenn both react similarly: they open their mouth and raise their heads slightly, then bow them. Good.

Scratching his neck, Glenn apologizes again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“If she loses this one, too, those who know will grieve with her, then, simple as.” You’re satisfied and confident that you’ve saved face for Lori and your brother and Rick.

Except for how Dale peers at you. It reminds you of the gentle way one might look at a preschooler who is nervously trying to cover up the fact that they peed their pants.

One hand on your shoulder, he stops peering all knowingly and strokes his beard. “Irma miscarried, too. Our only one, none came after that,” he shares. Slowly, he sits at the spot by the RV’s right window. “We usually told people we stopped trying, which isn’t not the truth, I suppose. She and I simply stopped being, uh, ‘intentional’ about trying to conceive,” he explains.

“I’m sorry they died,” you tell Dale quietly. “Did you give ’em a name? My Ma lost one after Shane, she named them.”

“Believe it or not,” he says, hesitating before breaking into a smile and chuckling. “We were thinking about ‘Glenn’ for both a boy and girl name.”

Glenn’s cheeks turn purply-red like a beet. “Wait, seriously?”

Dale shrugs and nods.

“Y/N, no wonder I’m his favorite!”

After you play-pout, you notice, “Hold up: ‘Glenn’ and ‘Dale.’ Both are—”

“— Yes,” Dale finishes, turning pink while he laughs to himself and rubs his fingers over his wedding band. “The word ‘dale’ is from the Old English for ‘valley.’ And ‘glen’ is from the, ah, Scottish, the Scots Gaelic for ‘a valley formed by a river.’ My Irma liked the wordplay.”

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Day 2 of being stuck in a damn bed

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“You must be bored as hell in here, man. Concussion protocol stinks.”

T-Dog had just knocked and brought in the boombox that had been used a few times back at the quarry camp. He’d placed it next to Daryl on the bed, said he was here to help, then told him, “You saved my life with those meds, Daryl. And Carl’s.”

Daryl laid there like an awkward slug, he still felt off. Patricia was right, he really did get a good whack to the head. And...whole body.

He also didn’t expect a declaration like that. Not that it was a bad thing. He’d grown to have a lot of respect for T-Dog. Real decent guy. Maybe they were friends, too? He hoped so, he wanted that. And Daryl understood that him and his brother had been…he knew they was wrong, about how they’d been to T-Dog.

“No TV allowed.” T-Dog started to go on, narrating to himself, “Ain’t like that’s a problem right now. But also no reading, no busywork,” he said louder, “no getting up and moving much for the first couple days — I don’t envy you, brother. But listening to music, that they usually let you do so long as it’s quiet. You know what’s funny, though? There’s a separate, what do you call it, uh— ‘school of thought’ out there that says concussed people should be getting theyselves back to normal right from the get-go.”

The front door to the house opened again. Instead of footsteps going down the hall, there was another knock at Daryl’s door.

Before Y/N could finish her long-ass knocking pattern, Daryl called, “Just open it, s’fine.”

The knob turned and there she was, holding out a cassette tape with a plug hanging off it. “Found it. I’d forgot we’d moved it from Carol’s car. Jimmy borrowed it on the way to gun practice yesterday, left it in his dad’s truck.”

“You went without it all last night? I would’ve borrowed it, Y/N,” T-Dog razzed, “It’s been near a week since I listened to music, gonna turn into a Puritan at this rate.”

She giggled. “I fell asleep around 7:30 yesterday, man, I was out.”

“Yeah, Dale was worried that your brother pushed you too hard at that little fighting lesson y’all did.”

Making a little huh?, she pressed her lips together in what looked like a confused pout. “He was going easy. Oh — if he sounded like an asshole, that’s his way. Usually when you gotta defend yourself, there’s chaos and a lot of, um, of emotion. So, he riles you up, keeps pushin’ your buttons, so that you’ll learn to separate from the emotion and focus. Specifically, he’s tryin’ to help me not react,” she slumped as she said, “angrily. Anger makes you stupid.”

“Whatever you say, little sister. Just don’t go overdoin’ it, hear? You tend to overdo.”

With a teeny huff, she twisted her mouth and nodded.

“Speaking of, how long will you need to have your upper arm tied to your torso there?” he questioned.

She shrugged. “A few more days.”

“Alright, I’ll stop naggin’ you. How about: can I please get dibs on the mp3 the first night this guy can get out of bed? Pretty please?”

Mouth still twisted, it turned into a lopsided grin. “Deal.”

“Thank you much. Now,” he rubbed his hands together. “I do gotta ask, what music did the farm boy leave it on?”

“Hmm…” Y/N pressed the button on the side of the little music player to turn it on. Click, click, click. “Ah, Mumford & Sons. Do you know them? They’re that new band who makes bouncy banjo songs, got the raspy-voiced singer?”

“‘Bouncy banjo songs with a raspy-voiced singer,’” T-Dog chuckled. “I know them. Alright, man,” he said, turning to Daryl. “The batteries in the boombox should have plenty of juice left. You got the mp3 player to hook up to it, just use the tape deck converter. There’s a handful of CDs, too, and some cassettes.” He then made a little ha, and said, “Look like one of these is a book on tape that Dale got from the library. Shit, this was due like a month before the outbreaks, look at the date on here!”

“That’s a lotta late fees.”

“Let’s hope they waive ’em.”

This back and forth between the two of them was serving as Daryl’s minor entertainment for the afternoon. What serves as entertainment when you're stuck in a damn bed...

“D’you wonder if it’s as bad as The Case of the Missing Man?” Y/N droned.

“Oh, did you finish it, Y/N?”

“No. I tried two nights ago when I camped out in here. Couldn’t get passed chapter 4.”

“Surprised you ain’t reading it to this guy,” he told her. “Seein’ as you’re spending all that time in here, anyway.”

This was when Daryl got annoyed and uncomfortable again, there was something about the way T-Dog said it.

He didn’t think he felt (therefore looked) all nervous around Y/N anymore, that was all done, just a one-off. So why did it sound like T-Dog was teasing?

“Daryl’s suffered enough,” Y/N answered, and Daryl didn’t have time to catch her expression before she continued, “Miss Patricia’s certain he’s got a broken rib and maybe clavicle. So there’s the concussion, the ripped side by his rib, the collarbone, the stiff neck, then all the bruises, the abrasions, and that bullet graze — oh, sh — I just broke HIPAA!” she blurted out. “Ain’t never done that before, just blabbed about—that’s so—oh my g—th-that’s—Daryl, I’m so sorry!”

All Daryl could do was snort and ignore the sudden tug in the middle of his chest toward her direction. “Gonna sue your ass,” he deadpanned. Such a square.

“For real, though,” T-Dog spoke. “I still can’t believe you made your way back alive after all you went through, man. Yesterday, I joined Rick, we went to where you fell — Daryl, you should be dead. The way I see it, God’s got plans for you, brother. Just let Him do His thing.”

Awkward about what to say or how to react, Daryl responded with what was on his mind for most of the day. “Any signs out there today?”

Neither of them answered at first, meaning they didn’t find shit.

“I thought Rick talked to you already,” Y/N mumbled.

T-Dog answered better. “We’re searching a new area tomorrow, branching out.”

-------------------------

later

-------------------------

Having music was saving him from going completely nuts. The little music player thing seemed to have something for just about everybody on it, and the CDs were fine, too. He even popped in the book on tape.

Sent him right to sleep.

Dale and Carol came visiting with supper. Carol had eaten every meal with him for the past two days. It made him a little nervous, to be plain. The way she paid attention seemed less like pity or friendship and more like something more, which he didn’t want and didn’t have to offer.

But he liked how Carol was quiet and gentle, thoughtful, and had a dry sense of humor every so often (when she let it out around him, that is).

The grub was eggs and field greens again, but this time there was also rice. Granted, no meat again, but someone must have found onion grass, because it smelled real tasty. If he cared, he would’ve considered to maybe not wolf it down as fast as he did, given that Carol and Dale were in there.

Then came his friend’s signature knocking again.

He was relieved to have felt nothing at Y/N's arrival; no nervousness, no warm cheeks. Everything was back to normal.

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Day 3 of being stuck in a damn bed

-------------------------

“After Andy told her there was still a chance, she stopped her and said she didn’t really need to hear it anymore,” Y/N told him quietly. Arms crossed and hood up, she was resting back on the chair in the corner of the room, legs propped against the end of the bed. “I wanted you to hear it from me so if Carol said anything, it wouldn’t be knockin’ you out of left field.”

Y/N’d gone with her brother, Andrea, and Carol to check the spot on the highway where they’d set up a mini shelter for Sophia however many days ago all that shit went down. A few of the group had gone back every day, twice a day.

And now Carol was losing hope or just plain lost it.

For real, how was it that her kid was still goddamned missing?

He and Y/N found a sign at that house, then another at the other house, then he’d found her doll—how far would Sophia have fucking gone?

Her body ain’t been found yet, neither, which meant she had to be out there somewhere.

“Even Shane tried to be optimistic for her. After hearin’ her say to Andrea how she didn’t want to hear it no more, he tried to insist Sophia might could be fine, but she held out her hand so he’d stop.”

“Shane? Really?”

Shane wrote that little girl off as a goner, last Daryl knew. What changed?

Y/N gave a small, tired, very forced smile. “We had a good talk a few days ago. He knows he hasn’t been himself and he wants to do better.”

That’s good. The way her brother’s been acting has been driving screws through her, he knew that much.

“Still, your nine days to Sophia’s…” she trailed off, and when she did, he saw it in her face. Heard it in her voice when she finished her thought. “This is either her day 7 or 8 out there, I-I can’t think right now.”

Yup. She was also losing hope or plain lost it.

The feeling of helplessness jumpstarted and rammed him in the belly.

He swore. “C’mon, Y/N. You, too?”

“Dude,” she hesitated, “understanding the possibility she’s dead ain’t wrong.”

Shut up.

“It’s, it’s a high statistical likelihood,” was her next bullshit excuse. “From day one it’s been on the tabl—”

“—No wonder she ain’t been found yet,” he snarled, interrupting her. “None of y’all shitheads actually think that little girl’s out there!”

The pain from his broken rib seared like a hot poker when he raised his voice, but as he said it, he believed every word of it and liked how it struck home.

But only as he said it.

Because one look in his friend’s eyes afterward, wet and turning red, and he felt the invisible knee to the nards and stomach and knew he’d just been a massive asshole.

Y/N giving him the middle finger was what Patricia saw after she’d knocked on the door and come in.

“What’s goin’ on?” she asked the pair of them.

Y/N wiped an eye and told her honestly, “An argument about Sophia,” before laying this out to Daryl: “Not one of us doubts she’s out there.”

Regretful as he was for being an asshole, he still pushed back, “Yeah, all y’all just think she’s dead anyway, so why bother.”

“You mangy h—” she swallowed. Licked her teeth. “Stayin’ hopeful is one thing,” she started, pointing her finger at him while clear-as-day working to not raise her voice. “But can you honestly say to us that you wasn’t also prepared to find our girl dead every time you was out there?”

Patricia held up a hand and cleared her throat. “I’m here to check your bandages, Daryl. Y/N.”

Y/N apologized to Patricia and exited the room quietly.

Patricia did her thing.

And Daryl, stuck in a damn bed, same as he’d been for three days now, lay there feeling helpless, worthless, unwanted, and now like a massive asshole, and he was goddamned angry about it.

He really wanted to kick something, chug a beer, or cry. And have a smoke. Carol’d brought him his pack, he’d managed to get a good one in through the open window earlier.

“These should be able to come off in a few days,” Patricia murmured, re-wrapping his head. “And the graze is healing nicely. We still need to be cautious about your concussion and that side-wound of yours, hence you bein’ stuck in here for awhile yet.” The lady shifted her weight to her other leg and set her hand on her side. “How do the collarbone and ribs feel?”

“Fine.”

Arching one eyebrow at him, she took one arm and did some gentle movements, then the same with the other arm.

“Those areas are already better than they were the first day, so there’s something. And the rib fracture, unless it’s just a real nasty bruise, is likely hairline, which is light years better than the alternative. Remember to breathe deep through your belly to get full breaths in, don’t expand your lungs wide, do it through your belly. And keep up the good work avoidin’ laying on your left side like you have been. Once you’re up and out, you’ll have to keep things slow so they’ll heal good.”

“How slow?”

She exhaled through her nose and spoke his name. “I need to tell you, it’s by the skin of my teeth that I’ve been convincing Hersh that you and the little boy still need carin’ for. Please work with me on this. Agree to take it slow.”

Nope. He couldn’t just do nothing, Sophia was missing! Why did everybody keep forgetting that part? “He can kick me out all he wants, I don’t give a shit — that little girl ain’t gonna get found in one piece if I keep things slow.”

“There are 9 or 10 people searching for her on the regular, Daryl. You’re gonna heal badly, permanently, if you don’t go slow,” she warned. “You and your friend both need to learn to do what your bodies need.” She paused. Smirked for half a second before tucking it away. “That came out wrong. What I meant is that y’all need rest, and not aggravate what’s gone wrong and make it worse.”

Before leaving the room, she turned back toward him. “It’s that Hershel still wants y’all not just out, off his land. Clean off.” She held up a hand as if she didn’t know what to do next. “I don’t think that’s right, and I don’t want it. And I can see how many of your group want to stay, are helpin’ out. Y’all are good people. So please, mind your manners and that mouth around Hershel, Daryl. It’s you and Y/N’s brother that are causin’ him the most concern, and ultimately, it’s gonna be Hershel’s decision.”

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later

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Carol brought him supper, again. The meal was quiet, until small footsteps and a knock along with “Mr. Dixon?” sounded outside the door.

It was Carl, asking if he could eat dinner with him. “And I brought you one of my comic books. I figured I could show you the pictures and read to you the words. They’re saying you can’t read right now. That stinks. I get to read and walk around a little, at least, I just can’t move a lot.”

Daryl waved him and his folks in, felt a brief moment of pride that the antibiotics he’d supplied had saved the kid’s and T-Dog’s life, then he asked Carl when he’d be able to run around.

“Mr. Greene is hoping I can do stuff like normal soon. I still get really tired when I move. But I wanna be strong if Sophia needs me, so I’m doing what he says is best.”

Did Y/N or Patricia put him up to this?

“Do you still think she could be okay? I know that a lot of our people are losing hope, but I still think she could be okay. Dad does, too, and Mom, and Y/N.”

Daryl thought to himself how he’d go through everything he had gone through for Sophia again for that kid, gladly. “‘Course I think she’s okay. Prolly sleeping in a queen-sized bed wherever she’s stayin’.

Rick chatted to him in between bites of scrambled egg. “Based on how the search goes tomorrow, we’ll be altering the grid again.” He asked Daryl his opinion on where would be smartest to focus the search efforts in the new area. (It was upstream, obviously. And Daryl wasn’t used to his ideas being taken seriously, it was a nice change.)

He kept glancing at Carol as the conversation went on. She’d gotten all wet-eyed when Carl first spoke up about wanting to be strong for Sophia. Stayed quiet when Rick talked.

But by the end, she didn’t seem so lost anymore.

He watched from the side as she thumbed her cross necklace, kissed it—then caught him watching and gave him a tiny smile.

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later

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He’d hobbled to the window to have another smoke. Getting in and out of bed still hurt, ain’t that bull?

It was just about dark, there was only a blurry strip of orange left at the very bottom of the horizon.

Daryl looked out at the land. Saw the campfire, saw Andrea on top of the RV.

T-Dog noticed him from his spot by a cluster of trees where he was having a smoke, too, and he waved once to Daryl before turning around to resume his own cigarette break in privacy.

Midway through a particularly deep drag (a tricky thing to do when inhaling deeply hurts because you got a cracked rib), there was some giggling outside his door in the hall to the front.

The dread that he was gonna get caught and kicked out for smoking sent a jolt into his veins. Not sure why he cared so much all the sudden.

He’d already put out his cigarette against the outside of the windowsill when the familiar sound of her laughter registered in his ears, so his muscles stopped feeling so tense.

Leaning on the sill, he then watched her and Glenn just about torpedo down the porch stairs and toward a field as if they were rac—no, wait, they actually were racing. He definitely didn’t snort to himself about it then wince because snorting hurt. The short-haired chick, Baby Spice, and the farm boy spilled onto the porch to watch—nope, scratch that, they were joining in.

Where were they even g…okay, to some old tree stump.

Y/N’d mentioned how Daryl was only 6 or 7 years older than them, but sometimes it felt like a hell of a lot more. Her and Glenn together, especially, together they acted like they was 12-year-olds.

After Daryl saw what was maybe a tie take place, he felt creepy just, ahem, staring at them from the window. So, he shut the screen back down and gimped his sore-ass self to the bed again.

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Day 4 of being stuck in a damn bed.

You

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“Lore? How about you sit a minute?” She looks like she’s either going to pass our or throw up, so you don’t know whether to guide her to a seat or hold her hair back.

“It’s the, um—” she grabs a lock of her hair and folds it over her nose, breathing in slowly while walking in the opposite direction of the campfire. “What is that meat?”

“Rabbit.”

Through her nausea, she’s still encouraging enough to offer a genuine “Well done!” even as she tries to tamp down her gag reflex.

Yeah, Shane and you set up snares yesterday, and today one worked.

You point to the pine grove. “I finally set up my hammock over there. Let’s — it’s just, you look like you need to lay down.”

“I will, I just have to talk to Daryl first, he’s been, um—” she pauses again to exhale slowly. Her color is nonexistent right now. “He’s been smoking outside his window, and, and I’m worried that if Hershel sees—” She suddenly bursts into tears, and that makes her gag more.

The biggest problem right now is that Mr. Greene still wants your group off his land once Carl and Daryl aren’t bedbound.

That Daryl went through his awful accident is a blessing in disguise; it’s buying you all time.

Maggie is openly upset with her dad about it. Miss Patricia and her boy don’t agree, either.

You’re mad at the man, too, like — you get that your group is threatening simply by the fact that there are more of you and you’re armed — but what about your conduct here has been threatening? Minus the mishap with Andrea almost killing Daryl and how Shane has been a little dominant, you’re all helping out, keeping the campsite clean, staying quiet, respecting the property.

Like, yes, y’all killed a walker that had sprouted legit gills because he it was trapped in one of their wells, but the guy was dead. Quite literally a corpse, not even a "he" anymore; it, the corpse, was usurped by a virus. His soul had moved on.

Mr. Greene is a faithful dude, he’s supposed to be a man of God, so why would he kick…never mind, he’s scared for his family, you get it, you get it.

People have done atrocious things to each other since it all went down, no one can deny that.

Well, there’s still hope. He can and will change his mind. Carl, Lori, and new baby need a safe place.

Happily, the awkwardness of trying to sit side-by-side in the hammock makes both you and Lori crack up. You stop awfulizing in your head, and she seems calmer, too.

“What was it you were going to talk to Daryl about again?” you ask.

“He’s been smoking out of his window. I picked up the butts when I saw them. We can’t give Hershel any more reasons to not want us here. He’ll see it as disrespecting his home, his land…” Her voice goes up, and she’s back to crying. So far, you and Glenn (and Dale, just don’t tell Lori that Glenn told him!) are the only ones who know about the new one she’s got in there.

“Y/N, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this — I can’t, I can’t…”

“You already are, mama,” you whisper softly. “Lore, I’ll do whatever it is you and baby need, Ricky will, too. Come hell or high water, Lori, we will do what it takes.”

“If it even lasts that long.” She wipes her eyes and turns her head away “How long will it last, you think? Truly? And if I don’t lose this one, too, how long until one of those things catches them, rips them apart?”

“You can’t think that way.”

“We have to think that way! My son was shot, he nearly died and he, he, he can’t even walk around for more than 10 minutes without getting exhausted. And Sophia?”

You close your eyes. You know; Carol’s been sharing your tent.

“—What are the chances Sophia is alive? Truly?” she challenges. You stay quiet.

Sophia is, most likely, not alive anymore. You’ll search until she’s found for as long as it takes, but it will likely be her body that is found.

“Carol understands it, too, honey, she told me yesterday, said it again today, and I cannot imagine she hasn’t told you, too, as she cries herself to sleep. And, and even if that sweet, innocent girl is still alive, what are the chances she wasn’t kidnapped and God knows what else?"

She's out of breath. "Our families, friends — they died or were killed, and are now dead. Almost everyone we knew, Y/N. So how can you honestly tell me she,” and Lori points to her stomach, “will have a happy life? That my baby will have any semblance of a normal, safe life! Or that, that, that she’ll even survive long enough to make it out of diapers when the only way she will be able to tell someone that something is wrong is by crying, and putting herself and everyone else at risk!”

When she finally stops, she lowers her head to her knees and pulls at her hair, sobbing.

There are ideas and viewpoints floating around your head as something to respond with or comfort with, but nothing is coming together enough yet. Having been raised with fosters, you know without doubt life is never predictable and safe, even with the best-laid plans. Most importantly, you learned that no one’s life, absolutely no one’s life, is ever worthless or meaningless.

But the major thing that keeps repeating in your head is how Lori very clearly just called the new one “she.”

Before you can put that to words, Lori stumbles out of the hammock, stumbles and few yards forward, kneels, and gets sick.

Wiping your own tears, you kneel beside her, hold her hair back, and lightly massage her neck.

She first apologizes, then quickly spirals into putting herself down and panicking about how-awful-she-is-but-she-can’t-but-she-can’t, so you figure it’s a good time to interrupt.

“So. You thinkin’ you’ve got a girl in there?”

-------------------------

Him

-------------------------

“Did he read you the one where Science Dog becomes real?”

Because Carl did happen to read him that comic book, Daryl knew what that sentence meant. “Yeah.”

“That’s a fun episode! Oh, um, ‘issue,’ whatever the word is,” Y/N self-corrected. “Ain’t it just so— ‘miracle’ barely describes how well Carl is doin’.” She shifted in her spot and used her good arm to massage her bad side. “Hey, did Ricky mentioned how Carol was today?”

He shook his head. Y/N grinned.

“She was out first thing, came back last. She was vocal, outspoken about the search and where to go. Probably why she was about to fall out when she got back.” A nod. “It was really good, she didn’t seem so broken today.”

Daryl grunted. “Good. Should be.” He shifted on the mattress and tried to get comfortable again. Ouch.

“Hey, was you—um, were you—smokin’ out your window last night?” She asked the second part under her breath as if it were a big secret.

“Maybe.” Is my square gonna preach about smoking?

She nodded slowly and went to take another bite of food, but paused and lowered her fork. “Lori asked me to ask you. She, um, would’ve come herself, but she’s a mite sick. When you have a smoke, please tuck the butt in a tissue? Lori cleaned ’em up earlier when she saw them outside your window.”

“Why? Is Hershel one of them super-Baptists?”

“Daryl,” she murmured. “Please. We all gotta be on our best behavior so we don’t get kicked out as soon as you and Carl are better. He already wants us gone, you two being injured has been our savin’ grace. If, if Mr. Greene’s sees smoke butts, it might will be seen as another strike. Even as someone who smokes, do you like seein’ butts on the ground?”

He chewed. Swallowed. Grunted, “I’ll put ’em in a tissue.” After piling in another forkful, he hummed in appreciation and asked, “Who bagged the rabbit?” Been about a week since any meat.

“A snare got one. We cracked open one of them Foxfire books and set some up.” Y/N was sad about the rabbit, Daryl could tell. “Shane remembered most of the steps from Boy Scouts,” she detailed.

“He clean it, too?”

“Mm.”

“Didn’t cook tonight, too, did he?”

Carol usually made meals, but she’d hit the sack early. He’d last seen her at lunchtime (and Carol probably would have known how to cook rabbit meat a little better)

Y/N answered him with her mouth full. “He actually did, Shane and me.”

“No wonder it’s nasty.”

She made a psht in response, and then right as Daryl was taking a particularly big bite, chirped, “Then starve.”

He snarfed.

It hurt, but he hadn’t burst into a laugh like that in a while.

And in truth, he was really enjoying the food.

-------------------------

later

-------------------------

Another dream that he didn’t want hit him from out of nowhere, the same way Andrea’s bullet had.

Except, he didn’t feel disappointed when he woke up, he felt freaked out.

In the dream this time, Carol was kneeling on his bed, crying and reading the comic book. He didn’t know what to do and he couldn’t move. Then Carol kissed his cheek and asked him “Is this the one where Sophia becomes real again?”

When he woke up, he clawed his way to the window to have another smoke.

It took a lot in him to not holler out with a loud-ass cuss when he stubbed his toes on the dresser. It accidentally hurt his broken ribs and collarbone while trying to not fall over as a result. Lots of hushed cusses.

-------------------------

Day...um…shit, right: Day 5 of being stuck in a damn bed

-------------------------

Day 5 for him. Meaning it was either day 9 or 10 for Sophia.

Day 9 was the day he’d been hoping to not get to. And if it was actually day 10 for her…

It didn't matter the date, what he’d said about Sophia was still true. She was a smart kid, there are just a hell of a lot of hiding places where she could be holed up in. Farmhouses with open doors or windows, barns, empty businesses and buildings, even cars. As for food and water, wasn’t like there weren’t a creek, orchards and overrun gardens for miles around.

Here he was, still stuck in a damned bed while the twangy blonde lady waved that stupid, skinny flashlight in his eyes for the twentieth damned time!

Patricia clicked her tongue. “I get that cabin fever can make anybody get short, but irritability is one of them things that can pop up or get worse after a concussion, Daryl, so I ain’t too sure whether or not this is a change for you.”

I’d be fine if Sophia was back! Everything would be, bitch! “I’d be better if I wasn’t stuck in here.”

She took a moment. “Let’s check your balance again, then.”

He exhaled through his teeth and was enraged to find himself suddenly about to cry.

“If you can walk without tilting, we’ll both know you’re good to go,” the lady continued. “My friend, I ain’t trying to humble you, I want to see if you’ve improved enough.”

So, Daryl held the blanket over himself as he got himself out of bed and slowly stepped down the hallway. He tried to walk normal, got a little dizzy doing it. Not too much, but…

He didn’t quite hold back the tears of frustration.

Patricia must’ve felt sorry for him again, because she walked him back to the room, had him put on long pants and a shirt, then escorted him out to the porch barefoot.

“We should ought’ve brought you out here more regularly these past few days. Fresh air and sunlight can do wonders. Sit here awhile, then we’ll try a around the house.”

Her using a ‘should ought’ve’ made him think of Y/N.

Within a minute, Dale in his little On Golden Pond fisherman hat and T-Dog with a towel over his forehead saw him from their perch on top of the RV, and raised hands to wave at Daryl.

From the far left, he heard Y/N’s laughter along with Glenn’s and what was probably Baby Spice and the short-haired chick Maggie and the farm boy Jimmy’s. He stood up and — damn it, still wobbly and sore — made his way to the side of the porch to see what they were doing.

They were kicking a ball around, squealing like schoolkids.

Carl was sitting on the same tree stump that the gaggle of them had raced to last night, cheering and razzing off and on.

Seeing just, like…innocent shit like this was nice.

But, standing up made Daryl tired, and he (again) felt creepy watching them, so he shuffled back to the little bench right as Patricia was coming back outside carrying two glasses of sweet tea.

“Your two friends and Maggie got back from their search, sad as you can get. Jimmy and Beth did their own check around the pastures and the perimeter again, too. Have every day since you took those falls.” She took a sip of her drink. “Seems this kickball or soccer match, whatever they’re doing, this was their way of cheerin’ themselves up. Looks like it’s working. So long as none of y’all get hurt again, I’m happy.”

When Patricia eventually suggested it was time to try a walk around the house, Daryl did his best.

His best was shit, he was still unstable on his feet and couldn't use his arms much or breathe too deeply without it smarting.

Patricia was upbeat about it. “You have maybe a day or two left with your bandages, anyhow, Daryl. Let’s get you back to a chair, you look like you’re fixing to topple over.”

-------------------------

later

-------------------------

A loud knock and a face he hadn’t seen since the first day he was laid out in there woke him from yet another nap. So many naps! He kept needing more sleep.

“Heard you was still in the hole another day or two. Figured you could use more music to keep you from goin’ too stir crazy.” Shane handed him a cassette with a homemade label.

“This one’s from back in the day when we needed to make our own tapes so we could listen to the good stuff. I know my sister’s mp3 got a ton on it, but this one’s special. No need to skip around or charge it or plug nothin’ in.” Shane offered a flick of his hand in goodbye. “Alright, man, take it easy. Rest up.”

“Wait, how was Carol today?” Daryl called to him before he left the room.

Shane turned. He still had a slight limp from when he hurt his ankle. “Hangin’ in there. Went a little hard today and yesterday, but she seems to be in a real good place, believe it or not. Ain’t lost all hope, but she’s accepting what happened, if you get me.”

Daryl was pretty sure he got him. “Accepting her kid is gone?”

Shane’s stare was hard and felt to Daryl like a challenge. “Yeah, man, accepting that her kid is gone. We’re still goin’ out every day in the hopes we’re wrong, don’t misjudge me. And I want to be wrong, Daryl, I really do.” He licked his teeth and brushed a hand over his buzz cut. “It ain’t rocket science. That little girl is, in all likelihood, dead. Has been for days, you get that, right?”

Daryl was good at glaring contests. “I get it.”

“Look. I’m not out to be the asshole. I just don’t want none of us gettin’ ourselves killed over this. You and my sister could’ve got bit doin’ what you did at that house one week back, and in the process, she ripped her side back open and injured her shoulder worse than it ever was. And you?” He shook his head. “You almost died, Daryl.”

“It was worth it, jackass,” is not what Daryl intended to say, but that’s what he said. Daryl wasn’t planning on saying anything, in fact, because he knew he’d likely blow his cool and risk Dr. Farmer hearing it, and apparently the old guy was ready to chuck them off his land ASAP.

Y/N’s brother bowed his head and rubbed his neck. Didn’t say nothing for a solid…he didn’t know, minute, maybe? Felt awkward as hell, tell you what.

“Listen, dude, I know we ain’t buddies and all that,” Shane told him. “To be real, I didn’t trust you at all, especially when Y/N started going off and learnin’ to hunt with you. I thought you were some white trash tweaker who’d try to feel her up or worse, so I tailed y’all, spied on y’all the first three times you took her out, ready with my shotgun.”

…What the hell was this?

“But I’ve grown to respect you, and what you just said right there told me all I need to know. You’re a decent guy, Daryl.” Another rub of his newly buzzed hair. “Tell you what, I’ll come by tomorrow after the search, tell you what we find and where we looked.”

-------------------------

Day 6 of being stuck in a damn bed.

You

-------------------------

“Dude, you told him how you spied on us?”

“I was moved, Y/N, you should be proud of me,” Shane drawled, winking. “Said I’d tell him about the daily searches, so, today I did. Hey, and his balance was better today, might should be good to go the day after tomorrow. Oh,” he adds. “I lent him my mix tape as a peace offering, too.”

“Aw, romantic.”

He groans, and you twist a corner of your mouth in a tiny grin. “I’m just shocked he didn’t grunt back to you all intimidating with somethin’ like ‘I knew you was there, you was louder than a’…eh, I got nothing.”

Shane keeps the bit going, and does it pretty good, if you say so yourself! “‘Yeah, I knew you was there. Couldna been more damn obvious.’”

His copying of Daryl’s voice and mannerisms is so spot on that you crack up and clap your hands in delight.

Shane looks pleased. “That was a pretty good impression, just then, wasn’t it?”

“Alls you needed was to make it a ’lil more throaty, like a, like a, a grumpy tomcat,” you laugh.

He smiles, opening his mouth to make a funny comeback, then laughing instead. “I’ll have to practice.”

“Speakin’ of practice, can we call it?”

“Yeah, we can call it. Good work.”

Coo, practice is over. You’ve been having self-defense lessons every day the past few days, sometimes twice. Shane’s been wanted to restart teaching you ever since the incident with Ed Peletier seven-ish weeks ago. You could’ve called the sessions quits whenever, obviously, but it feels more satisfying when one’s instructor is satisfied and ends the lesson, right?

Also, Shane kinda needs that control over something — which sounds iffy, you know, you know.

But he’s been so much more like himself since the lessons started! And him instructing you in fighting is doing him good not only because it’s stroking his ego a little and shutting him up about his terrible Fort Benning idea. The lessons are helping offer him a sense of control and assuredness that he’s keeping his sister safe by helping her defend herself. That’s always been a thing for him. Call it a side-effect of having a beater in the house for the first several years of his life, maybe.

It’s a very fruitful side-effect, all things considered — today, stitches and achy shoulder combined, you bested him!

The only catch is that it…kinda involved his balls.

You still feel bad about it. It wasn’t you using practice-strength to simply get the upper hand and then stop, like practice is supposed to be. It was adrenaline/angry-at-and-his-egging-you-on strength. You fought dirty.

“Sorry again about whackin’ you below-the-belt.”

“No way, Y/N, don’t be,” he brushes off. “Don’t feel bad for doin’ what you’re supposed to do. Especially if it’s a man you need to fight off, which is why we’re doing this — you need to fight dirty. So,” he clears his throat, “if you can go for the giblets, go for ’em.” (Grandma Jean referred to genitals as ‘giblets.’) “That’s how you got the drop on me — and that’s what I wanted! You did good, got that?”

“Just — check tomorrow and, and the day after in case you got bruised testes, okay?”

“Don’t call them ‘testes’… weirdo…” he trails off and makes a face. Then, he stands and helps you up. “My boys are fine, I’m sure. Ankle’s hanging in there, too. How are you holdin’ up? Didn’t overdo it, right?”

“Nope, I feel good! And I’m so happy about tomorrow.”

His smile is polite, but not quite reaching his eyes. “Ready to attend Sunday dinner in the house tomorrow night?”

You press your hands together and make a little skip as you walk. “Do you think it means Mr. Greene’s comin’ around, too?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Wet blanket, much? “Grumpy we didn’t risk our necks to visit the jarheads at Fort Benning?”

“Y/N.”

“That was mean, sorry.” Your choice of phrasing was rude, that is, not the sentiment. Shane hadn’t mentioned the military base in a few days, so you’d hoped he’d dropped it. Places with the military, feds, even FEMA, those places had turned out badly, especially if you were a civilian. And you along with your Mama were wary of places like even before what happened to Atlanta.

Miles and miles away from the city as you were when it happened had given you a front-row seat to when it happened, when it got firebombed. It was like watching the Twin Towers collapse over again, expect this time it wasn’t on a TV screen, and the sounds of it happening in real time had been loud enough to reach you. The pops, the rumbling. Then there’s the memory of Carl’s face when he saw it all clear as day before you finally reacted, covered his ears and blocked his view.

This place, this farm, this is the safest place right now. It has good people, shelter, protection, space, food. Probably would be the safest place around for a long time if your brother group didn’t mess things up. Carl needs it, Lori and the new baby need this place.

And with the fact that your brother had been planning to leave the group, you’re worried sick that he’ll change his mind, split and leave you behind, or worse, get you all thrown off the land. If Shane didn’t take the property by force OH my gosh, why the fuck did you just think that, bitch? How could you think that about him? Stupid, stupid idiot girl!

Looking at your brother, you see him staring across the lawn to where Otis’ memorial lays. His thousand-yard stare is back. Poor Shaney. You look away so as to not be, you know, staring at him, but when he breathes out heavily after a few long moments, you turn to look.

His nose twitches before he blinks rapidly and shakes his head a little, rubs his buzz cut, and puts his hands on his belt.

“I know you don’t like the idea, but Fort Benning the smart decision,” your brother declares, doing that thing where he looks in too many directions. “The military is equipped, at least, and they’re trained how to handle things. It’s smart to seek that out.”

Whether it’s because you’re amped after being victorious at practice or because you’re freaked out after thinking something so cruel about your own brother (that he’d take over this place by force??), as you make your statement in response, you imagine it as you pulling the pin from a grenade and chucking it.

“Is that why the powers at be did what they did to Atlanta? Because they were so trained?” The pause you make, as you watch the words connect in Shane’s mind, is the time delay before the grenade’s fuse ignites and explodes. “Or maybe killing civilians or even their own was always a possibility in their eyes. The ends, of course, justifyin’ the means.”

He licks his teeth before running a hand over his mouth. “You’re really goin’ there, Y/N? Do not go there.”

But this has been festering too long. He needs to hear it and understand it. You love him. And he’s gonna have a whole lot else to deal with once Lori’s news gets out — it’s going to be messy. So this Fort Benning stuff has to go.

“But Shane, that would’ve been us with not just Mama, but Carl, Lori, and maybe even a comatose Rick if, if what happened—” your voice rises at the memory. “If what w-went on hadn’t happened, made us wait.”

If your mother hadn’t been killed, you two wouldn’t have found her dead and walking, which had revealed that she must have caught the illness before she died. And if you two didn’t find her dead and walking, you and Shane wouldn’t have quarantined, instead would’ve gotten Rick out of the hospital a day earlier and gone together with your mother and the Grimes to the city. Which means that she would’ve started showing symptoms on the road, and that the rest of you would’ve not only possibly caught it but would have possibly spread it.

Shane knows all of this, he knows it, which is why you only voiced a small part of it.

But instead of Shane standing before you with his hands on his hips…you begin to see the man you don’t recognize again. The one that’s been showing up more and more, the one that’s scary and coldly pragmatic. The one that seems like he’s about to lose control, he’s back. He’s standing where your brother was, and he’s very, very angry.

“Y/N, now, you listen good.” The man’s finger points straight at you and he gets too close to your face. When you step backward, he’s right on you. “We would’ve still been stuck outside the city limits, the wait to get in was over a day long.” With his finger, he jabs at your sternum, hard, and does it again with every hissed question.

“You remember that part?” — “The reason we were stuck in that line of cars that went on for miles?” — “Remember that?” —

You can’t think. You can’t move. The best you can manage is a stuttered “Sh-Shane—” because inside your head is nothing but white noise.

A strong, rough, sustained pinch on your collarbone and his yell of “—I asked: do you understand?” is the only reason you remember to nod as you stare at the ground and steady yourself from tripping backward.

“What happened in Atlanta was a shit show, an absolute shit show and what happened there was a disgrace, hard stop.” He spits, “but you know what? It don’t mean it was like that everywhere else—is that fair for me to reckon, uppity bitch?”

The insult doesn’t have time to sink in because he starts gesturing at his head, then yours, then his again, banging his hand against his head, then clapping his hand against your temple, hard, and now you can' think, he's too close, he’s too close, why is he so close, why does he keep hurting m— “Does that make sense, Y/N? Does that make sense to you?”

It’s not until he tugs you by your shirt and slowly shouts in your ear, “Y/N, I asked you a question: Does that make sense?” that you remember to nod again.

Your throat seizes up, so you swallow and hold your breath.

“Don’t bring up what happened with our mother again,” he orders, letting you go with a slight shove. “She was sick, we didn’t catch it, and we’d have been stuck outside that city either way.”

The man then leaves. You just stand there.

There’s no feeling of relief that he’s left you alone. Your hands are tingly, but you’re otherwise uncertain how you feel other than stupid and sick to your stomach. No, really, you might lose your supper.

You begin to walk in whatever direction, step by step, wiping the tears as they fall and trying to ignore the loud refrain in your head of stupid, stupid girl that interplays with all the noise of what did you do and why didn’t you and why did he and why would he and how could he as well a louder WHO WAS THAT?

Because it sure as hell wasn’t Shane. It can’t have been Shane, Shane’s not that.

-------------------------

Him

-------------------------

The short-haired chick came into his room looking all rattled and asking if Y/N was in there. Woke him up from a nap (so many damn naps), too, what the hell?

He quietly croaked back,“Does it look like she’s in here?” and closed his eyes to try and get back to sleeping.

“I figured she…”

Whatever it was Maggie figured, she didn’t say nothing more, she mumbled “sorry,” and closed the door again.

Was…was everything okay?

-------------------------

You

-------------------------

Footsteps and light panting sound behind you, bringing you back down to earth.

Before dread can kick in at full blast, you recognize who’s behind you even before you hear his voice calling your name, and it is a relief to know he’s there. He’ll know how to fix this. He’ll know what to do.

But what if he saw? What if he’s not the only one?

A water cooler of shame gets dumped over your head like you’ve just failed big at something. Your throat tightens again.

You idiot. You stupid, stupid girl.

Not turning your head much because your eyes are probably red, you at least control the shake in your voice. “H-Hi, Mr. Horvath, what’s up?”

“Kiddo. What just happened?”

“What do you mean?” Might as well stall when you don’t know how to say it. Maybe Dale only saw Shane looking huffy, maybe he didn’t see or hear any of what just happened and maybe, just maybe, you’re being overly dramatic about what happened. He's your brother, siblings sometimes smack each other around a little, it's not like he punched you. See, that would've been bad...

And it’s just as well you don’t know what to say back, because after hearing a door clack open then shut, you peek to see not only Dale standing before you, but Margaret, jogging from the back of the house in your direction?

She calls your name — and is holding the book you’d lent to Jimmy! Thank God, honest fodder to stall from answering Dale.

“Did Jimmy finish it?” you ask lightly.

But Maggie looks unsettled. “I grabbed this on my way downstairs as an excuse when I saw what was happenin’.”

Oh, no. Y/N, you stupid, stupid girl.

“What did I just see your brother doing?”

Stupid, stupid girl.

------------------------------------------

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 11 months

Text

Scary as a sleepy kitten

When - 10 or so minutes after He hasn't been himself, which takes place during the Chupacabra episode of Season 2

What - the finishing touches on Daryl's medical care, how Andrea's handling almost mistakenly killing the guy. You assure her that he's about as scary as a sleepy kitten right then. Then, there's digesting big bro Shane's descent from morality along with Daryl's simultaneous growth in it. Bonus is a hint regarding the Greene's barn. So sad there aren't any barn cats in there anymore, wonder what happened...

Genre - a little angsty, a little fluffy, a little found-family.

Who - You, Mangy Hick (that's Daryl), Patricia, Andrea, Papa Dale and his not good book, and sweet little Beth (who's got the same headcanon from the Fabulously Confident Reader stories about liking choose-your-own-adventure books)

Perspective - 2nd person, and 3rd Daryl

Pronouns - did GN again this time

TWs - some language, otherwise you just have a brief blow-up. The day's been something else, y'all

Length? - 10-15 minutes

References - when Daryl made that funny in Like a traditional Sunday dinner, the incident with Ed as seen in "Deserved" Part 1 but mostly Part 2 and its cooldown in It's not the end of the wo - oh. There's the continuation of big brother Shane's descent, a slow progression in a bulk of the chapters. Be sure to check out Invisible Tugging Strings, Part 1 and Part 2 , then Spell your last name, please. as well as He hasn't been himself

Official Masterlist here (find fabulously confident reader there!) and the Chronological Slowpoke Masterlist here

have fun and happy reading!

Apologies for the lengthy delay, slowpokes, my brain has been on power-saver for about a month, might could be evident in the chapter, too XD

...........................................

“Guess I'll just move this arm like a robot—oh-ho, check it, I can still do the tomahawk chop, y’all!”

And yeah, then his friend proceeds to make barely one and a half chops before wincing. The slight pout that forms afterward makes him want to smile, it’s damn cute.

“Hurt more than I thought it would.”

The twangy blonde lady looks entertained. “Tell me why, Y/N.”

Their pout turns more embarrassed. “…Movin’ the forearm requires these here muscles.”

He liked that their accent revved up more with the blonde lady—sorry, her name’s Patricia, he knows, got it.

“Which affects what?” Patricia asks.

“My shoulder and chest.”

“Which are injured and got irritated something serious today, along with what I’m fairly sure is maybe your C6 and 7, maybe the T1, whenever you first got hurt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they mumble.

Stop thinking Y/N looks cute. Also, what were those letter-number things?

Sighing, his friend stares at their upper arm.

So, during the, like, he doesn’t know, 5 minutes or whatever it was when the old man helped him slump to the bathroom so he could finally take a piss, Y/N’s upper arm was wrapped to their torso to prevent them from hurting it more. They keep overdoing it, and they keep taking their damn sling off, so Patricia made a compromise, he guesses.

And after doing a modeling-pose type thing with their wrapped arm and asking who was wearing their gauze better, them or him, Y/N immediately tried to do the tomahawk chop and move like a robot and why is he finding that so damn cute right now?.

Patricia winks at Y/N. “Name some of the muscles up there and I won’t put the rest in a sling."

You

“Ooh, bicep, tricep,” basics out of the way. “This, um, one of these over here is the brachialis, this is the deltoid, the teres major’s under here.” You got that muscle wrong on an anatomy midterm back during college and never forgot about it. “This here is the trapezius.” Because the dudes who do the trapeze at the circus got real big ones (or at least that’s how you remember it). “And, well, the clavicle is this bone, so the bone under it is the scapula, which means right about here’s the subscapularis muscle,” that she said you may have hurt, “Oh, duh, then ‘the major one is the pectoralis.’ And—”

“—Okay, no sling.”

Phew. “Thank you!”

“For now, anyway. Meanwhile, Hersh is givin’ me a look, let’s get to cleaning our friend, here.”

Him

The funny part is, as Patricia left, she made a face and said, “I don’t remember most of the muscle or bone names, I just took Y/N's word for it. Now, Daryl, don’t go gettin’ out of bed, stay put.”

Now he’s finally laying down, nothing else to be done to him. He’s so damn tired.

He’s scrubbed up, too. Got a big-ass bandage over his head, wrapped all around. That was a trip; Patricia and Y/N washed his head and neck over a bowl. He counted the seconds til it was over, half-listened to whatever they were chatting about to distract himself.

Once he was bound up like a cartoon character and given instruction to not get it wet, Hershel came back and walked him to the bathroom again, this time to clean everything else off.

There was a little stool thing in the shower, with the shower hose on the ground instead of hanging. “Don’t get your head or the bandage wet. There's a waterproof cover over the dressing on your side that you'll have to remove when you're finished. Now, I imagine you prefer total privacy, but if you need the help, I can assist, or I can get your friend Theodore, if your prefer.”

“M’fine.”

The simple response “I’ll be outside the door, Daryl,” surprised him. Made him feel stupid and ashamed and comforted all at the same time.

And he…he needed the damn help. Ain’t like the old guy hadn’t seen his back already, anyway.

Still, the old man mostly stayed behind the shower curtain at his request, and he didn’t see his junk or nothing, Daryl made sure to keep himself covered.

Part of him felt like some pathetic little cat getting a flea bath.

Today was something else.

So goddamned tired…

You

Not 15 minutes went by since he was escorted to the washroom and now he’s fast asleep under the sheets.

Lori and you stayed inside with Carl (and Daryl), and Carol and Rick brought in plates of food into the house for the four of you.

Carol cooked up some jerky with an egg for Daryl as a special treat with the rest of his meal. Menu for tonight is peanut butter sandwiches (sort of, they’re on saltines), hard-boiled eggs (not soft-boiled, you checked this time), with sauteed field greens.

Your poor friend must be ravenous, but it looks like tiredness won this round. He looks so different asleep. Sweet, even. It's silly, but his light snores almost sound like purring and now you're thinking about kittens.

Another moment in the quiet, and you figure you shouldn’t stand there like a weirdo anymore.

Well, his egg and the peanut butter sandwiches will keep until he wakes up, and the jerky and egg will taste great either way, but his portion of sauteed field greens won’t be nice cold. You’re only a little bummed when you slide your portion of little sandwiches onto his plate and take his portion of greens. He’s earned extra treats, he can have all the peanut butter he wants after what he found today.

You inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Close your eyes and ask inwardly for help after offering more thanks that he came back alive, and found concrete proof of Sophia.

It’s nice to be in the quiet. It feels safer better to be away from Shane right now, too. You aren’t sure what you’re going to do about the sleeping situation other than tell your brother to set up his own tent.

You also take one of the cracker sandwiches, it’s been a rough day. But when you start to nibble on it…your appetite is gone. Which is so dumb, dude, you’d been stoked at the thought of chowing down when you were high on Daryl being okay and having found Sophia’s doll.

Daryl’s chest rises and falls. You listen to his light snores, and find it, as Amy would’ve said, “interesting,” (but understandable) that your stomach has a few butterflies at seeing him so peaceful and still.

You miss Amy. Which prompts you to consider that you should check on Andrea. Earlier, Dale had come in and asked a bunch of questions for her because she was too ashamed to see people. From wherever she is right now, Amy is probably hoping you’ll help comfort her big sister.

Patricia stops you before you exit the house through the side-door. “Been meanin' to ask, I heard you tell your brother to get out, earlier. Everythin’ okay?”

That question was unexpected, words aren’t working for you. You shake and nod at the same time, which is weird, so, you open your mouth to fix it, but nothing formulates.

After a second try, all you can stumble through is “I don’t know, ma’am,” before ungracefully scooting outside.

After 5 minutes of polite conversation on the steps, mainly between you and Dale regarding Daryl’s status, Andrea is still dumbfounded that she’d almost killed someone.

“He’s really okay?”

“He’s bandaged and resting now. You only winged him, but the falls he took earlier did the most damage, Andy.” You’re trying not to be angry with her, but failing. Which sucks, because you know she was trying to protect the group…

But that she still shot it even though it was against Mr. Greene’s wishes and she knew that indicates an unhealthy variety of pride. One can't be having that kind of attitude with a firearm, it ain't good. And Daryl was almost a casualty because of it.

And like, come on, there were five of you running toward her target, it was dangerous for her to attempt to shoot from that angle! Doesn’t she understand that’s irrespons—ugh, and isn’t Shane supposed to have been doing gun safety shit with her? Isn’t that his whole wannabe jarhead schtick—great, now you’re more upset about Shane!

“I’m glad you’re enjoying those, ” Dale tells you, nodding at your cracker and chuckling. “They’re the part of dinner I rushed to help make, this evening was…something.”

He shrugs, and you remember how Daryl grunted that today was ‘somethin’ else.’

“I suppose having spread the peanut butter on crackers was a small step up from offering it on spoons to everyone,” he muses.

You can’t help but hum, a spoonful of peanut butter sounds scrumptious right now. Makes a good breakfast or snack, too.

“Did Daryl eat enough?” Andrea worries. “Does he need anything?”

“He was asleep when I brought him his supper, but I left my portion of the crackers—minus this one—on his plate.”

“Come to think of it, I’m not sure he’s a fan of peanut butter,” Dale thinks out loud. “I offered him some for breakfast one morning, and now that I recall, he backed away from it.”

Not like peanut butter?

“—Oh my God, what if he’s he allergic?” Andrea breathes.

“Nah, he ate a peanut yesterday. I was havin’ one of the little packets for lunch and he tried one, he can’t be allergic,” you assure them. And surely he doesn’t not like peanuts. That would be so sad!

It gets quiet.

Andrea stares at her feet.

“I can’t believe almost killed him.” She inhales and buries her face in her hands. “I shot someone.”

And Dale is only meaning to ease her discomfort and add some levity—but whether it’s because of the new bond you have with Daryl, or maybe because here’s something of a flashback hitting you from how you’d had to actually shoot a living person a few months ago—when Dale jokes to you, “Like I told her, we’ve all wanted to shoot Daryl,” you become livid.

After two shallow breaths of your inner tea kettle screaming, this sentence: “Guess y’all will want sunshine over here to work on her aim, then,” seethes out as you stand and book it to the fields.

The past several days especially has shown you how wrong your initial conclusions about that man were. He’s a work-in-progress, make no mistake, but shit if he ain’t working on it!

Unlike your brother, who keeps getting worse, who just tried to flirt with Lori by saying he didn’t care about a missing, abused little girl—the same little girl Daryl was willing to almost die to find!

Horrified at Shane and about today; confused, embarrassed, overwhelmed, in pain, overtired, and therefore angry about everything, you walk, hyperventilate, and finally, quietly, start to cry.

Then you accidentally drop the peanut butter cracker and cry harder.

The light swish of your boots in the grass starts to crunch when you reach the sandy part by now-boarded-up well. You walk faster, neither wanting to be near the two-part walker inside nor in the area where apparently, Daryl dumped Merle’s ‘hard stuff,’ as he slurred to you earlier during his trauma assessment.

Soon you’re by the rocks you’d climbed the other night. You step up and sit on a lower one and sniffle another minute or so until the worst of it seems to have spilled out.

When will you get a better handle on your temper?

While you’re busy wallowing in self-pity, you notice Dale’s watch ticking and are reminded that you have to return it.

You stand.

Trudge back with your tail between your legs.

He and Andrea are still on the steps.

“I’m sorry. I let my anger get the better of me,” you tell them softly.

Dale waves you over. “Come back and sit if you like, kiddo. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s been somethin’,” you mumble. “And you aren’t a bad shot, Andrea, I was being snotty.” About an inch to your left and he’d have been a goner, you leave out.

“I’m glad I wasn’t as good a shot as I’d hoped,” she sounds ashamed to say. Her head is still hanging low when she makes a one-sided smile and taps the spot next to her. “Will you be helping with shooting practice tomorrow?”

“If that’s still on, yeah.” Shane was enlisting your help with that, which means you’ll have to act civil…ugh, why worry about tomorrow, tomorrow will worry about itself. You take the watch off, hand it to Dale. “Here you go, Mr. H.”

“Ah, very good. I would hate to start losing track of the days, then we’d really be in for it. Let’s see…an hour until it’s time to wind her up.”

The breeze carries the smell of woodsmoke with it. You lean against Andrea for a moment, she leans back.

Then Shane comes into view.

When you catch his eye, you shake your head in warning in case he’s thinking about coming over and schmoozing with the others as if he didn’t just f—tomorrow will be better. Things will be better in the morning. He’ll apologize and things will be better and you’ll all have a good day and maybe Sophia will be found.

“Y/N, how about we talk later tonight?” Dale murmurs.

Did he see the face you made at Shane?

Best change the subject. “If we do, is it finally my turn to borrow that awful book I’ve heard so much about?”

“The Case of the Missing Man is not an awful book,” he chuckles back, then shrugs. “Maybe Jimmie Herron’s style isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. My Irma didn’t like his work, either.”

“Y/N, it’s really not great,” Andrea drones.

“Glenn said the same.”

“Amy had me read it so we could, um,” her gaze grows teary. She closes her eyes for a moment, then smiles and shakes her head. “‘Share the trauma.’”

You smile and shake your head, too. That sounds like Amy. “She finished it up in my tent while I was knocked out with a migraine, first thing out of her mouth to me when I woke up was how lame it was. Told me you had first dibs.”

“Then I lent it to T-Dog”

Oh, right. On the first half-week of the trek to Fort Benning, his nose was stuck in it. “He plowed on through it, didn’t he?”

“He wanted the torture to be over.”

You and she snort, Dale just chuckles again. “After you finish it, only Rick, and our young Carl—oh, and, uh your br—and Shane, they’ll be the only ones to not have done so.” He points his finger as if an idea just popped into his head. “But both Jacqui and Lori thought it was good.”

“Bless their hearts, they loved watching soaps, though, what does that tell us?” you giggle to them.

Dale lifts his hands in surrender. “See me later, troublemaker, I’ll lend you my ‘awful’ book and we can talk. I’m gonna hold you to it.” He looks at Andrea. “Young lady, will you be alright?”

“Yes. I'm just not ready to face anyone yet.”

“You know where to find me.”

She rests her arms on her knees and slouches again, stare fixed on nothing much. You go to rest your arms on your knees, too, and are immediately reminded that that particular position is a no-go for you right now.

“Y/N, after what happened with Ed, when did the feeling of wanting to hide go away?”

“Mine was an easier situation," you quietly point out. "And it wasn’t just me, Shane was the one who—" you grimace at the memory. "You were there.”

“Mm.”

To answer her question, “But I guess it wasn’t til, y’know, I faced people again that I got I didn’t have to hide. Shane's sense of 'duty' helped, too. But after I talked to Carol, saw Sophia smile at me, when I knew they were on my side, I didn’t mind so much about the rest.”

“Pretty sure everyone was on your side with that,” she mutters. “For what I just did…”

“Pretty sure even Daryl will, um, well th-that you were tryin’ to protect the group.” …oof.

She lifts her eyebrows. “You aren’t good at lying, Y/N.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se. “Objectively, you were tryin’ to protect the group.”

“I wanted to feel in-control and like I could do it.”

Oh.

She admitted that? If only your brain could come up with something heartfelt or whatever the situation called for to convey how much humility from someone so confident and self-assured means, instead of this: “I wanna be on your apocalypse survival team.”

A sigh leaves her, and she simply asks, “Just let me know how furious he is with me. I'm dreading how he’ll be when he’s up. I'm a little scared, while I’m being honest.”

“Hm?”

“Daryl.”

“You’re scared of him?”

She eyes you. “We’ve all seen how he can fly off his handle. He waved that knife at Rick and your brother, the axe at Jenner.”

Oh, right. That didn’t even consider cross your mind, that she’d be scared of his reaction to...being shot in the…head. Man, your brain is not working.

It can’t even configure a response again, now you’re just shaking your head like a confused mute.

“You don’t think I have to worry, Y/N?”

“No,” you answer truthfully. “You might would feel better if you saw him, he's probably up an eatin' dinner by now."

"I think now's too soon."

"Trust me, he’s holed up in bed now, he’s about as scary as a sleepy kitten.”

“Kittens have teeth and sharp claws,” she dryly states.

Your mind immediately hops to the exciting fact that you have yet to meet the Greene’s barn cat(s) as you stand and lead Andrea inside through the side door to get to Daryl’s room, waving to Beth reading her book as you pass.

“Beth, this is Andrea. Andrea this is Beth. She’s the one who made the pudding for Carl. She’s Mr. Greene’s youngest.”

Andrea smiles and goes in for a shake. Beth shyly waves, the returning of the handshake ending up as an awkward afterthought.

Sweet as she is, leaving her in peace is probably what she’s hoping for (the poor teenager’s home and front yard is full of wounded strangers).

And you almost make it through the full sentence before gasping in delight when you see what book she has.“We’re just checkin’ on Dar—is that a choose-your-own-adventure book??”

Him

There was this loud noise in another room, woke him for a second. Y/N’s laugh stuck out from the other sounds.

While falling back asleep, he remembered how he'd made them laugh really loud when he ripped that $20 bill that night at the CDC. How they’d belly-laughed so hard at his dumb, tipsy-ass joke had felt so damned unexpectedly good.

He’s back asleep before the amount of pain he’s in can really register.

You

“I’ll bring it over after I talk to Mr. Horvath. He’s the older man in our group, I love him to pieces, you probably saw him in his bucket hat?” you tell Beth.

Jimmy apparently has been poking fun at her reading choose-your-own-adventure books to pass the time because they’re ‘for kids,’ so, lending him The Case of the Missing Man was decided to be the best way to get back at him.

You hope y’all didn’t wake Daryl, it’d gotten a little animated for a minute. To make up for it, you tiptoe when you trek down the hall to his room, Andrea and Beth behind you.

Beth left something of hers in there before he was brought in, but she was hesitant to go in there (which you praised, teenage girls and unknown older men don’t mix). Anyway, she was hesitant because she’s a little, um, well, kinda intimidated by him.

Andrea invited her to join you two, citing “Y/N says he’s as scary as a sleepy kitten right now.”

At his door, you knock lightly and call his name. Wait for an answer, try again.

Upon listening more carefully, his snores sound through the door and let you know he’s still asleep. Slowly, slowly, you open it.

As subtly as you can, you step into room and pull the sheet that had fallen down back over his shoulder before the girls see the scarring.

Daryl stirs, then grunts something incoherent as he flinches, blinks, and tries to turn toward you.

“It’s just me,” you hush. “I was fixin’ your sheet, it’d fallen.” You tuck the sheet down over his shoulder, gently and slowly. “You’re safe in the Greene’s house. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

His muscles relax and he’s back to snoring before the pet name is finished slipping out of your mouth.

Still standing beside him, you watch his side rise and fall, rise and fall. Reminds you how grateful you are. He really does look so helpless and sweet right now.

You notice Beth peeking back and forth between you and him, but she quickly looks away.

Poor buddy. If the man is this tired, he’ll rest better with closed curtains. He’s big on privacy, besides. Carefully, you start to draw them shut. Andrea joins.

Once they’re all pulled closed and the room is dimmer, she puts her hand on your arm and gently pulls you back into the hall, Beth leading the way. You make sure the door doesn’t make too much noise as it shuts.

“Thanks,” Beth whispers.

“Scary as a sleepy kitten, right?” Oh, that reminds you, “Y’all don’t have a barn cat or two, do you?”

“N-not anymore.”

Aw, that’s sad. “I’m sorry, little one.”

“Oh, um—d-don’t get too close to the big, shuttered barn, okay?” she rushes to add.

Before you can both nod and tell her ‘of course,’ she then stumbles through, “There’s—it’s—the, um—it’s just not real safe!”

She looks so freaked out and nervous that you forget you’re supposed to respond.

Lucky for you, Andrea, smooth as ever, assures her “We’ll let Carl know not play around there,” and starts to chat about how she “steers clear of old barns” ever since she spotted “the biggest rat I’ve ever seen come out of one at a company retreat,” while Patricia comes downstairs hugging to her side what looks like a wedding photo.

Beth scurries away, you make eye contact with Andrea, then Patricia gets your attention.

“Sweet pea, about tonight,” she begins, hands pressed together with her fingertips toward you. “Daryl’s gonna need to be checked on—”

“—Of course. I’ll stay with him. Please do me a list of what to check for and how often?”

“Will do. Try and borrow that big watch again, you’ll need it. Prolly will do well to have somebody else, maybe Carol to help. I'll go find her. You know, there’s an old air mattress in the attic, I’ll have Jimmy fill it up. Just go grab your sleeping bag,” she tells you.

“Thank you!” You’d been hoping for a way to avoid Shane all night. Is this a gift from above or something?

A reminder of, “Don’t use your injured side to carry your sleeping bag in,” from Patricia sends you on your way outdoors to retrieve your stuff.

The air is cooling off as the sun sets. The sky is a hazy orange-pink.

“Y/N, I didn’t realize,” Andrea says, slowly walking beside you.

“Realize what?”

“You two.”

You, too? Is she talking about your shoulder, maybe? “What’d I do? Do you mean my wrapped arm?”

She peers at you, head tilted to the side. “You and Daryl,” she softly clarifies. “It was Dale who wondered first, after you had to excuse yourself.”

Me and Daryl? “What’d we do?” Perhaps she's referring to the search today? Andrea isn’t one to not speak her mind plainly, you wonder why she’s not being more succinct. She doesn't know about you having shot that guy. Dale has an idea, but he's tight-lipped about it.

“So, you and he…?” she trails off.

So, you start to fill her in about the search. “Before Daryl found the doll, we’d—”

—OH WAIT, now you get it!

---------------------------

(for those wondering, the tomahawk chop is something Georgia Braves fans do)

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