#neighbour!reader

You were just getting ready to settle down and watch TV when a loud thud and a yell sounded.

You startled, looking around and slowly getting off your couch.

“Shit!” You heard, followed by heavy breathing.

Shattering came next, along with more yelling and this time it was evident that it came from the apartment next door.

You were confused as your neighbour was often quiet. You had seen him in the building and talked a few times, which is how you knew his name was Dex and that he worked for the FBI, but you rarely heard any noise come from his apartment. The only times you did were when he would leave for work and come back. Dex was the perfect neighbour, no loud music, no arguing until the early hours of the morning, and he was nice when you saw him. Not in a “I’m such a nice guy” kind of way, but actually nice.

You wondered if someone had broken into his apartment, or maybe he had just dropped a plate or something.

Then you heard crashing. A lot of it. That didn’t sound like a robbery. It sounded like someone having a breakdown. You hurriedly pulled on your shoes, grabbed your keys and knocked on his door.

“Dex? It’s your neighbour,” you called, reminding him of your name. “I heard things breaking and wanted to check that you’re okay.”

Slow footsteps and heavy breathing came closer to the door.

Dex slowly opened it just enough to see through, the chain still attached.

His eyes were watering, as if he wanted to cry but was making himself hold back. His chest was red and heaving. And then you saw his knuckles, bloodied and raw-looking.

“What happened?” You were cautious, not wanting to scare him more than he clearly already was.

Dex just continued to stare at you, eyes wide, barely hearing you over the buzzing in his head.

“Can I come in?” You tried, hoping to help in any way you could.

Dex gave a slight nod before closing the door. The chain rattled as it was disconnected, and the door opened properly now, so you could step inside his apartment.

You noticed how clean and sterile it felt, like no-one really lived there. Like someone just came to eat, sleep and shower. Then you noticed the mess.

The floor in the small kitchen was covered in pieces of drywall, crockery and glass. Cutlery was strewn across the living area and furniture. And there, right by the door you had just walked through, was a knife embedded in a picture that was hanging lopsidedly on the wall.

You could feel Dex’s eyes on you as you took everything in, his breath catching in his throat like he was trying to hold it, but his lungs wouldn’t allow him to. You kept looking around and saw the hole in the wall. ‘I guess that’s what happened to his knuckles,’ you thought to yourself.

You finally turned to look at him and felt your heart squeeze. He looked so lost and broken. You just wanted to help.

You took a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start. What the right thing to say first would be.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper, glancing briefly at his knuckles.

Dex didn’t respond, still breathing heavily.

“What happened, Dex?”

Panic flooded his veins. How was he supposed to explain how his apartment came to look like it did? How could he explain what had happened with Julie without sounding like a total creep? He’d only just been rejected by someone he felt was so good, all because he’d revealed that he knew things he wasn’t supposed to because he had been observing them closely. He couldn’t let that happen again. Especially not so soon. You had been nice to him whenever you saw each other, and now you came to see how he was because you had heard his rage through the walls. That’s what a good person does, and he could use as many of those types of people in his life as possible. Particularly, if they kept leaving him. No, he couldn’t lose you when he’d only just got you. So he did what he did best. He lied.

“Work isn’t too great right now,” he managed to mumble out. At least it wasn’t really a lie. Watching Fisk was not what he wanted to be doing with his time, and the public perception of the FBI was not going the way the higher-ups liked. Which meant that someone was going to be made a scapegoat.

You nodded in understanding. Work could be hell at the best of times, but you thought that working for the FBI was probably a special type of hell.

“You’re part of the team watching Wilson Fisk, right?” At this question, Dex tensed. This conversation hadn’t gone well with Julie. “Must’ve been tough seeing your colleagues die the other night.”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “It was hard. It was really hard.”

“Will you let me put something on those knuckles, before they get infected? Please?” It wasn’t like you had any medical training, but you knew how to apply some antiseptic and gauze to wounds. Hopefully, that’s all that would be needed to help Dex. The cuts were angry and sore, but at least they weren’t bleeding anymore.

Dex was caught off guard. You were worried about him. Genuinely worried. Not out of an obligation due to work. Not out of pity. You actually wanted to help him. Dex wasn’t sure when he’d had that. Even Dr Mercer had an agenda as she had been assigned to him. Neither of them chose that; it just was what it was.

Dex didn’t really know what to say to you, so he just nodded, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“I have some supplies at my place. We could go there if you want?” At that, Dex looked around his apartment. There was so much to clean up, and he didn’t like that. Why did he have so much cutlery? He lived on his own and rarely ate here anyway. Was it stuff left by the previous tenant? Oh fuck! The hole! The landlord would have a fit! Maybe he could find someone who could do a really good job and make it look new. Or maybe he’d hang a frame over it and hope it wouldn’t be noticed until he got his deposit back. His thoughts were racing, and the buzzing was getting louder. He was losing control. Again. And you would be here to witness it first-hand before you ran and left him alone. Maybe you’d even break the lease on your apartment just so you didn’t have to see him again.

“Dex?” And just like that, everything stopped. Your voice calmed him. The hand you had placed on his forearm was grounding. He didn’t know when you’d done that, but he wanted to feel it forever. He could breathe again.

“Sorry, I -,” he cleared his throat, trying to get the words out without croaking. “Yeah, thank you. That’d be nice.” The small smile that had fallen during his spiral graced his lips again.

“Don’t thank me just yet. I don’t know how good a job it will be, and my place is not the tidiest.” You smiled at him, and that gave him some courage for his next words.

“Gotta be better than mine,” he joked, smile widening when you let out a snort/laugh.

Dex suddenly became very aware of your hand on his arm. His arm that was attached to his torso. His torso that was currently missing a shirt. He flushed, not used to this type of situation.

“Let me just –,” his throat was dry again, and clearing it only helped marginally. “Let me grab a shirt.” And he swiftly went to his bedroom, avoiding the pieces of smashed plates with precision.

Dex tried to get his breathing and heart rate under control before he was alone with you longer than he ever had before, but it was easier said than done. He would be in close contact with someone. That someone would be touching him. Maybe even holding his hand. He could not remember if that had ever happened to him before. All of those thoughts were not helping him at all.

“Get it together, Dex,” he muttered to himself, shaking his hands at his sides as if that could rid the anxiety from his body.

“Okay, I’m decent,” Dex announced, exiting his bedroom and going back to where you were.

He wanted to slap himself. What the hell was that?! Why did he say it? It was as if parts of his body were acting independently and just doing whatever they wanted. But you didn’t seem put off by the words that had left his mouth. Instead, you looked… Dex wasn’t sure. Your eyes had widened slightly, and your face flushed.

“Let’s go,” you said softly, smiling and gesturing him to follow. “Don’t forget your keys.”

Your apartment felt like a proper home compared to Dex’s. There were cushions on a soft-looking sofa. Pictures that looked like you had actually taken the time to choose them, rather than ones that came with the apartment. A blanket was haphazardly thrown on the sofa, like you had been under it, then pulled it off when you moved. The kitchen looked used, like you hadn’t immediately tidied up after using each individual implement.

Dex liked it. He hoped to be allowed back in again, preferably under better circumstances.

You watched him take everything in, his eyes analysing everything around him that made up you.

“Sorry,” you blushed, hoping he wasn’t judging you.

“It’s nice. Feels warm,” he said quietly, as if this wasn’t something he was used to.

“Wait here. I’ll just grab some things from the bathroom.” Then you were gone, and Dex was alone.

He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, so he stayed standing by the door, waiting for you to come back. For you to tell him that it was okay for him to be here. To tell him what to do. Where to sit. How to move.

“You can sit down, you know.” Dex started. He hadn’t heard you come back.

“I wasn’t sure where you wanted me,” he replied, feeling a little embarrassed.

“The sofa is fine.” You were already sitting, and he went to join you.

He was right. The sofa was soft. It felt like the type of place you would fall asleep on or have an afternoon nap. Dex wondered what it would feel like to lie down upon it and close his eyes, while you tended to his hand or carded your fingers through his hair.

He tried to stop his thoughts from going further. He didn’t want to imagine too much or become too attached, although he knew that was pointless. He already was. You were so kind, and he craved more.

“This will probably sting,” you warned, taking your hand in his, “but I want to give it a clean first.” You looked at him, waiting for permission to continue, but Dex could barely concentrate on your words. All of his focus was on how gently you were holding his hand. Like he was something precious that you didn’t want to break. Like he was worth protecting. You were wonderful. Maybe you could help make him believe that the world could be good. That he could be good.

Dex swallowed and nodded, waiting for you to move again.

You carefully wiped the antiseptic wipe over his knuckles, taking care not to press too hard on the open wounds. You could feel Dex’s pulse through his palm and wrist, and gave him a small smile to try to ease any panic. To Dex, it felt like it did the opposite. Every time you looked at him, he felt his pulse jump and heart stutter. He couldn’t get enough of that feeling.

When you were satisfied that you had cleaned enough, you dabbed ointment over the raw, red skin before finally wrapping a bandage around his hand a few times, holding it together with some medical tape.

“There,” you announced. “I’m no expert, but hopefully that should help for a few days. Erm, I guess try not to get it wet? You could always put some cling-wrap or something around it for showers and washing-up. I’ve heard people do that when they have a cast on their arm. But yeah. Does it feel okay? Not too tight or too loose?” You were rambling, and you knew it, but you couldn’t stop words just tumbling out of your mouth.

“It feels perfect,” Dex murmured after flexing his hand a few times to make sure. He looked down at his hand in wonder. How was he ever supposed to take the dressing off? How was he going to bring himself to wash that hand? Not after you had touched and held it in yours while you took care of him.

Your smile in reply lit up your whole face and Dex’s insides. You were amazing to him.

“Thanks,” you whispered, feeling shy. “Did…erm…did you want to stay for a bit? I could make you some tea? We could watch something on TV?” Dex just wanted to watch you, but he couldn’t say that.

“Y-yeah. That would be nice. Thank you.” He could feel his face flushing, knowing that he would be in your presence longer, in your home, and that you wanted him there. At least he hoped, and that you weren’t just asking him out of obligation.

“What sort of tea do you like and how do you take it?” You asked as you walked towards your kitchen.

“However you take yours. I don’t mind.” Dex followed you into the kitchen. He wasn’t a big tea drinker, but for you, he could be.

“Erm, I usually have green with honey,” you turned towards him while you filled the kettle.

“Then green with honey it is,” he smiled, hoping it looked right.

“Did you want anything to eat?” You asked, grabbing what you needed from the cupboards.

“Only if you want.” He didn’t really care either way and didn’t want to put you out.

“I have some new cookies that I got today. Chocolate chip. They’re supposed to be a good brand, but I’ve never had them before. Oh, I should have checked. And I should have asked before I cleaned your knuckles. You don’t have any allergies or anything, do you? Sorry, I only just remembered because the cookies I have are gluten free. I have coeliac disease, you see. So I really should know better before offering something to someone. Sorry!” You were rambling now, and Dex wanted to ease your panic. So he did what you had done before.

“It’s okay.” He placed his hand lightly on your arm, not wanting to scare you. “No, I don’t.” And when you smiled and didn’t pull away, Dex felt like he had finally done something right in his life.

Once you had made the tea and placed the cookies onto a plate, Dex insisted on carrying the mugs. You tried to argue with him. That it might put unnecessary pressure on his knuckles. That the heat seeping through the porcelain might burn him. But he kept saying he was fine, and that carrying two mugs less than 20 steps wasn’t going to impact his recovery. You sighed and conceded, finally agreeing to let him carry them, but that you would carry the plate. He hoped that you would let him carry more things for you in the future. Maybe grocery bags or packages from the mail room. Maybe even you to bed when you had fallen asleep on the sofa.

“Only because plates and I don’t have the best track record,” Dex smirked, inclining his head towards his apartment. You let out a small laugh, and Dex could feel a grin spread across his face at hearing the sound. And he was the one who had brought that sound out of you. Twice. He felt elated.

“So,” you began, as you both settled on the sofa. “What do you fancy watching?”

“I don’t mind. Not really a big TV watcher. And work keeps me busy, so I don’t have much free time anyway,” he shrugged.

In the end, you found some mindless comedy show to put on. Dex didn’t care what it was or pay attention to it. He was too busy looking at you as you laughed.

The tea warmed him from the inside out, and he found himself relaxing more as the evening went on. You both gravitated towards each other, eventually switching the TV off altogether and just talking about anything and everything. He tried to learn as much as he could about you, just in case this was a one-off and he never got to talk to you again. That thought made his heart squeeze, so he pushed it away. No. You would want to do this again. Without the medical emergency, though.

His arm moved to rest against the back of the sofa, and your hand moved to rest on his arm, stroking patterns he couldn’t recognise into his skin. If he died right here and right now, he would die happy.

When you couldn’t stop yawning, he reluctantly got up to leave.

“I should let you sleep,” he said, watching as you flushed lightly with embarrassment.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime? Without the medical emergency, though?” You asked, and Dex’s heart stopped. Isn’t that exactly what he had thought earlier? Could you read his mind? Or did you genuinely want to see him again?

“Yeah. I’d like that,” Dex grinned.

“I know we’re neighbours, but here. Put your number in.” You gave him your phone, and your fingers brushed as he took it from you.

When you took it back, you typed something, smirking a little, before throwing it down on the sofa.

“What?” Dex asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“Just a little something for you for when you pick up your phone,” you responded, cheekily.

You both walked to your front door, and you held it open, watching as he struggled to cross the threshold into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Dex,” you practically whispered, lightly brushing your fingers across his bandaged knuckles.

“Goodnight,” he said just as softly, saying your name like it was a prayer.

In a moment of bravery, Dex tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek as he did so. Your face blossomed with heat, a shy smile curling at your lips.

You watched as he went back to his own apartment and shut the door, leaning against your own once you had closed it, pressing your face into your hands and letting out a little squeal of happiness.

Dex immediately reached for his phone once he was inside his apartment, which now felt cold and lonely after being surrounded by you and your warmth.

‘Try not to get injured again anytime soon. But I don’t mind helping to patch you up :)x’

He brought the phone to his chest and squeezed it tight. He had never seen something so beautiful written in text before. Maybe he would be lucky enough to get more.

That night, you both went to sleep thinking of the other, wondering what adventures you might have together.

fin

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)

Tagged: @chunkpiboli @artandpunishment @rporter19

The corners of your lips pitched upwards when you noticed a shadowy figure making it's way over to your front porch. It was familiar enough that you immediately knew it was Daryl, so you pulled out your cigarettes and laid the pack out on the top step like a peace offering.

The two of you had gotten into it over the weekend and he'd been avoiding you like the plague since.

Your friendship with Daryl was a new, brittle thing. Something you were desperately trying to nurture and keep a hold of.

You weren't fool enough that he was there to apologize. But, you were glad that he seemed to be willing to talk, or at least sit together in silence after days of blatantly ignoring you.

Too busy thinking about your spat, you didn't notice that anything was wrong until he'd frozen, swaying, at the bottom of the steps.

"Hey," You whispered, frowning when he showed no signs of having heard you. "Daryl?"

The frown turned into a gasp when his knees buckled and his body crumpled to the ground.

"Fuck." You breathed, pushing off the banister to propel yourself forward, sinking to your knees next to him in the grass.

"Daryl?" You kept your voice low, knowing better than to draw attention by yelling "Can you hear me?"

It was too dark to see what exactly was wrong with him, and you could feel panic building in your chest. You grabbed a hold of his shoulder and recoiled when your hand made contact with the back of his shirt.

It was soaking wet.

Was it sweat?

Was he sick?

You didn't know, but with a newfound urgency, you rolled him onto his side and rubbed his sternum with your knuckles, hard.

Daryl jolted awake after the third of fourth pass, gasping for breath.

"You scared the shit out of me." you breathed, sick with relief and shaking, hands still hovering over him "Think you could make it to the couch?"

He blinked up at you for a moment, but started to move slowly. He was trying to hide it, but Daryl was clearly in a lot of pain. Every few seconds, there would be a sharp intake of breath. You tried to help him, but were shrugged off roughly, so you kept your distance and let him drag his stubborn ass up the stairs all while trying not to look as concerned as you felt.

The lights had been off when the two of you stumbled inside your house. You flicked the switch as you passed it and couldn't hold back the gasp when you saw that the back of his shirt was not soaked in sweat.

It was blood.

Daryl made it to the couch and was sitting, slumped over at the very edge, swaying like he was gonna pass out. Aside from his back, his nose and lip were both bleeding, dripping slowly onto the front of his ruined shirt with every ragged breath.

"What the fuck?" Was all you could manage to choke out, still wide eyed and frozen just inside the entryway.

He wasn't even looking at you, eyes squeezed shut while he tried to channel all that was left of his energy into keeping himself upright.

Finally, you snapped out of your daze and lunged forward, slamming the door shut behind you.

"What happened?" You asked softly, kneeling next to the couch.

"Okay," You tried when he made no moves to answer "What hurts?"

"Hey," Your hand came to rest on his bicep and he flinched hard finally looking at you. "Are you okay?"

It was a stupid question, really. Obviously he wasn't okay.

Daryl felt a rush of embarrassment as the concern in your eyes registered.

What the fuck was he doing?

You made a discontent sound when he tried to stand and fought not to grab him again.

"Don't do that!" you gasped "Sit back down."

Unable to get himself the rest of the way up anyway, Daryl fell back onto his ss begrudgingly.

"If you don't wanna talk about it, I'm not gonna make you, Okay?" You said softly "Could you please just let me help?"

His jaw clenched, but he nodded stiffly, knowing full well that he didn't have any other options. The hospital was out of the question ad he'd have to be stupid to stay outside in his state. If he wasn't hurting so damn bad, he'd never have come to you, but it was like his brain was on autopilot and took him straight to your front door.

"Take off your shirt." You nudged him gently, not missing how stiff he'd gotten the second you mentioned it.

It took him a while, but Daryl managed to eventually shrug off his shirt with minimal groaning, but was quick to bat your hands away anytime you tried to offer help. Still, he kept his back shielded by facing you head on.

"You're gonna have to turn around." You frowned, gnawing on your bottom lip. "Lay on your stomach or something if you can."

Moving slowly, he complied stiffly after a moment of hesitation.

He could feel your eyes on his back and his thoughts started to race.

You'd been fighting over a bruise. You'd asked where it had come from and he'd shouted at you for even suggesting that his father was beating him. Yet, here he was, proving you right. And still, you were helping him even though he'd been a complete asshole.

Meanwhile, your eyes raked over the marred skin, taking in the four bleeding gashes, surrounded by red welts. You were glad Daryl couldn't see your reaction, because you were teary eyed and wincing sympathetically, which would no doubt set him off.

Although you never had, you'd known plenty of children over the years who had gotten the belt. Their parents had never left more than a red welt that faded after a few hours. But this had clearly been done to inflict the most pain possible, with the buckle, if you had to guess, and that wasn't even the worst of it.

Your heart sank as you noticed the older, healed scars beneath the angry wounds.

This wasn't the first time this had happened to Daryl.

You had to suppress the urge to ask all the questions floating around in your head. You hadn't considered that things next door could be anything this bad. You'd suspected that Daryl's dad smacked him around after seeing the bruises he was constantly sporting.

Proof that it had been so much worse turned your stomach.

You rose wordlessly to grab the first aid kit, allowing yourself a couple of shaking breaths to calm yourself down and keep from crying for him, before returning with the kit and a warm washcloth.

"I'm just gonna wash away some of the blood." You told him softly before reaching out to touch him, and watched as he visibly relaxed, even if it was only a little bit, and let it happen.

You reached out and lightly prodded the surrounding skin, withdrawing your hand when he flinched hard for a second time.

"I'm sorry." You muttered, working as gently as you could.

You managed to wipe away most of the half-dried blood, relieved to see that he wasn't still actively bleeding.

The peroxide felt like a lead weight in your hands.

"I'm gonna have to clean them out a little." You breathed, swallowing hard. "It's gonna hurt."

Daryl grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the couch so hard that his knuckled turned white while you poured it onto the open wounds.

You kept muttering that you were sorry and almost done, over and over, trying to be as light handed as you possibly could be.

Daryl didn't even make a sound. There were too many conflicting feelings floating around inside him in that moment, embarrassment and relief amongst them.

"Okay." You sat back on your heels when you were done. "Now we just have to wrap it?"

"Should I put polysporin on it, or something?" You asked with a furrowed brow, figuring that he would know better than you. "I think it'll just stick to the bandages if I don't and then it'll open back up when you take them off."

"Best to just let it dry up." Daryl rasped, speaking for the first time since he'd shown up. "Wrap it after."

You nodded and held out the washcloth.

"For your face." You explained with a tired, wary smile when he shot you a confused look. "You want some water or something?"

He shrugged, grimacing from the strain on his back.

You went and grabbed him some anyway and all but threw it onto the coffee table when you returned from the kitchen to find him trying to stand.

"What are you doing!" You hissed, looking beyond concerned.

"I'll get out of your hair." He was staring at the floor, and still shaking.

"No." You shook your head immediately "You're gonna stay right here on the couch."

He didn't answer, but he did sit back down, so you took it as a win and jogged up the stairs to find him some clothes to wear.

You set them down on the edge of the couch wordlessly, unsure if Daryl had fallen asleep or not, once again face down on the couch.

In the morning, he was gone before you woke up.

he ran a brush through it, detangling it again, and holding onto it right above the roots to ensure the knots would cease without causing any pain to her. she was distracted by the accents of her outfit, and he blows out a deep sigh, guilt-stricken at the thought of disappointing his daughter.

“sweetheart, are you sure you can’t have it like this?” he gently attempted to break the news to her, but she adamantly shook her head.

“no, daddy, it has to look like this!” she showed his reference picture again, and he nodded solemnly. he knew that the hair made or broke the costume, and he couldn’t ruin something she was so excited about. checking the time, he decided to employ his last resort. he turns his daughter’s chair around, taking her hand.

“c’mon. let’s go on a lil’ trip.”

bucky didn’t live with his daughter’s mother. the break-up had been swift enough, and he wasn’t too upset about ending the relationship, but he did regret the sheer loss of contact with the woman. she was never really too involved in their child’s life - invested in her own projects - and, though he didn’t too much mind that part, it did become difficult when he needed a woman’s expertise or perspective on certain topics. as close as he and his daughter were, there were simply some things better expressed within her own gender.

that was where she stepped in. she’d moved to the neighborhood just a while over two years ago. at first, they rarely met - her job keeping her out of the house for hours and sometimes days at a time. they’d met at the occasional barbecue or out on their lawns, and those few times showed just how good she was with his daughter. sometime last year, though, she’d switched to working from home and, suddenly, her schedule started lining up with his much more often.

after that, they’d drop by at each other’s places often. first, it was to ask for basics - do you have some sugar i could use? the store’s closed by now and i seem to have forgotten it… or could i borrow a wrench? my old one’s been a bit - er, misplaced, i suppose! - and, after that, it was to ask for small favors - i hate to bother you but i think my sink’s a bit broken and i hate to ask this of you, but could you look over her for a half-hour? i’ve just got to run into the shops.

since then, she’d pop in without warning, a dessert or snack in her hand - homemade, usually. then, when she found out that the young barnes’ favorite pastry was apple pie - courtesy of her uncle steve - she would bring it whenever she could. she’d be met with fond smiles and sung praises from bucky, but also a playful admonishment for spoiling his daughter.

though, he came to realize that, as he did, his daughter also absolutely adored her. she’d been a massive help when confused as to how to deal with his daughter’s expanding interests and emotions that he couldn’t really get.

he still remembered when he’d gone to her - completely baffled - with the topic of his daughter’s new kindergarten boyfriend. she was so young - and he couldn’t fathom the possibility. in fact, he had looked so grief stricken that she had unfortunately laughed when describing the problem, much to his indignance.

she was fantastic and, of course, absolutely gorgeous. had he been anyone else, he would have allowed himself to indulge in the thought of her so much more than this, though close, strictly friendly, neighborly relationship. but bucky knew that, though he was content in his choices, others say parenthood and the light of his life - his daughter - as a burden. after all, she was successful and seemingly fulfilled; who was he to add such a major role to her life.

still, he loved remembering the ways his little girl’s eyes shone at the mention of her.

he rapped on the door, his knuckles tapping the wood loudly. his daughter’s whole hand basically wrapped over one of his fingers, but she’s quick to release it at the sight of her opening the door, instead excitedly rushing to greet her. she grunts at the speed of the little girl’s pounce.

“oh, hello! is everything alright?”

“yeah, yeah, of course!” he reels his daughter back to him, keeping her in place, before swallowing, “just - look she’s got this idea for a hairstyle and i just can’t get the hang of it. could you - uhm -” she nods immediately, ushering the both of them in without hesitation.

they’d been inside several times and, as she ushers his daughter to go wait in the bathroom, he watches her try to finish arranging her candy for the night.

“oh, i’ve got that, please.” he immediately moves to her side, pulling at the super-sized bags on candy to place them in the neatly labelled buckets. she looks as though she wants to argue, but decides against it, smiling graciously as she goes to tend to the little one.

it doesn’t take long for him to finish emptying out the bags into the buckets, and he’s gone to see how the progress is going. she’s already got half of the girl’s pinned up delicately and cleanly, with not much more than a strand out of place. he watches her work her magic with a mixture of fondness at his daughter’s smiling face, and just a sheer awe at her ability to do something that he so struggled with.

it takes her no more that a few more minutes, taking the young girl to do a twirl in her completed outfit in the full-length mirror in the hall. she was giggling as she was being spun, before running to her daddy to show him her hair.

“wow.” it’s a true statement of wonder, and he looks up to see her blush lightly at the inherent complement. she crouches to be at the height of his daughter, caressing her dress with one hand to ease out any wrinkles and lightly taking her hand in the other.

“will i be seeing you, my little warrior?” his daughter looked up at him, and he pursed his lips in thought.

“oh, i’m not sure if your candy emporium -” she laughs at the analogy, “will still be open. we’re hitting our neighborhood last.” he daughter dejectedly looks at her, upset by the news that was new to the both of them. seeing this, she immediately shakes her head.

“it’ll still be open, i promise. d’you promise to come, honey?” she nods eagerly, babbling a promise! back at her, making her laugh, “d’ya promise, buck?” she tilts her head up to look at him, and he smiles.

“i promise.”

his daughter’s arms had gotten tired about halfway through with holding her heavy bag of goodies, and he was quick to her her out. now, with an absolutely brimming bag, they get to their last door of the night. he lifts her up a little so that she can reach the doorbell.

the door opens in moments and, with a toothy grin, she brandishes her bucket (with some support from her father)

“trick or treat!” she smiles at the little girl, picking out a large chocolate bar for the girl.

“and for, my little warrior, the best candy of them all!” having not seen the candy anywhere else, the young girl is elated, grasping at it and thanking her several times over. she looks up at the somewhat exhausted image of bucky, and smiles sympathetically to him, “wanna come in for a bit?” he looks a little surprised by the offer.

“are you sure?”

“’f course.” his daughter looks up at him.

“can i show her my candy, daddy?” she responds for him.

“of course you can, honey. c’mon, let’s got to the couch.”

as his daughter arranges her assorted goods on the coffee table, she brews hot chocolate for everyone, presenting the sweet drink in front of them in a few moments.

his daughter begins to explain her different treats but, as her drink dwindles, so too does her energy, and she’s quick to pass out on the floor. her father places her onto the couch, stroking her arm lightly to keep her in the soft lull of sleep.

“you’re real nice to her, you know.” he says it after a moment of silence, and it catches her a bit off-guard.

“she deserves it. she’s a real good kid - in most part due to her father.” she can see him flush at the compliment, and smiles.

“you help me out a lot, y’know.” she knows, but she also knows that he’d do the same for her.

“well, you are my favorite neighbor.”

“you mean it?” his tone’s a little different, and she looks up to see a gleam of flirtation in his eyes.

“i mean, who else could make single parenthood look so easy - and look good doing it?” he laughs, and she does too.

“she really likes you…loves you, i think. is that forward?” he’s a little worried by the comment, but he knows she won’t take it too oddly.

“not at all - i like-slash-love her too.” he smiles, as they both go silent, and for a moment, she knows what he’s thinking.

“do you think i could ever-”

“yes.”

“i didn’t ask the question?”

“shit, oh - no, it was just very obvious what you were gonna ask - go ahead, though, you can be a gentleman about it.” he laughs at her blunt response, but continues.

“alright then - could i ever take you out for a dinner? or a drink?”

she had been nodding already as he was asking the question, and he suddenly felt elated at her lack of hesitation

“please, that would be lovely.”

“will you come over to mine, then? friday?” she thinks for a moment, before nodding.

“friday’s good.” he looks at his daughter.

“i’ll find someone else to babysit for a change, then.” she laughs.

“nah, she can stay. i think it’ll be nicer.”

“y’think?”

“i know - who wouldn’t want her. she’s adorable!”

“you’re adorable.” she rolls her eyes at the cheesy comment, but the pink on her neck indicates her actual feelings.

“that was awful.”

“you liked it.”

“only because you’re the one saying it.”

“what can i say?”

“don’t say. get home, tuck her in and pick me up friday - 7 p.m.”

Dex knew what he had to do. It was the only way. Now that he’d lost his structure and routine, there was no point. The buzzing was getting louder. The voices were pushing him forward, telling him what he should do. That he was all alone. That no-one wanted him. And he believed it. How could he not? Everyone always left him in the end, and he wasn’t even useful at work. He wasn’t a person; he was a problem.

Dex carefully placed the full box of bullets on the dining table in front of him, where he sat, filling his own gun with as many as it would allow before putting the gun together. He cocked the hammer and, with shaky hands, brought the muzzle of the gun under his chin. He tried to calm his breathing as he held the gun tightly, moving his right index finger towards the trigger.

Suddenly, the buzzing and voices in his head were broken by a knock on the door.

“Dex,” you called, “it’s just me. Heard you come home and wanted to check in on you after yesterday.”

Dex breathed heavily, wiping at his face to get rid of the tears, but more just rolled down his cheeks. You were back again, caring about him, wanting to make sure he was okay. How many people had done that for him? Come back into his life? He couldn’t think of a time when they had. Everyone always left.

Dex clicked the safety back on and put the gun on the table, before slowly making his way to the door, trying to stop the shaking in his hands so you wouldn’t know anything was wrong. That he was wrong.

He was met with your smiling, but slightly anxious, face, which quickly turned into a frown.

“What’s wrong? Did something else happen?” You were so worried, and it broke him.

He started sobbing and couldn’t stop, holding onto the door like it could hold him up. It couldn’t, and he felt himself sliding down towards the floor.

You caught him before he could hit the ground, wrapping your arms around his hunched-over form and running your fingers through his hair. You made sure the door was shut to at least give the illusion of privacy, even if the walls were thin.

Dex was tall and broad, but he felt so small and fragile like this.

You could hear him muttering, but you weren’t quite sure what he was trying to say. You only got glimpses of words. “Sorry”, and “tried”, and “not good”. You weren’t sure if he was talking to you, himself, or someone else, but you couldn’t ask, not when he was like this.

Instead, you rocked him back and forth, stroked his hair and back, and repeated “I’ve got you”, which made him hold on tighter.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there for, but eventually his crying subsided, and he began to pull away from you.

“Sorry,” he murmured, getting up and wiping his face. “I’m okay. You can go back to your apartment. I have work to do.” Apart from ‘sorry’, every word he spoke was a lie. He wasn’t okay, he didn’t want you to leave, and he definitely didn’t have any work to do. The thought of work made him want to cry again, but he swallowed the feeling, not wanting to cry in front of you again.

“Dex,” you spoke softly, “you’re clearly not okay. You can talk to me, you know. About anything. What happened?” You didn’t want to push, but you could feel that something was very wrong and that things would get worse if you left. You pushed yourself up off the floor and stood in front of him with your hands out, like you were approaching a scared and wounded animal.

Dex closed his eyes and shook his head as he could feel himself beginning to spiral again. The buzzing was becoming noticeable, his breathing hitched, and the tears started flowing.

You could see him start to fall apart, so you did what you did before; you placed your hand on his forearm and gently rubbed your thumb against his skin. He exhaled heavily at the feeling and let himself be grounded by your touch.

“Come on,” you said when you felt him relax a little, taking his hand and moving towards his bedroom, avoiding the mess that was still on the floor of his apartment from the night before.

“What are we doing?” Dex croaked out, voice dry and breaking from the crying.

“Grab some comfortable clothes, we’ll go to mine and watch some mindless crap on TV. I’ll make us something to eat while you take a relaxing bath. You can stay with me tonight if you want. I don’t really want to leave you alone when you’re so upset.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but you still weren’t sure what you had just walked in on, so you were worried.

Dex didn’t know what to say, so he gave a small nod and grabbed some old sweats from his days at Quantico. He noticed that you were already in your own comfortable-looking clothes. You looked so soft and kind. You took his hand again and led him back through his apartment to the door, but stopped when you noticed what was on his dining table.

“Dex?” Your eyes were wide, and your voice shook. You knew what the scene before you was. It was something you had seen on TV. Something you had seen online when you had thought about it yourself once or twice.

Dex froze beside you, trying to come up with an excuse.

“I-I was just-just doing maintenance, for work, you know? Make-making sure –” He cut himself off, knowing that it wasn’t believable. The way he said the words wouldn’t have been believable to anyone, and the gun clearly wasn’t a standard-issued government gun, even if he was a sniper for the FBI SWAT. It was obviously his own, personal gun.

You took your hoodie off and threw it over the items, not wanting yourself or Dex to see them anymore, before taking his hand again and pulling him away from the apartment, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter on the way.

You held onto his hand and didn’t let go. Not while you opened your apartment door. Not while you got food out. Not even while you ran a bath and added bath salts and a relaxing muscle soak. Eventually, though, when the bath was the right height and temperature, you had to let go and leave him to let the warmth and aroma wash over him. You didn’t want to leave him alone, not when he was vulnerable, but it was right to give him privacy.

“Wait,” Dex finally spoke. “Will you stay? Please? I…erm…I don’t want to be alone.” He looked down, embarrassed by being so needy.

“Of course.” You smiled softly at him, letting him know that it was okay for him to ask for things.

You turned around while he got undressed and settled into the water, then sat beside the tub and held his still bandaged hand, rubbing your thumb against his hurt knuckles. You could see the bruises, cuts, and scars that littered his body as you had yesterday, but you still didn’t say anything, hoping that he would talk about them when he was ready.

Dex knew that you saw what was covering his body and hoped you wouldn’t ask, not yet, but you hadn’t yesterday. When you didn’t speak, he slowly started to relax, breathing deeply, letting your touch soothe him as he shut his eyes.

You let your other hand brush strands of his hair away from his face, feeling them wanting to stick to his forehead that was still a little sticky from his earlier spirals.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?” You asked, lightly scratching his scalp. Dex leaned into your touch and nodded, humming in confirmation, feeling too relaxed to voice actual words.

Your fingers felt like heaven as they massaged the shampoo through his now darkened hair, using the perfect amount of pressure to keep the buzzing at bay. The repetitive motions could have lulled him to sleep, but he didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. He wanted to spend more time with you. Talk with you. Maybe even tell you about what had happened.

All too soon, after you had rinsed the suds out of his hair, his skin began to prune, and the water started to cool. Without a word, you handed him one larger towel for him to wrap around himself and a smaller one to dry his hair with. They were so fluffy and warm, as if they were brand new and had just come out of the dryer. You led him to your bedroom to allow him to get dry and changed, while you waited just outside the open door, allowing him to be able to see you but still have privacy.

When he was dressed, you took his hand and walked with him to the kitchen, putting a pan of water on the stove.

“Is pasta okay?” You asked.

“Sounds perfect,” he responded, letting a small but genuine smile grace his lips.

You cooked with one hand, not wanting to let go of Dex, while he watched you, absolutely content with having your hand in his, willing to go anywhere as long as you didn’t let go.

Once the pasta was cooked, you separated it into two bowls, grabbed some water, and headed to the couch, still never letting go of his hand. You even held hands while you ate and watched something mindless on TV, not wanting to part and loving the comforting feeling it gave you both.

When the food was finished, Dex sighed, knowing what was coming next. He knew he would have to speak; he wanted to tell you everything, but he was still so nervous. Your actions from both yesterday and today told him that you wouldn’t leave or kick him out, but there was still the possibility that you would. That you wouldn’t want to deal with this and decide that he’s not worth it.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, Dex,” you reassured him. “We can just sit here if you’d prefer.”

“No,” Dex exhaled. “I need to.” You didn’t say anything back, only nodded and waited for him to be ready.

“I’ve been put on leave at work. I ’m-erm-I’m under investigation for what happened during Fisk’s transfer. I didn’t even wanna be part of it, but gotta do what the boss wants, right?” Dex let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Didn’t even know I was being investigated until it was front page in The Bulletin. The higher-ups aren’t happy it got leaked, so to make it look like they’re actually doing something useful, they made me hand in my badge. Said they’ll be an investigation into how it leaked but,” at that, he shrugged. “Told me to “think of it as a paid vacation”, how fucked up is that? And I’ve worked enough that I probably have enough days to use as PTO. I don’t want time off. I want to work. I need to work. I need the routine, the structure. I’m gonna be shut out, and then I’ll have nothing.” The buzzing was getting louder.

“And when I walked out,” he sighed, shook his head, and ran his hand down his face. “The way everyone was looking at me…” He trailed off, not knowing what to say, but you understood. “My partner said he’s on my side and that he “commended my conduct” in his report of what happened, but I don’t know if I believe him. I doubt it’ll make a difference anyway. Once the bosses decide something, that’s pretty much it. Not like they actually care about you anyway. They just want someone else to get their hands dirty, so they don’t have to, even though they’re the ones giving the orders.”

He paused for a moment before continuing.

“I just-I don’t have anything anymore, so what’s the point? I’ve never been good or normal or stable, and I never will be. I’m not living, I’m just existing. Taking up space. I need it to stop. I need everything to stop. I might as well just end it all and make everyone’s lives easier. Not like anyone would miss me anyway.” His hazel eyes glistened in the low light of your living room. He looked defeated, like he had truly given up and believed everything he was saying.

“I would.” The words came out broken as you finally spoke. “I’d miss you.” He shook his head, but you insisted. “I really would miss you if you were no longer here, Dex.”

“Maybe at first,” he shrugged. “But then you’d move on with your life. You’d get distracted by work and friends and bills and eventually forget about me. Maybe you’d occasionally remember me when your new neighbours are too loud, but you’d be out there, living your life, doing good in the world. You wouldn’t need someone like me in your life – alive or dead.”

And you broke.

He really meant it. He really didn’t think he deserved to live anymore. That no-one would notice or care. Maybe he never thought he deserved to live.

You sobbed, throwing your arms around him, holding him tight. As if the force in which you held him to you could hold him together, stop him from completely shattering.

“No. NO! Don’t-don’t you dare say that! Don’t you dare, Dex!” Tears streamed down your face as you clung to the back of his shirt.

He held back just as tight, not really sure what else to do. No-one had cared this much before, and he wasn’t good with emotions. Not his own, and certainly not other people’s. But he understood that he was supposed to comfort you, like you had done for him.

You sat there holding each other for what felt like an eternity.

When your sobs turned to sniffles, you pulled apart so you could see the other’s face. He wiped your tears, but they just kept coming.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” you told him. “Just don’t leave. Please.”

“I can’t make any promises,” he started. “But I can try.”

“Okay,” you nodded, brushing his hair away from his face. “You are good, you know? You know how I know?” Dex shook his head. “If you weren’t good, you wouldn’t know, and you certainly wouldn’t say it out loud. I might not know you, but I’d like to.”

“Yeah?” He felt hopeful. Maybe things could work out, and he could be better.

“Yeah,” you smiled, and he returned it. “What did you mean before when you said you need everything to stop?”

He dropped his head, sighing. “I…erm…” He took a deep breath and looked at you again. “There’s this…noise in my head when things get too much, like a buzzing. And I can hear people saying things. Things they might or might not have said. Things they meant to say. That I’m all alone. I don’t have anyone. No-one wants me. And I’m not sure what’s real and what I’ve made up in my head.”

“Does anything ease it?” You asked.

“Sitting here with you right now is certainly helping.” A cheeky smile made his lips curl. “But yeah. When I was younger, I had a therapist, and she recorded our sessions. But after our last session, she gave me the tapes. So I could “use the tools she gave me effectively” or some therapy-speak bullshit. She was good. I liked her. Tried some different therapists after her, but they weren’t the same. Didn’t feel like they understood me. Or even cared. Not like her. The tapes help with the noise, though. Gives me something to focus on.” You nodded.

There was a beat of silence before Dex spoke again.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do now, though. Without work. Without the routine.”

“You could go back to that office and tell them to fuck off with their investigation and their leaks and this protecting Fisk bullshit. Throw his ass back in jail and let him rot. Then ask if Fisk got the word out about the investigation.” At that, he raised one eyebrow. “I wouldn’t trust anything about that fucker, so he’s probably got every FBI agent bugged or on his payroll. Something like that would be kept under wraps, right?” Dex nodded. “So only a select few people would know. Which means either one of your bosses leaked it to the press, or–”

“Or. They’re with Fisk,” he finished.

“Yep. And which is more likely?” You already knew the answer.

“People can always use more money.” Dex rolled his eyes. People always wanted more than they had. “And The Bulletin wouldn’t pay that good. Even for a story like this. No-one would risk their job for that kind of money. But for the kind of money that Fisk has? Probably.”

“It’s lucky that I know someone who works at The Bulletin, isn’t it? And she happens to be pretty close to the editor-in-chief. Oh, and she hates Fisk. She’s also very good friends with a great lawyer at a very fancy law firm. But d’y’know what’s even better?” A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips.

“What?” Dex asked, very curious as to where this was going.

“That lawyer was one of the ones who put Fisk away.” Your smirk grew.

“Wow! Friends in high places, huh?” He returned your smirk. “Anything else I should know about you?”

“I also know of an excellent private investigator. She’s very discreet.” You smiled when you thought of Jessica. She was a bit…you weren’t really sure of the word, but she was nice enough the couple of times you met her.

“Maybe you could introduce me to these hotshot people you know?” Dex could feel something blooming in his chest. Maybe things weren’t completely hopeless. Maybe he could take Fisk down, get his job back, become close with you. Maybe his life could be okay again.

“Maybe, but for now, I think we could both use some sleep, huh? You look like you’re about to pass out for a week. You’re exhausted, Dex.” You lightly brushed your thumbs under his eyes, tracing the dark circles.

He hummed, leaning in towards your touch and closing his eyes.

“Come on,” you said softly, taking his hand in yours, pulling you both off the couch.

You led him to your bedroom and turned on the little lamp on the bedside table.

“You can sleep in here, and I’ll sleep on the couch.” Dex tried to interrupt, but you spoke before he could. “No arguments. You need a decent night’s sleep, Dex. That doesn’t usually happen on a couch.” You didn’t want to leave him, but you weren’t sure if he was comfortable with you staying.

“Could you…maybe…if it’s okay…unless you’re uncomfortable.” You didn’t interrupt, just smiled softly, giving him time. He exhaled, gathering courage he didn’t have. “Could you stay with me? I don’t…I don’t want to be alone. I don’t trust myself,” he admitted.

“Of course,” you told him, running your thumb across his bandaged knuckles.

You both got into your bed, and Dex felt himself melt into your mattress. It was so comfortable, and your sheets were so soft. You gravitated towards each other, your arms automatically going around him, one hand stroking up and down his back, the other running through his hair.

Dex held onto you, his face nestling into the crook of your neck. He never wanted to leave the safe cocoon that you provided. He breathed you in, exhaling a little shakily when you said, “I’ve got you.” He knew it was the truth because he could feel your pulse and heartbeat. It stayed steady as you spoke.

He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but he knew you would be there to help.

You both drifted off into a peaceful sleep, holding each other. Forgetting about what brought you to where you both were now. Not thinking about the mess in Dex’s apartment or the bullets and loaded gun on the dining table. Ignoring the high likelihood that Fisk would end up coming after you both.

You lulled each other to sleep.

And Dex found himself having hope.

fin

Taglist: @deathhppunch @marquiserose @artandpunishment @chunkpiboliboli @rporter19

You'd waited until Daryl had been asleep for a couple hours before sneaking out of bed and perching yourself on the open window's ledge with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. You glanced over your shoulder every few seconds after lighting your first one until you were sure that he was still asleep.

You'd had a plan before even getting out of bed. You'd gone back and fourth inside your head a few times before grimacing to yourself in the dark and peeling the covers back.

The first burn always hurt the worst. Especially when it was aimed at the crook of your elbow, where the skin was thin and translucent.

You had to stifle a gasp, gritting your teeth as you held the end of your lit cigarette to your skin until it went out.

It was a shitty thing to do with Daryl in the room, but you just could not shake the urge and you certainly couldn't wait until he left the following morning.

If he left the following morning.

You were shaking by the time you'd re-lit the same cigarette and took a drag before pressing it to your skin.

You just kept going.

Every burn felt ritualistic and frantic. Your body knew the pain it was about to experience before each one and you had to fight not to flinch away before you could get what you wanted.

You needed the tether.

Needed to feel the ache to convince yourself that you were alive and breathing.

It was working, too.

At least, it was, until you felt yourself being yanked back inside and found yourself face to face with a pissed-off-looking Daryl.

"What the hell?" He hissed, grabbing yoru wrist roughly to better see the self inflicted damage.

You tried to jerk your arm back, in a panic, but he was holding you too tightly.

Hisi eyes washed over the six new burns, and then the other, older ones peppering the rest of your arm. There had to be a dozen of them, in various stages of healing.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Daryl cursed under his breath before finally letting you go.

Your relief was short lived. You'd let your arm fall back to your side and taken a step back, but started flailing again when he grabbed your other arm and yanked up your sleeve. He all but snarled at the similar array of burns.

"Stop." your voice was weak and scratchy "Daryl, let me go."

"How long you been doin' this?"

You kept your eyes glued to the floor and shrugged.

"Why?" He tried, letting you shake him off, but stepped between you and the door like he just knew you were thinking about running.

"I don't know." You muttered.

"Do I need to follow ya 'round everywhere?" Daryl asked, squinting at you in the moonlight "Check every day and make sure there ain't more?"

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, full of annoyance and an anxious anger that made his skin itch.

"It's none of your fucking business, Daryl. Leave it."

"Everythin' ya do is my business!" He threw his hands up in frustration, shouting "You're like a goddamn child." "Fine." You spat, flattening yourself against the wall "Then leave!"

"What?" he scoffed "So you can kill yourself or somethin'?"

Your eyes widened slightly, clouded with a hurt you knew damn well you had no right to feel. Still, Daryl immediately deflated, looking like he'd noticed his mistep. "That's not what this is about." You breathed, frowning hard "I don't need a babysitter."

"I know." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"This isn't your shit to deal with." You shook your head "I don't want you to feel responsible for me. I don't need you to."

"That's kinda how this works." Daryl muttered, gnawing on his thumbnail the way he did when he was uncomfortable or nervous. "You deal with my shit and I deal with yours"

You weren't sure what to say to that. It kind of was how the two of you had been managing all those months. You sat at the edge of the bed and breathed a sigh of relief when Daryl joined you. Not touching, but there.

"You gonna keep doin' that?" He asked after a beat of silence.

"Doing what?" You hummed absently.

"Burnin' yourself."

"Oh." You frowned "I don't know. No?"

"Ain't very reassuring." He breathed, not looking at you.

"S'all I've got."

The two of you crawled back into bed eventualy and Daryl pulled you into his arms like he was scared you'd try and slip away from him until you fell asleep.

He laid there for hours staring at the ceiling and worrying his bottom lip until he too fell asleep.

Still a little disoriented and half asleep, you groaned when you felt Daryl twitch in his sleep. He did it again anf you inhaled sharply when you caught an elbow to the spine.

"Christ Dare" You hissed, sitting up abruptly to switch on the lamp on your nightstand. "That shit hu-"

The word trailed off as your annoyance shifted to concern once you realized that he was still fast asleep and obviously having some kind of nightmare.

His skin was slick with a layer of cold sweat and his hair was plastered to his forehead as he thrashed next to you.

"Daryl?" You spoke softly, trying to wake him without catching a stray fist. "Hey, wake up."

He let out a whimper, so soft and wounded, and so unlike Daryl that it had you grabbing him harder by the shoulders.

"Daryl!" You spoke louder, hovering over him and letting your weight fall onto your hands.

He woke with a gasp and eyes full of blind panic until his thoughts slowed enough for him to understand that he'd only been dreaming.

You sat back on your heels, a little taken aback, when he sat up and swung his legs out of bed and slumped over, holding his head in his hands while he tried to slow his breathing.

You weren't sure what to do with yourself, afraid of making it worse somehow, and sat there, watching him while you gnawed on your bottom lip.

When he swiped a pack of cigarettes off the floor and lit one while still in bed, you knew that whatever he'd been dreaming of was bad.

Daryl didn't smoke in bed.

Ever.

Images of your limp body hanging from the ceiling fan replayed inside Daryl's head, bringing him right back to his dreams.

The two of you had been talking and he'd stepped away for two seconds to grab something from downstairs.

By the time he came back, you were already cold, and his hands just couldn't undo the knots. He'd been trying to hold you up like it would make a difference. Like your lips hadn't already turned blue.

It had felt like the entire world was burning around him.

"Can't do that again." Daryl breathed shakily, flicking the half finished cigarette into the glass of water perched on the windowsill before turning over and abruptly pulling you into his chest.

"I ain't fuckin' loosin' ya like that. You hear me?" He rasped into your hair "Not to your own goddamn hand."

You felt the guilt sink in and nodded, still wrapped up in his arms.

"I'm sorry-"

"Shut up." he cut you off, unsure if he'd be able to keep himself from crying if he couldn't just hold you and feel your warmth. Feel your chest moving against his as proof that you were still breathing. "Just Shut up."