twd one-shots

gone for good (part 1) - daryl dixon

Plot: It was easy to lose hope when everyone around you started dropping like flies. When the flu hit, Daryl saw your optimism drain alongside your health, but it wasn't until the brutal attack of the Governor that he lost his.

Requested by Anon on Tumblr <3

Word Count:
 3k

Warnings: reader is sad/hurt, daryl is trying his best, mentions of DA, mentions of illness, mentions of death, mentions of blood, etc. its the prison battle so...

A/N: a fic absolutely full of fiercely protective daryl? with a hint of comforting daryl?... yes pls. this could def be read as an extension of breathe through it, (there's even a line of dialogue lifted from that fic) but it isn't necessary to read that first... though if u would like to read more about daryl comforting & protecting sick!reader... check that out ;) 

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The prison felt like home. The walls were just as dull and riddled with cracks as the day you first cleared it, but now they adorned colourful drawings and polaroids of familiar faces. Since the Governor fled and the surviving Woodbury residents joined, all that grey concrete had been warmed by the orange glow of lanterns and the echoing laughter of children.

For over a month, every run had gone without a hitch, entire crews came back to the safety of walls and their bed. The days had grown longer with tedious chores and routines, to the point that Rick and Daryl entertained themselves by competing for who could bring the most deer back home. Daryl had taken the lead with his latest hunt. It was just three days ago that over bowls of warm stew and under the amber glow of sunset, you realized you hadn't worried about food in weeks.

Yesterday, Zach died and that month of peace came to a screeching halt. Not even twelve hours later, the hope that things could go back to how they'd been crumbled away with a morning of gunfire and blood. Patrick got sick and died that same night. By sunrise, he'd turned and attacked Cellblock D.

Today, there were twelve bodies to bury.

Hershel instructed you and Daryl to wear a mask and gloves while digging the graves. All you could manage was a brisk nod before the pair of you began tracing the prison's halls out to the field. You'd seen the aftermath of the massacre. Seen the wrap of stained blankets, the drip of blood from the back of their skulls. There was no doubt in your mind that the field would be scattered with those twelve bodies, or what was left of them after the dead had their feast, and the cheerful pictures plastered up the halls made your shoulders slump. A drawing cut into the shape of a ladybug. Smiling stick figures surrounded by yellow sunshine and pink flowers.

This place was your home, and the world was trying to take it away— again.

It wasn't until Daryl touched your shoulder that you realized you'd stopped moving.

"You alright?"

His thumb rubbed across the seam of your cardigan, drawing you out of the daze you'd slipped into. Your eyes tore from the shelf of scattered legos and your thoughts from the teenage boy who loved them. The boy who'd been trying to take a bite of your flesh, not an hour ago.

"I almost forgot what this feels like," you answered. "Being scared."

That old, familiar sting pierced his heart— guilt. He wasn't sure exactly when it began, when seeing you scared made his stomach knot, but sometime in the past few months and without the teasing of his older brother to hold him back, he'd given up on trying to ignore it. Not for lack of trying, of course. But his efforts always seemed futile, anyway; it never mattered what deep and dark hole he locked those feelings in, he never could starve them of the pure light that radiated from your smile.