Daryl Dixon x Reader One-shots

Daryl x Daughter!Reader: Part 2

Sherry passed the bottle to you, and you gratefully took it from her, gulping down the burning honey-colored liquid. Her hazel eyes stayed trained on the floor.

"Don't think about it too much, Sher," you said softly, looking at her. 

"Easier said than done," the woman scoffed, her voice miserable but gentle. You knew the feeling all too well.

The two of you were perched in the small stairwell - a safe space to talk where no one would be listening. Sherry had become increasingly worried in the last few weeks. Tensions had been high in the Sanctuary for reasons unknown to you or any of Negan's wives. His charming white smile was constantly betrayed by a worrying glint in his eyes, and you knew something was off. The men had being going out more frequently, talking in hushed voices. Something was up. Dwight, who you knew Sherry still cared for deeply, was among the men that were hardly ever home anymore. She couldn't help but let the worry eat at her, soothing it only with copious amounts of alcohol and late-night conversations with you; her best friend.

"Has he told you anything?" She asked, eyebrows furrowed. Her small hand reached for the bottle. 

You shook your head, a small frown on your face. Negan had been acting strange, and it concerned you. The paranoia that constantly manifested in your mind tried to convince you that it was your fault, and that Negan knew about your encounter with your father - only he didn't know about it, and had no idea who your father was. When you asked him what was going on, he replied simply with a smile and a 'don't you worry about a thing, sunshine.' It was frustrating. The fact that Negan treated you like a daughter had it's downsides - one of them being that he always felt the need to protect you, to shield you from the truth. That's the last thing you wanted.

"It's just because he doesn't trust you. That's why he doesn't tell you anything. You're just a kid, just a weight on his shoulders. That's why he doesn't tell you anything," her voice was harsh, and your eyes snapped up to meet hers.

"What?" Your face flushed angrily, startled at her words.

Sherry looked up at you with a puzzled look on her face.

"What?" She questioned.

It took you a moment to realize Sherry hadn't spoken. You shook your head in response, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from her. It felt as if your hallucinations and delusions had been getting worse, which they quite possibly were considering the circumstances. The voices were louder and meaner, like your mind was a crowded room full of debating people. The auditory hallucinations had scared you the most - hearing people say things that they never actually said. It had worried you most when you heard a loud cheery song playing from the forbidden parts of the Sanctuary, only to be relieved when you found out that it wasn't a hallucination. There had actually been music playing. A stupid song, something about easy street.

"We should go to bed before anyone notices we're missing," you said softly, avoiding Sherry's concerned gaze. She wasn't that much older than you, but it felt as if she had the same care as that of a mother.

"Yeah," she responded as she watched you gulp down the remaining whiskey, leaving the bottle empty.

****

Five days. That stupid song had played every day, once a day without fail, for five days. It was unsettling considering that the annoyingly happy song had been coming from the part of the Sanctuary where the prisoners were kept in isolation. If it was a form of punishment, it sure was a good one. Somehow having a happy song play perpetually while being held captive and tortured seemed to be worse than having your face burned with a hot iron. 

It had also taken you five days until curiosity got the best of you. Mustering up all the confidence you had, you snuck your way through the maze of corridors to were you had heard the music coming from. Negan's methods of making people surrender to him were often inhumane, but necessary - though it didn't make it any less unpleasant to see. You'd seen men cowering in their own filth in corners of a small dark room, and you'd heard personal accounts of such experiences from some of the Saviors who had experienced it firsthand. It made you uncomfortable, so you tended to avoid the isolation corridors. But the music was getting to you.