twd one-shots

speak up - daryl dixon

Plot: Daryl had almost given up on confessing his feelings to you, falling victim to his self-doubts and the predictable solace of silence. Then Maggie and Carol opened their big mouths.

requested on tumblr

Word Count:
 2.1k

Warnings: self-doubt talk

A/N: I kinda tried daryl's POV for this!! pls lmk what you think since I'm new with that :)

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Daryl Dixon had never been good with words. Something about his redneck accent or having a daddy who drank more than he ever spoke. It worked out, he didn't mind being silent. Some of his favourite memories— the few he had— were absent of words.

The nights his father would pass out completely, nothing but the soft crickets and brush of leaves to fill the air. He liked those nights.

Hunting. When he'd approach a deer. The meat would last weeks, giving the group some time to think about something other than food. His silence was good then.

Or when you hugged him. He was really glad he stayed quiet. Otherwise, he might've said something stupid, a surly remark that would've made you peel off him quicker than you had to. Maybe he would've missed the way the wind caught your hair tickling his face or the way you felt pressed against him. If Daryl had it his way, you would've clung to him longer. He would've pulled you closer. But then he thought about all the walker blood on him and your pretty yellow top, so his hands barely brushed your sides.

The next day he came across a patch of daffodils— on the hunt you asked him not to go on, still unsettled by his previous appearance at the gate, looking like he'd been dragged through a pit of blood and dirt. Those flowers were nice, like that top you'd been wearing before he got it all dirty. Daryl hadn't even realized he'd started picking them until he had a bundle in his grip.

You'd shown such worry for him and he, simply put, appreciated it. It was something new for him, to feel like he had someone to go back to, to wait for him, to stay safe for. He hadn't thought about why he was picking the flowers nor any plan for them. Instead, it was like a deep, almost subconscious knowledge he had that the bundle was for you.

He used a bit of string to tie the stems together and placed them on the table when he got home. The morning sun caught the petals, varying hues of yellows shining, and he had every intention of handing them to you until you entered the room and glowed even brighter than the sun.

"Where'd these come from?" you smiled.

Daryl watched you approach the table and pick them up, bare feet padding across the kitchen tiles while you searched for a vase.

"They're beautiful," you whispered, admiring the fresh blooms.

"Yeah," he mumbled, still staring at you.

You looked up at him, your smile growing suspicious when you asked, "Did you bring these back?"

"Thought they were nice," Daryl shrugged, "n' ya'd like 'em."

Your cheeks flushed and your expression became soft and shy, "They are. I do— a lot, thank you."

If Daryl wasn't silent then, he would've told you he thought you were nice— nicer. Too nice for a world as dark as this one. That you deserved flowers, safety, and happiness. Everything he wanted, he tried, to give you despite the world of the dead crushing him. If he was going to say something— now would be the time, right? Now seemed right, it seemed sweet; to confess his feelings over a gift of fresh flowers and the warm glow of sunrise.