Emma

But there’s something else catching your eye.

The marks.

The sticky, tacky substance that starts red, acrid and thick until it turns black like tar. There’s more of it as you scroll, more of it that appears. A trail of it is scattered across the floor in the last few tapes, long and wide, like something had been dragged through it.

Blood.

It’s blood.. and then something else.

The camera is set down, but Bobby isn’t anywhere to be seen, in fact, no one is.. You think at least, until the tapes start to play for longer, leaving enough space for sound to come through. Humming. Distant buzzing that you only guess is from the office like panel lights overhead. You squint your eyes just to get a better look at it, every angle near identical to the last, halls and corridors that seem to stretch right into the darkness before it blinks bright and dusty again.

A figure stumbles into view then, limping at the end of the corridor, arms outstretched around the corner. There’s red on his shirt, but you can’t see a wound, only him, the more he steps into frame. His shirt, his jean shorts, his face. It’s Bobby. He looks faint, all colour drained from his face as he stumbles to the floor just directly in front of the lens.

He must have been running, dropped the camera and come back for it. It’s the only thing that makes any sort of sense. But what he was running from you can’t tell, there’s nothing else there, only walls, a doorway that stands tall in the far corner that he sits by.

The last shot has him wheezing, picking up every grunt and heave that escapes his lungs as he goes to pick the camera up. A loud bang echoes around him, shaking the surroundings with it.

“Fuck fuck fuck..” The recording shifts right into his face, the dark circles underneath his eyes reflecting the darkness set inside of them. An unusual black in the bright blue. But there’s more. A retching that follows, one that ends the tapes altogether, because it drops from his hands again and into the floor with a stutter.

Noises break through the speaker, far too loud than anything else you’d heard and you can’t make out what it is. Only that they sound animalistic.. and wrong. And the only thing it can be coming from, is Bobby.

—

"I've missed these.. You wanted the regular ones or double stuffed?" His mouth is full, a smile on his lips. And for a second you forget. Your hand shoves at the camera, sliding it across the table wearily, resting back into your arm.

He slings the paper bag onto the counter and you quirk a brow, sinking into the chair as the heartbeat in your ears thrums louder.

He doesn’t seem to notice, closing the door behind him with his foot, stuffing another oreo into his mouth.

"Because apparently there's like, seven different types now and I kinda panicked.”

His lips purse against your temple, and you feel it. His smile, soft and wide, and he’s warm, curling around you before he moved, the smell of cheap gas station coffee and outside going with him. The chair creaks as he slides into the seat opposite you ruffling with the bag with more things he’s bought. A lot more than what you wrote on the note.

A few cartons of milk, some bread, snacks, and anything that will fill the fridge. A fridge way too small to fit everything he brought home.

There’s deli meats and pastries, candies, and far too much fruit than he’d ever eat, like a kid had just gone inside the store and ransacked the whole place.

That was another thing that you had noticed. His appetite. It had been two and half weeks since he’d been home, it was to be expected, you had no idea what he ate in there. Something not right or enough given how thin and frail he was, but now, it was like he had never eaten before.

"I was thinkin'.. why don't we go for a drive." His elbows press onto the table, blinking up at you with that hopeful expression. His mouth is full of whatever other snack he’d started to swallow, fingers wrapping round the wrapper to take more. Sweat beads across his forehead, little droplets that drip onto his brow, even though the chill of the morning air still drift through the windows.

It’s not warm enough yet, and he didn’t seem out of breath before. Odd.

“I- I’d love to.. but are you sure you’re feeling okay to go?” You’re watching him closely, not enough for it to alert him but it’s sharper, focused.

The guilt eats at you the most. To question it all. People disappear they're supposed to come back changed, traumatised, broken even, not back to normal. But that's what'sconfusing. Because he is.

And he has been, for the most part. It’s like he never left at all. But maybe that’s what the problem is.

He holds your hand just as tight, curling his fingers around yours, stroking it at the knuckle and tracing in between the fingers. His smile beams at you whenever you seem to catch it, so warm through the brokenness like the first time he plucked up the courage to approach you in the corridors at school. And that was years ago, and now, he’s still trying, attempting at what normalcy there is.

He holds the rest back. Bobby puts it into everything else he can. The few days that you had to go back to talk to the police, he did his best, he told them all he could, that they should investigate, so what they can to figure out “whatever the fuck is going on” with an arm curled over the back of your chair as they asked the same to you.

And they were only left with the same answer. I don’t know. They weren’t convinced, neither was Bobby, and he still isn’t. Maybe it still is a dream, some fucked up acid trip like Kat said it was and that they were dosed.

But you’re real, you’re here with him and you’re what he holds onto, and he does. It repeats into his head like a mantra. Every time he checks the doorway just to make sure you’re still inside of the room, every time his arm curled around your waist just to rest his chin onto your shoulder. And every time he claims you over and over again.

It comes in waves, sometimes worshipping, slow and working you down, inching you down onto the bed, sliding down onto his knees with the way he presses kisses to your knees before he devours you. Consumes you entirely, his nose pressed sharp into your neck as he settled inside of you, sometimes just to stay there for a moment, letting you take all of him.

Other times it’s merciless. And he makes it just as reverent, but he snaps cold, the kind that clouds you over in a haze, one that chokes you more than his fingers tightening at the back of your neck. His hand clamps down onto your hip, keeping you tight to him, keeping him anchored inside of you as he drives into you with a pace that undoes you both and leaves you feeling him for days.

He breaths apologies into your skin, vowing with the graze of his teeth, sometimes too hard, leaving your fingers threaded through his hair with a sharply cry. But he can’t get enough. Even when you’re sobbing, begging for more, telling him it’s too much, not enough, he wants it over and over and over. He lets you have it, makes you take him until you’re slick together in that sticky sheen, his cheek pressed into the hammering flesh of your chest, listening.. studying. Until he flips you both, carefully tugging you back up into his arms.

That’s when he’s softer, he always is. That doesn’t change, kisses to the crown do your head and fingers tracing the lines of your back. Whispering and reassuring over and over again.

You did so good baby.. He mumbles into your lips just as he slips free from you, settling you both together as he rests back onto the pillows.

I’m here.. I’m not going anywhere. His eyes stare out into the darkness down the corridor, hands moving with an absentminded care to wrap the thin, patchy covers over you.

I love you, I love you, I love you. He repeats that, as much as he can, as much as feels necessary without sending him spiralling. Or at least until you fall asleep.

He can't shelter you, he knows that and he wouldn't try to. You’re already seen it, believed in all of the madness he swears to you that he knows how weird it sounds. And that’s what’s killing him, more than whatever else is intent on tearing him open from the inside, because he wants you to believe him. And even though the officer stares blankly at you both, the ceiling fan spinning jaggedly above you, and every bounce of Bobby’s leg anxious and unnerved, you do.

But it's the changes. The only thing that leaves you wondering. And that's where you seem to forget, so quickly it plagues you, like something is swarming your mind and blocking it from accepting. Every oddity, everything that turns you away and sends shivers up your spine, disappears with a single blink of an eye.

As if it was never there.

Every twitch and wrong movement he makes, it’s gone as fast as it comes.

So you keep on telling yourself that. It’s him, it’ll alright.

“Yeah.. yeah, I’m okay.. it’s just something to do. Just us..” His hand reaches for yours across the table, palm opening to invite your hand, his voice softening at the last few words. The ‘us.’

You reach back instinctively, sliding your hand away from where it sits at your jaw to slot it into his. It eases in, moulding into his without any fuss, his fingers soothing over your own. The warmth that overcomes you shouldn’t feel wrong, but somehow it does, like the only calm before whatever storm is building around you.

So you escape it, dragging yourself up from the chair, offering him a small smile. Jackets are grabbed off of the rack, both sets of keys are snatched from the counter, and the snug fit of the blue helmet cuffs your ears. He’d bought you it weeks into dating, one of the first gifts he had ever given you. It had been less chipped then, a deep azure blue that matched what he always thought of the ocean.

The city still wakes by the time the bike roars beneath you, your knees pressed into Bobby’s sides as you sit behind him, arms wrapped tightly. He drives steady, easing in and out of the growing traffic, sensing the tension in your back. You cross the freeways until you make your way out from the suburbs, wide lanes opening up into palm trees and the silhouette of the mountain range in the distance.

It’s been too long since you last saw the ocean, since you last took time like this. The last time was a few days before he went missing. He’d been moaning about that shift, shrugging it off with hands fumbling around the thrifted polaroid camera Kat had gifted him. You’d asked him about it, joked that it was only a few hours, only a weekend.

That he’d survive.

You’d almost forgot about that, about the way he cracked a small, tired smile, eyes only fixated on you. His jacket hung around your shoulders, the sea breeze blowing through your hair, and although regret burrowed inside your chest at the thought, you couldn’t help remembering the way he looked at you. Like everything that was coming to him that he didn’t even know yet, all the complaining that he didn’t want to work didn’t matter, because the gaze set on you was firmly as if you had hung the stars.

And it’s the same way he looks now..

The weight of his arm is slung around you, lazy but needy, fingers enclosed at your forearm jsut to keep you there. Wind curls through his hair, brushing the golden strands from his forehead, the cuts on his face still healing, but promising.

“Such a good view..” He squeezes you into him, mumbling into your hair, and you know what he means, even as you stare out into the horizon, colours of reds and pinks swirling where the waves crash. Because he’s not taking that in, not nearly as much as he is, you.

“Nerd.” You huff a laugh, for once the smile meeting your eyes genuine and warm, fingers bracing up into his chest.

“Mhm.. all yours though.” Your lips press together then in one steady turn of his head, and for a second, everything slips away. The investigation, the behaviours, the missing posters, the tapes.

It’s just you both. And it’s all him. Messy and impulsive, arms curling around you from behind where he stands to hold you closer. Fairground food wafts over the breeze of salty sea air, and you both watch the sunrise settle over the beach. For now things are okay, they’re safe.. they’re known.

Beneath it all there are words that Bobby can’t say, things he feels he can’t put his finger on, because he doesn’t know what it means. Because that’s what it wants. And it is.. an it. The unexplainable part about all of this that he can’t tell to even you. That something is making the thoughts in his head run like code, sentences that too fast, too foreign and ancient for him to recognise.

Things far too primal, too raw for him to understand.

Hold onto you, stay by your side. Those ones he recognises, because those are the ones he fought for even inside that place, those are his own. Keep you.. that one that comes later, when the night closes in or when he has too much time to think alone. And it’s blinding, ringing through his head so sharply the pain stings his temples, fighting the sudden urge to claw at himself and track down what his mind, his body is pushing him for.

You.

He wants to tell you, he tries to without breaking down, without feeling entirely lost. And he can’t, he can’t do it. So for now he watches as much as he can, clings to you like a lifeline. Even if the urge to breathe you in every time he’s near, to nearly not tear himself apart while his hands tremble just touching you is past controlling. It’s something rabid. Something people would look at him funny if they could see it. But it knows better than that..

That’s only for you to see, and only for him to feel.

It’s learnt too much over time to let it go unnoticed. You were what Bobby wanted, longed for in that endless space, what he’s had for so long, so loudly and so soulfully every wiring and chipped paint had been cried and punched at for all the miles he walked. And now you were the fuel for a cruel, aching desire, far more distorted than his own.

His eyes darken, honing in on only you, his fingers trace through your hair while he noses at your cheek, breath ragged and uneven. The kind that makes you laugh a little and nudge, “Are you okay baby..?”

And somehow that only makes it worse. Because your voice is soft and gentle, your back pressed into his chest on the couch or wherever you’ve found yourself at that time. He reminds himself he’s at home, or most of him is. He’s with you. But it’s eating at him.

The want, the need. The face that in every atom of his being, it’s clawing to get out.

—

So be breaks silently.

He breaks down in the mirror, by the windowsill in the kitchen out of the way. He leaves early in the morning coming back with blood on his knuckles and some splattered his cheek. He doesn’t say where it comes from, but he lets you clean it up anyway, forgetting to wince where it’s stopped hurting.

Where his body rejects all harm done to it. Every scratch marks, every cut, gone far quicker than it should. And it only leaves you with more of.. nothing.

You want to ask about the tapes, about the camera, about what you saw the first few nights when he came home. Even about where Kat and Clark have gone and why he’s the only one found.

The questions get to be too much.

Why doesn't he sleep? Why does he keep staring? Why won’t he let go?

Why does he keep asking if I love him?

And he does. Over and over. Every sleepless night, pulling himself from you reluctantly, he takes a minute to watch over you, to follow the pattern of your breathing like he’s memorising it. He doesn’t have to speak it for you to know what he means.

You still love me right? Please.. please tell me you do.

Neither of you are sure why he asks. But if his eyes aren’t dark, they’re pleading, unsure of himself and what’s going to happen. Because you let him have you, you let him kiss and hold you, but how can you really want it when you look so.. confused, so uncertain?

It feeds from it, works him down into a shell only to build him stronger again. And that something, is trying to become him.

—

"Who are you..really?"

Your hands fumble with the camera, clutching the plastic so hard it's bound to break beneath your grip. Bobby stands just across from you, hands at his sides. The circles under his eyes have grown darker, sagging at the corners where sleep can't reach him anymore. But the look in them, they're still soft, and pleading.

"Baby."

That should make you stop. The familar drawl in his voice, the fact it doesn't falter, not once. But you can't.

"Don't."

Tears well in your eyes, and they do the same in his. If they are tears at all. You're not certain what's real anymore, if it's just on command, a way to mirror you, or him, but somehow it breaks you further.

"Who are you..." You stop yourself there, blinking harshly as you swallow. The word, the idea doesn't even make sense but it comes out any way, “what are you?"

The viewfinder trembles and he reaches out his arm, by a few inches alone, like he's going to catch it from falling, but he stops himself. Bobby would do that, Bobby would reach and jump for it at even the thought of it breaking. And yet he pulls back, the action foreign in its movement. But you can't see it, your heart pounds so hard inside of your chest it feels hollow, and the questions run around your mind.

Why?

"Listen, this shit.. none of this shit makes sense I know, but you've got to believe me I- I don’t get it either." He pleads with you, starting forward until he manages a step, slowing when you back up again.

"You're not him." It comes out spitting, the words a faint bite on your lip.

Bobby stills at that, the words die on his tongue and he just.. pauses. Freezes on the spot at the other side of table in the distance you've put between you. He doesn't cross it, even though he wants to. Some part of him wants to knock the chairs and table out of the way and send them crashing into the wall, another part of him wants to leave, to give you space the space and rethink.

But all of him.. every part of him that he can hold onto, wants to cross that distance and take you into his arms again.

Your eyes are burning, and they look so cruel, they feel it too. And they must do, to look so accusing, so unsettled and confused. But they have a right to be.

He knows that. And not because he's caught, or because he isn't holding onto whatever truth is believable at this point, because it wounds him.

".. I don't feel like him any more."

Your arm drops with the weight of the camera, sending it clattering onto the table, the plastic still pressed tightly underneath your hand. His face drops, still looking, still searching your own like doing so will somehow make his point easier to trust. It looks pained, like every muscle is pulled so taut it's about to burst a vein, like the body isn't even sure what to do with itself.

A moment passes between you, a few simple seconds and the air between you grows thicker and unsteady, so hazy it feels like you could choke on it. But not like the remnants of pot that you're used to sifting through the apartment, and not the street lamps stirring up the shadows across the wall. From the surreal feeling, that you can't grasp.

His face flickers then, a shiver wracking his body as he fumbles with his fingers, picking at the skin.

Only then does he take his eyes away from you, casting them around the small space in the kitchen. He's thinking, rethinking and doing it all over again, you can tell. Blue eyes dart to the cupboards, the table, the sink, the coffee pot on the counter. All of the things they seem to make sense, that feel familiar.

They stop when they land at your feet, the hard press of your slippers into the linoleum flooring, and his brows furrow. They cloud over then, his head snapping up so fast it must make his own head spin.

"But I came back.. I'm here."

Something else washes over him entirely. The pain is still there, so is the confusion, but there's more, like everything from only a minute ago drifts.

There's a switch. He somehow looks hopeful, eyes growing wider like he's about offer a smile, the one that leaves you thinking. Your fingers grip the camera harsher, sliding it back toward you slyly, your other hand clutching the chair at your leg.

Is he?

You tremble, a shiver wracking all the way from your ankles to your fingertips. Another endless night of agony, of changing, of whatever that was stood in the corner of the bathroom, and it had left you both here, standing across the room from one another unsure whether to pounce or fall.

“Why are you looking at me like that..”

“Bobby—“ It’s broken the way it comes out of your mouth, the syllables faltering along with your trembling lip.

“No..”

It’s panicked from him, and his head shakes back and forth fighting the thought to step forward, step closer. And then back again. “No no.. please don’t.”

Your skin feels on fire. You don’t know what you saw, if he is talking to you or even himself, or if you can even understand any of it, but whatever it is, whatever is taking over, it’s not right.

“Why don't you believe me?”

“I don’t.. know.”

A moment passes, and something decides the answer isn’t good enough. It isn’t telling. And it flicks off in his brain.

“WHY.”

Bobby crosses the room then, ignoring the way the chair leg knocks into him as he scuffs the floor. His arms tighten at your shoulders as he reaches you, not gripping but touching, his nostrils are flaring from what you can make out in the dark. It’s not meant to hurt you, he doesn’t want that, it doesn’t want that, but it wants to know..

“I don't know what you are..”

That breaks open something in his eyes, the tears welling so blindingly that you can see your own reflection inside of them. He slows down, rethinking retrying, breathing as smoothly as he can, inching his face down level with yours, letting you see all of him.

“I’m here..”

He tries again. But you can’t bring yourself to raise.

“Baby, look at me.. fuck please look at me.”

You breathe sharply, you go to speak but you can’t. And so you swallow, and do it again, this time you do look at him, staring back blankly with every emotion you’re trying to fight from overflowing.

“Why didn’t they ever get this?” The camera radiates between you, held right between your faces. His eyes dart to it, only for a second before landing back onto you.

“I didn’t give it to them..”

“Why?”

He doesn’t say a word.

“Why Bobby?”

You’re not sure if it even is Bobby anymore, but whoever is standing in front of you responds to it.

“They already think I’m crazy.. what do you want them to lock me up in a nuthouse?” It’s an attempt at being funny, whatever funny is, but it’s not to play it off, it’s the sick, watered down version of the truth.

It’s your turn to be quiet. The muscles of your shoulder blades poking into the wall, framed by him still, and you can only manage a look.

“You know that we need to..”

“I do,” His head falls, hand raising slowly to find yours holding the camera, “I’m trying baby.. I’am.”

You want to push him away. You should. But you can’t, instead you let him take your hand, falling back between you as he moved the camera back onto the table, your other raising to his cheek.

His eyelids flutter closed, the tears staining his cheeks, the same way yours are wet with them.

“I just wanted to keep you safe, both of us.. Just let me, trust me Angel..”

You tense, only slightly, because his fingers are digging in, too sharp and too harsh, and because his eyes are wet with tears and the same blackness that dripped from them before.

And he looks terrified.. of himself, of everything. And you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Stay with me.. please.”

There’s a mumbling under his breath as he turns his head into your neck, one that isn’t his, and you hear it ringing in your ears, his skin buzzing underneath yours as you hold him. But you can’t quite bring yourself to make it out.

When you wake up, you’re still in Daryl’s arms. Or, more accurately, you’re beneath his arms, on your back with him flopped over onto his chest, half his body pinning you down. His arm over your stomach, his thigh over yours, his head tilted toward you. He’s never looked so peaceful sleeping before, so you don’t wake him for a while. You watch his serene expression and feel your heart skip a few beats.

When the need to pee becomes truly unbearable, you whisper, “Wake up, Dare, I gotta move.”

His bright blue eyes flutter open for a second. As he untangles his limbs from you, he places a slow, soft kiss to your lips – like he’s done it a million times, like it’s a habit – and murmurs, “Mornin’,” before closing his eyes again.

Your fingers fly up to your mouth, feeling the shadow of his kiss still lingering. The sharpness of the gesture makes Daryl open his eyes again and murmur out a sleepy, “Hm?”

Your voice is a reverent whisper in the clean, quiet early morning light. “You just kissed me.”

His eyes snap open. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t- I ain’t even really awake yet and-”

“Shut up, Daryl,” you whisper. You shift slightly onto your side so you can face him, reaching up to cup his scruffy cheek against your palm. He lets out a soft breath when you touch him and nuzzles in like an attention-starved pup. You snuggle a bit closer to him and ask, “Would you wanna do it again?”

Because of – or maybe despite  – his desire to keep an even closer eye on you after that first kiss, Daryl’s got you accompanying him on all his runs now. It’s not like you’re particularly quick or strong or good with a gun, but you’re quiet. As it turns out, in more ways than one. Daryl should’ve figured you’d be an asset as soon as you crept up to the Atlanta camp with not a single one of them noticing your presence until you were right on top of them.

On runs, you always manage to grab more things than anyone else just because you never draw the walkers’ attention as you sneak around on light feet, off their radar compared to your companions flinging cans around and stepping on sticks and cursing a little too loud. And you can hold your own with the dead as well as anyone else, which means it’s not the walkers Daryl worries about when it comes to you; it’s other men. By now, they all know that the most dangerous part of the apocalypse is human nature.

You’ve slipped out of his sight on a routine run when he hears you scream for the very first time. You rarely even speak above a whisper on runs, so it shoots white-hot adrenaline through him. One word: “Daryl!”

He sprints toward your voice and finds you pinned against the wall by a Claimer he’s had the displeasure of dealing with before, out scavenging away from his pack. Daryl growls out, “Get the hell away from her.”

“Dixon, good to see you again,” the guy sneers, dull rusty knife still pressed to your throat. Right in front of Daryl, he leans in close and steams his breath up your neck. Tears spring from your eyes and down your cheeks as he croons, “I claimed her, so I’m gonna keep her now.” 

Daryl snarls, “Then we’re gonna have a problem here considerin’ she’s my woman. Ain’t available to be claimed.”

Even through the panic and fear strangling your throat, something sweet glitters in your heart at Daryl calling you that. You catch his eyes and hope whatever’s in yours tells him that it’s true: You’re his. Have been for a long time now.

“You sure left her all alone up here, though,” the Claimer taunts. He takes his free hand and grips you by the jaw, forcing your eyes over to Daryl, who looks like he’s made of righteous fury. “Ain’t she pretty when she cries?”

You’d been trying to stay silent, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but you can’t help the whimper that escapes your throat when the Claimer’s hand trails from your jaw down to your waist, thumb digging into your soft flesh.

That’s the sound – your fearful, vulnerable cry – that sets Daryl off. He can’t contain the anger anymore, can’t hold back to negotiate his way out of this. While the Claimer gets distracted by dragging his hand up your waist toward your ribs, Daryl crosses the room in four long strides, cocks his gun, and shoots right through his temple before your next breath is drawn.

Your ears ring as blood splashes over your face and chest. When the Claimer crumples backwards, you lose balance and stumble a bit, but Daryl catches you. He pulls you into a tight embrace, kisses the top of your head, and urges, “Let’s get you out ‘a here, sweetheart; gunshot’s gonna bring out walkers.”

Unable to speak and with your ears still blown out, you cling to his arm and let him sweep you through the house and back to the car. He guides you carefully into the front seat and you’re peeling away back toward the farm in the next second. Daryl’s arm never leaves the headrest behind you, one hand spread protectively over your far shoulder.

With no speed limits to hinder him and protectiveness surging through his muscles, Daryl has you back at the farm through a cloud of kicked-up dust in no time. He parks it underneath a big tree out front and turns to you with eyes full of need. Need for what, you aren’t sure. Maybe just the need to help you, to fix your pain, to be there. He reaches across the console and touches your cheek gently. “You okay?”

“I’m alright. I- I knew you’d- You always keep me safe.” You blink hard, feeling the crusty blood all over your body, and mutter, “I just want a shower now and I don’t want anyone askin’ me questions.”

He nods tightly, making that his singular mission. “One bodyguard and one shower comin’ right up.”

Everyone’s lingering near or just inside the front door waiting for a status report, but Daryl just pushes through them, hand on your lower back like a bodyguard. Rick stops him by the chest and demands, “You two alright? Hurt?”

Gruffly, as you cling to him the way you did in the early Atlanta days, Daryl explains, “Ran into one of those Claimers. Bastard was gonna-” He shakes his head, not even able to speak the words. “We’re okay. She just wants a shower.”

Rick nods and steps back. “Take all the time you need.”

Then Daryl’s leading you through the rest of the house to the safety of your room, shielding you from eyes and judgment with his broad body. He closes the door behind himself as you head straight into the bathroom, cranking on the water to heat it up, stripping your clothes, and rinsing off your face in the sink.

As the day’s adrenaline dies down in the steam of the mirror, it’s replaced by something warm and sweet: The knowledge that Daryl will always be there for you, always protect you, always save you. That you’re his. It settles into your bones comfortably, spreading out through your veins and to your very cells. The sudden sense of safety almost makes you break into sobs; you haven’t felt so secure and so held since the world came apart. But now you have Daryl.

And you want to have Daryl.

Naked and hungry, you open the bedroom door again and look at his hunched form on the bed you now share. Hidden in the doorway, as steam billows around your body, you murmur to his back, “Hey, Dare?”

He turns just slightly to look at you over his shoulder, quickly averting his eyes when he sees you leaning around the door frame, just the edge of your hip and shoulder visible as you crane your neck toward him. “Need somethin’?”

Bashful but certain, you answer, “Well, I was just wonderin’ if you might wanna join me in here.”

Daryl whips the rest of the way around with wide eyes, sure he’s misheard you. “What’s that?”

“You saved my life,” you reply softly, gaining confidence as his eyes suddenly devour what they can see, ravenous but hesitant, wanting but restrained. “I thought maybe I’d say thank you.”

Blush fills his cheeks as he thinks about the offer. About your naked body right around the corner of the door. He quickly and nervously stammers out, “Sweetheart, y’dont- y’don’t owe me anythin’ for doin’ that. Helpin’ y’out. I didn’t do it expectin’ you to, ah pay me back any type ‘a way. Specially not nothin’ like that.”

“You called me your woman.” Biting your lower lip, you press gently, “Did you mean that? Or were you just sayin’ it to try to get him to leave me be?”

He chews on that for a while. This is the final moment he can pretend that whatever’s between you is something simple, something he could walk away from, something he wouldn’t have to grieve if he lost. It’s time now. After a minute of silence, he meets your eyes and whispers, “You know I meant it.”

“In that case,” you start, taking a deep breath. As he stares, not believing this is really happening, you step fully into the doorway, your entire body on display in front of him. “I’d like it if my man took a shower with me.”

Daryl hisses in a sharp breath as his eyes rove hesitantly over your nakedness, his to devour for the first time. “Shit.”

Trying to resist the urge to cover up your chest as Daryl’s eyes lock onto your breasts, falling water droplets enhancing them, you ask, “Is that a yes?”

In response, he stands and unbuttons his shirt with shaking fingers, surging toward you before he can overthink his way out of it. Until now, the kisses you’ve shared have been soft and sweet, neither of you pushing things forward out of mutual nerves. But when Daryl joins you in the bathroom, shedding his jeans and underwear in rapid succession, there’s nothing soft or sweet about the way he kisses you. It’s all need and desperation. You can taste how scared he was at the thought of losing you to that Claimer, how fierce he felt at protecting you, how adoring his every thought is.

When he joins you under the water’s hot stream, you’re both wrapped up in each other. You’re massaging shampoo through his hair and he’s sudsing a loofah over your curves, careful not to touch you with his hands or let his gaze linger too long. Always hesitating, always careful. No matter how clear you’re trying to make your intentions, he stays mind-bogglingly polite.

So you go ahead and trail your hand down his chest, your fingers dragging dangerously close to his cock, teasing with his coarse pubic hair, and ask sweetly, “Would it be alright if I touched you?”

He just about blacks out because of how damn innocent you sound, eyes all wide and wanting as your fingers play with the V of his hips and lower. He swallows hard and mutters, “Y’don’t- y’dont gotta do that if y’don’t want to.”

You tell him honestly, “I want to. I really want to.”

“I’m just sayin’ I don’t want you to feel like I’m-”

“Dare, can you just let me say thank you for keepin’ me safe and lookin’ out for me all this time?” Fluttering your lashes at him, you rest your hand just to the side of his hard cock, thumb rubbing needy circles over his hip. “Please?”

Despite the way his cock’s twitching at the sight of you literally begging to get him off, Daryl stills your hand with his. “Don’t ever thank me for protectin’ you. And don’t- don’t do that if you’re just doin’ it to say thanks.”

“Then how ‘bout this?” You hold his face with one hand, step up onto your toes to look him square in the eyes, and say seriously, “I wanna make you feel better than you ever let yourself feel. Better than you think you deserve. I want to be your woman. Everything that means. I love you like crazy, Dixon. I’m yours.”

His eyebrows pinch together as the realization slowly settles in, something new and light and tender. His cock throbs at the idea of it tingling up his spine. “You love me? Me?”

You nod and kiss him softly. The way you always kiss him. He meets it tenderly, lips curious and gentle. You whisper, “And I’m pretty damn sure you love me back or you wouldn’t do things like that in the first place.” Bolder now, you drop your hand to his cock and wrap your fingers around it, pleased to find him hard despite the water and warmth. It’s that word – love – that has him aching for your touch. “Let me show you how much I love you. That’s all I want.”

Then he finally closes his eyes and lets himself thrust into your hand for a moment. He kisses along your jaw and toward your ear, where he murmurs, “Didn’t think I could love anyone now the world’s gone to shit, but, fuck, I do.”

“So we’re together for real?”

“For real,” he chuckles. Suddenly, Daryl reaches behind himself and twists the water off. His hands go to your waist and he kisses you like there’s something shifting in his mind: Hard, deep, wanting. He presses your foreheads together, nips your lower lip one more time, and murmurs, “That mean I can have you now?”

You arch your back to press your bodies together, breathing warm and heady against his scruffy neck, “You already do.”

And then it’s over. All the anticipation, hesitation, uncertainty – finished. Daryl lifts you off your feet and you yelp out a laugh as you’re forced to wrap your legs around his hips while he hauls you both out of the shower. He snaps a towel off the bar as he moves, your weight supported with only one of his arms like you’re not a whole grown adult. Fuck, he’s so strong it makes you dizzy. You grip his buff shoulders hard as he slowly drops you back to your feet, wraps the towel around your body, and pulls you into a warm embrace so that the cool evening air doesn’t chill your damp skin.

Daryl ties his own towel around his hips and then, agonizingly tender, works your towel methodically over the slopes and dips of your body. It takes your breath away for a minute when he dries off your hair so carefully. You don’t mention how much the towel’s going to make it frizz when he’s being so damn cute about caring for you.

Satisfied that you’re not too damp to shove into bed and ravish, he does just that. Daryl pushes you back onto the covers and straddles you, his own towel falling haphazardly to the floor. He leans down and kisses you, threading your fingers together and holding your hand above your head, keeping you so close you get dizzy.

His other hand travels down between your legs with no pretense. Before touching where you need him most, he runs his fingers over your plush thighs, your round hips, across your stomach, savoring every scar and stretch mark and imperfection that show you’re undeniably human and undeniably here. It’s only when his fingers run over the line of scars on your hip – the initials of your former captors – that you tense beneath his touch.

“S’okay, angel,” he says into a kiss, “those letters don’t mean anythin’ to me.”

With your eyes closed, you admit softly, “I hate feelin’ like they still own me because of those scars. I don’t want you thinking about them when you’re with me.”

Daryl shakes his head and makes urgent eye contact. He takes your hand and guides it around to his back, where he drags your soft fingers over his thick scar tissue in mean lines across his skin. As you discover them beneath gentle touches, he cups your face with his free hand and presses, “Do these scars mean my old man still owns me? Or do they mean I survived him and now I’m free?”

Tears brim at your waterline as you explore the expanse of his skin, raised scars and deep pockmarks creating a map of his history. You can tell he hasn’t been touched like this, with tenderness and curiosity, in a long time. Maybe ever. The whole time, Daryl patiently lets you, studying your expression for any signs of regret, doubt, disgust. After a minute, though, you nod slowly, pull him down into another kiss, and breathe needily, “Touch me. Need you to touch me.”

“There you go,” he murmurs against your lips as his hands start to roam again, unafraid, knowing you wholly. You arch up into his touch this time and he grins. “That’s my girl. Y’never need to be scared ‘a me. Never gonna judge you or make you nervous. You’ve got me.”

He’s slower now, though, giving you plenty of time to warm up and get used to a man’s touch again. He massages your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples, as he worships kisses all over your neck and chest. His tongue traces your pulse. A sweet gasp parts your lips when you feel his mouth at the curve of your jaw, feel his breath ghosting against the back of your ear, feel his cock hardening against your thigh while he gives you all his attention. By the time he finally drags his middle fingers to your slit, you’re squirming on the bed beneath him, barely making contact with your kisses because you’re whimpering and gasping so much.

“Relax for me, baby,” he urges as he begins to circle your clit nice and slow. “Breathe deep. Let me make you feel good.”

You pull in a slow breath and try to center yourself in the moment. On his hands and his lips and his eyes. Before you can think, your voice tumbles out, “Your eyes are so beautiful.”

Daryl punches out a self-deprecating laugh. “Must be seein’ your own reflection in ‘em.”

You shake your head and tug him into another kiss, moaning into it when his fingers speed up in response. “You’re beautiful, Daryl. None ‘a that macho nonsense bein’ embarrassed about it. I love every damn thing about you.”

He shakes his head in disbelief and plunges his two middle fingers – thick, rough, perfect – inside of your soaked entrance, using his thumb to keep attention on your clit. You have to bite his shoulder to stop from screaming out with pleasure. He growls, “Careful talkin’ like that, darlin’, or you’ll end up stuck with me.”

“I wanna be stuck with you.” It’s a promise into his skin, your words against his neck. His fingers pumping inside of you are downright addictive. You have to concentrate to stop yourself from letting go before you can get out, “You’re mine, Dixon. For real. For good.”

“Prove it,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, hot and needy. Your pussy’s flutters around his thick fingers are the best thing he’s ever felt. He’s begging more than ordering as he murmurs, “Cum for me, baby. Need to feel you.”

Then he’s worshipping at your neck, unable to look you in the eyes because he’s worried he’s about to cum just from rutting against your leg. His chest and stomach and cheeks are made from blush. The way you’re arching into him and shaking and making it so damn obvious that you want him, love him, crave him. It’s liquor, refined and high proof, and he’s drinking you down until he’s out of his mind with lust. He’s never felt so much at once as when he feels your walls clamping down around his fingers. Hears your breathy moans down to his soul. You cum with his name on your lips and it’s tattooed inside of him right away. He knows, indelibly, that, yes, you’re his and you will always be his. It’s that simple and true.

You’re still hazy from your orgasm, but you need to get Daryl off. You need it like you need oxygen and water and calories. So you greedily reach for his cock – only for him to stop you with a shaky hand. “I won’t last if you start touchin’ me, darlin’, and I wanna fuck you before I do anything else. I gotta ask Glenn for a condom if-”

“We don’t have to use a condom, actually.” You bite your lip and reveal one of the few secrets you’ve kept from him, a secret you know could be dangerous: “I have an IUD. Got it placed right before the outbreak.”

His brows wrinkle. “Hell’s that?”

You explain, “It’s this little plastic thingy in my uterus that releases hormones to stop me from getting pregnant.”

“Like birth control?”

“Yeah, and it lasts about five years.” You shrug and give him a charged look, spreading your legs for him. His eyes drop to your glistening cunt as you offer, “So, if we live that long, I’ve got about four years of you fuckin’ me raw if you want.”

Daryl’s hands go to your inner thighs and he pushes your legs further apart. His fingers slide up along your slick entrance and slowly circle your clit, relishing in the way you gasp quietly from the lingering sensitivity. He scoffs, “If I want. You’re gonna kill me sayin’ things like that one ‘a these days, mouse.” Fisting his cock, he takes a deep breath and asks, “How d’you want me, sweet girl?”

“Can I ride you?” Nibbling your lip gently for a second, you tell him what’s obvious, “I haven’t been with someone in a while. Not someone who cares if it hurts me, at least. I wanna be in control of the pace, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, baby,” he sighs so sweetly. He falls onto his back and guides you into his lap, not with want and lust and urgency but pure tenderness. His arms wrap around your waist and upper back, pulling you close to his chest. He vows, almost sounding like he might cry, “I ain’t ever gonna hurt you. ‘Specially not when it comes to- Fuck. Fuck, I hate those bastards.”

“I know, Dare,” you reply, all love and comfort. Then you kiss him slow. You run your fingers through his long hair until he’s purring underneath you. And you pray to him, “Being yours takes all that away.” You roll your hips so that your slick, bare lips glide over the shaft of his hard cock, making him twitch and gasp softly. Leaning forward, you bite the shell of his ear gently, just enough for him to laugh at your attempt at dominance, and murmur, “I want my pussy to belong to you from now on.”

Daryl groans like you’ve never heard, low and primal and needy. “For a girl who don’t talk much, you’ve sure got a mouth on you.”

You press a kiss to his neck and correct, “I know what I want.”

With his eyes clamped shut because he will cum otherwise, he holds your hips and guides you so that your entrance is lined up with the head of his cock. He manages to breathe out, “Then take exactly what you want, angel.”

You slide down on his cock slowly. Agonizingly slow. It takes every ounce of control he has – years of silently stalking prey and living light on his feet – not to take charge and fuck the living hell out of you. But he can tell in the way your lips part gently open with ecstasy that this is important for you. This moment is erasing anyone who’s used you, who’s abused your trust, who’s done anything but protect and adore you.

When he’s fully seated inside of your warm, wet, inviting cunt, Daryl can barely breathe. You start to rock your hips, but his hands still you, harsh and intense on your flesh. He grunts, “Don’t- don’t move, sweetheart. Not yet. Need a sec.”

Concern lacing your voice, you touch his chest so he’ll look at you and ask, “Everything okay?”

When you go to move off him from the sudden worry, he grabs your waist urgently and insists, “Fuck yes. Everything is- I’m okay. Swear. Just- Just been a while for me, too. Hell of a long while. Feels- feels too damn good.”

A little bashful, you avert your eyes and giggle under your breath. “Oh. That kind of ‘don’t move.’”

Daryl takes a deep breath and lets it out as a shaky laugh. “Yeah, that kind.” He takes your hand in his and kisses each finger. “Ain’t gonna last long.”

“Don’t care,” you assure him breathlessly. “Just be with me.”

He gives a little nod and signals for you to move at last. You brace one hand on the headboard behind Daryl and start to grind on him. He hisses in a harsh breath and lifts his hands up to your breasts. Eyes trained and rapt on your rising and falling chest, Daryl grazes your nipples with his thumbs. Combined with the gentle stretch of his cock, it makes your eyes roll back and a pathetic whine escape your lips as you sway your hips forward and back, keeping him as deep inside as you can.

One of his hands traverses up to cup your face, bringing your eyes back to his. He pulls you down into a kiss, adjusting his posture up a bit, and worships into every kiss, “You’re gorgeous.”

Suddenly tears sting at your eyes and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, lavishing kisses over anywhere you can. He’s bucking up into you now, not quite taking control but unable to resist the way you’re gripping his cock. Every thrust comes with a muffled whimper from Daryl, a sound so reverent and so adoring that your heart tightens up.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel his thighs tensing beneath you. His breaths are ragged and his hands are possessive and his voice is raw. “Where should I…?”

“Inside me,” you plead softly. He growls when you say it. And you know it’s pushing him over the edge when you add, on the verge of begging and weeping because of how much you need it, “Make me yours.”

“You’re mine now, baby, all mine,” he swears as he lets go, overwhelmed with the intensity of it. Then he’s dead silent as he cums, biting his lip hard, clearly fighting for his life not to get as loud as he wants to. God, you want to find somewhere to take him where he can really be uninhibited. The feeling of his cum spilling inside of you, leaking out around his softening cock, is warm and comforting. He doesn’t move and doesn’t ask you to either. He just rubs your back and kisses your temple and murmurs, “Thank you.”

Carefully, you move onto your side, Daryl turning with you so that you’re still wrapped up together. With your lips grazing his collarbone, you whisper, “I’m so glad I found you.”

After a long while of watching your peaceful expression, he speaks, slow and soft and sure, the kind of sentence nobody would ever think Daryl Dixon capable of. “I can’t believe how beautiful you are right now. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The safety between you stretches out, warm and familiar, for a while before you remember you have to get up and pee and clean up and everything. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself to leave Daryl’s side and go to the bathroom. He’s lighting up a celebratory cigarette before you’ve even closed the door.

When you reemerge with your hair smoothed out again and your body still naked as the day you were born, any sense of insecurity Daryl had before has melted off. His eyes unabashedly roam over your each and every curve. He looks at you like you belong to him.

Sucking in a long drag of his cigarette, Daryl gazes lovingly at you for a long time and breathes out smoke with his words, “I don’t ever want you leavin’ my sight again when we’re out there.”

You snag the cigarette from his fingers and take a pull from it yourself, blowing smoke in his face until he rolls his eyes at you and snatches it back. Then you sit squarely in his lap, his free hand going instinctively to your waist, and reply, “You’ve got more important stuff to do than babysit me.”

“No, I don’t,” he tells you calmly, not a lick of uncertainty in his voice. “Ain’t nothin’ more important to me than keepin’ you safe.”

“Daryl, you don’t-”

A tentative knock at the door pulls you from your sleepy comfort. Carol’s voice, careful and low. “Dinner’s on, if you want to join us.”

Daryl slowly untangles his limbs from yours, tugs on a clean pair of boxers, and goes to the door. He cracks it open just a bit and tells her, “We’ll be out in a minute, alright? Don’t wait up.”

Carol tries to steal a look around his body but he shifts to stop her. “She doing okay? Rick mentioned you had a run-in with a Claimer.”

You can hear the embarrassed but pleased little smile on Daryl’s voice when he replies, “She’s feelin’ better now.”

That’s when Carol notices the myriad of hickies over his neck and shoulder muscles. Daryl himself hadn’t noticed them yet, too wrapped up in getting to hold you, so when Carol looks him up and down with amusement he’s confused. “Took a hands on approach cheering her up, did you?” Before Daryl can ask, she winks and adds, “I think Beth’s got some concealer if you wanna cover those up. See you soon for dinner.”

Daryl closes the door and leans against it turning redder than you’ve ever seen. He stalks into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror, taking in all the marks made by your mouth, your teeth, you need. You may be quiet, but these marks are loud. They speak words he’s always needed to hear: You’re wanted, you’re good enough, you’re mine. His embarrassment at being caught with them is quickly replaced by something more like pride and adoration knowing he’ll be wearing them around.

He saunters back to your side all smiling and preening. He bares his neck with all its teeth marks and teases, “You a walker and forgot to mention it?”

You clap your hand over your mouth on seeing the bruises. “Dare, I’m sorry, I-”

“Nah, don’t be sorry,” he chuckles, rummaging around your now shared dresser to toss you something to put on. “I like ‘em. Now go on and get dressed so we can eat.”

You hold up the dingy white tee he’s given you. “This is yours.”

He leans down and presses a sweet, slow kiss to your lips. “So are you.”

Daryl’s on the floor in front of the bunk on his knees, face buried in your cunt as he savors every second he has with you before he goes out on an all-day run with Rick. Your fingers knot in his hair, sparking delicious pain through his scalp, as your orgasm begins to tighten up inside you. Daryl’s fingers curl against your walls and he’s on the verge of growling when he hears the pathetic, stupid moans he can coax out of you with them.

Then the scrape of your cell’s makeshift door being shoved aside by one of the Woodbury guys sends ice down your back. Your brain is hazy and slow from the sudden intrusion after being on the brink of an orgasm, so you don’t even move, just squeaking out something like oh, fuck as Daryl whips around. Immediately, he tosses a blanket at you and stands, turning his body into a broad brick wall so the guy doesn’t see any more than he already has.

As you wrap the blanket around your tits, shame flooding your whole body with heat, Daryl stalks forward and shoves the college-aged guy – it’s Justin, you realize, who’s trailed you like a shadow since he joined the prison – back out of the cell and into the nearest cement wall. “Y’ever heard ‘a knockin’?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking between Daryl’s lethal expression and you peering around the doorway with the blanket clutched to your chest. “I didn’t think anyone else’d be in there.”

Daryl’s nostrils flare. He gives out another shove to the chest, this one hard enough to knock some of the wind out of him. “And that’s better? You were gonna walk in on my wife just like that? Not a care in the world? The hell you want with her anyway?”

Defensive and a bit fearful, he replies, “We’re on morning watch together. She was supposed to meet me a few minutes ago. I was just coming to find her, make sure nothing was wrong. I promise I really didn’t know you two were together.”

“That ain’t the point,” Daryl spits back. Hearing the telltale click of Rick’s boots approaching at the commotion, Daryl rolls his shoulders and sighs, “Look, it ain’t like where you came from anymore. A cell’s like a house. And you don’t want to be scarin’ our women barging into their house unannounced, do you?”

“N-no, of course not.” 

“Good.” He glances over at Rick and then huffs, “We’re alright. Just…knock next time, would ya?”

Before Justin can get a word out, Daryl sets his jaw, turns around, and heads back into the cell with you, not wanting to deal with whatever Rick’s got to say about togetherness and community after that.

He finds you changing into your clothes for the day, tying up one of his tees around your stomach so it hugs your curves. He leans against the bed frame and muses, “Stealin’ from me again, mouse?”

You give him a cheeky look over your shoulder as you shimmy into a pair of cute and comfy athletic shorts you traded one of the Woodbury women three shifts on watch for. “Like you don’t love seein’ me in your clothes.”

You’re right and he knows it, so he just closes the space between you, wrapping his arms around you from behind while you check over your appearance in the small mirror above the sink. He kisses up the crook of your neck and asks, “Y’alright?”

You shrug and sigh, “I’m just embarrassed. Don’t need everyone hearin’ stories about my nipples.”

Daryl shakes his head and assures you intently, “You’ve got nothin’ to be embarrassed about, little creep comin’ into our room like that.” He bites your earlobe and adds, “Plus, you’ve got perfect nipples. All the stories would be good.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes and not fighting the warmth in your cheeks at his comment, “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Daryl huffs, “Yeah, sure.”

“You’re goin’ soft, Dare,” you tease lightly, turning around into his embrace as he clutches you close. “Time was you’d’ve beat the shit out of him just for seein’ my tits.”

Daryl gives half a smirk. “He’s lucky it’s mornin’. Wouldn’t’a been so nice about it if everyone was awake.”

You kiss him and croon, “Mmm. My knight in shining leather.”

Rick’s unmistakable hard knock pops the bubble of the moment. “We’ve gotta get going here, Daryl.”

Daryl sighs and calls back, “Yeah, alright. One minute.” Then he kisses you like goodbye and mutters, “Sorry I can’t finish what I started, angel.”

You shake your head and promise, “I’ll wait up for you. Be safe out there.”

“Always. Got somethin’ to come home to.”

Once you’ve walked with Daryl all the way up to the prison gate and watched his and Rick’s car recede into the forest, you climb up the north tower and join Justin for watch.

Right away, as you settle on your stool against the back wall, he says, “Sorry about this morning.”

You give him a soft shrug and wave it off with your hand.

He posts up on the stool next to yours, your shoulders nearly touching in a way that makes your skin crawl. If he were being polite, he would’ve pulled it further away to make you comfortable. You notice. You always notice how men behave. He asks, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Cutting him an ‘obviously’ glance, you shake your head.

“Why’s that?”

You purse your lips pointedly.

“Right, yeah. Duh.” After a few beats of uncomfortable silence, he poses, “You care if I ask you questions? I’d like to get to know you some if we’re gonna be on watch together. You don’t gotta say anything.”

You sigh and shrug. Whatever. You prefer silent partners, but it’s not like you mind listening to other people talk. If he wants to be polite and get a sense of you without forcing you to speak like other people try to, there’s no point being rude about it. Keeping the peace has always been the name of the game for you in the new world.

“Alright, thanks.” Justin gives you a sheepish sort of smile and starts with, “Ah, were you and Dixon together before everything?”

No.

“How’d he get to know you, then? If you don’t talk?” Then Justin realizes it’s too open-ended of a question and narrows, “You talk to him?”

Yes.

“Why him?”

Whatever your softening expression says, he somehow reads it loud and clear.

“Dixon looks out for you, huh?”

Affectionate nod.

“You talk to anyone else?”

Pursed lips and half shrug.

“I imagine you’ve gotta talk to Rick sometimes, right? He’s always asking for people’s input.”

Nod.

“You happy with Dixon? Ever wish you were still single?”

You glare in response and hold up your left hand, showing off your sparkly wedding ring.

Justin scoffs, amused by your belligerence. “Christ, where’d he find a rock like that at the end of the world?”

You nod out toward the towns surrounding the prisons.

“Pinched it off some dead lady’s jewelry box. Got it.”

Another shrug.

After that, Justin must decide you aren’t all that interesting and he lets you both fall into silence. You’re still on edge, though, because he keeps leering at you. It’s not obvious if he does it on purpose or not – maybe he’s just some 19-year-old who’s never seen a pair of boobs, so he’s awestruck – but it still makes your skin crawl. You can feel his eyes raking over your body, usually stopping to ogle your breasts or your thighs, and you wish you’d worn more clothes or at least a bra under Daryl’s comfy, threadbare tee.

Thank god you get to switch out with Glenn before the sun sets, off to help some of the Woodbury women with dinner prep. Glenn watches you suspiciously when you practically flee the tower, flinging yourself down the stairs and ladder. He’s been around you long enough to know the subtle shifts in your expression that mean angry or sad – or scared. This expression is scared. Maybe not acutely, the way you’d be if a walker got the jump on you, but a kind of scared that calls to something deeper. Something he can’t see from the surface.

You make yourself small the rest of the afternoon and evening, eating at the far corner of a table across from Maggie and Beth. Daryl usually sits next to you. It’s been a long time since he hasn’t. You’re not worried, not yet, but you do miss him a lot when the space is empty.

And then Justin plops down next to you, his prison-issue tray clattering onto the table as he smiles and greets the others. Then he turns to you and asks, “How’s your afternoon been, mouse?”

You stiffen up.

Only Daryl calls you that.

Tears sting at your eyes and you aren’t sure why. Just his presence is making your stomach turn in a way that feels too familiar. Beth notices straight away. Besides Daryl, she’s gotta be your best friend. She doesn’t mind how you don’t talk. Back at the farm, she’d sit with you and show you how to braid flowers into headbands or harvest clay from the nearby creek to turn into air-dry trinkets. She says it’s nice being your friend. Peaceful. Nobody else gives her time to just think and be.

So she comes to your defense. With one of her sweet Southern belle smiles, she turns to him and asks, “Justin, d’you mind sittin’ somewhere else? We’re doin’ a bit of a girls’ night thing here.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says with a shrug. “I’d love to know more about you girls.”

The way he says ‘girls’ makes all of them feel skeeved out, too, so nobody blames you when you excuse yourself with an awkward, flat smile, meal only a quarter eaten. Everyone knows by now that you have some history with men. You’ve never had to say anything. The other women can tell the way women have always been able to tell with one another. More than that, it’s obvious in the way you flinch away from every man besides Daryl – even Rick and Glenn if they accidentally brush past you too close.

You spend the rest of the evening in your cell, waiting for Daryl to come home. You try to sleep but can’t, so you clean the small space until it’s spotless, making sure each inch is as neat as possible. There’s not much you can do given the circumstances, but you can stop dust from taking over and you can wipe down the bed frame and you can shut your fucking brain off long enough for Daryl to come home and make you feel safe again. The group doesn’t arrive back until everyone’s gone to sleep. You’re still painfully awake, curled in the corner of your and Daryl’s bunk with your knees up against your chest and your arms around them.

Daryl tries hard to be quiet, not wanting to wake you, until he hears your soft voice: “Dare?”

He pulls the makeshift door closed behind himself and begins stripping off his dirty clothes, eyes still adjusting to the dark. Low and husky, he checks, “Why’re you still awake, baby?”

Trying to keep calm and soothing since he’s just coming back from a hard day, you lilt, “I said I’d wait up, didn’t I?”

He gives an absent sort of grunt, focusing on getting himself ready for bed. “Were things okay here today without us?”

“It was fine,” you tell him with a shy shrug, “just missed you.”

Daryl, though, sees right through you the way only he can. You’re only sheepish with him anymore when you’re hiding something. In just his boxers now, he slides onto the bunk next to you and confirms his suspicions, “That Justin kid botherin’ you?”

“Nothin’ too bad,” you reply. Soft and placating. Not wanting to cause any trouble. “He was just kinda staring at me. At my chest. I dunno. It’s not a big deal.”

“S’a big deal if he made you uncomfortable,” Daryl insists. He pulls you against his bare body, the warmth of him undoing your tense muscles, and offers, “I’ll talk to him, alright? Tell him to leave you alone if I ain’t there.”

“You don’t need to do all that,” you sigh, leaning your head back on his shoulder. As he presses a kiss to your temple and wraps you in his arms, you say, “I don’t wanna create any friction with the Woodbury people. No need to make anyone’s life any harder than it has to be.”

Daryl guides you onto your back and faces you, tugging the blanket up around you both, “So you just have to be the uncomfortable one all a’ the time? C’mon, baby, he ain’t Shane or them boys back at school. Kid’s 120 pounds soaking wet.”

“I know; I’m being ridiculous.”

He admonishes, gentle and kind, “You know as well as I do that ain’t how I meant it.”

You nestle your forehead into his broad chest and whimper, “He just got under my skin, I guess. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He almost laughs at that. “I can take a guess.”

“But it’s not- I know I’m safe here. With you.”

Bringing you in close, lips on the top of your head and one hand on your waist, Dary presses a soft kiss to your hair and murmurs, “Even if it’s harmless, that don’t mean you hafta be uncomfortable. At least let me talk to Rick; y’dont need to be on watch with him if he’s ogling your tits.” He nips your ear with a kiss and adds seriously, “‘Specially since those are for my eyes only.”

That finally makes you laugh, which lets you relax into him, secure in his safety.

The first time anyone but Rick or Daryl hears your voice, it’s not under good circumstances. You’re standing under the steaming shower during the assigned block of time when you can be alone, scrubbing off a long afternoon helping out in the garden. As you’re rinsing out the strawberry shampoo you use only a tiny amount of so you can savor it, the sound of someone pushing open the door to the communal shower block startles you. That shouldn’t be happening. There are a lot of rules about who can be at the showers when – and breaking those rules is one of the fastest ways to end up on the wrong side of a classic Rick Grimes Good Ol’ Fashioned Talking To, hand on his gun looking down like a disappointed dad.

Tentatively, hopeful despite reason, you ask just loud enough to be heard over the water’s poor pressure, “Dare, is that you?”

When there’s no answer, you crank the water off and turn around to grab your towel from the nearby ledge – but it’s not there anymore. There’s nowhere else to check, so you know without a doubt. It’s been taken. With your heart climbing into your throat, you peek your head out past the thin plastic curtain to see if your clothes are still on the nearby bench. Pure delusion. Or desperation, maybe, to convince yourself you aren’t in the position you undeniably are. Everything’s gone.

When you see Justin’s squirrelly form shadowed in the corner of the shower room, your blood runs cold.

“You’ve got a pretty voice,” he tells you as he steps into the light. Quiet. Almost ashamed – but not enough to stop. His eyes slide over your naked body and the gaze is so heavy it might as well be his hands on you. “Pretty everywhere else, too.”

“You don’t wanna do this, Justin,” you whimper as you cover as much of yourself as you can with your arms. Fight or flight mode fills your veins and your eyes dart toward the exits. “You know what’s gonna happen if you hurt me. Rick’ll send you away or- or Daryl’s gonna kill you.”

“Who says I wanna hurt you?” He shakes his head and starts to close the distance between the two of you, forcing you to back up until your ass hits the tiled wall. “I just wanna have a good time together. Nobody has to get hurt.”

You’re painfully aware of the pocket knife clipped to his belt. An unspoken threat. Nobody has to get hurt. You take a shaky breath and do what you think Daryl would want: Keep yourself alive. With your heart rate still climbing toward the roof, you offer, “Look, I can- I’ll do whatever you want, alright? Just not like this. Not now. Not where anyone could walk in and-”

“Nobody’s gonna walk in,” he interrupts with a condescending smile, “not during sweet little mouse’s shower time.”

But he doesn’t know what you know: Daryl always patrols the halls when you shower. He’d come in with you just to be your watchdog if Rick didn’t disapprove of ‘that kind of nonsense’ so much. He’ll hear you if you scream. You just have to scream.

Come on. Come on.

Just make noise.

Just be loud.

The first time you try to scream – something you haven’t had to do in months – it comes out hoarse and meek, a pathetic “Help!” that only gets Justin to snap. He snatches you by the wrist and yanks your naked body against his clothed one. He’s not trying to force himself on you yet, just restraining you, and you’re not going to give him the chance to change that. You thrash against him because this is not going to happen. Not again. You fight hard, elbows and ankles and shoulders all working in tandem against his strength. You curse yourself for not going out running and fighting with the stronger women.

With his hand covering your mouth, Justin hisses, “Nobody can hear you all the way down in the cell block, sweetheart. Why don’t you just stay calm and-”

You bite down on the meat of his palm. Hard. Hard enough that he screams and his blood coats your tongue. When he whips his arm away in shock and anger, so surprised he’s unsure of his next move, you muster up everything you have and wail out, “Daryl! Help!”

Relief shatters through you when Daryl’s unmistakable heavy footsteps echo up the hall in response, quickly turning into a run when you call out for him again and again, the force of your scream enough to have Justin shoving away from you. By the time Daryl’s in the shower block, you can hear more people following a ways behind.

Justin starts to run away from you, attempting to escape out the door on the side wall, but Daryl’s bursting in like a bullet within seconds. It only takes him a nanosecond to understand the scene – his wife naked and cowering, an asshole sprinting the other direction – and all you can think is that Justin’s lucky Daryl’s not wearing his bow right about now.

While you back yourself into a stall again to try to hide your body from the oncoming crowd, Daryl pins Justin beneath him and beats him. Savage, unrelenting, bloody. With your vision obscured by the concrete partition, all you can see is the righteous fury of Daryl’s toned back and arms raining down.

It’s not until Justin’s completely limp and bordering on consciousness, nothing but a moaning pulp on the floor, that Daryl turns back to you, still naked and shivering in the corner. You’ve got your arms crossed over your bare chest as you tremble from the cool air on your wet skin. 

You whimper out, “He- he took my clothes and my- my towel, too. I don’t- don’t know where he put them.”

“Christ,” Daryl hisses. He helps you to steady yourself, peels off his shirt without a thought, and tugs it over you, guiding your arms through the fabric. He pulls the hem down so that it covers your ass and your upper thighs like a kid in a nightdress. His eyes take quick stock of you and he notices the bruising ring around your already weak wrist. Daryl growls darkly, “He touch you?”

When you nod timidly, Daryl turns around, hoists Justin to his feet, and slams him against the nearest wall. You hear the crack of his head on the tile and wince. “This what you get off on? Scarin’ the shit out of someone when they’re all alone and helpless in the fuckin’ shower?” He digs his forearm into Justin’s throat hard enough to make him wheeze and snarls, “What, nothin’ to say for yourself now that it’s me and not my woman?”

Justin starts to say something, but Daryl just scoffs and shoves his arm in further. Daryl’s still got him pinned when Rick appears moments later, flanked by most of your group, his gun drawn. As soon as the situation makes itself clear, Carol and Maggie rush to your side and create a wall with their bodies so nobody else sees your mostly-naked state. Maggie calls to Beth, “Run back and get her somethin’ to wear.”

Beth disappears and everyone else is averting their eyes while you turn into shame and embarrassment. When Rick sees all Justin’s blood dripping down onto the wet floor, he goes to grab Daryl by the shoulder, but Daryl shakes him off and growls, “Little fucker was getting off watching her shower. Stole her goddamn clothes and grabbed her. Fuck knows what he might’a done.”

Rick presses his hand to Daryl’s arm this time, not pulling him away but trying to keep his attention. “Daryl, he’s a kid. Let go and we can work this out.”

“Nineteen ain’t a kid,” Daryl spits back, only pushing harder on his neck, not caring about the pathetic choking sounds as Justin’s lips turn a shade of blue. “He walked in on her the other day, too. Buggin’ her during watch and shit. He’s been plannin’ this out. How’d you act if you’d caught him pervin’ on Lori like that, huh? If you thought he was gonna hurt her?”

Rick chews on the idea. He looks over at you and asks, “What happened?”

You swallow hard to hold back the tears that want so badly to fall. With your eyes on your toes as you shiver, you tell Rick, “He cornered me. Took my towel, like Daryl said. Hid my clothes. Told me I had to stay quiet and he was gonna- gonna-”

You shake your head, unable to speak any further, and Daryl’s heart splinters when you start to cry. His sweet, sensitive girl. His fierce, badass girl. He snaps his fingers at Glenn, who gets the message, swapping places with him and holding Justin against the wall. With the sounds of your stress filling the space, turning from sniffles to big heavy sobs, Rick doesn’t stop him from restraining Justin. 

Daryl stalks across the room, nodding gratefully at Carol and Maggie for protecting your decency, and wraps you up in his strong arms, not caring about your wet hair and body. He feels you shaking and clings tighter. Cradling your head to his chest, Daryl tells Rick sternly, “We ain’t stayin’ in the same building as that pervert another goddamn second.”

Rick nods slowly. He lets out a long sigh and calls over his shoulder, “Carol, pack up enough food and water for a couple days. Clear out his cell. Glenn and I will drive out and leave him somewhere.”

That manages to get Justin to croak out a sound: “You can’t just abandon me out there; I’ll get bit before you even-”

“Trust me, kid, I’m doing you a favor.” He gives Justin a mean look full of judgment and offers, “If you’d rather I leave you here to take your chances with Daryl, I’d have no objections, but I don’t think your odds would be very good.”

Justin sinks back into himself, any fight left in him gone. Rick and Glenn haul him out of the shower block like a proper prisoner.

With too many people lingering to gawk, Daryl covers your ears and shouts, mean and sure, “Now everyone get the fuck out of here!”

He grabs your set of clothes from Beth, who’d quietly rejoined, and then waves her off, too. You stay behind him as everyone filters out, already gossiping about what they did and didn’t see. This is going to fuel the conversation for weeks to come.

Daryl hastily helps you get dressed in your sleep shorts and tee, taking his own shirt back and using it to help dry your hair off.  You can barely move on your own, so you yield to him maneuvering your arms and legs around with the utmost care. When he’s finished, he doesn’t even have to ask before scooping you up in his arms.

You wrap your legs around his hips and bury your face in his neck, too ashamed to bear looking at anyone you might pass on the way to your cell. Daryl kisses the side of your head over and over. He murmurs assurance against your ear the whole walk back. You still cling to him after he’s opened and closed the makeshift door, not ready to trust your own two feet again.

Daryl just sits down on the bed and settles you in his lap. He rubs your back and soothes you as you try hard to stop the unrelenting tears. Gentle and true, he murmurs against your ear, “It’s alright, baby, you can cry.”

Clinging to his shirt like a baby blanket, you shake your head and whimper, “I don’t wanna cry over something stupid like that.”

He reassures you gently, “It ain’t stupid. He scared the shit outta you.”

“Shouldn’t be scared by some pathetic asshole when there’s walkers and worse out there, when you and Rick go out and face real threats-”

“None ‘a that shit,” he cuts you off, tone urgent and loving. He strokes your cheek with his thumb and insists, “Y’wouldn’t say that if it were Beth he was botherin’. You matter just as much as anyone else.”

“I don’t.” Your voice is tiny. Harsh. “People only tolerate me because of you.”

He tilts your chin up and searches your eyes. “You know that ain’t true; you’re just pickin’ on yourself. You ain’t just another number. You’re quick and you’re quiet and you’re clever; that means you can do a hell of a lot more than half these loud macho assholes.” Then he presses a gentle kiss to your lips and adds, “Even if it was true, we’re a package deal. Anyone decides they don’t want you around, then they ain’t gettin’ me either.” You swear there are tears threatening his eyes as he whispers, “You’re my world, mouse, don’t go forgettin’ that.”