Honey || Daryl Dixon

• 7 •

Daryl lets out a short laugh, "She ain't wrong."

Merle lifts his empty hand up, giving us the finger, "Fuck the both of ya's."

My eyes widen, and I glance down at Bonnie to make sure she didn't hear, "Watch your language, would you?"

"Sugar, the least of t'at kids problems is a lil' bit of swearin'." Merle waves his hand as if waving away any argument either Daryl or I could come up with, "Are ya gonna put the ring on yourself or d'ya want Daryl to put it on for ya? Make it a nice lil' ceremony?"

I narrow my eyes at him, "You think you're so funny—"

"Darlin', I think I'm hilarious, but that ain't the matter at hand 'ere."

Daryl rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest, "Merle, ain't got no interest in playin' ya games."

"Sugar." Merle ignores his brother, tilting his head a little as he stares at me, "Put the ring on."

"I don't see—"

"We ain't debating." Merle cuts me off, "Put it on."

I scowl, taking the ring from him. I slip it on my forth finger, not bothering to see what it looks like on.

"T'ere we go." Merle grins, glancing between Daryl and I mischievously, "Till death do ya sorry asses part."

🏹

As you can imagine, Merle hasn't stopped with the teasing. He's been making 'just married' puns ever since we got back on the road.

It's as irritating as it sounds. Daryl looks more and more ready to punch him with every word that comes out of his brothers mouth.

Daryl's been quiet, other than the occasional snap at his brother. I was worried at first. He's usually quiet, but considering the scenario Merle's worked us all into I was concerned he was being quiet for a different reason.

However, he's seemed more thoughtful than upset so I think he's just stuck in his own head. It seems to be something he does a lot.

We've been on the open road for a while now. Now we've got whatever they scavenged from the gas station we've had no reason to stop. Not even toilet breaks are an acceptable excuse, according to Merle.

The prick.

I wince as we hit another pothole, silently cursing the existence of potholes in general.

"Ya alright?" Daryl asks, his voice gruff.

I lift my head, meeting his eyes for a moment, "Yeah. I'm good."

"Is it ya leg?" He continues, shifting closer to me, "Let me check the stitches."

"You haven't got to—"

By the time I say the words, Daryl's hands are already on my leg: warm and heavy. He moves the jeans around a little, his fingers lightly pressing the stitches to check for tears.

"I think y'alright." He says, "There ain't any tears or nothin'."

"It's the potholes." I tell him, "When the truck dips into them it jolts my leg."

"Ain't nothin' we can do 'bout that." Daryl frowns, "We ain't even got a pillow or nothin' to put underneath it."

"Don't worry about it," I pat his hand, "I'm a big girl. I'll manage."

He doesn't say anything to that. I do hope he isn't doubting my ability to get by. I'm an excellent adapter.

"Where are we going anyway?" I ask, shifting slightly due to an ache in my back, "Does he plan to stay on the road all night?"