Chapter Text
Two hands clamp around your upper arms, and you are being dragged out of your own engagement party.
“Don’t mess her up too much,” you hear Negan shout at your backs. “She’s still gotta be pretty for the wedding!” Then all you can hear is his booming laughter as the doors close behind you.
You try your best to keep up with your captors, but you can’t help stumbling your way down the hallway, courtesy of the high heels you’re still wearing, despite being in only your underwear at this point. One of your shoes slips on the concrete floor and you begin to fall, only to be yanked back up, hard enough that you know that it’s going to leave a bruise.
Your captors make several turns before coming to an abrupt stop. One of them pushes you into a wall and lets go of your arm. You hear the jangling of keys and the loud creak of a metal door opening. The remaining hand on your arm yanks you off the wall and through the now open doorway, bouncing you off the door frame as he does. Another bruise, most likely.
“Sit down, bitch,” an unfamiliar voice orders. The hand still holding you shoves you down onto a cold, metal chair. You bit your lip to keep from crying out from the pain and the shock of the sudden coldness on your bare skin.
Your arms are pulled behind you, behind the chair, and then you feel the tightening of coarse rope around your wrists.
“Is this really necessary?” you ask, turn your head this way and that, trying to make sure he can hear you.
Suddenly you feel someone else’s hot breath uncomfortably close to your face, even through the bag over your head, and they snarl, “If it were up to me, I’d be tying you to my bed right now and keeping you there until I’m through with you.” Stunned, you remain silent. Behind you, the hands tying your restraints pause for a second, as if they were also stunned by the other man’s words, before continuing to tighten the knot. They yank twice on the rope, probably checking that you can’t undo it, then you feel them let go and step away. You listen as two sets of steps exit the room and the door slams.
You wait a few seconds before moving, trying your best to listen for sounds. All you can hear is the sound of your own frantic breathing, so you hold your breath and listen harder. Silence. You exhale a sigh of relief. Let’s get to work.
You start pulling on your restraints, trying to loosen the knot. You pull and pull and pull, leaning forward and back, left and right, but the rope doesn’t budge. The most you’ve done is scratch up your wrists. You can feel wetness on your left hand; you accidentally drew blood.
Next, you start swinging your head, trying to knock the bag off. No luck there either: all you’ve managed to do is give yourself a headache. All the liquor you drank at the party probably wasn’t helping either.
Last move: you start shouting. “Hey!”
Nothing.
“Hey! Is this any way to treat a lady?” you try playing into the obvious misogyny and deluded chivalry you’ve witnessed from Negan, hoping he passed it down to his minions.
Still nothing.
You continue shouting, alternating between begging for help and threatening to beat the shit out of the first person you can get your hands on. You don’t know how long you’re at this, but you end up shouting your throat raw and you’re pretty sure you can hear drops of your own blood hitting the floor. You let your head droop, squeezing your eyes closed, trying to ignore the pounding in your head and the dryness of your throat.
Some time later - minutes? hours? days? who knows - the door slams open again.
“All right!” you hear the same voice from earlier shout, entering the room. “Let’s have some fun!”
The bag is ripped from your head, and you have to squint your eyes against the sudden brightness of the room. When your eyes adjust, you see that you are in a mostly empty room with nothing but a metal table in front of you and, behind it, stands a tall, lanky figure, rubbing his hands together. He leans forward across the table and eyes you up, as if trying to undress you with his eyes and see inside of your skull at the same time. You glare up into his face.
“So we haven’t formally met,” the figure says. “I’m Simon, Negan’s right hand man.” He reaches a hand out as if to shake yours. You glare harder, then pull on your restraints, as if he needs reminding that he tied you to this godforsaken chair. The strange man takes his hand back and bellows out a loud laugh. “My bad! I totally forgot you're tied up!”
“Bullshit,” you spit at him. His laughter only grows louder, as he sits on the table and stretches his long legs out towards where you’re sitting.
“A feisty one, I see,” he muses. “Most of the other useless wives would’ve been crying their eyes out already, snot dripping down their faces, a whole scene.” He crosses his arms in front of him. “Of course, we didn’t have to talk to any of the others like this. They didn’t come from treasonous groups like yours.”
Now it was your turn to laugh. “Treasonous? Wouldn’t you have to own us first before we could commit treason?”
The man stops laughing, and leans in close. “Newsflash, girl: we do own you. You and your shitty little community. You all report to us now, and live by our rules. We decide when you eat, when you sleep, when you live, and when you die. Your friends found that last bit out last night.”
At that last comment, you see red and lunge at the man, but your tied hands stop you from connecting and instead just make you feel like a shoulder popped out of place. This time, you aren’t able to hide your cry of pain. You grit your teeth, and glare at the man in front of you with everything you have.
But he is unfazed. “Shhhh…” he places a hand on your cheek. You try to pull away, but then he grabs your chin and forces you to look him in the eye. “It’s okay, gorgeous. Thanks to you, your community is just a wee bit safer.” He pauses. “If you behave, of course.” He lets go of your face, pushing your head back as he moves back to the table. “And you tell us what they are planning.”
“What do you mean, planning?” you ask, trying to figure out what he’s implying.
“Don’t play dumb,” Simon snaps. “You’re not convincing us that we have one of their fair damsels” - you scoff - “and they’re not already developing plans to save her from the big bad men who stole her away.”
You stare at him incredulously. Is this man for real right now? “They’re not planning shit. You didn’t steal me away - I came willingly. So there’s no revenge that needs to happen.” He stares at you, so you continue. “Besides, we’re still in the process of mourning our family ,” you emphasize the word, “that y’all murdered last night.”
Simon moves in slowly. “Oh that? That was just repayment, for all of our people that your group murdered at one of our outposts a few days back.” He begins running one hand down your shoulder, and towards your bra. “A transgression, of course, that may be able to be forgiven,” his fingers begin to graze one of your breasts, causing you to squirm, “if one is willing to make up for it on behalf of her community.” He begins pulling on one of your bra straps, sliding it down your arm. “Maybe there’s something you can do -”
“That’s enough,” a voice snaps from behind him. You jump so hard you almost knock your chair over - you had no idea there was another person in the room.
Simon freezes, lets out of huff, and then snaps your bra strap back into place, hard. He turns to face the second man. You lean over to see around him. In the corner of the room, the Savior named Dixon sits in a chair with his arms crossed, watching the interrogation.
Raising his hands in mock surrender, Simon argues, “What? I didn’t do anything. I barely touched her.”
“That’s not our orders,” Dixon argues back.
“I’m just having a little fun-”
“Out,” snaps Dixon. Simon doesn’t move.
The second man stands up to his full height, and gets in his face. “Out,” he says more forcefully.
Simon glances around, as if looking for someone to back him up. He looks at you, and you glare at him. Turning back around, he shrugs and says, “What-ev-er, Dar-ryl.” He overemphasizes each syllable. “She’s frigid anyway. Perfect for you, I suppose. Have fun.” He bumps the other man’s shoulder on his way out and exits the room, leaving the door wide open.
The second man - Daryl - waits for a moment, then steps forward to close the door.
You exhale, relieved that the creep is gone, and relax. But then your head snaps back up in realization.
Double D? Dixon? Daryl?
“Oh my god,” you burst out. “You’re Daryl Dixon!”
He freezes, his back to you, his shoulders so tense they almost reach his ears.
“You are!” you nearly cry out with joy. “Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you. Holy shit.”
Daryl whips around. “What’re you talking about?”
You stare at him. “I’m with Rick. Rick Grimes.” He stares at you blankly. “You were with him and the group at the prison and before that.” He gives you nothing. “Come on, you remember them: Rick, Carl, Maggie, Carol.” Still nothing. “They’ve told me so much about you. You were with them from the beginning, then at Maggie’s family’s farm. You were with them for a while-”
“Shut up,” he snaps.
You continue anyway. “They told me how you were a protector for the group. And you hunted! Kept them fed and safe-”
He lunges forward, pushing your chair back on a dangerous angle and holding it there “I said,” he growls in your face. “Shut. Up. Or I’ll make you.”
You meet his gaze defiantly. “You won’t hurt me.”
“Wanna bet, princess ?” he glares down at you.
“That’s not the kind of man you are,” you challenge.
“Oh yeah?” he challenges back. “And what kinda man am I?”
You swallow, trying to keep your confidence. If looks could kill, you’d already be a walker.
“You save people. You saved Carol when the farm was overrun. And at the prison. You kept the kids safe time and time again. When Maggie and Glenn were taken by that psychotic governor guy, you fought to get them out-”
“And where’s Glenn now?” he snaps.
Ouch. A low blow. “That wasn’t you,” you respond in a small voice. You feel tears begin to prick your eyes. Get it together, bitch, you snap at yourself. Now’s not the time to cry.
“May as well-a been me,” he says gruffly. He slams your chair back on the ground properly and lets go, walking away.
“They searched for you, you know,” you continue, cautiously. If you could just reach out to him, get him back, maybe you can get out of this mess. “For weeks. They went on runs, trying to find you. Going out in each direction. After you disappeared. After you left with your brother-” You don’t get to finish your sentence before Daryl has a hand in your hair and a knife to your throat.
“Don’t you dare talk ‘bout my brother,” he says through gritted teeth. His forehead nearly touches yours. You gulp. “That man? The one they told you ‘bout?” He continues, snarling. “He’s gone.”
“I don’t believe that,” you whisper.
He pushes the knife into your throat harder, not quite enough to draw blood, but you know that if you move even an inch, you’ll slit your own throat.
“Did they tell you how I tortured a guy for days in a barn?” he asks. You stay quiet. They didn’t tell you that, you think, but you won’t say it out loud. “He was jus’ a kid. Beat him so bad he could barely see. Strung ‘em up and let ‘em swing around for a bit. Did they tell you that?” You say nothing. He pushes the tip of his knife in more, definitely nicking the delicate skin of your throat. “Did they?”
You shake your head no, moving as little as possible to keep from bleeding yourself out.
He laughs a cruel, ugly laugh. “How ‘bout the number of people I killed trying to save Maggie and Glenn’s worthless asses?” He looks at you expectantly. You shake your head again. “Exactly. So yeh. I can hurt ya. I will, if you make me. Understand, princess?” You nod ever so slightly. He pulls the knife away. “Now stop pissin’ me off.”
He walks back to the other side of the room. He grabs his chair from earlier, and drags it across the floor to the table. He turns it around and sits on it backwards, leaning his arms on the top of it, knife still in hand. You can see the faintest bit of red on the tip.
“Now,” he starts quietly, “what’re they planning?”
You stare at him without answering. How dare he act like he didn’t just have a knife to my throat? He really thinks I’m gonna talk now? You scowl.
“When are they comin’ for ya?” he asks, trying again.
You remain silent.
“What is Rick’s plan?”
You give him nothing.
He grunts. “Oh now you stop talkin’?”
You can’t resist any longer. “I thought you wanted me to shut up.”
You are on the ground, chair toppled over backwards before you even saw him move. Fuck, he’s fast, you think as you try to catch the breath he knocked out of you. Daryl’s foot is on the chair in between your legs, glaring down at you, knife hand clenching.
“Stop fuckin’ wit’ me and answer tha question!” he shouts. This time, you don’t answer because you can’t breathe. He seems to realize that, because he doesn’t yell at you again. He waits, watching while you struggle not to die. He doesn’t move though. Just waits. Like a hunter, stalking his prey , you can’t help but notice.
After a few minutes, your breathing evens out. He tries again. “Ready to talk now?”
“Maybe I’d be more inclined to talk to you if I wasn’t tied to this chair in my fucking underwear ,” you snap. You tense up, anticipating a kick to the gut or the knife to make its home in your leg, but instead he backs up. He looks away, tips of his ears red, as if just registering that you’re in nothing but lingerie. Oh now he’s shy, you think darkly.
He grunts again, and then turns and leaves the room. He could’ve at least picked you up off the damn floor.
Minutes pass as you continue laying there, unable to even try to untie your hands since they’re under your entire body weight. You move each of your fingers. You’re pretty sure your right pinky finger is broken.
Then Dixon flies back in the door. He rounds the table and sets your chair back upright. Then he brandishes his knife, but instead of gutting you like a fish, he goes behind you and you feel the release of pressure from your wrists. He cut the rope. You bring your hands in front of you, and start rubbing your wrists. They are chaffed and scratched up, and one of them is covered in blood. You don’t get to focus on them long when the man throws something in your face. It’s soft at least.
You unbunch it, and it’s the grossest, ugliest sweatshirt you’ve ever seen. It may have been white once but now it’s stained, with an orange letter A crudely spray painted across the front.
“Put it on,” he orders, “so we can talk.” Then he turns his back, as if to give you privacy.
As much as you want to resist his help, or take your sweet time putting the sweatshirt on just to irritate him further, you can’t deny that you are freezing after being on the cold floor. Plus, you’re sick of feeling so vulnerable in your undressed state. So you bite your tongue, and slip the disgusting sweater over your head. It smells horrendous. But you slide your arms into the sleeves anyway, and wrap them around yourself. You’re still pantsless, but at least it’s a little better.
Daryl’s back is still to you. You huff. “It’s safe to turn around now. My titties are away.” You don’t miss the redness that creeps up the back of his neck before he turns back to you. He slowly sits back down in his chair. You both stare at the other, waiting for someone to break the silence. You won’t give in.
He sighs. “How long you been with Rick’s group?” he asks finally. The question catches you off guard. That wasn’t what you expected him to ask.
You sigh too. Daryl rolls his eyes, but waits for you to answer. “Since the prison, not long after you left. They found me while they were out looking for you actually.” You stop, daring him to say something. He doesn’t. “They started taking in strays. Anyone they came across, they’d invite to join them at the prison. If they weren’t a murderer, of course,” you add, trying to get a reaction out of him. Nothing. “Maggie and Glenn saved me from a pack of walkers that took out the couple of people I was with. I was alone, so they took me in. I stayed with them at the prison until that was overrun too.”
That seems to catch his attention. “What happened?”
“That fucking Governor guy came back with a god damn tank and took the fences down,” you start to choke up a bit, but push through. “After he chopped off Hershel’s head first.” You notice Daryl wince as if in pain. Guess he is human after all.
“Then where’d y’all go?” is all he asks.
“We got separated, only to meet back up at a cannibal camp.” Daryl scoffs. You continue, “I’m serious. Tied us up like pigs, and they were going to slit our throats and bleed as dry just to eat us. They would’ve, if Carol didn’t blow them up.”
Daryl lets out a laugh. Not a cruel one like before, but an actual little chuckle. “Carol?”
You smile, thinking of your friend. “Yeah, she’s become a bit of a badass since you’ve seen her. Shot a firework at a gas tank and blew those bitches right up.”
He nods, and indicates for you to continue, so you do.
“We kinda wandered for a while. Things got pretty bad. But then Aaron found us, and told us about Alexandria. We almost killed the poor bastard, we were basically feral at that point. But he was persistent, so we went and they let us stay.” You stop, leaning in towards Daryl. He leans in too. “And we’ve been there happily ever since, until you pricks started fucking terrorizing us.”
Daryl leans back at that, annoyed. You lean back too, and smile, glad to have gotten back under his skin. I’m not that easy, dick. You sit in silence for a while. Daryl looks like he’s processing everything you said. You begin to hum to yourself. He resumes his glaring.
“Y’all have been through a lot together,” he says simply.
“Uh, yeah.”
“So how is Rick planning t’ rescue you?” he asks directly.
“Back to this, I see,” you sigh, placing your hands on the table in front of you. “Listen, he’s not planning shit. He’s so broken right now, I would be surprised if he even remembers his own name. Y’all fucked him up big time. Probably as bad as Lori’s death did.”
He nods, probably remembering dealing with that when he was still part of the group. “All right,” is all he says as he stands up.
You stay rooted in place, looking up at him.
He looks at you, annoyed again. “Let’s go. Get up.”
You gape at him. “That’s it?”
“Mhm,” he grunts. “See, princess? Didn’t need to be so difficult.”
You scowl, but stand up. You follow him out of the room. He pushes you ahead of him, and keeps a hand on your back to direct you.
You look over your shoulder at him. “Is this really necessary?”
“Want me to drag yer ass again?”
“Point taken.”
He leads you down the dark corridors. You don’t pass anyone along the way, so it must be late. It’s eerily quiet in the Sanctuary at night. Much different than the quiet of Alexandria, you think to yourself, suddenly feeling homesick. But you take a deep breath and push the feeling away. You don’t have time to get sentimental.
After a bunch of twists and turns, he opens a door and you see the wives’ living room again. Daryl pushes you into the room, one more push for good measure you guess.
“Clean yerself up, yer a fuckin mess,” he mutters before turning left down the hallway and stalking off. That’s when you notice the two angel wings on his back. Some fucking angel, you think to yourself.
“Asshole,” you call out. You see him stop in his tracks, and anticipate him coming back and getting one more shot in. But he continues walking without even turning around.
So you slam the door and turn to walk to the bedroom. When you reach it, all the beds are occupied except for one, and no one makes a sound. You tiptoe to the bathroom.
When you get inside, you tear the sweatshirt off like it was on fire. You take one look at your beaten state - blood down the side of your neck, bruises on both arms, scratches up and down your wrists, even a welt on your jaw from the initial punch - and finally break, falling to the floor in tears.