Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You stand atop the Alexandria gate, looking out into the woods, rifle in hand. It’s late; hours since the RV with most of your apocalypse family - Rick, Michonne, Carl, Maggie, Glenn, Aaron, Rosita, Sasha, Abraham, and Eugene - set out for Hilltop to get Maggie to a doctor; hours since Rick left you and Gabriel in charge of Alexandria’s defenses, just in case the Saviors decide to attack. Even more hours since one of your closest friends, Carol, disappeared. 

You sigh and rub your hands down your face. You’ve been on watch for hours, having signed up for a double shift because your anxiety wouldn’t let you sit idle for too long. The floor of the platform is littered with your cigarette butts and empty coffee cups, the latest emptied too long ago for your liking. Swaying on your feet, you reach for another smoke, anything to keep you up and focused.

As you light it, the platform shakes as Gabriel makes his way up to you. He stands next to you and looks out at the empty treeline. Besides the occasional wandering walker, things have been quiet. Too quiet for your liking. You sigh again.

“They’re going to be okay,” Gabriel assures you. “Have faith.”

You laugh. “Faith is your job, Father. Not mine.” 

“True,” the priest chuckles. “But you can still have faith in our friends. Our family,” he adds on.

You take a long drag of your cigarette, making sure to blow your smoke away from the priest. “I know, I do.” You sigh. “I just- I don’t know.”

“These are the people you care about,” Gabriel says, kindly. “You’ve been together for a long time. It makes sense.”

“They’re also all of our best fighters,” you point out. “No offense,” you add, gesturing to the shotgun in the priest’s hands.

“None taken,” Gabriel says, raising his free hand in mock surrender. “None of us will ever forget the mess I was when y’all found me.”

You both chuckle, then fall silent. You scan the woods again, looking for anything that might signal their return or the Saviors’ arrival. Still nothing. 

“You should rest,” Gabriel says quietly. “You’ve been up here for hours.”

“I’m fine,” you try to argue, but you feel yourself swaying again. “I just need some more coffee, that’s all.”

Gabriel eyes up the multiple empty cups at your feet. “I think you’ve had quite enough for one night.” He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I promise I’ll send someone for you when they get back. Go rest. You need to be ready for whatever happens next.”

He is right and you know it, so you give in. “The second they arrive, deal?” He nods. “Okay. I’ll be on my swing. Real easy to find.” And with that, you make your way down from the watchtower. 

You walk down the quiet streets of Alexandria. The only people out and about are the watch patrols Gabriel had organized before the RV left. By the gates, the evacuation cars are parked and ready to go, should the Saviors arrive before Rick and his crew get back. 

You walk past Barbara’s house, and, for a moment, think about sneaking inside and checking on Judith. You joined up with Rick’s group shortly after Judith was born, and you’ve spent a lot of time watching and playing with her, helping to take some of the stress off of Rick, who was raising her alone after his wife, Lori, died while giving birth to her. Even though you never really wanted kids of your own, you can’t help but love the little girl. But it’s late, and you don’t want to risk waking her and any of the other children, so you continue to the house you share with Carol and a few of the others. 

You walk up the porch steps, and head right to the swing. You have a bedroom inside, but most nights, you end up out on the swing anyway. Before arriving in Alexandria, you spent a lot of time outside - camping, running, fighting, surviving - so you often feel most comfortable out here. Setting your gun and your hunting knife on the small side table, you stretch out on the swing, and stare up at the stars until you manage, to your surprise, to fall asleep.

A few hours later, you wake to heavy footsteps on your porch. You startle awake and reach for your knife, but relax when you see Scott coming towards you.

“They’re back,” he says quickly. “The RV’s pulling up now. Gabriel sent me to come and get you.”

A smile breaking out on your face, you jump off the swing and follow him, hooking your knife back onto your belt as you walk. As you near the gate, you break out into a run to go help Francine open it for your friends. 

The RV pulls through the gate, and parks along the curb. After you help close the gate behind it, you jog over to the side door to greet your friends. As you do, Rick opens the door and steps out. 

“Hey!” you call out as you approach. But Rick doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even seem to have heard you. “Rick,” you try again, “what hap-” but you stop speaking as you see the blood splattered across his face. You gulp down your fear. “Rick?” This time he turns and looks at you - no, past you, eyes glazed over and far away.

You freeze. You feel a sharp pain in your chest and you just know: something terrible has happened.

“He wants a what? ” a voice shouts from the crowd.

All of Alexandria was gathered in the church, where town meetings are usually held. Rick stands at the front of the group, addressing the citizens. Michonne stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Next to her stands Aaron, wearing a blank expression. The three of them look horrible.They had only returned early this morning, and haven’t had a chance to process the nightmare of the night before.

You are sitting in the back of the church alongside Rosita, her hand clutching yours. After you found Rick in his catatonic state, you helped move the group - much smaller than when they had left - into Rick and Michonne’s house, where you got the full story: while trying to get to Hilltop, the Saviors blocked all of the roads, causing them to turn around time and time again. Eventually, they were cornered by hundreds of Saviors and brought before the actual Negan. As payback for the attack on the outpost, Negan killed both Abraham and Glenn, and took Rick away to torment into submission, before letting them go. Sasha took Maggie to Hilltop - hopefully to the doctor - and the rest of them came back to Alexandria to tell everyone the rest of the bad news.

“A wife,” Rick is saying again to the crowd. He looks on the verge of tears. “He says we owe him for taking out his outpost and killing his men.” He clears his throat. “And he says we have 24 hours to deliver him one, or he’s going to keep killing our people.” He looks at the floor, not able to make eye contact with anyone.

“So we’ll give him one,” Spencer announces, standing up from one of the pews in the front. “We can pick one of the women - “

“And send her to her death?” Scott shouts. “Are you crazy?”

“If it keeps the rest of us safe-” Spencer starts, but he is quickly drowned out as the room erupts with noise. You watch as the direness of the situation sinks into Alexandria: men and women yelling, trying to get their voices heard; Scott moving towards Spencer, still shouting; Anna clutching her children; Olivia sobbing openly. Next to you, Rosita clutches your hand even harder, and, at the front of the room, Michonne glares into the distance. You glance behind you to where Carl comforts a trembling Enid. Next to them, Barbara holds a babbling Judith on her lap. 

You turn the other way, looking for more of your family before you remember that they are gone. Your chest tightens. Glenn, gone. Abe, gone. Maggie and Sasha, potentially gone, even if they did make it to Hilltop. Maggie and Glenn’s baby-

You squeeze your eyes shut, thinking about everything these people have done for you: Maggie and Glenn, who rescued you that day on the road. Rick, who let you join them in the prison even though you were a stranger. Carl, who was the first to trust you at the prison and helped the others warm up to you. Michonne, who helped you to stay alive when the prison was overrun and the group was scattered. Rosita, who saw your potential and trained you to be a better fighter for the group.

Hell, even Alexandria itself has helped you. They let you and your group in, even though you were all on the verge of losing it and dangerous. Aaron sought you guys out and brought you in anyway. Gave you a home, with walls and safety. Food. Friendship. Even though you haven’t always been grateful for the confines of the small community, you can’t deny how much you have benefitted from it. 

They’ve done all this for you, you say to yourself. What have you done for them? Sure, you’ve helped take care of the kids, protect the group, scavenge for supplies. But what if you could do more?

“I’ll do it.” 

The words leave your mouth and the room goes silent. Rosita’s head snaps toward you. You give her a tight smile and stand up, turning to face the rest of the crowd. “I’ll go.”

At the front, Michonne steps forward. “Y/N - “ she starts but you cut her off.

“No more Alexandrians will die,” you say more forcefully. “Not if I can help it. I’m going.” You and your friend lock eyes from across the room. She sighs, nodding her head. You both look at Rick.

He finally looks up, tears openly streaming down his face. He looks to you, and you meet his eyes, raising your chin. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We leave at first light.” He turns and leaves the church.

With Rosita still clutching your hand and staring, you stand, rooted to the spot, as the rest of the community leaves the church too. Some offer you small notions of thanks - tight smiles, gentle hands on shoulders, even a few hugs. You accept their support quietly, still ruminating on the choice you just made. But when Barabara approaches you with Judith, who reaches her little arms out to you, you know you made the right choice. You take the little girl in your arms and hold her close. I will keep you safe, you think as you press your lips to her hair, I will keep you all safe, no matter the cost.

Later that afternoon, you stand in your room, looking over your meager belongings, trying to pack. Barbara had helped you by doing most of your laundry while you hung out with Judith. You spent a good part of your morning sitting on the swing with the toddler in your lap, reading any book she put in front of you. You only gave her up, reluctantly, when it was time for her nap. Now, you stood looking at the neat piles of folded clothes on your bed.

Next to the clothes lay a few miscellaneous items: a couple of books, a pair of sunglasses, a hat, your leather jacket, a candy bar that Carl snuck you after the meeting, and your journal. You open the drawer of your nightstand and pull out your small handgun, one of the last items you have of your family’s from before the world ended. You consider packing it, but decide against it, not wanting it to end up in the hands of a Savior. Instead, you place it on the nightstand next to an envelope labeled “Carol.” You wrote the letter to your dear friend, in case she returns to Alexandria while you are away. 

Where are you? you think to yourself, picking the envelope up. Carol still hasn’t come back, and no one seems to know where she went. And what the hell are you up to? Knowing Carol, she could be wrecking some serious havoc on a poor, unsuspecting community. You smile to yourself at the thought.

A small knock at your door brings you back to the present. Putting the letter down, you turn to find Michonne in your doorway. 

“Hey,” your friend says softly.

“Hey,” you say back. You both stay quiet for a minute and just look at each other, so much unsaid but communicated nonetheless. You and Michonne have always been like that: able to convey what you’re thinking without having to say it out loud. It’s one of the reasons why you’re so close. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Michonne says, breaking the silence.

“We both know that’s not true,” you shoot back, gently.

“We can find another way,” she tries again.

“In the 12 hours we have left?” you ask. She doesn’t answer. “Exactly.” You step forward and take your friend's hand. “We need to keep Alexandria safe. And I can do that, by doing this. So please, let me do this. Support me doing this.”

Michonne looks at you, eyes glistening. “We’ll find a way.”

You give her hand a squeeze. “I know we will,” you reassure her. “Let me at least buy us some more time.” 

She gives you a small smile, then pulls you into a hug that you gladly accept. “We will get you back,” she says into your hair. “I promise.”

“I know,” you say. You’re not quite sure it’s possible, but it wouldn’t be the first time your family has pulled off the impossible. Looking at you, Carol, you smile to yourself. The two of you hold each other for a while, before you pull away. “Take care of Rick and Judith for me, okay?” you ask. “Carl can take care of himself these days.”

Michonne lets out a small laugh. “Ain’t that the truth.” Her face grows serious again. “Be careful, okay? We don’t know exactly what you’re walking into.”

You smile at your friend. “I’m always careful.” At this, you both laugh, knowing you are one of the most reckless of the group. 

Michonne laughs until she sighs, places one hand on your cheek like she’s trying to burn the image of your face into her mind, before she leaves you to finish your packing.

You turn back to your task and sigh. You have no idea what you’re even going to need. What supplies do they have? Do they even have any? Since they take half of whatever Hilltop has - and who knows how many other communities they do that to - they have to be well-stocked, right?

Unless I’m a prisoner. The thought suddenly pops into your head. What if the plan is to just throw you in a cell and let you rot? You shiver at the thought. Can’t be worse than playing the happy housewife to a murderer.

You start to question what being Negan’s wife will even entail, but you shake the thought away. Doesn’t matter, you remind yourself. You made this decision to keep Alexandria safe, no matter what. 

Sighing again, you grab the satchel from the back of your closet door and start placing the piles of clothes inside, followed by your books and your journal. You think about opening the candy to eat it now, but decide to save it. You tuck it and the sunglasses into the small pocket of the bag. You decide to leave out the leather jacket and an outfit for the next day. 

Satisfied, you grab your cigarettes and lighter, but when you turn to leave the room, Rosita is standing in your doorway.

“Jesus, Rosie!” you nearly jump out of your skin. “Are you trying to kill me?”

But she ignores your question. “So you’re really going,” she says coldly.

“Uh yeah, I kinda have to,” you reply, trying to slow your heart rate down. “The whole ‘threatening to kill more of our friends and family’ thing was pretty convincing.”

She just stares at you blankly.

“Look,” you continue, “I’m going to be fine-”

Rosita cuts you off. “I know,” she says simply. “I trained you to be.” She steps into the room, and holds her hand out to you. When you look down at it, you see her brass knuckles in her hand, the ones with the sharp points that she uses to take out walkers. 

“I can’t-”

“Too bad,” she says, and she puts them into your hand. “These guys are fucking psychopaths, okay? You need to protect yourself.”

You close your hand around the knuckles. “But what about you?”

“We have plenty of weapons here. Who knows what you’re going to have there.”

“Thank you,” you say. You tuck the knuckles into a pair of your socks, and place them in the bottom of your bag. When you turn back to Rosita, a single tear runs down her face. You open your mouth to say something, but she beats you to it.

“Just don’t die, okay?” she says pointedly.

“I’ll try not to,” you answer, unsure of what else to say.

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

She looks you dead in the face. “If you get the opportunity to kill Negan, don’t. He’s mine to kill.” You stare open mouthed at your friend. “Swear it.”

“Okay, okay, I swear,” you say with your hands up in surrender.

With that, Rosita nods quickly, then exits, leaving you standing in the middle of your room in your confusion. Looking around at its emptiness, you grab your cigarettes and head outside.

Sitting on the steps of your porch, you watch as the rest of Alexandria goes about its business. Some people nod at you as they walk past, some avoid your gaze, but most carry on like it’s a normal day. To them, it is, you think dully. Your life is the only one that’s about to change. 

You watch as the sun sets on your last day in Alexandria from the swing on your porch. You have a few visitors over the course of the evening: Barbara brings over a babbling Judith, who plays with your hair as you hold her on your lap, breathing her in and giving her lots of hugs and kisses; Carl sits with you stoically while you comfort a crying Enid, wiping away her tears and telling her how strong she is; Michonne comes by eventually to pry the teenager off of you and walk her home, and only then does Carl finally relent and let you hug him.

When night overtakes the town, you are still on the porch, swinging steadily with the breeze. You sip slowly from the small jar of whiskey that Eric had dropped off earlier after sitting with you for a bit while Aaron stayed at the bottom of the stairs, unable to come too close. 

“He’s been on edge all day,” Eric had whispered earlier, as you both watched his husband look over his shoulders a dozen times.

“I bet,” you had murmured back. Aaron is such a gentle, caring soul. You could only imagine how much the night before had affected him.

“He’s already told Rick he’s going tomorrow,” Eric had pressed on, “when they drive you to him .” He shudders, unable to say the leader of the Saviors’ name.

You nodded slowly, watching your friend stare up at the sky, taking deep breaths. You could live a hundred lifetimes and you would still never deserve a friend like Aaron.

Tears begin to prick the back of your eyes. You take a bigger swig of the whiskey and stumble off of your swing. Whoops, you think as you grab the railing to get your bearings. Walk it off, bitch. You wobble down the stairs and take off for the street.

One thing you have never been able to get used to is how quiet Alexandria gets at night. After spending so much time on the road, each day a fight and a desperate search for food and shelter, the safety of the small town felt so alien to you. Safety that is now at risk, you remember, and fear sends a shiver down your spine. 

Not if I can help it,  you remind yourself. That’s why you’re doing this: to keep this town and all of its people safe. So that they can survive and even live. So that Carl and Enid and Judith and all the other kids already here and the future kids to come can grow up in the closest thing to peace you can offer them. You smile to yourself as you make another turn and continue your farewell walk around the neighborhood.

The sound of silence is soon interrupted by a second set of footsteps catching up to you, and you turn to see Gabriel walking towards you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks politely.

“Go for it,” you respond.

The priest falls into step with you, and the two of you walk quietly for a while, both in your own heads.

Gabriel eventually breaks the silence. “You’re doing a very brave thing, you know.”

You scoff. “Are you going to deliver me a sermon on some poor sap from the Bible who sacrificed himself for the greater good?” It comes out meaner than you intended, but Gabriel only chuckles.

“Of course not, I wouldn’t waste the breath on you.” He smirks.

You laugh at this. Gabriel may be a man of the church, but he is also a realist, and acknowledges that some people - yourself included - are not the religious types. He also has a wicked sense of humor, which helps. Despite your contradictory appearances, he has always been a good friend of yours.

“Good,” is all you say in response, and hold out your whiskey jar. He accepts your offer, and takes a small swig before passing it back to you.

“You may not be a fan,” he says, suddenly serious. “But I have been praying for you.” He stops, and so do you, turning to face him. “And I will continue to pray for you, until you come back home.” You understand what he’s not actually saying - until we bring you home - and you nod. He’s way more like the rest of the crew than he thinks.

“Thank you,” you respond quietly, looking down at your feet. You’ve experienced a lot of things in life, but you don’t think you’ve ever had someone say that they’re going to pray for you with such genuine care. You mentally add this to your list of reasons why you’re doing this, lest you forget.

You and Gabriel resume walking in comfortable silence. The two of you loop through all of Alexandria a few times while you admire your home. That’s what it has truly become: home. And the people in it, family. And you feel resolved in your decision to do whatever it takes to protect your family. Even by becoming Negan’s “wife.” 

Chapter Text

At dawn, you’re already sitting on your porch when Rick and Aaron walk up to your house. Bag packed at your feet, you swing idly on the porch swing, smoking a cigarette. Rick walks up and stops at the bottom step.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, one hand on his hip and the other on the railing.

“Could you?” you ask right back.

He shakes his head. “Nah.” He looks at the ground. “You ready?”

You sigh, put out your cigarette, and stand up. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

Aaron jumps forward to grab your bag, and reaches out a hand that you gladly take. Grounding yourself to him, you walk down the stairs of your porch - potentially for the final time - and head towards your fate.

The ride isn’t long, but it feels like ages. Each bump in the road makes the two men in the front seat jump. In the back, you lay with your head against the window and focus on keeping your breaths even. You think about everyone you are doing this for.

Inhale. Rosita.

Exhale. Michonne .

Inhale. Carol, wherever she is.

Exhale. Judith - 

You choke on your last breath. Both men’s heads whip around and look at you. 

“Y/N-” Aaron starts to ask, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“I’m fine, I'm fine. Just forgot how to breathe for a sec.” The man looks unconvinced. “Really. I’m fine.” You stare him down until he looks away. “Are we almost there?”

“About 20 minutes out,” Rick answers quietly.

You nod your head and roll down the window. You take the last cigarette out of the pack and light it. Who knows if they have any smokes at the Sanctuary.

The rest of the ride is quiet. True to his word, 20 minutes later Rick pulls the truck off of the road and into a clearing. At the other side are four black trucks and about twenty men standing around, each armed to the teeth with guns, knives, even a few hammers. At the front of the group stands a tall man clad in a leather jacket, twirling a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. My betrothed, you think sulkily to yourself.

Rick parks the truck about 100 feet away from the Saviors but doesn’t move to get out. He takes a deep breath and turns to you.

“Y/N-” he starts.

“Rick, please don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t start with the ‘you don’t have to do this’ stuff. We both know I do.” You reach forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Aaron looks at you with tears in his eyes. “It’s okay.”

“We are so, so sorry,” Aaron says in a small voice. He is trying so hard to keep it together, probably for your sake just as much as his.

“I know,” you reassure him with a small smile. “But I’m a big girl. I know what I signed up for. I’m doing this for all of us.” He nods. You turn back to Rick. “Besides, I’m a tough bitch. I’ll be alright.” At least long enough until we figure this out, you think to yourself. Rick is barely holding on as it is, he doesn’t need to know about your conversation with Michonne the day before.

Rick snorts a small laugh, pats your hand with his, and says, “all right.”

All three of you open your car doors and start to get out. You sling your bag over your shoulder as you follow the two men towards the Saviors. Negan watches your approach with a grin.

“Good morning, new neighbors!” Negan shouts. You couldn’t help but notice Rick and Aaron wince at the sudden loud sound. “I was starting to think you weren't going to show up and that we” he indicates to the armed men behind him “were going to have to make a home visit.”

“I said we’d be here and we’re here,” Rick says in a low voice. He keeps his eyes on the ground at the lead Savior’s feet.

Negan chuckles. “That you are. Now move so I can see my fiancé. You’re a good looking dude, Ricky, but you’re not quite my type.”

Rick looks back at you over your shoulder. You meet his eye, lift your chin, and take a step forward. You begin to close the gap between you and the Saviors.

Negan whistles and a few of the men behind him begin to whisper and laugh amongst themselves. He steps forward, ending just a few feet in front of you.

“Now where has Ricky boy been hiding you?” he asks with a big smile on his face. He circles around you, taking you in from every angle. You follow him with your gaze, never taking your eyes off of him. When he finishes circling, he makes an astonished face at his men, some of whom are rubbing their hands together as they watch. Gross, you think.

“And what’s your name, doll?” Negan asks, standing in front of you again.

“Y/N,” you reply quickly.

He repeats your name a few times, as if trying out how it feels in his mouth. You grind your teeth together at the sound. “And do you know why you’re here?”

“To be your wife,” you answer.

Negan takes a step forward, getting a little closer than you are comfortable. “And did you choose this, or did you get voted off the island?”

You lift your chin so you can look him in the eye. “I chose this.”

Negan whoops. “And she’s a smart one too! Oh man, today is my lucky day!” The Saviors behind him laugh and cheer.

Suddenly, his arm is around your shoulder and he turns you to face Rick and Aaron. “Gentlemen, I gotta hand it to you. She’s a looker. And to think, Simon suggested that you were gonna try bringing some old, decrepit lady to pawn off on me. But I told him, ‘Rick is dumb, but not THAT dumb’ and I was right!” He grabs your face with his other hand. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Rick’s hands clenched into fists at his side. Aaron looks one slight breeze away from falling over. You try to nod at them, to telepathically tell them that you are okay.

Negan lets go of you, and offers his arm. “Shall we, darling?”

You send one last glance to your friends, then turn to the Savior and take his arm. “We shall,” you respond. He laughs.

“Alright, you sons of bitches!” Negan shouts to his men. “You heard the lady. Let’s move out!” He starts walking towards one of the black trucks. 

As you walk, you pass a dark patch on the ground. You try to not look at it - breathe bitch, just breathe - until Negan pulls you to the left. “Watch your step! You don’t wanna step in what’s left of old what’s-his-name,” he shouts and then looks back at Rick. “Hey Dick, was that the redhead or the asian guy?” He and the Saviors begin laughing again.

You risk a glance back at Rick and Aaron, and immediately regret it. Aaron is openly crying now, tears streaming from his big blue eyes. Rick isn’t even looking at you, eyes are glued to the dark patch on the ground. You quickly turn back around to watch where you are going.

Negan stops laughing and orders, “One of you bastards come and get my lady’s bag. She’s to be my wife, she’s not meant to work anymore.” One of the younger Saviors runs forward and grabs your bag from your shoulder as Negan leads you to the truck in the front of the group. 

He opens the door and bows. “My queen,” he coos. You hesitate, take a deep breath, and then climb into the backseat of the truck. Negan hops in beside you. “Let’s go home.”

Negan spends most of the ride to the Sanctuary talking, more at you than to you. As he talks, he fiddles with the bat laying across his lap. The bat that killed Abraham and Glenn.  You can’t stop staring at it. While you already knew what had happened to your friends, it was different when their murder weapon was mere inches away, essentially taunting you. You once again focus on your breathing.

Inhale. Maggie.

Exhale. Sasha.

Inhale. Eugene.

Exhale. Carl.

You continue this until the truck comes to a stop. 

“Home sweet home, darling,” Negan says, looking out the window.

You turn away from the bat and look too. In front of the truck stands a tall, gray factory. The walls have been aged with time, windows dirtied and broken in places. In front of the building is a tall gate, slowly being opened by a handful of Saviors. In between the gate and the factory, you glance in horror at the walkers, snarling and growling at the convoy. You tense up, waiting for them to start coming at the trucks, when you realize that they are attached to the fences and other debris, as if standing guard over the place. That’s exactly what they’re doing, you think in disgust.

The truck pulls up to the building and parks. Negan jumps out, jogs around to your side, and opens the door. He offers you a hand. You hesitate again, looking up at the factory’s smokestacks, and then back at the man in front of you.

Negan is unfazed. “I know it’s a little intimidating looking,” he says, hand still outstretched, “but it can be very homey. Let me show you around.”

Slowly, you take his hand and slide out of the truck. Negan smiles, then turns to bark orders at his men to get the doors open. The same young Savior who ran to grab your bag runs forward to open the factory doors. Hand in hand, the two of you walk up the stairs and into the Sanctuary.

Inside the doors, you walk into a bustling marketplace. There is so much going on in the room that you struggle to take it all in. You see a woman rolling out dough to probably make bread to your right. There is a group of people sorting produce to your left. There are people looking through racks with clothing and blankets hanging on them. In the middle of the room, there is a brick oven with two men tending to it. Above your head, there are makeshift chandeliers illuminating the organized chaos of the room. Despite your best wishes, you’re actually pretty impressed with how the place looks and operates.

Negan smiles as he watches you take it all in. “Wanna see something cool?” he asks you. You nod. He turns his head to face the room, and begins a slow whistle. The Saviors that entered with you mimic the call. 

All at once, the once-buzzing room freezes. Several of the workers’ heads whip around to face you and Negan. The look on their faces shock you: the mix of surprise, fear, and anguish, with a sprinkle of glee throughout the crowd. But you don’t get a lot of time to process their faces before the ripple of people bowing their heads and kneeling. Fucking kneeling . Like they’re in the presence of fucking royalty. Or God. But then you turn to Negan and you get it - the look on his face tells you that that is exactly how he sees himself and how he expects them to see him too. The silence is deafening.

“At ease, my friends!” Negan addresses the crowd, waving his hand to the people. “Come on, get on up.” The crowd begins to slowly rise, looking at each other to see what they should do. You continue to stare at Negan, not sure what to make of this spectacle.

You don’t have long to think about it until he starts walking you, still hand in hand, through the market. You can’t help but notice the faces of the people who dare to pick their eyes up off the floor. Some eye you in wonder; some shake their heads in - Pity? Fear? Envy? You can’t tell, but it unsettles you nonetheless. You decide its best to look straight ahead, chin held high, as you make your way across the room with their leader. 

As you reach another door, Negan pauses, holding up one finger. He turns back around to address the room. “I almost forgot,” his voice booms through the silent room. “Work hard for the rest of the day, then be back here at 19:00 hours in your Sunday best.” He glances around the room. “Arat?”

A small woman with short, blonde and black hair rushes before him and kneels. “Yes, sir?”

“How are the arrangements coming along?”

“They’re coming along great. Everything will be ready right on time,” the woman replies.

Negan smiles. “Excellent.”

Looking between the two Saviors and not able to figure out what in the hell they are talking about, you turn to Negan and ask, “Arrangements for what?”

He turns to you and grins. “Our engagement party, of course.” 

You’re taken aback. Engagement party? Is this man for real? The world has ended and half the population is trying to eat the other half, and he’s throwing you a fucking engagement party?

But before you get to ask any of the hundreds of questions flying around your mind, Negan turns back around and continues walking you out of the marketplace and down the long hallway.

You next end up in a bland looking room that probably used to be a storeroom of some sort. There is nothing but a table and a few boxes on the floor. When you enter, Negan lets go of your hand and turns to the Saviors that followed you both.

“Bring her bag,” he orders.

The young Savior with your bag pushes through the crowded hallway, and bursts into the room. He holds it up like an offering.

“Dump it,” his leader commands.

“Dump it? What the - “ you start before the contents of your bag gets poured onto the cold, metal table. You stare in horror as all of your earthly belongings - which obviously isn’t much, given the whole end of the world thing - are spread out on display. You scan the pile of your stuff, looking for the brass knuckles that Rosita gave you before you left Alexandria. You don’t see them anywhere, but that doesn’t make you feel any better. Clothes are everywhere, and a few trinkets roll onto the floor. 

You move forward to pick them up but Negan holds out an arm, stopping you.

“Search it,” he says to his men. Two Saviors move forward and start rustling through your things. Clothes are turned inside out, books shaken. One even has the audacity to start flipping through your journal. The other starts tossing things over his shoulder and grabbing more items to investigate.

“What the hell? Stop that,” you try again to grab your things but Negan continues to hold you back. One of the Saviors holds up a pair of your underwear and grins to the crowd in the doorway. You lunge for him, but Negan wraps another arm around you.

“Hey hey hey,” he says, attempting to soothe you. “Just standard procedure. You understand, don’t you? I’m sure Ricky Dicky did the same thing to you when you first appeared on his doorstep.”

You glare at him, but you stop struggling. Technically what he’s saying makes sense. But it doesn’t make you hate it any less. And if he finds those brass knuckles, you’re as good as dead, probably.

He takes your stillness as understanding, and calls forth another Savior. “Laura?”

A short, blonde woman with a neck tattoo appears before you. “Yes sir?” she asks, exactly like the woman from back in the market.

“Search her, please,” Negan orders, letting you go and taking a step back.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but you definitely didn't expect the tiny woman to spin you and shove you up against the wall. “Jesus, what the f-” you start but she ignores you and begins to pat you down. She starts at your shoulders, rubs down the side of your ribs, and stops at your waist, where your hunting knife is sheathed to your belt. In an instant, she yanks it off and tosses it in Negan’s direction. He catches it, unsheaths it, and holds it up to the light.

“Now isn’t this a beautiful blade?” he says, examining it.

You try to turn and answer him, but Laura shoves your face back towards the wall. “Yes,” you say through gritted teeth. “I’ve had it since the world fell.”

Negan chuckles. “And have you had to use it?”

“Of course,” you reply. Realizing how that sounds, you add, “on walkers. We’ve all had to do it to survive this long.”

“Of course,” he repeats, resheathing the knife. Then, to your dismay, he tosses it into one of the boxes on the floor.

“What the hell? I need that,” you protest.

Negan steps forward, face inches away from yours. Laura backs away, and you look up to meet his stare. The over-the-top gentleman act from earlier has been dropped. He’s no longer smiling. Now you see the head of the Saviors that Rick and everyone else probably saw last night: glaring, scary, no-bullshit Negan. You try to gulp down your fear, but you’re sure he sees it in your eyes.

“Now why, dollface,” he whispers, slowly, “would you need a knife?”

You swallow hard, but don’t break eye contact. “I-I need to be able to protect myself when we go places. From the walkers.”

Negan leans in even closer, searching your face. You forget how to breathe.

Inhale. Gabriel.

Exhale. Aaron.

Inhale. Rick-

Negan bursts into laughter, making you nearly jump out of your skin. He turns to the Saviors behind him, who start laughing as well, nervously at first. He turns back to you.

“Isn’t she hilarious , guys?” Negan asks the crowd. Then he leans back in, getting nose to nose with you. “You’re never going anywhere again. You are staying inside of these walls unless I decide differently. Do you hear me?” You stare at him, stunned. “Do you hear me?!” he shouts in your face, making you jump again.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, trying to get your heart to beat at a normal human pace.

“Great!” Negan exclaims. He turns to the young Savior to his right. “Put the rest of her shit back into her bag.” The savior rushes to fulfill his order. All of your things are hastily shoved into your bag. You sigh a breath of relief. No knuckles were found.

“Now!” Negan exclaims again, clapping his hands. You notice that several of the Saviors jumped at the sudden loud sound as well. “Let’s keep it moving. You have to meet your sisters.”

You gape at him. “My - what?” you ask. 

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts a hand on the back of your neck and begins leading you back into the hallway, through a parted crowd of his followers. He leads you down several corridors, making multiple turns. You try to remember the path, but your focus is stuck on trying not to trip as he pushes you along. You don’t stop until you reach a nondescript door that Negan knocks on.

The door opens, and in front of you stands an attractive red-haired woman in a black dress. Negan smiles at her.

“Hey, Frankie,” he drawls, licking his lips.

The woman looks at him and replies dryly, “Hi, baby.” Baby? you ask yourself. Who is this woman? She turns to look at you, eyeing you from head to toe, and asks, “Is this her?”

“That she is,” Negan declares. He nudges you forward. “Y/N,” he says, “meet my other wives.”

You turn on him quicker than anyone expected. “What do you mean, ‘other wives’?”

Negan bursts into laughter again. He carries on for a while, with the support of his followers behind him.

But then he abruptly stops, steps so close that you have to back up so your faces don’t collide, and asks, “What, did you think you were woman enough to handle all of me?” You lower your eyes, uncomfortable by the closeness and trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Luckily, Negan moves on quickly.

“Frankie,” he says to the redhead, “get her ready for the party, please.” He pushes you towards her.

The woman named Frankie smirks and replies, “Gladly,” before grabbing your arm and pulling you into the room.

Chapter Text

You stumble into the room behind the redhead. You turn around to face the door just in time to catch your bag as it gets tossed at you.

Negan steps into the room, and places a hand on your cheek. “Be good now, okay? I’ll see you soon.” He pats your cheek twice, not quite gently, then turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

You stare at the door as you catch your breath, clutching your bag like your life depends on it. In a way, it kinda does, you think to yourself. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and then turn to face the woman that your supposed fiancé left you with.

Frankie is watching you, and she smiles a tight smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Welcome,” she says, attempting to sound cheerful, and motions behind her with the flick of her wrist. 

This is the first time you notice the harem of women, all clad in black dresses, who have been watching this entire interaction unfold. They all look well put together: clean, hair done, even wearing makeup. Frankie indicates each woman as she introduces them: Amber, Tanya, Sherry, Lauren, and Dawn. Six other women; six other wives. What in the actual fuck is going on here?

You nod sheepishly at the women, not sure how to process all of this. The woman named Sherry seems to understand your confusion, and steps forward to take your hand. “We know this is a lot,” she says gently. “We’ll explain it all later. Right now, we have to get you ready for your party. Is that okay?”

You stare at her, at a loss for words, so you just nod again.

She gives you a small but soft smile, and starts walking you to another door. “This is where we spend most of our time,” she indicates to the room you’re in. You glance around, taking in the fancy furniture, decorative candles, and - is that a bar? “And back here is the bedroom,” Sherry explains as you reach the second door. She opens it, and inside you see a room with a bunch of twin sized beds and corresponding nightstands. Most of them are covered in knickknacks. You notice the one closest to the door is empty.

Sherry offers to take your bag, and you hand it to her. She places it gently on the open bed. You notice that she takes extra care to place it down and keep it closed. Then she turns back to you.

“First thing we have to do is get you showered. Do you have your own supplies, or do you need to use ours?” she asks. When you shake your head, she nods and motions for you to follow her. In the back corner of the room, there is a small bathroom with a sink, toilet, shower, and a small, dingy looking mirror. Sherry reaches into the shower and turns on the water.

“We have hot water, and the shampoo and conditioner on the left is mine. You can use it,” she says as she rummages through a basket by the sink. She pulls out a razor and shaving cream, and hands them to you. You look down at them dumbfounded - who is still thinking about shaving during the apocalypse?

As if reading your mind, Sherry says, “I know it seems silly, but Negan likes us to be as hairless as possible.” You gape at her. She sighs. “I’m going to go get you a fresh towel. You have about 10 minutes before the hot water runs out, so I would hurry if I were you.” Then she walks out of the room.

You stand there for a moment, then you can’t help but laugh. “What the fuck” you say to yourself as you begin to strip. 

Standing under the hot water of the shower, you contemplate the events of the day. How did you end up here, amongst six other women sharing a “husband”? Why does this man need so many women at his disposal anyway? You begin to angrily scrub at your skin. You’re not a showpony, meant to be done up all pretty to show off to the crowd. You didn’t survive this long to become someone’s arm candy. 

You spread the shaving cream on your legs, and begin laughing again. This is fucking ridiculous, you think as you carefully begin to shave your legs. It’s been a while, so it ends up requiring a lot of your focus. By the time you finish, the hot water has run out, so you rush to shampoo and condition your hair in the icy water. When you’re done, you turn off the water and hear a soft knock at the door.

“Y/N?” you hear Sherry’s voice through the door. “I have your towel. Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you respond. She opens the door, holding the towel out to you. You quickly grab it and start drying yourself off. You feel her eyes on you as you do, so you turn your back, trying to cover as much of yourself as you can. But you know that she’s looking at the array of tattoos and scars that litter your skin. While you’re not ashamed of them, you do blush at the intimacy of the moment.

“When you’re dry, I have a robe for you to put on,” Sherry says softly. You glance over your shoulder at her and nod. She quietly slips back out of the bathroom.

Once you feel sufficiently dry, you step back into the bedroom. On your bed sits a white fluffy robe. On the floor, there is a pair of slippers. You slide on the robe and step into the slippers. As you towel dry your hair, you head back into the main room. 

The rest of the wives, hanging out around the room, turn to look at you. Two sit on one of the couches together, playing cards. One is draped across a chair, reading an outdated magazine. Another is behind the makeshift bar, pouring a drink for the wife with the blonde hair, who is sitting with her head on the bar. Sherry meets you at the door.

“We have to take you to see Dr. Carson for your physical now. Are you ready to go?” she asks.

“A physical?” you ask, almost laughing. “What is this, cheerleading tryouts?” One of the wives on the couch laughs while the one reading the magazine looks at you and scoffs.

But Sherry giggles quietly, causing you to relax a bit. “Something like that,” she says, as she begins walking towards the door that leads to the hallway. You follow her obediently, preferring to be with her than the rest of the women.

She leads you down the corridor. You try to remember if this is the way you came earlier or a different direction, but honestly all these hallways look the same so it’s hard to say. She could be leading you in a perfect circle and you would have absolutely no idea.

After a few minutes, you and Sherry reach a door and she knocks.

“Come in,” a voice answers. Sherry opens the door and you walk into a doctor’s office. It looks so normal, so untouched, that you almost can’t believe such a room exists. Inside is an older man in a lab coat.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “I’m Dr. Carson, the Sanctuary’s primary physician. You must be Y/N?”

You nod.

Dr. Carson turns to Sherry. “Thank you, Sher,” he says to her with an air of familiarity. “You can wait outside while I examine her.” The other woman nods, squeezes your arm, and leaves, closing the door behind her. When she does, the doctor turns to you. “Don’t panic, this is just your standard physical examination. We do it for all of Negan’s” he pauses “ fiancés .” He points to the exam table.

You sit down hesitantly, incredibly aware that all you are wearing is a robe right now. Dr. Carson pulls out a manilla folder, and begins to question you about the basics - name, birthdate, height, weight (approximate, since he doesn’t have a scale in his office).

“Date of your last menstrual cycle?” he asks.

You stare at him. “My last what? ” you ask, nearly shouting.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Not trying to pry, we just need to know so we can make sure you’re healthy and keep track,” he explains.

“Why?” you ask through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t answer, looking away.

“Why?” you ask a little more forcefully.

He sighs, looking up at you. “So we can identify the signs of pregnancy early.”

You stand up so quickly you become lightheaded. Signs of pregnancy? What? What is he implying - but it clicks before you even finish the thought. You stare at him in horror. You notice that he also stood up, and he reaches out to you gently, leading you back to a seated position.

“You are here to be married,” he explains softly. “And once you are, if you are to become pregnant, we want to catch it as early as possible so that we can best support you and keep you - and the baby - healthy.” You can tell that he is trying to be gentle, but that doesn’t stop your lungs from shriveling up.

Breathe, you tell yourself.

Inhale. Negan.

Inhale. Sex.

Inhale. Pregnant-

“Breathe,” the doctor instructs in a low tone. He has a hand on your shoulder and the other on your back. He looks you in the eye and takes a few deep breaths. Eventually, you’re able to mimic his breathing, and calm down enough that you don’t think you’re going to pass out anymore.

“I don’t want to upset you further,” he says, continuing to talk softly, “but I do need to do a physical exam.” He helps you to stand, then nods at the robe. Numb, you untie it with trembling hands, then let it fall away.

You do give him credit - he makes quick work of the exam, with no wandering eyes or lingering hands. But he does stop at the scar on your side, just below your ribs. He runs a gentle finger over it.

“What happened here?” he asks, looking closely at the scar.

“I got cut while trying to escape some walkers,” you croak, throat dry from nerves. You clear your throat and continue, “I was scavenging for supplies for the first group I was with, and the building we were looking in turned out to be full. We took a few out, but got overwhelmed. We had to hop a fence, and I slipped while climbing over the top and got caught on it.”

“Hm,” Dr. Carson hums. “It got stitched up?” 

You nod.

“It’s not half bad. Did you have a doctor in your group?” he asks, calculating.

“No, I stitched it up myself,” you reply. 

He looks up at you. “That’s really impressive.” He runs his finger over your scar one more time, causing you to shudder uncomfortably, then turns to make a note in his folder. “You can put your robe back on.” You snatched it off of the floor and put it on as quickly as possible.

“Any other injuries we should know about?” he asks, still writing in the folder.

“No.”

“Any chronic pain or illnesses?”

“No.”

“Great,” he says, finishing his note. “You are in excellent shape, and seem to be pretty healthy. You should be just fine.” You don’t miss the fact that he said “should” in that assessment. 

But before you can say anything, he opens the door and tells Sherry that he’s finished with you. She smiles at you and says, “Come on, the rest of the wives are waiting for us.”

An hour later, you are standing in front of a full length mirror you hadn’t noticed earlier in the wives’ room. You look at yourself up and down - from your hair, brushed and curled, to the high heels on your feet. One of the wives, Tanya, had done your makeup, leaving you with shimmery eyeshadow, pointed winged eyeliner, and soft pink lips. Another wife, Lauren, had helped you into the dress - a tight fitting, mini dress with billowy sleeves, in stark white. “You don’t get upgraded to black until after the wedding,” she had whispered into your ear as she zipped it up.

“I look ridiculous,” you said, speaking for the first time since the doctor’s office. Sherry, who was standing behind you admiring your reflection, places a hand softly on your shoulder.

“You look great,” she says. Some of the other wives nod, while a few of them eye you up from the bar. “He’s going to love you.” The blonde wife - Amber, you think her name was - snorts into her drink. Sherry glares at her, before turning to you. “I don’t want to scare you, but it’s important for you to look as happy as possible tonight.” In a quieter voice, she says, “Trust me.”

Well, that’s not fucking omninous or anything, you think to yourself. But your thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. You notice that all the wives jump, with several of them fixing their hair as the door opens. In steps Negan, freshly showered, in a black button down shirt, black pants, and boots. No leather jacket or murder-bat in sight, thank god . He looks around the room, and his eyes land on you. He looks you up and down and lets out a low whistle.

“You look beautiful,” Negan says as he offers you his arm. “Ready, doll?”

You really don’t understand how he is back to the chivalrous, if not ridiculous version of himself that you met this morning in the clearing. But after a nudge from Sherry, you take his extended arm, smile, and say, “I am.” 

Outside the doors to the party, you stand with Negan, still arm in arm, and take a few deep breaths. The sound of music streams through the closed doors. He gives your arm a squeeze, and you stiffen a bit, raising your chin. Taking this as readiness, he knocks on the door in front of him. The doors swing open, handled by two Saviors on the other side, and Negan leads you onto the landing. You stop at the railing, and you look down to see that the marketplace from earlier has been turned into a makeshift banquet hall. The tables that people were working at earlier have been pushed to the sides, surrounded by chairs and covered in table settings. The room is full of Saviors, clapping and cheering at the entrance of their leader and you.

Negan, beaming at the crowd, begins his slow whistle, which is repeated by the rest of the room, ending in an eerie silence.

“Good evening, my friends,” his voice booms throughout the room. “Thank you all for the work that you did to make this happen. I am honored,” he emphasizes in a tone that makes your skin crawl, “to introduce you all to my fiancé, Y/N!” 

The room explodes in a flurry of sounds, from cheers and whistles to the increase in the music. Negan waves like a pageant queen as he leads you down the stairs to the lower level. You do your best to smile at the people in the room, trying not to laugh from the absurdity of the situation. He walks you to a table that stands apart from the rest, clearly the head table of the room. Playing up the gentleman role, he pulls the chair out for you, and you hesitantly sit down, drawing a distinctive “awwww” from the crowd.

Negan places a not-soft hand on your shoulder, and announces to the room, “Now let’s party!”

It didn’t seem like that was a direction that the room really needed. You sat and observed the scene before you. Saviors are getting food from the buffet spread laid out on tables on the far side of the room. A few of them were already very drunk, getting drinks from the makeshift bar they set up. While in your seat, an older woman came up and brought you a plate with more food than you’d seen in a while - bread with butter, meat that looked like a steak, roasted vegetables. And even a side salad. Realizing you hadn’t eaten since you left Alexandra this morning - was that really just this morning? - you start scarfing down the food in front of you.

Negan, sitting next to you, leans over and asks, “What’s your poison?”

Mouth full, you look at him and raise an eyebrow.

He laughs. “What do you like to drink?”

You swallow. “Whatever, really,” you answer. You haven’t put much thought into what you like to drink lately, mostly just getting drunk on whatever you and Glenn found on runs.

Glenn. Thinking his name feels like a punch to the chest. I used to find liquor with Glenn and bring it back to get drunk with the crew, and now I'm being offered a drink by his murderer.

Thankfully, you were saved from your downward spiral by the arrival of a tray of glasses full of different types of liquor.

“I’m more of a gin guy,” Negan rambles, seemingly not noticing your panic, “but we also have whiskey, bourbon, vodka, and wine that is incredibly aged at this point.” He accepts a large glass of a clear liquor - probably the aforementioned gin - and leaves the rest for you to choose from. You grab a glass of brown liquid - whiskey, most likely - and shoot it back in one gulp. Then you grab the other glass with brown liquid and the glass of wine, just to be safe.

Negan laughs. “All right!” He clinks his glass with both of yours. “This is going to be a great night, I’m sure.”

You quickly down the second brown liquor and swallow down the burn ( must be the bourbon ) before slowly sipping on the glass of wine. 

For most of the evening, you watch the Saviors party in the name of your engagement. Most of it feels like a regular party from before the outbreak, with people singing along to the music with their arms around each other and dancing. A few times, what appeared to be fights break out but most end up in laughter, even after blood is shed.

After a while - and a few more drinks in your system - the doors you entered earlier open again, and a group of Saviors you haven’t seen before enter the room. Negan sees them, swigs the rest of his drink, before slamming his glass down and standing.

“Double D!” he yells. “You made it!”

The Savior at the front of the group that just arrived turns his head towards his leader. You take in the sight of him - he has long hair that hangs into his face, making it hard to see the rest of it. He wears a leather vest, and looks like he has a crossbow strapped to his back. Without a word, he walks up to the bar, grabs a glass, and throws it back before immediately grabbing the other one that was already waiting for him. Apparently the bartender knows his order well. He makes his way towards your table.

Negan walks out from around the table, and the new Savior bows his head as his leader approaches him. Negan pulls the man into an embrace.

“We didn’t expect you back until at least tomorrow!” Negan booms.

“Didn’t take long to handle it,” the man responds in a gruff voice.

“Good, good,” Negan pats the man on the shoulder. “I’m glad you were able to make it back for my engagement party. Come meet my new girl.” 

As Negan walks the stranger to the table, you stand to meet him. Now that he’s closer, you get a better look at the new man’s face. He stares you down with surprisingly piercing blue eyes. Your breath catches in your throat as you meet them.

“DD, this is Y/N,” Negan introduces. You reach a hand out for him to shake. However, the man just stares at your hand, eyes you up and down, and then looks back to his leader. Rude but whatever, you think. But Negan just laughs and claps the man on the back, so you guess this must be normal behavior for this weird new Savior. “She’s from that new group we just, ah, adopted,” Negan explains. You glare at him at this comment, but he ignores you.

“Hmph,” grunts the man.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Negan chides. He whistles to get the attention of the bartender. Three drinks get rushed to the table. “Let’s drink to my engagement!” Negan hands you and the new guy a glass of clear liquor. You sniff it, and almost pass out immediately. The lead Savior laughs. “Sorry, doll,” he says, taking his glass, “Dixon likes to drink moonshine.”

Jesus Christ , you crinkle your nose, but hold your glass up to cheers anyway. Dixon taps his glass to yours, and then watches as you take your drink. It makes you feel like you’re drowning, but you keep your face as composed as possible and meet his eye right back. He scoffs, and downs his glass in one gulp as if it’s water. He drops his glass on the table and walks away, and you sit back down, swaying a bit from the alcohol.

But Negan remains standing, and begins clinking his glass with a knife. The room turns their attention to him, seizing conversation. The music even lowers.

“Once again,” Negan addresses the room, “thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for attending yet another one of my engagement parties.” Chuckles emerge from the crowd. “I want to present to you all my beautiful fiancé, Y/N.” With this, Negan grabs your hand and forces you out of your chair. Stumbling a bit, he walks you to the center of the room, and you look around to see the sea of Savior faces surrounding you. Negan lets go of your hand, and returns to your table. 

“Now,” he says with a smirk, “who wants to see the goods?” He winks at you.

For a moment, nothing happens. You glance around, and notice the crowd inching closer to you. From behind, you feel a hand reach out and grab the back of your dress. When you hear the sound of the zipper, you instinctively throw back an elbow, and the crunch you hear confirms that you caught the person in the nose. But before you could rejoice in that move, a fist catches you in the jaw and you fall backward. Then you begin to feel hands on you from every direction, grabbing and pulling at whatever they can grab, and panic begins to flood your veins.

You hear a voice above the chaos, and the sea of people around you parts. In front of you, Negan kneels and grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Now, now,” he coos. You flinch from the softness in his voice. “There’s no need for all of this, right, doll?” he asks you. Looking him in the eye, you slowly get to your feet, his hand still on your chin.

“There’s my girl,” he croons. “Now, are you gonna be a good girl and do as I ask, or should I have my men do it for you?” He lets go of your face and steps back.

Understanding what he’s implying, you swallow down the bile in your throat. Now this is the monster I was expecting, you huff.

“Well?” he asks, hands out in an almost-shrug.

Glaring at him, you knock the hands still on your shoulders off and reach behind you for the zipper in the middle of your back. Refusing to break eye contact with the head Savior, you unzip it the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor. Thank god Sherry picked out reasonable underwear, you think as you stand in front of the Saviors in nothing but your bra and panties. Then again, she probably knew this was coming.

Negan licks his lips as he gazes at you. Then, he points at the dress and flicks two fingers towards himself. Getting what he means, you pick the dress up with your foot and kick it to him. He catches it no problem, brings it to his face, and takes a deep sniff.

“Man, do you smell good!” he exclaims to whoops from the crowd. “We gotta save this, we don’t wanna get any blood on it before our big day, now, do we?”

Blood?!  

You open your mouth to protest but Negan cuts you off, calling, “Dixon! She’s all yours.”

Before you can try to figure out what that means, a bag closes over your head, and everything goes dark.

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.

Chapter Text

You lay in bed for what feels like hours. There’s no clocks or windows in this room, so you can’t even try to guess what time it is. Instead you just stare at the wall, unable to close your eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Your mind is racing from the events of the day: the group returning down four members; Rick’s announcement to the community; meeting Negan in that clearing; the wives and the examination and the stupid fucking engagement party ; Simon’s hands on your body. You tremble at the thought.

And then there was Daryl Dixon. His hand in your hair. His knife to your throat. His glare. He was nothing like the man Carol and Maggie had told you about. “He has a hard exterior,” they had said, “but he cares deeply. Without him, we would all probably be dead.” Yeah, absolutely not. You don’t know what he’s been through since the group last saw him, but he definitely wasn’t that man anymore. This Daryl Dixon is violent, angry, dangerous, and downright terrifying. You genuinely think he could have killed you in that room. There’s no way a man like that could make you feel safe.

Dixon and Simon. Negan’s right hand men. You shiver at the thought. If that’s what people so close to the leader are willing to do, you can only imagine what Negan himself is capable of. You can’t ignore the fact that one of the wives’ beds is empty. Guess your betrothed had to find something - rather someone - to do while you were busy being nearly beat up and questioned by his henchmen.

The thought makes you nauseous. You sit up in bed too quickly, and immediately become light headed. As quietly as you can manage, you stumble to the bathroom and close the door. You crawl to the toilet and lean your head against the cool surface, trying to breathe.

Inhale. Carol.

Exhale. Maggie.

Inhale. Sherry.

Inhale. Frankie.

Inhale. Amber.

You can’t breathe. No matter how much you try, you can’t get air to go into your lungs. You sit up, put your hands on your head, and lean back. You still can’t breathe. You drag yourself over to the sink and turn on the water. It’s ice cold. You splash some on your face. You cup some into your mouth and immediately start to gag.

I need to get out of here, you think frantically. I need air. When your group first moved into Alexandria, you had struggled to acclimate there too. Whenever you became overwhelmed - at the absurdity of the normalness of the place or how unprepared the people were for this world - you would sneak over the walls to get away. You had a particular tree you would climb, one that allowed you to still see the walls but kept you out of reach of the walkers, and sit there for hours. Sometimes you would even bring a book with you, only returning back to the town when night was approaching. Oh, what you would give for that bit of escape right now. 

Picturing your tree, you lurch out of the bathroom and back to your bed. You slide your feet into your boots, and slip into the living room. You run to the windows. One of these has to open, right? Wrong. The windows are all welded shut.

You nearly run through the living room and out of the door.

I need outside. I need fresh air.

But when you look up and down the hallway, it’s impossible to tell which way leads to the outside. Panicking, you turn left, and start making your way down the hall. You walk and walk for what feels like forever, making turns and continuously finding yourself in more identical hallways.

By this point, you are nearly wheezing. Your lungs feel nonexistent. Your vision is starting to get spotty. Just need air, need air, you think over and over like a prayer. You start walking faster, almost running. You make another turn and end up in a stairwell. Frustrated, you throw your hands up in the air and turn back. You turn again, then have to stop. You place a hand on the wall and lean forward.

Inhale. Fucking remember to exhale this time.

Inhale. I said fucking exhale.

Inhale-

Then you feel the barrel of the gun on the back of your head.

You freeze.

“What’re you doin’ out?” comes a quiet drawl from behind you. Dixon. Fuck.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to swallow down the fear.

Inhale. Breathe.

Inhale. Don’t let him see you’re afraid.

You hold your breath for 10 seconds, then finally exhale. Get angry, you tell yourself. Angry is safe. You open your eyes, and fix your face into a glare. 

“Hmm?” Daryl grunts.

You slowly turn around, raising your arms in mock surrender. You face him, and the gun he has pointed at your face. “Nothing.”

Daryl clicks the gun’s safety off. “Try that again, princess.”

You raise your chin, meeting his eyes. “Looking for the exit.” 

“Yer trying to escape.”

“No,” you say slowly. “Just trying to get some air.” 

“You think I’m stupid?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Actually-” you start but he presses the gun into your forehead, hard . “Look,” you start to explain quickly, your heart pounding in your chest, “it’s really stuffy in this place. I’m used to being outside. And it’s been a hell of a day, so I just wanted to be able to breathe clearly for a few minutes.” You drop your arms. “Besides, do I look like I’m dressed to try to escape?” You indicate your tank top, floral pajama shorts, and untied boots. You were panicking so badly when you fled your room, you didn’t even think to grab Rosita’s brass knuckles. 

Daryl’s blue eyes examine you, as if trying to determine if you’re bullshitting him. You guess you passed the test, because he lowers the gun, and you hear the safety click back on. 

“This ain’t the way,” he says simply.

“Yeah I figured that part out.”

“And you’re not allowed out,” he finishes, as if you didn’t say anything.

You cross your arms. “Ever?”

“Never,” he replies.

You roll your eyes. “Well that fucking sucks.”

He smirks, but doesn’t say anything. You finally take him in. He’s in the same clothes as when he interrogated you, including that stupid vest. Does this man not sleep? In one hand, he has his handgun. In the other, he has a pack of cigarettes. Your face lights up. 

“Can I have one?”

Daryl raises an eyebrow at you. “Thought you wanted fresh air?”

You shrug. “If I have to breathe in this stank ass air, I may as well enjoy it.”

He huffs and starts walking past you, motioning for you to follow. The two of you end up back in the stairwell you found before. When there, he plucks a cigarette from the pack and lights it.

“In here?” you ask, incredibly confused.

It’s his turn to shrug. “Yeah, I guess,” he answers. “This is where we go.”

“You don’t go….outside?” 

“Nah.” No explanation at all. Man of few fucking words.  

But before you can complain further, he holds the pack out to you. You take one. He leans back, cigarette in his mouth, and crosses his arms across his chest. You can’t help but notice the size of his biceps. No wonder he was able to push your chair over and knock you around earlier like you were nothing. He was built.

He tosses you a lighter. Barely catching it, you light your own cigarette, and take a deep pull of it.

Inhale. 

Hold it in.

Exhale. Arms.

You begin coughing. Daryl raises an eyebrow at you. You wave him off and try to get your shit together. You can feel your cheeks heat up, embarrassed. Girl, get a grip. This man can kill you one-handed.

“Negan won’t like you smoking,” Daryl says, lighting his own cigarette.

“So don’t tell him,” you shoot back. 

The two of you just stare at each other and smoke in silence. You have a hundred things you want to say: questions to ask, snarky comments to make. But honestly, you feel relaxed for the first time since Rick and the RV left yesterday, and you don’t want to ruin it. So you lean back against the wall and close your eyes.

After a while, Daryl speaks. “You should get back to yer room. The place is gonna start wakin’ up soon.”

“Oh,” you say, opening your eyes again. Daryl is watching you closely. “Yeah, probably a good idea.” He puts his cigarette out on the ground and you do the same. You step back into the hallway the two of you came from and pause, looking around.

“Don’t know where it is, do ya?” Daryl asks from behind you. You look back at him, and shake your head. He scoffs. “Come on.” He starts leading you down the hall.

It only takes a couple of turns to get back to your quarters. Apparently you hadn't been wandering for hours earlier like you thought. Now you just felt stupid.

“Uh, thanks,” you say to the man, “for the smoke. And for walking me back.”

He just scoffs. “Don’t let me catch you wanderin’ again, or I’ll shoot ya.” You glare at him one final time, then open the door to the wives’ rooms. You close the door and stand there for a moment. There’s no sound at first, but after a minute, you hear him walking away.

You sigh, suddenly exhausted. You make your way back to the bedroom and, this time, you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

Hours later, you wake up to Sherry  gently shaking your arm.

“Y/N,” she says softly. “You should get up. You’ve been sleeping all day. Negan’s probably going to come looking for you soon, and you need to be-” she pauses, thinking of the right word, “presentable.”

But you can’t move. Your panic and your anger have left you completely exhausted. You look up at the woman, then close your eyes again, sinking deeper into your pillow.

Sherry sighs, but stands up and walks out of the room, leaving you alone again. You roll over to face the wall and fall back asleep.

A while later, you hear the door open again. You’re still facing the wall. You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake. You haven’t moved an inch. You haven’t been able to find the motivation. The events of yesterday and this morning with Dixon have left you completely depleted, and if you could lay here until you died and turned, you would. It would be way easier than getting up, putting on a fake smile and an impractical dress, and playing housewife to a fucking monster.

Unfortunately for you, the monster himself was in your room and kneeling next to your bed.

“Good morning, dollface,” Negan says, too cheerily. You continue facing away from him. “Or, good afternoon, really. You’ve nearly slept the entire day away!”

When you say nothing, Negan continues. He reaches his hand out and starts playing with your hair. It takes all of your willpower not to recoil from his touch. “Sherry here tells me that you haven’t gotten out of bed yet. She thinks you’re depressed. Are you depressed, doll?”

At this, you roll over and glare at him. You pull your arms out from under the blanket and let him look at you and your injuries. The bruises on your upper arms are purple already. Negan lets out a low whistle, and rubs a thumb over the spot on your jaw. You flinch from the pain, which tells you that that’s probably bruised too.

“Damn,” he whispers, looking down, almost as if he is ashamed, “I told them not to.”

“You told them not to mess me up too much, ” you correct him. 

The Savior meets your eye. “You’re right,” he responds. “I’m sorry, we needed that information out of you and I guess the boys got carried away. I'll have a word with them, okay?” He looks almost earnest. “I promise.”

You look at his face. He really seems apologetic for the actions of his men. But in the back of your head, you can’t forget that he’s the one who made the order for them to do it. You’re still pissed at them and at him, and at everyone in this godforsaken place for just going along with it all.

But you’re also too tired to fight, so you just nod.

Negan smiles at you. “That’s my girl,” he says, still one hand on your cheek. “I’m going to have Sherry take you to Dr. Carson so he can take a look at you and patch you up. I’ll meet you when you’re done, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but leans in and plants a soft kiss on your cheek before getting up to leave.

When he does, Sherry and a few of the other wives file into the room. Sherry comes to the bed, and helps you sit up. “Come on, honey,” she says gently. “Let’s get you ready.”

She sits on the bed with you, and another wife - Tanya, you think - hands her a hairbrush. Sherry starts brushing the knots out of your hair, and Tanya sits on the bed across from yours.

“Do you wanna talk about what happened?” When you stay quiet, Tanya decides to fill the silence.

“It was that prick Simon, wasn’t it?” she asks. When you nod, she continues. “He’s a creep. He’s always putting his hands on us when Negan isn’t looking, and he says some of the most vile things I’ve ever heard in my life. Any time he’s in our room, we all try to stay away from him. You should do the same.”

You nod again, filing that information away for next time you see the mustached psychopath. 

“Was it just him?” Sherry asks from behind you. She’s trying to brush out a particularly angry knot. Probably from Daryl grabbing a fistful of your hair.

“No,” you finally say aloud. “Dixon too.” You feel Sherry’s hands stop working on your hair. Tanya’s jaw falls open a bit.

“Oh shit,” she whispers. You look between the two wives.

“What?” you ask, confused.

Tanya clears her throat. “Negan only calls Dixon in when he needs someone hurt,” she explains. “He’s his best interrogator. Sometimes when he’s working on someone, we can hear the screams all the way from here.”

“Tanya-” Sherry tries to stop the woman, but she keeps going.

“Dixon’s fucking terrifying. He’s like an animal - he doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching, and can snap at the drop of a hat.”

“Tanya,” Sherry says again, more forcefully this time.

“Sorry,” the other woman says, bashfully. “You probably won’t have to deal with him again, at least. He’s never really with us. He keeps to himself mostly, except when he’s carrying out Negan’s orders.”

“Great,” you say, dully. Love that I got the special treatment of having Negan’s attack dog sicced on me. 

The two wives get you out of bed, and dressed. Today they put you in a short, pale pink dress with small white flowers on it. They let you put your boots back on, probably seeing that you wouldn’t be able to handle heels today. Shivering, you shrug your leather jacket on too. When Frankie comes in with the makeup bag, you glare at her. She puts her hands up in surrender, and huffs out of the room. You look at Sherry.

“Come on,” she says, reaching out her hand. You take it, and the two of you head to Dr. Carson’s office.

Today’s examination is a lot less traumatizing than the day before’s. Dr. Carson looked over your bruises, and suggested icing them later to help keep the swelling down. He put a bandage over the small cut on your neck, even though it stopped bleeding hours ago. He even set your broken pinky in a small brace.

“You braced that yourself earlier?” he asked as he removed the rubber band and cardboard you had on it. You nod. “That was smart,” he continues. “It’ll most likely heal just fine. Did you work in medicine before all this?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I just got hurt a lot, so I got pretty good at putting myself back together.” 

Dr. Carson chuckles. “That’s a good skill to have these days. It’ll probably come in handy again before you know it.” 

Your eyes grow wide: what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Realizing what he said, Dr. Carson goes pale. But before he can explain or apologize, a booming voice comes from the hallway.

“There’s my babydoll!” Negan enters the room, smiling at you. “Looking brand spanking new!” 

Dr. Carson abruptly turns to his leader and kneels. Negan completely ignores him, walking up to you. He runs his fingers over the bandage on your neck. “How are you feeling?” he asks, lowering his voice.

You just shrug. Negan looks to Dr. Carson, who stands up quickly. “There shouldn’t be any lasting damage or issues,” he reports, as if you’re not sitting right there. “Bruises should disappear in a few days. The cut on her neck didn’t require any stitches, we just covered it to help keep it clean. And she did a good job of taking care of the broken pinky, so it should heal just fine.”

Negan takes your right hand, the one with the brace, and looks at it. You watch as he flips your hand over, examining your and the doctor’s work. “Smart cookie,” he says, before placing it down again. He looks up at you. “Ready to get out of here?”

You nod quickly. You hate this room.

Negan laughs at your eagerness. “Good,” he claps his hands together. “I have a surprise for you.”

The lead Savior walks you to an area of the Sanctuary you’ve never been to before. You go with him silently, even as he talks on and on. Every time you pass someone, they stop what they’re doing to kneel. Seems exhausting, you think to yourself cynically. But it’s evident that Negan loves the attention.

The pair of you stop at a closed door with a guard standing outside of it. It’s a large man you don’t recognize. Negan nods at him, and the man opens the door. You tense up, expecting another cold room, another interrogation, more pain.

But when you enter the room, you let out a gasp of surprise. Inside the door, you see what looks like a small library. Bookshelves line the walls all around the room. On the far side of the room, there’s a couch and a few chairs around a small table. Next to the sitting area are three more aisles of shelves. You barely even notice, because behind the couch, there is a large, clear window. You walk towards it, and look out. If you look down, you can see the front of the Sanctuary, with its courtyard full of walkers. But past that, you can see the surrounding forest. The green of the trees, mixed with the smell of paper, brings a smile to your face.

“Welcome to the Sanctuary’s library,” Negan says, watching you take in the space. You walk away from the window and towards the nearest shelf. You run your fingers along the spines of the books. “When Sherry told me how down you were, I tried thinking of a way to cheer you up. And then I remembered you had books in your bag, so I figured this could be a nice gift.”

You turn to look at him, “Gift?”

Negan nods as he leans on the table. “While you’re here, you can visit the library whenever you like. Under supervision, of course.” He pauses, then keeps talking,  “You can even take some books back to your room, if you want. Take this as an act of goodwill, a promise from me to you that last night won’t happen again.”

You shiver at that and look away.

He reaches out to you. “I told you this place could be homey, and I’m keeping that promise. You will be happy here, if you just let yourself be.” You meet his eye. You can see he was trying really hard to be soft, but that didn’t entirely erase the veiled order in his words. He is still the leader of the Saviors, and you signed up to play the role of doting wife. As far as he knows, at least.

Two can play this game, you think to yourself as you step forward and take his outstretched hand. You close the gap between you and him, wrapping his arm around your waist. You stand between his legs, wrap your arms around his neck slowly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if breathing you in. He reopens them, and meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” you whisper. His eyes rake over your face, flicking down to your lips before looking back into your eyes.

“Anything for you, doll,” he says, moving his free hand to your face. Feeling what he’s expecting from you, you lean in and plant a soft kiss on his lips. He kisses you back gently, before pulling away, smiling. “See?” he asks, tauntingly, “I’m not all bad.”

You freeze at those words, and Negan lets out a bark of laughter. He stands up from the table, and calls out to the Savior at the door before turning back to you.

“Pick out a book or two that you like, and then Fat Joey here will walk you back to your room,” Negan says. “I have to go check on our preparations.”

“For what?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

He grins. “For our wedding, doll. Tomorrow, you become mine.”

He laughs again at the look on your face before exiting the room.

Chapter Text

Early the next morning, you find yourself sitting in the stairwell again. 

You had been up for hours, barely able to sleep at all the night before. Tossing and turning, only pretending to be asleep when Amber snuck back into the room well after midnight after being chosen by Negan earlier. You also pretended not to hear her sniffling while she climbed into her own bed.

Once you had heard Amber’s soft snores, you snuck out of bed and into the living room area. Unable to sit still, you had paced for who knows how long. You even snuck behind the bar and took a few sips from a bottle of whiskey hidden on a low shelf. Nothing helped. You sat on the couch, wringing out your hands, eventually giving up on calming down. Hoping that Daryl Dixon was a man who liked routine, you slipped out of the living room and into the hall, retracing your steps from the morning before, looking for the smoking stairwell.

You sit on the stairs, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. You rock back and forth, staring straight ahead and at nothing at all. You are numb. Your mind was racing, trying to predict what today was going to be like. A sham of a wedding. Negan’s grinning face at the end of the aisle. Becoming “his.” After the wedding, you can guess what would be expected on you. You think back to what Dr. Carson had said in his office about getting pregnant. Silent tears fall onto your arms; you don’t even know when you started crying. You rest your forehead on your knees and squeeze your eyes closed.

Suddenly you hear footsteps coming down the hallway. You don’t move. If it’s Dixon, you’re sure he’ll let you know he’s there with whatever weapon he’s carrying this morning. If it’s someone else, you guess you’ll be dragged off to wherever Negan is.

Luckily for you, when the footsteps get nearer and stop, you hear a huff and a low voice, “Thought I told ya what would happen if I found ya out here again, princess.”

You lift your head and face Daryl Dixon. He looks pissed, but after he gets a good look at your face, a different expression slides over his - surprise, maybe? He doesn’t say anything though. He just pulls out his pack of cigarettes and takes two out, putting one in his mouth and holding the other out to you.

You reach out with a trembling hand and accept it, bringing it to your lips. Dixon lights his cigarette, then looks at you again. You stare through him. Then suddenly he crouches down in front of you and holds up the lighter. You just stare. He beckons you forward with a quick motion of his hand. You lean in. He flicks the lighter, holding the flame up to light your cigarette. You inhale deeply, and once it’s lit, he backs away to the wall opposite you.

Once again, the two of you smoke in silence. You stare at the floor, vision hazy, but you know he is watching you. You can almost feel his eyes grazing the bruised skin on your upper arms, your hunched shoulders, your shaking hands. The feeling gives you goosebumps and causes you to shiver. From the corner of your eye, you see him shift, almost as if he was going to reach out to you but thought better of it.

You smoke your cigarette until you taste the filter, then hastily put it out on the ground. You sigh and force yourself up off the stairs, knees cracking from being bent for so long. Ignoring the man in front of you, you go to leave the room, but his arm shoots out and blocks your exit. 

You peer up at him. His eyes are on the bandage on your neck, the one covering the cut from his knife. He opens his mouth as if to say something, eyes moving up your neck to your face, stopping at the bruise on your jaw. His piercing blue eyes meet yours that glaring at him with all the energy you can muster. His mouth snaps shut, and he holds your gaze for a minute longer before dropping his arm from your path. Without a word, you leave the stairwell and head to your room, still feeling the weight of his gaze on your back.

Later that morning, you are greeted by one of the marketplace workers bringing you breakfast in bed. After leaving Dixon, you weren’t able to get any sleep, so you were sitting up reading one of the books you had grabbed from the library. It was a mystery thriller about a detective trying to solve the murder of a small town teenage girl. Not very original, but it at least made it so you didn’t have to talk to the other wives. You put the book down when the woman arrived with the tray.

“For you, ma’am,” she says, placing the tray across your lap. You notice that she keeps her eyes averted, almost like she’s afraid.

“Thank you,” you reply, forcing a smile onto your face. You are starving. 

“It’s from your fiancé,” she says quickly, bowing. You try to hide your flinch at the act of reverence. Negan may like it, but you certainly don’t. 

“Oh,” you say, dumbly. “Well, thank you anyway. It looks delicious.” 

She bows again, before rushing out of the room. You watch her go, a little shocked at the interaction. She was terrified, you think, as you chew the toast she gave you, do they all fear him like that? You wonder if they are going to fear you like that too.

You don’t get to think about it long before Frankie pokes her head into the bedroom. “Eat up!” she calls. “You have a big day ahead of you!” Then she disappears back into the living room. You sigh.

After you choke down as much of your breakfast as you can, you take a shower in the small bathroom. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you try to steel yourself for the day ahead. You still feel pretty numb, but you can feel your anger bubbling below the surface. Try to relax, you chide yourself. Getting angry will probably get you locked back up with Dixon and the shit kicked out of you. You take a deep breath, school your features into a fake calm, and then head to the living room, where the other wives are waiting for you.

Apparently, they are all your bridesmaids for today. “We’ve all done it for each other,” Dawn explains as she paints your nails. They all help you get ready again, except for Amber, who is still in bed in the other room. 

The wives all take turns offering you advice for your wedding night.

“Negan likes to be in charge, so make sure you let him,” Tanya says for the tenth time.

“Except he’s going to want you on top,” Frankie points out. “At least for tonight, since it’s your first time.”

“He’s a biter,” Dawn offers quietly, without meeting your eye.

You bit your tongue to keep from screaming or puking, you’re not sure which. How are they so casual about this? You ask yourself. ‘Here’s how we have sex with our collective, manipulative husband!’ This is insane.

“He likes to have his shoulders rubbed too,” Frankie continues.

“Only by you though,” Tanya snaps, “you were the professional.” She turns back to you. “Just make sure you are relaxed enough for it. If you’re too tense, it’s not going to stop him, and it’s just going to hurt.”

You must make a noise, because Sherry’s hand finds your shoulder. “It’s going to be just fine,” she says to you. “Just try to make the best of it. Do whatever you have to.”

You can’t take it anymore.

“What’s the point of all this?” you ask, looking around at all the wives. 

“What do you mean?” Lauren asks. She’s on the far side of the room ironing your dress, the same one from the engagement party. Guess it’s the only white dress around here, you think cynically. Bet they all wore the same one.

“The whole charade,” you explain. “The engagement party, the wedding. There’s seven of us for god’s sake. What’s the point, to humiliate us further?”

Tanya gasps from the couch. Frankie glares. “Humiliate us? It’s an honor to be married to Negan.” When you gape at her, she continues, “We don’t have to work for points. We get whatever we want, whenever we want it. Other women would kill for this.”

“Yet you can’t ever leave. You have to wear these impractical, skanky dresses and heels. You sit around and wait for him to choose which of you he wants to fuck that day. Sounds like a real honor,” you shoot back, sarcastically.

Tanya and Frankie look at you, then storm off out of the room. You roll your eyes. 

Sherry moves in front of you to start doing your makeup. “Be careful what you say in front of those two,” she says under her breath as she applies foundation to your face. “They volunteered for this, so they don’t get it.”

“Why would they do that?” you ask, just as quiet. 

She shrugs. “So they didn’t have to work, or fight hard to survive I guess.” She motions for you to close your eyes, and you do.

“What about the rest of you?”

“Amber’s mom is sick and needs medicine,” Sherry explains while doing your eyeshadow. “They couldn’t work to earn enough points to afford it, so Negan propositioned for her to become his wife and her mom would get all the meds she needs. She had to leave her boyfriend for it, so I think that’s why it’s harder for her than for others.” She pauses. “I’m not sure about Dawn and Lauren, they don’t talk about it much.”

“And you?” you ask, opening your eyes to look at her.

Sherry sighs. “I did it to save my husband’s life. Ex-husband now, technically.”

You gulp. “Did it work?” When she looks at you questioningly, you explain. “Did you save him?”

“Yeah, in a way,” she responds. “He was still punished, but he’s alive. He’s one of Negan’s lieutenants now.” 

Before you can ask which one, Tanya and Frankie burst back through the door with arms full of flowers, followed by two armed women, Arat and Laura.

“Negan wants you all ready in 10 minutes,” Arat yells, glaring at all of you. Her eyes stop on you, and she sneers. You can assume she’s the one who punched you the other night. You glare back, until Lauren comes over to get you into your dress.

When Negan arrives, Lauren is fixing the veil in your hair. The other wives are lounging on the couches with cups of wine and their bouquets, while Sherry coaxes Amber out of the bedroom. She quickly hands her a cup of wine too, and the young blonde downs it in one sip.

“Ho-ly shit!” Negan yells, looking over you. “Isn’t my bride hot? ” He directs this to his lieutenants, who all follow him into the room. You notice that they’ve all cleaned up; they look showered, and they’re all in collared shirts. They still have weapons on their hips, of course. In the back, you see Dixon, and you are shocked to see that even he looks clean. His dark hair hits his shoulders, and even has a bit of a curl to it. He wears a fitted, dark gray button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks up and meets your eye, and you quickly look away.

Instead you look at your fiancé. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing his signature leather jacket over a black shirt and black tie.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

He barks out a laugh. “You don’t need luck when you’re Negan,” he responds, winking at you. Then he wraps an arm around your shoulders, managing to hit both bruises at once, and turns so that both of you face the rest of the room. At least everyone else looks as miserable as you feel.

“Alright people, it’s almost show time,” he addresses the room. “This is how it’s going to work: men, each of you grab one of my beautiful wives. Don’t get too excited though, it’s only for the ceremony.” Simon lets out a sound in protest, and the rest of the men laugh. You see a few of the wives flinch. “You’ll be escorting them, then go to where you stand. Dixon,” he pauses, looking at the man in the back. “You’re in charge of my fiancé here. Make sure she doesn’t wander off, and actually makes it down the aisle.” Negan pats your arm, hitting your bruise again, as he laughs. “Let’s go!”

Negan lets go of you and leads the group out of the room. The men each link arms with one of the other women as they leave. You see Frankie grimace as Simon grabs her and follows the rest of the pairs. 

Dixon still stands by the door, waiting for you. You grit your teeth and start walking out as well. When you approach him, Dixon reaches a hand out, but before he can grab you, you smack his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snap. He stares at you for a moment before dropping his hand to his side and nodding for you to start walking. He follows a few steps behind.

The group walks toward the marketplace, which has been converted back into a party room. By the time you and your shadow reach it, the music is playing and you see Negan standing at the makeshift altar with Dr. Carson, who apparently is playing the role of priest today. Each pair of lieutenant and wife walk down the aisle as the rest of the Savoirs watch on, before moving to stand on each side of the altar. Each one that goes causes the panic to rise up your throat. 

Run, your brain tells you. You feel yourself start to hyperventilate: your chest tightens, and your lungs can’t hold onto any air. Fuck this. Run home. Get out of here. You take a step backwards, only to stop when you feel a hand on your back.You freeze.

Dixon moves to stand next to you, hand still there. You turn slowly and look up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with those piercing blue eyes. You don’t say anything either. He’s breathing deeply, and you try to match his breaths. It works; your breathing becomes steady and your heart rate slows down. He lowers his head, as if silently asking if you’re ready for this. You nod your head ever so slightly. He takes his hand off of your back, and you turn to face your wedding. You swallow hard, then start walking.

All eyes in the room are on you. You look straight ahead, at the Head Savior waiting for you. You focus on not tripping in the ridiculous heels you have to wear again. By the time you reach the altar, you are struggling to breathe again. When you stand facing Negan, you see that Daryl has joined the line of groomsmen. He meets your eye, and you see his shoulders move, miming a deep breath. You take one, then look at your fiancé.

The ceremony itself was definitely the Sparknotes version of the traditional one. After the “We have gathered you here today” bit, Dr. Carson jumped right to the vows.

“I vow,” Negan says, projecting his voice for all to hear. He is looking at you so intensely, you want to look away. But you don’t. You keep your chin up, and force yourself hold his gaze. “I vow to keep you safe, keep you fed, and try my darndest to keep you happy.” He pauses, then smirks and adds, “And I vow to fuck you real good at least once a week!” Laughter ripples through the crowd as your jaw drops. Negan laughs too and wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You look to Dr. Carson, who doesn’t even invite you to say your own vows before moving on.

While he’s asking Negan if he takes you to be his wife, in sickness and health, blah blah blah, you look over his shoulder and your eyes instinctively find Dixon. He’s looking away, as if this whole thing makes him uncomfortable too. You’re telling me, buddy, you think to yourself.

But then Dr. Carson says your name, and he’s asking if you take Negan to be your husband, in sickness and health and all that jazz. When he does, Dixon’s head snaps back over and he meets your eyes. The two of you lock eyes for a moment. He’s got the strangest look on his face, one that you can’t figure out. You don’t get a chance to, because the doctor clears his throat and you look back to Negan.

You swallow. You refuse to let him see you squirm. You pick your chin up, and loudly respond, “I do.”

Dr. Carson barely starts “By the power invested in me-” before Negan grabs the back of your neck and crashes his mouth onto yours. He kisses you fiercely, barely letting you breathe. But, reminding yourself that this is why you’re here, you kiss him back, as the crowd cheers you on. Negan pulls away, hand still on your neck, and smiles at you. You paint on your best fake smile as he takes your hand and walks you back up the aisle.

The rest of the evening goes by in a blur. The Saviors quickly moved all the chairs from the ceremony out of the way, and the room is back to the same set up of the engagement party. There’s food and drinks, music and dancing. You sit at your head table, drinking whatever is put in front of you, and try to not look as angry as you feel.

Negan is at the bar with his lieutenants, drinking and laughing loudly. The rest of the wives are seated at their table, which is conspicuously placed far from the rest of the Saviors. You watch as Arat and Laura throw knives at a dartboard, taking shots whenever the other’s knife lands closer to the bullseye. A god damn circus, you think as you down the rest of your drink.

You sigh, and stand up to go get another. Gotta be relaxed for later, you say snarkily to yourself. As you make your way to the bar, Negan and his henchmen roar loudly again in laughter. Not wanting to be around the noise, you walk to the other end of the bar. There’s only one spot without a drunk Savior in it, and of fucking course it’s next to Dixon, sitting quietly in the corner, watching the room. Your desire for another drink outweighs your frustration, and you move to the spot next to him.

He barely acknowledges your presence when you place your glass on the bar and signal to the bartender for refill. Only when you shoot your drink back in one gulp and ask for another does he turn to look at you. He watches you for a moment.

“You alright?” he asks. He’s leaning back against the wall, spinning his own glass on the bar.

You turn to him. “Do I seem alright?” you snap. 

He looks at you, then holds his glass up as if to toast with you. You stare at him incredulously. “Congrats, princess,” he says, dully. 

You laugh, half hysterical. “Oh yes,” you say, “congrats to me! Married to the man who killed my friends, in hopes that he doesn’t kill any more of them. Bet you think that’s hilarious.” You hastily clink your glass with his, spilling some of the liquid on his hand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even react as you finish your drink, then stomp back to your table.

You barely make it back before you hear the whistling. When you turn to look, you see your new husband and his men leaving the bar and heading towards your table. The room quiets down, as Negan addresses the room.

“Family,” he starts, voice booming through the quiet room. “Thank you again for taking the time out of your busy days to celebrate with us.” As if they had a choice, you say to yourself. “It means the world to both myself and my new bride. But-” he turns to you “we must part. It’s time for me to fulfill that final part of my vows!” And with that he rushes forward, scoops you up into his arms, and carries you out of the room to the cheers of the Saviors. When you look back over his shoulder, you see a swarm of happy faces, but your eyes find the one face at the bar that doesn’t look very happy at all.

Negan carries you all the way to his room. Once inside, he places you gently on the ground, and you take a minute to look around. There’s a sitting area with a leather couch and two chairs. On the other side of the room is a large, four poster bed. The room is small, but surprisingly well decorated. It’s fancier than you had expected from the Savior.

While you were looking around, Negan had taken off his leather jacket and gone to a small kitchenette to pour drinks, which he holds out to you now. You take it and take a sip, and watch him as he takes a seat on the couch. He pats his thigh, inviting you to sit. Commanding, more like, you think but you obey nonetheless. You sit on his lap, and he drapes a lazy arm around your waist.

Looking up at you, he says, “I meant what I said, you know.” You must look confused, because he pushes on. “About keeping you safe and fed. And my hope is that I can make you happy too.” He sighs deeply. “I know you probably don’t believe me, given the circumstances of how you ended up here, but it’s true. I protect my people, no matter the cost. And you’re one of my people now.” He holds up his glass. “So do you think you can at least give me a chance?”

You watch him for a moment. Albeit a little drunk, he seems actually genuine, like he really wants you to give him the chance to prove himself to you. How can this be the truth? you ask yourself. He murdered Glenn and Abe and who knows how many more people. 

But then you think back to your group, back to Rick and Michonne and everyone else. How many people have you all killed in the name of protecting others? You’re not sure exactly what to make of the man before you, but you also know that if you want to survive this, you’re going to have to at least try. So you touch your glass to his, look him in the eyes as you both drink, and give in.

Negan takes your glass and his and places them both on the low table in front of the couch. Then, he places a hand on your cheek and leans in, pausing just before your noses touch, waiting. You take a deep breath, then close the space between you.

You kiss him gently, and he matches your intensity at first. But quickly, the kisses become deeper. You feel his tongue asking for permission, and you part your lips, granting it. At this, Negan leans more into the kiss, pulling you deeper into his lap. Your arms find their way around his neck, and you start running your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. Negan moans into your mouth, and his hand begins moving from your face down your body, down your chest, and to your legs draped across his. 

As his fingers run up your thighs, you feel the heat building between your legs. After days of feeling either nothing at all or nothing but anger, you discover how badly you want to feel something. Anything. Even Negan. So you let yourself go in this moment; you spread your legs just enough for Negan’s hand to make its way up to your panties. In one swift motion, he pulls them down and off of you while you kick off your heels to make it easier. Then his hand is back between your legs, rubbing you at your core.

“So wet for me, dollface,” Negan murmurs between kisses trailing from your mouth and down your neck. He starts sucking a hickey into the skin at the base of your throat as his hand between your legs moves faster. Your fingers grip his hair and you let out a small moan. At this, Negan bites your neck and pulls his hand back from your core. Before you can protest, he slips one finger inside you. You let out a gasp and clutch him tighter. He immediately slides in another finger, and starts pumping them in and out at a rapid pace.

You can’t believe this is happening, but god does it feel good to be feeling something again. You start to feel heat burning and swirling in your stomach. You grab at his hair, his shoulders, anything you can get your hands on.

“You gonna cum for me already?” Negan asks after pulling on the skin at your neck with his teeth. You know that’s going to be another bruise tomorrow but right now, you don’t care. You nod. “Use your words, doll, or I'll stop.” He slows down as if to prove his point.

“Y-yes,” you struggle to get out. “I’m gonna cum.” As soon as the words are out, Negan’s fingers pick up the pace, and his thumb finds your sensitive nub. You moan once, twice, and then you melt with pleasure as you reach your climax all over him. He continues pumping into you through your orgasm. You close your eyes and throw your head back, and Negan lines your throat with more bites and kisses. As you come down from your high, Negan removes his fingers from between your legs and begins unzipping your dress. You shift, wiggling out of it, then start working on the buttons of his shirt.

His mouth catches yours again as he undoes his pants, releasing his hard cock. “You think you’re ready for this?” he asks, pushing his pants and boxers down out of the way. 

You nod, but quickly correct yourself by answering aloud. “Yes,” you answer. He guides your hips so that you are straddling him, with his cock just below your entrance. Gripping his shoulders, you slowly lower yourself onto him until he bottoms out inside you. You both pause for a moment. Negan rubs a thumb across your cheek and looks into your eyes, waiting for you to adjust. You meet his gaze, then his lips, and begin rocking your hips. 

Negan’s head falls back and his eyes close with pleasure as you rock and bounce and rub yourself on him. He reaches his hands up your back and unclasps your bra, tossing it away. Then he pulls you forward, taking one nipple in his mouth and pawing at your other breast with his hand. He sucks and bites on you, alternating between your breasts, leaving marks and his spit in his wake. It feels so good, the pleasure almost becomes too much for you and you struggle to keep up the pace you set.

When you start to slip, Negan quickly flips you over and presses you into the couch without pulling out of you. He immediately starts thrusting into you at an unforgiving speed.  You barely get a chance to acclimate to the pace when Negan puts one of your legs over his shoulder, penetrating you even deeper and hitting that spot deep inside you. You let out another moan, and Negan bites your thigh hard. You yelp in both pain and pleasure, and he groans into your skin. 

You feel yourself getting close to your climax again. You claw at his arms, and he releases your leg, lowering himself to suck on the skin just below your ear. You run your nails down his back, not caring if you break skin. This seemed to light a fire in him, and his thrusts start to get sloppy as he gets close to finishing. 

“Say my name,” he says in your ear. But you can’t; you are so close to another orgasm that you’re seeing stars. So he grabs your face and forces you to look at him. “Say my name,” he says again, more forcefully this time. 

“N-Negan,” you whimper. He doesn’t let go of your face as he keeps thrusting into you.

“Say it again,” he commands.

“Negan!” you cry out as you cum again, and it undoes him. He lets go of your face to hold himself up. You feel his cock twitch as he cums inside you. The thought scares you, but you’re so undone that you don’t even try to fight it. You just ride out your own high for as long as possible as his thrusts slow and eventually stop.

After a few minutes of you both catching your breath, Negan pulls out of you gently and plants a kiss on your cheek. “Good girl,” he coos. You don’t answer him, laying underneath him, completely spent. He stands up and slides his arms under you to pick you up. “Let’s go to bed.”

Chapter Text

You wake up to bright light and a pounding headache. Squinting your eyes, you take in your surroundings. Negan’s room. The events of the night before - your wedding night - rush back to you. You groan and drop your head back onto the pillow.

Reaching an arm out to the other side of the bed, you feel nothing. You peek with one eye; you’re alone. Apparently your new husband is an early riser. Ew. Rolling back over, you try to go back to sleep. 

But then the bedroom door flies open and you nearly fall out of the bed.

“Still sleeping?” Negan booms. You look up to see that he’s showered and fully dressed, back in his leather jacket. He’s got a cup of coffee in one hand and his bat in the other. You gulp. “Time to get up, let’s go.” He puts his coffee down on an end table, and then yanks the blanket off the bed, leaving you naked and exposed and tangled amongst the sheets.

“Jesus, Negan!” you shout, as you try to cover yourself with a pillow. But he just laughs at you.

“Get up,” he says again. “I have a gift for you.” He grins, and you raise an eyebrow at him. He whistles, and one of his minions runs into the room carrying a black garment bag. Negan takes it from him and walks with it to the bed. “Come on, open it,” he urges you. From behind your pillow, you unzip the bag, and Negan holds up a black mini dress. It is sleeveless with a low neckline and even lower back, and a slit up the left side. It’s not hideous, but definitely not something you would have grabbed for yourself during the end of the world. 

Negan watches you admire the dress. “You like it?” he asks. You nod. “Good, now go get yourself ready. We leave in five.”

“For what?” you ask, confused.

“For our honeymoon, dollface,” he coos, placing a hand on your cheek. Skeptical, you get out of bed anyway, take the dress, and head towards the bathroom.

When you get inside, you shriek and drop the dress. You stare at the mess in the mirror: hair sticking up in all directions, make up running down your face, and, worst of all, dark purple bite marks lining your neck and chest. You run your hands along them, and count nine different bruises. They, along with the healing injuries from your interrogation, make it look like you have been attacked several times over. You can’t stop the tears that form in your eyes. What have I done? you ask yourself.

Negan banging on the door makes you nearly jump out of your skin. “Three minutes! Let’s go!” You rush to try and make yourself look less like roadkill. You wash your face, chug some mouthwash, and rip some knots out of your hair. You shimmy into the very tight dress, only to realize you don’t have any underwear.

Sighing, you open the door to find Negan sitting there twirling your panties from the night before around his finger. You hold your hand out for them, and he tosses them at you. 

“Holy shit, you are a mess,” he says as he watches you struggle to put them on. All the gentleness of him from the night before was gone. Today, it felt like he didn’t like you at all. You straighten up and glare at him. He points to last night’s heels as well, and you quickly step into them too. 

He stands. “Ready?” he asks.

You nod. “Where are we going for our ‘honeymoon’?” you ask with an attitude. 

He grins. Your stomach drops. “Alexandria, of course.”

The convoy of Savior vehicles are pulling up to Alexandra’s gates. You are packed into the front of a truck in between Negan and Dwight, one of his lieutenants with a suspiciously large burn scar on his face. You hold your hands together in front of you to try and hide their shaking, and keep your eyes straight ahead. For most of the ride, you focus on the angel wings on the back of the motorcycle leading the ride, fighting to keep your breathing steady.

Alexandria, really? you argue in your head. While I look like this?  You dread the idea of your friends seeing you in this ridiculous getup, let alone this bruised and battered. They’re going to lose their fucking shit. You can already imagine the pain in Rick and Aaron’s eyes, and the anger in Rosita and Michonne’s. There is no way this is going to end well.

The truck lurches to a stop, and Dwight puts it in park. He turns to his leader, looking right through you. “I’ll get everyone into position,” he says.

“Good boy, Dwighty,” Negan smiles. “I’ll be there in a minute. Just need to have a private moment with my little doll here.” He slaps a hand down onto your exposed knee. You look up at him in surprise.

Dwight hops out of the truck, and Negan looks down at you. “Now listen to me good. If you try to pull a-ny-thing,” he emphasizes each syllable, “if you don’t put on the best happy-wife performance of your life, I’ll start bashing some more skulls.” He leans in, gripping your knee tight. “Do you hear me?” he asks. Eyes wide, all you can do is nod.

“Good,” he says, opening the door. “Now get out and join the others.” You slide out of the truck, stumbling in your high heels, and join the rest of the Saviors. You watch as Negan saunters up to the gates, whistling, Lucille in hand.

“Dun-dun-dun dun,” he sings as he bangs on the gate. “Little pig, little pig, let me in!”

There’s a pause, but then the gate opens. Spencer stands on the other side.

“Well?”

“Uh, who are you?” Spencer, that fucking idiot, asks.

Negan shakes his head. “Oh, you better be jokin!” He holds up his bat. “Negan, Lucille. I know I had to make a pretty strong first impression.”

From where you’re standing, you can’t see who walks up, but you watch Negan look past Spencer and say, “well, hello there” with a smile on his face. After a pause, his smile falters. “Do not make me have to ask.”

You hear Rick’s voice from beyond the gate. “You said a week. You’re early.” The second gate creaks as he drags it open.

Negan smiles again. “I missed you.” Behind Negan, a walker stumbles up, and he makes a show of taking it out.

“All right, everybody!” he calls to the Saviors around you. “Let’s get started! Big day.”

Rick’s eyes scan the crowd of Saviors, and find you. While Negan carries on talking, you and Rick hold each other’s gaze. You watch as his eyes flicker from your face down to your neck and shoulders, and his mouth opens in a small gasp. You let your gaze drop to the ground, as your friend turns his attention back to the head Savior’s ramblings. 

“Hold this,” you hear Negan say, and you look up to see Rick holding Lucille with a far off look in his eye as Negan and the Saviors start making their way into Alexandria. Dwight nudges you from behind and makes you follow the group.

“Hot diggity dog!” Negan yells, looking around the community. “This place is magnificent! An embarrassment of riches, as they say. Yes sir, I do believe you are going to have plenty to offer up.”

Rick turns on his heel and looks at you. “Y/N-” But Negan cuts him off.

“No,” he snaps. “Nope.” He wraps a stiff arm around your shoulders. “She’s mine now. You don’t look at her, you don’t talk to her, and I don’t make you chop anything off of her.” Your eyes go wide at the threat. This certainly wasn’t part of his vows. Negan turns to Rosita, who’s been watching with wide eyes since you arrived. “Same goes for everyone,” he coos at her, stepping closer. “Right?” 

Rosita slowly looks up at him, glares, and walks away, which only makes Negan laugh. “Whoooo,” he exhales. “A lot of suspense there.” He gets in Rick’s face. “I don’t think she even knew how much.” To the Saviors, he says, “All right, let’s get this show on the road. See what kind of goodies you got in the cupboard.” 

Rick speaks up. “We put aside half the supplies-”

“No, Rick,” Negan snaps. “No. You don’t decide what we take. I do.” To the Saviors. “Arat!”

Arat steps forward. “You heard him. Move out!” And with that, the Saviors disperse throughout Alexandria. Many of the community members stand in the streets, watching the scene unfold. 

Negan wanders back over to Rick. “They’re just gonna search the houses a bit,” he explains. “Keep the process moving.” He claps his hands together.  “All right, you gonna show me around or what?” he asks. When Rick doesn’t move, he tries again, “Well?” Reluctantly, Rick starts walking with Negan following. He pauses, turns on his heel and calls out, “Dixon!”

The man in question steps forward from the back of the group. You almost forgot he was here. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Watch my wife,” Negan orders. “Make sure she doesn’t do anything she shouldn’t. And if she tries to -” he smirks at you - “break another one of her fingers.”

You gulp, but hold yourself still as Dixon nods and moves to stand next to you.

At this, Rick turns around and looks at the Savior standing guard over you.

“Daryl?” he asks in disbelief. You feel Dixon stiffen by your side.

“Oh yeah!” Negan booms, “I totally forgot! You two used to know each other, isn’t that right?” He laughs. “Before Double D here dumped your asses and then I picked him up.” He claps Rick on the shoulder. “Don’t think that’s gonna help you out at all, buddy, he’s mine now. He does whatever I say.” Negan looks back to you. “Just ask my wife over there.” He says the word more like an insult than anything else. You shudder. “Now give me that tour!” 

Rick looks back over his shoulder at you and Dixon as Negan leads him off into Alexandria. Negan whistles, and Dixon pushes you forward, and the two of you follow behind the other men.

You look around the town as you walk. When the citizens aren’t watching the Saviors ransack their homes, they stare at you, dumbstruck. You try to keep your chin high, but can only imagine the sight that you are: tight black dress, high heels, bruised and bandaged up. You try to focus on anything but them, so you watch Dixon from the corner of your eye. He walks besides you, silently, eyes darting back and forth, observing the scene. You think back to how Tanya had described him: “He’s like an animal - he doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching.” She wasn’t wrong. 

Your focus snaps back to Negan when you hear him ask, “Whatever happened to that sick girl? That seemed like a hell of a stressful night for her. The way she was carrying on, she was married to number two, right?” You stumble, and Dixon catches you with a quick hand under your upper arm, narrowingly missing the bruise there.

Rick stops and stares at Negan.

“Careful,” Negan says slowly. “Careful how you’re lookin at me, Rick.” Rick says nothing. Negan continues, “Widows, especially ones that look like that -” he exhales sharply - “they are special. I love ‘em. Right after their husbands go, they are just empty inside. But usually not for long.” He laughs. “Where is she? I would love to see her.”

A familiar voice comes out of nowhere. “Do you care to pay your respects?” 

Negan whips around. “Ho-ly crap. You are creepy as shit, sneaking up on me, wearin’ that collar with that freaky ass smile.”

Gabriel stands in front of the lead Savior. “My apologies. I’m Father Gabriel.”

Negan turns back to Rick and asks, “She didn’t make it?” You stare at Rick, begging him to tell him he’s wrong. But he just looks away. 

No, you scream inside of your head. No, no, no, no. If it weren’t for Dixon’s hand guiding you along, you’d be on the ground in a heap. Not Maggie, not Maggie, you keep thinking over and over as Gabriel leads your group to the small makeshift cemetery. When you get there, you see a freshly dug grave. You try to step towards it, but Dixon pulls you back. Not hard, but enough to keep you in place. You look up at him, tears threatening to fall from your eyes, and he meets your gaze. He shakes his head the slightest bit, enough for you to see but no one else. He takes a deep breath, and you try to do the same. You both turn to watch Negan.

“Damn tragedy,” he is saying. “That’s what this is.” He breathes heavily. “This must really suck for you guys.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “Number one? That one was on me. Lessons had to be learned. But number two? That didn’t need to happen. You all forced my hand. Probably put her right on her back.” He shakes his head. “Damn, I was gonna ask her to come back with me.” Rick’s head snaps in his direction. “Oh, I know what you’re thinkin’. How should I have a shot, guy that just bashed her husband’s head in?” He chuckles. “You’d be surprised. Boy people, they -” but he is cut off by the sound of a gunshot. 

His smile falls immediately, and he stalks off. Rick and Gabriel follow after him.

But you remain planted on the spot, unable to move. Dixon still has his hand on you, but he doesn’t try to make you go. He’s staring at the grave just like you are. You allow the tears to fall from our eyes, as you silently pray. Maggie, I am so so sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry for all that you’ve lost. You let out a small sob, and Dixon turns to look at you. Thank you, Maggie, you keep praying, Thank you for saving me. I will save them all, I promise. You take a deep breath, look up at the sky, and will your tears to stop. 

When you look back down, Dixon is holding out the small red rag that’s usually in his pocket. He offers it to you. You slowly take it, and wipe away the rest of the tears from your cheeks. You hand it back to him, nodding your thanks. He nods back, and returns the rag to his pocket. 

The two of you stand there, eyes locked on each other for a moment, before you hear in the distance, “Dixon!” He turns his head, looking for the voice. “Come help us unload their armory.” He looks back to you, looks down into your eyes, and together you walk towards the rest of the Saviors. 

But you barely get a few steps before you hear a tiny voice scream.

“AUNTIEEEEEE.”

Oh no.

You whip around just in time to catch the toddler that flings herself into your arms. Judith wraps her arms around your neck and squeezes. Holding her, you stumble to the ground, landing hard on your knees as you clutch her to you. You look past her and see Barbara running up to you both, mouthing the word ‘sorry.’

“Oh Judith,” you coo as you rub her hair and breathe her in. “Hi babygirl.” She pulls back and looks up at you. She pokes the bruise on your jaw with her little fingers.

“Booboo,” she says, looking confused.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I got a little booboo. But it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt much.” The toddler pokes at the bruises on your neck next. You gently catch her hand and kiss it. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” you keep saying to her. To distract her, you stand up to your full height and pose. “Do you like my dress?” You twirl, and the little girl laughs.

“Pretty!” she shrieks, clapping. You take a bow, and she laughs before lifting her arms, asking to be picked up. You oblige, and she wraps her little legs around your waist as you spin her around. She puts her chin on your shoulder, and stops laughing. Confused, you look over your other shoulder and see Dixon - who you completely forgot was right there - staring. The look on his face is unreadable. You look back at Judith, who stares back at the man.

Oh shit, you remember. He was at the prison when she was born. You remember Carol telling you how gentle he had been with her, holding and feeding her and coining her nickname, Little Asskicker. He HAS to be remembering that right now. It explains why he looks so shocked, and maybe even a little pained?

Slowly, you turn and take a step towards him. Dixon quickly steps back, looking down at the ground.

“It’s okay,” you whisper to him. You turn to the toddler. “Judith, this is Daryl.” The man quickly lifts his head and meets your eyes, before looking back at the ground. “He’s an old friend.” He twitches at the word, but Judith continues looking at him. “Do you remember him?” A blue eye peeks out from behind his bangs, and he looks back at the little girl inspecting his face. 

Then, to both of your surprise, Judith reaches one hand out to him. Dixon looks at you, and you nod towards the little hand. Taking a deep breath, you both step towards each other, close enough that Dixon lifts one hand to meet hers. Judith wraps her small hand around one of his large fingers, and giggles. You watch him as the left side of his lips lift into a small smirk, and you are taken aback by how much it changes his face. He wiggles his finger, and Judith starts laughing again. I can’t believe it, you think while you watch. This terrifying man is completely undone by this little girl.

The moment is cut short when another gunshot cuts through the air. Dixon’s hand quickly pulls away from the child and lands on the weapon at his belt while you squeeze Judith to you and turn, shielding her from any danger. But Negan’s booming laugh fills the air, and you and Dixon both exhale deeply. You meet his eye, and he tilts his head towards the noise. Let’s go, he says without saying. You nod.

You plant one big kiss on Judith’s cheek and hand her back to Barbara. “Take her inside please,” you say to the woman. “Quickly.” Barbara nods and jogs off to the nearest house, with a wiggling Judith trying to reach back for you. You wave, and do your best to smile. “Bye, baby,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to her. Once she’s safely back in the house, your shoulders slump, and you turn to follow Dixon back to where Negan is outside of the armory.

As the two of you walk up, Rick rushes off.

“What’s going on?” you ask Negan. 

He turns to you. “Nothing for you to worry about, dollface.” He turns to Dixon. “Is she following the rules? Has she been talking to anyone she’s not supposed to?” You turn to Dixon too. Please don’t say anything, you plead with your eyes. Please don’t tell him about Judith. 

Dixon looks at you, then turns to his leader. “Nah,” he says gruffly. “She’s been fine.”

Negan smiles. “Excellent!” He claps a hand on your shoulder. “We’re just about to wrap up here, why don’t you go wait by the truck?” The push he gives you tells you that this isn’t a request, but an order. So you nod, and you allow Dixon to walk you back towards the gates.

A short while later, the trucks are packed and start moving out. As they do, you watch Rosita and Spencer return from wherever Dwight had sent them. Negan is still talking to Rick, so you sit back in your seat and gaze out the other window. In one of the abandoned houses outside the gate, you see Michonne staring at you. You lock eyes with the woman, and she looks ready to come to you but you shake your head quickly. She stops, and you indicate towards Rick and Negan. She turns to look, just as Rick notices her there too. Michonne disappears back into the house. 

You go back to watching the two men talk. You can’t hear them, but you can see Rick struggling to keep it together. Then, he jogs off to the house where Michonne is. Thank god, you think. Keep her safe, please. A few minutes later, they walk out together, Rick carrying a rifle and Michonne carrying a deer. She walks past the Saviors like they’re not even there, as Rick takes the rifle right to Negan. They talk some more, and it looks like Rick is pleading with him. You see Negan shaking his head before he turns around and finds you, beckoning you out of the truck.

A Savior swings your door open and drags you out by your arm. When you land, you smack his hand away, and he just laughs at you.

“Come here, dollface,” Negan orders. You slowly make your way to where he is standing with Rick. When you reach them, Negan turns to you and says, “So, wife, our friend Rick here just asked if you can stay in Alexandria. I told him no, but maybe, if it's his lucky day, you can plead your case.” He looks at you sharply. “Do you want to stay here?”

He’s challenging you, you think to yourself. You think back to the threat he made in the truck earlier: “if you don’t put on the best happy-wife performance of your life, I’ll start bashing some more skulls,” he had said. 

So you meet his look, raising your chin, and say, “Of course not.” You step forward and link your arm in his. “I want to go home.”

Negan laughs, and turns back to Rick. “Well, you tried.” He pats your hands around his arm. “ Now what you gotta do is get over that tall wall of yours and try harder out there. Earn for me. Because we’re coming back soon and when we do, you better have something interesting for us or Lucille, she’s gonna have her way.” He leans towards Rick, pulling you with him. “I want you to hear that again. If you don’t have something interesting for us, somebody’s gonna die. And no more magic guns.” He turns to his men. “Arat! Grab that deer. It’s getting late. Let’s go home.”

Michonne glares at him, and throws the deer to the ground.

Negan laughs again. “Man, I love a gal that buys me dinner and doesn’t expect me to put out.” Then he turns and begins walking the two of you back to the truck. He makes a show of opening the door for you and helping you inside, before turning back to Rick.

“So, nobody died,” he says casually. “And you know what I think? I think you and I, we’ve refined our understanding. Let me ask you something, Rick.” He steps towards him. “Do you want me to go?”

Rick hesitates before responding, “I think that’d be good.”

“Then just say the two magical words,” Negan grins.

Rick looks at the ground. “Thank you.”

Negan laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous! Thank you !” A growl comes from behind the truck as a walker approaches. Negan looks delighted. “Another one! You need our help.” He holds a hand out towards one of the Saviors. “Davey, hand me that candlestick over there.” The Savior obeys. “You know what I think, Rick?” Negan continues. “I think we’re both going to come out of this winners. Watch my form!” He turns to go take out the walker.

As he does, you see Rick’s eyes gloss over. His grip tightens on Lucille, still in his hand. Your chest tightens up. Oh god, you want to scream. Rick, don’t. Don’t do anything stupid. But you’re frozen in fear, so you can only watch. He takes a step towards Negan, but - thankfully - stops himself. You exhale a sigh of relief.

Negan bashes the walker’s head in, then turns back to your friend. “Yep,” he says. “Win-win.” He drops the candlestick to the ground. “You should clean that up for me for next time.” Negan motions to the Saviors. “Let’s move out!” The men start loading back into the trucks. 

This time, Dixon slides into the driver’s seat next to you while Dwight takes the bike. You ignore him as you watch Negan whisper in Rick’s ear, taking Lucille from his hands. He laughs one last time, then climbs into the seat next to you. 

“Take us home, Double D,” he orders. Dixon puts the truck into gear, and you are once again driven away from Alexandria.

Chapter Text

Not far from the gates of Alexandria, Negan motions for Dixon to pull the truck over. He does, hitting the horn for Dwight on the motorcycle in front of us. Soon, the entire convoy is parked on the road.

You look at Negan. “What are we doing?” 

“Just handling some last minute business,” he replies as he gets out of the truck, leaving the door open. “Stay here.” You turn to Dixon, who shrugs slightly and climbs out of the truck too. 

You sigh, and lean back against the seat, closing your eyes. You’re glad to be out of Alexandria. No, you correct yourself, you’re glad that the Saviors are out of Alexandria . You would have done anything to be able to stay and be with your family, especially after finding out about Maggie. You cover your face with your hands. You know this isn’t the time or place to mourn your friend, but god was it hard to keep your shit together. Think about something else, you tell your brain. Anything else-

A loud thump from outside the truck draws your attention. You drop your hands to your lap and lean forward. You watch the Saviors tossing mattress after mattress into a pile on the side of the road. All the mattresses they just stole from us. You keep watching, trying to figure out what they are doing. You witness Dwight pouring a can of gasoline onto the pile.

“What the f-” you start, but then you watch another Savior light up a homemade torch and throw the flaming stick onto the pile. The fire catches quickly, filling the air with bad smoke and the awful smell of burning plastic. 

They’re burning all of the fucking mattresses. Fear freezes you as you watch in horror as more and more mattresses catch fire. They stole them just to burn them, not even fucking use them. 

The Saviors stand around their fire, whooping and cheering at their handiwork. Some light up cigarettes with the flames while others throw more items into the pile. They appear very proud of themselves. Negan stands back with some of his men, laughing and talking, watching the fire grow taller and taller. You notice Dixon standing apart from the rest of the group, with his head down, looking away from the destruction. 

His head snaps up and looks in the opposite direction as yells emerge from the back of the convoy. You turn around to try and see where the yells came from, but then you hear the growling.

“We got company!” 

The Saviors snap into action, some quicker than others, as a small herd of walkers stumble through the parked trucks. Most of the men left their weapons in their vehicles and are now scrambling to get them while dodging the dead. Dixon grabs his crossbow from the back of the motorcycle and runs past the truck you’re in. You scoot into the driver’s seat to see better. You hear the swish of an arrow cutting through the air, then the soft thud of it hitting its target.

Suddenly, a hand grabs your ankle. You whip your head around to find a walker, one hand holding you, trying to climb in the door that Negan left open. Your hand instinctively reaches to your hip for your knife, but finds nothing. Fuck. You forgot Negan had confiscated it, and now you’re unarmed and very much in danger. 

You scream as you pull yourself closer to the driver side door, trying to find the handle. You try to yank your ankle out of the walker’s grasp. No luck. You start kicking at it with your other foot, trying to break free. The walker growls and starts pulling you towards it, leaning down with its mouth open to land a bite. You pull your free leg up as high as you can, and kick with all your might. The heel of your shoe stabs into the walker’s eye, killing it. Its grip on your ankle loosens just as you find the door handle, and you tumble out of the truck, cracking your head on the asphalt below.

The world around you goes quiet. Your ears ring. Dazed, you realize your eyes are clenched shut. You try to open them, but the bright light forces you to close them again. 

You roll onto your back - why am I laying down? You can’t remember. Sharp pain on your head. You reach a trembling hand up. It’s wet. Why is it wet? You pull your hand away and force your eyes open to look. Red. Am I bleeding? What -

The sharp sound of gunfire brings you back to your senses. Too loud. Growling. The sound of something - someone - falling nearby. The smell of something burning.

It comes back to you. The mattresses. Alexandria. Saviors. Walkers. You scramble to your feet, one shoe missing, vision blurry. You use the truck - the one you just fell out of - to pull yourself up. Hanging on to the mirror, you take in the scene around you: Saviors taking down walkers, walkers taking down Saviors. No Negan or Dixon or anyone you know in sight. You turn and a wave of lightheadedness washes over you. You nearly fall just as a walker stumbles around the corner of the truck, right towards you.

The walker - walkers? You can’t tell, you might be seeing double - lurches towards you, grabbing your arm. Still weaponless, you use all of your bodyweight to push it off with your shoulder. It falls into the side of the truck but stays standing. Your hand finds the handle to the truck door and you open it. The walker staggers towards you again, and you push the door as hard as you can. It hits the walker and knocks it to its knees. Seizing the opportunity, you put both hands on the door and slam it again and again into the walker’s head. It bursts like a water balloon, spraying the truck and you with blood and brains. You don’t stop until there’s no more head left.

You let go of the door, chest heaving, vision spotty. You trip backwards over something and hit the ground again, landing on your ass. Looking down, you discover the thing you tripped over was a fallen Savior. Face half chewed off, he stares at you with open, dead eyes. You scream again as you start crawling away from it, backing up until you hit another truck. 

Another walker spots you and veers towards you, also tripping over the Savior on the ground. It continues towards you, crawling. Nowhere to run, you start looking for a weapon, reaching your hands out in every direction.

“Where is my wife?” you hear Negan yell, but he sounds miles away. Your head is still fuzzy. It feels as if you are underwater.

The walker crawls closer. Panic begins to envelop you: your chest feels tight, your hands shake, you struggle to breath. Then your hand hits something heavy under the truck behind you. Blindly, you grab it. A rock. Good enough, you think as you throw yourself towards the approaching walker, and smash the rock into its head with both hands. It keeps moving, so you hit it again. The rock caves its skull in and the walker stills. You pull the rock out, blood spilling down your arms, as you sit back on your heels, chest heaving. You close your eyes and try to focus, but feel lightheaded again. You sway, then feel a hand clamp down on your shoulder.

You scream and whip around, wielding the rock again, but the hand lets go. You look up into a set of piercing blue eyes. Dixon. He’s watching you, his crossbow in one hand, his last arrow notched.

“You okay?” he asks. He reaches towards you, but you flinch away from it. He freezes, and you watch his face fall in real time. Dixon almost looks - hurt? He crouches down in front of you, and you crawl away, still clutching the rock. He looks at the rock, and his eyes trail down your arms, covered in blood, then back up to your face, with your eyes wide in fear.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says quietly, placing his crossbow on the ground gently. “Yer alright,” he whispers, “yer alright.” He raises his empty hands, and holds them out in between the two of you. You watch him, not moving, rock still raised. He waits. The two of you stare at each other for a moment. You notice one of his sleeves is ripped, and there’s blood on his arm.

“Are you - “ you start, voice small, but can’t finish.

He looks to where your eyes are focused. “Nah,” he answers. “Son ova bitch knocked me over, but I got ‘im.” He looks back at you, and motions to you with his hands. Understanding, you nod, and reach one of your bloody hands out towards his. He takes it gingerly, and helps you to your feet. His hand lingers on yours for a moment. You watch his thumb brush across the top of your knuckles.

“Ho-ly shit!” a voice booms. You and Dixon both jump apart, and reach for your weapons - your rock, his crossbow - and turn to see Negan walking up, followed by a few Saviors. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and Lucille is dripping with blood. He is looking over the walkers at your feet, heads bashed in. “You did all this?” he asks you, eyebrows raised. 

You nod slowly, looking down at yourself: dress torn, one shoe, bloody rock. 

Negan whistles, impressed. “Wow!” he calls out. “My wife is a certified badass!” He steps forward and wraps an arm around you. You notice Dixon quickly move out of his way and disappear into the crowd. Negan plants a kiss on your head, causing you to flinch from the pain. He looks at you confused, taking your face in his big hand. “Aw shit, looks like you took a pretty bad crack to the melon,” he says. When he pulls his hand away, there’s blood on it. You suddenly feel dizzy again. “Let’s get you home so we can patch that up,” he says as he leads you back to the truck.

After pulling out the dead walker, your heel still stuck in its eye, Negan helps you up into the truck. Dixon is already in the driver’s seat. You can’t help but notice that as you slide in towards him, he shifts over, as if making sure that you don’t touch him. Huh is all you manage to think as your mind starts to fog, and your eyes close. 

You wake to Negan slapping your face.

“We’re home, doll,” he is saying as you startle awake. You look around quickly and immediately regret it. The pain in your head causes you to see spots. You groan. Impatient, Negan starts dragging you out of the truck and plants you too firmly on the ground. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the door. 

Around you, the rest of the Saviors are exiting their vehicles. A crew is already unloading all of Alexandria’s guns and moving them into the Sanctuary. Negan watches them, Lucille in hand.

“What a good day!” he booms. A few of his men whoop in agreement. He begins twirling the bat around, taking a few practice swings. “Man, I am fired up right now. Who wants to go have a good time?” Even more Saviors cheer in response. He swings the bat again and turns back to you. His smile falters a bit.

“Yeah….” he drags out the word, “you don’t look like you’re up to it.” He walks towards you, placing a hand on your cheek. “I think I’d just end up hurting you some more.” He laughs as he pats your cheek, causing your brain to rattle around in your head. You close your eyes to steady yourself, trying not to fall again. 

“Dixon!” Negan calls. The volume sends another sharp pain through you. The man in question appears from the other side of the truck.

“Mmm?”

“Take my wife to Dr. Carson to get fixed up,” the leader orders. Dixon’s eyes go narrow, and he opens his mouth as if to protest, but Negan starts walking past him, planting a hand on his shoulder and saying “I’m gonna go screw one of my other wives. This one’s too damaged.” Dixon pales, and you feel your cheeks burn as Negan laughs and saunters off into the Sanctuary.

You both watch him go before turning to each other, neither one of you looking very happy. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, and you sigh as you follow him to the building.

Inside, the Saviors are going through their spoils, cheering and laughing at all of their new toys. The noise is too much for you, and you reach your hands up to cover your ears. Dixon takes you by the elbow, and leads you out of the room to the quiet of the hallway. You have to pause for a minute to lean against the wall, trying to calm the pounding in your head before you can walk again. Your escort lets go of you and waits until you peel yourself off of the wall, and then the two of you start down the hallway. 

Even though you’ve been there before, the walk to the doctor’s office feels twice as long. With each step, you become more unsteady on your feet. You end up giving up on your heels, electing to walk barefoot with them in your hand. More than once, you take a turn too quickly and hit the corner of the wall. Eventually you start to confuse what’s up and what’s down and nearly fall before Dixon catches you.

“All right, princess,” he says again. You try but your knees buckle again, so you hang on to his strong arms. He sighs, and drapes one of your arms over his shoulders. Supporting most of your weight, he helps you to keep walking, slowing his pace significantly. The closer you get to the doctor, the more you lean into him to keep from collapsing. You feel him stiffen, but he doesn’t let go. When you look up at him, he is pointedly facing away, but you see redness creeping up the back of his neck. Finally, you see the office door and let out a breath of relief. 

Still holding you up, Dixon bangs on the door. There’s no answer at first, so he punches it again, harder. The door swings open, revealing the old doctor.

“There’s no need to - oh my god,” he cuts himself off when he sees you. “Bring her in and get her up on the table, please.” He hurries off into the office.

Dixon helps you to walk towards the table, and when you hesitate, he huffs and lifts you onto it with one arm. You lay back on it, taking deep breaths. The room spins in front of you.

Dr. Carson rushes back over with a tray of supplies. “What happened?” he asks. When you don’t answer - have the lights in here always spun like that? - he turns to Dixon and repeats the question. You barely hear Dixon recounting the events of the walker attack. You’re too busy trying not to throw up.

The doctor listens to Dixon as he puts on a clean pair of gloves and pours rubbing alcohol onto a piece of gauze. “This is going to sting,” he says unnecessarily, “but I have to clean off the blood so I can see how bad it is.” He barely finishes the sentence before applying the gauze to your head, and you hiss as the alcohol burns your cut. Dixon flinches. The doctor ignores you both as he cleans the blood off of your face.

“Yup,” he sighs. “Definitely need a few stitches.” Great, you think to yourself, huffing. He turns to his tray and starts getting his supplies ready. “I don’t have anything to numb the area. However -” he motions to Dixon and points to a cabinet behind him. Confused, Dixon opens it and finds a bottle of bourbon. He picks it up, and turns back to the doctor.

“You serious?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

The doctor shrugs. “It’s the best I got. Besides, most of my patients are fine with it,” he explains, nodding at the Savior. Dixon glares at him.

You snatch the bottle out of his hand. “It’s fine,” you say as you uncork it. You take a big swig, cough a few times, then take another one for good measure. You hand it back to an astonished-looking Dixon, who takes it and gulps some down himself. You smirk at him, but he ignores you. 

Dr. Carson clears his throat. You turn back to him. “Are you ready?” he asks. You take a deep breath, and nod. He nods back, and moves in with the needle and thread.

The pain is immediate. It feels like your head is on fire. You clutch the paper covering of the table like your life depends on it and squeeze your eyes closed. You wince with each new stitch, ignoring the doctor’s murmured apologies. Instead you focus on your breathing.

Inhale. You can do it.

Exhale. You’ve done it before.

Inhale. Fuckin shit.

Exhale. Almost done.

Inhale-

“And you’re all done,” Dr. Carson announces. As you hear him clattering to clean up his supplies, you exhale that last deep breath. See? You’re fine, you tell yourself.

When you open your eyes, you find Dixon is watching you closely from beside the table. You meet his gaze, and he quickly looks away and takes a step back. 

Dr. Carson hands you a mirror. “Since I know you’re an expert on stitching, how’d I do?” he asks, evidently trying to lighten the mood. You look at your reflection. The cut runs from your hairline down your forehead towards your eyebrow. The skin is red and swollen, but the stitches are neat. You’ll definitely end up with a scar, but what else is new.

“Not bad,” you reply, giving back the mirror. 

The doctor offers you a small smile. “Keep them clean, and I’ll be able to remove them in a few days,” he instructs. “Definitely be careful showering.”

“She gonna be alright though?” Dixon asks from his position on the other side of the room.

Dr. Carson directs his response to him. “She should be. She doesn’t appear concussed, but she has been banged up pretty good.” Dixon snorts. “She might experience headaches and sensitivity to noise and light, but nothing too bad. If it becomes too much, bring her back to me.”

Thanks for talking about me like I’m not right here, you think, but honestly, you’re too exhausted to put up a fight, so you stay silent.

After Dr. Carson discharges you, Dixon walks you back to the wife's suite. But when you get there, you can hear the music and conversation from within. You stop before the door. Negan is loudly recounting how he “humiliated Ricky-Dicky into submission” to the room, and there’s an eruption of laughter. The ache in your head twinges and you turn away from the noise. Dixon watches you.

“Can we go somewhere else?” you ask him, hand on your head. “Somewhere quieter?”

“Sure,” he responds gruffly, and indicates for you to lead the way. You go left down the hall, knowing exactly where you want to go.

A few minutes later, you open the door to the library. You walk in, take a deep breath, and immediately feel a bit better. The only thing that makes you happier than the outdoors is the smell of books and paper. 

You turn and see Dixon standing there, looking around the room like he’s discovering a new land. You watch him as his eyes graze over the shelves of books and across to the big windows, before landing on you. 

“What?” he asks you.

“Have you never seen a library before?” you ask back.

He shrugs. “Didn’t know we had one.” You can’t help but laugh. 

Dixon walks over and falls into one of the chairs at the table. He watches you as you stroll over to the nearest bookshelf. You scan a few of the spines, and pick up an 80s sci-fi book with aliens and a damsel in distress on the cover. You take it over to the couch and sit, tucking your legs under you as you crack the book open. 

The two of you stay this way for a while:  you reading, him sitting. A comfortable silence falls upon the room. Focusing on the book hurts your head a bit, but you do your best. Anything is better than the noise of the celebration going on back in your room. Besides, it’s not like you had anything else you could do here. Dixon isn’t known for his conversation skills.

The sound of a lighter snaps you out of your book. You whip your head around and see Dixon about to light the cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“What are you doing?”  

Dixon pauses, holding his hands out. “What’s it look like, princess?”

“This is a library, ” you snap at him.

“So?” You glare at him. He stares at you in disbelief, then sighs, slamming the lighter on the table. “Fine, fine.” He stands up. “Let’s go then.”

“Go where?” 

“To Disney World. Where the fuck do ya think?” he asks, exasperated. You glare at him again, but close your book and get up anyway. 

Dixon leads you back to the usual smoking stairwell. However, this time, he starts walking up the steps. Confused, you follow. At the top of the stairs, there’s a door. Dixon takes a key ring out of his pocket, flips through them, then unlocks the door. He opens it and turns back to you. When you don’t move, he impatiently beckons you toward it. Hesitantly, you walk up the rest of the stairs and out the door, and let out a gasp.

You’re standing on the roof of the Sanctuary. Not the tallest roof, one of the lower ones, but still. You walk forward to the edge and look out, past the walls and fences towards the treeline. There’s a slight breeze, and you close your eyes as you breathe it in and listen to the rustle of the leaves. You feel Dixon move to stand next to you. 

“Why’d you bring me here?” you ask him.

“T’ get some air,” he responds. “It’s really stuffy in this place.” Recognizing your own words from the other day, you open your eyes to scowl at him. He ignores you, instead placing two cigarettes in his mouth and lighting them. He hands one to you.

“Thanks.”

“Mmm,” is his only response.

The two of you smoke in silence, the only sounds coming from the swaying trees and the occasional call of a bird. Up here, you can barely even hear the guard walkers at the gates.

Dixon clears his throat. “I come up here sometimes t’ get away,” he explains, looking out at the forest. “This place can be-” he pauses “-suffocatin’, I guess.”

You nod. “Yeah, I’ve been a few places like that.” You take another drag of your cigarette. “Alexandria can get like that sometimes.” You look down but keep going. “I used to have a tree, in the woods not far from the walls. I’d sneak out there and sit for hours, when it would get to be too much. Too confining, after so much time on the road.”

“Like tha prison,” Dixon said, so quietly you barely caught it. His words catch you off guard. He’s never talked about his time there. You turn to him. He’s looking down at you. This close, you can see that he’s more relaxed than usual. His usually squinting eyes look at you with the slightest bit of softness. 

“Yeah,” you say back, “like the prison.” You continue holding his gaze. “I used to have a hammock there.”

Dixon snorts. “Prob’ly my hammock.”

“Probably.” You laugh, then you sigh. “I miss it.” Dixon raises an eyebrow. “The hammock. The prison. The people.” You look down, a wave of sadness rolling over your shoulders. “Those days were simpler.”

Dixon looks down too. “Yeah,” he mutters. The two of you settle into the reminiscent quiet. Your mind races over your time there, all the friends you made. All the friends you lost. It's bittersweet. Tears prickle your eyes. Dixon sighs next to you.

“You, uh,” he says quickly, fidgeting with his lighter “you were good out there today.” 

“Oh,” you respond, surprised at the change in subject. “Uh, thanks.”

Awkward silence.

“I’ve had to survive enough out there to handle myself,” you ramble on to fill the space. “It woulda been easier if I had a weapon though.”

Dixon huffs. “You seemed fine without one.”

You glare at him, but there’s no fire behind it. 

“‘m serious,” he continues. “A heel, a door, and a rock. It was impressive.” This time you both laugh. 

“Had to do the best I could with what I had,” you say, smiling at the man. The two of you fall back into silence, not quite comfortable but not awkward either. Together, you and Dixon watch the sun set behind the treeline. As it gets dark, the temperature drops and you shiver. Dixon notices right away.

“Wanna head back in?” he asks.

You push yourself off the ledge. “Yeah, I guess so.” He leads you back inside, locking the door behind you. You walk back towards your quarters slowly, taking your time. For once, Dixon doesn’t rush you. He just matches your pace, and you walk together until you eventually reach your door. You look at Dixon, who nods and turns to leave.

“Hey,” you say, placing a hand on his arm. Dixon stills, looking down at your hand on him. “Thanks. For everything today.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do much.”

You give his arm a little squeeze. “You did a lot.”

He looks up, blue eyes boring into yours. “Nah, that was all you, princess.” For the first time, the annoying pet name didn’t feel like an insult. He pats your hand once, and takes it off his arm. He holds your gaze - and your hand - for a moment before letting go and walking off down the hallway. 

You stand there and watch him go, realizing that you don’t want him to. This surprises you. Who would’ve thought this man who once held a knife to my throat could make me feel this - safe?

Chapter Text

The next morning, Laura enters the wives’ quarters to find you sitting on your bed, reading one of your library books.

“Negan wants to see you,” she orders. You glance up from your book and glare at her.

“Why?” 

“Didn’t ask,” she says briskly. “Let’s go. Or do you need an hour to pamper yourself and get pretty?”

You place the book down. “What do you think?” you shoot back. You’re wearing a black and white floral dress. Sherry had helped you to wash your hair earlier so that you didn’t mess up your stitches, and braided your hair over one shoulder. The bruises on your face and shoulders have started to fade, but the bite marks all over your neck were still a deep purple. Your left eye - the side with the stitches - has blackened too.

Laura just rolls her eyes at you as you slip into your boots, grab your leather jacket,  and follow her out the door.

The Savior takes you to what looks like Negan’s war room. Inside, he’s seated at the head of a long table, surrounded by his lieutenants. Simon and Dwight are seated on either side of their leader, pouring over a map that is splayed across the table. Dixon stands in the back of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He doesn’t move when you enter, but you see his bright eyes flick up from the map to yours. He takes you in for a moment, before quickly averting his eyes back to the map.

Your husband beams at you. “There she is!” He pats his thigh. “Come here, doll.” You slowly walk towards him, and gingerly take a seat on his lap. He wraps an arm around your waist and grabs your thigh with his large hand, holding you in place. He nuzzles into your neck, and you have to fight back a grimace. “How are you feeling?” he asks into your hair.

“Like I fell out of a truck and got attacked by walkers,” you answer darkly. You haven't forgotten how you were left to fend for yourself, and then pawned off onto one of his men when you were injured and needed help. 

But Negan just chuckles. “I know, but you’re okay now.” He pulls back and looks at your face, taking in your stitches and black eye. “Except for your poor face.” He pinches your cheek. “You’ll be pretty again soon, don’t worry.” He gives your cheek a little slap before dropping his hand and turning back to the map on the table.

“So what’s the move, boss?” Simon asks. His question is directed to Negan, but his eyes rake over your body as if you are sitting there in your underwear again. A shiver of disgust rolls up your spin. Negan’s hand on your thigh tightens.

“You’re going on a little day trip, Simon,” Negan announces to the room. “You’re going to follow up our little message that we sent up the hill last night. Gotta remind Gregory of his place in the world. Of course, if our dead friends didn’t take him out-” You gasp, and Negan abruptly stops. “Got something to say, dollface?”

“Are you talking about the Hilltop?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “Did something happen? Did walkers get in?” When he doesn’t answer, you look around the room at the rest of the Saviors. Simon is smirking at you. Dwight’s eyes are still on the map. Dixon shifts uncomfortably where he stands, still not looking at you. You turn back to look at Negan, who raises an eyebrow at you.

“You know our friends at the Hilltop?” he asks. All gentleness from his face is gone.

You gulp, but don’t answer. Fuck, you think.

“Do you?” He squeezes your thigh harder, making you wince.

“Y-yes,” you answer. “Kinda. I’ve only met them once.”

“When?” he demands, not loosening his grip on your leg.

“J-just to trade,” you explain quickly, trying to answer while revealing as little information as possible. “We were scavenging and ran into one of their people, and he took us there to discuss trading supplies with each other.”

Negan lets up on your thigh, and rubs his chin, thinking. You take the opportunity to rub some of the pain out of your leg. Another fucking bruise, I’m sure, you think to yourself, grimacing. 

“All right,” Negan says finally. He turns to his right hand man. “Simon, take Dollface here with you. She can serve as a reminder of why we honor our commitments and follow the rules-”

“What- no!” you blurt out, standing up suddenly. All eyes in the room turn to you, and you instantly realize your mistake.

Negan glowers at you. “What did you say?”

You try to change tactics. “Please,” you say softly, one step above begging. “Please don’t make me go. I don’t feel great. After yesterday-” but you’re cut off when Negan grabs you by the face, standing.

“You don’t get to tell me ‘no,’” he all but growls in your face. Over his shoulder, you see Dixon flinch as if to step in, but he stops himself. “Maybe I’ve spoiled you too much in your time here.” He squeezes your face harder, making your eyes start to water. “You do as I say, and you definitely don’t defy me in front of my men. Do I make myself clear?” You nod the best that you can in the vice grip of his hand. “Good.” He pushes your face away, letting go. “Get moving,” he orders Simon. “We’re burning daylight.”

The entire ride to the Hilltop, you focus your attention straight ahead. You ignore the fact that you were shoved in between Simon and the Savior driving the truck. You ignore Simon draping his arm over your shoulders, and whispering vile things in your ear. “You’re going to be such a delicious treat later,” he sneers, “just you wait.” You glare straight ahead, fighting to keep the bile down that rises up your throat. 

You tap your foot, keeping your anger in check. You’re grateful that Negan didn’t make you wear any ridiculous heels today. For starters, you know that Hilltop is all dirt paths and grass, and you don’t feel like stumbling around like a baby deer. And secondly, in the dark of the bedroom last night, you had tucked Rosita’s brass knuckles into the bottom of one of your boots. With each tap of your foot, you are reassured of its presence. No one will be catching me unarmed again, you ruminate, dead or alive.  

You are snapped out of your fantasy of driving the knuckles into Simon’s stupid face when you see the tall walls of the Hilltop. The gate is already wide open as the truck rolls right in, stopping in front of the Barrington House. The driver barely parked the truck as Simon hops out the passenger, then extends a hand out to you. You glare at him and ignore it, sliding out of the truck on your own, landing hard on your feet. 

Simon opens his mouth to say something, but the roar of a motorcycle cuts him off. You both turn to see Dixon riding through the gates, parking next to your truck. 

Simon scoffs at him. “I don’t need a babysitter,” he says bitterly to the man stepping off the bike. Dixon doesn’t say anything, just grabs his crossbow and stalks off towards the house. You follow him, leaving Simon behind.

Gregory opens the front doors, and Saviors pour into Barrington House, looking around at the finery. Even you can’t help but appreciate the beauty of the place, barely touched by the outside apocalypse. You meander to the bottom of the stairs and lean on the railing, as Gregory, the supposed leader, closes the door and addresses the room.

“Hello!” he calls out in greeting.

“Hello,” Simon answers. “You’re Gregory.”

“Guilty as charged,” the man in question replies. “Welcome to Hilltop colony.”

“Thank you!” Simon exclaims, a little too cheerfully.

“Do, uh, make yourself at home,” Gregory says, nervously.

“Eh,” Simon sneers, approaching the man. “This isn’t a social call.”

“Oh,” Gregory stutters. “I-I wouldn’t think it is.”

“We need to talk,” Simon grins. He looks around. “And it’s getting a little claustrophobic here, right?” Gregory stares at him blankly. “Let’s talk in your study. I wanna see that painting.” Simon rambles on. “Can’t remember who told me about it but I'm pretty sure it doesn’t matter much anymore. Don’t know if you heard what happened.”

“W-what happened?” Gregory sputters out.

“Well those people you used to deal with,” Simon explains. “Our brothers and sisters in arms and operation. Well they’ve been removed from the field of play.”

“Brothers and sisters?” Gregory strokes his chin. “W-w-what do you mean?” What a terrible actor, you think to yourself darkly as you watch this awkward interaction. You refuse to forget that Gregory was the one who sent you and the others to take out the Savior outpost, and now Alexandria was paying the price for it.

Simon chuckles. “I think you know what it means. It means we need to talk!” He grabs the other man by the shoulders and walks him off into the study. Other Saviors close the door behind them and set up a watch outside the door. You roll your eyes and turn, looking up the stairs.

At the top landing stands a familiar face. Paul Rovia, otherwise known as Jesus, watches the scene below. His eyes land on you, and he rushes down the stairs and wraps his arms around you. You quickly hug him back.

“Hey,” you hear a gruff voice from behind you as a heavy hand lands on your shoulder, pulling you back. “Off of her,” the voice orders Jesus. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Dixon, who had been standing only a few feet away this entire time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, placing your hand on his. You don’t know why you’re reassuring him, but he lets your hand sit there for a moment before taking his back.

Jesus studies your face, eyes trailing from the stitches and your black eye, down to the marks on your neck. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly, barely above a whisper. 

You shrug. “I’m alive” is the best reply you can give him.

Jesus sighs, then looks past you to the Savior behind you. “Can I borrow her for a moment?” he asks. Your eyes widen as Dixon steps forward, crossbow raised.

“You’re kiddin, right?” he asks. But Jesus doesn’t flinch.

“You can come with us,” he says simply. “There’s just - I think there’s something she should see.” 

Without lowering the bow, Dixon’s eyes snap to you. Please, you plead with your eyes. You don’t know what Jesus is talking about, but if he’s willing to risk an arrow between the eyebrows for it, it’s gotta be important.

Dixon looks back at Jesus, looking him up and down. “Fine,” he grunts. “But make it quick.” 

You and Jesus both let out a sigh of relief, then he takes your hand and leads you out the front door, Dixon not far behind. Jesus leads the two of you around the back of the house, where you see a small garden. You’re about to ask why he brought you there, when you see two freshly dug piles, both marked with sticks and small piles of rocks.

Realization punches you in the chest. Glenn, you stop in your tracks, causing Jesus to stop too. Dixon moves closer to get a better look. Abraham.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Jesus says, giving your hand a squeeze. “But I thought you’d like a chance to visit them.” 

Unable to answer, you just nod, moving closer. You drop your knees in the dirt in between the two graves of your friends. Jesus kneels down next to you while Dixon stays back, giving you some space.

 You place a hand on the rocks above each one, closing your eyes. Glenn. His smiling face pops into your head. You think back to the day he and Maggie rescued you. Your camp had just been overrun with walkers, and the rest of your group was already dead. All you had was your knife and a gun with no ammo, and you were backed into a corner, anticipating death, when two figures emerged from behind the walkers, taking them down one by one. You had been knocked down by one, and after stabbing it through the head, a hand reached out to you. Glenn pulled you up, Maggie standing behind him smiling, and the three of you were close from that point forward. 

Abraham. You chuckle quietly. Oh, Abe. Always with an inappropriate joke and an oversized weapon. You remember your training days with him and Rosita, both of whom were prepared to make you the best fighter you could be. Abe would throw you into dangerous situations without a care in the world, knowing that you could get yourself out of them, but always nearby, just in case you needed back up. The two of you spent plenty of evenings, with Rosie and Eugene, drinking whiskey, smoking cigars, and laughing. Always laughing.

You let out a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry,” you say to their graves. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you. Like you both saved me.” A tear trickles down your face and you let it, not wanting to let go of the rocks. Not wanting to let go of your friends. Not yet. 

Jesus slowly reaches up and catches the tear. You turn to look at him.

“What happened?” he asks almost silently, not wanting Dixon to hear. “How did you end up here?”

“Negan wanted a wife,” you explain. Jesus nods, not needing you to say the rest. He’s always been incredibly observant and able to put the pieces together quickly.

“They’re here,” he says, even quieter. “They’re safe.”

You look up at him, confused. “Who?”

He glances over your shoulder at Dixon, still looking away, like he is giving you privacy. “Maggie and Sasha,” Jesus breathes. Your eyes widen. “Shh,” he shushes you quickly. “They’re hidden, but I’m not sure for how long.”

You go to answer, but you’re interrupted by a shout. “Dixon!” All three of you turn your head to the Savior rounding the corner of the house. “The leader’s got something to show us.”

You and Jesus are on your feet before Dixon can order you up. You both start walking to follow the Savior. Turning back, you pause when you see that Dixon hasn’t moved yet. He’s looking at the graves. He knew Glenn, you remember. Maybe he’s thinking about that too. You watch as he continues looking, then shakes his head softly and turns. He sees you watching, then walks up to you, muttering, “C’mon” and leading you back to the house.

Inside, Gregory is leading Simon down the hallway. You, Jesus, and Dixon follow, unsure of what’s about to happen. The Hilltop leader turns and makes eye contact with Jesus, who discreetly shakes his head. Gregory looks at him incredulously, and opens the doors in front of him. From where you’re standing, you can’t see what’s inside, but the feeling in your gut tells you what it might be. Your chest tightens.

Please, please, please, you pray. Don’t let it be them. You can’t handle losing any more friends today.

Simon steps forward and looks into the closet. “Are you serious?” His face is unreadable.

Gregory steps inside, then emerges with a bottle in his hands. “This is - uh-”

“Scotch,” Simon finishes for him. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Well not just-”

Simon cuts him off. “Hate this stuff. Tastes like ashtrays and window cleaner.” He pauses before continuing. “I’m a gin man. But this does look like it could harden a connoisseur.” He looks closer at the bottle. “Wow. What a gesture.”

“You say you hate it…” Gregory starts.

“Negan’ll love this.” Simon leans in. “Now I’m gonna say it’s from me, not mention you, okay? I really want the headline on this.”

“Okay?” Simon pushes past him and takes the box from the closet. He stops in front of Gregory.

“You want to slide that one back in?” The man just stares at him, mouth agape. “Sorry I shouldn't ask.” He says more forcefully. “You want to slide that one back in, period.” Gregory slowly slides the bottle into the box.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jesus looking at his leader with his eyebrows raised. You can only guess that Jesus outsmarted this bumbling idiot. You fight to hide your smirk.

Simon is still talking. He is clearly Negan’s right hand, you think to yourself. He never shuts the fuck up either.

“This is big, Gregory. It’s huge. And I won’t forget it. I really really appreciate this,” he says with mock sincerity. “Thank you.” He starts walking back towards the rest of the Saviors. “Now we’re gonna go through the place and take half of everything you have. But only half.” He clicks his tongue at one of his men. “Take this to the Negan truck.” He passes him the box then addresses the rest. “Exeunt, gentleman, get to work. Oh and take that painting.” He says, pointing to the study.

Simon goes to walk about, but then pauses, turning back. “One last thing, Gregory. Could I just get a kneel out of you?” he asks.

Gregory stands there, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“Kneel,” Simon orders.

Slowly, Gregory drops to his knees and kneels. The tension in the room is thick.

Simon crouches down and inhales deeply. “That’s a solid kneel, Gregory. You remember that for next time.” He smirks, then exits the house. The rest of the Saviors follow him out, stepping around the man still kneeling in the middle of the room. 

You meet Dixon’s eyes, who nods toward the door. You turn to Jesus, and give him a faint smile. “Thank you,” you say softly.

“Of course,” he replies, taking your hand again. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” you say. Take care of them, you say in your head. As if reading your thoughts, Jesus nods. 

“I promise.”

You squeeze his hand one last time before letting go. Nodding at Dixon, the two of you follow the rest of the Saviors out of the house.

All around you, Saviors are ravaging through the Hilltop’s supplies, taking - hopefully only -  exactly half of what they have. The trucks are being loaded up with food, clothes, weapons, anything that they can find, while the citizens of the colony stand aside and watch. You notice a few familiar faces from when you were here last, and none of them look happy to see you. An older woman glares at you from near the blacksmith tent, shaking her head. You look down in shame, not wanting to know what they must think of you. 

Dixon, seemingly sensing your discomfort, nudges you toward the trucks. “Let’s get ready to go,” he murmurs. You nod, and follow him, grateful for a place to hide from the stares of the Hilltop residents. 

Not long after you climb into the truck, Simon orders all of the Saviors back into their vehicles and, once again, the convoy is on the move. You don’t look back at Hilltop as the truck you’re in follows Dixon’s bike down the road and back towards the Sanctuary.

When the trucks finally pull into the Sanctuary courtyard, you are ready to get as far away from Simon as possible. He spent the entire ride back from the Hilltop blabbering on about how good of a job he did scaring Gregory into submission and how Negan is going to be so proud of him and blah blah blah. All the while, he kept trying to touch you, no matter how many times you shifted away from him.

As soon as the truck parks, you quickly slide out behind the driver, not wanting to be stuck in the cab alone with Simon for even a second. You make a beeline for the front doors, where Arat and another Savior are standing guard.

“Let me in,” you say as you stop in front of them. The two guards just look at each other and smirk. “Come on,” you try again. “Open the door. Please.”

“What’s the rush, Barbie doll?” Arat sneers. “Too scary for your precious ass out here?”

“Can you just open the fucking door?” you snap, losing your patience. 

Arat steps forward into your face. “The fuck did you just say to me?” 

Before you can answer, an arm wraps around your shoulders. You can smell him before you hear him. “That’s no way to treat a lady, Aratty,” Simon drawls, pulling you closer to his side. You flinch, but he grips you tighter.

Arat scoffs, “She ain’t a lady.”

“Well neither are you,” Simon shoots back and bellows out a laugh. “Now open the goddamn door, we got supplies to bring in.”

Glaring, Arat turns to her fellow guard and nods. They finally open the doors, and you try to rush inside, but Simon won’t let you go. He half walks, half drags you down the hall and takes the first turn before shoving you up against the wall. Holding you in place with one hand, he uses the other to run his hand through your hair as he leans in.

“You were so good today,” he whispers in your ear as you try to turn away. “So good at following orders, I hope you can keep that up for later.”

The hand in your hair caresses down your face to your neck, where it stops to give it a squeeze. You choke out a breath as Simon grins at you. He keeps running his hand down your body, stopping at your breasts and waist before continuing on. You try to pull away, but his grip on your shoulder keeps you pinned against the wall.

“You see, Negan has a habit of rewarding his best soldiers for their good work,” he drones on, playing with the bottom hem of your dress. “Sometimes he rewards us with his wives. A whooooole night to do whatever we want with them.” He slips his hand up underneath your dress, hooking a finger around your panties. It makes your skin crawl.

“Fuck you,” you spit in his face. 

Simon pulls back and laughs. “Oh just you wait, girl,” he says as he snaps the band of your panties against your hip. He leans in close and mutters, “I’ll see you tonight.” Then he turns and starts walking down the hall.

Chest heaving, you glare at his back while he goes. Disgusting fucking pig. Not looking away, you slowly crouch down and shove your hand into your boot and fish around for the brass knuckles you stashed there. You quickly pull them out and slide them onto your good hand.

Standing up, you start off down the hall the same way that Simon went. Let’s see if you ever wanna touch me again after this, prick, you think as you flex your fingers in the knuckles. You run your thumbs over the two points, and try to imagine the sound they’ll make as they slide into Simon’s temple.

But you don’t get far before you’re suddenly grabbed back and thrown up against a wall again, knocking the air from your lungs. As you try to blink away the spots that fill your vision, your arms are pinned, one to your side, and the one with the knuckles above your head. Regaining your senses, you glare up into Dixon’s face, who scowls down at you.

“Let me go,” you say as you try to push him off to no avail.

“Are you stupid?” he hisses.

“No,” you snap back, “I’m pissed.” You keep trying to struggle against his grip but he doesn’t budge.

“What’s yer big plan here?” he asks brusquely. “Kill him in a building full of his men and do what? Escape out the front door?” He scoffs. “Yer gonna get yerself killed.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter, giving up fighting him. 

Dixon scoffs again. “Yeah, okay.” He wrestles the knuckles out of your grip, and slips them into your pocket.

“Hey, give those back,” you reach for his pocket but he smacks your hand away.

“No.”

“Dammit, Dixon,” you say, trying again. This time he grabs your wrist and holds it. “I need those.”

“No, you don’t,” he says simply, still holding you so you can’t get to them.

“Yeah, I do,” you shoot back.

“Fer what?”

“To protect myself,” you argue, trying to pull your wrist away. This time, Dixon lets you, and you pull it back, rubbing the spot where he held you. “Since no one else in this god forsaken place will.” 

You and Dixon stand there, glaring at each other. After a moment, he opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by the sound of gunfire from outside. In a flash, Dixon grabs you and pushes you behind him, placing himself between you and the hallway that leads to the front door.

“Get to yer room,” he orders. He turns around and looks at you. “Now.” He holds your gaze for a moment longer, before turning and running towards the commotion.

Unarmed and frustrated, you throw your arms up in the air. Fine, jerk, you think, as you turn the other way and run off to the wives’ quarters.

Chapter Text

By the time you make it back to the wives’ quarters, you’re gasping for air. You wrench the door open and run inside, slamming it behind you. Leaning on it, you try to catch your breath.

“What’s going on?” Frankie demands from across the room.

You turn to face the rest of the wives, each wearing a look of fear. “I dunno,” you force out, still panting. “Gunshots. Was told to run.”

The wives look around at each other, afraid. Dawn’s hands cover her mouth as she looks at Lauren, who shakes her head sadly. Frankie goes back to sit with Tanya and Amber, who has tears pouring down her face. 

Sherry is the only one who keeps it together. She gets you from the door. “Come sit down,” she says. “I’ll pour you a drink.” She walks you towards the bar, but you don’t sit.

“Let me go clean up first,” you say as you walk back towards the bedroom. Once inside, you sit on your bed and finish catching your breath. Fucking Dixon, you think to yourself, still angry. If he hadn’t taken your brass knuckles, you wouldn’t feel like such a sitting duck right now. You secretly hope he gets shot by whoever has the gun outside.

Once you can breathe again, you walk over to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. After you do, you take in your reflection; your braid has started to come undone from your struggle, but at least your stitches are still intact. You look down your still bruised neck, and shiver as you remember Simon’s grimey hands on you. You lift your hand, and slip the brace off of your broken pinky. You bend the finger and gasp out in pain. Cursing under your breath, you slide the brace back on. Looking back at your reflection, you take a few deep breaths,

Inhale. You’re okay.

Exhale. You’re okay.

Inhale. Sasha’s okay.

Exhale. Maggie’s okay.

You smile to yourself, thinking of your friends. You send a silent thank you to Jesus for telling you, and for keeping them safe. Knowing that they are alive and at least somewhat safe at the Hilltop makes you feel like you can take on anything. Steeling yourself, you walk out of the bathroom and head back to the living room, thinking about that drink Sherry will surely have ready for you.

But when you enter the room, the smile is quickly wiped from your face. Because the first thing you see is Negan, talking to Sherry at the bar. But behind him, standing at the door, is Carl.

Your heart hits the front of your chest when you see him. Oh no, you panic. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not Carl. You stand frozen in place in the doorway.

Carl is looking at the ground, as if trying not to look at the wives. He turns his head slightly, and then his eye shoots up and meets yours. It goes wide. You both just stare at each other until, before you can stop yourself, you cross the room in a few short steps and catch him as he throws his arms around you. For the first time in a while, he lets you hold him and you're grateful for it.

“Carl,” you whisper. “Oh my god, Carl. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out into your hair. He pulls back a little, looking at your face. “Are you? Did he hurt you?” he asks, angrily.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you reassure him. He looks at you skeptically, eye trailing up to the stitches on your forehead. “I swear, this wasn’t him. Walkers.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. He looks around the room then, at all the women in black. You follow his gaze, feeling a little ashamed at the situation you’ve been put in.

You turn back to him. “What are you doing here?” Your eyes widen. “Was that you shooting?”

Carl lifts his chin. “Yeah,” he says proudly. “I came here to ki-” but you clamp a hand over his mouth, quieting him as you hear heavy footsteps approach from behind you. You both turn to face Negan, who raises an eyebrow at you. You look back to Carl, hold his cheek in your hand, and give him a small smile. Then you move to stand at the bar with Sherry, who has tears in her eyes. You stand together as you watch Negan.

He hands his beer to Carl, then moves to sit in front of Amber. The young blonde continues staring at the ground as if he wasn’t there.

“Amber, baby,” Negan says softly. “You know I don’t want anyone here that doesn’t want to be here, right?”

“Mhmm,” Amber responds quietly.

“So if you want to leave and go back to Mark, you can,” Negan says. “But what can’t you do?”

Amber slowly meets his eyes. “Cheat on you,” she whispers.

“That is exactly right,” he responds quickly, through gritted teeth. “You can’t cheat on me.” Negan pauses before continuing. “There’s plenty of other gals that would love to take your place and there's a few job openings that I can think of. You want to go back to Mark and your mom? Hell, I'll put you all on the same job.”

“No,” Amber says quickly. “I’ll stay. I’m sorry.”

“You know what that means right?” When she doesn’t answer, he asks again, “You know what that means, right?”

“Y-Yes,” the blonde stutters in response. “I love you, Negan.”

“Oh, of course you do, darlin,” Negan nearly coos, holding her chin. It makes you feel sick just to hear it. “I don’t know why you’re crying. It’s all gonna work out aces for you.” He chuckles, turning to look at Carl, who’s staring him down. Then Negan leans in and plants a small kiss on Amber’s forehead before moving towards you and Sherry.

Negan wiggles his eyebrows at you as you glare at him, then turns to Sherry and asks, “Will you get Carson for me?”

“Yeah,” she answers solemnly, moving to walk away from him, but he follows.

“Did you see that? Wasn’t hard on her, even though I am very hard in general,” he says, grinning at her.

Sherry scowls at him. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know,” he says with a chuckle. “But the messed up thing is you like me anyway. You know the truth, just like me.” He leans in close and, to your horror, kisses her. Then even more to your horror, Sherry kisses him back, bringing her hand up to his face to deepen the kiss. Wow, you think as you watch. She’s good at his game.  

They continue kissing as Dwight and Dixon enter the room, escorting a prisoner you’ve never seen before, carrying a tray of fruit and cheese. Negan, still kissing Sherry, holds up a finger to stop them. Dwight looks at the couple horrified, and it takes you a minute to remember that Sherry is - was? - his wife. When they finally separate, Sherry sees Dwight and freezes. Negan watches the interaction between the former couple and chuckles. Asshole.

Negan walks towards the prisoner, and grabs a toothpick and grape off of the tray. “Carl,” he orders while he chews, “will you grab his tray for me?” Carl obliges, and Negan nods towards the door, indicating for him to leave.

“Wait,” you blurt. The Saviors all turn to face you. “Where are you taking him?”

“Woah,” Negan snaps at you. “Don’t make me put this toothpick through the only eye he has.” You shrink back closer to the bar. He watches you for a moment, before turning to his lieutenant. “Dwighty boy, fire up that furnace. I’ll be down in a few. Time for a little déjà vu.” Dwight doesn’t move, just stares past Negan towards Sherry, who won’t meet his eye. Negan chuckles, then turns back to Carl. “Come on, kid.” He leaves and Carl, after taking one last look at you, follows him out.

Dwight, still staring at his former wife, grabs the prisoner by the back of the sweatshirt and drags him out of the room. Dixon looks at you, still huddled close to the bar, then follows.

When the men leave, Sherry rushes to the bar and shoots back her glass of whiskey. You watch as she takes a shaky breath, wipes a tear from her eye, then leaves as well. 

The silence in the room is deafening. Even Amber is quiet, frozen as she continues to stare at where Negan was. The rest of the wives keep their heads down, all embarrassed by what they just witnessed. Frankie and Tanya meet each other’s eyes, and you know they’re going to be gossiping about this later. Irritated, you snatch the drink that Sherry had poured for you off the bar and shoot it back as well.

The liquor burns as you struggle to swallow it. You feel as though your throat is closing up. You force it down and try to catch your breath but you can’t. 

Inhale. Nothing.

Inhale. Still nothing.

Inhale. Oh no.

Inhale. Not now.

You push yourself off of the bar as you tear out of the room, refusing to let the others see you break. You stumble into the hallway, feeling as if you’re being choked. Blood pounding in your ears, you try to remember how to get to the smoking stairwell, but you can’t. 

Your heart thuds. Your chest tightens. Spots start to appear at the edges of your vision. I’m going to die, you think as you collide with a wall you didn’t see coming. Shaking, you break into a run, not even sure if you’re going the right direction.

Reaching out to grasp the nearest wall, you feel your way as you turn and catch your broken finger on a doorway. You cry out, but make no sound. Your mouth is so dry. 

Squinting, trying to see clearer, you spot the stairs. You lurch towards them and fall forward, and use your hands and feet to climb them. But when you make it to the first landing, you’re too dizzy to keep going, so you give up and sit.

Leaning your back against the wall, you close your eyes. The coolness of the wall makes you shiver. Your entire body shudders, and you pull your knees up to your chest, not caring that you’re still in this stupid dress. Your ribs feel like they’re cracking and stabbing you in the lungs. Your heart pounds as if it's trying to escape. You squeeze your eyes even tighter, dropping your forehead to your knees, and hold on for dear life. 

Carl, you say his name over and over in your mind. What is Negan doing with him? Is he going to kill him? If he hurts him, what was the point of you coming here? ‘ You’ve failed,’ a dark voice says from the back of your mind. ‘ You’re a failure. You’ve saved no one.’ Your fists clench so tight, your nails dig into your palms. ‘They’re all going to die while you sit here, comfortable and pretty-’

“NO!” a scream tears from your throat. “No, no, no.” You don’t realize that you’re hitting yourself with your fist until a hand snatches it and pulls it away. Instinctively, you lash out with the other one and your punch catches your attacker in the face. Whoever it is grabs your second hand and holds it tight. Too tight. You start to struggle, but the hands grasp both of yours in one and push your hair out of your face with the other.

The hand slides down to cup your cheek, but then stops. You hear muffled sounds as the thumb gently rubs your cheek. You remember that your eyes are closed. Prying your eyes apart, slowly, you find two bright blue ones pouring into yours. Blue like the sky you used to look up at from the safety of your tree back at Alexandria. Rimmed in cobalt, fading beautifully to the color of ice closer to the center, streaked through with small bursts of green; you could get lost in them for days. 

As if zooming out like a camera, you examine the face that those electric blue eyes belong to. Dark hair trickles down past thick eyebrows, raised with concern. Sharp cheekbones, like they could cut glass, one with a small red spot blooming. Bristly facial hair. You want to touch it. Thin lips that are moving. Why are they moving like that? You realize that they’re trying to talk to you. Focusing on those lips, sound comes flooding back to your ears.

“Breathe,” the voice rasps at you. “Just breathe.” The thumb continues caressing your cheek as the world comes back into focus. 

“Relax your hands,” Dixon whispers, taking his from your face. You lean towards where it was, missing its touch. He gently takes one of your hands in each of his big ones, and slowly, carefully, helps you to open them from the fist it is clenched in. You watch as he rubs where your nails dug in, some deep enough to draw blood. Flexing your fingers in his hands, he doesn’t let go and you relish the softness of his touch. 

“There we go, princess,” he murmurs, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “Yer okay, I promise.” He leans in closer, trying to catch your gaze. “All right?” You meet his eyes again - those goddamn baby blues again - and you nod. “Good girl,” he says, letting go of your hands. You reach out for them again, and he takes one and gives it a tender squeeze. His other hand goes to one of your legs. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his hand under your knee, and guides your leg to relax and straighten out on the landing. He pauses before doing the same with the other.

The effect is immediate. You feel like a string that was just released from a very tight knot. You let out a deep breath - holy shit you could breathe again - and your shoulders droop. Hand still in his, you feel all the tension leave your body, starting from your neck and rippling all the way down to your toes. You close your eyes again, savoring every bit of air you are able to work in and out of your lungs. 

Without letting go of your hand, Dixon shifts to sit next to you, and you naturally fall into him, leaning your cheek on his shoulder. Together, silently, you just breathe for a while. Opening your eyes, you find your vision clear, and you turn your face up to his. Dixon’s watching you, for once, without a scowl on his face. You notice again the red patch on his cheek, remembering the punch you accidentally landed a few minutes ago.

“I’m not apologizing for hitting you,” you croak out, your throat torn up from your screaming. “I’m still mad at you.”

You feel his shoulders bounce as he chuckles softly. “That’s fair.” 

“I want my knuckles back,” you press on.

“‘m sure,” he murmurs. You sigh, as the two of you go back to sitting in silence.

In the distance, you hear footsteps and voices, sounding like a small herd. You flinch at the sound.

“What’s going on?” you ask, looking back up at him.

Dixon looks down, not meeting your eyes. “A punishment. Everyone’s gotta be there.”

“Oh,” you look down too. You take one last deep breath. “All right,” you say. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

When Dixon opens the door for you, you’re at the back of a large crowd of Saviors and workers. He nudges you forward, and as you walk in, the throng of people part, letting the two of you pass. Towards the front, you see Sherry, Amber, and the other wives standing. Most of them have their heads down, but Amber stares straight ahead. You look to Dixon, who nods his head in their direction, and you move to stand with them. When you do, you see a man tied to a chair in front of a large furnace. Based on Amber’s sniffling, you can take a wild guess that the man in front of you is Mark, and this is not going to end well for him.

But before you get a chance to ask what’s going on, you hear a metal banging getting closer and closer to the group. Everyone around you starts to kneel. Looking around, you see Dixon, who’s already kneeling, staring right at you. You quickly drop to one knee. Up above, Negan enters, with Carl.

“You know the deal,” his voice booms through the room. “What’s about to happen is going to be hard to watch. I don’t want to do it. I wish I could just ignore the rules and let it slide but I can’t.” He asks the crowd,  “Why?”

“Rules keep us alive,” the people respond in unison.

“That…is…right,” Negan continues slowly. “We survive. We provide security to others. We bring civilization back to this world. We are the Saviors.” He pauses. “But we can’t do that without rules. Rules are what make it all work.” He looks around at his followers. “I know it’s not easy. But there’s always work. There is always a cost.” He raises his voice, making people jump. “Here, if you try to skirt it, if you try to cut that corner,” he stops to chuckle, “then it is the iron for you.” Satisfied, he orders everyone, “On your feet.”

The crowd stands back up. You all watch as Negan makes his way down the stairs. Once again, people part for him like he is Moses in the Red Sea. He walks through the center, patting Mark on the neck as he passes. 

“D,” he orders, putting on a large black glove. Dwight pulls a bar out of the burning furnace, and you see an iron dangling from the end of it, glowing red. You gulp down the fear that threatens to grip you. 

Taking the iron, Negan turns to the man in the chair. “Mark,” he says almost gently. “I’m sorry. But it is what it is.” 

Sherry moves to Amber’s side, holding her and whispering in her ear. But you can’t tear your eyes away as the lead Savior holds up the iron, and then presses it harshly into Mark’s face. His screams fill the room, followed by the acrid odor of burning flesh. A wave of nausea crashes over you, but you fight to keep the contents of your stomach down and your face neutral. You look away, and meet Carl’s gaze. He is looking right at you, fear in his eye. You discreetly shake your head at him, and then look back to the front of the room, where Mark has gone quiet. Somehow, the silence is almost as loud as his screams were.

Negan pulls the iron away from his face, and a piece of skin sticks to it and stretches. You slap a hand over your own mouth as bile threatens to come up. Don’t throw up, you silently plead. Please don’t throw up. You close your eyes, trying to center yourself. You hear Negan chuckling again, and shiver. Keep it together, bitch, you chide yourself. It’s almost over. You shutter, and open your eyes. They fall back onto Dixon, who watches the scene, unbothered, like it’s a regular day at the office. Irritation blooms up the back of your neck and you glare at him, hoping he feels it, before turning back to the front of the room.

“Ah that wasn’t so bad now was it?” Negan asks Mark’s unconscious form as he hands the iron back to Dwight, who looks paler than usual. “Jesus,” Negan continues, looking at Mark. “He pissed himself.” He walks towards the prisoner, whose eyes are wide with fear as he grips the mop he’s holding. “Clean that up.” The man nods quickly, then rushes forward to start cleaning up Mark’s puddle. 

“Doc!” Negan calls out. “I’m all done here, do your thing.” Dr. Carson moves towards Mark, and starts inspecting his face. While he does, Negan addresses the crowd again. “Well, the pussy passed out. But it’s settled, we’re square. Everything is cool. Let Mark's face be a daily reminder to him and to everyone else that the rules matter.” He pauses. You watch Sherry and Dwight share a look from across the room. Unaware, Negan goes on. “I hope that we all learned something today because I don’t ever want to have to do that again.”

Negan crosses the room to Carl, and whispers in his ear. You go to take a step forward, but Sherry places a gentle hand on your arm, so you stop. You can’t catch what he’s saying. All you can do is try to hide your fear as he leads Carl back out of the room.

Everyone else continues standing there while Dr. Carsen keeps working on Mark. The only sound is Amber’s sobs as she continues crying, unable to look away from her lover’s ruined face.

As the crowd disperses, it seems that the Saviors forgot that you required supervision, and you’re left to wander the Sanctuary on your own. Relishing the little bit of freedom, you head back towards the smoking stairwell. Maybe the door at the top will be unlocked, you think hopefully. You craved fresh air, a little sun, anything to get the smell and the feel of what you just witnessed out of your head.

But when you reach the stairwell, you hear voices from within. Panicking, you flatten yourself against the wall. When no one comes storming out to manhandle you, you dare to peek inside to see who’s there. About halfway up the stairs, you see Sherry and Dwight, smoking cigarettes and talking in whispers. 

Huh, you reflect, guess Amber isn’t the only one still connecting with her former boo. 

You can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, but you can hear Sherry’s voice grow agitated, and you decide it’s a situation you want to stay far as hell away from. Trying to be as quiet as possible, you start to back away. When you think you’re in the clear, you turn to hustle off when you run straight into the very broad, leather-clad chest of Dixon.

“Oh-” you gasp as you stumble. As usual, he catches you with one hand, preventing you from hitting the floor. Secretly grateful but not wanting him to know it, as soon as you regain your footing, you yank yourself free of his grasp and drag him down the hall, away from the door to the stairwell to prevent interrupting Sherry and Dwight’s tense moment with your own.

When you turn on him, Dixon looks shocked by your sudden anger. He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him.

“What the fuck was that?” you demand in a very loud whisper.

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

“You know what.” You gesture your arms wildly as you speak.

Dixon recovers from his surprise, steeling himself back to his usual scowl before answering. “Tha’s what happens when you break the rules.”

“You get your face melted off?” you nearly yell. Dixon looks around to see if anyone heard you, and you consider hitting him again.

“Rules keep us alive,” he says simply.

You’re so angry with him, you let out a maniacal laugh. “And you’re just okay with that?” you ask, accusingly. You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“Of course I’m not okay with that,” he growls through gritted teeth, getting real close to your face. Both of your chests are heaving, almost touching in the middle with how close he stands to you. This close, you can see those green streaks in his eyes almost illuminate yellow, like strikes of lightning hitting the surface. You feel yourself start to get lost in them, but his words snap you back to the present. “Tha’s just how things are.”

“Oh yes,” you say sarcastically, “because the way things are are just great around here. Torturing people, subjugating other communities to work for you, melting faces, forcing women to be your wives-”

“Hey,” Dixon snaps, moving forward and bringing his face almost to meet yours, shutting you up instantly. “Tha’s his shit. Some of us are just tryin’ t’ survive here.”

You close the gap, touching your forehead to his. “And what do you think we were trying to do before y’all came in to ruin our lives?” Dixon doesn’t answer, and the two of you just glare at each other, both fuming. His eyes flicker down your face for a moment before snapping back up to meet yours. Before long, he huffs and steps back so suddenly, you almost fall forward again.

You scoff, giving him one last nasty look. “And to think I thought you were better than the rest of them,” you spit at him before turning and stalking off. You can feel his glare as you walk away, but you don’t turn to look back.

When you reach the wives’ rooms, you see one of the workers at the bar, unloading a box. You instantly recognize it as the box with the bottles of scotch from the Hilltop. Was that really just this morning? You ask yourself. It felt like days ago now, with everything that has transpired since you got back.

Confused, you continue walking until you enter the bedroom, which is bustling with movement. Tanya applies blush on Lauren’s cheeks while Frankie adds more curls to Dawn’s already curly hair. Even Amber is brushing her hair, sitting on her bed away from the rest of the wives.

“What’s going on?” you ask, puzzled.

“You didn’t hear?” Tanya responds, not impolitely. “Negan’s taking that kid back to his people, and he told his men to take a load off while he’s gone.”

“Okay….” you reply slowly, still not getting it.

Frankie huffs. “That means they have free range of us. ” When you still look confused, she breaks it down for you. “Negan likes to reward his men by letting them fuck us. Now fix your face and your hair, or he’s gonna have a field day with you when he gets back.”

Chapter Text

The wives’ living room is packed with noise and people: there’s music playing, but it can barely be heard over the lieutenants’ rambunctious laughter and the clinks of the bottles as they help themselves to all of the new scotch lining the bar. Only Dixon stands apart from the rest, watching the group from a corner near the locked windows. Meanwhile, the wives sit quietly on the couches, averting their eyes in hopes that the men forget that they are there. You are sitting near Dawn, who nervously picks at her nail polish, while your shaking leg is the only remnant of your earlier attack and current frustration. 

You can’t believe that Negan passes around his wives like trading cards, giving them out to his men like stickers for good behavior. The very thought of him - let alone any of his dirty ass men - touching you makes you want to light yourself on fire. And what’s even worse is how the rest of the wives are just okay with it. They all touched up their hair and make-up in preparation for it, as if this wasn’t even more humiliating than being married to Negan in the first place. Trying not to freak out and make another scene, you focus on your breathing, clenching your hands into fists with each inhale and exhale. 

This goes on for a while, until Simon claps his hands and announces to the rest of the Saviors, “All right men, you all heard Negan before. Time to take a little load off while he delivers that brat back to his daddy. Choose your lady!” And with that, the game starts.

You have to give them a little credit - some of the men at least try to be polite. A Savior you don’t know by name pours two glasses of scotch and brings one over to Tanya, who takes it with a tight smile. Dwight plants himself in a seat at the bar, toasting to the other men but pretending the wives don’t exist. You watch Sherry glance at him sadly while engaged in a conversation with a Savior named Gavin. 

Unfortunately, not all of the Saviors are quite as nice. Fat Joe is already leading Lauren out of the room, who follows after an annoyed huff. There’s another Savior sitting with his arm wrapped around an openly crying Amber. You glare at the man. Couldn’t they just leave her alone today? You think angrily. After everything she’s been through?

You stand up from the couch and head towards them, ready to give the man a piece of your mind when the last voice you want to hear right now - or ever again, really - calls your name. You turn around to face Simon, who is leering at you from the bar.

“Come on over, sugar,” he says smugly, patting his thigh. “You remember our conversation from earlier.” 

You open your mouth to tell him where he can shove it but you stop yourself, remembering Negan’s threat from that morning. Simon will definitely report back to Negan if you defy him again today. Would that be worse than letting Simon touch me? you silently debate. But then the vision of Mark’s punishment floods your mind; the fire, the scream, the smell. You shudder.

Accepting that you have no choice, you steel yourself and go to walk towards the disgusting man. But you’re quickly stopped, caught by a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in the other direction. 

“Oh-” you start, but you’re cut off by the slamming of a glass and a yell.

“What the fuck, Dixon?” Simon is on his feet and quickly advancing towards you. Dixon, the owner of the arm that grabbed you, moves you behind him and stands to meet the angry man. “She’s mine!”

Dixon looks down at you, then back at Simon. “Don’t see yer name on her,” he says nonchalantly.

Simon grinds his teeth. “Don’t be an idiot, man,” he threatens. “Give her to me.”

“Or what?” Dixon shoots back, standing up even taller than he already is. 

The two men glare at each other. Simon’s chest heaves as he glares at Dixon, who still has an arm around you, but has the other hand on one of his hunting knives. The rest of the room has quieted down, with all eyes on the three of you, watching in wonder and anticipation of what will happen next. Seeming to notice this, Simon spits at Dixon’s feet then stalks back over to the bar to shoot back the rest of his drink. 

The tension in the room is still thick. Dixon watches Simon for a minute longer, as if waiting for the man to come back and try something. Satisfied that he won’t, Dixon turns to leave the room, pulling you along with him. Still annoyed, but grateful for the rescue, you follow along without giving him any problems.

Dixon leads you through the Sanctuary, down a few halls you haven’t been to yet, arm still around your waist. The two of you pass a handful of Saviors and workers, who all stand aside as you pass. You can feel their eyes on your back as you walk, and you can only imagine what they’re thinking about you.

Really makes one feel like a whore, you sigh. Dixon’s eyes snap to you for a moment but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, your frustration from earlier rising back to the surface. He really thinks that after everything today - throwing me and taking my shit, watching that horrific punishment -  I’m going to just fuck him?  you think angrily. He must be out of his mind.

‘However,’ a small voice in the back of your head pipes up. ‘He has saved your ass a few times now.’

Shut up, you snap back at it, scowling. He wasn’t getting off the hook that easily.

Dixon stops in front of a door, and unwraps his arm from around you to unlock it. When he opens it and motions for you to enter, you refuse, glaring at him. He glares at you right back. Then he places a big hand on your back and shoves you inside.

You stumble into what must be Dixon’s bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it’s sparsely furnished; there’s little more than a bed, a table with one chair, and a dresser with a record player on top. The bed sits on one side of the room with a small nightstand. On the other side is a small kitchenette and a door that must lead to a bathroom. On the table in the middle of the room sits a pile of weapons: multiple knives, a handgun, and his infamous crossbow. Besides that, the room has little personality. Just like him, you think darkly.

Dixon closes the door behind you and goes to push you in the direction of the bed. You dodge his push this time, sidestepping out of the way. He scowls at you as you walk to the bed and plop yourself down on it, arms crossed, challenging him. But he ignores you, moving instead to the dresser. He flips through the box of records, pulls out a Motorhead album, and sets it on the player. Music blares out of it, and Dixon turns the volume up even louder.

“Really setting the mood, huh?” you shout over the music, but he continues to ignore you. He moves to the table and sits down, facing you on the bed. Then he moves the crossbow out of his way and grabs one of the knives. A tinge of fear tingles down your spine as he grabs a whetstone and begins to sharpen it. You watch as his hands work methodically, sliding the blade smoothly down the stone, checking the sharpness, never once nicking a finger. 

He would be into knifeplay, that sick fuck, you think to yourself as you watch him work. Dixon never looks up at you, just keeps sharpening his knife. Once he’s satisfied with it, he places it down on the table. You gulp. But instead of getting up and ravishing you, he grabs another knife from the pile and starts the process over again.

Confused, you start to ask, “So….”

“Shut up,” he interrupts, without pausing. Your mouth snaps shut. 

The two of you remain silent as he continues with the knives. The only sound is Motorhead continuing to resound throughout the small room. By the third song with no change, you relax a little. You slip your feet out of your shoes and tuck your legs up under you, and start looking around the room. 

For someone who looks perpetually filthy, you are surprised and a little impressed by how neat he keeps his space. The bed is made, with a flannel blanket tucked into the sides and two comfy looking pillows. His signature leather vest is hung on a hook on the back of the door, and a few pairs of boots are lined up along the wall next to the dresser. You silently wonder if the records are in alphabetical order too.

At the table, Dixon continues taking care of his knives. You watch him work: whenever he picks up a new one, he first cleans it with a rag and some sort of solution; then he holds it up to the light, getting close to it, examining the edges, before bringing it down to the whetstone. After a few strokes, he pauses to inspect the blade again, testing it with the pad of his fingers. When he’s satisfied with it, he puts it carefully to the side before grabbing a new one. He treats them with the same care that one would treat a newborn baby.

You open your mouth to make a jab at him, but his eyes immediately flick up to your face and glare. You close your mouth again and huff, leaning back against the wall behind his bed.

After a few more songs, the record ends, and the two of you sit in silence. Dixon finishes the knife he’s working on, and places it down, looking back up at you.

“You hungry?” he asks out of nowhere.

You gape at him. After all this time, this is the first thing he says to me???

Dixon raises an eyebrow and asks again. “Are you?”

“Uh yeah,” you answer in a low voice, too accustomed to being quiet. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He just nods, then gets up and leaves the room without another word. Through the door, you hear the keys jangle as he locks it.

You stare at the door, bewildered at the sudden turn of events. “What the fuck is going on?” you ask the empty room. 

Realization hits you like a wrecking ball, and you jump to your feet. My brass knuckles. You quickly move to start searching the room for them. You open all of the drawers in his dresser but only find clothes methodically folded and organized. “Fuckin weirdo,” you mutter to yourself as you carefully close the drawers, making sure not to mess anything up. You pop into the bathroom just to find it as neat as the rest of the room. 

Sighing heavily, you fall back onto the bed, unsure of where to look next. But then you turn your head, and see the small drawer in his nightstand. Bingo! You think as you lean over to open it. When you do, however, you just find a bunch of knicknacks - broken arrow feathers, a couple bullet casings, crumpled packs of cigarettes, and a lighter. Annoyed, you push them to the side and find a small white square in the bottom.

Gingerly, you slide it out from underneath the junk and inspect it. It’s a polaroid picture, and when you flip it over, you gasp and drop it on the floor. It lands, and a familiar face smiles up at you. A couple of familiar faces actually. You pick the picture back up as if it's made of glass, and examine it closer: it was taken in the prison courtyard, and in it, Carol sits in the center, beaming, holding baby Judith. Next to her sits Carl, holding Judith’s little hand. Behind them, you see Maggie and Beth laughing at who knows what. 

Most shockingly, however, at the bottom of the picture, Daryl sits on the ground in front of the kids, head leaning on Carol’s leg, mid-laugh. You didn’t even know he was capable of smiling, let alone laughing like that. His face was completely transformed: his eyes sparkled, his teeth twinkled off the flash of the camera, he looked so genuinely happy. He looks years younger in this picture, and lighter, like he didn’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked damn good, you had to admit, to your chagrin. Gently, you ran your finger over his face in the picture, as if trying to commit it to memory.

Suddenly, you hear keys in the door and nearly jump out of your skin. You shove the picture back into the drawer, rustling all the junk to cover it again. You barely slam the drawer closed before the door opens and Dixon walks back in with two plates in his hands, and two beer bottles tucked under his arm. You sit up on the bed, trying to look as innocent as possible. He gives you a quick glance over, as if trying to see if you moved since he left. Seemingly satisfied, he kicks the door closed and comes the rest of the way in. 

He puts one plate down on the table, then walks the other one over to you on the bed. You take it from him carefully. Then he takes the bottles out from under his arm, and knocks them on the edge of the table to open them. He gives you one before placing the other on the table and moving back to the record player. You watch as he delicately removes the record, flips it over, and places it back down, lining up the needle. Motorhead begins to play loudly again and he resumes his seat on the far side of the table.

Dixon looks at you from across the table, and you realize you haven’t moved this entire time. So you lift your bottle in a little cheers in his direction. He mirrors your action, and then you both take a drink. 

The beer is ice cold and crisp and god damn delicious. It takes all of your self control to not chug the entire thing. You put the bottle down with a happy sigh, and move on to the plate he brought you. It was just a simple sandwich, but when you look at it, you realize you have no idea when you ate last. Stomach grumbling, you pick it up and take a huge bite, and let out a small moan at how good it is.

When you look up, you see Dixon’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he watches you eat. You try to glare at him, but you can’t commit to it because of how hungry you are. So you settle on rolling your eyes, and enjoying the rest of your sandwich. Dixon picks his up too, and the two of you eat silently, or as silently as you can with the record playing at full volume.

You finish the sandwich and finish the beer shortly after. You carefully place the plate and empty bottle on the floor and then lean back again on the bed, feeling sufficiently full and much better. You feel your irritation with the man in front of you slip away as you get comfortable on his bed, satisfied with your little meal.

When he finishes eating, Dixon resumes his knife maintenance. Having nothing else to do, you continue to watch him work even as your eyes begin to feel heavy and you sink just a little bit further into his bed.

You wake with a start when there’s a knock at the door. You don’t even remember falling asleep, but when you sit up, you find that the flannel blanket has been draped over you. You look over as Dixon stands up from his chair and moves to the door. Sitting up, you try to rub the sleep from your eyes.

Dixon opens the door, and a young Savior whispers to him. You try to listen, but he’s speaking too quietly for you to hear, and Dixon, naturally, doesn’t say anything in response. He just nods, and then closes the door again. He leans in towards the door, probably listening to hear the young Savior walk away, before he turns to you.

“We have to get you back to yer room,” he says quickly. He is quiet, but there’s a sense of urgency to his voice that betrays his calm demeanor.

“Why? What’s happened?” you ask, getting out from under the blanket. The chill of the air tickles your legs as you do, but you try to ignore it. You go to step back into your shoes, but the look on Dixon’s face stops you. He looks almost pained, like he’s about to deliver bad news.

“What happened?” you ask again, stepping towards him. He sighs, and you expect him to brush off your question as usual. But instead he meets your eye and answers.

“One of the prisoners escaped,” he explains. You nod slowly. That’s not terrible news. You didn’t know any of them. Wow, that sounds horrible, you chide yourself in your head.

“Oh,” is all you say. “Okay,” You turn to go back to your shoes, but he speaks again.

“Tha’s not all,” he continues, barely above a whisper. “Negan brought back ‘nother member of your group.”

This news nearly knocks you over. You rush back to where Dixon stands and grab his arm. “Who?” you ask too loudly, breaking the quiet of the room. He doesn’t answer, just looks down at your hand on him. “Who?!” you ask again, almost hysterical.

“I don’t know,” he answers earnestly. “They said it was someone who can make bullets. A nerdy guy. Cried the whole way here.”

You gasp. “Oh shit.” 

Eugene.

Before long, you are rushing back to the wives’ quarters, Dixon in close pursuit. After he told you about Eugene, you couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Your mind was going a mile a minute as you followed the route that Dixon had taken you down earlier. 

How did they get Eugene? you ask yourself. And what did they mean about making bullets? You didn’t even know he could do that. What the hell are they up to? But your heart leaps a little when you think about it deeper. If they’re making bullets, does that mean they’re getting ready to fight back? You try to hide your smirk at the thought. 

When you and Dixon reach your door, he gives you a quick nod before turning to leave. But as you go to open the door, Dixon turns back suddenly and grabs your arm.

“Real quick,” he says as you glance down at his hand on you. He pulls you in close, and whispers in your ear, “if anyone asks, I fucked yer brains out.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. “What?” you ask, dumbfounded.

“Jus’ trust me,” he breathes into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “All right?” he asks, pulling back to look you in the eye.

“A-all right,” you stutter out, still recovering from what he said. 

Dixon gives you one last meaningful look, squeezes your arm, and heads off down the hallway.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? you ask yourself as you watch him go. But you shake it off, and turn to go into your room. 

Inside, you find a weird scene: all of the wives were seated in the living room, with two Savior soldiers standing guard just inside the doors. When you walk in, they glare at you, but they don’t say anything. Across the room, Frankie waves you down to sit with her and Tanya on the furthest couch.

You walk over and join them. “What’s going on?” you ask.

“Not sure,” Tanya answers. “They told us all to sit here, and they took Dawn, but she hasn’t come back yet.”

“But who cares about that,” Frankie jumps in. “Tell us what happened!”

Confused, you ask, “What do you mean?” Do they know that Dixon already told me what’s happened?

“With Dixon!” Frankie replies.

“What?”

“Yes!” Tanya whispers excitedly. “He’s never taken Negan up on his offer for any of us. This was the first time. So tell us everything!”

“What was he like?” Frankie asks, grabbing your hand like you are best friends sharing secrets.

“Oh, um,” you stutter out. You think back to what Dixon told you at the door - “if anyone asks, I fucked yer brains out.” - and you suddenly understand why. “He, uh, it was fine,” you manage to get out.

“Was he rough with you?” Tanya asks.

“Does he bite too?” Frankie asks.

“Did he do anything for you, or did he make you do all the work?”

“Jesus - no, he was fine,” you blurt out, trying to make something up on the spot. “It was - uh, good, I guess. He, uh, pretty much did everything.” The two other wives stare at you blankly. “It was kinda fun, actually.”

Frankie and Tanya squeal, but before they can ask anything else, Laura comes into the room, dragging a visibly shaken Dawn with her, and calls your name. “Let’s go,” she orders. You look at Frankie and Tanya again, who both shrug, looking disappointed, then follow Laura out of the room.

She leads you to Negan’s war room, where you find Negan sitting in his usual place, with Simon standing over his shoulder. Across from them, you see Dixon. He meets your eye, but doesn’t give anything away.

“Dollface!” your husband calls from his seat. “Thank you for joining us. Come over here, please.”

When you hesitate, Laura pushes you from behind and you stumble forward a few steps. You stop near the center of the table, and look between all of the men around it, confused.

“You’re probably wondering why I had Laura bring you here,” Negan says. When you nod, he continues. “Apparently while I was out running my little errand today, somebody here let one of my prisoners escape.” He pauses, putting his hands up. “Don’t worry, I know none of my wives would do such a thing.” He glares across the table at Dixon, whose face remains blank, just watching. “But somebody did. So we’re doing a little investigating.”

Negan turns back to you before continuing. “Dixon here says he was with you all afternoon. Is that true?”

“Yes,” you reply, making sure to keep eye contact with him.

“And what did the two of you do during this time?” he asks casually.

Your jaw drops at the question, and you look between all the men in the room. Negan’s face is serious, Simon looks almost giddy with joy. Dixon continues to watch, the only thing betraying his calm demeanor is the subtle tapping of his fingers. You recognize that move, and immediately understand the seriousness of the situation. 

“Answer the question, doll,” Negan says, “or I’m gonna have to assume that Double D here is lying to me.”

“Y-yes,” you answer quickly. “We went to his room, we listened to music.” You pause, gulping. Negan quirks an eyebrow at you, urging you to go on. You take a deep inhale. Come on, bitch. “We, uh - had sex.” Exhale. “And then we fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep?” Simon asks from over Negan’s shoulder.

“Yup,” you respond, trying to appear nonchalant. You shrug to really sell it. “Men.” 

It’s silent for a moment. Then, Negan barks out a loud laugh, making both you and Simon jump. “Ho-ly shit,” he says through the laughs. He looks right at Dixon. “I didn’t know you had it in you, man!” Dixon raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. Negan continues, “I’m proud of you.” He turns to look at you. “And you too, dollface. You must’ve fucked Dixon real good, I was pretty convinced that man never sleeps!” He continues laughing for a while before saying, “Y’all can go. Dixon, take her back to her room.”

You turn and leave the room before Dixon even gets up from his chair. But before you even make it to the first turn, he’s by your side. You stop and look at him. He’s looking down at the ground, bouncing from foot to foot.

“What?” you ask him, harsher than you meant to. 

Dixon chews on one of his finger nails, before finally saying, “Uh, thanks. For that.” He nods his head back at the room you both just left.

“Oh,” you answer. “Uh, no problem.” You both stand there awkwardly for a moment. “We’re even now.”

“What?” he asks, finally looking up from the floor.

“You saved me earlier, now I saved you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “So we’re even.”

Dixon appears to contemplate what you said for a minute, before nodding. “Yeah,” he says simply. “We’re even.” Nodding again, the two of you head back to your room in silence.

But when you get there, it’s anything but silent. There are multiple Saviors in there, yelling at each other, and the wives are huddled together, talking in frantic whispers. You run over to them, leaving Dixon at the door.

“What’s going on?” you ask the group.

Dawn is the first to answer. “It’s Sherry,” she says through tears. “She’s gone.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the air is still tense in the Sanctuary, No one has been able to find Sherry. From what Frankie was able to learn - you didn’t ask how - Dwight had been thrown in a cell and kept there overnight. There has been a Savior stationed in the wives’ living room ever since.

But despite it all, you sit on your bed, fresh out of the shower, replaying your conversation with Frankie and Tanya from the night before. 

“He’s never taken Negan up on his offer for any of us. You were his first!”

For some reason, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or Dixon. What changed? you ask yourself as you brush out your wet hair. Why me? You start reexamining all of your interactions with the man; you think about the interrogation, every time he’s pulled a weapon on you, and you shudder. Dixon was a scary dude.

‘ But not always,’ a small voice in the back of your head pipes up. And, as much as you hate to admit it, it’s right. There have been plenty of times where you got to see a different side of him: the way he helped you get through your sham of a wedding; him with Judith in Alexandria; finding you after the walker attack; when he let you visit the graves at Hilltop; yesterday, when he saved you not once but twice, between your attack and rescuing you from Simon. 

Maybe he’s not so bad, you start to think. Maybe the Daryl Dixon you were told about is still in there…

A bang on the door draws you out of your stupor.

“Negan wants everybody in the workroom in five minutes!” you hear Arat yell from the living room. “Let’s go!” 

You roll your eyes, making a point not to rush getting dressed, until Frankie runs into the room. “Hurry up - they’re saying they caught the person who let the prisoner out,” she explains, grabbing her shoes.

Thinking about Sherry, you start to move a little faster.

You’re not standing there for long before Negan walks out from behind the furnace, Lucille in hand. Immediately, the crowd around you kneels, and you kneel with them. Negan is clearly pissed; his face is grim and he is silent, something you never thought possible for him.

He stalks about the room, like a predator. He stops in front of the furnace, looking into the fire as if deep in thought. Without turning around, he signals for everyone to stand back up. Everyone obliges without making a sound.

Slowly, Negan turns to face his people. He walks forward, taking his time, before looking up onto the stairs. You follow his gaze and spot Eugene standing with Laura. The man looks terrified, as per usual.

Negan lifts Lucille and points it at Eugene, announcing, “You are gonna want to pay close attention to this.”

Then he turns and swings the bat, hitting Dr. Carson, of all people.

What is he doing?  you ask yourself, as you watch the doctor fall to the ground.

“No, no, no, no,” the older man cries as two of Negan’s men peel him off of the ground. “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

Negan holds up a small piece of paper in front of the doctor’s face. From where you’re standing, you can’t make out the small, squiggly writing on it, but it looked like a note. “I found this little souvenir tucked away inside of your desk,” Negan explains.

“I-I-I don’t know what that is,” Dr. Carson sputters out.

Negan sighs, then hits him again with the bat. Dr. Carson coughs and stumbles from the blow, but he’s held up by the two younger men.

Negan hands Lucille to one of them, then clears throat and says, “You left the door open and let my puppy out. You knew Sherry hated him being here, so you let him out for her, be the hero. Then you could move in. That is some weaselly shit.”

“But I didn’t,” the doctor tries to explain. “She’s the one who ran-” but he’s quickly cut off by the leader.

“She ran?” Negan is yelling now. “You know why she ran? Because she knew I would blame her, which I did. But see, Sherry told Dwighty boy the whole story, right before she was torn apart. Super hot girl, horrifically killed because of your greedy, delusional, and tiny little prick.”

Your jaw drops at that. Sherry? Torn apart? You and Tanya exchange looks, but she shrugs. 

“It’s not true - Dwight?” Dr. Carson tries to get the other man’s attention, but Dwight doesn’t look at him, remaining focused on the furnace. The doctor gulps and looks back to Negan. “He’s lying about it,” he says, almost pleadingly. “I would never do that”

“Why? Why? Why would he do that? Why would he intentionally try to hurt you?” Negan asks, but doesn’t bother giving him a chance to answer before continuing. “Sherry’s gone, and if he’s lying, and she’s out there, I will find her.” Negan drops his voice to a hoarse whisper, just loud enough for the crowd to still hear without having to lean in. “And then I will burn the other side of his face off until he dies. So what was he gonna get out of this?” He pauses, then smirks, looking over at Dwight near the furnace. “No, no. You see, I know my Dwighty boy. See all he needed was one more night in the whole to get his head screwed on straight. It worked before and it worked now. Ain’t that right, Dwight?”

“Oh yeah,” Dwight answers, without taking his eyes off of the fire. You silently wonder if he can still feel its heat on the burnt side of his face. 

Negan saunters over towards Dwight, who removes the iron from the flames. Negan takes it in his gloved hand, then moves back towards Dr. Carson, who has reached the point of begging. “Oh, please. No please, please please,” the man cries. “Oh Jesus, don’t burn me please. Please no-”

“Now you know I hate this shit,” Negan says, holding the iron only inches from the doctor’s face. “Just tell me you did it and say you’re sorry, and I don't have to do this.”

To your surprise, Dr. Carson immediately admits to it all.

“Yes,” he cries out. “Yes I did it - all of it. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Please…” He pleads with Negan, who continues watching the man, unflinching. 

The tension in the room is thick. You involuntarily hold your breath, both in fear of what you are about to witness and from the recollection of the smell from the last punishment. It seems as if no one in the room is breathing.

Finally, Negan drops the iron. You let out the breath that you’ve been holding, and it feels like the rest of the crowd does as well.

“That’s all you had to say,” Negan says, smiling at the doctor. “That is all you had to say.” He looks around the room, eyes landing on Eugene up on the landing. He sighs.

But then all of a sudden, Negan grabs Dr. Carson by the shoulder and throws him directly into the furnace.

The room erupts right away. Dr. Carson’s screams echo out of the furnace and through the entire room as he is burnt alive. The crowd is shocked. Many people look away, trying not to watch. Amber falls into Frankie, breaking down in tears. Tanya, looking green in the face, runs from the room. 

Your feet feel nailed to the floor. You are unable to move, unable to look away. You watch as Negan steps towards Dwight, patting the man on the pack. “Good thing we got a spare Dr. Carson,” he says, chuckling. “I trust you, Dwighty boy. I never should've doubted ya.” He wraps his arm around Dwight’s shoulder, tone becoming more solemn. “Sherry was one of my favorites. I’m sorry.”

“I'm not,” Dwight says quickly, emotionlessly.

“Hoo,” Negan draws out. “Ice-cold. I love that.” He pats the other man’s face before stepping away. 

The crowd hasn’t disbursed yet. Some people still stare, mouths agape, at the furnace, where the doctor’s lower half hangs out of the flames. Some, like you, haven’t taken their eyes off of their leader, as if trying to anticipate his next move. He scans the crowd, smile fading a bit. 

“Well,” Negan says, clapping his hands, “I don’t know about y’all, but I need a drink.”

Negan and his lieutenants walk you and the other remaining wives back to your rooms. But instead of leaving to go do whatever it is that they spend their days doing, they follow the women in, and spread out amongst the furniture.

“Lauren, be a gem and start making some drinks,” Negan orders, albeit gently. The wife in question nods quickly and heads behind the bar, grabbing as many glasses as she can find. You remain standing by the door, unsure of what to do with yourself. 

The atmosphere of the room is still tense. Several of the men look just as uncomfortable as the crowd did during Dr. Carson’s punishment. Gavin, after being the last one into the room, still looks a tinge green. Dwight is still staring off into the distance like no one else is there. Only Simon looks particularly joyful, which isn’t all that surprising to you.

Dixon sits in one of the big armchairs near the door. He rests his chin in one of his hands and leans on the big armrest, like he’s trying to look casual, but you see his other hand sitting on the handle of one of his large hunting knives. His eyes are scanning the room, and when they land on you, they quickly dart away. 

Negan, lounging on one of the couches, looks around the room, and snaps, “This isn’t a funeral people. Lighten up!” Several people in the room jump at his sudden outburst. “Somebody put some god damn music on. Ladies, help my men to get their shit together please. And where are those drinks?”

The women quickly bustle around the room to meet his orders. Dawn rushes to the record player, picking up whichever one is on the top of the pile, and sets it up to play. Tanya and Frankie move to sit with some of the men, but Negan grabs Frankie by the wrist and places her hand on his shoulder. She scowls from behind him, but starts to massage his shoulders nonetheless. She looks over to Tanya, who’s been pulled into Jared’s lap on the other side of the room, and sighs.

You decide to help Lauren with the drinks. Her hands are shaking as she makes them, so you take it upon yourself to hand them out to the Saviors. Simon tries to grab your ass as you put the glasses down on the table in front of him, but you accidentally step back on to his foot with your high heel. You hear him hiss in pain as you walk back to the bar, and try to hide your smirk. 

Taking the last two glasses, you make your way across the room to where Dixon sits. Still watching the room, he doesn’t look up at you until you’re standing right in front of him. You hold the glass out, and he hesitates before accepting it. You glance back over your shoulder, watching how each of the wives have moved to sit with the men. Looking back down at Dixon and deciding this was your safest best, you slowly lower yourself to sit on the unoccupied armrest.

As your leg grazes his, you immediately feel Dixon tense up, but otherwise, he doesn’t acknowledge your presence. Glass in one hand, chin in the other, he continues observing everyone else. His eyes don’t even flicker up to look at you, but you notice the tops of his ears, poking out from under his mess of brown curls, have turned red. 

In an attempt to gain his attention, you hold your glass in front of him to cheers. He just stares at it at first, but eventually he brings his glass up to meet yours, still not looking at you. Both of you take a sip of the liquor, then resume sitting there, awkwardly quiet. 

What is up with him? you ask yourself, remembering what you were thinking about this morning. All the good things that he has done for you since you’ve been at the Sanctuary. He did all that for me, but now he can’t even look at me? Just when you thought you were starting to figure him out, Dixon has resumed being a complete mystery to you. 

Frustrated, you take another sip of your drink and scan the room. The alcohol has definitely loosened up some of the tension. Quiet conversations have started amongst the women and the Saviors. Even Amber looks almost engaged in the conversation she’s in with one of the men. Relaxing slightly, you turn back to your Savior.

“Hey,” you whisper to him. He continues to ignore you, sipping his drink in silence. “Are you all right?”

“‘M fine,” he grunts out, still not looking at you.

“Are you sure? You seem-” you start but he cuts you off.

“I said ‘m fine!” he snaps, knocking your legs out of his way as he gets up, finishes his drink in one gulp, and stalks out of the room.

Shocked, you watch him leave, then turn to look at the rest of the room. No one else seems to have noticed what just happened. Not even Negan, whose eyes are closed in bliss as Frankie continues to rub his back and shoulders. You look back down at the empty seat in front of you, and debate what you should do.

Fuck it, you think as you shoot back the rest of your drink and sneak out the door too.

When you get into the hallway, you break out into a run, trying to catch up to Dixon. You can just barely hear footsteps down the hall to the left, and you pray they are his as you follow them. You silently curse at the high heels you’re forced to wear for slowing you down.  But thankfully, after the first turn, you catch sight of his angel wings at the end of the hallway.

“Dixon!” you call out to him. But he doesn’t stop, so you push yourself to move even faster. He turns around a corner right as you catch up to him. You grab his arm and pull as hard as you can. “Dixon-”

“What?” he snaps, turning to face you, yanking his arm away. He looks angry.

“What is your problem?” you snap right back, while trying to catch your breath. 

“What’re you on about?” he asks, glaring.

“Why’d you run off?” you demand, matching his glare. “And why are you so angry with me?”

Dixon huffs. “Doesn’t matter-”

“Yes it does!”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he mutters, tearing his eyes away from yours.

Not wanting to let him get away, you move so that your face is still in front of his. “How would you know, if you don’t even try to tell me?” you hiss. When he doesn’t answer, you try again, a little nicer this time. “Talk to me, I thought-”

“Thought what?” he snaps again. “That you know me? That we’re friends? We ain’t.”

That stung, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you laugh, a little cruelly. “Why do you have to be like this?” you ask.

“Like what?”

“Sometimes you’re mean. Then other times, you’re not,” you explain. “You check on me, keep me safe, help me even. But then you go back to being a dick-”

But you're cut off when Dixon suddenly steps forward, backing you into the wall behind you. He’s got one hand on it, just above your head. You have to look up to meet his eye. His face is inches from yours, chest heaving.

“You wanna know what my problem is, princess ?” he asks through gritted teeth, wielding his nickname for you like a weapon. “You are.”  

“What does that even mean-”

“Everything is fine, ‘til you come waltzin’ in that door, and now,” he pauses, like he’s not sure what to say, “you’re here, always distractin’ me, gettin’ yerself inta fuckin’ situations that I gotta fix.”

“I never asked you to do shit,” you snap. Your chest is also heaving, and you can’t look away from his blazing eyes. 

“What, am I just supposed t’ let you get yerself hurt? Or killed?” he asks sharply.

“Why do you even care-” but you don’t get to finish your question before Dixon closes the gap between the two of you.

His lips crash into yours before you even register him moving. And when they do, your entire body feels as if it's been lit on fire. Pinned against the wall, all you can feel - and think and touch and taste - is him. His lips, surprisingly soft, surrounded by bristly facial hair. His hands, the one that dropped from the wall above your head to the side of your face, the other on your waist, calloused but gentle. Even his smell, a mix of cigarettes and gasoline and something woodsy that reminds you of your tree, your happy place. 

Dixon pulls back quickly, stepping into the wall on the other side, putting as much space between the two of you as the hallway will allow. He brushes a hand over his face, looking away. 

The two of you stand there in a stunned silence. You run your fingers over your lips, which suddenly feel cold without the pressure of his. That kiss - his kiss - felt like an electric shock, resetting your system. Your mind runs a mile a minute, trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Shit,” Dixon mutters finally, still refusing to look at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry, I -”

“Shut up,” you snap as you close the distance, grab his face, and kiss him again. 

For what you think may be the first time in his life, Dixon is caught off guard. But he recovers, and kisses you back fiercely. You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you in even closer, hands digging into your hips. Adrenaline takes over as you catch his lower lip with your teeth and pull lightly, eliciting a low groan from him. You shiver as the vibrations of it shoot through you. 

It’s wrong. It’s messy. It’s desperate. But, god , it’s amazing. 

Dixon leans into the kiss even deeper, slipping his tongue in to wrestle with yours. He lifts you by your hips and spins you around, pressing you into the cold, concrete wall. His body on yours, you can feel the heat radiating off of him and it warms you to your core. You melt into him, each of your curves molding itself to fit perfectly with the contours of his muscles. You become putty in his hands. 

The sound of voices is barely enough to break the two of you apart. Dixon pulls away, and you lean forward to try to keep kissing him, but you lose. You let out a disappointed “hmph” that draws a low chuckle out of him.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, pulling you around the corner and to a door that you hadn't even realized was there. Quickly, you follow him through it, into what looks like an unused office. But you don’t get much time to examine it before Dixon grabs you again. 

He pushes you against the closed door, pinning you in place with his large hands on your hips, and captures your lips with his again. You wrap yourself around him, pulling him in closer with your arms around his neck. More, more, more, pounds through your head. He has engulfed all of your thoughts, every essence of your being.

As if reading your mind, he shoves one of his legs in between yours, and the contact causes a heat deep in your core to flare up and engulf your entire body. You break free of his kiss as a moan slips from your lips. You feel like you’re wound so tight, and you want him - no, you need him - to fix it. Instinctively, you grind yourself against his thigh, and it feels like magic.

Dixon matches your rhythm as his kisses begin trailing from your lips down your jaw, down to your neck. “So beautiful,” he murmurs in between kisses. “You have no idea what you do t’ me.” He nips your collarbone ever so gently, sending another jolt of pleasure through you. Your hands find their way into his hair - his luscious, beautiful, curly hair - and you grab a handful and tug, pulling another delicious groan from him.

Suddenly, he picks you up and you wrap your legs around his waist, closing any possible distance left between you and him. When he pushes you further into the door, you can feel the bulge in his jeans, and your body shudders with desire. You can’t breathe, but all your body wants is him, so you catch his mouth in yours again, breathing him in like your life depends on it. You run your nails down the back of his neck, causing him to moan into your mouth.

Carefully, Dixon pulls you off of the door and walks the two of you towards the unused desk. One arm still around his neck, you use the other to brush everything off the top of it, sending papers and pencils and cups flying across the floor. When he places you down on it, you both start grabbing at each other’s clothes; his hands reach up the bottom of your dress as you start working on the buttons of his shirt. When you get the top few undone, you lean in, planting kisses along his collarbone as he slides two fingers around your panties, rubbing your core. Desire shoots through you like bolts of lightning, and you have to grab on to his arms to keep yourself grounded. 

Working slowly, Dixon circles your clit with his fingers, eliciting a soft, low moan out of you. He trails down, slowly, spreading your wetness as he toys with your entrance, teasing you. Your hips jut forward, trying to feel him deeper, but he pulls his fingers away. Grabbing your face with his free hand, he kisses you again deeply, then pulls away just far enough to lean his forehead on yours, holding you in place with his deep blue gaze. 

Without breaking eye contact, he finally slips his fingers inside of you, and your eyes nearly roll back in your head. Nails digging into his arms, you unravel as his thick fingers push deep into you, poking at that magic spot that’s been so rarely touched in your life. 

With his other hand, he pushes your hair out of your face before cupping your cheek as he kisses you again, softer this time. He moves his fingers in and out of you slowly, drawing moans from you that you didn’t even know you could make. You are in such bliss, and all you want is more.

You reach your hands down and start undoing the top of his pants, when he catches your hand to stop you.

Dixon kisses you again, softly, drinking you in. “Yer sure?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, pleading. “Please.” 

At this, he's a flurry of movement. He helps you shimmy your panties down your legs and off. He takes over for your hands and undoes his pants just enough to release his hard cock. You place one hand on it and stroke it slowly, causing his eyes to close and another groan to escape his lips. You’ve never seen him so look relaxed before. With your free hand, you cup his face and he leans into your touch. You pull his face towards yours for another kiss while you stroke him a few more times, slower each time, until you move to line him up with your entrance. 

Dixon slowly opens his eyes, meeting yours again, silently asking for your consent. When you nod, he grabs onto your thigh as he guides his cock into you. You grab his shoulders as he stretches you, but he moves slow enough that it doesn’t hurt. He pushes in gently, and then suddenly, he bottoms out inside of you, filling you up completely.

You gasp softly, and his hand is back on your cheek, his eyes pouring into yours, making sure you're okay. You hold your eyes closed for a moment, before turning your face slightly to kiss his hand. Dixon leans in and catches your lips with his as he slides out slightly to start thrusting into you.

He starts slowly, allowing your kisses to deepen and your hands to wander over each other’s bodies. One of his hands grips your ass as the other feels its way up your body, from your hips to your waist to your chest. You run your hands down the front of him, feeling the muscles of his chest and his abs through his shirt. 

He quickens his pace, having to grip the desk to keep control. Your hands find his hair again, your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him even deeper into you. He feels this and responds, pulling back further in between each thrust before pushing himself back into you, grunting into your mouth each time as your kisses grow messier. 

The sounds of his thrusts mixed with your wetness are obscene, but you barely register them over the pounding of your heart in your ears. Your body feels like it has a mind of its own: hips moving in rhythm with his thrusts, hands exploring any bit of his skin that they can find. Your mind - and your body - are just full of him. Of Dixon. Of Daryl Dixon, the man who both terrifies you and intrigues you. The man who you feel must be a magnet, the way you can always find him in a crowd. The bright blue eyes that see right through you as if you were a window and he can see right into your core, into your very soul.

The knot in your lower belly begins to tighten as you feel your orgasm coming on. You grasp on to him tighter, nails digging into his shoulders, cheek pressing against his as you moan breathlessly into his ear. 

“Yeah?” he drawls, his voice low, making his accent stronger. He pulls you in closer, grinding against your clit as he continues to push into you. “You like that?” The added friction sends sparks through your body, from your core to the tips of your toes.

“Oh,” you gasp out, feeling yourself at the tip of the iceberg. “Oh, oh - Daryl! ” you cry out as you plunge into your orgasm. 

All the tightness inside of you lets go in unison in an explosion of fireworks. You bite his ear, you pull his hair, you clench around him, you moan his name again and again as he fucks you through your climax. 

Distantly, you hear him groaning your name as his thrusts become erratic, uneven, as he inches towards his own release. Coming down from your own, you nip his jaw and run your fingers through his hair, giving it one last tug that undoes him completely. 

He pulls out of you quickly and turns, shooting his come onto your thigh. He falls forward, nestling his head into the crook of your neck as his entire body shakes involuntary with each burst. You hold him, grounding him through his own orgasm, as he had done for you. 

For a while, the two of you stay in your embrace, chests heaving, limbs entangled. Eventually, Dixon lifts his face from your neck, placing his forehead back on yours, before pulling away. He tucks himself back into his jeans, then reaches around, grabbing his loyal rag from his back pocket. Meticulously, he uses it to clean his come off of your thigh with the same care you watched him use with his knives. 

He carefully lifts you off of the desk and places you on the floor as if you were made of glass. He finds your discarded panties and hands them to you, before sheepishly looking away as you shimmy them back on, as if he wasn’t just deep enough inside you to rearrange a few things. When you’re done, the two of you just stand there awkwardly, both not sure what to do next.

“You should prob’ly get back,” he says, voice low and husky. You almost groan, thinking about how you would listen to that voice for hours for he let you.

But instead you just nod, and walk to the door. With a backward glance, you see that he hasn’t moved yet, as if waiting for you to leave before even daring to breathe. So you do.

You sneak back out into the hallway, making sure there are no surprises waiting for you. Then you scurry off back to your quarters, mind reeling over the fact that you just had sex with Daryl fucking Dixon in a random office, and how much you wanted to do it again.

Chapter Text

 “So beautiful.” 

You squeeze your eyes - and your legs - shut as Daryl Dixon’s words from the night before roll over you again

It’s late morning, and you’re still laying in bed, hiding under the covers in the wives’ bedroom. Your head is pounding; after stumbling back from your rendezvous with Dixon, you downed a few more glasses of liquor before sneaking away from the awkward gathering still going on in the living room. You had cleaned yourself up and crawled into bed, pretending to be asleep by the time the other women started trickling in. Frankie wasn’t one of them.

“You have no idea what you do t’ me.”

What does that even mean? You pondered this all night, to the point where he invaded your dreams. When you closed your eyes, all you could see were his bright blue ones glowing with - was it simply lust? Or was it something more? You need to know.

But more importantly, you need to know how you feel about him, about what happened. It’s not like you had never done this before. You know that sometimes sex is just that: sex.  Before the world ended, you hooked up with your fair share of people. And you had been burned enough times to get pretty good at hooking up and moving on before they had the chance to drop you like yesterday’s takeout food. You had no problem rolling right out of the bed - or the car, or off the couch, or even the pool table - getting redressed, and walking out the door, never to think about them again.

So why are you so caught up this time? Why are you laying around the next morning, reliving the hook up like a movie you can rewatch over and over? Why can’t you stop thinking of him, of his kisses, of his hands and the way they traveled over your body. You got shivers. 

“God dammit,” you mutter. You are down bad for Daryl Dixon. You groan, and sink back under the covers.

You aren’t sure how much longer you’re in bed before you get hit with a pillow. You peek one eye out from under the blanket to see Frankie and Tanya standing over you, with two more pillows locked and loaded.

“Hey sleepy head!” Tanya exclaims. She plops at the foot of your bed when she sees you’re awake.

“Whatdoyawant?” you grumble at them.

“Most of the men are gone today, so we’re gonna head down to the marketplace,” Frankie explains, tossing her pillow back onto her bed. “Wanna come?”

You sit up in bed, confused. “What do you mean, they’re gone?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. 

The two women exchange a glance before Frankie answers. “Negan sent out a bunch of search parties to try and find the prisoner that escaped. So there isn’t really anyone to bother or babysit us.”

“These are the best kinds of days here,” Tanya adds quieter. All three of you nod in understanding. Without all the soldiers around, it's gotta feel like a weight has been lifted off the entire Sanctuary. 

Frankie grabs her friend’s hand, before turning back to you. “We’re gonna go grab something to eat, and shop around a little bit. You should come with us.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then those god forsaken blue eyes cross your mind again. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, without all of the Saviors patrolling the building, you can find Dixon and talk. Or more, you try to push the thought away quickly, in case anything shows on your face. Instead, you kick the blanket off of you, and say, “Alright.”

Tanya squeals as she hops off of your bed, and the two women leave the room to let you get ready. You tiptoe to the bathroom to make yourself look presentable. Thankfully, most of your bruises have faded. You double check your neck to make sure there aren’t any new ones, and you send a silent thank you to Daryl for being gentle - at least gentler than the alternative. You brush your hair carefully, making sure not to hit any of the stitches on your forehead, and even put on some mascara. You mentally kick yourself, feeling stupid for wanting to look nice for someone you may not even find.

When you walk out into the living room a few minutes later, you look like the perfect wife: hair neat, face clean, short sleeved black dress and heels on. Frankie and Tanya smile at you, before heading towards the door. You notice that they weren’t lying about there being no babysitter today; the only other person in the room was Dawn, curled up with a book and a cup of coffee on one of the couches. She politely waves at you as you follow the other two wives out into the hallway.

You can hear the low rumble of voices before you even reach the marketplace. When you walk in, you are amazed by how bustling it is. Workers at the different stands cook and mend and sell their wares, while talking joyfully to those around them. Your prediction was right: everyone can feel the lack of soldiers present, and it’s like the sun shining for the first time after a series of storms. You even hear laughter bubble up from a few of the conversations. 

Frankie and Tanya clearly know this place better than you do, so you follow them to their first stop: coffee. An older woman serves the hot liquid in mismatched mugs, and even has milk and sugar on the table. She readies three of the mugs for you and your companions with a sympathetic smile. You are confused at first, but when she hands you the mug and gives your hand a small squeeze, you understand: she - and probably most of the workers - understand your situation. You give her a small smile, and take a sip of the gloriously hot coffee. It’s no gourmet latte, but it’s one of the few hints of normalcy you’ve had in a while, and you cherish it.

You thank the woman again, and when you turn around, you realize that you have lost Frankie and Tanya to the crowd. Not concerned, you shrug and start to explore on your own. You haven’t been in here really since your first day, so you take in the sights and the smells. You stop at the makeshift bakery and enjoy a hot slice of bread drenched in butter. It’s so good that you go to ask for a second, but then a familiar mullet across the market catches your eye.

Eugene!

Thanking the baker, the rush through the crowd of people milling about to catch up to your friend. You find him standing in front of a table, perusing piles of what looks to you like miscellaneous metal scraps, but you’re sure it all makes sense in his overly-analytical brain.

“Eugene!” you exclaim when you reach him.

You don’t know what you were expecting from the nervous man, but you definitely didn’t expect him to drop what he was holding and start scurrying away. Shocked, you watch him flee, bumping into multiple people on his way, who curse at his retreating back. You quickly move to follow, apologizing to the people he ran into along the way.

Eugene is almost to the hallway when you finally catch up to him.

“Eugene!” you call again, catching his arm. “What the hell?”

He turns, and nervously greets you. “Oh, uh, hello Y/N. Didn’t see you there.” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he looks away anxiously. “How are you faring?” 

“Awful, Eugene,” you reply, exasperated already. “Look at my face.” You point to your stitches, conveniently with the hand with your broken pinky as well. 

Eugene looks at you quickly before looking away again. “I’m real sorry to hear that,” he mutters.

“How are you? Are you okay?” you ask in rapid succession. “Did they hurt you? What happened?”

“I’m-I’m okay,” he stammers out. “Look, right now might not be the optimal time for a catch up sesh. I’ve got, uh - ya know - critical tasks to attend to.”

“Like making bullets?” you ask, crossing your arms. Eugene looks ashamed. “I heard that’s what happened, why you’re here. Is that true?”

He sighs. “Affirmative.”

“So does that mean Alexandria has guns again?” you ask, starting to get excited. You pointedly lower your voice. Even though the soldiers are gone, you don’t want to be overheard. You never know who is loyal to Negan around here. “Are they getting ready to make a move? Are they coming for us?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers again, starting to back away from you.

“Eugene, what’s gotten into you?”

“Look, I’ve been doing some calculations, ya know, and the odds of Alexandria surviving a full-on war with the Saviors are…well, not great,” he rambles on. “So I-I’ve decided to throw my lot in with them.”

“What?” you almost yell. 

Eugene shushes you, panicking. “You know I’m not cut out for that kind of confrontation,” he says through gritted teeth.

“So you’re just abandoning everyone?” you hiss at him. “Your friends - your family? Rosita?” You almost spit your friend’s name at him. She and Eugene have been close longer than anyone. “You’re just going to leave them to - not even, you’re going to help hurt them, even kill them?”

Shaking his head, Eugene tries to defend himself. “Listen, I’m all for preserving lives, starting with my own. You know that.”

You can’t believe your ears. “Coward.”

“Call it what you want, but I’ve seen what the Saviors can do, and I’ve got no chances against that.”

“That’s not true!” you cry. “We can do this, Eugene. We can get out of here. Did Rick or Michonne or anyone-”

“Enough!” It was the first time Eugene ever raised his voice at you. You fall silent immediately. “Escape is impossible, so I would advise against you even trying.”

“But-”

“Y/N,” he continues, eyebrows furrowed. “Just stay, follow the rules, and maybe, I’ll forget this conversation ever happened and I won’t have to report it.”

You are taken aback. Is Eugene threatening you right now? You glare at the man. “You wouldn’t.”

“Survival instincts, my friend,” he says. “Gotta stay loyal to the system that ensures my safety. You should do the same.”

You shake your head. “Whatever, Eugene. Do whatever you think is best. I’m not sticking around any longer than I have to.” 

Eugene looks sad for a moment, but then schools his face into his best attempt at indifference. “Then I strongly advise you stay far away from me so I’m not considered an accessory to your crimes against Negan.” 

Putting your hands up in surrender, you back away from him, glaring. Before you reenter the marketplace, you turn your hands around to flip him off before heading back into the bustling room. 

Inside, you are greeted almost right away by Frankie and Tanya.

“Where’d you go?” Tanya asks. “We turned around and you were gone!”

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I was talking to an old friend.”

They peek over your shoulder and see Eugene poking his head around the corner, looking afraid.

“Eugene?” Frankie asks, incredulously. You nod. “He’s - uh,” she pauses, looking for the correct word, “-interesting.”

“He sure is,” you reply, turning around to glare at him again. His face immediately disappears around the wall.

“Come on,” Tanya whines, grabbing you by the hand, “they have a new batch of clothes, let’s see if any of it fits!” Still shaken from your conversation with Eugene, you let her pull you back into the marketplace to one of the tables covered in clothes. 

The three of you spend a while going through and trying on some of the options at the table. You find a couple shirts and a pair of leggings that fit you and you desperately need to add to your miniscule wardrobe here at the Sanctuary. Tanya insists that you take a dress - a short, off-the-shoulder black dress - so you can stop alternating between the few that you have. She and Frankie both have armfuls of clothes as well.

As you wait for the man working the table to grab bags for each of you, you suddenly get the sense of being watched. Trying to remain calm, you look over your shoulder each way, but don’t see anyone. But the feeling doesn’t go away. Curious, you lift your eyes up to the landing at the top of the stairs, and that’s where you see him, leaning on the railing. His hair is falling forward into his face, shielding his eyes, but you don’t need to see them; you can feel them on you. You watch him back for a moment.

“Here you go,” the man offers you a bag. Tearing your eyes away from the Savior, you turn and take the bag, shoving your new clothes into it haphazardly. Then you hand the bag to Tanya.

“Can you take this back to the room for me?” you ask, already starting to walk away.

“Uh, sure,” she says, grasping it clumsily. “Where are you going?”

You look up at the man watching you, making sure he can hear you, and reply, “I’m going to the library.”

When you reach the library, there’s a woman and her kids there, looking at books in what must be the children’s section. You give her a tight smile, which she returns, then you grab a random book off of the shelf and take a seat on the couch. Attempting to look casual, you flip through it for a while before you hear the door open again. You peek up over the cover of your book and see Dixon standing there, staring at you, as if he didn’t expect to actually find you there. You smirk, then return to pretending to read your book.

After a pause, Dixon follows your lead, grabbing a book off of the nearest shelf and taking a seat at the table. He cracks open the book and appears to be reading as well. You can just see him out of the corner of your eyes, and you notice the tips of his ears are pink again.

The air in the room is thick, tense, and awkward. The children are still grabbing book after book off of the shelves. The woman with them keeps looking nervously at Dixon, and urging the kids to each pick one so they can go. You continue flipping through your book, not absorbing a single word on the page.

Just being in the same room with him has you warm all over. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck, and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears again. You try not to think about him too much, lest your emotions become too easy to read, but you can’t. Your eyes keep stealing glances at him over your novel. To your dismay, every time you look, his eyes are fixed on his book. 

Idiot, you chide yourself.  You must seem desperate, announcing to him where you were going, and waiting like a child for him to follow. You obviously overthought the situation and now you are sitting awkwardly in a room with a man who wants nothing to do with you.

‘But he did follow,’ another voice in the back of your head - which sounds suspiciously like Carol - whispers to you. That must mean something, right? He easily could’ve ignored you and stayed in the marketplace, where he was probably supposed to be anyway. 

You let out a heavy sigh, and only then do you see his head perk up the slightest bit. One piercing blue eye peeks out from behind the curtain of bangs, locking in on your own for a moment before looking away.

Finally, the woman and her kids leave the library, and the room falls silent. You’re barely breathing, chest tight. Now what? you ask yourself. Admittedly, you hadn’t thought this far. So you and Dixon continue sitting in silence, each pretending to read, for what feels like forever. After a while, you can’t handle it anymore.

Fuck it. That seems to have become your mantra in all things Dixon-related.

You swing your legs down and stand up off of the couch. You return the book you were reading to the shelf you found it on. Your steps are the only sound in the room. You start to lazily browse the books, walking slowly up one shelf and down the next. You slide into an aisle in between two shelves, knowing that you can’t be seen anymore, either by the door or the man at the table.

“Hey, uh, Dixon?” you call out timidly.

There’s no response for a while. But then you hear a soft, “Mmm?” 

“Can you help me get a book? I can’t reach it.”

Slowly, you hear the chair push back from the table, and then he emerges in the entrance of the aisle. You watch him as he approaches you tentatively, like he’s not sure if you’re going to lash out and attack him. He stops a few steps away from where you’re standing.

“Where?” he asks quietly.

You turn to the shelf again and point to the top row, the bottom of which is just out of your reach, even with the heels on.

Dixon moves towards you and reaches up above your head, and when he does, you turn to face him. He freezes in his tracks, looking down at you. The two of you are nearly chest to chest, his arm still raised. 

You stay this way for a minute. Then you slowly reach a hand up, pausing about an inch from his cheek. You can feel him tense up, but he doesn’t move away. His blue eyes study you, flickering between your hand and your face.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop,” you say, barely a whisper. His breath hitches, yet still he stands in front of you.

Gingerly, you close the gap and cup his cheek. His eyes close as he leans into your touch. You softly run your thumb along his cheekbone, and raise your face towards his, standing on your tiptoes to get closer. Purposely, you stop before your lips reach his, giving him the chance to stop you if he wishes. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes the space between the two of you and his lips meet yours. The kiss is gentle and slow, like he’s trying to savor it. There’s none of the fire and desperation of the kisses from last night. Today, you both are taking your time, tasting each other as if for the first time.

He lowers his hand to cradle the back of your head, fingers nestling into the hair at the nape of your neck. You reach your other hand up to his chest, and you can feel the way his heart is racing inside of his chest, mirroring your own. His other hand sits on your waist, somehow holding you close and far away at the same time.

You both pull away at the same time, leaning in so your foreheads touch as you each catch your breath. You look up into his eyes, which are trained on you.

“This okay?” you ask breathily.

He scoffs. “‘s more than okay,” he murmurs as he pulls you in again.

This kiss is less gentle than the last. His tongue lightly brushes your lips, asking permission to enter your mouth. Your lips part, and he slips in, exploring, both of your tongues swirling together in sync. His hand on your waist grips you tighter, finally holding you even closer to him. Your arms snake up around his neck, pulling him down to deepen the kiss. 

You fall back slightly into the bookshelf, and you giggle into his mouth as he wraps his arms fully around you. In one swift motion, he picks you up and spins you around so that your back is against the wall, pressing you into it without breaking the kiss. The pressure of being between him and the wall sparks a fire in you, low in your belly. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth and nibble lightly. 

He chuckles lightly as his kisses begin to trail away from your lips and along your jaw. He nips just below your ear, drawing a small gasp from you. His hand runs up your body, tracing your curves before catching the hem of your neckline. He pulls it aside and plants soft kisses across your collarbone. Your eyes flutter closed. A shiver shoots up your spine, causing your back to arch slightly off the wall as he continues to kiss his down, down, down.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low. You open your eyes, and watch as he slowly kneels in front of you. Without breaking the gaze, he lifts your leg, peppering it with kisses from your knee up to your thigh. Your chest tightens at the sight of this man, so strong and powerful, on his knees before you. Desire races through your veins, and your skin feels shot through with electricity under his touch.

Still maintaining eye contact, his hands slide up your thighs, under your dress, hooking under your panties. Your chest heaves as he slowly - so painfully slowly - glides your underwear down your legs. You have to grip his shoulder as he guides your feet to step out of them, and you barely notice him slipping them into his back pocket because the next thing you know, his head is under your dress, planting featherlight kisses on your upper thighs.

“Been wantin t’ do this since I first laid eyes on ya,” he murmurs into your skin, and you don’t have time to register his words before he kisses your very sensitive core.

Your grip on his shoulders tightens as his tongue slips in between your folds, tickling every sensitive nerve ending in your body. Your eyes roll back in your head as pleasure pulses through you. He catches your clit in between his lips, alternating between kissing it gently and sucking on it. While still kissing your core, he pushes you back against the wall with one hand and carefully lifts your leg with the other, hooking it over his shoulder.

Every kiss, every lick, every touch feels like adding gasoline to the fire under your skin. Your fingers find his hair again, running through it as you push his hair out of his face. He groans into you, and the vibrations shoot through you, causing a small moan to escape your lips. 

You steal a glance down at him, and watch as he kisses you, devours you like a man starved. The sight alone makes your knee buckle, but he supports you with a hand under your thigh, holding you up as your body begins to feel as if it’s made of jello. With the other, he circles your entrance with one finger, before slowly sliding it inside and curling it up, reaching a magical spot in you that you didn’t even know existed. You grip his hair tighter, whining softly as you feel your orgasm approaching.

“Daryl,” you moan. This causes him to groan again, and the sensation of it does you in; your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. Your back arches off of the wall, pushing your core further into his face as he keeps kissing you and curling his finger into you, drawing out your pleasure. You hold on to him for dear life; your leg nearly gives out underneath you but he doesn't let you fall. He’ll never let you fall.

As you come down from your high, he plants soft kisses on your overstimulated clit, on your lower belly, on your thighs as he gently slides his finger out of you. He carefully places your foot back on to the ground, your shoe forgotten somewhere behind him. You quickly kick the other off as he stands before you, his lips glistening from your pleasure. He holds you gently by your hips, steadying you as you catch your breath. 

“I need you,” you say breathlessly.

Daryl catches your chin in his hand, looking deep into your eyes. His pupils are blown out, like you're sure yours are too. He leans in slowly, but you quickly close the space, kissing him. You taste yourself on your lips, and the fire in your belly reignites almost immediately. He must feel it too, because his kisses pick up in intensity and you hear him rushing to undo his belt and pants. 

Without breaking the kiss, he picks you up and pushes you into the wall again as you wrap your legs around his hips. His erection pokes your entrance, causing you to jump. You reach down and take him in your hands, stroking him gently. His face falls into your neck, groaning softly as he moves to line up with your slit. You guide him in, and, ready this time, he slides right in to the hilt. 

You both moan together and he starts sliding in and out of you. Your head falls back, hitting the wall but you don’t care. His hands grip under your thighs so tight you think - almost hope - his handprints will bruise into your skin. 

He thrusts into you harder, hitting deeper and deeper with each one. Your legs pull him in closer. He covers any bit of skin he can reach with kisses. You grab a fistful of his hair and tug, pulling his head back so you can catch his mouth with your own. You continue this way, kissing and thrusting, your hips meeting his. Your back slides up and down the wall with each push.

You feel electrified, like he is pumping your life into you, like if he wasn’t right here, you would have nothing. Be nothing. You feel another orgasm racing to the surface again. You moan into his mouth.

“Dar-” you start, but you're cut off by another voice.

“Dixon?” 

He freezes inside of you, clamping a hand over your mouth to quiet you. You look at him, eyes wide with fear. He looks at you, then gazes over his shoulder towards the source of the voice.

“Dixon? Are you in here?” the voice calls out again.

“What?” he snaps at the intruder, while slowly lowering you to the ground. He slides out of you carefully, trying not to hurt you as he does. He takes his hand away from your mouth, holding one finger up to his lips.

“Oh, cool, you are in here,” the voice says nervously. You start to hear footsteps coming towards the bookshelves, and you frantically try to fix yourself. “Negan is looking for you. All the search parties are back.” The stranger’s rambling makes a great cover for the jingle of Daryl’s belt as he redoes it and the grunts of frustration as you struggle to get your shoes back on. “They didn’t find the prisoner.” 

The voice gets closer as you finally get your heel back on. You look at Daryl, indicate your hair and your face. Do I look okay? you mouth to him. He nudges your chin both ways with one hand, probably checking you for marks, before quickly kissing you on the forehead. He reaches up, grabbing a random book off of the top shelf just as the Savior turns into the aisle you’re in.

“Alright,” Daryl grunts at him. You peer around him and see that it’s the young Savior you saw on your first day here. He looks more nervous than you are at this moment. 

Daryl shoves the book he grabbed into your chest. “Here you go,” he says, coldly. “Wear higher heels next time, princess.” But his eyes don’t match the hardness of his voice, so you don’t take it personally.

“S-sorry,” you stammer out, clutching the book.

“Hmph,” he scoffs. He turns back to the young kid. “I’ll go to Negan. You, get her back to her room. Got it?” He steps towards the Savior, who immediately shrinks out of his way, nodding.

Daryl stalks past him and, as you watch him go, you notice a small bit of red lace peeking out of his back pocket.

Asshole, you think, smirking to yourself, before you follow the young Savior back to your room.

Chapter Text

You are woken up by a hand grabbing your shoulder.

“Get up.” 

The hand drags you off of your bed before you can sit up. Your knee hits the floor, sending a jolt up your leg and through your back, forcing the grogginess out of your body. You look up at your manhandler; it was one of the Savior soldiers you really only ever saw in passing. You didn’t even know his name. He continues pulling on your arm, trying to get you to move.

“Why?” you ask, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. You fail.

“You’re needed,” is his reply. You glare at him, but you shove your feet into your boots anyway. If you are gonna get dragged around the Sanctuary in your pajamas, you at least want to have shoes on. Once they’re on, he takes you by the upper arm again and starts leading you out of the bedroom.

“Who needs me?” you ask as he pushes you down the hallway. No answer. You try again. “Why am I needed?” Still nothing. 

The Savior’s silence starts to unnerve you. Did Negan send him? you think to yourself. But why? What have I - you can’t even finish the thought before Daryl’s face pops into your mind. Shit. You nearly trip. Does he know? You start to spiral. Did that young kid see something and go running to Negan? The memory of Mark’s punishment for sneaking around with Amber forces its way to the front of your mind, and you want to gag. 

But when the Savior turns you down a different hallway - not towards Negan’s rooms or the war room - your panic changes to confusion. You know this walk. You’ve taken it before. Just once.

You’re about to ask where he’s taking you when you hear the yelling. A familiar yell. You didn’t need the Savior’s push to make you move faster. You’re nearly running by the time you reach Daryl’s room.

“I said, GET OUT!” he’s shouting when you get there. You stop outside the door and try to make sense of the scene in front of you: two Saviors stand just inside the door with their weapons out across from Daryl, who is shouting and brandishing one of his hunting knives. He looks like a cornered animal. His eyes are alight with a look you’ve never seen before - is that fear? He grips his knife like his life depends on it. A dark stain on his gray shirt peeks out from under his vest. What the fuck is going on?

“I brought her,” your escort announces to the rest of the Saviors. One of the men turns around, grabs you, and yanks you into the room. He quickly pulls you against him, and you feel the barrel of a gun press into your temple. You freeze. 

“Chill out,” he orders, “or I’ll blow her brains out.” You realize he’s talking to Daryl, not you. You lock eyes with him. You watch him freeze up, not sure what to do. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to him, to yourself, to everyone really. Everyone needs to chill the fuck out. You watch Daryl as he slowly lowers his knife, still breathing heavily. You notice he doesn’t put it away. It must be good enough for the Savior holding you though, because he pulls his gun away from your head. You quickly get away from him, moving to stand near the table but still between him and Daryl.

Holstering his gun, the Savior explains what’s going on. “Dixon’s hurt,” he says to you as if the man in question is not standing right there. You swear you hear him growl under his breath. “We don’t have a doctor anymore, and Laura’s search party isn’t back, so Negan said you can fix him up. Plus,” he pauses, glaring at Daryl, “he won’t let anyone near him.”

“I said ‘m fine,” Daryl says through gritted teeth. But you can tell he’s lying; he’s favoring one side, keeping his knife hand in front of the suspicious looking stain, the one that seems to have grown larger since you walked into this shitshow.

“Bull-” the Savior starts but you shush him with a wave of your hand. You take a tentative step towards Daryl. He tenses up, eyes flicking between you and the men behind you, but he doesn’t stop you as you move to stand next to him. 

“Can I?” you ask gently, reaching towards the side of his vest covering his wound. He meets your eye for a half a second and nods before looking back at the men at the door. You carefully move the vest to the side to get a better look at it: his shirt is ripped, and you can see a large gash on his side. You can’t tell if it’s still bleeding, but it’s definitely going to need stitches. You exhale deeply. Daryl’s eyes shoot to your face, and you try to give him a reassuring smile. “You’re going to live, I just need to stitch you up.”

You turn back to the Saviors at the door. “Do you have anything for me to work with?” you ask. They look sheepishly at the tiny first aid kit in the youngest guy’s hands. You sigh, then send two of them - the young kid and the one who dragged you here - to Dr. Carson’s old office with a list of the supplies you need. The Savior who held the gun to your head stays put.

After taking a moment to glare at him, you turn your attention back to Daryl. You find he’s also glaring at the other man. You almost laugh out loud, but bite your lip to keep it in. 

“Here,” you say to him softly, “let’s get your vest off.” You slide your fingers under the hem of his vest and step behind him, helping him to take it off. Surprisingly, he lets you. You hold the vest - his iconic, angel wing vest - for a minute, rubbing the soft but sturdy leather between your fingers. You can’t believe he trusts you enough to touch it, let alone take it off of him and hold it. You carefully hang it over the back of the nearby chair.

When you turn back around, you find that Daryl is watching you. His eyes have softened a bit, but he still looks afraid. What can possibly scare this man so much? you wonder to yourself. For a man that scares everyone around him, you are surprised that anything can rattle him.

Before you can think about it further, the Saviors return with a bin of the supplies you asked for, including the bottle of bourbon you took swigs of before getting your forehead stitched up by the late doctor. You empty all of the supplies onto the table, making sure that everything you need is there. When you’re done, you see that Daryl has resumed glaring at the Saviors, his hand gripping his knife so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.

“All right,” you say loudly, making two of the Saviors jump. “I have everything I need. Y’all can go.” You move to start ushering them out of the room, but the trigger-happy man in front grabs your wrist.

“You think you give the orders here?” he asks, rudely looking you up and down. You see Daryl move to step in but you hold your hand up to him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Do you plan on helping me?” you ask the man in front of you, feigning innocence.

He scoffs. “No.”

“Then get out,” you say with a smile. “Unless you want me to tell Negan that you put your hands on me and put a fucking gun to my head. I’m sure he’d love to hear that.” At this, you see the man’s resolve falter. Huffing, he not-so-gently lets go of your wrist and stalks out of the room, taking the other two men with him. You step forward, slam the door behind them, then turn back to Daryl.

He’s glaring at the door, still gripping his knife. Slowly, you move towards him, putting your face in his line of sight. “Hey,” you say gently, “it’s okay. It’s just me now.” You reach a hand out to his, the one holding the knife. He flinches slightly, holding you in place with his gaze. “You’re okay,” you breathe out. With both hands, you carefully loosen his grip on the knife and take it, placing it on the table. You leave your other hand in his, fingers interlocking, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. 

Daryl exhales deeply, and you place your free hand on his cheek. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, and that’s when his walls begin to fall; the tension leaves his shoulders and he slumps forward into you, his head landing on the soft spot between your neck and your shoulder. You pull him in closer and hold him there, murmuring over and over, “You’re okay, I got you.” 

He lets you hold him this way for a while. When he finally pulls away, it’s only enough for him to lean his forehead on yours. His eyes still closed, you can see how exhausted and in pain he is. Seeing him this way causes a twinge in your chest, a pull deep inside of you that makes you just want to take care of his man.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” you say, giving his hand a small squeeze.

“‘kay,” he replies, opening his eyes, gazing into yours before pulling away. 

You back away a step, looking down at the wound in his side. “We have to wash the area, so I can see how deep it is.” You look around the room, then point at the door behind him.
“Do you have towels in there I can use?” He nods at this. “Great, take your shirt off and we’ll get started.”

You watch him freeze and go pale at this. You look at him, confused, but he averts his eyes, avoiding yours. A blush creeps up his neck. Is he - self-conscious? You think about Daryl in the library yesterday, in the unused office the day before….then you shake those thoughts from your mind. 

Instead, you busy yourself elsewhere in the room, giving him the privacy he clearly desires. You go to the bathroom and find a few towels. You hang them over your shoulder as you take the bin that they brought all of the supplies in and place it in the sink. You turn the water on to begin filling it. While the water from the faucet pours into the bin, you steal a peek in the mirror above the sink. Daryl looks as if he was watching you, and just turned his head back to start unbuttoning his shirt. You watch him start to slide it off, exposing one bare, incredibly muscular shoulder. You quickly avert your eyes back to the bin, cheeks burning, and resolve to watch it fill up before turning back around.

When you turn the water off, you hear Daryl clear his throat behind you.

“Um, Y/N?” he calls, hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

Pause. “Can you help?” he asks, so softly.

“Of course,” you say, turning around, and your breath catches. In front of you, Daryl stands, shirt halfway down his arms. But your eyes are drawn to his back; aside from the two demon tattoos, it is a maze of scars, crisscrossing up his back and onto his shoulder blades. You can tell some of them are old - definitely from before the world even ended. His head is slumped forward, as if ashamed. Your heart aches for him.

You step toward him slowly, hooking your fingers into the edges of his shirt. Daryl flinches at your touch. Tears prick your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in further and plant a soft kiss to an x-shaped scar on his upper back. You can feel his breath hitch, but then his shoulders loosen a bit. You keep kissing his scars, moving across his back to each one, as you slide his shirt the rest of the way off of him. You even kiss his tattoos as you toss the shirt onto the floor behind you. 

Daryl hasn’t moved an inch since you started, so you slowly move in front of him. You find that his scars continue onto his chest, and you gingerly kiss each one before taking his face in your hands, and pressing your lips into his forehead. You stay there for a full minute before dropping your chin, putting your forehead to his like he did to you before. His hands eventually find your waist, holding you there, like he’s grounding himself. You pull away slightly, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone.

“Ready?” you ask, not wanting this moment of closeness to end but knowing that it has to.

He nods. “Yeah,” he breathes out. 

Taking his hand in yours, you walk him to the bathroom. Once inside, you dip one of the towels into the water and wring it out. Then you begin to clean the area around the cut, carefully as to not hit the wound itself. It takes a few rounds of wiping off the blood, cleaning off the towel, and dipping it again, but thankfully, the bleeding has almost stopped. You have Daryl hold a towel to the cut, applying pressure, while you get gauze from your pile of supplies. Then you replace the towel with the gauze, and instruct him to sit in the chair while you wait for the bleeding to stop for good. 

Daryl is very patient with you while you do all of this. He watches you as you move around his room, cleaning as much of the blood as you can. You rinse out the towels in the sink, hoping that you didn’t destroy them completely. Then you wander back over to him and kneel on the floor so that you can check his cut.

“It looks like it’s stopped bleeding, for the most part,” you tell him, peering under the gauze. “Time to sew you up.” You grab the bottle of bourbon, uncork it, and hold it out to him. “Do you trust me?” you ask.

“Don’ have much of a choice, do I, princess?” he asks, the left side of his mouth lifting into an adorable smirk. He takes the bottle and drinks.

“Nope!” you chirp, snatching the bottle back and taking a long swig before returning it to him. He chuckles, taking another long drink as you grab the suture supplies and sit on the floor next to his chair. 

You push your hair out of your face, really regretting not having a hair tie with you, and snap on a pair of gloves, popping a hole in one for your finger brace. You pick up the needle with little scissors, then hold your other hand out to Daryl. “Lighter?” you ask. He quickly fishes one of his pants pocket and hands it to you. You light it, then hold the tip of the needle in the flame to sterilize it, just to be safe. You prep the thread, take a deep breath, and brace yourself.

“So what happened?” you ask.

Daryl takes another sip from the bourbon and answers, “Fuckin’ Simon.” You press the needle into his skin as he speaks, and he hisses. He squeezes his eyes shut, then lets out a breath, and keeps going. “We were searchin’ for the prisoner at this old strip mall, with a bunch of stores and shit.” You tie off the first stitch and start on the next one. “He was supposed to clear half of it. Said he did, but then when I went in, it was crawlin’ with walkers.” He takes another drink from the bottle before continuing. “We were surrounded. We tried to fight 'em all off, but one of my guys got bit. There were too many of ‘em.” He pauses, glaring at the corner of the table. “I jumped outta a window to get away, and guess I got caught on the glass.” 

“What a dick,” you respond as you finish another stitch. 

Daryl laughs, then winces from the pain. You place a gloved hand on his thigh, giving it a small squeeze. He grabs your hand, squeezing it back. “‘m fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You say that a lot, huh?” you chide him playfully. He smirks again. “What’s Simon’s deal, anyway?” you ask, trying to keep him talking. This way, he’s distracted from the pain. Plus, you just love the sound of his voice, and since he’s finally opening up, you’ll do anything to keep him going.

“Always been an asshole,” Daryl explains as you start on another stitch. “The type of guy to do anythin’ to make himself look good. Always suckin’ up to Negan like a lapdog.” He takes another sip of the bourbon. “He’s always been a loose cannon, actin’ on impulse rather than usin’ his head. But lately, he’s been actin’ extra crazy. ‘specially since ya been here.” You pause at this, staring up at him. He glances down at you, then quickly looks away. “He tried complainin’ to Negan when I took ya away from him at the party, thinkin’ he was owed a night with ya or somethin’.” You notice his grip on the bottle tightened.

“So that’s why he basically led you into a trap today,” you say in a small voice. You remember the night that Daryl rescued you from having to deal with Simon and appreciated it greatly, but you never realized the risk he was really taking by doing it. Maybe I shouldn’t have been such an asshole to him, you think to yourself.

Daryl just shrugs. “Prob’ly.” He drinks from the bottle again, but stays quiet.

You sigh, push your hair out of your face again, and get back to work. You’re almost done, but you are too lost in thought to try to get Daryl talking again so you work in the silence. The only sound in the room is the little hiss he makes when you push the needle into the skin. 

After a few more minutes of working, you finish stitching up his wound. You clean it one more time with some rubbing alcohol, then back away, taking your gloves off.

“All done,” you announce. “Wanna look?”

Daryl stands up, then extends a hand to you - the one on his good side - and helps you up off the floor. Without letting go, he walks the two of you to the bathroom, where he examines your work in the mirror. You peer at it too, and have to admit that you didn’t do half bad.

“We match now,” he says quietly. You’re taken aback by his comment; you’re surprised that he remembered the scar you have in the same place. He did interrogate you in your underwear one time, the little voice in the back of your head reminds you. You scoff at it, then lift your shirt to show it. Funnily enough, your scar and his newly stitched up wound are in almost identical places on your sides, just below your ribs. You make eye contact with Daryl in the mirror and smile, bringing the slightest smirk to his lips. But it falls quickly when he really looks at you. 

“Yer a mess,” he points out. You look closer at yourself in the mirror to discover that he’s right, as usual: your white shirt is spotted with his blood, and somehow you managed to get some of it on your forehead. Probably when you tried pushing your hair out of your face.

“Oops,” is all you manage to say, feeling stupid. But Daryl quickly takes one of the towels, and dips it in some of the clean water. Then, holding your chin in his other hand, he cleans the blood from your forehead. You gaze up at him as he wipes the towel across your brow, careful to not let any of the blood or excess water drip into your eyes. He looks so focused, so concerned about you, it’s almost as if you were the injured one, not him. 

Daryl carefully guides your head to tilt to the side, checking you for any more blood. His eyes go wide and he pauses. You reach up slowly and touch your neck, feeling the small cut that you had forgotten about. The one from your interrogation, from one of his knives. You quickly drop your hand as Daryl drops his eyes.

“‘m sorry,” he murmurs quietly.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You were just doing your job.”

Daryl just sighs in response. He lets the towel go but not your face. He continues holding your chin, looking back up into your eyes, letting his thumb gently brush your bottom lip. It sends a shiver down your spin and makes the hairs on your arms stand up. You quickly look away, your cheeks burning. You hate that his effect on you is so obvious. 

“Let me grab a clean shirt for ya,” he mutters, letting go of your chin and walking back into his room. You immediately miss his touch. Get a grip, you chide yourself. The man is injured. But when you follow him into his room and find him rustling through his dresser, your chest tightens. Thankfully, he finds a flannel and hands it to you quickly. He immediately turns away, giving you privacy to change.

You pull your bloody tee shirt off over your head, instantly wishing you had a bra on. In your defense, they pulled you out of bed for this, so you didn’t really have time to get dressed up for the occasion. Huffing, you put his flannel on, buttoning it up most of the way. You take a quick moment to enjoy how it smells like him. The sleeves are way too long for you, so you roll them up to your mid forearm, then turn back around.

Daryl is still facing the other way, so you strike a pose and ask, “How do I look?” He turns around, and a smile breaks out across his face. 

“You look great,” he says softly. You smile back. 

But when you move towards him, you notice he’s swaying a bit on his feet. “You should lay down. Get a little rest.”

“‘m fine,” Daryl insists, trying but missing to grab the top of the dresser to steady himself.

You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that.” You take his other hand and walk him towards the bed. 

Daryl sits down on the bed, then looks up at you, concern in his eyes. “Will you stay?” he asks in a voice so low you barely catch it.

“Of course,” you answer, just as softly, sitting down on the bed next to him. You give him a nudge to get him to lay down and when he does, you pull his head onto your lap. Daryl sighs, and gets comfortable laying on you. 

The two of you stay this way for a while. You run your fingers through his hair, moving it out of his face. His eyes close at your touch, and you feel him relax into you. It’s peaceful, sitting this way with him. It feels as if you aren’t in the Sanctuary anymore, almost like you two are in your own little world. You let yourself imagine it: you and Daryl in a small cottage-like house in the countryside, far away from here, no worries about Saviors or Negan or even walkers, just each other. Something deep inside of your aches for this fantasy to be true.

“I saw you,” Daryl whispers, eyes still closed, “back at the prison.” Your fingers freeze, entangled in his curls. He continues, even quieter than before. “I came back, after I found Merle - found Merle dead.” He gets caught on the words before he gets them out. “I walked up to the fence, thinkin’ about going in. And I saw you.” He opens his eyes, gazing up at you. “You musta just gotten there. You were walkin’ around the place, takin’ it all in. Lookin’ at the fences, as if you were tryin’ to figure out if you were actually safe there.”

Your breath catches. You remember that day exactly: Maggie and Glenn had just taken you back to the prison with them. They said you were safe, but you didn’t trust it. You let Carol show you around, show you all the ways they turned a prison into a home. Then you wandered off on your own, looking for breaches in the fence or something else to prove them wrong, to show that you couldn’t be safe there, that you had to keep running, but you didn’t find anything. 

“Eventually you relaxed,” Daryl continues, “you looked up at the sun, and closed your eyes, baskin’ in it.” He looks away, blush creeping into his cheeks. “I wanted to go in, wanted to talk to you. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” you ask, voice barely audible.

You feel him shrug. “Dunno, really. Guess I was embarrassed for runnin’ off after my stupid brother. Didn’t think I deserved to come back.” He sighs. “So I left again, before anyone saw me.” He closes his eyes again. 

“I wish you did,” you say softly. “Go back.”

“Me too, princess,” he says drowsily. You can feel him starting to fall asleep in your lap, so you lean forward and kiss him gently on his lips. Instead of tensing up or flinching away, he leans into the kiss, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek. You kiss him a few more times before pulling away.

“Get some sleep, I’ll be here,” you murmur. 

“You’ll be okay?” he asks, even though he’s losing his battle with sleep.

“Of course, I’ll fight off anyone who bothers us,” you say, smirking.

“There’s a knife under my pillow,” he mutters.

“Really, Daryl?” 

But he just chuckles as he drifts off to sleep.

As you promised, you stay with Daryl long enough to watch the sun begin to rise outside of his window. Still running your fingers lightly through his hair, you watch him sleep. In this state, his face is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. Without his signature scowl, he looks even younger, almost a little boyish. You find another small scar in his hairline, and you fit the urge to kiss it too, not wanting to wake him.

If you could freeze time, you would stay in this moment forever. Your heart beats heavily in your chest, feeling ready to overflow or explode with affection for this man. So much that it scares you.

Outside the door, you can hear the rest of the Sanctuary beginning to wake up, and it snaps you back to your current reality. You look at Daryl, but you can almost feel the gaze of Negan, and fear pricks up your neck. 

“Oh Daryl,” you whisper to his sleeping form. “What are we going to do?”

Almost as if he hears you, Daryl’s head turns towards you and snuggles into your lap deeper.

Chapter Text

The knock on the door startles Daryl awake. His eyes snap open and he throws a hand under his pillow, wincing as he pulls on his stitches, but comes up empty handed.

You place a hand on his cheek, calming him. Staring down the door, your hand resting on his chest clutches his knife. You’ve been sitting this way for over an hour, waiting for someone to come in and try to drag you two apart. 

Daryl places his hand on yours, slowly prying the knife from your grasp. Sitting up, he clears his throat and yells to the door, “What?”

“Meeting in the war room in ten minutes,” a voice on the other side yells back.

Daryl groans, dropping back into your lap. “Alright,” he calls back. You both sit there silently, not breathing until hearing the faint footsteps retreating from outside the door. 

Exhaling loudly, Daryl looks up at you. “Mornin’” he says, voice low and husky from sleep.

You peel your eyes away from the door and look at him, your thumb grazing his cheekbone. “Good morning, handsome,” you reply. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he answers, grimacing at the pain in his side.

“I’m sorry,” you say, brushing the hair that’s fallen onto his forehead.

Daryl catches your hand, pulling it down to his lips and kissing it. “It’s alright,” he says into your skin. He kisses you again before moving to sit up. You use your free hand to help him, not wanting to have to restitch him already.

He stands, stretching like a cat before pulling you up too. Your knees crack from sitting for so long, and you stumble forward into his bare chest. Your first instinct is to pull away, but Daryl wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer to him. You exhale a deep sigh.

Daryl pulls away slightly, taking your face in his hands. “What’s wrong?” he asks, rubbing a thumb across your cheeks.

You gaze up into his deep blue eyes. “What do we do now?” you ask, your voice small. 

“We survive,” he says simply. “We do what we need to do to survive.” Placing his forehead to yours, he asks, “okay?” 

“But Negan-” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” he says, his hands moving to rub your arms. “Do what you gotta do t’ get through. I’ll be here.”

“Promise?” you ask.

He meets your gaze and holds you there. “Promise,” he replies. “I’ll be here as long as you want me t’ be.”  You stand on your tippy toes and kiss him, thanking your lucky stars for him.

When the two of you break apart, you quickly get ready for the day. Daryl lets you check on his stitches - thankfully he didn’t pull any out when he jumped awake before - and you tape a bandage over it to keep them safe. Then he gets dressed, and you watch his process of attaching all of his knives and their holsters to his hips and thighs, arming himself for the day ahead. 

Only when he’s done does he pull you back into his arms, resting his chin on your head. “He’ll prob’ly call for you later,” he says, stroking your hair. “You gonna be alright?” You nod, rubbing your face on his chest. He pulls away, planting one last kiss on your forehead. “I’ll see you later then, okay?”

“Okay,” you reply sadly, and hold him for a minute longer before letting go.

When Daryl opens his door, the two of you walk your separate ways; him towards the war room, you towards the wives’ rooms. Thankfully, you don’t run into anyone in the hallway. But when you make it back to your rooms, the rest of the wives are awake and getting ready for their day.

Frankie and Tanya share a look when you enter the living room. 

“Where have you been all night?” Tanya asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Playing doctor, since the last one got himself killed,” you say dully. This shuts her up quickly. 

You ignore her and everyone else, including today’s babysitter - one of Simon’s men, by the smell of him and the leer he wears on his face - and head straight to the bedroom. You flop onto your bed and the exhaustion hits you right away, and you fall into a dreamless sleep.

As Daryl predicted, Negan sends for you that afternoon. Knowing this would happen, you had taken the time to get yourself ready. You pulled your hair up into a ponytail and opted for the new dress from the marketplace, the off-the-shoulder number that hits about midthigh. You swiped on mascara and some blush to bring color back to your face, and slid into the new, cleaner pair of black heels. 

When you emerged from the bedroom, Negan was seated at the bar with Lauren. But at the sight of you, he leaves her mid-sentence, moving to meet you at the door.

“Hel-lo, beautiful!” he greets you, smiling his big Negan-smile. His eyes rake over your body slowly before returning to your face. 

Replaying Daryl’s words in your mind - “Do what you gotta do t’ get through.” - you plaster a smile on your face. “Hey you,” you greet him back, moving in close. 

Negan plants a kiss on your cheek, before offering you his arm. “Shall we?” You take his arm, and allow him to lead you out of the room. He salutes to the Savior on babysitting duty - who nearly fell out of his chair to kneel before his leader - as the two of you walk past.

The two of you walk arm in arm towards the marketplace. Along the way, you pass multiple Savior soldiers, who all pause and bow at the two of you passing by. Negan smirks at them, and you put on your best Princess Diana smile. A few of them nod to you after getting up from their bows and move out of your way as you walk by. 

“You seem like you’re getting the hang of this place, dollface,” Negan observes. “The people like you.”

“I’m doing my best,” you say in response, smiling at a worker who scurries past.

“And you’re doing great,” he nearly coos. When you both enter the market, the closest workers move to kneel but Negan waves them off, telling them to go about their business. “How are you holding up otherwise? I know this has been quite the transition for you.”

“It definitely has been,” you reply, forcing out a laugh. “But I’m okay. Just a little weird, is all.”

“How so?” Negan asks as he guides you down the stairs to the main area.

You pause to think before answering. “I’m not used to being so - important, I guess,” you try to explain. “I’m used to being another cog in the machine, ya know?”

“Oh I know,” he chuckles. “But now you are so much more than that, you know that right?”

“Yeah,” you say, painting a smile on your face. “I think I do.”

“Good,” Negan replies, smiling back. “Because you are on your way to becoming queen of this place.” At a loss for words, you just keep smiling and look down at your feet. Negan continues, “This whole place can be yours, if you let it.” He stops at the bottom of the stairs, and waves an arm out, motioning to the entire room. “Anything you want here is yours.”

You look around the room at all of the workers, many of them bowing to you and their leader before continuing their work. You try your best to smile at anyone you can make eye contact with, trying not to be overwhelmed by it all. 

When you look back at Negan, he’s watching you closely. “You did a good job stitching Double D up,” he says. Fear prickles up your spine, and you fight to keep your face neutral. “I’m grateful for that.”

“I was just doing my part,” you respond, making sure to meet his eye.

Negan moves in close, chest to chest with you. “Oh, you have done your part and more,” he murmurs. “Not only have you been my wife, but you’ve proven you can handle yourself against walkers, and you can put my soldiers back together when they start to fall apart.” He chuckles to himself. “You really are quite the catch.”

You beam up at him. “I really am, aren’t I?”

At this, Negan bellows out one of his signature laughs, and starts leading you around the market. “You really are,” he says. “And you deserve to be treated for it.” He motions to all of the stands. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, confused.

“I appreciate the work you’ve done for us, in your short time here,” he explains. “And I love to reward the people who do good for me, as I’m sure you’re aware.” He winks at you, and you immediately turn away, blushing at his reference to your supposed night with Daryl. “So anything you want,” he continues on, not noticing your discomfort, “you can have it.”

“Anything?” you ask, turning back to him.

Negan stops walking, turning to look at you. He takes your chin in your hands and looks down at you through his lashes. “Anything,” he whispers. “Just name it.”

Your mind races with all the things you can ask for, and all the things you actually want to ask for. I want to go home, you scream inside of your head. I want to be in Alexandria and I want to be with my friends and my family and the kids. But you know that’s not a possibility, and that it would be stupid to even ask. So you start small.

“I want to go outside,” you say, breathlessly. 

Negan quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Not far,” you continue quickly. “I don’t even want to leave the fences.” You look down sheepishly. “I just miss the sunshine.” 

When you peer back up at him, he’s looking you over, eyes squinting in suspicion. You give him a faint smile, trying to look as innocent as possible. His thumb taps your chin a few times, before leaning in, pausing millimeters from your lips. You drop your eyes and close the gap between you and him, pressing your mouth to his. The kiss is slow and drawn out, but when he pulls away, he looks at you with pure affection in his eyes.

“Your wish is my command,” he announces, pulling you along with him. 

Negan leads you towards the nearest exit, nodding at the Saviors on door duty to open them up. They do so right away, and when the doors open, you have to squint your eyes against the sudden brightness. 

You and Negan step out onto the landing, into the sunlight. When your eyes finally adjust, you see the multiple fences, all lined with walkers and other obstacles that separate you from the rest of the world. But right now, you don’t even care. 

The feel of the sun on your skin draws a grin from deep within you. Instantly, your body feels like it comes alive. You feel warm all over, and you slip your arm out of his and walk further into it. Closing your eyes, you bask in the glow, like a plant that needs the sun to survive. Your smile grows even larger as you slowly spin so you can feel the warmth on every inch of you. 

When you eventually open your eyes, you find that Negan is watching you from a few feet away, with a small smirk on his face.

“You really love it out here, don’t you?” he asks playfully.
“I really do,” you answer, smiling at him. You look away, gripping the ledge of the landing that you are standing on. “Even though we were always looking for somewhere to settle, somewhere safe,” you explain, looking over the concrete courtyard in front of you, “I always felt happiest outside.” You look over your shoulder at Negan, who has stayed leaning against the wall behind you. “Whenever the weather was nice, I would be outside from sun up to sun down, soaking it all in.” 

Negan approaches you slowly, placing a hand on your lower back. “You’re glowing,” he says into your ear. You try to keep in the uncomfortable shiver it sends up your spine. But when he spins you, forcing you to face him, you can’t avoid his intense gaze. “This is what you want?”

“Yes,” you reply, breathless. 

He leans in, nearly touching his nose to yours. “Then it’s yours,” he says softly. “Whenever you want, you can come out here. With supervision, of course,” he adds quickly.

Your smile threatens to crack your face in two. “Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you, Negan.” To seal the deal, you crash your lips to his, allowing him to kiss you as deeply as he desires. When he finally pulls away, he lets you turn within the confines of his arms, and the two of you watch the sun set over the fences, the only sound the groans of the walkers lined up in front of them. 

When the sun goes down, Negan leads you back into the Sanctuary.

“Come on,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”

Still smiling from the kiss of the sun on your skin, you follow him through the marketplace and back out into the hall. Negan leads you back to his quarters. A jolt of fear threatens to shoot through you, but when he opens the door to his room, you see his table set with a spread of food, complete with a lit candle and wine glasses set in the middle.

“What’s this?” you ask, taking in the scene.

“Another part of your reward,” Negan explains. “For taking care of Dixon’s injury last night.” 

“This is lovely,” you reply as Negan moves to pull a chair out for you to sit in. You take a seat, and he moves to his side of the table, shimmying out of his leather jacket before sitting across from you. He grabs the bottle of wine on the table and pours two glasses, one for each of you. He lifts his, and you lift yours to meet it.

“To you, dollface,” he announces, “for being the most useful wife I have.” You force yourself to smile, clinking your glass with his and taking a sip. 

Thankfully, Negan talks through most of the meal, allowing you to eat and smile occasionally to appease him. He is clearly oblivious to your discomfort, and carries on about the search parties that he’s been sending out in search of the missing prisoner, his plans for expansion of the Sanctuary, and anything else he is capable of rambling on about. You listen the best that you can, trying to commit any potentially useful information to your memory to report back to your people. If you ever see them again, the small voice in your head tries to say, but you shake it away. Negan refills your wineglass each time it gets close to empty, which you are grateful for.

Before you’re expected to say anything of substance, a young Savior soldier bursts into the room. 

Negan, visibly annoyed, addresses him, “Alden, you better have something stupendously important to say, interrupting my time with my wife here.”

“I do,” the kid says quickly. “I think.” When Negan glares at him, the young kid blurts out. “Dwight is back. He says he found the prisoner.”

“Well then,” Negan says, looking almost surprised. He looks at you and your empty plate. “Doll, you want to go find out what this is about?”

“S-sure,” you sputter out, not really sure what he wants.

“Excellent,” he says, pleased with your answer. He stands up, grabbing his jacket, and you follow his lead. He takes your hand. “Let’s go.” To Alden, he says, “Assemble the lieutenants.” The kid nods, then just about runs out of the room. 

By the time you and Negan reach the war room, it is nearly full. There are a bunch of Saviors standing towards the walls of the room. At the table sits Simon, Gavin, Laura, Arat, the asshole that put the gun to your head yesterday, and, to your dismay, Daryl. He glances at you quickly before turning his eyes back to Dwight, who stands next to Negan’s usual seat. 

All of the Saviors bow their heads at Negan’s entrance. “At ease,” he says, commanding the room. He lowers himself into his seat, and you stand behind him, unsure of what to do. “All right, men,” he looks pointedly at Laura and Arat, “and wo-men,” he adds with a smirk. “Tell me the good news,” he says, leaning back in his seat.

“Negan,” Dwight starts. “On our search today, we - “

“Hold on,” Negan cuts him off, turning to look at you. “Babydoll, drinks for my soldiers, please.” He indicates towards the makeshift bar in the corner. You nod and shuffle towards it, finding a handful of glass tumblers and two bottles of whiskey. As Dwight explains how his search party went, you pour whiskey into each of the glasses. 

As quietly as possible, you start to distribute the drinks to those seated at the table. Most of them ignore you as you place the glass in front of them, but Simon makes it a point to grab your hand as you try to give him one. He doesn’t let go, leering at Daryl as he forces you to stay in place. Daryl, stone faced as ever, barely acknowledges it. Negan, on the other hand, hits the table with his bat, which you didn’t even realize he had with him. Simon immediately releases your hand, and you quickly scurry away to grab more drinks. 

When you move to place one in front of Daryl, he discreetly places a hand on your leg under the table. You stay there for a moment, trying to absorb as much strength as you can from his soft touch. He gives your leg a small squeeze before you walk away, taking the last two glasses back towards the head of the table and giving on to Negan, keeping the last for yourself.

“When we finally found him,” Dwight is still explaining, “he was in bad shape. Bleeding, probably a twisted ankle, already bit. So I pinned him down, and watched as he lost himself to it.” Dwight is staring at the floor as he recounts what happened. “I made him suffer through it all, and watched him die.” Then he looks up, meeting Negan’s gaze. “I waited for him to come back, before putting him down for good.”

Negan absorbs this information, one hand spinning Lucille. Then, he raises his glass towards his lieutenant. “Good man,” he says, as the rest of the room raises their glasses. You follow suit. “To Dwight, for handling business.” Everyone at the table lifts their drink in salute before throwing the dark liquor back. 

The whiskey burns your throat as it goes down, and you shudder against your will. Negan notices this, and pulls you onto his lap, running his free hand up and down your back. Across the table, you feel Daryl’s gaze, but are too ashamed to meet it. 

“Maybe,” Negan continues on, “the rest of you will prove yourself the way that Dwighty boy has done these past few days.” He looks around the table and the room as he talks. “This shit ain’t easy, but we have lots of people relying on us, on our strength and our rules.” He wraps his hand around your ponytail and pulls slightly, as if reminding you specifically. “Get some rest,” he commands his people. “Leave us.” 

All at once, everyone rises from the table. Daryl keeps his eyes on you as he stands up, lowering his chin as if reminding you of your conversation from this morning, before filing out of the room with the rest of the Saviors.

When you are alone, Negan releases your hair. “I have another surprise for you,” he says. He stands, forcing you to stand too, and slips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. Expecting the worst, you’re surprised when he takes out a silver chain with a large, teardrop shaped diamond at the end. “For you,” he says gently, holding it up for you to see.

“Oh my god,” you choke out. “It’s beautiful.” It really was, even if you were scared to know where he got it.

“May I?” he asks. You nod, turning. He slips the necklace around your throat, the gem cold against your skin. When he clasps it shut, you spin back towards him. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, running a finger over the stone and your chest behind it. “I’d do anything to see you in just this.” 

A shiver runs up your spin, but you ignore it. You know what he wants. “Do what you gotta do t’ get through,” a familiar, gravelly voice says in your head as you reach behind your back, and begin to unzip your dress. 

Negan watches you intently as you slide the zipper down, and slip out of your dress. You shimmy it down your legs, and step out of it carefully before standing up tall in just your underwear and your heels. He trails a hand up your arm, from wrist to shoulder, just grazing your bare breast in the process. 

“So gorgeous,” he whispers again, cupping his hand behind your head, and crashing his lips onto yours. The kiss is deep, lustful, and you try your best to match his energy. His tongue pushes its way into your mouth, exploring it like a goldmine. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, as you allow him to deepen the kiss. His lips trail from yours to your jawline, down your neck to kiss along the silver chain of his gift. 

You allow your head to fall back as he pushes your hips backwards, forcing you to sit on the table. The wood is cold on your bare skin, but you don’t have a chance to focus on it as Negan bites down on the skin just above one of your breasts. You wince slightly, but you run your fingers up into his hair and give it a tug, pulling a groan out of him.

After pressing a new mark into your skin, Negan pulls away. “You really are incredible,” he says, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. His hands trails from your face, down your body, and his fingers latch on to the hem of your panties. You lift yourself slightly, enough for him to slip them off of your hips. As he drags them down your body, you move to kick your heels off, but he stops you. “No,” he says forcefully. “Leave them on.”

“Okay,” you say in a small voice. Looking at you once more, Negan slides your underwear down your legs, carefully maneuvering them over your shoes until you're left in nothing but your high heels and your sparkling diamond necklace. 

Negan gazes over you, pupils dilated with lust, taking in the sight of you. “God, I want you so bad,” he says, breathlessly, palming the bulge in his jeans.

“So have me,” you say daringly. This draws another low groan out of him, and he quickly undoes his pants, releasing his erection. You can see right away how badly he wants you. Reaching up to his face, you pull him in for another kiss, a deep, hungry one. 

Breaking the kiss, Negan pushes you back so you’re laying flat on the table. He licks his fingers before pushing them down into your core, getting you ready for him. The sudden touch shocks you, but you close your eyes, leaning into the feeling between your legs. 

Hands gripping your hips, Negan pushes into you. Your eyes open wide as pain shoots through your body, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. He begins thrusting into you at a rapid pace, and you struggle to catch your breath. Each thrust pushes your back across the table, but he pulls you back to meet him, bottoming out each time. Your body opens up to him, and a soft moan escapes you before you realize it’s happening.

Negan leans forward, biting down on the underside of one of your boobs as he continues pressing into you. You drag your nails up his back, grabbing on for some stability as he unforgivingly drives into you. Eyes closing again, you see a flash of blue, and imagine different hands, a different body, a different person on top of you. You bite down on your lip to keep from calling out the wrong name.

Before long, Negan’s thrusts start to become sporadic and you feel him getting close to coming. You moan again to encourage him, eyes still squeezed shut, picturing cerulean blue eyes and rough, calloused hands on your body. Negan opens his mouth to give you an order, but you beat him to it.

“Negan!” you cry out, and he rams into you a final time, filling you with his orgasm. He bites down on your shoulder as he rides out his high, jerking a few times inside of you. You run your nails up his neck and through his hair as he groans out your name.

Worn out, he lays against you for a few moments before pushing himself up. “Incredible,” he mutters. “Just incredible.” Without warning, he pulls himself out of you, causing you to wince. “Great job, doll,” he says, tucking himself back into his jeans, moving away from you. He saunters off towards the bar, and pours himself another drink. 

Left alone on the table, you slide off and collect your discarded clothing. You slide them back on, struggling to zip up the back of the dress on your own. When you turn to Negan, he raises his glass to you. “Good night, dollface,” is all he says. At his dismissal, you yank your dress up one more time before rushing out of the room.

By the time you’re back to the wives’ quarters, you’re nearly hyperventilating. The diamond on your neck feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds. Your body feels beat up, between your legs hurting and each place that he bit you sore. Thankfully, the living room is empty with the exception of Lauren and Gary, stuck on babysitting duty tonight.

“Where is everyone?” you ask Lauren, pretending the Savior isn’t there.

“Dawn’s in bed,” she says simply. “The others are off with Eugene.”

“Eugene?” you ask incredulously. But Lauren just shrugs and goes back to her magazine. 

Making your way towards the bar, you barely reach it before you hear the door open behind you. You whip around, panicking, and find Daryl in the doorway, with a large book in hand. He nods at Gary, before reaching you in two long strides.

“Here,” he says shortly, thrusting the book into your hands. You look down at the cover: Wild Pursuits: A Comprehensive Exploration of the Arts and Ethics of Hunting. You glance back up at the man, confused.

“Uh, thanks?” you say, questioningly. But before you can pull away, he places his hands over yours holding the large volume.

“You alright?” he asks quietly. His blue eyes bore into yours so intensely, it almost brings you to your knees. You shake your head slightly, in case Gary is watching. A low growl emits from Daryl’s lips as he gives your hand a small squeeze. “This might help,” he replies. 

You look down at his hands, dwarfing yours around the large book. “Thank you,” you say again, rubbing a finger over his large knuckle.

Daryl nods once before releasing you, turning on his heel and leaving out of the room.

The bar forgotten, you hurry to the bedroom. You sit on your bed, grasping the book in your hands. It’s a giant book, but it’s surprisingly light, given its size. Curious, you crack it open, and the pages flutter forward. You flip a few of them, and then they jump apart. The book has been hollowed out, and you push a few of the remaining pages out of the way and gasp: sitting in the carved out section of pages, you find your hunting knife, Rosita’s brass knuckles, and a small slip of paper. 

Hands shaking, you pull out the little paper, and open it. Inside, scrawled in small, messy handwriting, is just one word: Survive.

Chapter Text

At the sound of your name, you startle awake. Your eyes immediately look to the stack of books on your nightstand, and spot Wild Pursuits: A Comprehensive Exploration of the Arts and Ethics of Hunting safely still on the bottom of the pile. You exhale a breath of relief, before turning to whomever rudely interrupted your sleep. It’s Tanya and Frankie, of course.

“What?” you ask, not very kindly. You had stayed up late last night, trying to scrub the feeling of Negan’s hands off of your skin unsuccessfully before tossing and turning for hours, only falling into a restless sleep when the sun was already creeping up. 

Tanya shushes you while climbing onto your bed. Frankie is behind her, peeking out the bedroom door.

“You’ll never guess who’s on babysitting duty today,” Tanya whispers conspiratorially.

“Who?” you ask, sitting up.

“Come look for yourself,” Frankie shoots from the door. 

Throwing your covers into a giggling Tanya’s face, you quietly pad over to the door, crouching below Frankie to sneak a look into the living room. Through the small crack, you immediately spot him: in the same chair as last time sits Daryl, one arm resting along the top of the chair and the hand of the other cupping his chin, watching. As if sensing you, his eyes flick towards the door, and you quickly fall away, out of his sight.

“Right?!” Tanya chirps, taking your place at the doorway, peering out.

“I wonder what he did to get stuck with us,” Frankie muses. “Doesn’t he have more important things to be doing?”

“It’s probably because of his injury,” you respond, thoughtfully. Both of the women’s heads snap towards you.

“So that’s who you were late-night doctoring!” Tanya nearly squeals. You try to whack her with the back of your hand but she rolls out of your reach. She stands up and grabs Frankie’s arm. “We’re going out there,” she says to you. “Hurry up and get dressed before we take him from you.” Then she pushes Frankie out the door, while you sit there, rolling your eyes at them.

By the time you walk out into the living room - wearing a simple black tee-shirt dress, hair loose and flowing over your shoulders - breakfast had arrived. Apparently Negan didn’t trust the wives to get themselves food anymore, so a platter of eggs, toast, ham, and fruit sat on the bar, accompanied by multiple cups of coffee. Tucking your random book you grabbed from your pile under your arm, you take one of the coffees and shove a piece of toast in your mouth before moving to one of the couches. You curl into one of the corners, conveniently right across from where Daryl was sitting. You don’t look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you. Instead, you open your book and settle in, only half paying attention to the scene around you.

The rest of the wives are helping themselves to the breakfast spread. Frankie and Tanya make their plates and move to sit on either side of Daryl, who accepts their presence with mild disinterest. 

Not to be discouraged, Tanya leans in towards him and asks, “Can I make you a plate, Dixon? There’s more than enough for all of us.”

“No thanks,” Daryl responds politely.

This is how most of the day goes by.

“Dixon, we heard you got hurt. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“‘m alright.”

“Want me to rub your shoulders? I used to be a massage therapist, ya know.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey Dixon, I’m gonna grab a drink, want anything?”

“Nah, ‘m good.” 

You can almost feel Daryl’s discomfort as your sister-wives - the voice inside your head makes a gross barfing sound - throw themselves at him.  You try to hide your smirks behind your paperback, but the low, scoffing sound from across the room tells you that he sees them anyway. 

Probably in an attempt to discourage them, Daryl takes to sharpening one of his hunting knives. He frowns, however, when this only interests them more.

“You must be so good with those, since you take such good care of them.”

“‘m fine, I guess.”

“Can you show me how to do that?”

“Nah.”

“Come ooooon.”

“Don’t think your husband would be happy ‘bout that,”  Daryl says, scowling at them.

When Tanya lets out a loud “hmph!” you can’t hold in your laugh. This draws all three sets of eyes to you, where you sit attempting to read, one hand fiddling with the stitches on your forehead.

“Quit picking at those,” Daryl snaps.

You immediately drop your hand. “Sorry,” you mutter. Frankie and Tanya stare at you, mouths agape. Cheeks burning, you busy yourself in your book again, and they eventually lose interest in you and go back to pestering Daryl. 

By midafternoon, after lunch and several more attempts from Frankie and Tanya to engage him in conversation, another Savior enters the living room, relieving Daryl of babysitting duty. He gives each of you a quick nod before leaving the room. The new Savior - the young kid, Alden - takes up his seat by the door, apparently boring the two wives sitting nearby because they grab their things and move to sit by you instead.

“He’s a tough nut to crack,” Frankie murmurs under her breath, stealing a glance at Alden to make sure he didn’t overhear.

“How did you do it?” Tanya asks breathlessly.

You just shrug. “I didn’t do anything.” This earns you a glare from the two women.

Before they can press you further, Arat appears in the doorway, calling your name.

“Let’s go,” she orders.

“Where are we going?” you ask, rising from your spot on the couch. You can feel Frankie and Tanya exchange a glance around you.

Arat smiles a nasty smile. “Doctor’s appointment,” she says, sneering as you approach her.

“What-“ you start to ask but you don’t get to finish as she grabs your arm and pushes you out the door.

Stumbling once but regaining your footing, you start making your way to Dr. Carson’s old office, trying not to give your escort a reason to shove the barrel of her gun into your back. Along the way, you have to press yourself into the wall to make room for a handful of Saviors carrying crates through the hallway. You try to crane your neck to see what they have, earning you another push from Arat. Glaring, you continue walking towards the doctor’s office, not sure what you were going to find there.

To your utmost surprise, when you reach it, you are met by Dr. Carson. But not the one that you are used to seeing here: inside the small office, unpacking a box of supplies, is Hilltop’s Dr. Carson. A gasp escapes your lips before you can catch it.

At the sound he turns around. “Ah,” he says, putting down the box of bandages in his hand. “My very first patient here.” He leans over, looking past you to Arat. “Thank you, you can leave us.”

“Not a chance,” she spits. “Wives are under watch, Negan’s orders.”

“Not in here, they’re not,” the new Dr. Carson says casually. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, ya know.” When Arat doesn’t move, he continues, “You can wait outside if you must.”

Scoffing, Arat glares at both you and the doctor before stepping out the door and slamming it closed. 

Still bewildered, you just stare at the doctor.

“I know,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see me here either.” He sighs, looking down. “I just found out about my brother today.” 

Realization hits you like a ton of bricks. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

But he just waves you off. “It was a matter of time,” he says sadly. “Especially with these people.” An awkward silence falls between the two of you. Breaking it, he claps his hands, declaring, “I hear you have stitches that need removing.”

“How-“ you start to ask but stop yourself. Daryl, you think, smiling. Typical. He must’ve run into the doctor after leaving your room. You nod to Dr. Carson, who motions to the patient table.

You sit on it, and watch as he prepares to take out your stitches, a million questions running through your head. How did you end up here? Is everyone okay? What about Maggie and the baby?

But it turns out that you don’t have to ask any of them. Gloves on, he moves in close, inspecting his brother’s work. When he begins to snip at the stitches, he answers your unspoken questions.

“She’s okay,” he whispers, barely audible. “So is the baby.” He turns, placing the discarded stitch on the tray he had pulled over. “Rick and a few others have visited the Hilltop.” Your eyes widen as he drops another stitch onto the tray. “They’re planning to fight.” 

Relief overwhelms you. Tears prick your eyes, but not wanting to disturb the doctor's work, you let them pour down your cheeks. They’re coming for me, you think to yourself. I’m going to be saved.

‘But what about Daryl?’ the small, forever pestering voice in the back of your mind asks. ‘Will they save him too?’

Yes, you tell the voice. They have to - they know him, they’ll save him from Negan’s grasp too.

‘Will they?’ the voice presses, doubtful.

They will, you continue. If they won’t, then I’ll make them. 

While you were arguing with yourself, Dr. Carson finishes removing your stitches. “All done,” he announces, sitting back to remove his gloves. “You’ll have a little scar, but nothing too bad.” He holds up the small mirror so you can see. Pushing your hair out of the way, you see the cut, now closed up and healing, and it makes you think of the scar Daryl has in his hairline as well. Matching again, you think, smirking.

Looking away from the mirror, you whisper, “Thank you.” Meeting his gaze, you try to show him that you are grateful for more than just the stitches.

“Thank me when we’re out of here,” he replies understandingly, patting your hands before standing up to open the door. Arat leans against the opposite wall, scowling. “She’s all yours,” he tells her. 

Without a word, she nods at you, and you follow her back to your rooms, mind reeling at the thought of your impending rescue. What is the plan? If anything is true about your people’s plans, they always started one way, then shit hits the fan, and then you have to improvise. What can I do to help from the inside? You already know Eugene was not sent here to deliver you a message, asshole that he is. Was someone else going to find their way into the Sanctuary? 

The next few days carry on with little excitement. Daryl’s been assigned to babysitting duty again each day, and Frankie and Tanya continue their quest to gain his favor to no avail. Meals continue to be delivered to the wives quarters, so you all have been confined to your living room or bedroom the whole time. The only exception to this was when Negan would send for one of you each night. You are grateful that he hasn’t called for you since the day he took you outside and then fucked you in the war room.

Daryl was still refusing to let anyone touch him or his wound but you, so you had to check his stitches and change his bandage in the small bathroom just off of your bedroom. You managed to sneak a few kisses but little else, with Frankie and Tanya talking loudly right outside the door, much to your chagrin. 

“They don’t quit, so they?” Daryl had asked while he held you, snuggled into his chest.

“No they don’t,” you answered him, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re like a shiny new toy to them, ever since you took me as your ‘reward.’ They’re hoping you’ll take one of them next.”

“Oh really?” he replied, chuckling. “Should I?”

You had pulled away, glared at him and said “I’ll kill you AND them,” which only made him laugh more. “I’m armed now, remember?”

“Yeah yeah,” he said, smirking, before pulling you back in for another kiss.

Were you being smart, carrying on like this with those two nosey women right outside the door? Not at all. But you craved Daryl like he was the air your lungs needed, and you couldn’t give up the opportunity to be with him, no matter how short or risky it was. 

Daryl wasn’t the best at expressing himself with words, but he had his ways of showing you how much he needed you too. His gaze frequently fell upon you, eyes flickering to wherever you stood over the shoulders of whomever was speaking to him. His hands found you, trailing up your side whenever you passed and taking up residence on your waist when he stood beside you at the makeshift bar. In your small moments of solitude, he held his forehead to yours, as if trying to press all of his unspoken words and feelings into your mind. You quickly learned the language of his eyes and his varying grunts. The stoic man was surprisingly easy to read, if one simply paid attention. And the more you did, the more of him you needed.

By the third evening of lockdown, everyone in the wives’ quarters was growing restless, even the Saviors stuck babysitting. Gary, the hotheaded, trigger happy one, was so pissed about being stuck in there that he got shitfaced at the bar, eventually falling off of his barstool. Negan was furious, and had him dragged out by his feet, and poor Alden had to take over for him again. Alden was young and a little naive, and the other wives quickly took advantage of that fact.

“Where are you going?” he asks Frankie and Tanya, who are making a beeline for the door.

“To Eugene’s room,” Tanya replies, unconcerned.

“But you are all supposed to be under supervision,” Alden tries to argue back in a small voice. The exchange has captured the attention of all in the room. You watch from your spot at the bar, as Lauren and Dawn peer over their magazines at the young Savior.

“That’s what Eugene is for,” Frankie shoots back, rolling her eyes.

“But Negan-” he starts but she doesn’t let him finish.

“Who do you think ordered us to go?”

“I- uh.”

“You wanna ask him yourself?” Frankie challenges him, staring him down. 

Alden flinches under her cool gaze. 

Smirking, Frankie takes Tanya’s arm and they leave the room.

You watch Alden slump back into his seat, appearing crestfallen. You quickly find the least repulsive whiskey behind the bar, pour a generous amount into a glass and bring it over to the kid. You hold it out to him, and he looks up at you with wide eyes before taking it.

“Don’t take any of that personally,” you tell him. “They’re like that to everyone.”

“Thanks,” Alden replies gloomily. He takes a sip of the drink, grimacing. You look at him apologetically before returning to the bar. Atop it sat a glass of wine for yourself and your journal, which you regrettably have not spent much time writing in since your arrival here at the Sanctuary. You were working on a detailed account of your time here and everything that you’ve learned about Negan and the Saviors, in case it came in handy later on. You did, however, leave out the specifics of your relationship with Daryl, lest it fell into the wrong hands.

Sitting at your seat, scribbling away, you don’t notice the door to the living room open again until you hear voices and your name in that oh-so-familiar Southern drawl. Closing your journal, you turn to find Daryl talking to Alden near the entrance to the room. Your heart skips in your chest, but quickly falls when you hear their exchange.

“Negan wants ‘er,” Daryl is explaining to the younger Savior, who can barely meet his eye. He just nods.

Daryl looks over to you, where you stand clutching the bar with white knuckles. He nods, indicating for you to follow, and you have to use your other hand to pry your fingers off of the cracked wooden surface. 

Chest tightening, you follow him out into the hallway. You stay a few paces behind him, trying to calm the terror burning in your lungs, making it difficult to breathe. A wheeze squeezes out of you, drawing Daryl’s attention and he’s on you, hands gripping each of your upper arms, cerulean blue eyes boring into your own wide ones.

“Breathe, princess,” he murmurs softly. He helps you to take a few strangled breaths, eyes never leaving your own. 

“What does he want with me?” you manage to choke out, swallowing your panic the best you can.

To your surprise, Daryl smirks. “Nothing,” he replies. Then he breaks into a very big, very rare smile. “I lied.”

You open your mouth to ask what he means, but Daryl takes your hand in his large one and hurries you along. The two of you nearly jog to the familiar stairwell where you used to look for him, and he pulls you up the steps to the top landing. He quickly unlocks the door, and the cool air engulfs you like an old friend.

Stepping out into the night, you take a deep breath of what feels like the freshest air you’ve ever breathed. You close your eyes to take in as much of it as you can. Days of being locked in your tiny apartment had felt like being suffocated, but being up here felt like learning how to breathe all over again. Your chest immediately loosens, welcoming the crisp cold air. Spinning around in it, your eyes fall on Daryl, leaning against a low wall, watching you with a small smile on his face.

“Thank you,” you say gratefully.

“Fer what? I haven’t even shown ya the surprise yet,” he replies with a sparkle in his eye.

You gasp. “A surprise?!”

“C’mere,” he says, reaching out a hand that you excitedly take. He leads you further down the roof, away from the door. When he steps aside, you find it: in the middle of the roof, strung up between two large vents, is a hammock. 

You look up at him, speechless. His cheeks burn pink, and he scratches the back of his neck, looking away. “I know it’s not much, but-”

“It’s perfect!” you shriek, jumping up to kiss him on the cheek before running towards it. You sit on one end, your weight pulling it down a bit as you slip out of your shoes, then lay back, letting it level out. Above you, there’s no sign of the building that has become your prison; all you can see is the tops of the nearby trees and the endless starry sky. 

Sighing with delight, you look back at Daryl, watching you as always.

“Come on,” you call to him. “There’s plenty of room for two up here.”

Hesitantly, Daryl walks towards the hammock, and you shimmy over towards the far side to give him room to sit. Keeping his boots on, he turns and lays beside you, rocking the hammock, causing you to roll into his side. Instead of shying away like he would have a week ago, he reaches an arm across for you to lay on, and you curl into him.

Together, the two of you lay there, looking up at the clear night sky. A gentle breeze causes the hammock to sway like a baby’s cradle. The only sounds are the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. No walker growls, no gunfire, no stress. You wish you could bottle this feeling up and take it with you, opening it in your most dire times of need. But instead you just sigh.

“You alright?” Daryl asks, his low voice vibrating against you.

“Yeah,” you answer lazily.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing really, just enjoying the moment,” you say with another sigh. 

Relaxed and wrapped around Daryl, you can’t help but picture what life could’ve been like all these months if he had returned to the prison when he meant to: sitting around campfires, laughing with friends; looking after the children together; going out on runs, knowing someone always had your back; ending each long day, exhausted but happy, in each other’s arms. The fantasy squeezes your heart tight and makes your eyes water.

“You think you would’ve liked me back at the prison?” you ask him suddenly.

Daryl, of course, just scoffs. “Nah,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “I barely like you now.”

“Hey!” you protest, leaning up on your elbows. You go to poke him and chastise him, but he catches your hand and uses it to pull you in close. Landing on his chest, lips just inches from his, your breath hitches. Daryl’s hand snakes up to cup your face before pulling you in for a deep, languid kiss. You feel him smile against your lips, and your heart flutters in your chest.

When you pull away, Daryl’s still holding your face, rubbing a thumb along your cheekbone.

“I just want you to be happy here,” he says, barely above a whisper.

It feels like a shot to the chest. How can I possibly be happy here? you ask yourself. Your thoughts trail back to Dr. Carson’s words from the other day, about Rick and your people meeting with the Hilltop to plan how to fight back. You remember your determination to bring Daryl with you when you were rescued. How can you tell him any of this, when he’s making distinct efforts like this, with the intention of making you want to stay? I can’t tell him any of this, you think, swallowing hard.

Instead of answering aloud, you kiss Daryl again, long and slow, before snuggling back into him, head on his chest. A man of few words himself, he accepts this and pulls you in closer. 

The two of you stay this way for a while, until Daryl startles and snaps his fingers. “I almost forgot,” he says, reaching a hand into the pocket of his worn out jeans. He pulls out a keyring with a single key dangling from it. “Fer you,” he holds it out to you. “So you can come up here whenever ya want.” 

You take the key, holding it tightly to your heart. “Thank you,” you say for what feels like the millionth time with him. You lean up to kiss him again.

Suddenly, machine gun fire rips through the air. Daryl jumps up so quickly that it causes the hammock to flip, spilling you out onto the ground.

“What was that?” you yell, rubbing your freshly skinned elbow.

“I don’t know,” Daryl replies, running towards the edge of the rooftop to look over. You jam your feet back into your heels, and run to his side. Looking over, you don’t see anything. You strain your ears to hear, and the next time you hear the gunfire, the sound comes from behind you.

“It’s coming from inside,” you whisper, fear lacing your voice.

“C’mon,” Daryl grunts, grasping your hand as he breaks into a run for the door. You quickly stash the keyring in your bra as you try to keep up. 

Daryl flings the door open and leads you inside, not bothering to lock it again. The two of you rush down the stairs when he stops you, pushing you behind him while he looks out into the hall. Deciding it’s clear, he pulls you along behind him, one hand on you, the other unsheathing one of his knives. You swallow hard, wishing you had your knife on you, feeling stupid for being unarmed. 

When you and Daryl take another turn, you come across multiple Saviors running the opposite direction, armed to the teeth. Daryl grabs one of them by the back of his shirt.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Eyes wide in fear, the Savior shouts three words you didn’t expect to hear: “We’re under attack!”

Chapter Text

The Sanctuary is eerily quiet. After processing the Savior’s frantic words, Daryl rushed you back to the wives’ rooms before running off to join the fray.

“Be safe,” you had told him, fear lacing your voice.

“You too,” he had said back, giving you a grave look. You understood at once what he meant.

Now you sit on your bed, Wild Pursuits: A Comprehensive Exploration of the Arts and Ethics of Hunting - with your weapons tucked inside - on your lap. The other wives sit around you on their respective beds, all having been ordered into the bedroom by the two Saviors standing guard in the living room. Apparently it was important to Negan that whoever got into the Sanctuary couldn’t get to his wives.

Or none of us could get out, you had thought grimly to yourself.

The commotion of the attack died down a while ago, but the tension from it still permeates through the thick, concrete walls of the old factory. Even when you strain your ears to listen, there is nothing. Not even murmured conversations between the guards outside your door or the wives inside. The fear is almost tangible.

No one sleeps through the night. Tanya and Frankie sit cuddled together on one of their beds, hands clasped together. This might be the longest you’ve ever seen them quiet. Lauren anxiously braids and unbraids her hair. Dawn’s eyes are closed and her lips are moving silently, most likely in prayer. Amber rocks back and forth on her bed, staring at the bedroom door with dead eyes. All of the women, including you, stay silent, as if afraid to make even the smallest noise, lest it brings trouble.

The sun is high in the sky before anything happens. From your spot closest to the bedroom door, you hear the creaking of the living room door opening. The Saviors out there speak in low voices, too quiet for you to make out what they are saying. You grip your book a little tighter.

The knock on the bedroom makes everyone jump. It opens slowly, and one of the guards pokes his head in. He glances around, then his eyes fall on you.

“You’re wanted,” he says simply.

You nearly jump off of the bed. Daryl must be here, probably to check that you’re okay or to tell you what the hell is going on. Quickly, you place Wild Pursuits back onto your nightstand and slide into your heels before following the Savior into the living room. When you step through the doorway, you stop in your tracks.

Eugene stands before you, nervously twisting a bit of metal wire around his fingers. You look at the guards in confusion, but they just shrug.

“Erm,” Eugene starts. He clears his throat and tries again. “Ms. Y/N, I require your presence for - something. If you would be so inclined as to follow me, that would be exemplary.” He immediately turns on his heel and heads out the door, holding it open for you.

Still confused, you follow him. He closes the door behind you before starting down the hallway. You walk beside him in silence, feeling the nerves radiating off of the man. You’re still mad at him, so you make no attempt to break the silence and ask why you’re here. Instead, you let him stew in the awkwardness of your silence.

Eugene leads you to the kitchens, where he orders one of the workers to prepare a tray of food. You stand next to him while you both wait, and you can feel him stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye. Crossing your arms, you do your best to ignore him.

When the tray is ready, Eugene thanks the worker in his typical, long winded fashion and picks it up, heading back out of the room. You follow a few steps behind, letting him struggle to open the door on his own. Back in the hallway, he turns down a hallway you haven’t been down before, not stopping until he reaches a stairwell. Then he turns to face you. Taking a step back, you face him too.

“Y/N,” Eugene begins, refusing to meet your eye. “I know you’re still angry with me due to the nature of our last communication. I understand, but I do not apologize for what I said.”

“Lovely,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

“In this very real scenario of Survival of the Fittest, you know that I am ill-equipped to survive on my own. I am the type of creature that relies on a bigger, stronger, faster animal to get by. And that is precisely what I am doing.”

“Get to the point, Eugene,” you snap, already getting a headache.

“The point I’m making is that I am still totally, resolutely, irrevocably Negan.” He pauses to clear his throat again. “But I am also a human. One of above-average intelligence, I would say, but still a human. I may not be the best with emotions and feelings, but I do understand that humans have them. So I am doing this for you and for her.”

This catches you off guard. “Her?” you ask. “Who’s her?”

Eugene sighs. “Follow me please,” he says softly, then starts walking down the stairs. This time, you rush to follow him.

The stairs lead you to a floor of the Sanctuary you haven’t been to before, but you can immediately see what it is: a dungeon. There are multiple doors with no windows and numbers painted on the walls next to them. You and Eugene pass one room with the door open, and peeking inside, you see several Saviors at a table playing cards. They don’t look up as you pass.

Eugene stops in front of one of the numbered doors and holds the tray out to you. You take it. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a keyring. Fumbling with them for a moment, he finds the right one and slides it into the lock on the door. Before opening it, he holds one finger to his lips, telling you to be quiet. You nod shakily. He opens the door, and you can’t hold in your gasp.

Sasha sits on the floor of the cell, curled into one corner. Next to her is a pillow and blanket, and a small lantern. In the dim light from it, you can just make out a body on the other side of the cell. The pool of blood tells you that she’s already handled it, but why the fuck is there a dead body in this cell with her?

You push the tray back into Eugene’s hands and fall to your knees, crawling towards Sasha. She seems to snap out of her thoughts finally and she uncurls herself just in time for you to wrap your arms around her. She embraces you back, and the two of you hold each other tightly, chests heaving, trying to process what’s happening.

You pull back, holding on to your friend’s arms, not sure if you’re holding her up or if she’s holding you up at this point.

“The gunfire. That was you?” you ask. 

Sasha nods. “Yeah.”

You choke out a small laugh. Sasha gives you a small smile, but her eyes look sad.

“Are you okay?” you ask her, looking her over. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she replies calmly. She eyes you up too. “You?”

You shrug. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” you tell her.

Sasha gives you another sad smile. “Of course you can handle it,” she says. She reaches a hand up and brushes a few loose strands of your hair out of your face. “You’re going to get out of this. You’re going to get out, and you’re going to make him pay. I know it.”

“What do you-” you start to ask before you truly understand what she’s saying: you’re going to get out of this, not we. Realization hits you in the chest like a freight train. “Sasha.” Your voice comes out small as tears begin to prickle your eyes.

But her smile only grows. “I’m so proud of you,” Sasha says, her hands still on your cheek. “And I know he is too.” 

Abraham. Tears stream down both of your faces now.

“There has to be-” you start but Sasha cuts you off.

“There isn’t,” she says gently. “But it’s okay. I’m choosing this. For all of us. For everyone we’ve lost.” She sets her shoulders. “And for me.” 

You can’t help but admire her, her strength, and her resilience, even if your heart is breaking in your chest. 

“He’s proud of you too,” you tell her, your voice small now. “We all are.” You pull her into another hug, pressing all of your love into her.

“I love you,” Sasha says into your shoulder.

“I love you too,” you say into her hair, and you press a kiss into her head before letting go. Wiping your tears, you stand up. “Give him hell,” you tell her.

“I will,” Sasha replies, chin raised in defiance. “Then it’s your turn.”

You nod. You stand and look at Eugene, still holding the tray with tears openly pouring down his face. “Thank you,” tell him. He nods, then places the tray down for Sasha and you both leave the room. As he closes the door, you and Sasha look at each other for the last time.

The next morning, you observe the Savior’s preparations from the large library window. Arms crossed, you watch Sasha and Eugene walk out towards the trucks. Eugene hands her something as they talk, and from your vantage point, you can see the peaceful look on Sasha’s face. You wipe away a stray tear that falls onto your cheek. 

Negan strolls over to them with Arat in tow, and they all look at the casket. You scoff. A casket, really? Negan is one dramatic bitch. You shake your head, disgusted, as you watch Sasha climb inside of it and Negan close the lid.

The door to the library opens behind you, and you don’t have to turn to see who’s walking over to you. You can tell by his footsteps.

Daryl sidles up next to you, gazing out the window.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the window and looking at him. Daryl has his face schooled to look neutral, but you can see the conflict in his eyes. He won’t look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters to the floor.

“I know,” you say again, sighing. “We do what we gotta do to survive.” Daryl nods sadly. You place a hand on his cheek, and he closes his eyes at your touch. “Promise me something.”

Daryl opens his eyes and looks at you. “Ya know I can’t.”

“Just don’t let them hurt the kids,” you say, your voice small. “Please.” 

Slowly, Daryl leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll try,” he replies, voice just as small. He lifts his chin, plants a quick kiss on your brow, and then he is gone. 

You turn back to the window, and watch until the trucks pull out of the courtyard. You send a silent prayer to whoever may be listening. Please keep them safe.

That night is the longest night of your life. After you snuck back from the library, the wives were put on lockdown again. Two guards outside the door, you all settled in for the night in the bedroom. Wild Pursuits close at hand, you tried to get some sleep, but spent most of the night tossing and turning, being woken up from nightmares of your friends and family dying gruesome and painful deaths.

You have no idea when the Saviors got back. After you woke up from your third bad dream, you gave up on sleeping and focused on listening at the door. At one point, you heard a low conversation and something about “blue level.”

“What does ‘blue level’ mean?” you had asked the other women.

Frankie looked up at you from her bed. “It means war,” she had answered in a shaky voice. You had gripped your book even tighter, fingering the pages that hid your weapons, praying you didn’t need to use them.

But when the sun rose next, commotion in the living room startles you awake again. You don’t even remember falling asleep. Sitting up, you hear the door swing open and voices yelling just outside the bedroom. Several of the wives shriek and frantically search for hiding places in the small, bare room.

You don’t get a chance to move before the bedroom door flies open.

“There she is!” a voice yells as multiple Saviors pour into the room. “Grab her!” Hands grab, closing tightly around your arms.

“Get off of me!” you scream as you kick out at your attackers. You catch one in the face before you’re dragged off of your bed and out of the room, Wild Pursuits left abandoned on the floor. The door slams closed as Dawn calls out your name.

You’re dragged, kicking and screaming, out of the living room and down the hallway. You twist and turn, trying to get out of their grasp. But then one of the men kicks you in the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs, and it gives them a chance to catch your legs and carry you. You try to yell out, but you feel like you’re suffocating.

Inhale. You try to catch your breath but you’re struggling.

Inhale. Your captors make a sharp turn, banging you into the wall.

Inhale. Air finally finds its way into your lungs, and on your exhale, you scream as loud as you can.

“Shut the bitch up,” one of the men snarls as a fist catches you in the face. The impact of the hit causes the men to drop you. You try to roll away, but one lands a kick to your ribs and then you’re surrounded.

“This is your fucking fault,” they spit at you as the kick, hit, punch, and grab you wherever they can reach. “We shoulda killed you when you first got here.”

You don’t have time to try and understand what they are saying. All you can do is curl around yourself, trying to protect yourself from the onslaught of hits. One of them grabs you by the hair and yanks your head back, and when another reaches towards you, you lash out, dragging your nails across his face, drawing blood. 

The hand on your hair drags you back further, and another man drops down on top of you, straddling your struggling body. You scream again before he clamps his hand down over your mouth.

“Nobody’s coming to save you,” the man coos cruelly, leaning down until his lips are close to your ear. “We’re going to kill you, and then we’re going to kill everyone in your shitty little town. Every man, woman, and child.”

No! You scream inside your head. As hard as you can, you bite down on the hand over your mouth. 

The man yells and pulls his hand back, the blood from your bite dripping down onto your face. He balls his hand up into a fist and pulls it back. You squeeze your eyes closed, preparing for the impact, when suddenly the man’s weight is lifted off of you. You hear a slam and a grunt, and then more yelling. The hand in your hair lets go of you.

Opening your eyes, you see your attackers swarming around a new person. The figure picks another one of the men up off of the ground, and throws him into the wall, where he slides down, unmoving. The figure turns to the next attacker, and you catch a glimpse of angel wings as he lands another punch. 

Daryl!  

You watch him drop another man to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. The last two attackers turn and hightail it down the hallway. Daryl barely spares them a glance as he kicks the man on the ground, who goes still on impact. Then he drops to his knees in front of you, taking your face in his hands.

“You alright?” he asks, pushing your hair out of your face. “Did they hurt you?”

You try to answer, but you’re unable to form words. You throw yourself at Daryl, wrapping your arms around his neck. He squeezes you into him, rubbing your back with his large hands as you struggle to breathe again, the reality of your attack settling in.

“Yer alright,” Daryl murmurs into your hair as he holds you. “I got you.”

You pull away enough that you can look at him, and you can see the dark circles under his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” you ask him, your voice hoarse from all the screaming.

“‘m fine,” he answers quickly. “But yer not safe.” Daryl stands up, pulling you with him. You immediately feel lightheaded, swaying on your feet. Refusing to let you fall, Daryl quickly loops an arm under your legs and picks you up, cradling you to his chest. Quickly, he starts carrying you back to your room.

“What happened?” you ask him, but he doesn’t answer. He glances around the corner before making the turn. Voices from another end of the hallway cause him to pick up the pace.

“Daryl, what happened?” you ask again, more forcefully this time. It doesn’t sit right with you that he’s not answering.

You feel Daryl’s chest rise and fall against you as he sighs. “There was a fight,” he answers darkly. “I dunno where they got the guns, but when we pulled up, they were waitin’ fer us.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. Guns? This must be what Dr. Carson was trying to tell you. Alexandria was finally making a stand.

“Did they win?” you ask Daryl, gripping his shoulder tightly. “Is it over?” You don’t miss the way his eyes avoid yours, looking everywhere except for your face. “Daryl?”

But before he could answer, a figure steps into the hallway, blocking his path. Dwight. Daryl takes a step back and turns his body, putting as much of himself between you and the other man as possible.

“He wants her,” Dwight says gruffly, his eyes roaming over you and Daryl. It’s not lost on you how this must look to him, with Daryl carrying one of Negan’s wives bridal-style through the Sanctuary.

“She was attacked,” Daryl tries to explain. “She needs t’ go to the doc-”

“Now, Dixon,” Dwight cuts him off with an order. You can feel Daryl’s grip on you tighten as he stares the other man down. Dwight’s hand rests on the holster of the gun on his hip, where he fidgets with the strap. You swallow. If he pulls his weapon, you or Daryl are as good as dead, since his arms are too full of you for him to get to his own weapon in time. 

“Okay,” you speak up. Both men’s eyes snap to you. “I’ll go to him.” You look at Daryl and nod, and he reluctantly places you back on the ground. He keeps a hand on you until he’s sure you’re steady enough to walk. When you turn back to Dwight, he’s eyeing you and Daryl suspiciously. “Lead the way,” you tell him, wanting to get his eyes off of you. Without a word, he does exactly that.

Dwight leads you and Daryl to the war room. There’s a buzz of activity streaming under the door but when it opens, everything goes silent. The Saviors in the room stop what they are doing and stare at you. You walk into the room slowly, your bare feet moving soundlessly on the cold ground.

Negan has his back to you. He’s standing at the table, looking over the papers spread out on top of it. You stop a few feet from him.

“You wanted to see me,” you say to him in your strongest voice. Your throat still feels like sandpaper, but you try to keep your voice steady.

Negan’s shoulders tense before he turns around. Your gut instinct is to run as far as you can from him. His dark eyes are full of rage, and he glowers at you as he leans back against the table.

“My darling wife,” he says, his voice without a trace of his usual charisma. “Do you know why I called you here?” You shake your head, unable to find your voice again. “Come here,” Negan says, reaching a hand out to you. Hesitantly, you step towards his outstretched hand. As you do, Negan turns to face the table with you.

His hand grabs the back of your neck and he quickly slams your face down onto the table. You have just enough time to turn your head as your cheek smashes into the table. You taste blood in your mouth. Negan’s grip keeps you pressed there. 

“This,” Negan growls, indicating the paper underneath your face, “is the list of men I lost today, thanks to Rick and his band of misfit fucking toys.” You’re too close to it to make out any of the writing, but you can see that the list takes up most of the page. Good.

Negan leans down over you, pressing himself into you until his lips are next to your ear. You fight back the urge to try and push him off, afraid of what he will do.

“Did you,” he asks slowly into your ear, “know anything about this?”

“How could I?” you struggle to ask back, with your face still pressed against the surface and your mouth filling with blood. “I’ve been here - with you.”

Negan stands up quickly, pulling you with him. He grips your face, squeezing each of your cheeks. You feel blood trickle down your chin.

“Now is not the time to get smart with me,” he threatens. Over his shoulder, you can just make out Daryl, who looks like he’s fighting the urge to step in and help you. “Did you know about this?” Negan asks you again, pressing his fingers into your cheeks.

“N-no,” you force out. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, squeezing even harder.

“Yes!” you cry out. Negan glares at you before letting you go, pushing you away from him. You reach your hand up to your face, trying to rub the pain out of your cheeks.

“I don’t know who they think they are, or what they think they’re going to accomplish, but we are going to end this,” Negan announces to the room. “We are going to kill them. Every. Last. One. Of. Them.” He emphasizes each word. 

The Saviors around the room cheer, some calling out in agreement. Your chest heaves as you try to fight the panic that rises up your throat. 

Negan’s eyes lock on you. “How’s that sound, dollface?” he asks cruelly. You don’t answer. All you can muster is a glare. But this makes him grin. “Oh now you have nothing to say?” he laughs an angry, mean laugh as he walks towards you. “Do you want me to kill them all?” he asks when he reaches you.

You glare up at him. “No,” you answer defiantly. 

Negan lets out a low whistle, then begins to circle you like a shark. “You know, if that’s how you really feel, you should be on your knees begging me not to kill them.” He stops behind you and laughs again. “Or at least on your knees doing something to convince me.” Stifled laughter breaks out from the Saviors in the room. 

Cheeks burning, you turn around and face him again, glaring even harder. “You’re disgusting,” you snap at him.

Negan grins. “Are you gonna beg me, babydoll?” he asks, twisting a few loose strands of your hair around his fingers.

“No,” you spit out. 

His smile drops immediately. “Then get out of my sight,” he snarls at you. When you make for the door, Negan speaks again. “Actually, men,” he calls out to the Saviors blocking your path. “I think my wife here needs a little time out. Take her to the box.”

“The what?” you ask, whipping around to look at him. But the Saviors on either side of you grab you and you’re being dragged out of the room again. To your horror, you watch Daryl lurch forward, but Dwight stops him with a hand on his chest. The last things you see before the door slams are his bright blue eyes, wide with fear.

The Saviors dragging you move quickly, carrying you down the nearest flight of stairs to the lower level. The dungeon , you remember and that’s when the panic fully takes over. You try to pull yourself out of their grasp but their grip on you is tight, and you can feel your skin burning under their touch. 

They drag you to a closed door, and another Savior steps in to unlock and open the door. Your captors pick you up and toss you inside. You bounce off of the back wall and fall to the floor, where you land in something wet. Blood. Terror fills you as you realize where you are: Sasha’s cell.

“No,” you plead. “No, please don’t leave me here!”

But the Saviors slam the door in your face, and you’re left in darkness.

Chapter Text

It’s dark. Can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-own-face dark.

And cold. You lay on the concrete floor, the freezing temperature seeping through the thin cotton of your pajamas. And you just stare into that darkness.

So this is what giving up feels like.

After the cell door was slammed in your face, you tried everything. You begged. You kicked. You punched at the door, probably breaking your finger again. You scratched at the walls until your fingers bled. You screamed your throat raw. 

And nothing happened. No one came.

So you lay there. Hours pass. You don’t know how many. The tiny sliver of light from underneath the door to your prison doesn’t give you any indication of what time of day it is. Once or twice, you see the shadow of feet walk past your door, but nothing comes of it.

So you lay there.

You jolt awake to the sound of music. 

“We’re on easy street.”

You don’t remember falling asleep, but the annoying song brings you back to your current situation. 

“And it feels so sweet.”

Your head snaps to the door, straining your eyes to peer underneath it for any sign of what the fuck is happening. But there’s nothing.

“‘Cause the world is but a treat when you’re on easy street.”

You scream into the darkness.

The light assaults your eyes as the door flies open. Blind, you crawl to the back wall of your cell, using your hands to block the light. 

When you peer around them through squinted eyes, you can just barely make out a figure in the doorway. The brightness behind him makes it impossible to make out his features, but the way he keeps his distance tells you that he is no friend to you. 

The figure bends down, placing something on the floor. He waits. When you don’t move, he slides whatever it is towards you.

Your eyes start to adjust to the light that fills the room, and you look down at it: a sandwich on a small ceramic plate. You just stare at it.

The figure in the doorway stares too, still crouched down. Eventually you stare back at him, otherwise not moving a muscle. You still can’t see exactly who it is, but honestly, you don’t even care.

He eventually sighs, straightening up. He takes one last look at you, before turning and leaving the cell. He closes the door behind him, and the darkness envelops you again.

“We’re on easy street.”

The stupid song blaring through your cell for the second time that - day? You actually have no idea how long it’s been - makes you jump.

“And it feels so sweet.”

You’re still sitting against the back wall. The sandwich sits in front of you, untouched. The thought of eating makes your stomach churn. 

“‘Cause the world is but a treat when you’re on easy street.”

Exhaling a deep sigh, you let your eyes fall closed as the song repeats over and over and over.

You’re in the same position when the door opens again. This time, you squeeze your eyes closed, anticipating the brightness that floods your cell. Slowly, you open them, squinting up at the figure in the doorway. 

He steps into the cell, sighing when he sees the untouched sandwich in front of you. He picks up the plate with the old food, and places down a new one. It has another sandwich on it, this time accompanied by what looks like potato chips. 

“Come on,” the figure whispers. “You gotta eat.” It takes your exhausted brain a while to recognize the voice as Dwight’s. So he’s been your prison guard, you muse. “Can you do that?” he asks, his tone gentle.

You stare at him, blinking slowly, but make no effort to do as he asks. 

Dwight lets out an annoyed huff before standing up. He makes like he’s going to leave, but then he stops in the doorway. He looks back at you over his shoulder.

“Make it easy on yourself,” he says.

Lifting your chin, you look up at him. You tilt your head slightly to the side and glare.

Dwight sighs again and turns to face you, leaning on the side of the doorframe.

“This doesn’t need to be this hard,” he continues, talking to you as if you were a child. “You have it easy, with him. You don’t have to work, or fight, or do anything.”

He pauses again, inviting you to respond. All you do is glare, your eyes flickering down to the weapon on his waistband before landing back on his face. You stay silent.

“Just - I don’t know,” Dwight twirls his hand, trying to find the right words. “Bat your eyes, flip your hair. Just do what he asks of you, and you’ll be fine.”

“Like Sherry did?” you ask, so quietly, you wouldn’t have known that he heard you if you didn’t see him flinch. 

This makes you smile, an ugly, unhinged-looking smile. You feel your dry lips crack down the middle, but you lick them and continue.

“Like Sherry fluttered her eyelashes, played coy and cute, while get fucked by the man that burned half your ugly face off?” you ask louder this time, your voice hoarse and scratchy from lack of use and dehydration. “Is that what I should do?”

Dwight doesn’t answer, but you can hear his raspy breathing as your cruel words sink in. You watch him shake in anger, then close his eyes, trying to calm himself down.

“Did you tell her to do all that too, Dwighty boy?” you sneer at him. 

When he remains quiet, you finally move from your spot. You grab the sandwich, plate and all, and throw it at him as hard as you can in your weakened state. It hits him square in the chest, bursting open and smearing whatever condiment was on it - no doubt a commodity in this place - all over his shirt.

This awakens Dwight from his meditation. His eyes snap open and he glares at you, still kneeling in the middle of the cell.

“You should be dead,” he all but spits at you. “But Negan’s taken a shine to you. You’re lucky. Don’t forget.”

He lifts his hand from the doorframe and you flinch, anticipating him grabbing his weapon and ending you right there. But instead, Dwight reaches into the pocket of his now-dirty shirt and pulls out what looks like a slip of paper. He flings it at you, and it shoots past your ear, hitting the wall behind you.

“Bon appetit,” he hisses before slamming the door closed.

The sound of it echoes through the small room. You’re still on the ground, chest heaving from the exertion of your cruelty. Serves him right, you tell yourself, but there’s little fire behind it. You’re just so, so tired.

Slowly, you crawl back to your spot along the wall. But when you near it, your hand lands on something small and smooth. You jump back in fear.

Reaching out carefully, you find it again and pick up the foreign object. It’s the paper that Dwight flung at you. Except it’s not paper at all. It’s too firm, with sharp corners. A photograph, maybe?

With the mystery object in hand, you crawl towards the door of the cell. Laying on your stomach, you bring it up to the tiny amount of light that shines through the gap between the door and the floor. You were right - it is a photograph. A polaroid, to be exact. 

But the picture is dark, too difficult to make out in the little light that you have. So you squint your eyes, and lean in to examine it further. Holding it closer to the dim light, you can just make out what looks like shoulders, and then - 

A scream tears through the silence. You jump back in alarm, flinging the picture from your hands as if it burned you. Your back slams into the back wall of the cell as you put as much space between you and the picture. It’s only as the air is pushed from your lungs that you realize that you are the one screaming.

Glenn.

Your hands reach up and grip your hair, pulling on it as if you can physically yank the word from your mind.

Glenn.

Chest tightening, your breaths come out in wheezes.

Inhale. Glenn.

Inhale. Glenn.

Inhale. You lurch forward, landing hard on your hands and knee as you vomit up the little that remains in your stomach. You heave until you have nothing left to give.

After what feels like forever, your arms give out and you fall to the side, sobs shaking your body until you eventually pass out.

“We’re on easy street.”

The song doesn’t even stir anything in you this time. You are an empty shell. You feel nothing.

“And it feels so sweet.”

Your brain barely registers that something soft has been wrapped around you. A blanket, by the feel of it.

“‘Cause the world is but a treat when you’re on easy street.”

Rolling over, you look towards the sliver of light under the door. The photograph is no longer there.

By the time that your door opens next, you are barely there. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you are entirely numb. You couldn’t turn to see who’s there even if you wanted to. Your body has nothing left to give.

Hopefully he’s here to finish me off this time, you think to yourself dully. Dwight hasn’t returned since you snapped at him, when you took his kindness and threw it back in his face, even though the extent of that kindness is really up for debate. You puff out a weak exhale.

In your fog, you barely register the arms that slip underneath you and lift you off of the cold ground. The most you can do is curl into the person’s chest and cover your face when you’re carried out into the bright lights of the hallway. 

Guess he’s taking me somewhere else to kill me, your brain reasons.

You hear voices but can’t make out the words, as if your ears are full of cotton. Another door opens. The person’s grip on your tightens, so you’re barely jostled as you’re carried up a flight of stairs. Another door opens and closes.

Maybe I’ll get to see the sun again before I die. That sounds nice. Your lips curl up in a small smile, cracking in the middle again. You can taste the faint essence of iron as they bleed into your dry mouth.

Another set of lips press into your hair, moving slightly. Still groggy, you try to focus on them.

“I got you, princess,” you hear and feel the words against your scalp. 

Daryl. The thought of his name alone tightens your chest. You must really be dehydrated, because now you’re hearing things. Probably hallucinating. But the very thought of him makes your heart feel like it’s cracking in two. I’m going to die without getting to say goodbye. That realization chokes you, causing you to cough into your blanket.

“Breathe,” you hear his voice say. “Just breathe.” It’s like he’s here with you, talking you through your final moments. You can almost feel his lips press into your hair, kissing you, calming you.

Wait-

Another door opens. You’re suddenly placed down on a soft surface. Eyes still squeezed shut, you curl further into yourself, pulling your legs into your chest, too empty to do much more. You duck your head down to meet your knees.

“I got her,” you hear someone say, then you hear a door open and close again. You feel a presence in front of you.

Is this it?

Hands graze over your cheeks, your hair, gently coaxing you to lift your head. With no energy to fight anymore, you’re pliable in their hands. They cup your cheeks and pull your head out from behind your knees. 

“I got you,” you hear his voice again, as calloused thumbs rub your cheekbones. The slightest bit of hope flutters in your chest, urging your heart to not give out. You crack your eyes open, still not adjusted to the light, and you're met with beautiful oceans of blue. Still dizzy, you focus on them, using them as your anchor as you come back to the world. You take in the bright baby blue and the deeper cobalt, and the little streaks of gorgeous green that shoot through them, those eyes that you know so well.

Daryl kneels before you, stroking your hair, bringing you back down to earth.

“I’m here,” you can feel the rumble of his gruff voice against your legs. “I’m gonna take care o’ you.” He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The feel of his lips on your skin is like a jolt from a defibrillator, coaxing you back to life. But the exhaustion and dehydration still threaten to overtake you like a weighted blanket, so the best you can do is groan softly in acknowledgement. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?” Daryl says, carefully unwrapping the blanket from around you. His hands then move to your legs, where he gently unfolds each of them until your feet touch the floor. You watch him with lazy eyes, which can barely maintain their focus on the present. Your vision is blurry, but you focus on his movements to keep yourself grounded. 

Placing his hands on your waist, Daryl helps you to stand. Weak from lack of use, your legs buckle underneath you, but once again, he’s there to catch you. With him guiding you, you take in your surroundings: you’re in his room, no longer in a cell. You exhale a low sigh of relief. Safe, you think as he walks you towards the small bathroom.

Daryl lowers you to sit on the closed toilet before - after ensuring that you’re not going to fall over - he turns to start running the shower. The sound of the water slapping the tile causes you to jump, but Daryl’s immediately back in front of you, hands on your, grounding you. He rubs feeling into your arms, then stretches them above your head. You let him, your body so weak, making you putty in his hands.

Gingerly, he lifts your shirt over your head and off, placing it on the floor next to him. He does the same to your shorts, shimmying them off of you without making you move too much. Then he carefully pulls you to your feet, his hands on your waist to support you. Vaguely, you realize that you’re standing before him naked as the day you were born, but you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed. You watch him, how he keeps his eyes on your face, his eyes boring into yours, reading you like a book. 

Daryl guides you into the shower, and the spray of the hot water is like a jolt of electricity to your cold skin. Your eyes fall closed, leaning into the warmth that you haven’t felt in who knows how long. It feels incredible. Lulled by the heat, you stumble back, falling into Daryl’s broad chest. Your eyes shoot open in surprise. But he holds you in place with a hand on your waist, and you watch the other reach around you for the soap on the small shelf.

Touching you as if you are made of glass, Daryl drags a lathered washcloth over your body, cleaning the grim from your skin. He carefully moves across your shoulders, down each of your arms, even down your legs. Guiding you with his other hand, he spins you around to face him. His hand moves up to your face, his dipping low to meet your eyes, asking permission. You nod the best you can, and Daryl, without breaking your gaze, lathers your chest and your stomach with the soapy cloth. His touch is so gentle, so soft; so different than the last time anyone’s had their hands on you. 

Dropping the washcloth to the ground, he moves you further into the steam of hot water, turning you to face away from him again. The suds from the soap slide down your body, sending a small shiver up your spin. But Daryl’s hand on your waist again keeps you from keeling over.

He reaches past you again, grabbing a bottle of shampoo. His hand on your waist, guides you to lean back onto his chest before he lets go. You can feel his heartbeat on your back, and you focus on that steady rhythm to keep yourself standing. When his fingers find their way into your hair, your eyes fall closed again. Daryl massages the shampoo into your scalp, careful not to pull your hair, and the feeling of his strong fingers on you pulls a low moan from your lips. You can feel his chest behind you move with the low vibration of a chuckle, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

After a few minutes, Daryl’s hands move from your hair to your shoulders, and he spins you around again so that the water can wash the shampoo from your hair. One of his hands runs over your hair, while the other holds you in place. The heat from both the water and his touch is so comforting, so safe. You lean into him involuntarily, not wanting this moment to end. You faintly hear his breath hitch as his forehead meets yours, and you take your first big inhale in days, just breathing him in.

Before you know it, the watch switches off and you're engulfed in a large, soft towel. Carefully, Daryl picks you up again, bridal style, and carries you out of the shower, out of the bathroom, and back into his room. He places you down on his bed again, before turning to his dresser, digging through the drawers for some clothes. He tosses a t-shirt and shorts onto the bed, before pulling his own shirt over his head. You long to reach out and touch him, but he hears the shifting of the bed under your weight and turns to you, holding you in place with his gaze before slipping a new shirt on.

Frozen in place, you watch him crouch in front of you. He puts his hand on the towel, and you loosen your own grip on it to allow him to dry you off. The softness of the fabric gliding over your wet skin both warms you and helps to bring you back to life, and you start to feel like a person again. When he deems you sufficiently dry, Daryl reaches for the clothes on the bed. He gently glides the shirt over your head, working your arms out through the sleeves, then helps you into the shorts. You realize sheepishly that they are boxers, and you feel a blush pepper your cheeks. 

A knock at the door causes you to jump, and you scramble off of the bed and onto the floor, looking for somewhere to hide. Dayrl reaches a hand out to you. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. Glancing between him and the door, you cautiously take his hand, and he helps you back onto the bed. You curl into yourself and watch him make his way towards the door. He opens it a crack, peers out, then opens it the rest of the way.

Peering over your knees, you see Dawn in the doorway. You’re not sure what to make of her presence until you notice the tray of food in her hands.

“Anyone see you?” Daryl asks the other wife as she enters the room.

Dawn shakes her head. “I have friends who work in the kitchens, so I knew where everything was,” she explains as she places the tray on the table. She turns, crouching in front of you. She reaches out to touch you before changing her mind, dropping her hands to her lap. “I’m happy to see you,” she says softly. “We got you out as soon as we could.”

Her words surprise you, and you gape at her, your eyes flickering to Daryl and back. They worked together to get you out of that cell? Your heart stutters in your chest. You want to thank her, thank him, say anything, but your throat tightens, so you reach out and place a hand on her shoulder. She covers your hand with hers, a small smile on her lips, before getting up to leave. She turns to Daryl.

“I don’t think anyone knows she’s out, so you shouldn’t have to worry about anything,” Dawn says to him. “I’ll be back a little later.”

Daryl nods at your friend. “Thanks,” he replies. Dawn nods at him, sends you another smile, and then slips out of the room. 

After watching her go, Daryl goes to the tray that Dawn had brought, and brings you a cup of water.

“Small sips,” he instructs you. You take the cup from him, and sip on it slowly. You feel the water move down your throat and into your empty stomach, and it takes a lot of convincing on your part not to chug the entire thing. Thankfully, Daryl takes it back from you after a few sips and replaces it with a bowl of soup. 

“Same thing,” Daryl says, handing you a spoon. Hands shaking, you grip it and bring some of the broth to your slips. The warmth of it spreads through your body almost immediately. Your stomach groans and, this time, you don’t heed his advice: you scarf down the soup, your body ravenous for your first meal in probably days. The soup is hot, and it nearly scalds your insides, but you can’t get enough. In moments, you’re basically licking the bowl, trying not to waste a drop. 

When the bowl is spotless, you hold it out to Daryl, who's been watching you this entire time. Shaking his head, he takes it from you and drops it onto the tray. Then he sits down on the bed, pulling you into him until you’re sitting between his legs. 

Daryl’s hands find their way into your hair again, untucking it from inside your borrowed shirt. He reveals a hairbrush, and starts running it through your wet hair. Being mindful not to pull it, he brushes out the tangles, working carefully on any knots he finds. It’s incredibly soothing, and you feel the tension you’ve been holding in start to slip from your body. Eyes closing again, your shoulders slump and you lean into his touch, each swipe of the brush through your hair. 

In a million years, you never thought you would be in this position. A giggle bubbles up from your throat, but it comes out as a wheeze, as if your body doesn’t know how to laugh anymore. The brush freezes in your hair.

“You alright?” Daryl asks. He gently turns your head so that you’re facing him, the concern evident on his face. 

“Didn’t expect you to own a hairbrush,” your rasp, your voice small from disuse. You grin at him.

Daryl shrugs. “I may have stole it,” he answers, a smirk on his lips.

You laugh, your body finally discarding all of the stress that’s been keeping you wound so tightly. You laugh harder, until your laughter slowly turns into sobs as all of the feelings you’ve been suppressing force their way to the surface. Tears pour down your face and your struggle to breathe, but Daryl hands are immediately on you, one holding your face, the other rubbing your back.

You fall into his chest, and you cry. You cry and you cry and you cry, and he holds you through it all.

Chapter Text

It’s dark. Eyes wide open, you can’t see a thing. 

You reach your hands out, trying to feel for the wall of your cell, but you find nothing. You reach down, you can’t feel the floor either. It’s like you’re floating inside of a black hole.

Straining your ears, you listen for any signs of your captors. Nothing. The silence is also deafening, the pressure in your ears almost painful.

Then suddenly, you feel hands on you. They grab your arms, your legs, your throat. A hand clamps over your open mouth. You try to scream, but the hand blocks any sound from escaping you.

Then you’re falling, all of the hands on you dragging you further into the darkness, pulling you down, down, down-

You wake up screaming. Tangled in the sheets, you kick them off of the bed. You crawl to the wall, pulling your knees up to your chest. Hands on your face, you find you’re still screaming.

You hear your name. Hands clasp around your wrists and you scream again. But this time, they let go. 

Inhale. It was just a dream.

Exhale. Was it a dream?

Inhale. I think so.

Exhale. You finally open your eyes and take in your situation.

You’re in your bed. In the wives’ bedroom. Dawn is crouched down next to you, her hands up to show you that she means no harm. The rest of the wives are on their beds, wearing facial expressions varying from fear to irritation.

“You’re safe,” Dawn says softly. “It was just a dream.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, your eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dawn reassures you, but you don’t miss Frankie’s annoyed scoff from across the room.

You can’t blame her. This is the second night in a row you’ve woken everybody up.

After Daryl put you back together, Dawn had snuck you back to the wives’ quarters to sleep. Except you couldn’t, and you woke up screaming in the middle of the night, scaring the shit out of the rest of the women. In an attempt to force yourself back to sleep, you downed an entire bottle of scotch out in the living room. But instead of knocking you out, it made you sick, and you spent the rest of the night throwing up in the small bathroom off of the bedroom, effectively keeping everyone awake.

After that sleepless night, you and the rest of the wives tried to get through the day, but you just couldn’t do it. Every loud noise made you jump and the smell of food made you want to hurl again, so eventually you snuck out of the room. You made it as far as the library, hiding between two shelves with your head between your knees before passing out in a heap on the floor. Most of the day slipped by this way, until you were startled awake by a woman and her small children, who must’ve thought you were a dead body on the floor. Muttering apologies, you ran back to your quarters, where you hid in a corner for the rest of the day.

Right now, shame burns across your cheeks as you look at the sleepless faces of your roommates. Even Dawn, beneath her sympathetic gaze, looks exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, crawling off of your bed. “I’m just gonna…” you trail off as you make your way to the door.

“Please don’t drink anything besides water,” Tanya calls from her bed, where she’s already laying back down.

You just nod before slipping out of the bedroom. Out in the living room, there are multiple candles lit, illuminating the space in a dim, eerie glow. But to you, it felt like sunshine: the darkness that has been plaguing you finally being held at bay. Ignoring the Savior guard, you sit on one of the couches, pulling your knees up towards your chest. And you sit. 

Focusing on the nearest little flame, you sit for hours. Your mind blank. Your body numb. You sit and watch the light. Resting your chin on your knees, sleep evades you, and you’re grateful for it. The feeling of those dream hands on your skin still sends shivers up your spine, and you force down the tremors that threaten to overtake you. Paying attention to your breathing - in through your nose, out through your mouth - you sit.

When the sun rises, the rest of the Sanctuary wakes up. The wives begin to stir and get ready for their day. Breakfast is delivered on a small, rickety cart and set up near the bar. The Savior guard - who has ignored you just as much as you’ve ignored him - grows restless.

You don’t know what time it is when the door to the living room opens again, and Daryl walks in. You see him but you don’t, your eyes unfocused, still watching the flickering candle in front of you. But you can feel his presence, his gaze washing over your skin: taking in your curled up position, the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your face. He doesn’t say anything or approach you. Daryl whispers something to the babysitter, before turning on his heel and leaving again.

Some time later - it could’ve been minutes or hours, you wouldn’t have been able to tell if you tried - Daryl returns. He walks over to Dawn, talking to her in a low voice. Then the woman approaches you.

“Let’s get you dressed,” she says kindly, helping you off of the couch. Still numb, you follow her into the bedroom. 

Dawn gets you ready for the day like you’re a doll to dress up. She gets you changed out of your pajamas and into a clean, black dress. She brushes your hair, pulling it into a loose ponytail that falls over your shoulder. She drags you into the bathroom but gives you privacy - “I love you but that’s where I draw the line,” she says before closing the door - and you manage to brush your teeth, wash your face, and handle the rest of your business on your own. 

When you’re finished, Dawn walks you back out into the living room, handing you off to Daryl. He nods at her, before opening the door, nodding for you to follow. He leads you through the halls of the Sanctuary. You don’t even pay attention to where you’re going; you just follow the angel wings in front of you. 

Daryl stops before a door that you’ve never seen before. Turning to face you, he drinks in the sight of you: the faraway look in your eye, the dark circles underneath, the way that you wrap your arms around your chest, like you’re physically holding yourself together. When you can finally meet his gaze, his bright blue eyes are laced with concern, and your chest feels ready to crack in two. 

Slowly, Daryl raises a gentle hand to your face, leaving a small gap between himself and your cheek, and you realize he’s letting you decide if you want to be touched. And in that moment, you discover how much you do. You lean into his hand, into the warmth of his skin, your eyes falling closed. Daryl affectionately runs his thumb across your cheek, and you can feel him sigh. You open your eyes again, letting your head fall forward slightly, but he catches it with a quick press of his lips to your forehead.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, lowering his hand to grasp yours before turning to unlock the door behind him.

A sliver of bright light shines through the crack of the door as he opens it. Daryl pauses, letting you adjust to the sudden brightness before opening it the rest of the way and pulling you through.

After days of imprisonment and being cooped up inside, it takes you a moment to realize that the light is actual sunshine. The warmth of it makes your skin tingle, the hair on your arms standing up at the heat of it. You welcome the sun’s kiss, and you lift your head up to face it, your eyes closing again as you bask in it. Unable to fight it, your lips curl up into a smile, something that feels foreign on your face.

When you finally open your eyes again, you find Daryl gazing at you. His face looks relaxed for once, his usual scowl gone. He looks almost mesmerized as he watches you drink in the sunlight. The smile on your face and the way that your skin glows, illuminating the array of freckles across your face, has him frozen in place. His chest tightens, but not in an uncomfortable way.

“Feelin’ better?” Daryl asks you, his voice raspy, highlighting his Southern drawl.

You nod in response, your eyes alight with life, a drastic difference from the previous deadpan stare they held. 

Daryl chuckles, dropping his head to look at his feet, hoping that his hair hides the blush of his cheeks.

“What?” you ask, squeezing his hand that you’re still holding.

He shakes his head. “Yer like a plant,” he says, a small smirk on his lips. 

This makes you smile again. “So I’ve been told,” you reply. “Like a weed.”

“Nah,” Daryl says, so quickly you almost miss it. “A flower.”

This time, you both blush, the heat burning your cheeks in the way the sun never could. You drop your gaze too, and you both stand there, smiling to yourselves like idiots, your hands still linked together in between you.

Recovering first, Daryl eventually clears his throat. “C’mon,” he says again, pulling you along behind him. You follow, watching your feet as you walk, your head still giddy from his words.

Daryl leads you to what looks like a small workshop, full of tables covered in tools and miscellaneous scraps of metal. You see several cars and motorcycles parked nearby, in varying states of disrepair. Daryl lets go of your hand with a squeeze, leaving you to gaze around the space. He disappears around one of the walls, reemerging a few minutes later with one of the bikes in tow. He parks it in the middle of the shop, in a spot of direct sunlight through the open roof.

“This one yours?” you ask, approaching it.

Daryl lifts his head in a nod. “Figured you could help me work on it,” he explains, turning to grab a toolbox from one of the tables.

You circle the bike slowly, running your hand over the warm leather seat. “I don’t know anything about bikes,” you tell him, a little embarrassed.

“I’ll teach ya,” Daryl replies simply, his lips lifting in a lopsided grin as he comes back over to you and the bike.

The two of you pass the next few hours this way: Daryl taking apart the bike and putting it back together again, and you helping out the best you can. He has you fetch different tools for him from the tables, and even has you work on a few bits, your small hands allowing you to reach places his larger hands can’t fit. Each time you successfully follow his directions, you can’t help but smile, and you can feel him smiling too.

All the while, Daryl explains what each of the parts are and what they do. And with the most clarity you’ve had in days, you find yourself learning a lot. He is insanely knowledgeable about bikes and the mechanics of them, and you hang onto every word, his obvious excitement over the bike and teaching you about it is infectious. He moves around the space with a lightness you’ve never seen in him, and it makes you want to stay here forever, this little bubble of happiness in a place full of so much hate and pain.

But all bubbles have to pop, and yours is burst by a familiar, unwelcome voice.

You are sitting on the ground next to the bike, Daryl kneeling beside you, pointing out where the shocks are and explaining what they do when you’re interrupted.

“What is she doing out here?” the voice snaps, catching your attention like nails on a chalkboard, and you don’t need to look up to know who it is. Dwight.  

You feel Daryl’s body tense from his place next to you. His gaze flickers over to your face, where he finds your eyes wide with fear, focusing really hard on the bike in front of you. He watches your knuckles go white as you squeeze the wrench he asked you to hold.

“What’s it look like?” Daryl gruffly answers the other man, not even sparing him a glance. “Workin’ on my bike.”

“But why is she here?” Dwight asks again, his voice venomous as he refers to you like you’re a bug he accidentally stepped on. But you can barely hear him over the sound of your breaths coming out in wheezes, your chest tightening since you first heard his voice.

Sensing your discomfort, Daryl places one of his large hands over yours on the tool, slowly working to loosen your grip on it.

“Helpin’” he tells Dwight simply, but the hate in his voice is clear.

The other Savior walks further into the workspace, and your body involuntarily shudders with each step he takes.

“She should be inside, under guard with the rest of them,” Dwight is saying, and when you finally look up at him over the bike, you see his hand resting on the weapon at his hip.

“I’m guardin’ ‘er,” Daryl answers, glaring up at the other man.

“Ya know,” Dwight continues as if he didn’t say anything. “If Negan knew about the special interest you’ve taken in his wife…” He trails off, fiddling with the snap on his holster, his threat unsaid but evident.

Daryl stands at this, taking the wrench from your hands with him. He stares down the other man, his fingers flexing over the tool in his hand. They both watch each other like two predators, waiting for the other to make the first move.

But you speak up first.

“Like you with Sherry?” you ask, lifting your face so you can glare at the Savior fully. He finally looks at you, and you relish in his flinch. Seems he hasn’t forgotten the cruel things you said to him in your cell. This only spurs your next words. “I’m allowed out here,” you continue. “But you can run off to my husband and ask him yourself, if you don’t believe me.” 

Dwight doesn’t answer, his face reddening with anger. Or shame, maybe, you think, a small satisfied smirk on your face. He looks away from you, glaring at Daryl - who hasn’t moved through this whole interaction - before turning on his heel and scurrying away.

Daryl watches him go. “You shouldn’t push him like that,” he says to you, his eyes still following the other man.

“What’s he gonna do - lock me up and torture me?” you ask sarcastically. “Oh wait.” Daryl can feel your eye roll even if he can’t see it. 

“All right,” he says, chuckling at your brashness. “Back to work, princess.”

By the time the sun is setting in the sky, you and Daryl are putting the finishing touches on the motorcycle. You’re putting the tools back onto the tables while he polishes the completed project, insisting on doing it himself because it’s “his baby.” You had rolled your eyes at this and got out of his way, but couldn’t resist smiling when you saw the care that he took to clean his beloved bike.

“So when do I get to go for a ride on it?” you ask after putting the last of the tools away. You notice the way that Daryl stiffens at your question, his hand freezing halfway through wiping down the seat of the machine.

“I think tha’ would be pushin’ our luck a bit, don’tcha think?” Daryl says, eyes flickering back to where Dwight was standing earlier.

“Yeah,” you reply with a sigh. “You’re probably right.”

Daryl walks around the bike towards you, tossing the rag onto the nearest table. “One day,” he says, taking your hands in his.

“Promise?” you ask, gazing up at him.

He grins. “Promise.”

You start to smile back, but you’re suddenly overtaken with a wave of exhaustion, and you have to fight to stifle a yawn.

Daryl’s grin drops. “You alright?” he asks, worry furrowing his brow.

“Yeah,” you answer through another yawn. “Just tired.” You shiver, an unexpected chill running up your spine. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“What do ya mean?” Daryl asks, wrapping his arms around you too and pulling you close. 

“Nightmares,” you say to his chest, unable to meet his eye. “I don’t like the dark,” you add, your voice small. 

Daryl pulls you in tighter, pressing you to his chest and resting his chin on the top of your head. You feel the vibrations of his hum.

“What?” you ask him.

“I got an idea,” he replies, pressing a kiss into your hair.

That night after lights out, you’re sitting up in your bed. The darkness of the room already putting you on edge, you focus on your breathing, tapping each of your fingers in a steady rhythm and counting.

Inhale. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Exhale. 4, 3, 2, 1.

Inhale. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Exhale. 4, 3, 2, 1.

A light knock on the door draws your attention. You peer up as it opens just a crack, and Daryl’s face pops into view, a finger to his lips. He waves you over, and you silently crawl off of your bed. He opens the door wider for you, and you slip through behind him.

To your surprise, the living room is illuminated in a soft, warm glow. Looking around, you spot the small lantern set up on the coffee table and the pile of pillows and blankets on the couch. And the best part is that the room is empty except for you and Daryl.

You turn to him and smile.

“How?” you ask quietly.

Daryl shrugs. “No one wants the night shift,” he answers simply. “C’mon,” he grabs you by the hand and pulls you towards the couch. “Figured you might feel more comfortable sleepin’ with the light,” he explains, urging you to sit. When you do, he turns to walk away, but you don’t let his hand go.

“Stay with me,” you plead, pulling his hand towards you.

Daryl looks down at you, and your eyes - glassy with both fear and exhaustion - cause his chest to ache. Throat tight, he nods, sitting down beside you. Grabbing a blanket, you lay yourself down, resting your head on a pillow that he places on his lap. You sigh contentedly, letting your heavy eyelids fall closed. Daryl plays with your hair, pushing the loose strands off of your face and twirling the ends between his fingers, and you fall into your first deep sleep in days.

This is how you get through the next few days: Daryl spends each night on babysitting duty, holding you until you fall asleep, and you wake up each day when his replacement arrives. Daryl is always sitting on the chair by the door when they get there, having expertly slid out from underneath your pillow without waking you. The darkness is held at bay by both his presence and the lantern light, and you’ve started sleeping through the night without waking up or screaming. 

You can feel yourself getting stronger each day. Being well-rested makes you less jumpy, so you’re better able to tolerate being under constant guard by the Saviors. Your appetite even comes back, and you’re able to eat without feeling like you’re going to puke. The dark circles under your eyes have faded to a much lighter shade of purple, and your clothes return to fitting you the way they are supposed to.

You fill your days with reading, eating, and talking to the other wives, all in anticipation of Daryl’s return at nightfall. When he’s with you, you feel more comfortable, but you know that you’re not truly safe. You pester him with questions about Negan’s plans and Alexandria. In a low voice, he tells you about the recent attacks on some Savior outposts and how they’ve upped the security on the fences. But that’s the most you can get out of him. Besides, he usually coaxes you to sleep before you can ask too many questions, playing with your hair or rubbing your back until your breathing grows heavy.

Another part of the routine that you and Daryl had fallen into was him picking you up each day from your quarters to help him with whatever task he had to do outside. Some days the two of you worked on the vehicles. One day he even brought you to help with the fences, which really consisted of you laying in the sunlight while he oversaw the other prisoners and Eugene building up the Sanctuary defenses. While you laid back on your blanket, you kept your eyes closed but your ears open as you listened to your former friend’s directions and overexplanations, committing as much information to memory as you could.

But today feels different. From the moment Daryl comes to get you, the Sanctuary is buzzing with an energy you haven’t felt before. And while it scares you, you’re also determined to figure out what it means.

Walking behind Daryl with your head down, like a good captive, you steal glances left and right. You watch Savior soldiers talking in small groups, giddy expressions on your faces. That can’t be good, you think, as you strain to hear what they’re saying. You can barely make out any of their words, until you distinctively hear the word “Hilltop.” Tripping over your own feet, you stumble into Daryl’s back.

Quick hands catching you, Daryl stops walking, looking at you with one eyebrow raised. You nod your head towards the Saviors talking. Daryl’s gaze turns to them, and he starts walking towards them when the grating voice causes you both to freeze mid-step.

“Wow! This place is impressive!” 

That voice. You’ve only heard it a few times, but it sends a cold chill over you nonetheless. Turning slowly, you watch in horror as Gregory, the leader of the Hilltop, struts down the hall of the Sanctuary, escorted by none other than Simon himself.

“I know, Gregory,” the disgusting man says, the grin on his face looking very forced. “You keep saying that.”

“But it is!” the other man insists, looking around in wonder. 

“It sure is,” Simon replies, sighing. “Come on, this way so you can talk to Negan.”

You can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips.

This definitely isn’t good.

Chapter Text

You pace outside the door of Negan’s war room. Back and forth, straining your ears to hear the conversation within. After finding Gregory within the Sanctuary walls, you begged Daryl to follow them and find out what he needed to talk to Negan about. This led you to the war room, where Gregory is meeting with Negan and his lieutenants, Daryl included.

But that was an hour ago, and they haven’t come out yet. And you are getting tired of waiting. Trying to keep your breathing steady, you come up with a plan.

Inhale. Go inside.

Exhale. Convince Negan you’ve learned your lesson.

Inhale. Figure out what Gregory is up to.

Exhale. Escape.

Inhale. Alert Alexandria.

Exhale. You raise your hand to knock.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and you’re face to face with Dwight. Your breath hitches. He glares at you. Then he stalks past you and down the hallway, leaving the door wide open. You can hear Negan rambling on about who knows what. You steel yourself, then you walk inside.

Negan continues to talk, but the other heads in the room slowly turn to face you. Most of the lieutenants glare at you. Even Daryl looks pissed, probably because he told you to wait and let him figure out what was going on. Gregory turns multiple shades of red and purple. 

Noticing he’s lost his audience’s attention, Negan turns to face you too.

“Why, hello, dollface,” he drawls, a slight grin on his lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Swallowing hard, you force out an answer in the smallest, most innocent voice you can manage. “I-I wanted to see you,” you say, looking down at your feet.

Negan smiles even wider at that. “Come here,” he commands you, patting his thigh. You tentatively walk towards him, and lower yourself onto his lap. From across the room, Daryl glowers at you and his leader, but stays still.

Pushing your hair out of the way, Negan leans in to whisper in your ear. “Did you miss me while you were, ah,” he stops to chuckle, “away?” You nod, eyes down, unable to look at him without being reminded of the hate that lit up his eyes last time you saw him. Chuckling again, he kisses your shoulder, then turns his attention back to the man at the opposite end of the table.

“Gregory,” Negan says, his voice booming again. “I believe you know my wife here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gregory stammers, looking between you and Negan with an incredulous look on his face. “Congratulations on your nuptials again.” He raises his glass to the two of you before choking down a gulp of it. You hide your cringe the best you can, watching the pathetic excuse of a leader cower in front of you.

While you sit on Negan’s lap, his fingers trailing up and down your leg possessively, Gregory continues sputtering on about how he’s in charge of the Hilltop and he’ll kick out anyone who doesn’t fall into line. You feel Negan getting progressively angrier as the other man speaks, his grip on your thigh getting tighter, to the point of bruising your skin. You fight to keep the compliant smile on your face as you listen to Simon speaking up in Gregory’s defense. 

However, this breaks Negan. He pushes you off of his lap, and you stumble to the side, barely catching yourself on the wall to keep from falling.

“People are a resource,” he says through gritted teeth, slamming Lucille on the table as he stands. “Money on the table. People are the foundation of what we are building here!” He leans forward, glaring across the long table at Gregory. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Are you confused about who we are? Are you confused about who is in charge?” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Are we backsliding, Simon?”

As Simon tries to defend himself, you watch the lieutenants in the room. They’re all tensed up, clearly afraid of this side of Negan. You are too, if you have to admit it. The Savior leader, as he describes all the ways he wants to kill Rick, Maggie, and some king, has become almost animalistic in his anger. You instinctually step away from him, hugging the wall.

Gunshots rip through the air, cutting Negan off and causing you to jump. Your eyes shoot across the room to Daryl, who steps towards the window to get a look outside.

Negan approaches the window too, looking pensive. Before you can follow to sneak a peek for yourself, he starts barking orders at his lieutenants, who immediately jump into action.

“Get back to your room,” Negan instructs you right before opening the door and stepping outside. Daryl moves to follow him, but not before giving you a glance that silently echoes Negan’s order. You nod at him, then escape out the door you came in.

Daryl should have known that you had no intention of returning to your room, though. Instead, you run up the nearest flight of stairs and park yourself in front of a set of the factory windows that overlook the courtyard, and you gasp.

Outside, the courtyard is full of cars, all armored with metal siding. In between each of the vehicles, you can just make out the shadows of people and the tips of guns. Through the peephole cut in the armor of the front car, you make out a familiar head of curls.

“Rick,” you say breathlessly, leaning closer to the window. As you peer over the courtyard, you start to notice bits and pieces of more Alexandrians, Hilltop residents, and even some people you don’t recognize. They’re here, you think to yourself in awe. And they’ve brought an army. You don’t even try to suppress the smile on your face.

From your vantage point, you can just make out the back of Negan’s head as he stands on the landing in front of the cars, flanked by his lieutenants. You watch him and Rick yell back and forth to each other, but you can’t hear them from up here. You glance around, looking for a way to open the windows in front of you, but there’s nothing. Annoyed, you press your ear to the window, straining to catch anything.

You hear an explosion in the distance. Shit. This was a whole ass plan. Anticipation grows in you, and you watch even closer, looking for your chance to run and rejoin your people. You wish you had your weapons on you, but they are still tucked away safely in your bedroom. Instead, you recount all of the different ways you can get outside, several of which would lead you to the courtyard and into the safety net of your family.

But you don’t get much further before you have to duck. Gunfire shatters the windows in front of you, raining broken glass down upon you. Hands over your head, you tuck yourself as close to the ground and the wall as possible. You manage to dodge the worst of it, but you feel the sting of the glass cutting open the skin on your arms in multiple places. 

As suddenly as it began, the shooting stops. Instead, the air is filled with the sounds of car horns honking. Confused, you stand up from your crouch, loose shards of glass sprinkling down off of you, and you peer out the now open window. The cars are racing off. All except for what looks like an armored RV. That looks like Aaron’s , you think, as you watch it creep forward. Then you notice that there’s no one in the driver’s seat.

“Shit,” you mutter a moment too late. The RV explodes, and the force of it pushes you back into the wall behind you. Regaining your footing, you stumble back to the window. The courtyard is nearly empty of people, but you still hear gunshots. What- you start to question but then you choke out another gasp.

A horde of walkers, larger than anything you’ve ever seen, is flooding the open space. They make their way closer and closer to the Sanctuary, near enough that you can’t see the front of it from your window anymore. And then you get it.

They’ve trapped everyone inside of the Sanctuary. Including you.

On your way back to the wives’ quarters, you’re careful to avoid the Savior soldiers that run through the Sanctuary. You duck behind a few stacked crates as a particular large group passes, all armed to the teeth. When you stand back up to keep moving, a large hand grabs you by the arm and pulls you through the nearest door. You try to scream, but another one clamps over your mouth, silencing you.

Panic flares up in you, but you’re quickly met with a piercing blue gaze.

Daryl!

You let out a sigh of relief against his hand, and your shoulders slump as you realize you’re not in immediate danger. When he feels your body relax, Daryl removes his hand from your mouth and you fall into him, his strong arms engulfing you. You wrap your arms around his waist, breathing in his distinctive smell.

“You okay?” Daryl asks, pulling away just enough to look you over. He catches your chin, moving your face gently each way, checking you for injuries. His breath hitches in his through as his hands gently graze over your arms, over the small cuts that have leaked blood all down them. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him, cupping his cheek and forcing his gaze back up to yours. “Just some cuts from the broken glass, nothing more.”

“You were supposed t’ go back to your room,” he says, eyes flickering between your face and your bloody arms.

“I know.” You run your thumb along his sharp cheekbone. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just - I just had to know.”

Daryl nods, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “I understand,” he says quietly. “But you gotta get there now. It’s not safe out here.” He starts to pull you towards the door you just came through.

“What's going on?”

“All hell’s broken loose,” Daryl says quickly, glancing up and down the empty hallway. “And Negan’s missin’.”

Daryl wasn’t lying when he said that the Sanctuary had gone to hell. It mostly certainly did.

From the safety of your rooms, you and the rest of the wives learned bits and pieces of what was going on from Daryl and the other Saviors who were still stationed to guard you all: walkers filled the courtyard around the factory, effectively trapping everyone inside; the lieutenants struggled over power, with Simon declaring himself in charge and the rest trying to determine who sold them out to Alexandria; and the workers were revolting, demanding answers from the soldiers who had nothing to tell them.

That was, until Negan came back from the dead, seizing control over the factory once again. This last bit of information you learned from Frankie, who was quickly called away to service your husband upon his return. 

The morning after the attack, things are still tense within the Sanctuary. When breakfast is delivered to the wives, it consists of simple bread and tea.

“It’s all we have,” the worker bringing in the cart explains to you as you look down at the paltry spread.

“We appreciate it,” you tell them with a small smile. “Be safe out there.”

“You too,” they reply as they quickly make their exit under the glare of the soldier on guard, who only rests his hand on his weapon. Many of the Saviors are still on edge after the workers forced their way upstairs despite their threats. 

When Daryl comes to check on you, it takes everything in you not to throw yourself into his arms. The dark circles under his eyes are deep, suggesting that he hasn’t slept at all since yesterday’s attack. Even though he tries to hide it, you can see that he’s moving slower than usual as he falls onto one of the barstools in the living room. You stand across from him behind the bar, discreetly taking one of his large hands in both of yours.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, your voice low.

Daryl grunts, but squeezes your hands, so you interpret it as a “yes.” 

You quickly pour him a drink, making yourself look busy as other Saviors meander around the living room, seeking a distraction from the chaos outside the door.

“Negan’s looking for a way past the herd,” Daryl mutters under his breath, taking the glass from you. “He’s got Eugene workin’ on it.”

You scoff. “So it’ll probably work,” you say reluctantly, not wanting to give that traitor anything more than a swift kick to the groin. “Then what?” you ask. “What happens when we get out?”

Daryl spins the glass in his hand, not meeting your eye.

“Daryl,” you say his name, your voice even lower, trying to get him to look at you.

He meets your gaze, his eyes narrow but tired. “You know what,” he snaps, but there’s no fire behind it. 

You sigh, rubbing a hand down your face. You know what he means without him even saying it: when the Saviors manage to get out of the Sanctuary, they are going for Alexandria and the other communities that helped them attack. You know this, because it’s exactly what Rick would have you all do if this happened to your town. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“So what do we do?” you ask quietly, pouring yourself a drink this time.

It’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know,” he answers, and you can tell by the look in the eye that he means it. Just like you, he’s at a loss for what to do right now.

So you do the only thing you can do: you hold your glass up in front of Daryl, who lifts his own to meet yours in a lethargic toast, and you both shoot back the dark liquor within them.

The day drags on with no further developments except your lack of supervision. No Savior has been left to guard the wives, so you assume they’re planning to make their move soon. The living room is quiet, all of the women on edge, unsure of what’s going to happen and how it is going to affect them.

Eventually, the wives begin to move about. Amber sneaks out first, leaving to go be with her mother. Then Frankie and Tanya disappear, claiming they’re going to try and figure out what’s going on. Dawn and Lauren try to keep themselves busy, tidying the small space, but eventually they give that up and retire to the bedroom. 

You sit still for as long as you can, anxiously awaiting an update from Daryl. But when hours pass with no word from him, you take matters into your own hands. 

In the bedroom, you dig through your belongings, looking for what you need. You find Wild Pursuits still under your bed, and you flip through its hollowed-out pages for your weapons. Using an old shirt, you rip off a strip of fabric and tie it around your thigh, then carefully slide your knife into it and smooth your dress down over it. It’s not a perfect holster, but it’ll get the job done. Rosita would be proud of your creativity, at least. You slide your leather jacket over your shoulders, dropping her brass knuckles in one of the pockets. Standing up, you slip into your heels, steel yourself, and head out.

Outside of the wives’ quarters, it is eerily quiet. You creep down the hallways as silently as possible, stopping to peer around each corner before continuing on. Thankfully, you don’t come across many people, and those that you do are more preoccupied with getting to wherever they are going and they pay you no mind. 

When you reach the big room that has served as the marketplace and your wedding venue, it is brimming with people but lacking its usual organization. Workers stand in groups, talking in low voices, heads together but regularly glancing over their shoulders. When you look around the upper level, there are several soldiers doing the same. It seems everyone has the same questions right now.

You quietly slip down the stairs to the lower level, trying to stay out of sight of the soldiers above. Carefully navigating through the crowd, you catch bits and pieces of the passing conversations:

“He threatened to kill us all.”

“They’re right outside the door - you can hear them.”

“Do you think they’re going after the outposts?”

“My daughter-”

But one conversation stops you in your tracks.

“He dragged a priest in here with him,” one worker is saying to his circle.

“How do you know?” a woman asks, peering up at the soldiers on the landing as she does.

“He had the collar thing they all wear,” the first man explains, pointing to his neck.

Your gasp draws their attention. Muttering apologies, you scramble away, tucking into the nearest doorway.

Gabriel. He’s here. But where could he be?

You take off at a run to the nearest stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time, you reach the bottom level - the dungeon - quickly. 

Swallowing down your fear, you open the door, peeking your head through. The hallway is graciously empty, so you edge your war through the doorway, closing it quietly behind you.

You make your way down the hall, stopping at the first room where the guards hang out. The sound of voices and muffled laughter seep out of the door. Slipping your feet out of your heels, you sneak past the room, shoes in hand, and continue down the hall. When you reach the end of it, your turn, freezing in your tracks.

The doors to the cells loom in front of you. The sight of them tightens your chest, the memories of your imprisonment forcing themselves to the front of your mind: The cold floor. The cement walls. The photograph-

Your breaths come out in wheezes. Squeezing your eyes closed, you clench your fists and try to focus.

Inhale. Gabriel.

Exhale. He’s here.

Inhale. He needs you.

Exhale. Find him.

Taking one last deep breath, you set your shoulders and move towards the doors. You approach the first one slowly, listening for sounds of life. When you hear nothing, you gently knock on the door.

“Gabe?” you ask quietly. “Are you in there?” You strain your ears to hear a reply, but none comes.

You move on to the second door, and repeat the process. Still nothing. Growing frustrated, you continue to try all of the doors.

When you reach the final door - the door to your own prison - your hand shakes as you raise it to knock. You hold your breath as you wait for a response, and exhale gratefully when none comes.

Leaning against the wall, you huff in frustration when you look around at all of the prison doors, all of which you tried but none held your friend inside. Where can he be? you ask yourself. 

But you don’t get the chance to meditate on it long before there is a loud crash from upstairs. It is immediately followed by a small stampede of footsteps. Fear freezes you, holding you closer to the wall.

You can’t move again until the sound of running disappears down the hallway in the opposite direction. The guards climb the stairs, leaving you alone in the dungeons. When you can finally breathe again, you peel yourself off of the wall and follow them, your shoes forgotten on the floor.

As you mount the stairs, the sounds of screams grow louder and louder. Fear driving you on, you run up the remaining steps and rush into pure chaos.

The big market room is a bloodbath. Workers run in every direction, trying to make it to the few staircases. Around them, soldiers brandwish their weapons, running into the fray. And behind them, walkers stumble about, grabbing and lurching and biting and devouring whoever they can get their hands on.

Reaching your hand under your dress, you yank your knife out of your makeshift thigh holster, raising it to stab a walker that found its way towards you. Pulling it back out, you run into the fight. You find a couple of workers hiding behind a few large crates, all unarmed.

“Come on!” you yell to them, reaching out and urging them to follow you. With your knife, you cut a path through the dead towards the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, you push the workers to climb to safety. 

Once they’re up and out of the way, you look around for anyone else in trouble. One of the women who delivers your meals is on the far side of the room with walkers closing in on her. You run towards her, dodging undead arms reaching for you. But before you can reach her, a walker emerges from behind her, and its teeth sink into her shoulder.

“No!” you call out, but you already know it's too late for her. Unable to help her, you turn to run again, but your bare feet slip in something wet - probably blood - and you fall, sliding across the slick cement floor. You crash into a wall, and it knocks the air out of your lungs.

Trying to get your bearings, you find that you’re surrounded by the dead, not a Savior in sight. They realize this too, and they start to close in on you. With only your knife and your knuckles, you don’t have enough to fight them off. Trying to swallow down the panic rising in your throat, you look around for something - anything - that can help you.

Next to you is a shelving unit. Grabbing the highest level you can reach, you pull it down over you, the top shelf hitting the wall. You duck as some of the contents of the shelves rain down on you, but when no teeth immediately sink into your flesh, you peek out. A couple of walkers try to stretch through the shelves, but fall short. You take the moment of reprieve to determine your next move.

Some of the walkers reaching for you give up, distracted by movement on the other side of the room. From behind your cover, you take out the last few walkers reaching for you with your knife, their blood and brains leaking out onto you. Gagging, you push them and the shelves off of you the rest of the way and stand unsteadily.

Carefully, you make your way through the sea of the dead, sticking as close to the crates as you can, in case you need to take cover. But they mostly ignore you, the smell of the dead on you confusing their senses. Using this to your advantage, you move quickly towards the bottom of the stairs, which have been partially blocked off by boxes. Crawling over them, you run up the stairs to the door.

You find it locked. You pull on the handles, shouting as you do.

“Hey!” you call out. “Open the door, there’s still people in here!” 

But no one comes. The doors remained closed.

Swallowing thickly, you turn around to face the crowd of the dead you are locked in with.

Chapter Text

You are so fucked.

That’s the only thing you can think as you look out at the sea of the dead beneath you. The entire room is filled with walkers, bumping off of each other as they tumble about or feasting upon the Saviors and workers that didn’t make it out before the doors were sealed. 

Taking deep breaths to fight off the panic, you glance around, looking for a way out of the marketplace that doesn’t end with you becoming walker food. Thankfully, the herd hasn’t been able to climb the stairs yet due to the crates and bodies stacked at the bottom, buying you some time to think. Peering down between the grates on the landing, you spot the doors to the back hallway. The floor in front of them is pretty clear of the undead, with most of them still concentrated in the front of the room.

“That’s our best bet,” you mutter, trying to psych yourself up for how you’re going to get there.

Slowly, you start making your way down the stairs, knife at the ready. As you approach the crates, the walkers that are still alive - well, not alive but not dead-dead - reach towards you. Careful to stay out of their reach, you lunge forward, stabbing the nearest one through the forehead. You jump back quickly, adjusting your grip on the knife to attack again.

You stab and jab and plunge your knife into their heads, taking out as many as you can. But it has little effect: the walkers behind them just start reaching over their discarded bodies, piling on top of them in hope of getting to you. There’s no way you’re going to be able to clear the stairs enough to get down.

Frustrated, you lean on the railing, catching your breath. A new idea pops into your head: if you can drop yourself down from the side of the railing, you have an almost clear shot to the back doors. Unfortunately, the drop looks at least 10 feet, and you’re still barefoot, so it’s probably going to hurt. But you’ll gladly take a few broken toes over being eaten alive, so it’s going to have to do.

Before you work up the courage to jump, however, the crates serving as your shield shift, and walkers start to push through. They climb over their fallen brethren, reaching towards you once again.

“Shit!” you yell, jumping back a step. You take one last glance down, tuck your knife between your teeth, and slide yourself through the bars of the railing. Gripping it the best you can, you lower your body, hanging a good few feet above the ground still. You hesitate, but when one of the dead nearly reaches your hands, you let go and pray.

You land in a heap on the hard floor, the knife falling out of your mouth. As you stand up, you take stock of any injuries: the balls of your feet sting from the initial fall, but it seems like your hip took most of the impact when you toppled over, the skin red. Definitely going to bruise later. But you were alive, and that’s what matters right now. Picking your fallen knife back up, you scurry out of the big room before the undead can find you and you disappear into the hallway.

Behind the heavy door, the hall is eerily quiet. You can only hear the groans of the walkers if you really try, so you take a moment to catch your breath and regroup. You’re not as familiar with this part of the Sanctuary, so you don’t know where this hallway leads. But there are so many ways in and out of the old factory, so one of them has to lead outside, right?

Pulse quickening, you look both ways, searching for any sign of an exit. Unfortunately, the plain concrete walls tell you nothing. But a sharp slam on the door followed by a low moan snaps you into action, and you take off running down the hallway to the left, hoping it’s the right way.

You run and run and run, turning down hallways at random, looking for any indication of where you are. 

Where the fuck is the exit?

You make another random turn, and stop in your tracks: down the other end of the hall, you see a group of workers struggling to hold a door closed. From the other side of it, you can see arms reaching through, their tattered clothes telling you all you need to know about this situation. You quickly turn to backtrack just as the living lose their battle and the dead burst through, filling the air with the sounds of screams and tearing flesh. 

Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you push yourself to run faster. You start bouncing off of walls as you try to make quick turns, even stumbling once or twice. But the sounds of footsteps and the accompanying groans behind you encourage you to pick yourself up each time.

Unfortunately, no amount of fear can make it so you can run forever, and you feel yourself starting to slow down. Grasping your side as your breaths turn into wheezes, you still can’t find an exit. Despair threatens to take over, but you force yourself to focus on just moving forward.

The walkers behind you start to catch up despite your best efforts. You start trying the handle of any door you see, but none of them will open. While struggling with a particularly large one, a walker grabs at your jacket, stealing your focus. You quickly turn around and drive your knife into its skull, dropping it to the ground.

But he wasn’t alone. You quickly put down two more walkers, backing away from the oncoming herd. You are most definitely not armed enough for this, especially when another body lurches forward and you stab it in the head, your knife getting stuck in its head as it falls.

Fuck.

You shove your hand into your jacket pocket, grabbing Rosita’s brace knuckles and sliding them onto your fingers. You drive them into the nearest skull, pleasantly surprised by their effectiveness.

“Thanks, Rosie,” you send out to your friend, wherever she is, as you wind up and punch another walker. 

But they’re still not enough. Plus, they take way more energy than a knife, and your arm quickly grows tired from swinging. When you try for another one, you miss, and the walker latches onto your arm with its body hands, pulling you towards its mouth.

You let out the scream that’s been building in you this whole time. Trying to pull away, you start to slip the jacket off when you hear a high-pitched swish . Blood splatters on your face as an arrow stabs through the walker’s forehead, its grip going slack. You pull your arm back and stumble away.

Another walker near you falls to the ground, but you’re focused behind it where Daryl is barreling forward, pushing through the dead like they are nothing but tall grass in a field. Using his crossbow like a bat, he slams it into heads left and right, fighting his way to you. 

“Dar-” you start to call out but when he reaches you, he grabs your arm and keeps moving.

“We gotta go!” he yells. You quickly yank your knife out of the skull it’s stuck in and let him pull you away.

Daryl leads you down the hallway and around a few more turns.

“Where are we going?” you ask him between struggling breaths.

“‘m getting you outta here,” he yells back. You would jump for joy at the words if you weren’t already running for your life. We’re getting out, you say on repeat in your head as you follow him.

Daryl makes another quick turn before skidding to a halt, so abrupt you can’t stop before crashing into him. Catching you with one hand, he uses the other to dig in his pocket for a set of keys, sliding the correct one into the door in front of him.

“What are you-” you start to ask but when the door swings open and you see the walls lined with guns, you have your answer. 

“Watch my back,” Daryl instructs you as he dives into the room. Gripping your knife, you turn and watch the hallway. Even though the two of you ran pretty far, you know the dead aren't far behind. They’re like bloodhounds on a hunt.

As if on cue, the walkers turn down the hall that you’re standing in.

“Daryl…”

“I hear em,” he answers while shoving weapons into his bag. You grip your knife tighter, watching them get closer.

“Daryl,” you say again, fear creeping into your voice.

“Almost done,” he grunts. The walkers are almost ten feet away from you now, and even if you had handfuls of knives, you know they wouldn’t be enough.

“Daryl, give me a gun,” you call over your shoulder.

“What? No,” he replies, poking his head out of the door.

You turn and glare at him. “Are you serious right now?” you snap, reaching for the handgun in his hand.

“Do you even know how to use-”

“Just give me the fucking gun, Daryl!” you nearly shriek. Jumping slightly, he shoves the gun into your hand. You hastily switch the safety off just as the front of the herd reaches you, and you let out three quick shots, dropping the nearest three walkers with bullets between their eyes.

Daryl stands motionless, watching them fall, his mouth slightly agape. When you shoot the walker closest to him, he snaps back into motion, quickly handing you an even larger gun as he shoulders one himself, along with his bag and his crossbow. You slide the smaller gun and your knife back into the makeshift holster on your thigh - which is surprisingly still there - before firing off a few rounds of the larger gun into the crowd. 

“C’mon,” Daryl orders you, and you both turn and continue running down the hallway.

After a few more turns and some wild shots sent behind you both, you see a light at the end of the hall: a door with a window, with light shining through. The exit! The sight pushes you to run harder, keeping pace with Daryl as he barrels towards the outdoors.

He slams into the door and you follow him out into the afternoon air. Taking in your first gulp of fresh air in hours, you can’t stop your eyes from closing, relief washing over you. Behind you, Daryl slams the door closed before coming up behind you.

“We can’t stop yet,” he says breathlessly, pushing you gently to keep moving. 

“Where - are we - gonna go?” you ask in between deep breaths of crisp, clean, walker-free air. 

Daryl points towards the treeline. “Safe house,” he answers. “‘bout a mile. Can you make it?” he glances at you through the fringe of his sweaty hair as he asks the last part. 

You look down at your disheveled appearance: your jacket sleeve is torn from when the walker grabbed you, you’re covered in blood and general filth, and you’re still barefoot. But you’re alive.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell him. “Lead the way.” 

Daryl pushes through a gate in the fence, and the two of you take off into the woods. Grateful that you don’t need to run anymore - at least for now, you almost always end up running these days - you follow Daryl along the small path through the trees. You definitely wouldn’t have noticed it on your own, but knowing that he is a skilled tracker and hunter, you’re not surprised that Daryl knows his way around the woods.

But despite the path, you still have to walk on uneven terrain, and your bare feet quickly start to get beat up. Loose twigs and roots cut up the soles of your feet. When you stub your toe for the third time, stopping to curse and grip your potentially broken digit, Daryl suddenly stops and walks back to you.

“Hold this,” he says, holding his sacred crossbow out to you. You take it, balancing it in one hand while you keep your gun raised in the other. 

In front of you, Daryl digs into his bag, rummaging through the weapons and other supplies inside. You watch him, unsure of what he’s looking for, when he yanks out a pair of socks. 

“Grab my shoulder,” he tells you, kneeling down. Confused, you oblige. Daryl pulls the socks apart, then taps one of your calves, guiding you to lift your leg. Balancing on one leg, you watch as he glides one of the socks over your bare and bloody foot, adjusting it to fit before placing your leg back down and repeating the process on the other side. The action feels weirdly intimate, and your cheeks burn with a deep blush.

Daryl stands back up in front of you, and you turn away to hide your red face. “That should help a little,” he says, and when you glance up at him, you can see his own blush across his face. “Sorry it’s all I got.”

“No - it’s okay,” you reply quickly, testing them out. The soft fabric feels like heaven on your abused feet. “They already feel better.”

Daryl just nods quickly, taking his crossbow back, and you both keep moving through the woods.

Just as the sun falls from view, you and Daryl reach a small cabin. It looks almost untouched by the outside world, with the exception of the cans tied to ropes around the perimeter.

“It’s not much,” Daryl mutters, almost as if he is embarrassed about the little house. “But it’s safe.”

“It’s perfect,” you murmur, letting the word “safe” comfort you like a blanket.

“C’mon,” he continues, walking towards the front door. “Got a first aid kit inside, let’s take care o’ yer feet.”

You nod, and follow him through the door. The inside of the cabin is small - really just one room that plays the role of living room, bedroom, and kitchen - but it has a quaint, cozy quality to it that helps you to relax for the first time in days. 

“Sit,” Daryl grunts, pointing at the bed. You do as he asks, and you watch him disappear into the small bathroom, reappearing a moment later with a metal first aid kit. He approaches the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of you. Your cheeks start to burn again, but you try to play it off by looking around the small space.

Daryl unpacks the kit, placing bandages, tape, and a bottle of peroxide on the bed beside you. He gently takes one of your legs, lifting it and hooking his fingers along the top edge of the sock before sliding it off. He inspects the bottom of your foot, his calloused hands gentle on your beat up skin. He pours peroxide on a piece of gauze, and brings it up to your foot. The alcohol stings, and you let out a low hiss.

“‘m sorry,” Daryl says, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his hand frozen in place.

“No,” you say through gritted teeth. “I’ll be fine. Just stung a bit.”

Daryl grunts in response and continues, making quick work of it; in just a few minutes, the cuts on both of your feet have been cleaned (with minimal hissing), bandaged, and covered again with a fresh pair of his socks. He quickly returns the supplies to the kit and stands up.

“We can crash here tonight,” Daryl says, walking towards the small kitchen sink with the kit. “Then figure out what’s next in the mornin’.”

Your breath stops short as you register what he says: what’s next. What is next for you? Looking around at the cabin, you realize that you are out. You are free. You can run away, find your way back to Alexandria. Back to your people, your family. Home. The word sits at the forefront of your mind.

But your eyes land on Daryl and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. He has his back to you, his hands fidgeting with the first aid kit in front of him. You can’t see his face, but you see the way his shoulders slump, and it breaks your heart.

You can run, leave the Sanctuary forever, but that also means leaving Daryl. The person who has saved you time and time again. The person who went out of his way - even put himself in danger - to make your time with the Saviors more bearable. The person who you’ve heard so much about but have only just come to know. The person who you - you can’t exactly put a word to your feelings, but they’re there.

Can you leave him behind, potentially forever?

“Come with me,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. Daryl freezes, the metal box still in his hands. Slowly, he turns to face you.

“W-what?” he stammers, his eyes wide.

“Come with me to Alexandria,” you say more confidently this time. “Let’s run away. Together.”

“I - I can’t,” Daryl answers, eyes falling to the floor again.

“But you can,” you say, stepping towards him. “Let them think the walkers got us. Or let them think we ran off, who gives a shit.” You grip his arm, grounding yourself to him. “This is our chance to escape. Both of us.”

Daryl focuses on your hand on his arm, his muscles twitching under your touch. “I belong to Negan,” he mutters.

“No you don’t,” you tell him, and you take a chance, cupping his cheek with your hand. “You don’t belong to anyone but yourself, Daryl.”

He doesn’t answer, his breath coming out in low huffs. You move in closer, lowering yourself so you can see his face.

“Please,” you beg him. “Come with me. I can’t -” you gulp, steadying yourself before speaking again. “I can’t leave you. I can’t lose you too.”

Daryl’s eyes slowly meet your watering ones, and you see they’re glassy too. You run your thumb across his cheek.

“Please,” you breathe, barely audible, and that’s all you needed to say. 

Daryl drops the kit onto the counter and brings his hand up to your face, rubbing his thumb along your bottom lip before kissing you deeply. You slide your hand from his cheek to the back of his neck as his free arm encircles your waist, pulling you flush against him. You moan softly, your body alight as if on fire, and you try to wrap yourself in it, in him. 

You part your lips and Daryl slips his tongue in to tangle with yours. His hands glide up your back, getting caught in your jacket. When he slides one out and places it on the collar of it, he pulls away from your lips for just a moment, his blue eyes meeting yours intensely.

“Please,” you murmur again, before catching him in another kiss. 

Without breaking it, Daryl slips the jacket from your shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. Your hands find the front of his vest, and you go to pull back and ask permission but Daryl catches your bottom lip between his teeth, his large hands covering yours and you both take his vest off together. After that, the two of you are a flurry of movement, hands grabbing and throwing clothes around the small room, your kiss only broken when the clothing gets in the way.

Naked as the day he was born, Daryl pulls you back against him, wrapping his arms around your waist. You can feel how hard he is, and it causes your own desire to build tenfold, feeling a tinge deep in your lower belly. You want him - no, you need him - so badly, not just now, but forever. The thought alone makes you kiss him even deeper, standing on your tippy toes to wrap him even tighter in your arms.

Still in his embrace, Daryl guides you towards the bed, stopping when it hits the back of your legs. With your arms around his neck, you turn Daryl around, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed. Leaning down to continue the kiss, you carefully kneel on the bed, your knees on either side of his legs. You feel Daryl’s breath hitch, and you pull back slightly, leaving your forehead pressed against his.

“Is this okay?” you ask him breathlessly, your body hovering over his, your legs already almost shaking with desire.

All Daryl can do is nod, the pupils of his beautiful eyes blown out so wide you can barely even see the blue. His hands find the small of your waist, his thumbs - somehow both calloused and soft - rubbing light circles into your skin. He lifts his chin to kiss you again, and he helps you to lower yourself down onto him.

You gasp into his mouth as his cock enters you, slowly, further and further until you sit completely against him. Daryl peppers your jawline and neck with kisses as your body adjusts to his size and eventually relaxes. You brush his hair out of his face, catching a handful of it in your hand as you start to slowly grind yourself against him.

Daryl groans, his face in the crook of your neck as you find your rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth on his cock. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer and making you take him even deeper. The friction on your clit rubbing against his skin feels like a jolt of electricity through your body, and your back arches, another moan escaping your lips.

Seizing the opportunity, Daryl catches one of your nipples in his mouth. He sucks on it as you ride him, alternating between circling it with his tongue and wrapping his lips around it. The added stimulation causes you to pick up the pace, grinding your bodies together faster and harder. Daryl hands glide down to grip your ass, kneading its flesh as he switches to your other nipple, giving it the same love and attention he gave to the first one.

You moan again, louder this time as he swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud. You grip his hair even harder, pulling his face off of your chest and crashing your lips down onto his. Daryl groans into your mouth, and he starts to lift your hips and drop them back down. He hits so deep in you that you gasp and clench your walls around him. He lifts you again, and you match his movements with your hips, his cock driving deeper and deeper into you and hitting that spot.

The fire in your belly becomes a roaring flame with each thrust, your desire growing and reaching for release. Your legs begin to shake again, causing your hips to buck and your rocking to become unsteady.

“Daryl,” you groan into his kiss. “I’m so close.”

“Me too,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Come with me,” you say like before, your need for this man growing even more.

Without slipping, Daryl flips you back against the bed, his broad chest pressing you into the mattress. One of his strong arms holds him above you, his hand pushing the hair out of your face, while the other slips into between your bodies and presses on your clit as he continues to fuck you. You bite down on his lip, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him in closer and deeper. 

Your body begins to shake even more, your muscles growing tense as your pleasure grows into a storm. Daryl doesn’t miss a beat, rubbing your clit with his finger with each thrust, even as he grows unsteady, his own orgasm getting closer. You kiss him deeply one more time before your head falls back into the pillow so you can cry out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. Daryl follows right behind you, thrusting one last time before falling into you, his face buried in your hair as his body spasms with release.

Panting, you and Daryl hold each other close, neither of you wanting to let go. He lays his head on your chest, and you rub your hands up and down his back, over the scars and the tattoos and the muscles. He sighs contentedly against you.

“I’ll go,” you hear Daryl say in a small voice. Your hand freezes on his back. 

Sensing your hesitation, Daryl leans up on his arms and faces you. 

“Tomorrow,” he says, his gaze intense. “I’ll go with you. To Alexandria.” 

You can’t fight the smile that breaks across your face. You grab his face and pull it to yours for a kiss, pressing all of your love into it. 

Love. You think as you kiss him. That’s what it is. It’s gotta be. You love this man, and he’s willing to risk it all and run away with you.

Daryl pulls back from your kiss, his signature lopsided grin on his lips. 

“Thank you,” you say, rubbing your thumb along his cheek. Daryl goes to reply, but instead he lets out a big yawn, which causes you to laugh. “Okay, big guy,” you say, beginning to untangle yourself from him. “You need to sleep. I’ll take first watch.” 

“I can do it-” Daryl tries to protest, but you quiet him with a quick peck on the lips. 

“Nope, you sleep,” you order him, sitting up. “We’ll switch in a few hours.” You stand up, a little unbalanced but steady enough, and slip your dress on. When you turn back to face Daryl, his eyes are already falling closed. You gently pull the covers of the bed up, tucking him in.

“Just a coupla hours,” Daryl says, yawning again. “Not too long, alright?”

“Alright,” you reply with a grin, pressing a kiss to his forehead as sleep overtakes him. 

As Daryl sleeps, you poke around in the small cabin. You keep one of the guns on you, and set the rest of the weapons up on the counter in the kitchenette. Peeking into one of the small closets, you find a pair of hiking boots and slip them on. They’re a little big, but they’ll get you to Alexandria in the morning. Moving quietly, you set up one of the chairs by the window, the gap in the curtains just enough for you to peer outside and watch for any trouble.

From your perch, you periodically sneak glances at Daryl’s sleeping form, as if checking to make sure he’s still there and still real. His face is relaxed, the traces of his grin still barely visible. Your heart swells in your chest. Daryl’s running away with you. You’re both getting away from Negan and the Saviors and all their bullshit. A single tear trickles down your cheek at the thought. Freedom.

After a couple quiet hours, Daryl begins to stir. You let out your own yawn now, the adrenaline from the day gone now, leaving only exhaustion behind. Quietly, you pad over to the bed, leaning your gun against the wall. You sit down gently, and place your hand on Daryl’s cheek.

Without opening his eyes, Daryl turns and places a kiss on your palm. “My turn,” he murmurs, his voice groggy with sleep.

“Yup,” you reply, smiling. “Your turn.” 

Stretching, Daryl sits up in the bed. He presses another kiss to your shoulder before standing up, grabbing his clothes from where you placed them at the foot of the bed and sliding into his boxers and jeans. Then he turns to you, pushing you back to make you lay down. You do so eagerly, curling into the warm spot he left behind. Daryl lays the blanket over you, leaning down to kiss your cheek, and you’re asleep before he even pulls away.

After what feels like mere seconds, you see a faint light behind your eyelids and begin to wake up. Rolling over, you slowly open your eyes, and you’re quickly met with Daryl’s bright ones. He has one finger pressed to his lips, and he nods towards the window.

When you nod in understanding, Daryl stands up from kneeling besides the bed, and tiptoes towards the window. Crossbow in hand, he peers outside, watching something that you can’t see. You watch the muscles of his arms flex as he grips his weapon, and you check to make sure your own is still within reach. Thankfully it is.

A few minutes pass, and neither of you move. You feel like you’re not even breathing as you wait for a signal from Daryl. He stands still as a statue, the only part of him moving are his eyes, scanning the cabin’s small yard for danger. 

Eventually, Daryl’s shoulders relax, and you both let out deep sighs of relief. Whatever was out there must be gone now. Probably some latecomers to that herd, you think, annoyed as you think about the day before. 

Daryl crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. Cupping your cheek with his large hand, he leans in to give you a kiss.

A sound breaks the silence. You both freeze, eyes growing wide. 

Another sound. Both of your heads snap to the door. The locked doorknob begins to shake.

Someone - or something - is trying to get in.

Chapter Text

Someone - or something - is trying to get in.

The doorknob rattles again. Then it stops. You hold your breath. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud bang and the door flies open.

This snaps you into action. You kick the blankets off of you and reach for your gun. Shouldering it, you stand up on the bed and take aim at the doorway. The bright light of the early morning sun blinds you, making it difficult to see who or what is at the door. Next to you, Daryl has his crossbow raised, his own eyes squinting to try and make out the intruders.

For a moment, nothing happens. When your eyes adjust, you can just make out the silhouette of a man. You strain your eyes to try and make out who it is, but their face is hidden in shadow.

Then you hear it.

A low whistle. One note, and then another. It sends a shiver down your spine. You click off the safety on your gun, bringing it up to your eye.

But then you hear the whistle again. This time, echoed by multiple people. More silhouettes begin to fill the doorway, blocking out more and more of the light. Now you can see who is at your doorstep.

Savior soldiers. Armed to the teeth. All whistling in unison. 

Gun still raised, your body goes cold as fear starts to overtake you. Your chest tightens, and you feel like you can’t breathe. The tip of your gun shakes despite your best effort to keep it steady. Your finger twitches over the trigger. You steal a glance to your left at Daryl, who hasn’t moved an inch.

Suddenly the whistling stops. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Then the Saviors part, making way for the figure walking through them. His low chuckle makes the hair on your arms stand up.

“Good morning, dollface,” Negan drawls. He swings his bat around a few times before resting it on his shoulder. “Now what the hell do we have here?” 

Negan’s eyes peer around the room, drinking in the sight of the small cabin and you and Daryl, both still standing with your weapons at the ready. Your eyes search the area too, looking for any evidence of your night with Daryl, but the only things out of place in the room are the first aid kit and the weapons that the two of you brought with you. Thankfully, both you and Daryl had the sense to get properly redressed last night. 

“I was worried, doll,” Negan continues talking, bringing Lucille off of his shoulder again to twirl in his hands. “After we sealed the doors, I found out that a few of my wives were not accounted for.” He sighs. “I’m glad to find you still in one piece.”

You gulp. What does that mean?

Negan takes a step towards you, and you raise your gun higher, aiming it directly at him. This causes him to boom with laughter.

“Are you going to shoot me, doll?” he asks condescendingly. His eyes rake over your body, up to your face and your gun. You shiver again. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

“Wanna find out?” you snap at him, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

Negan laughs again. “I kinda do,” he replies.

He nods at his men. One of them steps towards you, and you quickly drop your aim and fire. The bullet hits the floor an inch in front of his foot. He yelps and jumps back, and you raise your gun again, aiming at his chest. 

Negan lets out a slow, impressed whistle. “All right then,” he says, licking his lips. “What’s the plan here, doll? You versus my entire army?” he asks, indicating the men around him.

Your eyes flicker from Negan to Daryl. His narrow, calculating eyes watch you and the lead Savior closely. You catch his eyes for a brief moment, and give him a small nod.

Unfortunately, Negan notices this. “Oh,” he muses. “You think it’s you and Double D here against the rest of us.” He raises an eyebrow. “You really think my man is on your side here?”

Yes, you want to spit at him, but the word catches on your tongue and you hesitate.

“Why don’t we ask him?” Negan continues, stepping towards Daryl, swinging his bat around again. “Dixon, are you really prepared to fight me and my entire army - the ones who took you in, raised you up when you had absolutely nothing and no one in this world - for this woman right here? Who is still my wife, might I add.” When he doesn’t say anything, Negan steps closer so that the tip of Daryl’s arrow nearly presses into his chest, his voice growing dangerous. “If you’re going to shoot me, I suggest you man up and do it.”

Daryl’s eyes flit between you, Negan, and the Savior soldiers, his knuckles white with how tightly he’s gripping his bow.

Do it, you try to tell him with your eyes. Shoot him. End this.  

The atmosphere of the room is tense. Negan glares down Daryl, who meets his unwavering gaze now. The other men in the room fidget anxiously, some bouncing from foot to foot or fiddling with their weapons. You are still standing on the bed, your gun raised at them, but watching the standoff to your left. Your body tenses up with anticipation, waiting for what’s going to happen next.

Then, to your horror, Daryl’s shoulders slump and he lowers his weapon.

Your chest tightens again like you’ve been punched. You try to catch his eye again, but he avoids your gaze, suddenly more interested in the tip of his boots. You let out a small whimper as you feel your heart crack in two.

Negan smiles. “That’s a good boy,” he says to Daryl, clapping him on the shoulder. He shoves Lucille into Daryl’s hands. Then he turns quickly, grabs your arm, and yanks you off the bed. You fall, hitting your knee hard on the ground. With his free hand, he snatches the gun out of your hand, tossing it off to the side. Then he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a tight arm around your shoulder and holding you close to him.

“Now that that’s settled,” he says into your ear before addressing his men. “Let’s move out, men!” Negan barks at them. “We got work to do.” 

The soldiers start filing out of the cabin. Negan goes to leave, pulling you with him, but then he stops. He looks back at Daryl, who still can’t meet anyone’s eye.

“Thanks for keeping my girl safe, D,” Negan says to him. “I owe ya one.” Daryl doesn’t say anything, just lifts his head in the slightest nod. Then Negan walks out of the cabin. He drags you with him, and you try to look back at Daryl one last time, but he’s turned his back on you.

Crestfallen, you stumble outside, still in Negan’s clutches, and you see the small yard of the cabin is full of Saviors. We never stood a chance, you think, which feels like another punch to the gut. 

Negan walks you towards the front of the small army.

“Where are we going?” you ask him.

“Don’t worry, dollface,” he replies. He lowers his mouth to your ear. “You’ll get your orders soon enough.”

Negan and his men drag you to what looks like another Savior outpost. How many of these fucking things do they have? you ask yourself as they push you through the front doors. It looks similar to the one that Rick led you and a small group of the Alexandrians to take out in an attempt to win over Gregory a while back. 

Was that really only a few weeks ago? It feels like years ago now. So much has happened since then.

The Saviors shove you into a small room, slamming and locking the door behind you. It looks like a dorm room, with two low beds, a dresser, and a desk. There’s a small window, but it’s up near the ceiling and sealed shut with bars. No chance of you escaping again. Clearly they chose this room on purpose.

You stay in there for hours. You search every drawer, nook, and cranny of the room for anything that can be of use, but it’s been thoroughly cleaned out. There’s barely even any dust under the bed when you check there. So you angrily throw yourself on one of the beds and glare at the ceiling. 

Laying there with nothing to distract you, your anger starts to turn into sadness as the sting of Daryl’s betrayal finally sinks in. He gave up on me, you think to yourself, your chest tight. He chose them. You feel tears slide down the side of your face. You don’t even try to stop them. You just cry and glare until they come for you. 

The door swings open and Laura steps in. All the fight in you gone, you don’t even bother to get up; you just lazily turn your head and stare at her from the bed. She throws a pile of clothes at you.

“Get dressed,” she barks at you. “You have two minutes.” Then she leaves, slamming the door behind her. 

You sigh, and stand up to change. You watch your ruined dress fall to the floor around your feet, which are still clad in Daryl’s socks. The sight of them makes you angry again. This is all his fault, you tell yourself as you step out of the dress and into the cargo pants Laura threw at you. If he just pulled the fucking trigger, you continue stewing, slipping the white t-shirt over your head. You cough - it reeks of Negan. You want to rip it off of you but Laura bangs on the door.

“Let’s go!” she yells through it.

You shove your feet into your boots and fling the door open. She glares at you, before grabbing you by the arm and marching you down the hallway.

Laura leads you to what must be the war room in this outpost. There’s maps stuck up on the walls and Negan stands at the head of the table, which is surrounded by what remains of his lieutenants. 

“There she is,” he coos when he sees you. He looks you up and down, nearly undressing you with his eyes. You glare at him coldly. “Oh come on, don’t be like that,” he chuckles, beckoning you towards him. When you don’t move, Laura pushes you from behind and you stumble into Negan’s open arms. He squeezes you, planting a messy kiss to your hair. You don’t even bother to hide your shudder this time. 

“All right, men,” Negan booms to his followers, holding you against him while he speaks. “You each have your orders. Follow them to a tee this time. I don’t want anymore fuck ups.” They nod, and start to file out of the room. “Gavin,” the leader calls out, and the man in question walks back towards him.

Negan ignores him for the moment, instead walking you towards the nearest map on the wall. It’s covered in labels and crude drawings. “What do you see on this map?” he asks you.

“Why, will there be a test later?” you ask, rolling your eyes. 

“Just answer the question, doll,” Negan says, squeezing your arm tighter.

Sighing, you point at the first label. “‘Hill’ is obviously the Hilltop.” You point at the word “Home.” “Sanctuary.” You move your hand towards a stick figure with a poorly drawn beard that you suspect is supposed to be Rick. “Alexandria?” Negan smirks and nods. You look at the last label, a crown. “I don’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to be.”

Negan’s smile grows. “Wonderful,” he whispers. Then he looks past you. “Gavin, my wife will be going with you to visit the king.”

“King?” you ask incredulously. “Figured you’d keep that title for yourself.”

Negan ignores your quip, walking you towards his lieutenant. “She’ll be one of your men today,” he continues. “Arm her, give her orders like you’d do anyone else.”

“What?” you ask, turning to look up at him.

“Thanks to your friend Rick, we lost a bunch of our men to that horde,” Negan explains, then laughs. “You wanted to play soldier back in that cabin there, now you get your chance, G.I. Jane.”

“And if I don’t follow his orders?” you challenge him.

Negan leans in close. “Oh you will,” he whispers, his voice dangerously dark. “Because I know that there’s two kids in Alexandria that you care for a lot. A one-eyed teenage boy, and a little girl with the cutest head of curls I’ve ever seen. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to them, now would we?” 

You gasp. Judith, you can see the smiling toddler in your mind as you fight back tears. Carl. It takes everything in you not to lunge at the Savior and tear his eyes out with your nails. You clench your hands into fists, and try to take deep breaths. You glare at Negan, who watches you with a raised eyebrow.

“See?” he laughs, holding his hands out. “I knew you’d come around.” He pushes you towards Gavin again, who holds your arm, albeit gently. “But Gavin,” Negan says before you leave. “If my wife does give you any problems, doesn’t follow any of the orders you give her,” his eyes meet yours, “shoot her.”

“What?” you nearly shout, but Gavin has already started pulling you from the room. 

Outside, you stand with your arms crossed, watching the Saviors load up the trucks with various weapons. Gavin left you under the guard of two younger soldiers, one of whom you swear is just a teenager. He gave them the same order to shoot you if you try anything, so instead you just glare at them and anyone else who gets too close. 

You feel his presence before you see him. 

“Need her for a minute,” Daryl says to your guards in a low voice.

“We were told-”

“I dun give a shit,” Daryl cuts them off. He steps in front of you, taking the full brunt of your glare. He puts his hand on your side as if to guide you, but you quickly move out of his grasp, stalking off. He follows you.

You walk between two of the loaded trucks before you turn on him. “What the fuck do you want?” you snap at him.

Daryl holds out the bundle he’s carrying. It looks like your leather jacket, but right now, you don’t care. You snatch it from his hand and throw it on the floor.

“Why didn’t you do anything?” you ask him, your voice laced with anger. Daryl doesn’t say anything, just stares at your belongings on the ground. You move forward and get in his face. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

“What was I supposed t’ do?” he snaps at you, his voice deep with his own anger. “Shoot down the hundred men that had us surrounded?”

“Yes!” you hiss.

“They woulda killed us.”

“That would be better than this!” You gesture wildly around you, your chest heaving. “I’m being sent off to fight for Negan so he doesn’t kill people I care about. I’d much rather be dead right now.” Daryl doesn’t answer, and you sigh, defeated. “You said you wanted to leave with me.”

“I do,” Daryl says, watching you through his messy hair.

“Then what happened?” 

Daryl looks at the ground again. “I couldn’t,” he says so quietly, you almost miss it.

“No, Daryl,” you say, tears welling in your eyes again. “You wouldn’t. That’s different.”

His eyes snap back to yours when he hears your voice break, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You were right,” you continue. “You do belong to him.”

“That ain’t true,” Daryl protests. 

“Yes it is,” you snap. “You’re a Savior, through and through. I was stupid to ever think otherwise.”

You can almost see the anger radiating off of him. His chest heaves, and he fiddles with the handle of his knife on his hip.

“Just do whatever he tells you,” Daryl says quickly. “When you get back, we’ll-”

“Fuck you, Daryl,” you cut him off. “There is no ‘we.’ You choose him.” Daryl reaches for you, but you smack his hand away. “Just go,” you say sadly. “I don’t need you to protect me anymore.”

Daryl stares at you, his mouth open like he wants to say something, but then he snaps it closed again. You watch as his mask falls back into place, his face returning to its usual glare. Then he nods, and turns on his heel and leaves you.

You watch him go before bending to pick up your jacket. Your knife and Rosita’s knuckles tumble onto the floor. Scoffing, you shove them into your cargo pockets before opening your jacket. The torn sleeve from earlier has been sewn back on with some twine. 

“You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, slipping it on as you make your way back over to your guards. 

The Saviors drive you and the caravan of trucks to a community you’ve never seen before. Outside the gates, Gavin orders you out of the truck.

“Do not leave my side,” he tells you, before turning back to his men. He nods, and then one of the men drives the truck straight through the front gate. The men on foot follow the truck in, raining gunfire on the community. You jump back from the sounds, clamping your hands over your ears. Gavin takes you by the elbow and drags you inside.

It’s chaos. Soldiers are kicking down doors to buildings. The citizens are running in all directions. Children are crying. It’s too much for you, and you start walking backwards, but Gavin holds you in place.

“Remember Negan’s orders,” he says, pushing a gun into your hands. “Round ‘em up!” he yells to you and the rest of the soldiers.

When all the citizens of the community around collected and forced to onto the ground, 

Gavin climbs into the bed of a pickup truck with a megaphone. “Well, here we are,” he says to the crowd. “I didn’t want it to come to this. Much rather would have been at home tonight. But you folks wanted to order off the menu. And look at that! Now you have to eat shit. God knows I didn’t want to be the one serving it up.”

The people stare up at Gavin as he talks, telling them that “the Kingdom” - the name of the town, you guess - belongs to Negan now. You’re standing next to the pickup, your fingers clenching and unclenching around the gun in your hands, watching the crowd. They don’t look like fighters. Most of them are families with small children or older people. There’s no way they can fight back against the Saviors on their own.

“And now there’s one last piece of business,” Gavin is saying when you finally tune back in. “One person here who has to answer for all of this: Ezekiel. I need him. We haven’t found him yet. I don’t expect anyone to give him up. But I will say to do yourselves a favor and cooperate now.” He pauses, but nobody says anything. “We didn’t see any goons with dreadlocks back at the homestead so he has to be here.”

Still nothing. Gavin is getting increasingly frustrated. “There are rules and he broke them! And if you do not give him up right now this…moves into something traumatic. I don’t want that. Don't make this any worse than it already is. There are goddamn kids here. They don’t need to see this shit.” He pauses again. “All right,” he says, sighing deeply. “You got five minutes. Then it’s Negan’s way. And that’s on you, not me.”

Suddenly, there’s an explosion down the street from where you all stand. You duck behind the pickup truck for cover.

“What are you looking at me for? Go!” Gavin shouts at his men. A bunch of them go running towards the fire. 

Tires squeal behind you. You turn just in time to see a school bus flying towards you. Quickly, you dive out of the way, landing in a low bush, losing your gun in the process. The bus slams into the side of the pickup where you were standing moments before. 

The people of the Kingdom jump up and start running towards the gate. A man with long gray locks jumps out of the bus. One of the Savior soldiers pulls a gun on him, but Gavin stops him.

“That’s Ezekiel! We need him alive. Goddamn king’s worth more than all of em.” You all watch as the supposed king runs off. “Go!” Gavin snaps. Grabbing your gun, you take off after the man along with several other Saviors.

He runs to the gate, shoving the large doors closed. He stops for a moment, and you can just make out another voice. A woman’s voice. It sounds familiar, but you don’t have time to think about it when he slams the gates closed, locking them with a chain.

The man turns as you reach him, coming to a stop a few feet away. He looks at you, lifting his chin in defiance. You just watch him as the other Saviors surround him, one of them hitting him over the head and knocking him to the ground.

Gavin steps up and starts yelling at the man. “We had a good thing going. I felt bad about the kid, too. I didn’t want that. You know that! And now a lot more people have to die. Sometimes you just have to swallow it!” Gavin grows more hysterical the longer he speaks. “I do. Jesus, I thought you knew that too. I liked you, Ezekiel. Your people are gonna look at the Sanctuary fence and they’re gonna see their king is dead.”

He walks off, barking at the Saviors to keep loading the trucks. Two of them grab the man - Ezekiel - and drag him towards the center of town.

The Saviors continue to loot the Kingdom, loading any supplies and food they find into the trucks. You stand guard over Ezekiel, who sits on a crate at the back of the pickup. Gavin reappears, and addresses him.

“Negan’s gonna kill you now.” Gavin says. When the man ignores him, he moves closer. “I said he’s gonna kill you. And there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Hey, you hear me?”

Ezekiel finally answers, staring into the distance. “I ferried my people to freedom. What befalls me now matters now.”

No wonder they call him king, you remark to yourself. When he talks like that.

“No! It matters, idiot,” Gavin replies, getting annoyed again. “I liked you, Ezekiel. You got it. You got that you couldn’t do better than you had it.” He pauses, looking around at the destruction. “You accepted things for what they were and you didn’t get any big ideas in your head. And then Rick went and planted one right in there. And here we are. Shit’s getting shitter and you’re going to die.”

“I made a choice I can live with,” Ezekiel says, looking up at Gavin. “Now it’s your turn to do the same.”

Gavin sighs, then orders more of the Saviors to get to work. They run off, leaving you alone with Gavin and the king.

“Is it going to go bad, Ezekiel? Is this going to turn into something else?” Gavin asks him.

“You are the author of this night, Gavin. Its close shall be fashioned by your start,” Ezekiel answers. You try to hide your smirk; you like him more and more with each cheeky response he gives.

The slamming of truck doors steals your attention away. It looks like the Saviors are finishing up ransacking the community. Gavin orders some of the men to get Ezekiel into a truck, then leans in to talk to him more. You can see he’s getting frazzled, the sweat glistening on his face as he talks. 

You walk away a few steps, looking at the community. You see what were once gardens, now trampled by the soldiers’ boots. Clotheslines have been ripped down, leaving laundry in dirty puddles. Your heart breaks for the people of this town. They made lives for themselves in this shitty world, just for the Saviors to show up and ruin it. You grind your teeth, your trigger finger twitching again at the injustice of it all.

Gunfire rips through the air. 

“Get him inside. Now!” Gavin yells. You run back to where he is, and follow him and the other Saviors as they force the king inside the nearest building. 

Inside, it appears to be an old theater. In the middle of a stage sits a throne. You stand in front of it and smirk. Kingdom.  

Gavin continues yelling orders, and the Saviors spread out to cover each of the doors. He drags Ezekiel up the aisle, who must say something to get under Gavin’s skin because he slaps the king, the echo of it causing you to jump. You turn to watch them just in time for the next explosion.

The Saviors open fire at the doors at the top of the aisle. Gavin signals for them to stop, and it grows silent. A few of the closer men start to creep towards the source of the explosion. Gavin holds his gun to the king’s head.

“Give up or he’s dead,” he announces to the attackers. You watch the top of the aisles through the scope of your gun, looking for movement.

Suddenly there’s a loud thud on the stage behind you. You drop to the floor as more gunfire erupts, and the Saviors face off against whoever is up there. From your hiding place in the front of the stage, you watch soldiers drop left and right as the attackers take them out. Good, you think to yourself. 

Gavin meets your eye. He and the king are on the floor of the aisle. “Get up and do something!” he yells, pointing his gun at you. 

You swallow thickly, remembering Negan’s threat. “ I know that there’s two kids in Alexandria that you care for a lot. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to them, now would we?” Gripping your gun, you take a few steadying breaths. Do it for them, you tell yourself. That’s why you got yourself into this mess in the first place. To keep the kids safe. You can’t go against that now. 

You wait for a lull in the gunfire, then you jump up, raising your gun to your shoulder. There’s two men fighting on the floor of the stage, who you ignore, focusing your aim instead on the gunman in the back. 

But you don’t fire. Because it’s not a gunman, or a man at all. A woman aims her gun back at you, her bright silver hair just visible over the top of it. You lower your gun.

“Carol,” you say, stunned. Her eyes grow wide with recognition, and she lowers her gun slightly. 

A single shot echoes through the room. Carol calls your name, but you barely hear her. All you can focus on is the sharp pain in your shoulder as the bullet hits you and you crumple to the ground.

Chapter Text

Gunfire. Pain. Blood. Bright light. Is it the light?

“We don’t need to go. All of them are dead.”

Am I dead?

“Go find bandages, a first aid kit, anything. I have to stop the bleeding.”

Footsteps. Someone nearby says your name repeatedly, telling you to stay with them. Where could I possibly go?

“They’ve looted all of the medical stores. These sheets are the best I could find to help the maiden.”

Maiden?

A press to your shoulder. A searing pain. Somebody screams. It may have been you. You can’t be too sure.

More footsteps. More voices. They blend together into a dull buzz. You can’t make out words anymore. 

You feel wet. Sticky. Something moves off of you. You can see it.

Red. So much red.

The voices stop. An eerie silence falls. Then you hear it.

The rumble of a motorcycle. A door hitting a wall. Heavy footsteps.

“Where is she?”

I know that voice.

“Hey! He’s a friend.”

Something hits the ground next to you. Or is it someone?

“It’s nice to see you again, Pookie.”

Pookie?

“Is she- Is she-”

“She’s alive, but Gavin shot her. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Arms slide underneath you. You’re being lifted. More footsteps. A door opens. A cool breeze. 

“We have to get her to the Hilltop. That’s the only community they haven’t attacked.”

“I’ll secure a truck for the journey.”

“My bike is faster.”

A flash of blue. A streak of silver. 

“You’re going to be okay.”

Something is wrapped around you. It’s soft. It tightens around your waist. 

“I got ‘er.”

You’re leaned against something. It’s firm and warm. Safe.

A small explosion. A vibration. You curl into the warmth around you.

“Be safe.”

“You too.”

“You know I always am.”

Then there’s wind in your face. You’re moving. But how?

You feel unsteady, like you’re going to fall. But something holds you up. You grip it the best you can. It pulls you closer.

“Stay with me, princess.”

Princess. Only one person calls you that. You try to open your eyes, but everything is moving too fast so you squeeze them closed again.

“Daryl,” you say weakly.

“Save yer strength,” his voice is right in your ear. “We’re almost there.”

The rumble grows louder. Every bump sends a jolt of pain through your body. Whispered apologies. The wind whips your hair even faster.

Then everything stops.

“Did Negan get my message?”

“Dunno. You gotta let us in.”

“You know I can’t do that, Daryl.”

“Then she’s going to bleed out.”

“Who - oh my gosh. Open the gates!”

A loud creaking. Another rumble. Another stop. Strong arms wrap around you and you are being carried again. You take in his smell; cigarette smoke, woods, gasoline. Safe.  

“Get her inside.”

Another door opens. You’re placed down on a soft surface. His arms fall away. You whimper weakly.

“I’m righ’ here,” he soothes you. A warm hand on your icy cheek.

This new space is cold. It smells chemical. Sterile. A hospital?

“What happened?”

“She’s been shot. You have t’ help her.”

“We don’t have a doctor-”

“We do!”

A different voice. A familiar one.

Footsteps hurry off, then quickly return with more. There’s voices. So many voices. It’s too much. They start to blend together again.

“Can you do this?”

“I-I should be able to. I’ve never treated a gunshot wound before-”

“Get him outta here!”

“I can do it! I’m just going to need some help.”

A struggle. Something gets knocked over. Metal clattering across the floor.

“If she dies, I’ll kill ya where you fuckin stand, all right?”

I’m going to die. I’m going to die here. 

Breathing turns into wheezing. Your ribs tighten around your lungs. 

“Yer gonna be alright.” Your hand is placed on something hard. It moves. It beats. “Just breathe.” You focus on those steady movements. Match them. Copy them. 

The wheezes subside. You exhale a deep breath.

There’s more movement all around you. Drawers opening and closing. Furniture shifting. Water spilling. 

“There’s no anesthesia, so she’s going to feel everything.”

“What can we do?”

“Hold her still.” 

Hands. Hands all over you. Like you’ve fallen back into one of your nightmares.

“No,” you moan.

“We have to,” comes a soothing voice. A hand pats your hair. “You’re strong, you can do this.” 

The tearing of fabric. More hands. Someone presses on your shoulder.

“Okay, Y/N. I have to go in so I can get the bullet out. This might hurt a bit. I’m sorry.”

The clink of metal. A stabbing pain. You feel like your body is on fire. You scream. You try to get away but the hands hold you down. You can’t get away. Can’t escape.

So you scream and you scream and then you black out.

When you come to, it’s quiet; all the commotion from earlier is gone. You crack your eyes open and it’s bright. Too bright. You close your eyes again, and focus on what you can feel. It’s cold in here. You’re still laying on something soft. Your shoulder radiates with a dull pain, but nothing compared to how it felt before.

You turn your head and try opening your eyes again, and you’re met with a familiar face. You smile, cracking your dry lips.

“Hey bitch,” Rosita greets you. “Welcome back.”

“Hey,” you reply, your voice hoarse and your throat dry. 

Rosita brings you a cup of water and helps you drink it. “You look like shit,” she says with a smirk.

You laugh, nearly choking on the water. “I feel like shit,” you answer when you can talk again.

Rosita puts the cup of water down but continues standing over you, bringing her hand up to push your hair off of your face. “I’ve missed you,” she says quietly. 

“I’ve missed you too,” you say, reaching for her hand but then pain hits you like a ton of bricks and you flinch. “Fuck that hurts,” you grimace.

Taking your hand on your good arm, Rosita laughs. “Yeah, you were fuckin’ shot. Thankfully we have a doctor again, and he got the bullet out before it did too much damage.”

“Thank god,” you say through gritted teeth, the pain in your shoulder pulsing with your heartbeat. “So what’s the plan?”

Rosita’s smile fades. “For you to rest,” she answers simply. “We’ll handle everything else.”

“What’s everything else?” you ask again. Her eyes flicker from your face to somewhere behind you. “Come on, tell me.”

“I can’t tell you anything with him in here,” she says, glaring past you.

“Who-” you start to ask, turning to look to the other side of the room but you freeze when you see him.

On the other side of your bed, Daryl sits in one of the chairs, watching you and Rosita. Leaning on the arm rest, he’s got one hand on his face. The other holds one of his hunting knives on his lap. His sharp, narrow eyes watch you through his messy hair, two small specks of blue surrounded by shadows. 

Speechless, all you can do is stare at him. He meets your eyes for a moment, then looks back to meet Rosita’s glare.

“He’s been here all night,” Rosita explains. “Guarding you, per Negan’s orders apparently. So we’ve been taking turns guarding him.”

Oh.  

To Rosita, Daryl is just another Savior. You’re honestly a little surprised she hasn’t already killed him. Probably an order from Maggie, you think, not sure if you’re grateful for it or not.

As if she heard you, there’s a knock and the door opens, Maggie’s face popping in. She smiles when she sees you awake. 

“Hey you,” she says in greeting. “You gave us quite a fright.”

“Sorry about that,” you mumble, your eyes still flickering between Rosita and Daryl’s matching glares.

Maggie’s eyes follow yours, taking in the tense scene. “Rosita, can I borrow you for a minute?” she asks her. “We want to go over the plan again.”

Rosita turns on her. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’ll be quick,” she replies, nodding. 

Huffing and shooting one last glare at Daryl, Rosita follows Maggie out of the infirmary, leaving you alone with the Savior. 

Neither of you move at first, both of you staring at the closed door. You hold your breath, not wanting to disrupt the silence. What do I say to him? You struggle to parse out your feelings. You’re still furious with him for abandoning you when you had a chance to escape. But you also know that you probably wouldn’t be laying here, arguing with yourself if it weren’t for him. Even after you yelled at him, he saved your life again. You can at least thank him for that.

But before you can swallow your pride enough to say it, Daryl doubles over, his face in his hands. You think he’s about to get sick, but when you look closer, you can see that you’re wrong: his shoulders are shaking, his breathing is heavy, and you swear you just make out a sniffle.

Daryl Dixon is crying.

It feels like a punch straight to the chest. You’re convinced being shot hurt less than this does.

“Daryl,” you say his name, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His face is still buried in his hands, and you can hear him trying to take slow, deep breaths. “Daryl,” you try again, louder this time. He starts shaking his head, still refusing to look at you.

“‘m sorry,” you hear him say, his voice muffled. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry…”

“Daryl,” you say again with a sigh, your own eyes stinging with the threat of tears. You try to push yourself up to sitting, the effort sending a twinge of pain to your shoulder and you hiss. 

He’s at your side in a flash, his hand on you, trying to guide you to lay back down. He won’t look at you but you can see his face; his cheeks flush, his eyes glassy, his lip between his teeth.

“‘m sorry,” he’s saying again, his voice low and gravelly. “I shoulda been there, I coulda done something, coulda stopped you from being- being-” his voice trails off. 

“It’s not your fault, Daryl,” you tell him, your own voice small and thick with tears.

Daryl shakes his head again. “It is,” he groans. “It is. If I went with you. Fuck, if I jus’ shot him when I had tha chance-”

“We’d both be dead,” you remind him, like he reminded you yesterday.

But Daryl doesn’t hear you. His hands are on the side of the bed, his knuckles white as he grips it like he needs it to stand. “I never shoulda walked away,” he chokes out. “I thought- I thought I lost ya. And I couldn’t-” he stops, squeezing his eyes closed. “I couldn’t live if ya died. I couldn’t-”

You push yourself to sit up, pain be damned. With your good arm, you lift your hand to his cheek, not quite touching him as to not scare him, but close enough that he can feel you there. “Daryl,” you say, taking a deep breath. “I’m okay. I’m alive, thanks to you. You saved me.”

He opens his eyes, meeting yours for the first time since you woke up. Tears still stream out of them, and with your thumb, you gently wipe the new ones away. 

Daryl leans into your hand, reaching his own up as if to touch you too. But when it gets close to your bandaged shoulder, he drops it, his bright blue eyes flash with anger as he looks away.

“Daryl,” you say breathlessly, trying to get him to look at you again.

“I’ll kill ‘em,” he says, hatred lacing his voice. “I’ll kill ‘em all.” 

“I don’t care about them” you say quickly, startling him. His eyes flash back to yours, wider this time. “I don’t. I care about you.” You run your thumb along his cheek. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s fine-”

“It’s not,” you continue, growing breathless. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t need you to protect me anymore. I do. I need you. Daryl, I-” you pause, taking a deep steadying breath. “Daryl, I love you.”

You hear his breath hitch. Shit. But it’s too late to go back now.

He shakes his head again. “No-”

“I do, Daryl,” you press on. “I think I have for a while now. You kept me safe when no one else did. You protected me, looked out for me.” You swallow. “You cared for me even when I didn’t care for myself.”

Daryl’s eyes are wide and on you now. He watches you, chest heaving, tears running down your cheeks now too. Slowly, he brings his hand up to your face, so gentle, as if you’re made of glass. You curl into his touch.

He lifts your chin, angling your face up to his. His bright eyes wander over your face, searching for something. You meet his gaze, then lean forward towards him. He lowers his face down to meet you, his lips mere millimeters away from yours.

“I love you,” he breathes out, “I’ve loved ya since I first saw ya, back at the prison.” Then he closes the gap and kisses you. You breathe out a sigh of relief as you pull him closer to you, kissing him harder. 

With your lips, you try to tell him everything you’ve been too afraid to say out loud: how much you love him; how much you love when he is with you and how much you crave him when he’s not; how you looked for his face in every crowd, needing it to keep you grounded while you fought to survive in the Sanctuary. 

Daryl’s arm wraps around you, pulling you closer and holding you up, and you know that he will never let you fall. He holds you like he never wants to let go. You can feel the wetness on his cheeks, his tears mixing with your own, as you make this silent vow to each other.

When you finally break apart, both breathing heavily, Daryl presses his forehead to yours. 

“We’re gonna figure this out,” he promises you.

“I know we will,” you reply, kissing him again. When you pull back, his face still in your hand, you drink in the sight of him; his flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the dark circles under his eyes. You shift over on the bed. “Come lay with me,” you say.

“Nah, I’m alright,” Daryl tries to protest.

“Please,” you plead, placing your hand on his arm. Daryl sighs, then uses his strength to move you over more before climbing onto the bed next to you. Careful not to jostle your injured shoulder, he lays back onto the pillow, sliding an arm out. That’s when you notice the small bandage in the crook of his elbow.

Daryl follows your gaze to it, then pulls his sleeve down over it. You raise your eyebrow at him.

“You needed blood,” he replies, shrugging. 

“Always saving me,” you say smiling, leaning down to kiss him again.

Daryl smirks. “Always.”

You lay down, curling into him with your head on his chest. He wraps his arm around you, holding you to his side. You feel his body relax into the bed.

“‘m never lettin’ you out of my sight,” he says softly, stroking your back as he talks.

“Good,” you reply, smirking. He chuckles, the vibration of it through his chest tickling your cheek. You lay a hand over his heart, and he takes it, bringing it to his lips and kissing it tenderly. When he puts it back down, his fingers are interlaced with yours.

You and Daryl lay this way for a while. Lulled by the steady beating of his heart, your eyes begin to grow heavy. Daryl’s breathing grows deeper, and he lazily nuzzles his face into your hair.

When Maggie comes back a few minutes later, she finds you and Daryl asleep in your embrace, your hands still intertwined. Quietly, she closes the door again, smiling to herself. 

When you wake up again, Daryl is still holding you, his free hand twirling strands of your hair around his fingers. You turn to look at him.

“You’re still here,” you whisper, squeezing his hand that you’re still holding.

“Always gonna be, princess,” Daryl replies, pressing his lips to your forehead. You smile; his nickname for you that was once meant to taunt you now causing your heart to flutter in your chest. 

You raise your chin towards his face, and he leans in to meet you with a kiss. It’s soft, tender, loving. You sigh contentedly, and you can feel his smile against your lips. His hand finds your back again and presses you into him, gently, deepening the kiss. You catch his bottom lip between yours, even giving it a small nip with your teeth. He groans softly into your mouth, the sound like music to your ears.

A light knock on the door is barely enough to break you apart. Even as Daryl tries to climb off of the bed, you catch his lips in a few more kisses, not wanting any space between the two of you. Eventually Daryl pries you off of him, chuckling as he moves back to his chair.

“You gotta go back to looking scary now, huh?” you ask him, smirking.

Daryl looks at you with a furrowed brow. “I am scary,” he says, sounding adorably confused.

“Okay, Daryl,” you reply, trying to school your face back to neutral as the door opens. A man you don’t recognize walks in, followed by Tara. She wiggles her eyebrows at you as she leans up against the wall next to your bed, directly opposite to Daryl, who has resumed fiddling with his knife and glaring. You have to swallow down a laugh.

“Good morning, Y/N,” the man greets you, and you turn your attention to him. “My name’s Siddiq, you probably don’t remember me. I’m the one who did your surgery yesterday.”

“The one who had to dig the bullet out of me,” you reply.

“Yeah,” Siddiq answers, sighing. “I’m sorry for that. But I had to get it out to prevent any further internal damage and so that we could get the bleeding under control.” You nod, following along as the doctor talks. “May I take a look at the wound?”

Siddiq helps you to sit up on the bed, but despite his assistance, it still hurts a lot . You can almost feel Daryl’s anger, having to sit and watch rather than help. Carefully, Siddiq undoes the bandages, and inspects where the bullet hit you in the back of your shoulder. He’s very gentle with you, which you are grateful for, even though you have to squeeze the blanket in your fist to keep from hissing in pain again.

“It looks good right now,” Siddiq explains, applying a new bandage. “It’ll leave a scar, but it should heal up just fine on the outside.” He moves your arm carefully to continue wrapping the bandage around you. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the technology to be able to see exactly what’s going on inside, but it’s not bleeding, so you should be in the clear. So from here, our focus is going to be on pain management and avoiding infection.”

Siddiq takes two pill bottles out of his pocket. “Antibiotics to keep it clean,” he says, holding up the first one. “And painkillers.” He goes to open them.

“Just the antibiotics,” you tell him. “The pain’s not too bad.”

“You sure?”

You nod. “I’ve felt worse,” you answer, shuddering involuntarily. From the corner of your eye, you see Daryl fidget uncomfortably in his chair. 

“Okay,” Siddiq replies, pocketing the bottle of painkillers. “I recommend resting your arm as much as possible. Wearing a sling will help you to remember not to use it.” He pulls out a strip of fabric. You nod, and you let him position your arm and tie your makeshift sling. You feel a little stupid, but it’s better than making your injury worse. 

“I’ll come by a little later and check on you again,” Siddiq says, rubbing his hands together. “Rest, eat, and drink water the best that you can to keep your strength up.” With a nod to you and to Tara, he leaves the infirmary.

When the door closes, you turn to your friend. “What is going on?” you ask her. “Why are you and Rosita here?” Tara doesn’t answer, her eyes shifting from your face to Daryl behind you. “Anything you need to say to me, you can say in front of him,” you snap, annoyed at everyone’s reluctance to tell you things because of him.

Tara sighs, then starts talking. “The Saviors attacked Alexandria.” She glares at Daryl. “Bombed it, lit the whole place up.” She looks back to you. “Most of us got out, just barely. And we came here to Hilltop.”

She continues talking but your brain freezes on one word: most.

“Who did we lose?” you ask, cutting her off. Tara’s mouth snaps closed, and she looks at the floor. “Tara,” you say through gritted teeth, trying to fight off your panic. “Who did we lose?” 

She answers, but refuses to meet your eye.

“Carl.”

Time stops. Your heart stops. Your breathing stops. No. You look down at your hand clenching the blanket again.

“How?” you ask, your voice barely a squeak. Tara doesn’t answer. “Did they - did he - “

“He was bit,” she says quietly. “He saved Siddiq from a group of walkers and got bit.” She stops to swipe at the tears on her face. “He got us all out, but he didn’t make it. Rick and Michonne stayed with him until the end.”

Her words play on repeat in your head. Carl. Bit. End. As it sinks in, one word takes over. Dead. Dead. Dead. Your clenched fist shakes. You can’t get any air in your lungs.

Daryl’s at your side, trying to capture your attention, trying to help you.

Can’t breathe.

You watch Tara yell at him, her hand on her gun, but no sound comes out. 

Need air.

Daryl yells back at her, but you can’t hear him over the pounding of your heart in your ears. 

Get out.

You kick the blanket off, trying to escape. Daryl and Tara try to hold you, but you slip out of their grasp and tumble to the floor. Black spots creeping into your vision, you barrel towards the door, flinging it open and running out.

Daryl yells your name from behind you, but you ignore him. You need to get away. You need to get air. 

“I got her!” a voice calls to him, but you ignore them too. You run, pushing past a few faceless people, towards the back of Barrington House. You run until you can’t anymore, and you fall to your knees, gripping the grass with your one good arm as the tears hit you.

Carl. You see his face in your mind, his big smile under his sheriff’s hat. Carl. You see him back at the prison, just a kid, running behind all of you, trying to help. Carl. You see him holding baby Judith, protecting her from the world. The sight squeezes your heart inside of your chest and you double over in pain.

I failed. You think over and over in your head. I failed. I failed. I failed. Your cries turn into wails. Negan’s smug face pops into your mind, his threat reverberating through your mind. You rip the grass from the ground and throw it, screaming before falling forward again. 

Gentle hands help you to sit up, rubbing your back. “Let it out,” comes Carol’s soft voice. “You have to let yourself feel it. I have you. Just let it all out.” You let her hold you, and you cry your heart out for the little boy you fought for all this time.

I’m sorry, you tell Carl, wherever he is. I’m sorry I failed you. 

Carol continues to comfort you, rubbing your back and whispering affirming words in your ear, even when you run out of tears. You sit, wrapped in her arms, listening to the rustle of the bushes in the soft breeze. You stare at the ground where you ripped up the grass, sighing deeply. She hugs you tighter, her hand petting your hair.

Footsteps approach. Carol’s hand freezes. You look up, and it feels like another knife to your heart.

Rick stands a few feet away, looking like hell. He’s covered head to toe in dirt and soot. His bright eyes are lined in red. He looks right at you.

Carefully, Carol helps you to stand, and you turn to face him. I’m sorry. The words are on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t get them out. I failed you too. Your dry eyes sting, but you’re all out of tears. I failed you all.

Rick watches you, his head tilted to one side. Then he’s walking towards you, picking up speed. You shrink, thinking he’s going to attack you or yell at you. But then his arms are around you and he’s hugging you.

“You’re alive,” he says, his voice hoarse. He holds you tighter, pressing your face into his chest. “You’re alive,” he says again, as if he is trying to believe it.

Still frozen, you let his words wash over you. He doesn’t hate me. It feels like a breath of fresh air, and you sigh deeply again. You wrap your good arm around him and squeeze him back.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his shirt, your voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

Rick shushes you, holding you even closer to him. More arms begin to wrap around the two of you. Glancing up, you see the faces of the other Alexandrians. They move in closer, hugging you and Rick both. You all stay this way for a long while.

Chapter Text

After the group hug, the Alexandrians slowly drift back to preparing for the Saviors’ arrival. A few give you quick individual hugs before departing. When Michonne finally lets you go, you make your way back to the infirmary trailer.

“Wait,” Rick calls out. He jogs to catch up, walking in time with you.

“What’s up, Rick?” 

He sighs. “I owe you an apology,” he starts.

You stop walking. “For what?” you ask, confused. Everything you’ve done so far, you willingly signed up to do. For the most part, at least.

“The attack on the Sanctuary,” he explains. “Trapping you in there like that.”

Oh. 

“It was a strategic move. I get it. It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but he is shaking his head.

“Nah, it wasn’t,” Rick continues, walking again. Now it’s your turn to try and catch up to him. “It put you in more danger than you were already in. I wasn’t thinkin-“

“Rick, really. I was alright,” you try again, placing a hand on his arm. “I had someone looking out for me-”

But Rick is still shaking his head, refusing to meet your eye. “I know he said he’d keep you safe but I don’t believe-”

“Who are you-” you start to ask, but then it clicks. “Oh no, I’m not talking about Negan.”

“What?” Rick asks, stopping with his hand on the doorknob to the trailer.

You sigh, and nod at the infirmary door. He swings it open. 

Inside, Daryl jumps up and moves to step towards you, but jerks back when he sees you’re not alone. His hand goes to his knife at his hip.

Behind you, Rick puts a hand on your waist to move you out of his way, his own hand going to his weapon.

“Rick, wait-” you try to stop him so you can explain, but he ignores you. His gun slides out of his holster.

Quickly, you step between the men, standing in front of Daryl, shielding him with your body. Daryl instinctively puts a protective hand on your waist, holding you close to him.

Rick stares at Daryl’s hand, his head tilted to the side. He raises an eyebrow at you.

You smile nervously.

“Daryl’s been protecting you?” Rick asks.

“Since day one,” you reply in a small voice.

“You trust him?”

“I do,” you answer, placing your good hand over Daryl’s.

Rick takes in this information, nodding his head. “Alright.” Finally, he puts his gun back into its holster, then turns his gaze to Daryl. “Ya know Negan’s gonna kill you when he finds out, right?” He says, nodding at his hand in yours on your waist. 

“He can try,” Daryl replies gruffly.

Rick smirks, nodding again before leaving you alone with Daryl.

You let out a deep sigh of relief, falling back into his broad chest. 

“You alright?” he asks, pressing his lips into your hair. 

“Yeah,” you reply. “Or no, I don’t know. I’m just exhausted.”

Daryl grunts. Then, in one swift motion, he lifts you off of the floor and cradles you in his arms.

“Hey!”

“Doc said ya gotta rest, so you’re restin,” he scolds you, but you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“But-”

“Nah,” he cuts you off, carrying you over to the bed. Daryl places you down on it gently, leaning you back against the pillows, careful not to touch your injured shoulder. You whine when he lets you go, but he quickly plants a kiss on your forehead before taking up his usual seat next to your bed.

Over the next few hours, the Hilltop finalizes preparations for the Savior’s attack. You learn that you and Daryl have been confined to the infirmary trailer to stay out of sight of the 38 captured Saviors Maggie has in a pen out front. You were initially worried that Daryl would be angry, but when he was told that they were Simon’s men, he sat back, unbothered, with a small smile on his lips. 

You have a steady stream of visitors throughout the day. Tara and Rosita each pop in to give you updates, although you’re pretty sure they were mostly making sure that Daryl hasn’t killed you yet. Enid also comes by, but she doesn’t stay long, the sadness in her eyes feeling like a punch straight to your heart. By late afternoon, Michonne visits, carrying a squirming toddler in her arms.

“Somebody’s been asking for you,” she says with a smile.

“Auntie!” Judith shrieks, reaching out for you. Michonne carefully places the little girl in your lap, trying to tell her that Auntie has a booboo and she needs to be gentle, but that doesn’t stop Judith from throwing her arms around your neck and falling on you. 

“Hi, babygirl!” you laugh, wrapping her in your one good arm. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.” You pepper her cheeks with kisses, causing her to giggle. Judith curls into you, and you manage to maneuver her little body so that she’s laying with you. She looks past you at Daryl, her brown eyes growing wide.

“You remember our friend, Daryl?” you ask her. Judith nods shyly. You wave at him, and Judith copies you, before falling into a fit of giggles again. Stealing a glance at Daryl, you watch him lift his hand from his knife and give Judith a small wave back with his fingers. She giggles harder, hiding her face in your chest.

You lean in close to her ear. “You wanna know a secret?” you ask in a mock whisper. Judith peeks up at you, nodding. “He might look mean on the outside, but he’s actually a big softie on the inside.” Daryl growls softly from his seat, and you and Judith break out into laughter. 

Still smiling, you cuddle with Judith until her eyes grow heavy, and eventually she falls asleep in your arm. You rest your head on top of hers, basking in the warmth and comfort she provides you in a time of such chaos and uncertainty. You enjoy it for as long as you can before there’s a soft knock on the door. Michonne walks in, Rosita behind her, both of their faces grave.

“It’s time,” Michonne whispers, carefully picking up Judith. “They’re coming.”

“Let’s go,” Rosita says, coming to help you off of the bed.

You and Daryl follow Rosita out of the infirmary towards the back of Barrington House. She stops by a woodpile, shooting Daryl a scowl before opening a hidden latch. 

“There’s a house about a half a mile east of here,” she explains. “Hide out there. One of us will come get you when it’s done.” You nod. Rosita reaches behind her and pulls out a handgun, holding it out to you. “Be safe,” she adds.

“You too,” you reply, taking the gun and shoving it into your waistband. Then you turn to Daryl. He nods at you, then climbs into the hidden exit. You look at Rosita one last time, then follow him through. 

It’s a tight squeeze, and you have to crawl a bit - which is a bitch with only one functioning arm - but you quickly reach the other end, where Daryl helps you to your feet just outside the Hilltop’s tall walls.

“C’mon,” he mutters, taking off into the woods. Once again grateful for his skill at navigating the outdoors, you follow him, trying not to think about what you might find at the Hilltop when you return. If you return.

It doesn’t take long to find the house Rosita told you about. It’s more like a shed, really; it’s smaller than the cabin you and Daryl hid out in near the Sanctuary, but it looks sturdy and it’s pretty well hidden by the surrounding trees. Daryl makes you wait outside while he checks the place for any uninvited guests. When it’s clear, he brings you inside, locking and barricading the door behind you. No one will be forcing their way in on you guys this time.

Now, all there is to do is wait. Something that you are notoriously bad at doing.

You pace the length of the shed. Back and forth, back and forth. You try sitting in one of the chairs by the small table, only to jump up again and resume pacing. Daryl stands near one of the windows, his eyes flickering between keeping guard and watching you. 

It grows darker. Your hands begin to tremble as you pace, no matter how hard you squeeze them together. Daryl peels himself from his perch, rustling around in his bag. You stop your pacing to watch as he pulls out candle after candle, lighting each with his lighter and setting them up around the shed. Before long, the room is alight with a flickering glow that brings you comfort. The trembling stops.

But then the gunfire begins. You nearly jump out of your skin as the sound erupts through the quiet. Even with the Hilltop being half a mile away, it sounds as if the shooting is right outside the door. You clamp your hands over your ears, the movement sending a jolt of pain through your shoulder and you cry out. Black spots fill your vision and you slump into the nearest wall, sliding down it until you’re seated on the floor.

From your now-fetal position, you hear the gunfire amplify like the finale of a firework show. You know longer care about the pain in your shoulder or the risk of damaging it further; you press your hands into your ears as hard as you can, trying to block out the sound. Through the haze, however, you can still hear it. You squeeze your eyes closed as if that will help too.

You don’t hear him move, but Daryl’s hands find their way to your upper arms, giving you a small, comforting squeeze. Then they move to your waist, where he moves you forward. You crack your eyes open enough to watch Daryl fit himself in behind you, sitting with his back against the wall that previously held you up. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you back towards his chest and pressing kisses into your hair. 

Things go quiet. You remove your hands from your ears, and find that you’re not imagining it: the shooting has stopped. The only sounds come from you and Daryl: your frantic breathes and his slow, steady ones. 

Can it truly be over already?

The gunfire starts up again, twofold. Before you can even react, Daryl places his hands over your ears, his larger ones doing a much better job of blocking out the sound that yours did before. You reach up and grab hold of his wrists, both holding him in place and grounding yourself to him as you try not to picture each of those gunshots landing in the people you love. 

The cacophony of gunfire continues for what feels like forever. It ebbs and flows, increasing and decreasing in number, but continues nonetheless.

Until it doesn’t anymore. Things go quiet again. Daryl keeps his hands over your ears, prepared for another round of it. But it never comes.

Daryl takes his hands off of your ears, wrapping you in his arms again as you both sit and listen. You strain your ears for any sound - screaming, fire, approaching trucks, footsteps, anything - but all you can hear is the sounds of the night. Breathing finally slowing, you let your head fall back into Daryl’s shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’s over.”

It’s dawn by the time there’s a knock on the door. Daryl held you in his arms through the night, telling you stories about his misadventures of Merle when they were kids when you were present and rubbing a comforting hand along your arm when you tried to rest. No sleep ever came; your mind was too busy running a mile a minute, flashing the faces of your family members bleeding and dying every time you tried to close your eyes. 

Daryl carefully slid out from behind you, peeking out the window before moving the furniture he used to barricade the door. He opens it a crack, before swinging it the rest of the way open to reveal Carol. The sight of her in the early morning sun brings tears to your eyes.

“Is it over?” you ask, your voice coming out as a squeak after being quiet for so long.

“For now,” she says, nodding. “Let’s get you two back behind the walls.”

Daryl helps you off of the floor, the candles around you long burnt out. You look around the shed one final time, thanking it for keeping you and Daryl safe for the night, before you follow them out.

The walk back to the Hilltop feels like miles. Your knees crack and wobble in the beginning from being scrunched up all night. Daryl leads the way, with Carol following behind you, both with their weapons raised and ready for anything. Thankfully, the only thing you come across is a rabbit, which Daryl quickly shoots with an arrow and carries with him.

“Breakfast,” he says, shrugging, when you gape at him.

When the three of you reach the Hilltop’s walls, Daryl navigates you towards the small exit the two of you used the night before. Crawling through it sucks again, but the thought of facing the captive Saviors - now in a shittier mood after last night’s fight, no doubt - sucks even more, so you grit your teeth and bear it. You’re nearly worn out when you make it to the other end, so much so that Carol, with the help of Rosita, has to pull you out of it. On your feet again, you lean against the nearest wall, exhausted.

From your spot, you peer around the Hilltop. The sun is high in the sky at this point and clean up from the fight is already underway. There doesn’t seem to be too much damage to the community, but you don’t miss the makeshift stretchers with covered bodies being carried towards the back of the big house. 

Towards the graveyard, you remark to yourself, thinking about your friends who are already buried there. Glenn. Abraham. How many more are joining them?  

In hushed tones, Carol fills you in on what happened the night before and the accompanying losses: 8 dead, 10 more injured, mostly from stab wounds and arrows. 

“No gunshot wounds?” you ask her, confused.

Carol shakes her head. “They came with mostly handheld weapons, plus bows and arrows,” she explains. “They must be running out of ammo.”

“Huh,” you reply. Seems odd. But before you can put too much thought into it, your exhaustion catches up to you and you let out a big yawn.

Daryl is immediately at your side. “Ya need rest,” he says, placing a hand on your arm to start leading you back to the infirmary.

Jesus pops seemingly out of nowhere. “Trailer’s full of the wounded, unfortunately,” he explains, a pained expression on his face. “But you two can take my room in the house.”

“Thanks, Jesus,” you reply, no fight left in you to protest. He smiles, and leads you and Daryl through the backdoor of Barrington House, out of view of the sullen Savior prisoners out front.

You end up sleeping on and off for most of the day, waking up a few times to eat and to bathe. Daryl even managed to get some sleep, after a lot of coaxing from you and Carol, and he only agreed after she swore to not let you out of her sight while he rested. The two of you ended up spending the time sitting on the floor outside of Jesus’ room, telling each other everything that you’ve each been up to while you’ve been apart. Carol told you all about Ezekiel and the Kingdom, and you filled her in on your time at the Sanctuary. You both ended up in tears at multiple points and hugging each other, and it just felt so good to have your best friend back. 

Siddiq came to check on your wound again and to give you antibiotics. He looked exhausted himself, having spent all night and day running around and treating the wounded, but he smiled when he told you that it seemed to be healing well, with no signs of infection. 

Daryl woke up in time for dinner, and the two of you sat around and ate with your family, old and new. As you looked around at all of their faces - alive and breathing faces - your heart was full. The few that knew Daryl from his days with the group made sure to include him in conversations over and after dinner, and you caught a glimmer of the archer in that old polaroid you had found in his rooms, all those nights ago. You leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling, well into the night. 

When you and Daryl head back to Jesus’ room - which he insists you guys take, despite your protests this time - you feel content for the first time in a while.

“Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout?” Daryl asks as you climb into the bed, where he’s already propped against the headboard. 

You curl into him, laying your head on his chest. “Just thinking,” you answer softly. “This could be our life.” You glance up at him. “When all this is over.”

Daryl kisses you on the forehead, before moving you both to settle on the pillows. “I’d like tha’,” he murmurs.

You lean up and kiss him on the cheek. He catches your chin in his hand, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. You hum in delight, then lay your head back on his chest, letting the rise and fall of it lull you back to sleep.

You awake to screams.

Before you can even untangle yourself from the blankets, Daryl is out of the bed, crossbow in hand, making for the door. He opens it, and the screams grow louder. But underneath them, you hear another sound that sends chills up your spine: growls.

There are walkers in the house.

You grab the handgun Rosita gave you off of the nightstand and jump out of bed, but Daryl stops you in your tracks.

“Stay here,” he hisses.

“What? No,” you try to get around him, but he holds you in place. 

“Stay,” he says again, firmer this time.

“They need help-”

“Please,” Daryl whispers, his blue eyes alight with both anger and - fear? “You’re hurt. I’ll go. But stay here, stay safe. Please.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “I can’t-”

“I know,” you tell him, cupping his cheek. “Go. Save them.”

Daryl kisses you quick, then rushes back to the door. “Lock it behind me,” he orders you before disappearing into the dark hallway.

You do as he says, clicking the lock, no matter how much it pains you to not run to their aid. Backing away from the door, you keep your gun raised and aimed at it, god forbid anyone - or anything - tries to force its way through.

The sounds that crawl their way under the closed door are sickening. You wish you could cover your ears and block it all out again, but you are too scared to lower your gun. So you listen to it all; the screams, the groans, the thuds and squelches of weapons hitting flesh, the gunshots. 

Who is opening fire right now?!

You hear a thud against the wall to your right. Jerking your head towards it, you hear the sounds of a struggle in the room next to yours. 

“Stay back!” you faintly hear through the wall. A familiar voice. 

Carol.  

Panic shoots through you. Glancing between the wall and the door, you make a decision.

“Sorry, Daryl,” you mutter as you run towards the door, quickly undoing the lock and barrelling through.

By the time you get to the room next door, you watch Carol pull her knife out of the walker’s head. Daryl, Rick, and Maggie burst in behind you. Daryl jumps forward to check in on Carol, before walking over to you.

“I’m sorry,” you burst out. “I know you said to stay put, but I heard Carol yell. I panicked, I’m sorry-”

“It’s alright,” Daryl cuts you off, wrapping himself around you. “I get it, it’s alright.” You press your face into his chest, trying to breathe. You peek over Daryl’s arms when you hear Carol’s voice again.

“He wasn’t bit,” she says, panting. “But he turned.”

Carol, Rick, and Maggie all look at each other, at a loss for words.

“Negan’s bat,” Rick says, and you all turn to look at him. “When I was out there with him, it was covered in walker blood,” he continues, crouching down beside the walker. “I just thought he’d crossed some. But maybe…”

“They have us working for them again,” Maggie says, finishing his sentence. “Killin’ our own.”

“It’s the fever,” comes another voice from the other side of the room. 

You jump in Daryl’s embrace, not realizing there was someone else in the room. Glancing over, you see a man laying on the bed. He was clearly injured from the fight the night before. He has a bandage around one of his forearms, and a feverish sweat across his brow. 

He’s been infected too.

Unable to bear it, you wiggle free of Daryl’s arms and rush out of the room. You reach the bannister at the top of the stairs and grip it to keep from collapsing.

They poisoned the weapons, your mind reels. They didn’t use guns because they poisoned the weapons. Your breaths turn into wheezes as all the pieces fall into place. They purposely infected them so they’d turn. So they’d turn and kill each other. You lean your forehead on the railing to keep from falling.

A large, warm hand lands gently on your back.

“Ya alright?” Daryl asks, rubbing his hand along your spine.

You take a deep breath before standing back up and turning to him.

“We have to go back,” you tell him, your voice small but firm. “We have to stop this.”

Daryl’s hand pauses on your back as he looks you up and down, his blue eyes sad. “I know,” he answers softly. 

You exhale deeply, and fall into his chest, letting him hold you when the tears begin to fall.

The sun is shining bright when you and Daryl get ready to leave the Hilltop the next morning.

“You sure about this?” Rick asks, his hands on his hips as he watches Daryl pull his motorcycle around to the front of Barrington House. Amidst the chaos of the walkers last night, most of the Savior prisoners managed to break out of their pen and escape, so you and Daryl didn’t need to hide anymore. The few that stayed - after learning how little they were worth to Simon, according to Maggie - were put to work clearing the mess of attack, under guard of course.

“I have to,” you tell him. “I have to stop him.”

“He wasn’t here,” Rick says, squinting into the sun. “We fought, and then he disappeared. He didn’t lead this attack.”

“He may not have been here, but he still caused it,” you argue. You step closer to Rick so you can see each other clearly. “We have to end this before they pull something else sneaky like this. I can get in there. I can end this before they strike again.” He looks down at his feet, exhaling deeply. “I can do this, Rick. I have to.”

“I know,” he says, raising his face to look at you again. “Just be safe, okay?”

“I will be,” you reply, just as the rumble of Daryl’s motorcycle cuts through the air. “I’m not going in alone this time.” You give Rick a quick, tight hug, wave at the other members of your family watching from the porch, before walking towards the bike.

You climb on the back of it, sliding forward to wrap your good arm around Daryl.

“Ready for this, princess?” he asks you over his shoulder.

Nodding, you reply. “Let’s do this.”

Daryl revs the engine of the bike, and then you’re off. The gates open, and you and Daryl speed down the dirt road, back towards the Sanctuary.

Chapter Text

The Sanctuary stands tall and foreboding, cutting through the horizon like a knife. The early afternoon sun glimmers off of its remaining windows, reflecting reds and yellows onto the surrounding grass. The soft breeze carries the groans of the walkers along the fences. They call out to you, like they’re inviting you home.

You stand in the treeline, watching the Sanctuary in the distance. It stares back at you, its broken windows giving its face a menacing glare. You match it, arms folded across your chest. 

You will not defeat me, you say to the Sanctuary. I will end you along with him.

A figure emerges from the bushes and stops next to you. 

“Ready?” Daryl asks, his voice gruff but with a softness reserved just for you. The smoke from his cigarette wafts through the air between you. He holds it out to you.

Sighing, you accept it, and take a slow, deep drag. You look down at yourself. You’re still wearing Laura’s cargo pants. Negan’s white shirt - long gone, ruined by the blood - has been replaced by one of Maggie’s old tank tops. Its racerback style effectively highlights your injured shoulder. The bandage is filthy; you had persuaded Daryl to help make you disheveled, as if you were worse off than you actually are. You know that Negan will take one look at your messy state and send you away from him. Then you can get to work destroying him.

You take another drag of the cigarette before handing it back to Daryl.

“Let’s end this,” you say, throwing the Sanctuary one final glare before walking back towards Daryl’s bike.

You focus on the rumble of the motorcycle beneath you as it inches closer and closer to the Sanctuary. Good arm around Daryl, face pressed to the hot leather of his vest, you close your eyes and breathe.

Inhale. For Judith.

Exhale. For Carl.

Inhale. For Daryl.

Exhale. For our future.

Daryl revs the engine, and the Savior guards drag the gate open as he guides the bike inside. He comes to a stop at the bottom of the front stairs, drops the kickstand, and then carefully slides off the bike. Then he turns back for you, reaching out his hand. He lowers his head, his icy blue eyes piercing as they meet yours.

It’s showtime, you think, giving him the slightest of nods.

Slowly, you raise a trembling hand up to meet his. You allow him to pull you off the bike less-than-gently, then you stumble, barely catching yourself on the nearby railing. Feigning a pained grunt, you force yourself up to standing.

“Jesus,” one of the Savior guards comments. “The hell happened to her?”

“Got shot,” Daryl snaps at him. “Barely got ‘er back here alive.”

“Well, get her inside before she dies on the front porch,” the guard replies indifferently. “Don’t feel like hanging up any more dead ones today.”

Daryl just grunts in reply before stomping up the stairs. You follow him slowly, making a show of using the railing to pull yourself up. With a huff, Daryl walks back down towards you, meeting your eye for half a second with an apologetic look, before picking you up and throwing you off his shoulder like a sack of flour. Then he climbs the stairs again, carrying you through the front doors of the factory. 

From your upside down position, you peer around as Daryl navigates the Sanctuary. The big room is still a mess from the walker infestation, and you spot a few workers tasked with cleaning it up, monitored by armed soldiers. They barely pay you any mind, just nodding at Daryl as he walks past them towards the next set of stairs. You bounce on his back as he climbs them, his shoulder digging into your stomach. Involuntarily, you let out a pained groan, this one real.

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters, giving your thigh a squeeze as he enters the hallway. You pat his back to let him know it’s okay.

When he reaches the hallway leading to the war room, Daryl carefully sets you back on the ground. You steady yourself on the wall, catching your breath and adjusting your sling. Then you school your features back into a look of pain and defeat, and start stumbling towards the door at the end of the hall, Daryl close behind.

Outside the war room, two soldiers stand guard. They take one glance at you before looking at Daryl.

“Dixon-” one of them starts, but he cuts him off.

“Just open the fucking door,” he barks, his voice low and dangerous. 

The man straightens up quickly, then does as he was bid, and the door swings open. You move inside, dragging your feet on the floor, Daryl’s hand on your upper arm to guide you. All the conversation in the room comes to a halt, and you can feel their eyes falling on you. With your head down, you ignore them and keep moving, but stop when you feel Daryl’s grip on your arm tighten. He’s stopped walking.

You peer up through the hair that has fallen into your face and turn to the head of the table, expecting to meet Negan’s smug grin.

Instead, you come face to face with Simon’s leering one.

“Why, hello there, darling,” he says, smiling. “I’ve missed ya.”

You stumble back into Daryl, your eyes growing wide with fear. What the fuck is going on here? you think as Daryl catches you and stands you back up. Where is he?

“What?” Simon asks with mock offense. “You didn’t miss me too? Now that’s just mean.” 

“Where’s Negan?” you ask him through gritted teeth, trying to keep the panic from taking over. 

Simon lets out a deep, theatrical sigh. “Unfortunately, your dear and loving husband is no longer with us,” he explains, looking around at the group of Saviors in the room. They all look just as uncomfortable as you feel. “He’s gone,” he continues. “Dead. Dethroned. So now, all of his responsibilities and his, ah -” he pauses, his eyes trailing up and down your body, “- possessions, are passed to me.”

Fear sends a chill down your spine. You feel Daryl tense up behind you, his grip on you like iron.

Simon reaches a hand out towards you. “C’mere, darlin’” he leers, waggling his fingers at you like you’re a toddler.

“I- I need to go clean up,” you stutter, waving your good hand at your disheveled state.

“Oh I don’t mind,” Simon smirks. “I’m not as prissy as your hus- your late husband, I mean.” 

You don’t move, rooted to your spot on the floor. Simon’s smirk falls quickly, and he lurches forward, snatching your wrist and yanking you towards him. You let out a yelp of pain as you fall into his lap.

“Hey!” Daryl shouts, stepping forward, stepping up to Simon. The Savior nearest you lets out a low hiss of surprise. “She’s injured, asshole.”

Simon stiffens underneath you, before standing, pushing you off of his lap but keeping a tight grip on your wrist. He gets in Daryl’s face.

“You really wanna push me right now, Dixon?” he asks, his voice like venom. “When we just lost Negan and who knows how many other men, and I have the weight of every Savior behind me?”

“She needs the infirmary,” Daryl shoots back, refusing to back down. 

You stare between the two men, so close their chests are nearly touching as they glare at each other. If Simon really has all the Saviors behind him and Daryl blows his cover, your entire plan is fucked. 

Do something, you chide yourself, but you're frozen in fear. 

Thankfully, the door bursts open again and Dwight rushes in. “Simon,” he calls out. “You got a visitor.”

“It can wait,” Simon replies, still face to face with Daryl.

“You’re gonna want to deal with this now,” Dwight tries again. 

No one moves for a while. But finally, Simon relents, tearing his glare from Daryl to Dwight. You guess the look on the second man’s face is enough to convince him, because Simon stalks towards the door.

Before exiting, he turns back to Daryl. “We’re not finished,” he spits. Then his eyes lock on yours. “Neither are we,” he adds, then he follows Dwight out, slamming the door behind him.

Daryl drops you off at your old rooms with the promise to return as soon as he can. You’re surprised to find it empty. You walk through the living room, back towards the bedroom. Also empty. 

Where is everyone? you ask yourself as you grab a towel and some clothes and head to the bathroom to shower.

Afterwards, you’re struggling to dress yourself when you hear the bedroom door open. Daryl must be back.

“Perfect timing,” you say to him without turning. “I need help with the zip-”

“Oh my god!” shrieks a different, higher-pitched voice. You whip around just in time for Dawn to pull you into a bone-crushing embrace. “You’re alive!”

“I won’t be if you keep hugging me like this,” you wheeze, her arms squeezing all the air from your lungs. 

“Sorry!” Dawn squeaks, letting you go and taking a step back to look at you. She’s still in her usual wife black dress, but she looks less made up than usual: her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s sporting sneakers instead of heels.

“What happened here?” you ask, indicating the empty room. “Where is everybody?”

Dawn moves around you, working on the zipper of your own black dress as she answers. “Things got hectic when the dead got in,” she explains. “We were rushed to a room upstairs, but you and Lauren were missing.”

You gulp. “Is she-” You can’t finish the question.

“She ran!” Dawn finishes zipping you up, and then moves in front of you to keep talking. “A bunch of the workers left during the attack and haven’t come back. I think they used the chaos of it as a cover to escape, and she went with them.”

You go girl, you think to yourself. “What about the others?” you ask aloud instead.

“Frankie and Tanya are at the new outpost now, with Eugene. Amber and I are both still here - she’s been spending more time with her mom, now that we’re not being guarded anymore,” she explains. “And now you’re back!”

“Yup,” you reply dully, and sink down onto your bed. You think over what she said, about not being supervised anymore and the outpost and Eugene-

Then it clicks. New outpost. Eugene. If they gave him his own place to run, that could only mean one thing: he’s working on something.

“Dawn, where is this new outpost?” you ask her urgently.

“I don’t know exactly where,” she replies, sitting on the bed next to yours. “It’s a small factory not far from here. They sent Frankie and Tanya to cook for Eugene and the workers there.”

You think back to the battle at the Hilltop, and you know exactly what they’re cooking up there. Bullets.

Jumping up from the bed, you shove your feet into your boots and say, “I have to go.” You’re in the living room before you hear Dawn’s reply. Just as you reach for the door, it swings open and Daryl walks in.

“What is it?” he asks, taking in your wide eyed expression.

“They’re making bullets,” you explain quickly. “They’re getting ready to attack again. We have to warn them.”

Daryl’s eyes narrow, then he nods. “I’ll take a ride,” he says quietly. “Warn one of the lookouts so they can send word back t’ Maggie.” He glances out one of the small windows at the darkening sky. “I’ll head out now.” Reaching behind him, Daryl pulls out a small handgun and presses it into your palm. “Be safe ‘til I get back.”

Your hands close around the gun. “I will.” Daryl runs his thumb over your knuckles softly, then turns and leaves down the hallway.

You had every intention of listening to Daryl - of staying in your room, safe, waiting for him to come back - but you were too restless to stay put. Your interaction with Simon, his threats, his declaration that you belong to him now, had you on edge. And now you were armed, and you decided to do something about it.

Which is how you end up sneaking through the dark hallways of the Sanctuary, gun in hand, looking for the new de facto leader. The hallways are deserted, leaving you free range of the old building as you try to figure out where his room is. Still, each turn around a corner fills you with fear, as you don’t know what you’re going to find on the other side. Every distant sound freezes you in your tracks, fighting off the panic of being caught.

You walk down a dark hallway you’ve never been in before. There are multiple closed doors on each side, and you creep up to each, putting an ear to the door, listening for Simon’s voice or obnoxious laughter. So far, you haven’t heard much. It sounds like a lot of the rooms are empty. Whether that’s from the losses taken at the Hilltop, or the rooms belong to Saviors sent to the outposts, you have no idea. And you don’t have the time to figure it out, so you keep moving.

Turning down the next hallway, you hear a single footstep behind you. Whipping around, gun raised, you come face to face with Dwight. He has his own gun raised, aimed right at your face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, keeping his voice low, as if he doesn’t want to be overheard either.

You stay silent, glaring at him. The last time you were this close to Dwight - besides earlier today - he was threatening you and Daryl. Your grip on your gun tightens.

Dwight takes a step closer. You take one backwards. “Did Rick send you back?” he asks suddenly.

You’re taken aback. “What?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Lowering his gun, Dwight moves even closer, grasping your arm. You try to pull away, but his grip holds you in place. “Rick sent you back to kill Negan, didn’t he?” he hisses. “I’ve been working with him to bring Negan down.”

“What are you talking about?” you hiss back.

“I’ve been sending them messages, warning them about attacks,” he explains quickly. “I led some of my men into a trap and took them out.”

So Dwight’s a fucking rat, you think, watching the glint in his eye. Makes sense.

Cautiously, you lower your gun. “I’m going to kill Simon and end this,” you tell him, unsure of why. He’s given you no reason to trust him.

“You can’t,” Dwight replies, shaking his head. “Not yet.” You try to pull your arm free again, but Dwight grips you tighter. “Let me figure out his plan first. This way, I can warn Alexandria. Even if Simon’s dead, the rest of them will still carry it out.”

You want to protest, but you know he’s right. It doesn’t matter who’s in charge - the Saviors are still the Saviors, and someone else will just step up to take the throne. 

“Fine,” you say reluctantly. Dwight slowly releases your arm, and you step out of his reach, rubbing the spot. “How do I know I can trust you?” you ask him with another glare.

Dwight shrugs. “You’re just gonna have to,” he says simply. “Give me a day. Meet me here tomorrow night. Then we’ll talk about what comes next.” He turns, and disappears down the dark hallway. 

Huffing, you glare at the spot where he stood, then turn and leave as well.

It was midafternoon by the time Daryl came to find you again. You spent the day in your rooms, hiding from Simon and staying out of Dwight’s way, counting down the hours until you had to meet him in the cover of night. You paced so much you could have left a track on the floor, anxiety keeping you from being able to sit still. Dawn came by, providing you just enough comfort to get in a little sleep. Despite the sun shining through the barred windows, the nightmares still returned, and you rose from your uneasy sleep to continue pacing.

So when Daryl burst through the living room door, a sense of relief washed over you. But it was quickly forgotten when you saw the grave look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, approaching him. Bad scenario after bad scenario play through your mind: he couldn’t get to the Hilltop to warn them; he got there and it was aflame; he was too late; he was caught.

Daryl takes your shaking hands in his, squeezing gently as he steels himself to answer. “We all gotta go to the big room,” he says slowly.

“Why?” you ask, annoyed. “What does Simon-”

“It’s not Simon,” Daryl says quickly. 

You pause. Did Dwight do something to him? You feel a glimmer of hope spark in your chest. 

Daryl swallows, barely meeting your eye when he continues: “It’s Negan. He’s alive.”

You barely process the walk, too caught up in your own head.

Negan’s alive, you think to yourself. You think about your meeting later with Dwight and how this will affect things. But you don’t care what he has to say at this point. I’m going to kill Negan.

You, Daryl, and Dawn arrive to find the room full of Savior soldiers. Dawn pulls towards the side of the room where Amber’s already standing. The three of you - Negan’s remaining wives - stand together to watch.

The soldiers stand in a large circle, with Simon and Negan in the middle, facing each other like an old western standoff. Glancing around the crowd, you noticed Dwight and Gregory standing together. Oh Jesus, you think, rolling your eyes. Dwight must feel your gaze because his eyes lock on yours across the room, and he gives you the slightest of nods. You sigh.

If Gregory is his big plan, then we’re all fucked.  

“Everyone!” In the center of the room, Simon addresses the crowd. “After this is done, we get to work. Just know that I didn't want this. But the Sanctuary must stand.” Rolling his sleeves up, he turns to face Negan. “This is not the man to prosecute this conflict.” Simon pauses, then sways and turns in his best Negan impersonation. “I just wanted to say: The grateful enclave-” Simon swings his arm backwards and hits Negan right in the face - “thanks you!”

Negan falls to the ground. Simon kicks him once, then drags him back up to his feet, landing another punch to the face. Negan stumbles back a few steps, but when Simon rushes him, he manages to catch him and get in a few punches of his own. 

The crowd watches in a stunned silence as the two men continue to exchange blows. Your eyes bounce between their faces, each wearing varied expressions of shock, fear, and even disgust. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Dwight and Gregory slip out of the crowd towards one of the back walls. They’re gone for about thirty seconds before Dwight reemerges, alone. He catches your eye through the crowd again before you both turn your gazes back to the fight.

“You went for it all at the Hilltop,” Negan is saying through gritted teeth. He’s got Simon pinned down, his hands around his throat. “You got Saviors killed and then you ran away like a coward.” Simon can’t respond; he just kicks his feet and makes wet, gurgling sounds as he chokes. “You got shown up one too many times. Those people, they are always gonna know that there’s a loophole, a way to skate. They are always gonna be looking for that chance to push back, so now,” Negan’s voice raises to a nasty, primal yell, “I gotta kill all of ‘em, just like I'm gonna kill you!” 

Simon’s feet stop kicking. Negan lets him go. You could hear a pin drop, it’s so quiet.

Standing up slowly and looking around at his men, Negan catches his breath, then mutters, “What an asshole” before walking away. Everyone else, frozen on the spot, just stares at Simon’s quiet, lifeless body on the floor.

You’re not surprised later that night when Arat appears in your doorway, ordering you to follow her to Negan’s room. The Sanctuary has been eerily quiet since the fight, with most people keeping to themselves. Daryl was called away by Negan for most of the day, and it was still too early to go meet Dwight. Dawn came and went a few times; once delivering the news that Simon’s reanimated body had joined the army of walkers along the fence.

Even in death, we’re still stuck with him, you thought joylessly.

Now as you follow Arat through the Sanctuary, you try to come up with a plan to kill Negan and end all this bullshit. You have no weapons on you, thanks to Arat’s watchful glare when she came to get you. Of course, you wouldn’t have anywhere to hide them, since Negan’s probably going to rip your clothes off as soon as you get there. You shudder involuntarily at the thought.

Arat stops outside Negan’s door, knocking on it twice with a closed fist. You hear Negan call out from inside before she opens the door. She doesn’t hesitate to give you a quick shove when she decides you’re walking too slow before she slams it shut behind you.

Negan sits on his couch; legs spread apart, head leaned back, glass in hand. He barely acknowledges your presence at first, so you awkwardly stand just inside the doorway. Negan lets out a deep sigh, then lifts his head to look at you.

“Hello, dollface,” he drawls. He finishes the rest of his drink in one gulp, then stands, groaning as he does. “Drink?” he asks as he makes his way to his bar cart.

“Sure,” you answer indifferently. He pours whiskey into two glasses then brings you one of them. Then he returns to his spot on the couch. He nods at you to sit with him, and you reluctantly do, making sure to leave as much space between you and him as possible.

The two of you sit in silence for a while. Negan continues taking large gulps of liquor while glaring at the ceiling. You take small sips of your drink, wanting to keep your mind clear and alert.

“You know what really sucks, doll?” Negan asks, eyes still focused on the ceiling. He pauses, waiting for you to respond.

“What does?” you ask, taking another small sip of whiskey. Here we go, you think to yourself.

“I’ve done everything for these people,” Negan begins. “Saved them. Lifted them up. Gave them a home. A purpose. And yet,” he stops, finishing the rest of his glass, “they still try to stab me in the back.”

You don’t answer, just watch as he stands up again, and walks back to the bar cart.

“I always knew Simon was a hot-head,” he continues, looking over the liquor choices. “It definitely had its uses, that’s for sure. But I kept him in check. And he really progressed as a leader amongst our men.” Negan sighs, and grabs the bottle of whiskey again and brings the entire thing back to the couch. “I did all that for him,” he says as he refills his glass, and leans over to top off yours, even though you’ve barely drank any, “and he still betrays me.”

Negan sighs and sits back again, leaning glaring at the wall in front of him. He seems content to continue rambling, so you stay quiet and listen. Your eyes roam over the room, looking for potential weapons: Lucille rests on the coffee table in front of him. That would be poetic justice, you think, and try to hide your smirk by taking another sip.

“Dwight, I at least understand a bit more,” Negan says suddenly, his eyes flickering over to you.

Shit. Your blood runs cold. “D-Dwight?” you ask, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice.

“Oh yeah,” he continues, watching you as he talks. “Found out our good friend D has been working with the enemy for weeks now.” He takes another sip of his drink, not breaking eye contact with you. 

You swallow down the panic rising in your throat. Did Dwight tell him about our meeting? He can’t have; you two weren’t actually working together. You just happened to run into each other in a hallway, late at night, with guns. Fuck.  

Negan watches your internal argument with an eyebrow raised. He gulps down more whiskey before he looks away, leaning his head back on the couch again.

“It’s alright though,” he muses. “Since I had an inkling that I was being two-timed, I decided to two-time the two-timer.” He chuckles to himself. “Came up with a fake plan and everything, and what do you know?” He peeks at you again from the corner of his eye. “He sent Ol’ Gregory off to warn Rick of this fake plan that’s actually going to lead him right to us.” At this, he laughs louder. “Isn’t that funny?”

You force a smile, but your hand is shaking so bad you have to put your glass down on your lap. Shit, shit, shit, shit. This is not good. Gregory’s been gone for hours at this point, and you have no way of telling Daryl so he can go warn them. You are well and truly fucked.

“It does suck though,” Negan says, sighing, his smile gone. “I’ve worked too hard and for too long to be fucked with. All of ‘em - Simon, Dwight, Rick - they’re all gonna learn that real soon.” With this, he finishes his glass again, puts it down on the coffee table, and closes his eyes.

He stays this way for a while, his breath growing heavy. You use the opportunity to scan the room for more weapon options. Whiskey bottle? Too messy . Smother him with a couch cushion? He’ll probably throw me across the room first.

Then you see it: on the edge of the bar cart is Negan’s finished dinner plate, complete with a steak knife. Jackpot. If you could just get to the knife, you can easily slide it into the side of his neck before he realizes what’s happening.

So you watch Negan, waiting for your moment. When he hasn’t moved for twenty minutes or so, you start sliding your feet out of your shoes. Then you stand up slowly, careful not to jostle Negan or the couch too much. Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, you creep around the couch to the cart. Taking a deep breath, you pick up the knife and turn around.

Negan hasn’t moved; he still sits, leaning against the couch, head thrown back, eyes closed. You watch the steady rise and fall of his chest as you steel yourself for what you’re about to do. From where you’re standing, all you need to do is drive the point of the blade into his neck, hitting the jugular. Then he should hopefully bleed out fast enough before he can get his hands on you. 

You look down at the knife in your hand, flexing your fingers around it. To get this done, you’re gonna have to put some force behind it. Rolling your shoulders back, you feel a twinge of pain from your gunshot wound, but it isn’t too bad. It’ll be worth it, you tell yourself, when all this is done.

Moving quietly, you take a step closer to Negan. You tighten your grip on the knife, take a deep breath, then raise it up-

“If you’re going to kill me with that knife, you better do it quick,” Negan says, not even opening his eyes. “But I wouldn’t, if I were you. Not if you care about Dixon the way I think you do.”

You freeze on the spot - what the fuck does that mean?

Negan cracks one eye open, looking at you standing over him. “Man, sometimes I hate being right,” he says with a sigh. He closes his eye again, like he’s not being held at knifepoint right now. “I had a feeling you didn’t come back because you’re my wife and that’s what you’re supposed to do . So I told my most trustworthy men that if anything were to happen to me tonight to pay Dixon a visit.” He chuckles again. “He might need two hands to work that beautiful crossbow of his, but he doesn’t need two working legs, or even a fully unmelted face.”