Hello everyone, here is another chapter. This chapter was a struggle to write. I kept telling myself, show the readers, not tell them, hoping I can paint a picture with my words. Hopefully you like this one.
Also, since I've been asked, I guess I should state that this story is not a true xreader. That's why Alice has a name and some physical features. This fanfic is with "you" and second person, and hopefully you feel like you are taking a journey, living in this character's body.
I will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
It's true, I will rescue you
I will never stop marching to reach you
In the middle of the hardest fight
It's true, I will rescue you
Rescue by Lauren Daigle
Chapter 8 - Peel away
Daryl looks up at you with a disagreeable face, eyebrows pulled to a pinch, blue eyes thundering with a storm. You are not one to falter, you stare back down at him incredulously. He doesn't know it yet, but you will not lose this unofficial staring contest. As the moment stretches, you tap your foot impatiently.
"Well, go on." You demand. You use the same tone of voice your mother uses when she is displeased with you.
After many hours of writing, reading, and rewriting later, the project is finally come to an end. Your diagram is complete. Both yours and Daryl's essay is written impeccably.
"All you have to do is copy the damn thing." Since both essays are written in your handwriting, today you ask Daryl to just copy it, so at least it could look like you are handing in two separate essays. Of course, the audacity of this boy, he just looked at the pages and said 'no'.
"Why the hell is it so long?" He grants blinking away, admitting defeat to the unofficial staring contest. He picks up the pages and flips through it. You roll your eyes, shoving the pen in his hand.
"It's not long. You would know if you actually did your work." He huffs at you as an answer. "Come on, chop chop! The quicker you start, the quicker you'll finish. Besides, we could go to the cliff and celebrate with a dinner after." You speak in a singsong. After the first trip, it became a regular thing, whether on a bike or your car, you often end up at the cliff.
He mumbles something under his breath, but does lean forward, pen to paper.
As he starts writing, you sit on the chair, foot back on the table. You understand now, why he watches you like this. You grin at the concentrated look on his face, his tongue sticking out at the corner of his lips. As the seconds tick by, your eyebrows rise slowly, watching the chicken scratch he called handwriting. You let out a dejected sigh. After all your hard work, you hope Mr. Lanigan can read that.
As you sit there, listening to the scrape of pen against paper, your mind starts to contemplate, replaying the last half an hour of your interaction with Daryl.
It was interesting how he reacted when you told him the project was complete. You had waited at your usual desk, sitting with your feet on a table in a very Daryl Dixon manner, earbuds in your ears, music blasting.
He was late again, later than the usual. Right when you were about to give up and go home, you saw him, walking towards you, feet shuffling hesitatingly.
The moment your eyes land on him, the hair on the back of your neck stands up. You dug your nails on your thighs. It took you every bit of self-control to keep your mouth shut, not to demand an answer, not to go to war. There was a new bruise on his face, right below his left eye, dark shade of blue and purple.
You brought your feet down and gave him a big fake smile. Your cheeks hurt from how strained it was. You hoped he can't see your internal battle, so you acted like you didn't notice, like half his face wasn't the shade of blueberries.
You felt your heart twist and helplessness wash over you. Underneath the table, you fisted your hands. One thing was clear to you, Daryl doesn't want you to point these things out to him. Even though he was not a man of many words, and you often led most of the conversation between the two of you, his body language spoke the loudest.
So, you gave him the most cheerful greeting you could master. Act normal you told yourself.
The last thing you wanted to do was remind him everything that was wrong with his life.
His forehead wrinkled when you told him the project was completed. Today was your last day in the library. You didn't know how to describe it, the look on his face...it was as if gloom washed over him.
When he let out a deep sigh, your lungs held back your breath. It was as if the air leaving his body, brought a layer of unsettling emotions to yours. Perhaps he didn't want this to end, just as much, as you didn't want your time with him to end. Perhaps he enjoyed your presence as well…
With a forced bright smile still on your face, you shove the essay at him proudly.
"You're definitely getting a guaranteed 'A'," you told him excitedly. Not that it really mattered to him.
"Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena
Hey Macarena, ay!"
The song 'Macarina' is playing on the radio. Daryl is driving again. With the early summer heat peeking through, you have all the windows in the car open, letting the wind run through your hair.
You sing at the top of your lungs, voice breaking, melody completely off. But you have no shame, so you do the Macarena dance right where you're sitting in the passenger seat. With each move, you can see Daryl cringe.
"Hey Macarena, ay!" His reaction only promotes you farther.
"God my ears! Would you stop!" He tries to turn off the radio, and you fight him for it, slapping his hand away. His attention is on the road, but he thrust one of his hands to your face, struggling to muffle your mouth. You sing louder, keeping your face as far away as you can. You giggle underneath his hand when he finally manages to shut you. At the end, you give in and turn the volume down.
"Jeez, you can't hold a tune, if they gave you in a bucket." He tells you when the car goes quiet, causing you to burst out in laughter.
"Who says things like that!" You question trying to catch your breath.
"I do." He declares pulling the car up the hill. Even though he isn't looking your way, you can see the smile he's trying to keep at bay.
You get out of the car, throwing your hands up, stretching your shoulders until you hear the popping noise. As if hearing your shoulders speak, your stomach lets out a rumble. You are famished.
All you had was some crackers and a banana today, and on the way to the cliff, you stopped at a small, mom and pop restaurant, call "Little Italy." You paid, even though Daryl fought you for it. You told him it was to celebrate his guaranteed advancement to his senior year. Solemnly, Daryl ordered a personalized meat lover pizza, and you got all green chicken salad.
Daryl gets out of the car carrying both your food. As if hearing the complaint from your stomach, He questions, "Sup with the leaves today?" He places the bag of food on the hood of the car. When you give him a puzzled look, he nods towards the brown bag with the Italian flag printed on the side.
"Oh, my salad?" You confirm, before letting out a sigh. "I'm on a diet. Can you believe I've gained 6 pounds in a month?" You exasperate. He huffs at you, with a roll of his eyes in disbelief.
"Where?" He doubts. With a swift movement, he hops onto the front of the car, sitting like the usual, his back leaning on the windshield.
"Must have gone all to my ass." You grab on your thighs, as if trying to squeeze hold of the 6 pounds the scale seems to state. You lean your head back to look at your behind. Daryl's eyes follow you, looking at your darier.
"Ha! Made you look!" You snicker causing him to snort again, pursing his lips. "How is my booty look, you like what you see?" You tease, climbing clumsily on the car following his manner.
"Stop," he whines, lightly shoving you away with a tap of his shoulder. "Why are you always so goofy!" You respond with a giggle.
This morning was a weigh-ins with your mom. She barged into your room, with her usual cheerful self. It was too early, but she dragged you out of bed anyways. She talked in a very animated manner you often catch yourself doing. You barely paid attention as she went on and on about work and some upcoming event for some of your father's political friends. You just stood there half eyed open, letting her measure and scale you.
It was only when she did a double take, you woke yourself up. She made you step on the scale again, to verify the numbers. All the fast food, chocolate, and sugar had caught up to you. You had gained 6 pounds in 30 days. You tried to explain it as stress to your irritated mother. She demanded immediate caloric restriction. You must lose it by next month she had said it to you firmly.
"I really did gain 6 pounds. I gotta lose it by next month." You crack open your salad container.
"You look fine." He tells you. When he opens his box of pizza, the smell of cheese and bacon allures you. With a plastic fork in hand, you dig in, the romaine lettuce crunching in your mouth.
"I have expectations I must meet." The salad isn't that bad. The baby corn and vinegar dressing complemented each other. It's sweet and tangy.
"It ain't cool, ya should at least eat what you want." You know your upbringing don't make sense to many; you've always been the odd one out.
"When I was little, my father used to tell me I'm his legacy. That someday, I will be able to reach places he could never. He had an aspiration for political position. Two years ago, he ran for the governor's office."
"Yea, I remember them lame ass heart shaped flyers everywhere." He replies mouth full of chewing his pizza. You snicker at the thought of your father's 'great idea for a flyer.' It had said, 'Vote for David Hart' and they were all in a shape of a heart, and red for his republican views. It was as if cupid had decided to vomit all over the city. As memorable as the flyers were, unfortunately he didn't get the votes he needed.
"Yeah, he always has those ambitions for me as well. That's why I became the student body president. He would say I could be the first female president if I wanted. That I had his brain and my mother's looks, his cleverness and my mother's personality." Your father was a stern man who never showed his feelings. He didn't know how to smile on TV and kiss babies. That was the reason why he didn't win. He ran as the man who would guide the city with an iron fist, but people couldn't relate to him. So, he groomed you to take on an office someday, took you to all the political event, and gave you the connections you might need in the future. In the prosses, he forgot you were just a kid.
"That's why I don't really have any friends... I don't really have anyone." You admit to apart of you never shared with anyone. How alone you feel sometimes, like stuck in a clear porcelain glass, watching other people have fulfilling relationships. And no matter how much you reach out, you could never touch them, you just get to watch them from behind the barrier.
"I see you with friends at school." He looks at you, wiping the pizza oil from his lips.
"I'm friendly, but they're not really my friends. I never really had the time." Ever since you could walk and talk, your calendar has been full. Chess lesson, piano lesson, Spanish lesson, French lessen, history lesson, table etiquette… it was never ending. It was just last year, when your mother opened her hair salon, your parents backed off a bit. But you're so used to the schedule, you filled it yourself with all the after-school curriculums.
"I hate it all. I hate how my mother picks my clothes, how she styles my hair, how my body looks. And ultimately, I hate how I represent the Hart family. I don't want to be my father's daughter."
"Watcha wanna do with your life then? If you could, who would ya be?" Even though his voice was melancholy, he had been listening attentively.
"I want to help people; I want to be of service. That's the only thing I like about this political stuff." You would live kindly, doing things that brings you joy, and not chase power. You bring your hand up to the sky, as if reaching for the sun. You watch the light peek through between your fingers. From this cliff, this high up, it's almost like you could fly, if you would just jump off.
"Someday, it ain't gonna matter, you'll be free of all the bullshit. You're the smartest person I know, you gonna accomplish it." His words reach your heart, and the smile you give him reflects that. You bring your hand down gently, placing it over on his free hand in a quick reassuring grip. You didn't linger. You know not too.
As you watch him return to his food, your eyes are drawn to his pizza again, your mouthwatering. When he picks up a slice, the cheese pulls with it, stretching in gooey strands between two separating halves.
"How come you never eat any greens?" You ask looking up at him from his pizza. "You should try my salad," You offer, trying to hold back a smirk.
"Cuz, I ain't no goat!" You gasp dramatically at his response, hand to your heart.
"You know what, now you must try! This is good stuff! Vitamins and nutrients," when you shove your fork at his face, you packed it with lettuce, meat, and little bit of all the toppings.
"Nah, no way man!" He backs his face away, "keep that shit away from me."
"Eat it! Eat it! It's good for you!" You laugh as you push the fork farther. He looks between you and the fork before he grumbles as he opens his mouth. He makes a face as he chews, letting out an 'ick' like you just made him eat dog shit. You wait until he swallows.
"See, it ain't so bad." You give him the most wicked smirk you can muster. "Now, you pay me back with a bite." When he looked at you disbelievingly, you couldn't hold back the laugh.
"I knew it! I knew it ain't about me!" With the laughter still on your lips, you grab his wrist, the hand that was holding his half-eaten food.
"You ate my salad, it's only fair." You bring his hand to your mouth and take a big bite out of his pizza.
"Why you always up my food man! Should've gotten your own."
"Nobody likes a sore loser, Daryl."