All That's Left (The Walking Dead FanFiction)

Chapter 7

There’s a knock at my door. “Macy, I just wanted to tell you dinner’s ready. Figured you’d be hungry.” I go to the door and open it.

I freeze.

 I hadn’t expected him to still be in the doorway. We’re so close now, our faces only inches apart. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. As I look at him, I unexpectedly realize that he’s kind of beautiful. I like the pale color of his eyes. I like the line of his jaw. I like the ruggedness to his face. And the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. And the shape of his lips.

Shit, what am I doing?

He abruptly backs away from me and I start to follow him down to the dining room. I sit down and notice Sam isn’t in his chair.

“Where’s the kid?” I ask.

“He’s already asleep. He had a rough day,” Daryl answers.

I start laughing. To the point where I can’t stop. I’m clutching my stomach, trying desperately to stop. And it’s like all the trauma I experienced earlier today leaves my system with every laugh that escapes my lungs.

“A rough day? I guess that’s a pretty accurate way of describing a walker breaking in and almost eating the person who’s supposed to be supervising him.”

Daryl start’s laughing too. “It’ll probably be the roughest day of his life and he won’t even remember it when he wakes up.”

“I wanna forget what happened too. You think he can teach me how to do that?” I chuckle, managing to control myself again.

“If he could do that don’t you think I woulda had him use it on me by now?” He says it lightly, but I know he really means it.

“You would want to forget about her,” I say.

“No, no. I would never want to forget about her. Never. I wanna forget about what happened to her. I wanna forget that it was my fault,” he answers, looking at me for a second.

“How was it your fault?”

“I don’t want to talk about this no more,” he snaps.

We eat the rest of dinner in silence.

I’ve literally only been with Daryl for two days and I’ve already grown extremely sick of his mood swings. Sometimes he’ll look at me and say something moderately nice and then sometimes he refuses to look at me and snaps at me. It’s like dealing with a teenage girl who’s never off her period. Ever since our conversation last night he hasn’t looked at me and he’s hardly spoken to me. I’ve decided that I need to stop bringing her up. Even when he seems like he’s in a good mood and it seems okay for me to ask something about her, it’s not. In the end, it’s always a bad idea.

I stand beside him, with all the supplies scattered on the dining table again. For the past two hours we’ve been trying to condense all of it to fit in three backpacks plus a smaller one that Sam will carry. There’s no way all of it will fit. Daryl thinks it will. Guess who won that argument.

He keeps trying to shove a few shirts in one pack without folding them. Apparently it doesn’t matter if you fold them, they’re still the same size.

“Daryl,” I say for literally the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. “You need to fold the clothes so there’s more room.

“Would you stop telling me what to do? Shit. I know what I’m doing,” he barks.

Like right now. He’s acting like a PMSing teenage girl. I roll my eyes, taking the pack from him, and fold the shirts he’s just shoved in. I place the folded shirts on the bottom of the backpack and hand it to him. “There. Now you can actually fit stuff in it.”