Rebel Yell (Daryl Dixon Fanfiction)

Chapter 10

AN: I'm so sorry that I have not posted in so long. I'm not going to waste time giving excuses, but I will try not to let it happen for so long again. Also I'm not going to just up and quite on this story. This chapter is a bit longer than my norm. I hope you like it because it took me a while to get everything up to par (or as close to it as I can get it). I apologize for any mistakes in my story that I didn't catch because I know they can be annoying. My beta is away at the moment and she can't really get to my stuff, so this chapter didn't have one.Diane opens the door to Daryl's room and looks in. He looks like a beat up little boy lying there with his arm curled around Shrimpy, his crazy is hair sticking in different directions.

She can tell that he didn't fall back asleep on purpose. The TV is still on and the remote is still gripped in his hand, even though the Dish had turned itself off, the message is floating around on the TV screen.

She approaches his sleeping form, hoping that his night was restful. She studies his face. It doesn't look like he's having a nightmare... or anything at all, really. His face looks completely relaxed, despite all of the bruising. She spies the forming of a bruise stretching across his left cheek in the shape of a hand. Her irritation at Jon flairs up all over again. Huffing, she walks beside the bed.

"Daryl." She calls out, reframing from shaking him, just in case he has a negative reaction.

He stirs with a deep intake of breath and moan. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at her with tired eyes, eyebrows furrowed and his bottom lip sticking out just the slightest.

"How ya feel?" She asks him and he blinks for a few seconds and slowly scoots himself backwards intmore of a sitting position leaning against the headboard.

"I feel fine, I guess." He rasps sleepily, stretching his arms above his head, grimacing slightly when it pulls at his stitches.

"Ya hungry?"

Daryl closes his eyes as he makes a sound from his throat that's something like a cross between a hum and a growl while he thinks, "I'm sure I could eat." He says gruffly.

"I didn't know if you still felt nauseous, so I wanted to give you a choice..." She trails off.

"French toast." Daryl says quickly and Diane almost laughs.

Daryl looks down slightly embarrassed by his eagerness, "I hadn't had French toast since I was a kid." He looks up again at her unsurely, "that's okay, right... French toast?"

She beams, "oh, it's perfectly fine. It was one of the choices, actually." She pats his shoulder and he makes a face that looks more like a grimace than a smile. "I'll fix some French toast. Just come out when yer ready." She smiles at him then leaves the bedroom.

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Daryl scoots down and lays his throbbing head back on the pillow and stares at the ceiling, absent-mindedly rubbing Shrimpy. That dream is the start of something he thought he'd gotten over and the fact that it's back weighs him down with a heavy wave of depressing vexation and makes him feel hopeless. He heaves a big sigh and stiffly gets out of bed. His tousle with those men at the bar, along with his fight with Merle, is starting to catch up on him. His fall through the cabin floor yesterday didn't help any; he gave himself a minor strain on his ankle, as well as a wicked bruise on his ass and back.

He rolls his shoulders in a circle, trying to loosen up his tight muscles, and spots a small mirror on the wall. He knows he probably looks terrible, but walks over to the small mirror on the wall and inspects his face anyway. And his prediction is pretty accurate; In all honesty he looks like shit. Anyone can tell by just looking at his face how shitty of a night's sleep he's gotten. He has dark bruises around his neck from getting choked. Both of his eyes are still black and swollen, making the bags that would have been under his eyes even more intense; but the swelling in his nose has gone down some so he can tell that he did a pretty good job setting it. He smirks bitterly to himself. Practice makes perfect.