Daryl Dixon Imagines

The place where our hopes live

By formylovetodaryldixon

I like this little place. A cinema room. Old and forgotten. But today it is a shelter. The lights of the lamps shine with an amber light. The walkers are outside in the storm. And we are here. Safe for tonight. Because this life was about that. Living the day-to-day.

We all have paper hearts. Fragile. Vulnerable. Full of fear. But that’s what makes us be real. Accept the fear. The fear is real. Can you feel it? Closing like a sharp claw around your neck. Don’t deny that you are afraid. Accept it. Control it. Overcome it. It is part of us. It’s a feeling too. It makes us human. Not killer machines like the walkers. Fear moves with me wherever I go. Like my second shadow. But it’s okay. It’s an engine too. Just like my desire to live. It doesn’t paralyze me. I don’t let it win the day-to-day battle. Because it is even more dangerous than a weapon. Or a walker. A shot. A bite. And that’s the end. But fear can be like an ocean. You drown but you never die.

I can feel his strong presence at my side. Sitting in a velvety red chair. His eyes are fixed on this little notebook. He follows my rhythm as I write. Silently reading my words. Not this, of course. I don’t write everything I think. But I think more than what I write. I know he doesn’t like me to do it. He fears fear even if he doesn’t admit it. That’s why he doesn’t like to talk about it. Or read about it.

And then comes the moment when he can’t stand it.

“Why ya insist on that?” Daryl says in a tired voice. He leans back against the chair and lifts his legs to rest them against the one in front of him.

Sometimes I wonder why. Why he pretends that he is not afraid. He is strong. Brave. A protector. But the balance is disproportionate. Everything he is inclines toward our people. But his side is completely empty.

“Writing keeps me sane.” I look at him over my shoulder. “What about you?”

He snorts. But Daryl evades the question.

“Whatever.” He takes his arms behind his head and looks up at the ceiling.

I have the best concept of him. Daryl is a free spirit. But a toxic soul sometimes. The marks of his past can’t be erased. And they stalk him. It’s something I’d like to stop. But I can’t. Only he can do it. Lately his dark thoughts have driven him away. They don’t allow him to sleep at night. These last few weeks he’s like a drifting boat. His courage to face his own demons is asleep.

“Can ya stop that?” His voice is struggling to not sound annoying. But it fails. “I’m gettin’ tired of it, (Y/N). Just stop for tonight.”

My hand tickles. My stomach too. It is anxiety. I feel what is about to come. I try to avoid it. But weeks have passed. He’s still distant. And I don’t know why. I tighten the silver pen. My heart drummed. I look at him. And I dare to ask.

“Are you okay, Daryl?”

I really want to know. It worries me. But his face shrinks into an annoying confusion.

“The hell are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

 And there it is. His insecurity betrays him. It’s trying to get out through the cracks. But he disguises it. He hides it.

“Something happens to you. You’ve been distant these weeks.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Princess.” Daryl laughed sarcastically. “I didn’t hug ya enough this week?”