Daryl Dixon
{- .. Beatings and Care
Note: this is during the savior era, a little bit of spoilers, but not much !!
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Daryl’s heart pounded in his chest as the chain-link gate creaked open. He had slipped past the guards like smoke, moving fast and silent down every corridor, every stairwell. He was outside now—almost free. He darted toward the far gate, gravel crunching under his boots—
—but it was open.
Too open.
And Negan stood on the other side. Smiling.
“Well, well, well,” Negan drawled, leaning against Lucille like she was just another limb. “Ain’t this somethin’? Thought you were clever, huh?”
Daryl froze, teeth grit, breathing hard. He glanced to both sides — Saviors closing in. Dozens of them. No way out.
“You really thought we’d leave that gate unlocked on accident?” Negan chuckled. “Jesus, you must think we’re amateurs.”
The Saviors tightened the circle, forming a wall of leather and rifles. Daryl’s eyes darted, calculating, waiting—but there was nothing left but to stand.
Negan stepped forward now, slow and casual. “I gotta admit, though—I like the balls on ya. Takes guts to make a run for it. You’re either really brave... or really fuckin’ stupid.”
He turned to his men. “Now, remind me again who you fine gentlemen are?”
One by one, the Saviors echoed back.
“I’m Negan.”
“I’m Negan.”
“I’m Negan.”
All eyes turned to Daryl.
Negan’s gaze sharpened. “And you?”
Daryl’s chest rose with each breath, his lip split from the last time they’d “talked.” He didn’t waver.
“I’m Daryl.”
The courtyard stilled. Negan’s eyes glinted, a low whistle escaping his lips as he reeled Lucille back over his shoulder.
“Shiiit... You really don’t scare easy, huh?” He grinned, mock admiration in his tone. “Look at this guy. Big swinging attitude and no fuckin’ leash. Almost makes me feel bad.”
He tilted his head. “Almost.”
Then, casually—“Boys. Teach our guest a lesson. Don’t kill him. Just make sure he remembers who the hell he belongs to.”
The first blow came fast. Then the second. Daryl dropped to a knee but didn’t cry out. A fist landed hard into his ribs. Another slammed the side of his head.
He grunted, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. From a nearby doorway, someone watched—hidden mostly in shadow.
—-
The darkness was thick, broken only by the soft flicker of a lantern. It was well past midnight. The halls of the Sanctuary were quieter now, aside from the hum of distant pipes and the occasional drunken laugh echoing off the concrete.
The key slid quietly into the lock. A soft click.
Daryl stirred in the corner of the cell, lying curled on his side, one arm clutching his ribs. His eye was swollen half-shut. Blood dried down the edge of his jaw.
The door creaked open slowly. Light from the lantern stretched across the floor.
His head shot up.
Rustle.
He reeled back like a feral dog, pressing to the wall with a grunt of pain. His fingers curled, ready to fight—until he saw her.
Hands up. No threat. In her palms: a first aid kit.
She stepped in and quietly closed the door behind her.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said gently. Her voice was soft—real. Not like the syrupy tones of Negan’s people. Not like the wives who faked their smiles. She set the lantern on the floor and crouched beside it.
The light revealed her face. One of the wives. The quiet one. She’d been there in the back, watching when they beat him, wincing with every punch.
“I saw what they did,” she whispered, opening the kit. “You need to let me help.”
He didn’t move at first. He watched her through his good eye, jaw tight, knuckles white.
“Why?” he rasped, voice dry.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she soaked a cloth and reached forward—slowly—until her fingers brushed his brow.
“Because someone should.”
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Created Jul 17, 2025
Updated Jul 17, 2025
Published Jul 17, 2025