to be cringe is to be free

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.”