twd one-shots

try (part 1) - daryl dixon

Plot: Pre-Apocalypse AU. For almost as long as you remembered, Daryl Dixon was in your life. A neighbour, a friend, even a one-night stand. Then finally, a partner. But, after a series of events results in a tempting job offer out of state, everything you built with Daryl is jeopardized.

*Requested

Word Count: 6.2k because I have a problem

Warnings: mentions of DA, implied smut, swearing, mentions of drug/alcohol use, mentions of violence, toxic relationships, daryl can be mean.

A/N: this fic had a mind of its own. it varies from the request (sorry, anon) but the general idea is still the same! 

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The air was practically buzzing.

Or, maybe that was just you.

Regardless, it was a welcome distraction from the chaos that had been the last week of your life. It put a sway in your step, mingling with the sounds of the cheap speakers and rowdy laughter. The ground echoed with the vibration of some obscure rock song you'd only ever hear in a place like this.

And what a place it was. Walls smeared with something (you didn't want to know), strung Christmas lights that had been flickering since your first visit, and a phone booth that probably never worked, to begin with. A run-down shack, all in all a terrible place to be, except for the massively important fact that it was the only place to be right now.

The poor excuse for a bar was the most favourable, poor-excuse-for-a-bar around. And if you weren't thick in the Georgia woods or curled up in bed, you were here, with the Dixons.

Tonight was no different— in that regard.

What was different was that somewhere between your second and fourth shot, something bold had struck you through the infamous fog of intoxication. So when you reached your hand out to Daryl Dixon, he scoffed.

"Ya ain't serious, woman."

"I am!" you grinned, "come on, Daryl."

He shook his stubborn head, "I ain't the dancin' type."

You narrowed your eyes at him, swayed a little in your step— but that was the drink, not the music. Catching yourself, your arm landed beside his shoulder, gripping at the back of his chair.

"Well, I am and I need a partner." You grabbed at his hand, careful not to wrap your fingers around the tips of the darts in his clutch, "I'd rather you than any of these assholes."

He smirked, "M' an asshole."

"But you're my favourite," you grinned, "so just try."

The darts were loose in his grasp, he let you pull them away and throw them onto the table. His hand was limp, its weight awkwardly held in yours, despite your pleading eyes. Seeing you cling onto Daryl, Merle chuckled from the other side of the table and strode over to find out what had distracted his competition.

"Come on," you whined, "I'm getting tired and then we'll have to leave, so you only have one more chance."

"If ya don't do it, I will," Merle smirked, smug eyes lingering at your chest. He was obvious and unashamed as he hummed in approval. Now at your side, he leaned in so close you could almost taste the whiskey on his breath. It made you nauseous, and you let go of Daryl to push him. Merle could be a bigger asshole than most, but he still stepped back, only feigning a scoff of offence to which you rolled your eyes.