to be cringe is to be free

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.”

By the time you’re all moving into the Greene family’s farm, Daryl’s still the only person you talk to regularly, every once in a while whispering your thoughts in private to Rick if he wants your input alongside the rest of the group’s. Otherwise, everyone’s accepted your lack of speaking, even Shane. Daryl’s constant protective shadow over you has made it patently clear that messing with you might result in a boot to the gut or worse.

When you’ve all truly earned Hershel’s trust, everyone snaps up sleeping locations throughout the house. Maggie and Beth agree to share a room so that there are a couple free bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs. Rick, Lori, and Carl set up in one of the bedrooms. Andrea and Carol agree to share another one with a tacit invitation to Dale for a mattress on the floor if he wants to come in from the RV. Glenn says he wants to sleep in the living room, which leads to T-Dog and Shane reluctantly agreeing so they don’t look like cowards for wanting a bedroom when walkers or worse could show up any time.

Which leaves you and Daryl. Rick’s the one to suggest you get the last bedroom, smaller and on the first floor. You’re the young one, the single one, the vulnerable one. Nobody likes the idea of you on the living room floor right next to all the guys. Because it’s Rick’s suggestion, you don’t speak up even though you want to. In your mind, Daryl’s one of the most valuable people in the group, so he ought to have some of the best sleeping conditions. But the way Daryl cuts you a stern look when you open your mouth to argue with Rick’s offer makes it clear that it’s not your choice.

There isn’t a label on what’s between you and Daryl and nothing’s happened, not really, but there’s obviously been a shift. Everyone notices it in the way you linger around each other, gravitationally bound to share space. Nobody’s surprised by the way you curl up against him that night when everyone’s eating a proper home-cooked meal of roasted chicken and potatoes courtesy of Maggie, Beth, and Patricia, around the fireplace like a real family.

As you settle next to him, stretching your toes toward the fire to warm up, Daryl grunts unhappily, “Y’don’t have any food.”

Enjoying the heat of the flames on your chilly bare feet, you hum, “I had somethin’ earlier.”

His eyebrows knit together as he nudges, “Only saw you eat half a granola bar.”

“Trackin’ what I eat now, Dixon?” You tease him with a poke to his firm bicep. “I’m alright; no need to waste proper protein on someone who’s not even goin’ on runs or helpin’ out much beyond cleanin’ up and laundry.”

Without another word, Daryl sets his bowl on the hearth, stands up, and heads to the kitchen. He returns a few moments later with another plate of the meal with all the fixings, even a couple of the pillowy rolls Carol had proofed and doted over herself.

“Dare, I really don’t need-”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” he cuts you off. “I’m tryin’ to enjoy my dinner here. Ain’t gonna enjoy it if I can hear your stomach rumblin’ next to me.”

With an eye roll that disguises a smile, you accept the plate and eat to appease him, secretly grateful he’s making you. It’s been a habit of yours ever since you joined up with the Atlanta group to try not to impose, to never take more than your fair share, to shrink yourself whenever possible. Given the circumstances of the world, nobody ever argues when you want to make their lives easier or their bellies fuller. But tonight the chicken is savory and garlicky and the potatoes are buttery and you haven’t eaten anything this good in months. Daryl listens to your tiny, satisfied moans alongside everyone else’s and smiles to himself while conversation kicks up around you.

While the attention’s on Hershel and Dale exchanging stories, you nod toward your new door just off the living room and murmur, “Dare, you wanna sleep with me?”

He snorts out a laugh. “Hell’s that mean?”

Face heating up when you realize what you’ve said, you quickly clarify, “Just in the room, I mean. I know you like the quiet and it’s hard for you to stay asleep when you can hear everyone shufflin’ around and everything. I figure we’ve been sharin’ a tent long enough that we can make the move to a room.”

Daryl shakes his head right away. “Ain’t makin’ you share a bed with a man.”

“There’s a couch,” you tell him quickly. Urgently. It makes him think you really want him there, by your side. “I could curl up on it just fine.”

Still, he responds, “Ain’t puttin’ a woman on a couch if there’s a bed.”

“Fine. You sleep on the couch. Sleep standin’ up or hangin’ like a bat or on the floor. Doesn’t matter as long as you’re there.” You nestle your head, embarrassed, into the crook of his shoulder and admit, “I like havin’ you near me when I’m sleeping. Makes me feel…safe, I guess. I’m used to it now. So will you?”

A content little smile curls at the corner of his lips at your honesty. You don’t draw attention to it; he’d be way too embarrassed to acknowledge that he likes being around you – and that he likes being wanted by you, specifically. He nods tightly and replies, “Yeah, alright.”

As Daryl follows you obediently toward the bedroom after finishing off dinner, conspiratorial glances are exchanged through the group. You slip inside and he gives you a second to get your things put away, lingering in the closed doorway.

Rick eats his last mouthful, smirks more than a little self-righteously at the thought, and asks,  “You two finally shackin’ up for real now?”

“S’just a bedroom,” Daryl cuts back.

Carol starts collecting plates from everyone and joins in, “Then why are you blushing?”

He shakes his head at them, glaring, and grouses, “Probably a sunburn.”

She lilts, all smiles, “How’d you get a sunburn sitting inside all day?”

When you open up the door for him to join you inside, all he can mutter to the others is, “Shut up.”

It’s a small room, originally servant quarters, barely fitting a full-sized bed, small dresser, and loveseat (‘couch’ is being generous, but it’s still more comfortable than the canvas tent on the gravel lot), but it’s got four walls and its own attached bathroom set off the rest of the house, which makes it heaven on earth as far as you’re concerned. Privacy is as precious a commodity as any other creature comfort.

“A shower, Dare,” you squeal as you check out the bathroom while he drops his things on the floor, daring to slide his boots off. “A real honest-to-god shower and bottles of soap instead of bars. With a tub.” Sounding more reverent now, you whisper, “Gosh, I could have a bath all to myself.”

He wrinkles up his nose. “Y’want a bath? Sittin’ in all that grime?”

“Hell no; I’ve been bathing in quarry water for months,” you reply with a laugh. “Right now I want a shower more than anything. But once I’m clean – real clean, no grime clinging on – I think I’ll have a bath with bubbles and everything.” Then you give him a shy glance. “Mind if I shower first before bed?”

“Go right ahead. Gotta tune my bow anyway. Never know what’s gonna happen at night.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” you tell him, a little huffy. “You’ve gotta learn to relax, Dixon, or you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”

“Heart attack’s better than a walker bite.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure it is.”

Then you leave him alone with his bow. You know it’s not actually about the weapon; that bow is Daryl’s meditation time, his sense of safety, a symbol of everything good he’s become. Anyway, the shower is absolutely divine. The water pressure’s iffy and the soap is too harsh for your hair, but it’s the best thing you’ve experienced since the world ended. You even find yourself singing and humming, some pop song your mind still remembers the tune of even if you’ve lost most of the words by now. On the other side of the slightly cracked open door, Daryl listens to your voice with a dopey smile on his lips, not even half paying attention to his bow.

The water turns off with a squeak of the knob and he hears you shuffle around in the bathroom for a moment before you emerge. Daryl looks up to ask how the shower was but suddenly finds his throat too paralyzed to speak at the sight of you wrapped up in the threadbare towel, miles of your legs exposed and your wet hair sending drops of water trailing down your arms and- Oh god, your chest. All the clothes you wear are baggy and overtop sports bras, so he had no idea about the soft swell of your breasts, pushed together beautifully against the wrapped towel. He knows you have tits, of course, but he hadn’t imagined them so soft and inviting. Hell, he had worked very, very hard not to imagine them at all. But now they’re right in front of his face as you step closer to him, moving toward the dresser, and he can’t think about anything but how nice it would feel to bury his tired face between them.

“Do I look that different when I’m clean?” You tease lightly as you go through your bag, unpacking clothes into the small dresser like a real person, “You’re starin’, Dixon.”

“Sorry; zoned out a sec,” he lies poorly as he cheats his body a bit so you don’t catch him adjusting himself below the belt. “How’s the shower?”

“Amazing,” you swoon, holding a clean oversized tee from one of the Greenes to your chest. “I feel so good. Like a new woman.” Then you give him a pointed look. “I saved you some hot water if you wanna grab a shower, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sayin’ I stink?”

“Damn right,” you giggle. “Go on; you’ll like it.”

After rolling his eyes, Daryl dips into the bathroom – mostly to get his ridiculously hard cock as far away from you as possible. Fuck, Dixon, are you thirteen? Pair of tits that ain’t even naked gettin’ you this worked up? He shakes his head at himself and locks the door. Then he steps into the shower, the water still blistering hot, and immediately wraps his hand around his cock, hating himself for thinking about the tops of your bare breasts but unable to think of anything else. His teeth dig into his lower lip so hard he draws blood as he tries to stay quiet. There’s really no other option if he has to share a room with you all night.

After he spills his seed down the drain, he keeps it quick. Works the same soap over his hair, face, and body. Rinses. Shaves his face for once. Towels off and calls it a day.

Back in the bedroom, you’re half underneath the covers reading a book Maggie offered you that afternoon by flickering candlelight. When Daryl steps out of the bathroom, your eyes drift casually up and then widen. You snap your gaze back down to the page until you can’t handle it anymore and just have to take in his toned chest. He’s got real proper strong muscles, not show muscles, like he could toss you over his shoulder no problem.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen him without a shirt on, but this, with the towel hanging low on his hips, feels dangerously different than the times you’ve seen him hastily changing his shirt, angling his body so you wouldn’t see the scars on his back. Tonight, he’s letting you look.

He can’t stop himself from teasing you about it, though. “Now who’s starin’?”

“I’m just surprised is all.” You reply with a laugh, trying to keep your voice level even as your heart pounds. “Didn’t realize you were white under all that dirt.”

He doesn’t miss how you swallow hard, how your eyes dart around the room, how you touch the back of your hand to your cheek to cool it down, but he lets it all go. No need to embarrass you when you’re all clean and cozy in bed, the way he wishes you could always be. All he wants is for you to get a good night’s sleep for once.

Your shared bedtime routine goes like that, the two of you settling into a rhythm around each other. Brushing teeth side by side, changing clothes behind the door, pretending not to look at each other after your showers before you get comfortable in bed and he putters. Cleaning and tuning his crossbow or just staring out the window late into the night, Daryl keeps watch like an obedient rottweiler, never sleeping until he’s certain that you’re safe and sound. Something about your even breaths makes them the only thing that can lull him to rest. Then he crawls onto the couch or sprawls out on the floor and sleeps fitfully as always, his subconscious unable to fully relax.

By now, he’s gotten used to your nightmares. The two of you have slept back to back in his larger tent most nights, so he’s familiar with the way you sometimes whine softly like you’re crying, gasp like you’ve been frightened, and toss and turn until your mind lets you settle again. Usually, they don’t keep him up long.

But they’re never like this.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t slept in a real bed in months or maybe it’s pure coincidence, but your nightmare seems particularly intense one random night in the late summer. The whole night’s been humid and hot, sticky, keeping everyone on edge until well after dark. Daryl wakes up to the sound of you starting to cry in your sleep, quick and soft, and then watches you from across the room for a minute, patiently waiting for you to calm down again like usual. He hates watching your eyebrows twist up into fear, but you normally don’t remember them in the morning, so he tries not to wake you.

Then your whimpering cries turn to sounds more like wails, somewhere closer to screaming, and he has to do something. He tells himself it’s only to stop you from waking everyone else as he climbs into bed next to you and gently touches your face with his rough calloused hand. You jolt awake and start hyperventilating, throat tight and raw, face covered in tears and cheeks hot. And then it’s lightning clear to him that this isn’t about anything other than how he loves you.

Daryl wraps his arms around you, holding you tight to his chest as you shake and cry hard. “You’re okay, darlin’, I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe now.”

Shuddering, teeth chattering, you sob out, “I- I can’t- I’m not-”

He kisses the side of your head, cradling it in one of his big hands, and soothes, “It’s alright, baby, you don’t gotta talk. Breathe with me. Just focus on that. Focus on me. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you when I’m here.”

Gripping his shirt tight in your fists, you nod into his chest and try to slow your breaths as the panic gradually loosens. Daryl takes deep, slow breaths to guide you, murmuring sweetness into your ear. He’s never touched you so much and so confidently before and it’s grounding you exactly the way you need right now.

As the tears finally stop, you snuggle deeper into his embrace. “Thanks, Dare.”

He runs his thumb over your cheek and asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

You concentrate on breathing in his scent. Even using the same laundry soap as everyone else, he manages to have that particularly woodsy smell that calms you down. “More ‘a the same. My friends dyin’ and those ROTC boys after and- and then it was you. This time. It’s- You’re never in my nightmares. I- I couldn’t find you but I knew- I knew you were hurt.” Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt and you whimper, “I was so scared without you.”

“I’m right here now,” he whispers, surprised and emotional at your words. He’s not sure why he feels like crying. His voice is a protective growl as he tells you, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not without you.”

“Promise?”

“Swear.” As you pull back from him just enough to wipe away your tears, he holds your shoulders and asks, “Think you can get back to sleep?”

You nod and slowly bury yourself beneath the covers again. When Daryl starts to move away, you grab his arm with trembling fingers. Tentative and soft, you ask, more like a plea, “Would you stay with me a while?”

Daryl goes stiff for just a second, debating the request, and decides it’s too late and you’re too gentle for him to overthink it. So he carefully folds himself up, turning onto his side to fit on the bed next to you, and tries to relax his body.

Then you hook your leg over his hip and loop your arm around his neck like a backpack and he stiffens up again. A woman’s never held him like this, all desperate and open and vulnerable. It cracks open a dormant part of him, somewhere deep inside, and he has no choice but to reciprocate. He adjusts so that he can get his strong arms around you, tucks your head beneath his chin, and sighs softly. Kissing the top of your head, he assures you, “I’ll stay forever if you want. Just rest now.”