#ly-canthropewrites

You weren’t one of them, and neither was Daryl. The pair of you refused to believe in this wonderland, a shared acceptance in the belief that this place will fall just like the prison and just like any other ‘safe place’ that stood before. Perhaps you weren’t giving this place a chance? Perhaps it is easier to set yourself up for failure rather than have your hopes high? Regardless of the reasoning behind it, you just can’t get rid of the gnawing feeling of the false safety this place eludes. 

Almost daily, Rick tries to convince you of Alexandria’s potential. He exemplifies the possibility of having a future here, a safe future for Carl and Judith to grow up in, a safe place where there isn’t fear about the dead or the dangers that stalk outside the walls. And almost daily, both you and Daryl turn him down, stubborn in your ways and between the false reality constructed and the abnormal kindness from the residents, you can’t help but feel unsafe. 

You can’t lie, however, that Alexandria does have its perks. You have been here for 5 days already and you have not gone hungry once in that time. It is nice to have a healthy food supply, to have a blanket and a mattress that isn’t damaged or dirty and of course, it is nice to be clean. You have taken advantage of the running water system in the town, taking more showers in the last 5 days than you have in the month and it is a luxury that you allow yourself to indulge in. 

The first time you had a shower you almost cried. Not one for the emotions normally, it couldn’t be helped that day when hot, running water cascading over you, temporarily washing away the trauma and pain of the apocalyptic world. For a moment, you could forget the ones you’ve lost, the agony and anguish every time you’ve had to take a life, the suffering and torture you’ve endured. For a moment, you could just be no-one. 

                                 -                         -                         -

Day six lingers, and the house is quiet. It had been decided yesterday that it’s possible to make Alexandria home and for that, houses were given to share. Rick, Carl, Judith and Michonne moved next door, never too far away from family but it gave them enough space to breathe. A large portion of the group, consisting of Abraham, Eugene, Sasha and Rosita, moved into another house on the same street. The remaining were quick to claim rooms; Maggie and Glenn taking a room as well as Carol stealing the spare. It left you and Daryl with a little bedroom on the ground floor and the lounge room. It didn’t matter, neither of you slept much nowadays and if you did, it was never at the same time. One always had to be on watch. 

It was a silent arrangement, just like how your friendship blossomed. One day you were alone, despite being with the group, lingering to one side, keeping one eye on the wilderness around you as if you were ready to jump up and run into its clutches. But then one day, with no significant event as the catalyst, Daryl grew close, being drawn to your side every time a new camp was set up. Neither of you asked for the other to join, it just always happened. It became an unspoken rule that you were to always be partners. If you were to go hunting, so would Daryl. If you chose to set up your sleeping roll in the corner, Daryl would linger close. If you missed a meal, or gave your portion to someone else, then Daryl would give you some of his. It was unspoken, but it was law. You weren’t to be separated. 

                                   -                         -                         -

Summer had followed your group to Alexandria and the pair of you sat on the porch. Daryl was fiddling with his crossbow, nimble fingers twirling and unwinding certain pieces, tightening this and that, fixing up his bolts before giving the entire weapon a wipe down. He worked methodically, quietly, as if his actions were second nature to him. You shamelessly watched him periodically, fascinated by the sleek weapon and by the rugged man. He was your best friend, your partner and companion. You would die for him and he would die for you. It was simple. It was easy. And he was the single person that never failed to bring a smile to your lips. 

Satisfied with your ogling, you return to your book. It wasn’t yours to begin with. It came with the furnished house and in a moment of boredom, you plucked it from its place with every intention to fill the small gap of monotony. What you hadn’t expected was to become engrossed with the novel, completely swept up in the mythical world it held. 

“Yer almost finished that thing yet?”

Daryl breaks your train of thought, startling you back into the world of reality and you shrug.

“Got a few chapters to go,” you say, flicking ahead to see that you indeed have almost completed the fiction. 

“You only started yesterday arvo’“ Daryl states, crooking an eyebrow in your direction, his hands continuing to work on the crossbow without a visual guide. 

“What can I say, I’m a fast reader. You finished playing with that crossbow yet? You’ve been fiddling with that thing for the past 3 days now,” You are quick to shoot back at him, a smirk dancing across your lips in victory and Daryl scoffs, shaking his head in small amusement as he turns his gaze back to the item in his lap. 

You finish your book just in time for Carol to leave the house, the older woman looking well dressed and holding a container of cookies. Both you and Daryl raise an eyebrow at her, silent questions being asked, and she pointedly ignores them. 

“Have you even had a shower yet?” She asks sternly, giving the quiet man a stiff side glance that he shrugs off. 

“I’ll hose you down when you sleep,” she threatens, “you are filthy Daryl, just take a goddamn shower”. 

You stifle a giggle, biting down on your lip to hide your growing smile but you fail miserably, and a chuckle escapes you. Daryl hears it, glancing over at you with a bored expression but when he sees you smiling, he can’t fight back a little smirk of his own. 

“You enjoy watching Carol take the piss out of me, ay?” he questions gruffly, and you laugh at that openly, throwing your head back to revel in the moment. 

“Hell yeah I do. Who wouldn’t?” you tease, poking your tongue out when Daryl rolls his eyes. 

With your book done, you throw it onto the table beside you and stand up, stretching out your arms as you unfold from your previous position. Your shoulders pop loudly as you rotate them and you groan with satisfaction, eyes closed as you continue to move your body. You miss how Daryl’s eyes selfishly gawk at the sliver of skin that is revealed as you stretch, your shirt just riding up to show the smoothness of your skin and he wonders how soft your body would be beneath his hands. 

His eyes quickly snap back to his crossbow when he hears you hum, stretching complete and body limber. 

“You off then?” he questions, not looking up at you as he speaks, fear that his eyes will reveal things he refuses to say. 

“Yeah, might have a lie-down or somethin’“ 

“Gonna take one of yer ten million showers?” he teases you and a warm flutter erupts in his chest when his words make you laugh. 

“Showers aren’t the enemy, Daryl” you remind him, a smile easy on your lips, but your tone is firm. 

He grunts, explicitly refusing to respond and you sigh. 

“Come shower with me,” 

Those words catch his attention. His head whips up to look at you, eyes wide and stunned. You admire his surprised expression, noticing how his lips part ever so slightly and how he sucks in a shallow breath as he processes your words and intentions. 

“Didn’t you hear the news? It’s safer to shower in pairs,” you joke, but your eyes convey understanding.

Daryl remains frozen for another moment or two, waiting for the punchline or the taunt but it never comes. Of course, it wouldn’t. He knows you. You aren’t like that, not to him. So, when it clicks that this isn’t an immoral joke and he allows himself to believe your gentleness, he nods, flustered but agreeing. 

You give him a small smile, jerking your head in the direction of the front door before you turn to walk through it, not waiting for Daryl to move. You know he would follow, he has always followed you and he would follow you to the end of the earth. 

By the time he reaches the bathroom, you already have the shower turned on. You have your hand beneath the stream, testing it, determined to have the perfect temperature and it is so unlike you, but at the same time, it is. He has seen you kill walkers with your bare hands, he has seen your unfiltered rage and your grief, and he has seen the special compassion you reserve for Carl and Judith. But it is rare for him to see you this gentle, this soft, this caring. 

You know he is there, standing in the doorway watching you. You felt the heaviness of his gaze the moment he reached the second floor. But you don’t mention it, instead, you hum as you adjust the water before turning around to rifle through the cabinets for soap. The house is a treasure-trove of good items and the luxury of having a shower also extends to bathroom products. There are different types of soaps and shampoo to choose from and Daryl sees you fish out two items; a creamy soap bar and a green bottle. You set them both inside the shower before stepping back. 

“Go on, get in” you gesture to the shower. 

“Thought you were havin’ the first one?”

“And leave you with an opportunity to escape hygiene? Not a chance,” you retort

You know him too well, he thinks fondly. But an uneasiness sets in and you can see apprehension flit across his face. 

“Daryl, you can shower. I won’t be leaving, I’ll be right here” you say tenderly, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid to prove your point. You weren’t going to leave him alone. 

It’s reassuring, as much as Daryl hates to admit it. He isn’t used to having someone stand by him unwaveringly like you do. He hates to admit that he has come to lean on you, come to let you in. You have never pressured him, never forced his hand and for that, you unknowingly have his eternal gratitude. 

“I won’t even look, so hurry up otherwise the water will run cold,” you announce, making a big show of closing your eyes and slapping a hand across your face for good measure. 

Daryl cracks a smile at your theatrics, relief rolling off him in waves and slowly he begins to unbutton his shirt. Your ears strain to listen, to catch a sound so you can guess what he is doing. The rustle of a shirt confirms that he hasn’t bolted, and it makes you smile. What you don’t see is how Daryl’s fingers shake slightly as he works his belt undone as well as his jeans. He is stripping off his layers, both literally and metaphorically, and he hasn’t ever felt this bare, even with your eyes closed. He keeps his eyes trained on you as he edges towards the shower, his back never turning to reveal the ugly past that is marked into his skin and he only feels relief when he has the shower curtain drawn, letting it act as a barrier in all senses. 

He has to admit; the hot water does feel heavenly. His sigh is, thankfully, masked by the sound of the shower and Daryl closes his eyes, tipping his head back and completely embraces the water. He stands there for a few moments, relishing in the luxury and the feeling of his muscles slowly unwinding, and he almost hates himself for putting this off for so long. He is so lost in heaven that he almost forgets that you are still sitting in the bathroom with him. 

He pokes his head out, eyes falling on you and he smiles when he sees that you haven’t moved from your seated position, hands still covering your face but to keep you occupied, you bounce your leg. 

It’s almost as if you know he is staring at you because you speak up, 

“How’s the shower?” you ask

“Are ya comin’ in or what?” he ignores your question, now smugly watching your surprised reaction. 

Gobsmacked, your hands fall from your face, mouth hanging open and your eyebrows raised in disbelief. This is the first time he ever hears you stutter. 

“Wh- what?” 

“Are ya gettin’ in or not? Ya expect me to leave you sittin’ and waitin’ for me?” 

You nod, “Daryl Dixon, I didn’t expect you to invite me to shower with you”

“Sunshine, you did the invitin’ first”

“I never specified if I was to be in the same shower as you at the same time” you respond, shock fading quickly as your confidence returns and Daryl enjoys the transformation. 

“Get in” he mutters and drops the curtain, standing back to leave you some room for when you come in. 

You are quicker to strip than he was and although he knows you are coming, he can’t help but jump when you step into the cubicle. You notice, of course you notice, but as always, you don’t comment. Instead, you smile up at him with such a warm gaze, Daryl feels his heart clench. Silently, you grab the soap bar and lift it up, expressing your question through your look and he nods. You are gentle as you run the bar over his shoulders and down his arms, taking your time to sudd up your hands so you can run your fingers over each individual digit, cleaning them of the dirt and the grime that had accumulated. Daryl was silent during your endeavour but by the quickness of the rise and fall of his chest depicted his nervousness. 

“Tell me if it gets too much” you murmur, eyes flicking to meet his and it amazes him how you don’t pressure him, letting him control his limits. It is his blind trust in you that allows you to be this close to him and you know how hard it is for the redneck to open up to you, to let you close to his turmoil. 

“Nah, s’okay” he mutters breathlessly. 

You continue on to his torso, rubbing the bar in circular motions and its satisfying to watch the water run dirty, revealing more of the gorgeous man in front of him. Daryl fears it will get awkward when you kneel down in front of him, eyes closed as he wills himself not to make a fool out of himself. Either or not you pick up on his anxious, you don’t say, but you avert your eyes from his lax cock, focusing on cleaning his strong legs. When you are finished Daryl offers you a hand, holding it firmly as he pulls you to your feet and once steady, he doesn’t let go. 

“I can leave your back” you offer. The story of the scars isn’t new to you, but their appearance is. He hasn’t let you cast your eyes upon the monstrosities, barely able to look at them himself. 

He is torn, gnawing at his lip as he tries to decide on an answer, but his silence is one you will accept. With a fond smile you shrug, reassuring him to the best of your ability. 

“That’s okay, tilt your head forward, hun” you are quick to move on, distracting him from the dangerous thoughts that threaten to surface, and it works, the pet name is a pleasant sound falling from your lips. 

He obeys, tilting his head forward and closing his eyes as the water runs down his cheekbones. The pop of the shampoo bottle alerts him to your intentions and a sprig of mint fills the steamy air. Your fingers massage his scalp as you clean the brown tresses and Daryl bows beneath your touch. He slumps forward, head resting upon your shoulder in full submission and you pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, fingers never ceasing their ministrations until they begin to cramp a while later. You don’t want to move him, savouring the weight of his body against yours but the suds need to be washed out, so you tap his shoulder. Daryl washes out the remaining suds himself before he looks down at you, guilt suddenly creeping upon him.

“Do yer want me... to, ya know”

Bashfully, he gestures to you, but you shake your head laughing.

“No Daryl, it’s fine, but thank you” you say sincerely, “now, let’s get you out of here and into clean clothes, hey”.

The shower gets switched off and the pair of you emerge from the stuffy cubicle. Daryl grabs the towels first, handing you one before wrapping his around his waist. There is no third towel to cover his back and he is painfully aware of that fact, tensing up as he realises that he is closest to the door and will have to turn around to walk out. Once again you amaze him, slipping by to walk out first and Daryl lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

When Daryl appears, he finds you in the small bedroom, stretched out on the bed with your eyes closed.

“Tired?”

“Warm showers make me sleepy” you confess, opening your eyes to look up at the man sheepishly.

He hums and remains standing at the end of the bed, hands tucked into the pockets of the old sweatpants that hang from his hips and takes his time to admire you. He doesn’t admire your clothes, although the sight of you in snug clothes makes the fluttering in his chest go faster; but he soaks in your comfortableness, your trust.

He doesn’t ask if you could move and make room for him, wordlessly you do it anyway when Daryl begins to climb onto the bed. He flops onto the mattress once he reaches the pillow, heaving a sigh as his body melts into the softness of the mattress. He rarely allows himself to sleep on it, leaving it for you to use while he takes the couch or the chair outside on the porch. And just like the shower, he realises how much he has been missing out on. And he is sick of it.

“Yer too good to me, Y/N” he mumbles, and you chuckle, shaking your head before you roll onto your side to face him.

“Nah, just doing what is right”. What you deserve.

You both fall silent, letting the post-shower haze settle over you and allowing your bodies to relax.

You are on the cusp of sleep when you feel Daryl’s hand slip into yours, calloused skin brushing against yours and instinctively you tighten your grip, Daryl squeezing back.

“Thank you” he murmurs.

You don’t say anything, fighting the pull of sleep and with a last-ditch effort you curl into Daryl, his arms sweeping you closer to his chest and cocooned in his security, you allow yourself to drift to sleep.

It’s easier to ask with his broad back facing you actually, not finding yourself chickening out since he isn’t looking directly at you. You stare at the curls that kiss the nape of his neck as you prepare to speak.

“How do you know you love me?” You ask softly. 

That gains his attention and the tapping at the keyboard ceases immediately before Henry swivels around in his chair. Azure eyes fall on you; his pregnant wife standing shyly in the doorway of the office, nervous fingers twirling the hem of your shirt. A shirt that is stretched tight over the bump of your first unborn child, barely able to contain the 6-month belly, and your eyes flicker between him and the ground.

“What?” he says, puzzlement laced in his words and he needs you to repeat your thoughts, finding himself unable to comprehend such a question. 

“How do you know you love me?” you repeat, voice quiet yet it echoes across the room and hits Henry hard. 

You both know that your love is endless for each other and there is no shadow of a doubt that you don’t love one another, but that’s not what you are asking. You are asking something even deeper; how does Henry know that he is in love with you, what has he fallen in love with?

He sighs. Pausing, contemplating with a furrow. He should be spitting out an endless stream of words, reassuring your erratic mind with sweet nothings and innumerable reasons of why he loves you. But that’s not the question and Henrys’ mind draws a blank. He doesn’t know how to describe the emotions that you make stir inside his chest, the warmth that engulfs when he just simply looks at you. How can he make sense of these indescribable sensations? 

Patiently you wait, recognising the heavy concentration on Henry’s face and you shift your weight, trying to ease the pressure on your swelling feet and Henry notices. 

“Come here baby,” he says, raising a hand and gestures for you to come towards him and obediently, you obey. 

Shuffling over, you move to stand above him, hands resting on his broad shoulders when suddenly Henry’s hands tug behind your knees, forcing you to yelp as you begin to fall directly onto his lap. He makes no sound as he catches you on his lap, smiling as your legs fold either side of him and you straddle him as best as you can with your large bump in front of you. Your round stomach brushes against Henry’s front and he chuckles at the close yet far distance. He knows it annoys you, being unable to press yourself close to his chest or lay your head above his heart without having to rest at an awkward angle. 

One hand falls to your waist, stretching out to cover as much of your enlarged stomach as he can with one hand whilst his other rests on your leg, thumb brushing repeatedly over bare skin. You know the contact helps him truly think. 

The words become lodged in his throat, a jumbled mess that makes sense in his mind and his heart but is nonsense on his tongue. The words are thick to form but once he says the first syllable, it is impossible for him to stop the waterfall of emotion. 

“I know that I love you because the only place I ever want to be is with you. Even when I’m on set, I’m thinking of you. I know because I look at you and I am content. I know because every little thing you do makes my heart race, even if you are doing nothing, even if you are hanging up washing or doing something mundane.”

“I know because when I am with Charlie or Jason or Mum, all I want to do is just brag about you - or tell them how I saw you crinkle your nose in a funny way and it made me grin stupidly, because it was so damn adorable. We’ve been married for 2 years and I still have the same love sick feeling in my chest that I had when I got to see you walk down that aisle towards me, the same feeling when you finally said yes to going on a date with me.”

His words just keep on going and going, tugging on your heartstrings and your eyes water as you listen to him list the small details that he loves about you, little things that you never knew that he noticed. The only reason why Henry stops his gushing is when you sniffled and raised a delicate hand up to your face to brush away the falling tears. 

“Come on baby, don’t cry,” he pleads. 

His hands move up to cradle your face and you give your husband a weak smile, sniffling once more and you don’t contain the joyous chuckle that wants to escape. 

“I love you” you murmur, replicating Henry’s gesture and you cup his cheeks with your own hands. 

“I love you so much, my dear,” he responds, gentle blue eyes looking at you with such pure love, and the answering warmth that rests in your chest burns like wildfire. 

“Now do you understand how I know I love you?” Henry chuckles, bringing himself closer to you and he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing with each deep breath, and a sense of security washes over you. 

Wordlessly, you nod, a sheepish smile on your lips and in retrospect, your question seems awfully silly but Henry took it in stride and it’s just another thing that you love so deeply about your husband. 

“Oh my love,” Henry muses as he moves to brush his lips over your forehead, a little smile adorning his face. “Can I add one more thing to the list? The way you look carrying our child. The glow.”

His eyes gleam as he thinks back to the many moments where his breath got caught in his throat as he was taken away by your beauty, the glow that surrounds you making you look ethereal. 

You snort, breaking him out of his vision. “Don’t forget the fat ankles.”

He laughs, pulling you close and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. “Well, I love them, too.”

[Thank you to my lovely beta @yespolkadotkitty​ for helping me!]

You find yourself glancing over in his direction, succumbing to the gravitational pull of the universe and you don’t find yourself surprised at all to find him still staring at you, a dark scowl painted across his face. You sneer back at him, standing strong with your own gaze. 

“Stupid, fucking redneck,” you mutter under your breath and the fire that burns in your chest grows hotter, feeding off of your anger. 

The swishing of grass on your left distracts you and you are met with Carol only a few feet from you. You nod at her, giving her a tight-lipped smile as well before turning to look at the perimeter, finding nothing in the wilderness has changed and you sigh. 

“I saw you staring at each other, I wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage,” Carol says lightly, walking to your side and mirrors your stance; arms crossed and back straight. 

You scoff, openly showing that you aren’t in the mood for her banter today but it doesn’t deter the older woman. 

“Most definitely murderous rage” you grit.

“See, I don’t know about that - I see a lot of passion,” She teases.

You throw her a withering look, disdain heavy in your eyes and if Carol isn’t careful; some of that murderous rage will be pointed at her soon. 

“So if it is murderous rage, how long are you going to remain angry at him?” Carol tries a gentler approach, obviously getting the message and you wince, guilt beginning to set in as you mentally chastise yourself about your unrestrained attitude. 

Shrugging, you refuse to make eye contact with your old friend. “I don’t know Carol, he humiliated me,” you breathe.

“He didn’t mean too, he was worried,” Carol begins to defend him but when she sees you shaking your head and the flash of hurt across your face, she stops herself. 

“But he did it anyway. He humiliated me, he berated me in front of everyone, undermined me, treating me as if I am some soft fucker who hasn’t been beyond the walls” you spit and you render the woman silent, unsure about what to say next. 

When the silence between the pair of you becomes stagnant, Carol realises it’s time for her to leave and she steps back a few feet, mulling over her next words. 

“Talk to him,” she pleads and you snort, “Fuck no,”. 

Carol says your name in warning, making you roll your eyes. “I’m not fucking submitting. If he wants to talk, then he can man up and come to me with a goddamn apology,”. 

You hear her heavy sigh behind you before her retreating footsteps, leaving you to stew in your malcontent alone. It is your stubborn pride and bruised feelings that prevent you from talking with your old companion, from making amends and burying the hatchet, an ideal that is important in this world because life is too short and unpredictable to be so petty. And yet, you cannot help yourself this time. He hurt you, deeply, a stinging wound that will take time to heal. 

It’s not like you have done anything wrong in the first place. With the apocalypse a decade old, resources are unimaginably scarce, leaving only items that are grown, hunted or handmade to be used. It was commonplace for you to be the first person out of the gates in the morning and the last to return in the evening, spending hours and even days hunting, refusing to go back to Alexandria empty-handed. You are too stubborn for your own good, too arrogant in your capabilities to survive and adapt to the dangerous world. As a repercussion, your last run was almost the death of you. 

Enemies are like hydras; one falls and another takes its place. Negan was once considered Alexandria’s greatest threat, but that fear was usurped by the latest peril; the Whisperers. Negan ruled with fear and violence. The Whisperers rule with death. Their ability to influence herds is an obstacle that the community does not know how to overcome. The capricious nature makes every run, every scouting mission, every patrol dangerous and life-threatening. Therefore, it became law that no-one is to go outside the metal walls without a group and without informing the council. It should have been expected that you would struggle with this rule, never been one to abide by strict regulations, but the thought slipped the minds of the council and you kept slipping outside the gates. 

Your last run is a perfect example of why the rule is in place; you got caught by the herd with Whisperers dotted within. Perhaps they tracked you down or perhaps it was just shit luck that you ran into them, but it resulted in a fight for your life and an injury that planted fear on sight. It was sheer, dumb luck that allowed you to escape with your life; an old tree fell whilst you were in the midst of swiping at walkers and humans alike, and caused a great enough distraction that gave you the opportunity to bolt. You damn well shocked Rosita who stood on guard duty that evening as you came sprinting towards the main gates, coated in two types of blood and clutching at your side, out of breath with wild eyes. 

That night you had Siddiq inform you that you got lucky the knife wound at your abdomen was free of infection but he was stern to chastise that only one hour more and you wouldn’t have made it, wound too deep to be stemmed by only pressure and the combination of exhaustion and blood loss would have defeated you. His words didn’t shake you that night, instead, you shrug nonchalantly and smirked, telling him that death in this world is inevitable and you would greet it like an old friend.  

You refused to stay in the infirmary that night, scrunching your nose at the thought of being surrounded by sick people in a sterile environment, rather opting for the privacy of your own place. He was unable to stop you, letting you go with an armful of supplies and a sigh, watching you stagger down the pathway. You made it only halfway home before you were halted by a loud yell, the noise capturing the attention of not just you but the other residents that were milling in the nearby courtyard. 

“What the fuck wer’ ya thinkin’?” Daryl yelled, storming towards you with a glare that would frighten Hades. “How fuckin’ stupid are ya?” he adds. 

He berated you in public that night, practically screaming in your face about your stupidity, your lack of respect to the council and their rules, your selfishness and conceited attitude. He didn’t let you get a word in to defend yourself as he raged, words becoming harsher by the second. You could handle the words but it was the venom in his voice that surprised you. It was filled with so much anger, so much hatred and spite that you lost the words that you wanted to scream back at him. Instead, when he took a moment to catch his breath, you just walked away, your eyes on the ground as you stifled the bewildered cry that ached in your chest. 

The incident happened two weeks ago and you haven’t spoken since, avoiding each other like the plague but the distance hasn’t stopped either of your from directing heated glares at each other, consequently deepening the rift in your friendship. 

                                                          ----

The guard changeover occurs on dusk and when your replacement comes, you greet them with a tight smile as you pass over the unused rifle before quickly leaving the post. You don’t head home after the shift and instead, you go down to the armoury with hopes that working maintenance on the weapons will distract you from the words Carol has lodged in your mind. Daryl worried? You scoff at the thought. In a previous time, those words would have made sense - you and Daryl have been partners in crime since the fall of the world, similar in too many ways and it made sense that you were friends. But after seeing the pure acrimony he directed at you, you fail to believe it stemmed from a place of compassion. 

It was well past midnight when the doors to the armoury creaked open. It was probably someone on shift wanting to pick up more ammo or something alike. What you didn’t expect was to see the rugged hunter ease into the room. You stared at him with furrowed eyebrows and a twist in your lips, hands paused on the shotgun you were working on. 

“You weren’t home when I knocked,” Daryl states simply, gruff voice a melody to your ears after the long radio silence. 

“You know I don’t sleep when I’m alone,”

It’s true; you struggle to rest when there is no-one watching over you, a position that is usually filled by the man in front of you. 

Daryl nods, biting down on the inner side of his cheek as he reflects. Of course you don’t, you never have and he knew that. The poignant silence weighs heavily between you and Daryl shifts uncomfortably, moving further into the room to take a seat on the chair that sits in front of the sole workstation. You never sat at the workstation, preferring to sit on the floor so you had more space to work with but at this moment, you hated how you were positioned lower than the man. 

“Yer gonna use that thing on’ me?” There is a ghost of a sly smirk upon his lips, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes but you aren’t having it, you won’t befall to his sparse charm. 

“Don’t tempt me, Daryl Dixon,’’

The full use of his name and the stern attitude makes Daryl wince, the severity of damage he inflicted to you now evident before him. He nods silently, gnawing anxiously at his lip as you both fall back and stew in silence. You resume cleaning the weapon in your hands, needing to keep busy in an attempt to distract your mind from the chaos that sits in front of you. Daryl watches you, this time without the hatred and disdain, but his gaze is just as heavy as before. 

“Why are you here, Daryl?” 

He notes the tiredness in your voice, not the physical exhaustion that is a permanent state in this new world, but the emotional weariness that burdens you. 

“‘M here to apologise,” 

“Are you here because Carol told you to or because you actually want to?”

His hesitation is a loud answer and you scoff, glaring up at him with your teeth bared.  

“Of course not. Daryl Dixon never apologises because he actually wants to, no, someone else has to puppet him. You are so fucking incompetent,” you growl, “You can’t even do the right fucking thing. Whatever ‘apology’ you have concocted to make this all better; forget it, Daryl. I don’t fucking accept it!”. 

You take a predatory satisfaction in seeing the raw hurt flash across his face at your words. Your words are harsh, digging at old wounds that the man harbours but you can’t even conjure up the guilt or regret; hungry to dish out the same pain that you have received. Vexation and wrath raise its ugly head and you furiously rub at the long barrel of the shotgun, as if you would be able to transfer your rage through kinetic energy. 

“Yer keep sacrificing yerself for the group ‘n’ and I fuckin’ hate it,” He breaks the icy air. His voice cracks despite his whispered tone but you catch it the little hitch. 

Your cautious gaze meeting his is the signal he needed because he keeps going, as if the dam inside breaks and the words come spilling out; unrestrained, pure and honest. 

“You’v’ done it since the beginnin’. Take the burden of the group on yerself ‘n’ takin’ all the risks. We’v only survived this long b‘cause of ya. You’v always kept us goin’. When the prison fell, you wanted ter round everyone up ‘n’ then Terminus happened and..” he breaks off, eyes squeezing shut as he recalls the horrible and degrading things the savages there threatened you with; how they held the machete to your neck and how powerless he was to stop everything. You were so close to death that afternoon as well, mere seconds away from being just an empty vessel. 

“Then all the shit that's happened since. You’ve never stopped, never broke down. Just kept trudgin’ on. But it all caught up and you could’ve died out there… without me. ‘N I wouldn’t have known until it was ter late”. 

“But I could have died in here and you still wouldn’t have been able to do anything, Daryl - that’s life,” you argue.

Daryl’s head whips up so fast, you are sure he could have suffered whiplash, but you get distracted by the flames in his eyes. 

“It’s not life. You ‘ave no fuckin’ idea what yer do to me, woman,” Daryl groans, looking at you so helplessly, almost insulted at how you don’t get it. 

“Apparently I piss you off!” you retort, “Ya know, with my selfish attitude and lack of respect” you parrot his own words back to him, a glare resituating across your face. “You yelled at me, Daryl. You screamed in my face, in front of everyone, and then gave me the cold shoulder. Me, out of all people, your fucking friend”. 

He shakes his head while you speak, an action that only infuriates you more. You are ready to attack him about that, mouth already open as you reveal your disgust, “Stop fucking shaking your head as if I’m playing the vic-”. 

In your rant, you don’t acknowledge the scrape of the metal stool along the concrete, given barely enough time to react to the new stimulus of rough lips upon yours and a hand that grips your chin. Daryl swallows your surprise, mouth unyielding as he crowds into you, pushing you back against the back leaving you no room to run. He kisses you desperately. Frantically. It is messy and unruly, a bruising kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and makes your head spin. You can taste every single secret that has ever danced across his lips, taste the fear that dwells within him but has never been uttered to another soul. You learn more about Daryl in this instance than you ever will in a lifetime. 

You both are slow to break apart; lips barely separating as you catch your breath, greedily sucking in as much oxygen as you can to sate the burning of your lungs. 

“‘M so fuckin’ sorry,” he cries against your lips. 

His hand still has a firm grip on your jaw, which is sure to leave finger-shaped bruises in its wake, but like his kiss - his touch is desperate as well. 

“You’v neva been a victim. I was just so fuckin’ scared that I would lose ya. I can’t lose ya,” he stresses, a voice that sounds so pained and winced; it sounds as if the wounds were personally inflicted upon him. 

He drops his death-like grip on your chin, bowing forward to rest his head against yours, never straying too far from your space. Your arms wind around his hulking form; bringing him closer and Daryl lets himself slump against you, his head slipping to rest on your shoulder as he nuzzles into your neck and his body, although heavy, feels like comfort from a warm blanket. You can feel him utter endless apologises into the crook of your neck, lips brushing along your skin and you memorise the soft tone of his voice as he echoes “‘M sorry,”. 

You hush him, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to the dark tresses, whispering “I know,” to every apology he mutters. Eventually, the apologises fade and you are submerged in peaceful silence, curled into each other. You don’t need to ask why he couldn’t have just told you all those words at the beginning, to save you both the agony and trauma of the last few weeks. But your Daryl is complex, a stunning mosaic of intricate emotions that aren’t easily given and you accept that this is who he is. The man would go to war for love; for you.

Tags:

@guywithacrossbow​

@oncemorewithfeelingg

@rachelxxraucous

“Dog” Daryl calls, hissing lowly into the darkness.

Dog trots into the room and agilely leaps up onto the bed, stepping over your body before he turns around and lays down, resting his head on your hip and looks up at Daryl with sweet eyes.

He gives his dog a hard stare and holds his breath, eyes moving to your figure and watches for a few seconds. You don’t wake, much to his relief, and he finally begins to shed himself of his gear and clothes; dirty items being dropped to the floor whilst the crossbow and pistol get set upon the dresser, within easy reach from the bed if something happened.

“Dog, down”.

Daryl tries again but the animal refuses to obey, instead blinks up at his master and sighs. He is ready to lift the dog from the bed in a second but your voice cuts into the silence.

“Leave him”.

You sound groggy, voice thick with sleep and your eyes remain shut.

Shit... didn’ mean to wake ya’” Daryl apologises, reaching for your blindly outstretched hand and you smile when you feel the roughness of his palm against yours.

“S’kay” you slur, humming happily when Daryl leans down and brushes his lips against your knuckles, a whisper-like touch that sends shivers running up your arm. You pull him closer as you roll onto your side, your back to him and you give Daryl no choice except to climb into bed at that one moment. His hand is held captive in yours, fingers now laced and he rests that arm over your side, the position allowing him to cradle you close to his chest.

Dog’s rest gets broken when you turn but in the darkness you hear the animal sigh once more, adjusting himself to stretch out alongside your chest. His fur brushes against your laced hands and Daryl momentarily lets go so he can stroke Dog, silently loving on the animal before he swaps the warmth of the fur coat for the warmth of your soft hand.

Your body lays pliant and lax in Daryl’s arms and he is almost certain that you have fallen asleep already. It wouldn’t surprise him, knowing you, you wouldn’t have slept well, or if at all, whilst he has been outside the protective walls of Alexandria. He knows he acts the same when it is you venturing out into the wildness, leaving him behind to wait for your return. But just when Daryl is about to succumb to the heavyweight of sleep, he feels you squeeze his hand and murmur something softly.

“’M glad you’re home. Missed you” you confess, words just as groggy as when Dog initially woke you up but the gentle tenderness is easily heard.

Instead of words, Daryl rather relies on actions and he presses his lips to your hair, lingering there for a few heartbeats as he breathes in your subtle scent and refamiliarises himself with the contour of your body against his, his thumb swiping over the back of your hand.

You understand what he is trying to tell you; I’ve missed you just as much as you’ve missed me. With your last piece of wakefulness, you roll over to face your lover, forcing your eyes open despite the heaviness of your eyelids but it’s worth it. The sore sight of Daryl in front of you is worth all of the sleepless nights you’ve had as you’ve waited patiently for his return.

There is enough moonlight filing into the room to display Daryl’s tired features and you reach up, the pad of your fingertips lightly tracing over his cheekbone and down the sharpness of his jawline. He melts beneath your touch, eyes fluttering but just like you, he forces them open, determined to catch up on all the lost time he has missed being with you.

You take your time to explore his features; fingers continuing on from his jaw to drag through the scruff that frames his chapped mouth. Daryl nips at your fingertips when you trace over his plush lips and you huff, biting down a grin that threatens to emerge, mirroring a similar expression that Daryl struggles to hide.

A strong wave of tiredness washes over you and you fail to stifle the yawn that bursts through. Fatigue weighs wearily on your bones, making you cut your exploration short much to your dismay. Reading your body like the back of his hand, Daryl captures your hand in his, bringing it up to his lips so he can place a kiss to your palm before he slings your arm over his shoulder. Automatically, you curl closer to him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. Daryl wraps his arms around you tight, a large hand resting on the back of your head, tangling with the soft locks and holds you near, feeling your body rest languidly against him as you slip into a dream.