The Walking Dead Imagines (Requests OPEN)

[Daryl Dixon] Lost and Found

PROMPT:
After Denise, you know Daryl is going to go looking for Dwight, you're just hoping he'll let you come.
[spoilers for season 6B]
[continuance of Beau imagines. See A Dixon Baby and No Way Out]

He never cried.
He wanted too- in fact, you knew how hard it would have been for him not too.
He was strong. Strong enough to deal with every punch the world threw at him, but Daryl knew when things were his fault- and if there was something he could have done to stop it.

The night after Denise was killed he didn't sleep. He sat up in the bed you two shared and stared at his hands. He was too engulfed in his own thoughts to do anything. Daryl was overwhelmed with guilt and blame. The nightmares would be horrible, so he didn't even try sleeping.

You stirred in your sleep, knocking him out of his concentration every now and again. You fell asleep slowly, worry about Daryl spreading through your thoughts. Now, pitch black in the middle of the night, you decided it was all too much.
"Daryl." You state, sitting up. He looked away from his hands and glanced over at you for a brief second.
"You're up." He softly answers.
"So are you." You whisper, moving your hand to hold his.
"Can't stop thinking about it, can you?" You move closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder, by instinct, he wrapped his arm around you.
"Yeah."
You nodded, tracing the veins on his bicep.
"I want you to get some sleep. Please, Daryl." You whisper to him. He stiffens, silent.
"Can't." Daryl simply replies. You sigh.
"Lie down." You tell him. While he scoots down you sit up, then, once he's in a good enough sleeping position you join him.

For the most of the night, Daryl slept. At least from what you could see. It seemed the tables had turned, and now you were the one stirring instead of him. The thought of him hating himself for Denise's death ruined you.
You did end up sleeping though. For a little while, that was until your young baby son woke you up. Daryl was the first one out of bed, picking him from his cot and hushing him.
Daryl disappeared, which you assumed was to get a bottle of milk from the fridge or something. When he took longer than expected you wrapped yourself in a robe and made your way down the stairs.
"Daryl?" You called.
Softly through the house you heard him reply "here."
So you followed the sound of his voice and found him in the kitchen, with Beau playing in a cot by the fridge and Daryl sitting down at the dining table. Thinking. It looked like he was just thinking.

Without asking, you fished him something to eat, sliding it across the table to him.
"Not hungry." He growls. You place your hands on your hips, watching him breath in deep concentration.
On the table next to Daryl was his vest. From here, on the seat next to him was a backpack.
Your shoulders falter as you eye the items. They could only mean one thing.
"You're leaving." You breath, watching him look up at you with so much guilt and pain in his eyes.
"Gotta." He replies.
"You don't have to." You coax, with a small frown on your face.
"I do. I need to do what I shoulda done before."
You slide down into the chair in front of him, reaching out for his hand. As soon as your fingers grazed his, he flinched.
"Don't. Don't tell me it's all gonna be okay. That it's alright I didn't kill the son of a bitch before. Just don't."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"Then what the hell could you possibly say?!" He was getting angry. Not angry at you, not angry at anybody else but himself.
"I was going to say that you have a son, Daryl. You have a son and if something goes wrong while you're out chasing snowmen in the bush, he'll have no father for the rest of his life. You have to think about that."
"I am thinkin bout that! That's all I'm thinking about! I'm doing this FOR my son."

The room goes quiet and Beau squirms in his crib, letting out a loud whine. He starts crying.
You stand up immediately and fish him out of the cot, rocking him until he's quiet. When he is, you place him back in the cot.
Daryl stands up, sliding his vest on and hoisting up his bag.
"Daryl."
"What?"
"At least let me come with you."
"No." He growls back at you. You rock on your feet, tilting your head.
"You either let me ride on the back of your motorcycle with you or I take one of those god awful cars that keep stopping and use it to follow you." You bluntly reply.
He stares at you for a second, his eyes fixated on your features.
"This ain't your mess." He barks. You pull a smug face, a smirk spread across it.
"Remember, what's yours is mine."
He can't protest. After all, what is there to say.
"Come on," you try to persuade. "I'll cover you, you cover me."
It's a pretty good argument, if you do say so yourself.
"And what about Beau?"
"Maggie will look after him. She loves the little fella."
Daryl's face reads complete annoyance. He's thinking about it, that much you know.
He is still quiet. Finally, he makes up his mind, reaching over at the end of the dining table to your jacket, which was lazily thrown there ages ago.
"We need to go now." He barks, tossing the jacket to you.
You nod.
"Let me get dressed, we'll drop Beau over at Glenn and Maggie's and we can leave."