Adapting (A Daryl Dixon/ The Walking Dead Fanfiction)

Chapter 3

Gemma's P.O.V
"Most of the facility is powered down, including housing so you will have to make do here." Dad explains as we walk down the hall of the offices.

"The couches are comfortable, but there are cots in storage if you like. There's a rec room down the hall that you kids might enjoy. Just don't plug in the video games, or anything that draws power. Same applies, if you shower go easy on the hot water." Dad says, turning to the adults.

I look back and see the looks of amazement on their faces at his words. The young Asian boy, Glenn, turns to the others.

"Hot water." He whispers.

"That's what the man said." T-Dog smiles.

They walk off and pick the rooms that they will be staying in and I walk towards my room, quickly closing the door behind me. I decide that to work off my frustrations I will go to the makeshift gym I created and blow off some steam. I walk over to my couch and rifle through my clothes, grabbing out my workout gear.

I proceed to strip off my shirt and bra, followed quickly by my pants leaving me in my underwear with my back to the door. I hear the door open and look around to see Daryl standing there, looking me up and down.

"What the fuck? Get out!" I yell, grabbing my blanket to cover myself up.

"My bad, thought the room was free." He smirks, closing it behind him.

I wait for a moment before continuing to get dressed, furious about what just happened. What an asshole! Why wouldn't he knock first? I pull on my shirt and grab a towel, walking out of the room and leaving the door slightly ajar.

I walk past the group of strangers towards my makeshift gym. I turn the corner and the room to the left is where I go. I open the door and turn on the lights, throwing my towel by the door. There's not a lot of equipment in the room, mostly stuff that dad and I could drag from the real gym upstairs and doesn't draw power. There is a mat for yoga, a set of weights for dad and a punching bag for me.

I walk over to the punching and run my fingers over the material. I grab the tape on the shelf and proceed to strap up my hands to prevent injury. Once I have finished I walk over to the bag and let my thoughts from earlier flood through my mind. My earlier conversation with dad, the incident with the wine, the incident with Daryl.

I throw my fist forward and punch the bag, it swinging back harshly. I begin to hit the bag in a rhythm, taking out my frustrations of the day. A year or so ago, I developed this as a way of relaxing instead of turning to the bottle.

I spin and do one last quick, the force making the bag hit the wall and dent it slight. I stare the wall, my shoulders moving heavily. I could feel the griminess of the sweat all over my body and I bent down to grab my towel, wiping myself off. I turn around and spot someone at the door watching me, a shadow covering their face.

"Yes?" I ask.

They step forward, "Someone's a little angry."

I roll my eyes at Daryl, "Well I have a lot to be angry about."

"Really, cause way I've seen it is you've had it easy so far. Locked up in a fancy building, with electricity and hot water." He sneers, wobbling slightly.

"Daryl, you're drunk. Go to bed."

"I bet you ain't ever had a hard day in your life. What with daddy being a doctor and all, and you learning how to save lives." He says, stepping closer.

"Stop it." I say, walking backwards.

"I bet when you go out there, you won't last 5 minutes." He spits as my back hits the wall.