Chapter Text
You hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of your lungs, your knife clattering beside you as the walkers suddenly closed in, drawn by the sound.
“No!” The word tore out of Daryl as he saw you fall. He charged back without thinking, meeting the dead head-on. He was slashing, stabbing, and shoving bodies off you. Glenn’s rifle cracked, bullets whizzing past, taking down the walkers Daryl couldn't immediately reach. By the time the last walker dropped, Daryl was already on his knees beside you, his chest heaving. You were gasping, clutching your knife against your chest, still trying to pull air back in.
“Hey- hey, look at me.” His voice was rough and cracked as he grabbed your shoulders, his eyes frantically scanning every inch of you for bites. Blood streaked your face, your shirt, your hands. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. “You bit? Tell me ya ain’t bit.”
Your breath came out in short, ragged bursts, and for a moment, the only sound between you was the echo of his escalating panic. His voice, calling your name repeatedly, finally snapped you out of the shock. You blinked, shaking your head slightly, your eyes still wide with adrenaline.
Daryl let out a deep, shuddering sigh of relief.
Once Daryl was sure you were truly okay, he stood up, the relief instantly twisting into furious rage. He charged toward Spencer, who was standing near the car – equally panicked but far less bloodied. Daryl rounded on him, breath heavy, eyes blazing.
“What the hell happened?” The question came out like a shout that fractured the sudden silence.
Spencer stumbled back a step, hands raised defensively near his chest. “I- I’m sorry. She-”
Daryl stepped in closer, his jaw tight. “She what?”
“Daryl, don’t,” you managed, your voice weak as Glenn helped you to your feet.
He didn't back off until he felt your hand settle firmly on his arm. He turned to look at your face, the raw fear from earlier bubbling up inside him again, quickly hardening into pure, protective anger.
“I’m fine,” you insisted, having to repeat it a few times until the word actually sank in.
“Yeah, man, I was just trying to-” Spencer tried to save himself, but he quickly shut up when Glenn stepped directly between him and Daryl and told him to. That, and the lethal death stare Daryl pinned him with, convinced Spencer that silence was the only smart option.
Daryl was about to turn away, his rage simmering, when a small, dark bottle tumbled from the top of Spencer’s loosely secured pack and rolled onto the asphalt. It was a half-empty bottle of liquor.
Daryl’s eyes tracked the bottle, then snapped back to Spencer. In that instant, the terrifying reality hit him: he had almost lost you, and you had nearly been bitten, because of a fucking bottle of alcohol.
A raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat. Before Spencer could even react, Daryl shoved him hard in the chest. Spencer stumbled back against the car, hitting it with a loud metallic thud.
Daryl didn't stop there. He lunged forward and slammed a fist into Spencer’s jaw.
“Ya almost got her killed!” Daryl roared, grabbing the front of Spencer’s shirt, his eyes blazing with murderous fury. “For this?! Ya selfish piece of shit!”
Glenn immediately dropped his rifle and wrapped his arms tightly around Daryl’s torso, trying to pull him back. "Daryl, stop! We have to go now!"
The noise from the earlier commotion had already drawn too many walkers to the area, but Daryl couldn't bring himself to care. He felt a white-hot wave of rage swallowing him whole. As his knuckles slammed into the idiot's jaw again, the only thing that mattered was the sheer, brutal fact that he'd almost lost you over something so damn selfish.
You rushed forward, adding your weight to the struggle, grabbing Daryl’s arm and pulling him away from the terrified Spencer. “Daryl! That’s enough! We got the supplies, let’s go!” you insisted, your voice strained.
It took Glenn dragging him backward and you hanging onto his arm to finally break the connection. Daryl fought against the restraint for a moment longer, breathing hard, before he finally allowed himself to be physically turned toward the car.
The ride home was quiet. Glenn was driving, Spencer passed out in the passenger seat. Daryl sat beside you in the back, his hand wrapped around yours – you’d reached for him over half an hour ago, and he hadn’t let go since. His hand had finally stopped shaking by the time you finished explaining what went down earlier, yet his anger was obviously still there. You were half-convinced Daryl’s death glare boring into Spencer’s head might actually choke the man to death; Glenn seemed to feel the hostile intensity too, constantly flicking his eyes up to the rearview mirror.
Seeking an opportunity to lighten the mood, you glanced down at his hand in yours and noticed the dark splotches of crimson beginning to bloom across his swollen knuckles. "You need to get these looked at," you said softly, gently tugging his hand closer for inspection.
He shook his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the passing road. "They're fine. I ain't the one who hit the ground."
"Yeah, well, I’m a doctor. I know I don’t have any serious injuries that need looking at. Plus, I’ve fixed you up countless times, in case you forgot," you teased, running your thumb lightly over his swollen knuckles. "I think I can manage a couple of banged-up fingers."
Daryl snorted and finally looked at you. His hand twitched in yours, a small, sudden movement as if he’d just realized the intimacy of your joined hands, but he didn't pull away. You thought you saw a fleeting hint of pink across his cheeks. "Still gotta see Denise."
"No, I don't," you argued, though a slight smile tugged at your lips. You kept your tone light. "I know I’m fine. She’s gonna be too busy taking care of that asshole anyway," you nudged your head toward the unconscious man.
“She still needs to look at ya.”
You sighed in feigned annoyance but you were glad he was finally starting to loosen up. Despite the earlier chaos, you felt a deep sense of relief settle in. You hadn’t felt this comfortable, this connected, since that night at the party weeks ago, and it was a comfort you desperately needed now. You’d been mentally cursing yourself for avoiding him this long and missing this little easy rapport you had with him.
You smiled to yourself and caught Glenn’s gaze in the rearview mirror. He was smiling too, a small, knowing look, before he turned back to the road.
As the truck rolled down the darkening road, the warmth of Daryl’s hand still in yours, your mind drifted back to that moment – the split second when your hand slipped from his in the mayhem. You could still see his face then, wide-eyed and desperate, the kind of panic that carved itself into memory. His voice had trembled when he asked if you were bit, and even through your daze, you’d been aware enough to catch the tears forming in his eyes. That overwhelming fear, the fact that he completely lost control of himself because of you.
You gave his hand a gentle squeeze now, a silent reassurance that you were okay. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in response. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the road, and the faint warmth between your palms lulled you, and before you knew it, exhaustion finally pulled you under.
Despite his protests to get Denise to take care of you, and his attempts to wiggle out of your insistence on fixing his knuckles, Daryl eventually sat awkwardly on your couch as you got up to put the medical supplies away.
You had taken a quick shower to wash off the grime and dried blood clinging to your skin right after you got back, and had asked him to do the same before coming to your house to get his hand looked at. He was now slightly cleaner and definitely less sweaty, but still visibly uncomfortable sitting on the soft cushions while waiting for you.
Daryl looked down at his gauze-wrapped knuckles, the fresh white bandages a stark contrast to the familiar clutter of the room. He let his gaze sweep around your living room, and a complex feeling began to bloom in his chest.
First, there was relief, that you were okay, and that the exhausting avoiding game between the two of you had finally stopped. Though, he wished it would’ve resolved some other way that didn't involve him losing his shit and breaking a man’s jaw in the process.
Then there was anger, aimed squarely at Spencer for selfishly risking your life, but mostly directed at himself for not knowing how to deal with the matters of his own heart. Daryl felt ridiculous just thinking about it. He couldn't believe he’d wasted all that time instead of spending it with you, acting like a coward, brooding in his own feelings, too afraid to do anything about them.
I think you just made my heart flutter there, Dixon.
The echo of your voice came to his mind again. He had finally managed to press those words down about a week ago, but being in your house, sitting on your couch, and especially when you sat back down next to him, your knees touching his, and smelling the faint, clean scent of soap on you – everything he was trying to suppress came bubbling back up intensely.
Only this time, he decided then that he wouldn't avoid it anymore. Not the feelings, not you. He swore he’d put a stop to his cowardice starting now. Daryl didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he was set on it.
He was snapped from his thoughts by your voice calling his name. “You okay?”
Your voice was filled with genuine concern, your brows furrowed slightly. Your eyes were boring into his with such immediate care he could feel his heart pick up speed. He tried to find words but ended up only giving you a choked nod as a response.
When you didn't say anything, the silence stretched, and Daryl, feeling like the pathetic loser he was, only managed to thank you for patching him up.
You chuckled. "Just don't go around punching any more jerks for the time being."
Daryl could only scoff, grateful you always had a way of easing an awkward moment with your quick wits, but he also couldn't promise to follow your words. If he so much as saw the shadow of that prick anytime soon, he wasn't sure he'd have enough self-control not to land a few more blows. The thought of Spencer was already pissing him off. "Don't do that again."
"Don't hit the ground?" your voice was teasing, clearly trying to keep things light, but Daryl knew he had to say more.
"Don't make me worry." The words surprised even himself. He hadn't planned to say them, yet they were out.
Your eyes softened as you stared into his. Your lips twitched as if you were going to say something, then decided against it. You eventually settled on a quiet, "Sorry."
"Ya don't gotta say sorry-"
"I missed you," you suddenly blurted out, which made him look back at you in confusion, the words he was about to say dying in his throat. When he still couldn't speak – he couldn't – you slowly took his hands in yours before continuing, "I missed this. Us. I was stupid for avoiding you all this time."
Avoiding? You were avoiding him? Daryl's brain snagged on that word. All this time, he thought he was the one making the cowardly mistake, and you were just naturally moving on with your life, making the whole mess of his feelings easier.
"Just because of some dumb thing I said to you when I was fucking drunk," you finished, the words tumbling out quickly, almost as if you were thinking aloud.
Some dumb thing? Daryl's chest tightened with renewed worry. Did you just admit what he was afraid to think about all this time? That when you said he made your heart flutter it was just some drunken slur that didn't mean anything?
You looked down, your thumb running over his patched knuckles. "I regret every day I wasted not talking to you, Daryl. I don't want to go back to that. I don't want to avoid you anymore."
That last sentence – the raw commitment in your voice, the implication that you had been hurt by the separation too – finally broke through his shock. He cleared his throat, his own voice rough and low. He tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a strangled, "That's good."
Dumbass. Say something better.
He looked you right in the eye, and the words that finally forced past his lips were what he hoped you registered as something that conveyed what he was feeling, but Daryl was never good with words. "I didn't like it much either." He paused, then added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "So don't."
When you stared at him, he watched the exhaustion momentarily give way to pure relief in your eyes. He saw the corner of your mouth twitch, and you squeezed his hand, the understanding clear on your face. He couldn't hold your gaze. The sudden, raw emotion was too much, and he immediately got flustered, averting his eyes to the safety of the rug on the floor.
"What ya said that night..." he mumbled, instantly regretting that he'd brought it up. Daryl watched your cheeks flush. You seemed to understand exactly what he was asking about.
"Oh," you managed, your voice tight. "The... the heart fluttering thing?"
He gave a short, stiff nod. He was braced for the punchline, for the dismissal. You’d referred to it as a “dumb thing” just now, but he was internally hoping you’d say something else. Anything.
"Daryl," you said softly, your fingers tipping his chin up. "I was afraid of how fast I said it, and then I realized I sounded like an idiot, and I thought you were just disgusted by the whole mess, so I started avoiding you."
Disgusted? Hell, no. He was just frozen. "I just... I didn't know what to say. I ain't- I ain’t good at that kinda stuff."
You smiled, a genuine and tired smile. "I know. But I meant it, Daryl.” It was your turn to avert your gaze as you shyly added, "You uh… you did make my heart flutter. You do."
The immense weight that had been pressing on his chest for weeks finally cracked. You confirmed what his heart had desperately hoped was true. He stared at your profile, at the way your cheeks started to color. He wished he could tell you that his heart also fluttered, at the sight of you, at the idea of you alone. But he could only manage to say, "Me too."
You seemed momentarily surprised, darting your eyes back to his for a split second before looking away again. "Oh. That’s..." Once you recovered from the fluster, you turned to him with a small grin, "Was that a confession, Dixon?"
Thump. Thump-thump.
Daryl could hear his own heartbeats speed up as he stared at your smile. It was a confession. He wished he could say more – all the things he’d started to feel whenever he was around you. He didn’t know when it started, but the feelings had crept in so strong that words couldn’t come close to describing them. Daryl wasn’t good with words to begin with, and he sure as hell got worse around you – which made no sense, considering you were one of the few people he’d ever really let in. He ducked his head a little, hoping it would hide the heat crawling up his face.
Then he felt your hand cup his cheek, gently lifting his face back up. "I’ll take that as a yes."
Daryl couldn’t help but lean into your touch, chasing the warmth before he even realized it. The usual tension that came with anyone getting too close was gone. He’d gone from flinching at every accidental brush of contact to craving the comfort of your hand – you were the exception, sure, but hell, that was progress all the same.
He must’ve been so utterly lost in your touch because he didn’t realize how close you were now. From his angle, he could see your lashes fanning your flushed cheeks. Daryl watched as you moistened your bottom lip before your gaze dropped to his own slightly parted mouth. He forgot how to breathe entirely. And when you leaned in even closer, your eyes flicking up to his as if asking for permission, he gave a slow, unconscious nod.
Your warm breath mingled with his, and every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire, yet he didn't dare move. He didn’t twitch when he felt your hand move to the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He still didn’t move when your nose gently brushed his, didn't even blink. His heart hammered so loud he was sure you could hear it.
Then your lips ghosted over his. Daryl's hand twitched at his side before he finally gave in and kissed you, his fingers brushing tentatively against your waist as if he was still testing if he was allowed to want this. When you didn't pull away, he let out a quiet sigh against your mouth, a sound caught between relief and disbelief.
The kiss was clumsy and desperate at first, and Daryl almost felt embarrassed for not knowing how to kiss you properly, but the movement became more rhythmic after a while. It felt completely natural.
When you pulled back to catch your breath, a small noise of protest almost escaped him. He gently pushed strands of hair away from your face, tucking them behind your ear, and just stared at you. The sight of your flushed cheeks, your heavy, uneven breathing, that familiar, beautiful grin – it all overwhelmed him.
He realized he was staring at your lips when you teased him, "Like the view?" You’d repeated the question you asked him that first time he was in your house. Except the circumstances were much different now. He was still sitting on the same couch with you. He was still nervous, still trying to act like he wasn’t hanging onto every word you said. Only this time it was your lips he was staring at, not the damn window – and you were close enough for him to feel your heartbeat against his chest.
He didn’t know what possessed him to lean in again, but he was grateful he did. The second kiss came quicker, messier, needier, like something had cracked open between you that neither of you could take back. He felt your smile against his lips before you pulled away, breathless and still close enough for him to feel the ghost of it.
“I don’t think this is appropriate for a doctor–patient relationship,” you murmured, grin tugging at your mouth.
“Don’t care,” Daryl said, the corner of his lips twitching into something almost like a smile. His hand stayed at your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles over your shirt as if to remind himself you were real.
You laughed softly – that quiet, breathy kind of laugh that always knocked the air out of him – and wrapped your arms around his neck. You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, then another to his cheek, and finally one to his forehead, where your lips lingered for a second longer than they needed to.
Daryl held you, feeling the slight tension leave your shoulders as you settled in, your head pressed on his chest, right over his pounding heart. As he looked down at your face, half-hidden against his shirt, his mind began to replay the day – the sickening sight of the blood, the fear of your hand slipping, the moment he thought he'd lost you to Spencer's idiocy.
Daryl was in love with you. That was the truth he’d realized since that night after the party. That was the only explanation for the visceral terror he felt when your hand slipped, the only reason his gut felt like a hollow pit every day he avoided you.
Daryl wished he could express the full extent of his own feelings with words. He wanted to tell you that he needed you safe, that he needed you close, that he couldn't stand the thought of losing you. But he couldn't. He was an idiot.
Instead, he focused on the rapid, uneven beating of his heart beneath your ear. He hoped that the frantic thump-thump – that uncontrolled rhythm – could convey just enough of the truth. He hoped it told you everything his mouth couldn't.
Daryl would learn the words. He would muster the courage one day. But for now, here, safe and close on your beat-up couch, this was enough.
With the last of the day's tension draining away, the exhaustion claimed you both, and you drifted off to sleep together.