twd one-shots

you're different - daryl dixon

Plot/Request: A close call pushes Daryl to admit his deepest secret; if he was gonna die, he wasn't gonna go without telling you why he'd take a bullet for you, or why, for him, you were so different than everyone else.

Word Count:
 3k

Warnings: mentions of gunshots, violence, hmm I think that's it!

A/N: hi-- I forgot about this fic for MONTHS. I think I wrote it in between breathe through it and doctors orders??? oops!! but I rediscovered it recently and with a bit of editing, I think she's ready for you!!

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The day would come. Daryl knew that, he anticipated it. One day he would meet his end; his heavy shoulders would rest, his eyes shut permanently as all consciousness, all of him, slipped away. He was alright with that reality, especially if it meant keeping his family safe.

Keeping you safe.

But in the aftermath of such a stunt— that clearly didn't leave him dead, only a bullet ripped through him– his peace with an inevitable death did little to soothe the pain in his side. His eyes hadn't even opened yet, but he was acutely aware of the throbbing pain where that bullet pierced him, instead of you. When Daryl's eyes finally did open, he shut them tight again. A curse slipped from him and you bit back a chuckle as he raised a hand to block the direct ray of sun.

"Morning, Dixon," you smiled as you moved to sit at the edge of his bed.

He let loose a deep groan, shifting in the bed and hissing at the sudden sharp pain at his wound. At least the throbbing was tolerable.

"Take it easy, you've been out for a while," you muttered, pushing your palm flat against his chest. His eyes flickered between your hand and your face, curious, as if orienting himself to the sudden closeness.

"Tha' bastard shot me," he remarked, a wave of memories crashing from the sight of the white bandage under his torn shirt.

"Well, you did jump in front of his gun," you scoffed, "you're lucky Rick's got good aim– asshole died before he could do more damage."

Daryl noticed the hint of guilt in your eyes. Dark and festering thoughts swimming in the subtleties of your expression; the way your mouth only twinged up at one corner, or how your eyes slanted lower, like even keeping them open was a struggle. He broke your gaze, looking at his surroundings, instead. There was a bowl of bloody water sitting next to his bed and some stray straps of blood stained fabric tossed around. Underneath the brown discolouration, he could recognize the ugly bright blue and a few petals of those equally obnoxious yellow and green flowers.

He remembered your teasing, too— before some unhinged survivor tried to steal everyone's gear and fired a shot meant for you.

"I think it'd look good on you, Dixon."

"Shut up."

He bit back a scoff at that, a smirk loosely hanging off his lips. Then he looked back at you, noticing the smears of what must've been his blood up your arms. But he was clean, he noticed, and remembered the bowl of water. You were much less panicked now, but that same look of regret settled heavily over your features, and he remembered the second mention of that shirt in a much less fond manner.

"S'look good on me?"

You didn't laugh at that, not like he hoped. Instead you pressed harder. He could barely register his deep groan over the pain of you using that horrendous button-down to try and slow his bleeding.