Angel (Daryl Dixion x Reader)

~78~

   Negan was surprisingly not as fucking pissed off about Alexandria's refusal to strike up a trade deal with him. If anything, he was more pissed about your radio getting "shot up" by Walker than anything else. He took the whole situation with an unusual level of grace, which had you wrestling with a horrible feeling in your gut. Still, he gave you a new radio, but his eyes kept glancing to the sleeveless shirt you now wore. Along with the dark hickey's and love bites down your neck that Daryl had left your skin marked with. He teased you relentlessly about it. Stating multiple different times and ways that maybe now you'd be less uptight. Like that would ever fucking happen with you trapped here essentially. Still, you didn't miss the jealousy that glazed his jade green eyes. Or how he took every single opportunity to subtly touch you. Whether it was patting your arm, shoulder, or back. Or sliding his arm over your shoulders. It was uncomfortable as fuck for you, but you let him do it without so much as grimacing. Somehow managing to keep that all to cold, neutrally bored expression you'd become so accustomed to sporting. Which was honestly harder to step back into after being allowed to freely feel back home. That night all you dreamt about was Daryl. Leaving you restless all fucking night long. Even after downing half a bottle of liquor that Dwight had left in your room.

Dwight visited you the next night. Asking if you wanted to go to the pit. You declined because of your quickly healing, but still healing stitches. He surprised you by hanging out with you for a few hours. Letting you in on what you'd missed while away which was literally nothing at all. He however shocked you a bit when he told you he knew you'd stolen "his" cross bow. To which you bit back that it was never his to begin with. It only made him laugh a bit. He broke the tense, almost dangerous silence after by telling you he hopes it made it back to its original home. "Where it belongs." He'd said pointedly. Almost carefully. At that point you'd had enough, and the quarter of vodka you'd both went through already only fueled your temper worse. "What exactly are you playin' at D? It's obvious you're up to some fuckin' shit. N I know it was you who was behind that bull shit ass excuse for a rebellion a few weeks ago." You bite out at him coldly. He just grins darkly at you as he rises his glass and downs the rest of it. "Why didn't ya tell Negan?" He drawls out in blatant challenge as he pours himself another double shot. The alcohol and talking to you had really drawn out that unique Floridian southern drawl of his. Your brows furrow at him, "Could ask ya the same damn thing." You state flatly. He snickers a bit drunkenly and offers to pour you more liquor. You hold your glass over at him. Letting him fill it with another double shot. "Well, let's just say we have similar wants, Reaper." He says rather cryptically. You roll your eyes, "For fucks sake D. Enough with the riddles or imma start calling ya "The Riddler" instead of Two-Face." You inform him in obvious annoyance. He chuckles at you, "You're such a fuckin' asshole. Ya know that, right?" He asks in amusement as he downs a shot from his glass. "M' well fuckin' aware." You inform him, "N you're stallin', so fuckin' spill already or fuck off." You demand flatly.

He hums in acknowledgment. Downing the second shot in his glass before pouring himself even more. "I want Negan dead. I want the Saviors dead." He tells you simply as he sits back in his chair across the table from you. Your eyes narrow on him, "You're a Savior." You point out flatly. He shakes his head, "Not really. Not after what Negan's done to me. To my wife." He states with cold murder. Growling out the last part with such primal hate it made your brows rise a bit in brief understanding. "Your wife that ain't dead." You state in assessment. He half grins at you slyly, "I don't know what you're talkin' about." He says carefully in dark amusement. You hum back in acknowledgment, "Why now? You've been here from the start, from what I've heard." You state as you down your double shot and set your glass down. He grabs the glass bottle of vodka and you slide your glass over to him. Letting him pour you as much as he'd poured himself. "Sherry's gone. I ain't got nothin' left to protect." He admits simply. "Gone. Not dead." You repeat flatly. A smug smile forms on his lips as he slides you, your glass. "You gonna help me or what?" He asks seriously. You grab your glass, "Ya gotta a plan or are ya just dunk talkin' out your ass?" You ask before you take a sip. He chuckles, "I gotta an idea of a plan. N ya say that like you ain't fuckin' drunk too." He states with amusement. "I ain't." You state back seriously. He laughs. "Yeah fuckin' right." He challenges. You huff in utter annoyance and rip out one of your throwing blades. Making his eyes widen and his body tense up in preparation when you throw it while staring at him.