daryl-dixon-daydreams: Words: 10,097 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: the
daryl-dixon-daydreams: Words: 10,097 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: the prison, post-Negan Alexandria, The Commonwealth Warnings: language, chronic illness Summary: Daryl has always watched out for the reader and done everything he can to help her bear the weight of her chronic illness. They’ve been close ever since she confided in him during the flu epidemic in the prison. Now, with Alexandria needing repair and medications almost unfindable, Daryl comes up with a plan to make sure she gets what she needs. A/N: The patron and requester for this fic is the lovely goddess ellerelly! Thank her for the existence of this fic, without her it would not have happened! Thank you SO much for trusting me with writing this fic, love. Seriously. A/N: The reader in this fic suffers from a real condition, postpartum cardiomyopathy. I did some research on this so hopefully it is fairly accurate, but I’d encourage everyone to give it a Google for awareness and further info. MUAH! Much love to you, ellerelly! I appreciate you so much. Your name: submit What is this? Daryl was drenched in sweat, having spent the better part of the day burning or burying the dead. The flu swept through the prison like a poisonous gas, seeming nearly indiscriminate in who it seeped into and who it passed over. But Daryl was beyond grateful for one thing; so far, you weren’t sick. He made his way through the catacombs of the sprawling prison and into the administrative part of the building with its neat rectangular little offices. He needed a break from all the death and dying… and hearing your voice was all he wanted. After checking on Beth and Judith, he made his way to the small office you were in and knocked lightly on the door. You shot up onto your feet, your heart pounding as you waited for the delivery of bad news. Who else hadn’t made it? “Yeah?” Your voice sounded thin through the heavy door of wood and glass. “Hey. S’me. Ya alrigh’?” Daryl. You sighed with some relief. “I’m fine,” you said, moving toward the door. He could see you press a hand to the frosted glass, see the shadows of your fingertips and the blurred shape of your hand ghosting behind them. He had to suppress the urge to place his hand against the glass too, to line up his fingers with yours and see how small your hand looked against his. “How—how are you? Are you okay?” He easily heard the worry in your voice. Keep reading -- source link