NOT HER, NOT EVER. -> D. DIXON
table of contents; established relationship, strong language, implications of assault, protective!daryl, hurt/comfort, soft!daryl (only with you), some fluff at the end
when your group settled into alexandria, which was once rick had finally deemed it safe and its people trustworthy, you resumed the domestic role you played before the world ended.
as did carol.
in all honesty, the pair of you never really abandoned your places as the mothers of the bunch, neither did lori when she was aliveâthough they were actually mothers, so it came naturally to them. but before maggie, you were the only other married woman in the group; so the duties of chef, laundrette, healer, moral compass, voice of reasonâand the likeâwerenât anything you hadnât become accustomed to throughout your marriage to the. . . letâs say, untameable of the group.
and you loved it.
the normalcy of it. the familiarity.
the way that whilst you were vacuuming your new home and scrubbing last nightâs dishes, the world was still falling apart beyond those red gates; yet if you were to wake up here after all these years, youâd be none the wiser.
it was almost perfect.
but not every resident welcomed you warmly.
rick had already had a run-in with pete anderson, alexandriaâs doctor. quite simply, rick took a shining to peteâs wife who didnât make an effort to rebuff his advances.
but since rickâs wife is dead and heâs yet to replace her, not that he isnât trying (and with another manâs wife, no less) â peteâs sights settled on the next best thing.
and who better than the wife of rickâs best friend and second-in-command?
the clock ticks, the ceiling fan whirs, the house creaks against its earthy shrine, and here you sit.
the faucet drips, you sit.
the breeze curls against the windows. still, you sit.
your book remains open in your lap; you stopped reading it at least an hour ago. you kept rereading the same line anyway.
you swallow, itâs painful. your fingers brush your throat where a gnarly bruise blackens the skin, you wince.
but when the front door opens, you jump.
itâs only daryl, of course it is. itâs always daryl.
âhey,â he greets in his usual tired, a little rough, very raspy voice. heâs always tired after a day of hunting or scouting with aaron. âyâalright, babe?â
you hum a meek âmhmmâ, head faced away from him.
you know he heard you. he hears everything.
with his boots still on, muddy and wet, he slings a rabbitâalready skinnedâonto the kitchen island.
two things that would usually earn him a word of warning, or at the very least a stern glare. but you donât so much as bat an eye.
red flag number one.
âgot dinner.â he tells you, gesturing to the little animalâdead on the counter.
he expects you to jump up and wax poetic about the importance of food hygiene and a sterile cooking environment.
you do nothing. âthank you, baby.â
daryl grunts. âuh-huh,â his thumbnail finds its way between his teeth, nibbled and gnawed, then he flicks his hair from his eyes. âwhatcha do tâday?â
ânot a lot.â you stretch your hoodie sleeves over your hands, then prop your cheek against your hand, conveniently shielding your face with your palm. âsame old, really. did you and aaron find any survivors?â
ânah,â he frowns, fingers picking at the calluses on his hands. âjust this lilâ guy.â he juts his chin at the rabbit, not that youâre looking at him to take notice.
youâre always so eager to welcome him home, hear about his time beyond the walls whilst you prepare supper, then tell him all about your day once heâs done.
but not tonight. that there is red flag number two.
âgonna tell me whatâs up?â he asks, voice low. thin, even. like heâs afraid to hear your answer.
âiâm just tired.â you lie, pretending to scrub your eyesâjust another excuse to conceal your injuries, something that doesnât go amiss.
he sees everything, especially when it comes to you.
âi think iâll head up to bed after iâve made your dinner, i barely got a wink of sleep last night.â
you were fast asleep when he got up this morning. out cold, dead to the world as you snored softly with a faint smile on your face.
because even in sleepâs embrace, youâre happy. always happy.
the light of the group, the heart and soul that glues them together.
if youâd had a restless night, it wouldâve woken him. darylâs a light sleeper, but not you.
youâre lying.
and there goes red flag number three.
âainât gonna eat with me?â he asks, circling the kitchen until heâs in front of you.
you look away.
âi ate lunch pretty late, my own stupid fault.â you look down at your book, pretending to read.
he takes note that youâre on the first page, the one where the author pays tribute or dedicates the novel to a loved one. you never read those, you always skip to the first chapter like everyone else. no one reads the prologuesâhe never understood why authors bother to write them.
daryl clears his throat, chest tight. you shrink into yourself when he sits atop the coffee table, hands clasped. âhey,â he tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse of your face. âlook at me.â
you refuse, finally turning the page of your book. you skim over the words, not absorbing a single one of them.
âbaby.â his hand, tanned and weathered, flattens over your page. âneed ya to look at me.â
you blink, then ghost a finger over his knucklesâscarred, dry. you trace down to his wrist, then his forearm. he catches you with his other hand, holding yours within it. he gives it one squeeze, then circles his thumb over the back of it.
he taps it once, twice, thrice.
âiâll sit here âtil ya do.â he takes your book and places it on the table beside him. âthen weâll both go hungry ân sleepless.â he grips your other hand, comforting.
then he twists them to face palm-up and lifts your wrists to the light, the unmistakable markings of fingers that werenât his revealing themselves in all their morbid glory. âfuckâs all this?â
his voice is low and gritty. lethal.
itâs not what he says, itâs the way he says it.
âdaryl. . .â
âwho?â he asks, lower. you almost donât hear him.
you open your mouth, then close it again. each word that manages to surpass a thought dies on your tongue.
he goes stiller than stone.
âi was testing some lipstick shades but they were all a bit too brightâdidnât suit my complexion. they obviously left a stain.â you try to free your wrists but he holds them tighter. â. . .theyâll wash off.â
you donât wear make-up.
âcâmon, then.â he stands, pulling you up with him.
âdarylââ
you struggle against him as he drags you toward the kitchen sink.
âwash âem off.â he finally lets go of you to turn the tap on.
you freeze, staring at the flow of water like itâs your first day on earth.
a finger hooks under your chin, gentle in its guidance. you allow him to finally look at you, tears immediately gathering in the wells of your eyes.
his stare hardens, blue eyes flitting like heâs picturing every possible scenario or reconstructing a crime scene.
âdo nothing.â you whisper, placing your hand over his heart. it hammers against your palm like its trying to punch itself free. âwe need this.â you motion around you. âwe earned this.â
he scuffs a knuckle over the swell of your cheek, then the purplish blotch that cups your eye.
you grimace, he scowls.
âgot lipstick on yer cheek, did ya?â
âplease,â you take his face in your hands. âiâm okay.â
âtake it off.â he grumbles, eyes now pinned to your hoodie.
âwhatâ?â
âfuckinâ take if off.â he repeats, dark. firm.
you shudder, a fat bile rising into your throat. youâre not afraid of him, but of what heâll do when he sees.
âainât gonna hurt ya,â he softens his voice. âjust need to see.â
you know heâd never hurt you.
you take the hoodie off.
he looks. like, really looks. gently, as though you might snap, he lifts your arms. your ribs are bruised, as is your neck.
âname.â he gruffs.
âno.â you refuse.
his eyes find yours, permeating. âname.â
you huff out, hugging your arms to your middle. âpete.â
his jaw ticks, shoulders rigid like a board.
âbut donât do anything, please, stay here with me.â
you expect him to smash a plate or send his fist through the wall, but he does neither of those things. he cups your elbow, his other hand finding rest stop at your shoulder. âgo upstairs.â he nods toward the staircase, expression dead like he feels nothing at all. you know itâs a front; that thing he does when he doesnât want to frighten you. âiâll meet ya up there.â
âdarylââ
âiâll meet ya up there.â he persists, pressing you ahead of him by the small of your back.
âwhatâre you going to do?â you ask, turning at the step.
he gazes down at you, unreadable. masked.
youâve seen that look beforeâyou donât need to hear him say it.
you head upstairs.
only once heâs heard the door to your shared bedroom close does he charge for the front door, snatching his crossbow from the porch on his way.
the moon is high in the sky when you hear the front door open and close upon someoneâs arrival.
or more-so, their return.
itâs even higher by the time you feel the mattress dip, a welcome warmth embracing you.
âwhereâve you been?â you ask, sleepily.
âwhereâd ya think?â he murmurs, huddling against you.
you reach over to flip the bedside lamp on and you both groanâyou when you sit up, and he when light floods the room.
his knuckles are skinned, dried blood crusted around his nails. you peer over at the corner where he likes to discard his clothes, even though the laundry basket is right there.
his shirt is soiled where brownish blood sprays it, and you spot some rips and tears that werenât there before, like there was a bit of a scuffle.
âis he alive?â
your questions hangs in the air for a moment.
âbarely.â he finally answers, arm slung lazily over your lap.
âhow bad did youââ
âdonât matter.â he husks, eyes closed. âhe ainât gonna bother ya again, so donât worry âbout it.â
âcan he even walk? or talk? does he even remember who he is?â you donât deny he deserved it, but if the monroes catch wind of this, youâll be out on your asses.
âhe can walk.â he tells you, thumb massaging your tummy. âgo to sleep.â
you lay yourself back with a sigh, your face and torso still on fire. âdid he say anything about it?â
âmade him admit it first.â daryl shrugs a little, hand flat like a paper weight on your lower belly. âwanted to see if he was a man at all.â
âand?â
âbeat it outâa him eventually, but if he was a man he wouldnâtâve touched ya in the fuckinâ first place.â he goes tense against you, like heâd been trying to force that part from his memory.
âwell, thank you for letting him live.â you place your hands over his, a lighthearted inflection to your tone.
âdidnât wanna, but heâs got a woman nâ kids at homeâeven if theyâd be better off. âsides, it wouldâa been a mercy. heâs gotta live with what he did nâ what came for him after he did it.â
you hum, rolling your head to the side so youâre facing him. as if feeling your gaze, he opens one eye, droopy and tired. âwhat else does he have to live with?â
a small smirk teases the corner of his mouthâone of satisfaction. âfew broken bones nâ a busted lip.â
âheâll tell deanna and reg.â you warn softly, tucking a stray of shaggy hair from his face.
ânah, told him if he did i wouldnât be so forgivinâ next time.â his breathing slows as you comb your fingers through his hair, nails scraping soothingly against his scalp. âheâs a doctor, ainât he? heâll be fine.â
âi guess.â
âwant ya to go see maggie or carol first thing, get yerself checked up.â his hand slides to give your hip a gentle squeeze, then returns to splay over your front.
you boop his nose in return and that same eye peels open to glare at you. âiâm fine, my ribs arenât broken. just sore.â
âdonât care.â he grouches, hand lifting to point a finger at your face. âand these.â
âjust cuts,â you catch his finger, then try to pinch it between your teeth. he snatches it away with a dry chuckle. âtheyâll heal.â
âwoman, just fuckinâ do it.â he insists, his tone jestful but still deadly serious.
you snort. âoh, iâm convinced!â
âdamn right ya are.â
a knock at the front door disrupts you.
âignore âem.â daryl grumbles, leaning over you to switch the light off.
âi know yâall are awake!â you hear a voice call up.
you frown. âis that rick?â
âyep.â daryl reaches up to close the window, then flops back down.
you wince. âdaryl, careful.â
âsorry.â
âsaw your light go out!â rick knocks again.
âgo let him in.â you give daryl a nudge. âit might be about pete.â
âexactly.â he gripes.
âiâll just keep knockinâ!â
âyou know he will.â you nudge him harder this time. âtell him the truth, heâll be on our side.â
then the jarring sound of a nasally snore fills the room. he never snores.
âi know youâre faking.â you shake him. âdaryl.â
the âsnoringâ gets louder.
you purse your lips, then throw the covers off and kick your legs over the side. âmaking your wounded wife answer the door in the middle of the night.â you tut, tying your robe as loosely as you can. âunbelievable.â
his face meets the wrath of your pillow when you toss it at him, then you pad across the room. âcoming!â











