Negan Smith Fanfiction - Tumblr Posts

Save Me, Save You Series Masterlist

Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)

Pairing: Savior!Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Era: Saviors War (S7/8)

Series Warnings: canon-typical violence, character deaths (canon), guns, blood/injuries, explicit language, sexual content. (Individual chapters will have warnings as well)

Summary: When a dangerous new community attacks, life in Alexandria gets turned upside down. In an attempt to protect your people, you volunteer to meet the bizarre demands of the new community's eccentric leader, including becoming his wife. But along the way, you meet an old community legend, who has fallen down a dark path. Will you be able to save him, your people, and yourself, or will you be lost in the struggle?

A/N: This series follows the events of Seasons 7 and 8, but there are some adjustments in the timing of events for pacing purposes.

The Sacrifice

The Sanctuary

The Engagement Party

The Interrogation

The Promise

The Wedding

The Honeymoon

The Attack

The Graves

The Punishment

The Rescue (coming soon!)

Chapter 16 - The Babysitter (Save Me, Save You)

Summary - With the wives officially on lockdown, everyone tries to get by the best that they can. Some better than others, of course.

Chapter warnings - stitches, threats of violence, explicit language, alcohol use, guns.

A/N - this unexpectedly became one of my favorite chapters to write. A couple sweet little moments before shit really hits the fan ❤️

Series Masterlist

Tag list - @celtic-crossbow @rosegoldrosieee @heidiland05 @princesssparkle2024 @spectacular-skywalker @itwasntaphasema @duckybird101 @skulliecadaver-blog

At the sound of your name, you startle awake. Your eyes immediately look to the stack of books on your nightstand, and spot Wild Pursuits: A Comprehensive Exploration of the Arts and Ethics of Hunting safely still on the bottom of the pile. You exhale a breath of relief, before turning to whomever rudely interrupted your sleep. It’s Tanya and Frankie, of course.

“What?” you ask, not very kindly. You had stayed up late last night, trying to scrub the feeling of Negan’s hands off of your skin unsuccessfully before tossing and turning for hours, only falling into a restless sleep when the sun was already creeping up. 

Tanya shushes you while climbing onto your bed. Frankie is behind her, peeking out the bedroom door.

“You’ll never guess who’s on babysitting duty today,” Tanya whispers conspiratorially.

“Who?” you ask, sitting up.

“Come look for yourself,” Frankie shoots from the door. 

Throwing your covers into a giggling Tanya’s face, you quietly pad over to the door, crouching below Frankie to sneak a look into the living room. Through the small crack, you immediately spot him: in the same chair as last time sits Daryl, one arm resting along the top of the chair and the hand of the other cupping his chin, watching. As if sensing you, his eyes flick towards the door, and you quickly fall away, out of his sight.

“Right?!” Tanya chirps, taking your place at the doorway, peering out.

“I wonder what he did to get stuck with us,” Frankie muses. “Doesn’t he have more important things to be doing?”

“It’s probably because of his injury,” you respond, thoughtfully. Both of the women’s heads snap towards you.

“So that’s who you were late-night doctoring!” Tanya nearly squeals. You try to whack her with the back of your hand but she rolls out of your reach. She stands up and grabs Frankie’s arm. “We’re going out there,” she says to you. “Hurry up and get dressed before we take him from you.” Then she pushes Frankie out the door, while you sit there, rolling your eyes at them.

By the time you walk out into the living room - wearing a simple black tee-shirt dress, hair loose and flowing over your shoulders - breakfast had arrived. Apparently Negan didn’t trust the wives to get themselves food anymore, so a platter of eggs, toast, ham, and fruit sat on the bar, accompanied by multiple cups of coffee. Tucking your random book you grabbed from your pile under your arm, you take one of the coffees and shove a piece of toast in your mouth before moving to one of the couches. You curl into one of the corners, conveniently right across from where Daryl was sitting. You don’t look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you. Instead, you open your book and settle in, only half paying attention to the scene around you.

The rest of the wives are helping themselves to the breakfast spread. Frankie and Tanya make their plates and move to sit on either side of Daryl, who accepts their presence with mild disinterest. 

Not to be discouraged, Tanya leans in towards him and asks, “Can I make you a plate, Dixon? There’s more than enough for all of us.”

“No thanks,” Daryl responds politely.

This is how most of the day goes by.

“Dixon, we heard you got hurt. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“‘m alright.”

“Want me to rub your shoulders? I used to be a massage therapist, ya know.”

“No thanks.”

“Hey Dixon, I’m gonna grab a drink, want anything?”

“Nah, ‘m good.” 

You can almost feel Daryl’s discomfort as your sister-wives - the voice inside your head makes a gross barfing sound - throw themselves at him.  You try to hide your smirks behind your paperback, but the low, scoffing sound from across the room tells you that he sees them anyway. 

Probably in an attempt to discourage them, Daryl takes to sharpening one of his hunting knives. He frowns, however, when this only interests them more.

“You must be so good with those, since you take such good care of them.”

“‘m fine, I guess.”

“Can you show me how to do that?”

“Nah.”

“Come ooooon.”

“Don’t think your husband would be happy ‘bout that,”  Daryl says, scowling at them.

When Tanya lets out a loud “hmph!” you can’t hold in your laugh. This draws all three sets of eyes to you, where you sit attempting to read, one hand fiddling with the stitches on your forehead.

“Quit picking at those,” Daryl snaps.

You immediately drop your hand. “Sorry,” you mutter. Frankie and Tanya stare at you, mouths agape. Cheeks burning, you busy yourself in your book again, and they eventually lose interest in you and go back to pestering Daryl. 

By midafternoon, after lunch and several more attempts from Frankie and Tanya to engage him in conversation, another Savior enters the living room, relieving Daryl of babysitting duty. He gives each of you a quick nod before leaving the room. The new Savior - the young kid, Alden - takes up his seat by the door, apparently boring the two wives sitting nearby because they grab their things and move to sit by you instead.

“He’s a tough nut to crack,” Frankie murmurs under her breath, stealing a glance at Alden to make sure he didn’t overhear.

“How did you do it?” Tanya asks breathlessly.

You just shrug. “I didn’t do anything.” This earns you a glare from the two women.

Before they can press you further, Arat appears in the doorway, calling your name.

“Let’s go,” she orders.

“Where are we going?” you ask, rising from your spot on the couch. You can feel Frankie and Tanya exchange a glance around you.

Arat smiles a nasty smile. “Doctor’s appointment,” she says, sneering as you approach her.

“What-“ you start to ask but you don’t get to finish as she grabs your arm and pushes you out the door.

Stumbling once but regaining your footing, you start making your way to Dr. Carson’s old office, trying not to give your escort a reason to shove the barrel of her gun into your back. Along the way, you have to press yourself into the wall to make room for a handful of Saviors carrying crates through the hallway. You try to crane your neck to see what they have, earning you another push from Arat. Glaring, you continue walking towards the doctor’s office, not sure what you were going to find there.

To your utmost surprise, when you reach it, you are met by Dr. Carson. But not the one that you are used to seeing here: inside the small office, unpacking a box of supplies, is Hilltop’s Dr. Carson. A gasp escapes your lips before you can catch it.

At the sound he turns around. “Ah,” he says, putting down the box of bandages in his hand. “My very first patient here.” He leans over, looking past you to Arat. “Thank you, you can leave us.”

“Not a chance,” she spits. “Wives are under watch, Negan’s orders.”

“Not in here, they’re not,” the new Dr. Carson says casually. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, ya know.” When Arat doesn’t move, he continues, “You can wait outside if you must.”

Scoffing, Arat glares at both you and the doctor before stepping out the door and slamming it closed. 

Still bewildered, you just stare at the doctor.

“I know,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see me here either.” He sighs, looking down. “I just found out about my brother today.” 

Realization hits you like a ton of bricks. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

But he just waves you off. “It was a matter of time,” he says sadly. “Especially with these people.” An awkward silence falls between the two of you. Breaking it, he claps his hands, declaring, “I hear you have stitches that need removing.”

“How-“ you start to ask but stop yourself. Daryl, you think, smiling. Typical. He must’ve run into the doctor after leaving your room. You nod to Dr. Carson, who motions to the patient table.

You sit on it, and watch as he prepares to take out your stitches, a million questions running through your head. How did you end up here? Is everyone okay? What about Maggie and the baby?

But it turns out that you don’t have to ask any of them. Gloves on, he moves in close, inspecting his brother’s work. When he begins to snip at the stitches, he answers your unspoken questions.

“She’s okay,” he whispers, barely audible. “So is the baby.” He turns, placing the discarded stitch on the tray he had pulled over. “Rick and a few others have visited the Hilltop.” Your eyes widen as he drops another stitch onto the tray. “They’re planning to fight.” 

Relief overwhelms you. Tears prick your eyes, but not wanting to disturb the doctor's work, you let them pour down your cheeks. They’re coming for me, you think to yourself. I’m going to be saved.

‘But what about Daryl?’ the small, forever pestering voice in the back of your mind asks. ‘Will they save him too?’

Yes, you tell the voice. They have to - they know him, they’ll save him from Negan’s grasp too.

‘Will they?’ the voice presses, doubtful.

They will, you continue. If they won’t, then I’ll make them. 

While you were arguing with yourself, Dr. Carson finishes removing your stitches. “All done,” he announces, sitting back to remove his gloves. “You’ll have a little scar, but nothing too bad.” He holds up the small mirror so you can see. Pushing your hair out of the way, you see the cut, now closed up and healing, and it makes you think of the scar Daryl has in his hairline as well. Matching again, you think, smirking.

Looking away from the mirror, you whisper, “Thank you.” Meeting his gaze, you try to show him that you are grateful for more than just the stitches.

“Thank me when we’re out of here,” he replies understandingly, patting your hands before standing up to open the door. Arat leans against the opposite wall, scowling. “She’s all yours,” he tells her. 

Without a word, she nods at you, and you follow her back to your rooms, mind reeling at the thought of your impending rescue. What is the plan? If anything is true about your people’s plans, they always started one way, then shit hits the fan, and then you have to improvise. What can I do to help from the inside? You already know Eugene was not sent here to deliver you a message, asshole that he is. Was someone else going to find their way into the Sanctuary? 

The next few days carry on with little excitement. Daryl’s been assigned to babysitting duty again each day, and Frankie and Tanya continue their quest to gain his favor to no avail. Meals continue to be delivered to the wives quarters, so you all have been confined to your living room or bedroom the whole time. The only exception to this was when Negan would send for one of you each night. You are grateful that he hasn’t called for you since the day he took you outside and then fucked you in the war room.

Daryl was still refusing to let anyone touch him or his wound but you, so you had to check his stitches and change his bandage in the small bathroom just off of your bedroom. You managed to sneak a few kisses but little else, with Frankie and Tanya talking loudly right outside the door, much to your chagrin. 

“They don’t quit, so they?” Daryl had asked while he held you, snuggled into his chest.

“No they don’t,” you answered him, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re like a shiny new toy to them, ever since you took me as your ‘reward.’ They’re hoping you’ll take one of them next.”

“Oh really?” he replied, chuckling. “Should I?”

You had pulled away, glared at him and said “I’ll kill you AND them,” which only made him laugh more. “I’m armed now, remember?”

“Yeah yeah,” he said, smirking, before pulling you back in for another kiss.

Were you being smart, carrying on like this with those two nosey women right outside the door? Not at all. But you craved Daryl like he was the air your lungs needed, and you couldn’t give up the opportunity to be with him, no matter how short or risky it was. 

Daryl wasn’t the best at expressing himself with words, but he had his ways of showing you how much he needed you too. His gaze frequently fell upon you, eyes flickering to wherever you stood over the shoulders of whomever was speaking to him. His hands found you, trailing up your side whenever you passed and taking up residence on your waist when he stood beside you at the makeshift bar. In your small moments of solitude, he held his forehead to yours, as if trying to press all of his unspoken words and feelings into your mind. You quickly learned the language of his eyes and his varying grunts. The stoic man was surprisingly easy to read, if one simply paid attention. And the more you did, the more of him you needed.

By the third evening of lockdown, everyone in the wives’ quarters was growing restless, even the Saviors stuck babysitting. Gary, the hotheaded, trigger happy one, was so pissed about being stuck in there that he got shitfaced at the bar, eventually falling off of his barstool. Negan was furious, and had him dragged out by his feet, and poor Alden had to take over for him again. Alden was young and a little naive, and the other wives quickly took advantage of that fact.

“Where are you going?” he asks Frankie and Tanya, who are making a beeline for the door.

“To Eugene’s room,” Tanya replies, unconcerned.

“But you are all supposed to be under supervision,” Alden tries to argue back in a small voice. The exchange has captured the attention of all in the room. You watch from your spot at the bar, as Lauren and Dawn peer over their magazines at the young Savior.

“That’s what Eugene is for,” Frankie shoots back, rolling her eyes.

“But Negan-” he starts but she doesn’t let him finish.

“Who do you think ordered us to go?”

“I- uh.”

“You wanna ask him yourself?” Frankie challenges him, staring him down. 

Alden flinches under her cool gaze. 

Smirking, Frankie takes Tanya’s arm and they leave the room.

You watch Alden slump back into his seat, appearing crestfallen. You quickly find the least repulsive whiskey behind the bar, pour a generous amount into a glass and bring it over to the kid. You hold it out to him, and he looks up at you with wide eyes before taking it.

“Don’t take any of that personally,” you tell him. “They’re like that to everyone.”

“Thanks,” Alden replies gloomily. He takes a sip of the drink, grimacing. You look at him apologetically before returning to the bar. Atop it sat a glass of wine for yourself and your journal, which you regrettably have not spent much time writing in since your arrival here at the Sanctuary. You were working on a detailed account of your time here and everything that you’ve learned about Negan and the Saviors, in case it came in handy later on. You did, however, leave out the specifics of your relationship with Daryl, lest it fell into the wrong hands.

Sitting at your seat, scribbling away, you don’t notice the door to the living room open again until you hear voices and your name in that oh-so-familiar Southern drawl. Closing your journal, you turn to find Daryl talking to Alden near the entrance to the room. Your heart skips in your chest, but quickly falls when you hear their exchange.

“Negan wants ‘er,” Daryl is explaining to the younger Savior, who can barely meet his eye. He just nods.

Daryl looks over to you, where you stand clutching the bar with white knuckles. He nods, indicating for you to follow, and you have to use your other hand to pry your fingers off of the cracked wooden surface. 

Chest tightening, you follow him out into the hallway. You stay a few paces behind him, trying to calm the terror burning in your lungs, making it difficult to breathe. A wheeze squeezes out of you, drawing Daryl’s attention and he’s on you, hands gripping each of your upper arms, cerulean blue eyes boring into your own wide ones.

“Breathe, princess,” he murmurs softly. He helps you to take a few strangled breaths, eyes never leaving your own. 

“What does he want with me?” you manage to choke out, swallowing your panic the best you can.

To your surprise, Daryl smirks. “Nothing,” he replies. Then he breaks into a very big, very rare smile. “I lied.”

You open your mouth to ask what he means, but Daryl takes your hand in his large one and hurries you along. The two of you nearly jog to the familiar stairwell where you used to look for him, and he pulls you up the steps to the top landing. He quickly unlocks the door, and the cool air engulfs you like an old friend.

Stepping out into the night, you take a deep breath of what feels like the freshest air you’ve ever breathed. You close your eyes to take in as much of it as you can. Days of being locked in your tiny apartment had felt like being suffocated, but being up here felt like learning how to breathe all over again. Your chest immediately loosens, welcoming the crisp cold air. Spinning around in it, your eyes fall on Daryl, leaning against a low wall, watching you with a small smile on his face.

“Thank you,” you say gratefully.

“Fer what? I haven’t even shown ya the surprise yet,” he replies with a sparkle in his eye.

You gasp. “A surprise?!”

“C’mere,” he says, reaching out a hand that you excitedly take. He leads you further down the roof, away from the door. When he steps aside, you find it: in the middle of the roof, strung up between two large vents, is a hammock. 

You look up at him, speechless. His cheeks burn pink, and he scratches the back of his neck, looking away. “I know it’s not much, but-”

“It’s perfect!” you shriek, jumping up to kiss him on the cheek before running towards it. You sit on one end, your weight pulling it down a bit as you slip out of your shoes, then lay back, letting it level out. Above you, there’s no sign of the building that has become your prison; all you can see is the tops of the nearby trees and the endless starry sky. 

Sighing with delight, you look back at Daryl, watching you as always.

“Come on,” you call to him. “There’s plenty of room for two up here.”

Hesitantly, Daryl walks towards the hammock, and you shimmy over towards the far side to give him room to sit. Keeping his boots on, he turns and lays beside you, rocking the hammock, causing you to roll into his side. Instead of shying away like he would have a week ago, he reaches an arm across for you to lay on, and you curl into him.

Together, the two of you lay there, looking up at the clear night sky. A gentle breeze causes the hammock to sway like a baby’s cradle. The only sounds are the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. No walker growls, no gunfire, no stress. You wish you could bottle this feeling up and take it with you, opening it in your most dire times of need. But instead you just sigh.

“You alright?” Daryl asks, his low voice vibrating against you.

“Yeah,” you answer lazily.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing really, just enjoying the moment,” you say with another sigh. 

Relaxed and wrapped around Daryl, you can’t help but picture what life could’ve been like all these months if he had returned to the prison when he meant to: sitting around campfires, laughing with friends; looking after the children together; going out on runs, knowing someone always had your back; ending each long day, exhausted but happy, in each other’s arms. The fantasy squeezes your heart tight and makes your eyes water.

“You think you would’ve liked me back at the prison?” you ask him suddenly.

Daryl, of course, just scoffs. “Nah,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “I barely like you now.”

“Hey!” you protest, leaning up on your elbows. You go to poke him and chastise him, but he catches your hand and uses it to pull you in close. Landing on his chest, lips just inches from his, your breath hitches. Daryl’s hand snakes up to cup your face before pulling you in for a deep, languid kiss. You feel him smile against your lips, and your heart flutters in your chest.

When you pull away, Daryl’s still holding your face, rubbing a thumb along your cheekbone.

“I just want you to be happy here,” he says, barely above a whisper.

It feels like a shot to the chest. How can I possibly be happy here? you ask yourself. Your thoughts trail back to Dr. Carson’s words from the other day, about Rick and your people meeting with the Hilltop to plan how to fight back. You remember your determination to bring Daryl with you when you were rescued. How can you tell him any of this, when he’s making distinct efforts like this, with the intention of making you want to stay? I can’t tell him any of this, you think, swallowing hard.

Instead of answering aloud, you kiss Daryl again, long and slow, before snuggling back into him, head on his chest. A man of few words himself, he accepts this and pulls you in closer. 

The two of you stay this way for a while, until Daryl startles and snaps his fingers. “I almost forgot,” he says, reaching a hand into the pocket of his worn out jeans. He pulls out a keyring with a single key dangling from it. “Fer you,” he holds it out to you. “So you can come up here whenever ya want.” 

You take the key, holding it tightly to your heart. “Thank you,” you say for what feels like the millionth time with him. You lean up to kiss him again.

Suddenly, machine gun fire rips through the air. Daryl jumps up so quickly that it causes the hammock to flip, spilling you out onto the ground.

“What was that?” you yell, rubbing your freshly skinned elbow.

“I don’t know,” Daryl replies, running towards the edge of the rooftop to look over. You jam your feet back into your heels, and run to his side. Looking over, you don’t see anything. You strain your ears to hear, and the next time you hear the gunfire, the sound comes from behind you.

“It’s coming from inside,” you whisper, fear lacing your voice.

“C’mon,” Daryl grunts, grasping your hand as he breaks into a run for the door. You quickly stash the keyring in your bra as you try to keep up. 

Daryl flings the door open and leads you inside, not bothering to lock it again. The two of you rush down the stairs when he stops you, pushing you behind him while he looks out into the hall. Deciding it’s clear, he pulls you along behind him, one hand on you, the other unsheathing one of his knives. You swallow hard, wishing you had your knife on you, feeling stupid for being unarmed. 

When you and Daryl take another turn, you come across multiple Saviors running the opposite direction, armed to the teeth. Daryl grabs one of them by the back of his shirt.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Eyes wide in fear, the Savior shouts three words you didn’t expect to hear: “We’re under attack!”