Lost ; Daryl Dixon

Chapter 33

It was dark when Daryl slipped outside and made his way down the street to Morgan's house. He still called it Morgan's house in his head even though the guy was gone. Too many people were gone, but Daryl could still see them. He'd left Y/N sleeping, curled up on the couch with her arm tucked beneath her head, and strands of hair falling over her face. She'd looked so peaceful and he hated that the anguish that marred her features in the daytime was caused by him. How could he have got it all so wrong? He hadn't questioned for a second that she'd been Negan's wife, hadn't doubted the information at all, but now that she'd pointed out to him the sick game that the Saviors had played, pretending each was dead to the other, it seemed so painfully obvious that it was all he could do not to beat the holy hell out of himself. Of course, they'd been lying. It was all they knew how to do! They twisted and manipulated and took a perverse pleasure in watching their little puzzles unfold. And he was worse than all of them. That's what Daryl needed tonight. To see him and to hear it from his own mouth what a sadistic piece of shit he really was.

The archer huffed a sigh of relief as he drew closer to the building that held the prisoner in its basement, recognising the silhouette of the sheriff against the wall, his bow-legged stance unique in the community.

'Rick,' Daryl greeted him as he approached.

'Daryl, where are you off to at this time of night?'

He hesitated, wondering if he was delusional for thinking that Rick may let him slip inside without a fuss, but deciding that he didn't have much choice but to be honest now that he was here. 'I wanna see him. Negan. We need to talk.'

'About Y/N?'

'What d'ya know about it?'

'Jesus told me that none of it's true, that she never married him.'

Daryl nodded, his anger stoked once more at the sound of the words falling from Rick's mouth. 'S'right. It was all just another mindfuck, 'n' I ain't just gon' sit there 'n' let him get away with it.'

'So, what are you gonna do?'

'I dunno yet.'

'I can't let you kill him, Daryl.'

'I ain't gonna kill him. I just need... I just need t' see him, alright?'

For a moment Rick hesitated and Daryl thought he might have to use force to get inside, but then he was stepping out of his path and motioning for him to pass, and the archer slipped into the darkened hallway, heading for the stairs that he knew led down to the cell. He barely spared a glance for the other guard on post in the darkness, taking a deep, steadying breath before he pushed open the door that would bring him face to face with his enemy, letting it click quietly shut behind him.

Negan was sleeping, stretched out on the thin bunk that had been allocated to him, his feet hanging over the end, his arms crossed behind his head. He looked calm in his slumber, and Daryl hated him for it. When was the last time he'd enjoyed sleep that deep and peaceful? He couldn't even remember.

He reached for the wooden chair that stood in the corner of the room, wrapping his hands around the thin poles that made up the backrest, and hoisting it up into the air. With a grunt of rage, he thrust it with all his strength across the room where it crashed against the metal bars, splintering apart under the impact.