He hates you. He despises you. He can't stand looking at you. And all this because he just can't deal with the thought of not being enough to earn your attention.
Daryl Dixon x fem!reader / prison era
Warnings: blood, mention of death
I don't really know how I feel about this one. I wrote it on my phone at work, but decided to share.
"Denial sleeps soundly until something cataclysmic wakes it up."
— Michelle Gochett Edwards
Daryl Dixon had never loved a woman before. Perhaps as a little boy he loved his mother, but then she died, leaving him and his brother with that pathetic excuse for a man that was their father, and all those warm feelings died out. All that remained in him was anger and regret. Oh, yes, Daryl was a very angry boy. And then a very angry teenager. And a very angry young man. It was only the apocalypse that gave him different priorities. Survival was still number one, of course, but above that were his obligations to his people, to the community. Defending the weak. What was definitely not there, however, was love.
Daryl didn't even fully understand the concept of love, especially in a post-apocalyptic world where every day was a struggle for survival. He couldn't comprehend the idea of having someone he would have to constantly care for, worry about, someone whose thoughts would cloud his rational assessment of a situation. Well, yes, he took care of the people around him every day, but only because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated to do so. No one told him to. He felt no obligation to anyone but himself and his conscience. In his mind, love was just a burden he didn't need in his life. An unnecessary ballast.
That's why, when his gaze began to linger on you a little more often than on others, he tried not to think about it too intensively. He simply blamed his heightened senses and caution for it—it wasn't that he wanted to look at you. You were just kind of there, another survivor from Woodbury, hidden behind high walls for many months while he and his people fought for their lives outside in this cruel world. Another princess who had no idea what reality was like. That's why he watched you—to make sure your inexperience didn't put anyone in danger, just as he watched all the other survivors that he brought inside the prison walls. He paid attention to every detail so that he would be prepared for anything. In a way, it was also because, by some strange coincidence, you were everywhere he went, like a fucking plague he couldn't escape. You couldn't just sit in one place for more than an hour. No, that was impossible. His eyes saw you everywhere, even where he didn't expect you to be. At one point, it even crossed his mind that he would soon see you in the shower or in his bed, and these thoughts evoked a strange feeling in him, as if he were being flooded with warmth from within. His aversion to you clearly began to border on something deeper, even more negative. How else could that weird feeling be explained?
Meanwhile, you tried your best to be useful, and that, in turn, irritated him so much that he felt it deep in his stomach whenever he saw you. Like a sudden cramp, only warmer and impossible to get rid of. You were a nuisance to him, and you didn't even realize it, because whenever you saw him, you nodded your head in greeting with a radiant smile so dazzling that it was unbearable.
Your irritating presence made him watch. He watched all your failed attempts at shooting a gun, he watched you flinch at the sight of blood, he watched your disgusted expression when you helped around the fence. He watched you not eat any of the animals he hunted and brought to the prison because you didn't eat fucking meat. Oh, how he wanted to walk up to you and shake you so you would start thinking rationally. He told himself that he only paid attention to you because you were dead weight; someone who would most likely be the first to die, and that could end badly for the people around you. He saw how much they craved your attention and didn't understand why. You were friendly, yes, and you smiled at them so broadly that it hurt to watch, but you were useless to the community.
The thing is, they liked you—all of them—and he was slowly losing his patience watching them cling to your company. Especially the guys. You were just an average girl, damn it. There was nothing special about you, and they acted like you were some fucking goddess. They followed you around with their tongues hanging out, just waiting for you to notice them, and of course you did, grinning widely like a crazy person, always so cheery. Daryl watched from a distance, barely refraining from dispersing the crowd. You should also find something more useful to do, maybe help with the fence or at least learn how to shoot a gun, which you haven't mastered yet. If you didn't irritate him so much that the very thought of being near you made him shudder, he could teach you himself. But he couldn't stand being around you for even a moment. His body began to sweat, and his hands trembled strangely. He seemed to have some kind of allergic reaction to you.
“Ain’t ya have anythin’ better to do?” he once snapped as he passed a group of people with you sitting in the middle, showing some old photos you had brought with you to the prison, which made everyone look at him strangely. But he didn't care. There was still a lot of work to be done, no time for silly photos. No time to live as if the world hadn't ended, which was clearly what you were trying to do. You were a distraction to too many people, at least in his eyes. If that many people couldn't stop staring at you, you must have been a problem.
And then, to make matters worse, one evening you joined Beth, singing some stupid love song, and that finished him off completely. Your voice was the final nail in his coffin. He never liked it when young Greene sang, it annoyed him, but when he heard you, his stomach twisted with a sudden wave of nausea. Pure despise. Until then, he hadn't even realized he hated music that much. He made an excuse, muttering something about checking the fence, and left the Block, his heart beating a little too fast, probably because of all the disgust, and his breathing heavy, as if he had been running. Yes, you were fucking annoying. He couldn’t stand being in your presence longer that a couple of minutes, because his body rebelled against that.
“Oh, I think he hates me,” he heard your voice the next day and froze in his tracks. He was going to join Maggie on her watch, but you had clearly beaten him to it. He stood behind the half-open door, so neither of you had noticed his presence yet. And he was eavesdropping.
“Do you think so?” Maggie asked, her voice sounding strangely amused. As if she knew something no one else did.
“Don't you?” you laughed. “When I'm around, he sneers and always looks at me like he wants to throw me into the horde behind the fence.”
If you were talking about him... and you definitely were... He didn't want to do that. Damn it, he didn't want to throw you into the horde, what the hell were you talking about? Yes, he didn't particularly like you, but he would never hurt you.
“Daryl is intense, but he's a good guy,” Maggie said, and you immediately tsked your tongue in disapproval.
“I'm not saying he’s not. I'm just saying that he doesn't like me, and I have no idea why.”
There was a strange tone in your voice that made him frown. Were you worried? Were you sad? Because of him? Why?
There were a few seconds of silence, and Daryl really wanted to see your face at that moment; to see your expression.
“And I thought you liked me,” you said, and she laughed.
“He'd bite my head off, you know that.”
Something in your words made him uncomfortable, as if he wanted to deny them. But you were right, he didn't like you. You annoyed him. You made him nauseous and made his heart beats with anger. Your smile disturbed him so much that he often found himself stumbling over his own breath when he saw it. And that damn singing... He couldn't understand why something deep inside him told him to kick down the door and tell you that you were stupid for thinking that way. Why did he feel so... concerned at the thought that you could think... no, that you knew that he doesn't like you. He didn't care about you or your opinion. He didn't care if you hated him, he wouldn't even flinch if you did.
He turned on his heel and walked away before he did something stupid, with a strangely heavy heart in his chest.
After that incident, he began to notice that you stopped smiling at him when he came in while you were there. You just looked at him quickly and then turned your head, ignoring his presence. At first, he thought maybe you just weren't feeling well. Or that you were sad. Or something else he didn't care about. But you didn't change your behaviour towards anyone else but him. You still smiled at other people, talked to them, laughed, helped them... You were still yourself, just... You just didn't smile at him anymore.
Good, he thought. Finally.
So why did it bother him so much? Why did it annoy him that you suddenly started ignoring him? Even when he walked past you, glancing at you cautiously, you looked straight ahead as if he didn't exist at all.
He clenched his jaw, not saying a word, biting his tongue, because damn it, he wanted to tell you so badly... He didn't know what, but he felt a burning need inside him that made him desperately want to confront you.
He was obsessed with provoking you now. Wherever you went, he was there too. Just to see if you would finally give in. What had he done that made you smile at everyone except him? Didn't he deserve even a little of your attention? A little of the kindness you showed other people? Not that he cared, of course. It was just… weird.
About a week after he overheard your conversation with Maggie, he saw you outside with some idiot he'd save from the outside two days earlier. An idiot who had his hand on your lower back and his mouth so close to your ear he could easily have licked your earlobe. The idiot was teaching you how to shoot a gun, and before Daryl could think, he was standing next to you. He walked the distance way too fast.
“Who the fuck let ya take it?” he growled, snatching the gun from your hands and startling you a bit. But he wasn't looking at you. Oh no, you didn't take the rifle. That couldn't be. He was looking straight at the idiot, and the anger in his eyes could have killed him if it were possible.
“I just thought...” the guy started, but Daryl cut him off mid-sentence:
“Ain’t good at that, huh? Get the fuck outta here ‘n do sum useful.”
As the idiot backed away and headed toward the Block, looking like he was about to piss his pants, Daryl watched him without saying a word. He didn't take his eyes off him for a second, even though he could see you looking at him out of the corner of his eye.
And then you scoffed. You fucking scoffed at him and turned on your heel, muttering something that sounded like an irritated impossible.
“What the fuck is yer problem?” he growled before he could bite his tongue. You had only taken two steps when his voice made you stop. You froze, and he realized that this was actually the first time he had addressed you directly.
You slowly turned back, looking at him as if he had just lost his mind.
“My problem?” you asked, but it wasn't the sweet, warm voice you usually used when talking to people. Oh, you were pissed. He had never seen you pissed before.
You took a step forward, closing the distance between you, and even though you were smaller than him—both in height and width—you challenged him silently with your beautiful eyes.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
He had never heard you swear before either.
“My problem ‘s idiots shooting without permission,” he growled. “Yer ain’t good at it, ya could hurt someone.”
You raised your eyebrows, and your face showed a slight disbelief that couldn't be ignored.
“Idiots?” you asked. “Well, I knew you didn't like me for some unknown reason, but I didn't know you thought so little of me.”
He clenched his jaw but said nothing, watching your lips curve into a sarcastic smile. You shook your head in amusement.
“And I really had a high opinion of you,” you scoffed. “Turns out you're the biggest asshole I've ever met.”
You walked away, just like that, leaving him with a strange, bittersweet taste of defeat and cherries on his tongue. Cherries that somehow you always smelled with. The scent tickled his nose. Who the hell smelled like cherries during the fucking apocalypse?
He didn't move an inch, watching you walk away, breathing heavily. Something invisible rested on his shoulders, weighing him down, and his stomach clenched, making him almost groan. He must have been sick or something, maybe he had caught a stomach virus. He felt nauseous and shaky.
A shadow of regret washed over him as you disappeared into the building. But he hadn't done anything wrong, he was just being careful, and you made a scene. You couldn't shoot, everyone knew that. You knew it too. He didn't want you to accidentally shoot someone.
Well, maybe that wasn’t entirely a true. Maybe he wouldn't have minded if you shot that idiot who couldn't keep his hands to himself. But that wasn't the point. It was about safety. Just safety.
He didn't care how your expression towards him changed that day. How your eyes were now shooting him those irritated glances. It wasn't just about ignoring him anymore. He could see how much you despised him.
Good, he thought again, ignoring how the whole situation made his blood boil. How now, whenever you were around, he didn't know what to do with his hands. The tension between you was so obvious now that other people were slowly starting to notice. And comment.
“Just kiss her already,” Glenn said one morning at breakfast. You walked outside, heading for the dining area, in jeans that fell low on your waist, a small top that barely covered your stomach, and your hair braided, which was completely tousled after sleep. You looked like a pretty mess, to say the least. Daryl froze with his fork halfway to his mouth, staring at you in that state. With Glenn's not-so-quiet comment, your eyes fell on Daryl, and he felt his whole face turn red from the intensity of your gaze. Did you hear that? Did you find it as absurd as he did? Because it was absurd.
But you didn’t react. You turned your head away, and your wide smile lit up your face. You waved to someone, walked over to another table, and were now talking to the people Daryl wanted to strangle with his bare hands.
He looked down at his plate, put down his fork, and suddenly lost his appetite.
“Do you have a crush on her or something?” Glenn asked, smiling like another idiot who deserved a punch, and Daryl snorted. He should have said no. He should have laughed at the idea. Except... he couldn't. Why the hell couldn't he?
“Fuck off,” he muttered, getting up and walking away.
He didn't finish his breakfast that day. He didn't come back until late at night, hunting and killing zombies to stop thinking about you. He hated you even more now because he couldn't stop.
He didn’t have a crush on you. He had never had a crush on anyone before. All that mattered to him was survival. Always. There was no room in his heart for such weakness. Not then, not ever. Men like him didn't even deserve to fall in love with anyone, and certainly not with women like you—so different from him, so nice, so sweet. So annoyingly pretty. Because he thought you were quite pretty, with your long hair always braided, shining in the sun, that sparkle in your eyes, those pink lips that so often curved into a smile, that scent of cherries that always lingered in the air, even after you were gone.
Damn, you were very pretty, and now that Glenn had definitely messed up his mind, he had to be careful. He decided to put an end to this madness once and for all—to ignore you just as you ignored him; to avoid you.
Who would have thought that when the news of the walkers attacking Block D reached him, his first instinct would be to find you and make sure you were okay. He raced through the corridors with Rick, reaching Block D with a crossbow steady in his hands, but his heart was beating so fast that he was afraid it would jump out of his chest. Blood, screams, bodies, walkers... But you were nowhere to be found.
“Get up!” he yelled at a kid. “Get back!” He picked up the boy, shot the zombie that was about to attack him, and handed the boy to Karen. “There.”
He looked around frantically, saving as many people as he could, but still trying to spot you. It was your Block. Your cell was there. You had to be there somewhere. You had to be alive. He couldn't forgive himself if he didn't get to you in time. You couldn't be dead.
Daryl Dixon had never been so terrified in his life. First, because the very thought that you might be dead—or turned—made his blood run cold. Second, he had just realized that he really cared about you, and that realization terrified him even more. But it was true. He cared so much that he felt like throwing up when he heard a loud, girlish scream coming from the cells above his head. Your scream.
He ran upstairs, the anger pulsing through his body driving his actions. The adrenaline made him run the distance twice as fast. He reached your cell just in time. He wasn't thinking, his instincts were moving his muscles for him. He felt like a puppet on a string when he saw you on the floor, fighting the walker lying on top of you, its teeth so close to your neck.
You were fighting back, but you were close to losing. His hand rose on its own, his fingers made a quick movement, and he shot the geek right in the head. It didn't even have time to fall to the floor before he kicked it away with one powerful kick.
“Ya alright?” he asked, kneeling beside you. He looked for bite marks or scratches, scanning your body with his eyes, so terrified that he would find something. And you looked at him with your beautiful eyes, wide open with fear and trembling, and didn't say a word.
He looked at your face. Jesus, how could he have denied these feelings for so long? How could he not have seen what you had become to him? The relief that washed over him when he made sure you were okay would have knocked him off his feet if he had been standing.
“Thank you,” you whispered, and a single tear rolled down your cheek. Before he could stop himself, he wiped it away with his thumb. The gesture surprised you both.
“Let's go,” he said, standing up and reaching out his hand to help you. For a moment, he saw hesitation in your eyes and feared you would refuse his help. He almost withdrew his hand, feeling a tightness in his stomach, but then... you reached out and put your hand in his. His skin burned where it touched yours, but he remained calm. He helped you up and, without letting go of your hand, led you out of the Block. Now that you were safe, he could take care of the rest.
“What the hell was that?” Glenn asked, watching Daryl return.
“Ain’t yer business,” he growled in response, but he knew his face had turned red. Just a minute ago, he was holding your hand. He felt your delicate skin beneath his calloused fingers. Hell, he touched your cheek.
“Now that you're her hero, you can finally make your move.”
Daryl gave him a murderous look. He wasn't planning on doing anything. He could barely admit to himself that you had become important to him, let alone tell you about it. Besides, what could he say? He didn't even know exactly how he felt. And what had happened to all the irritation and contempt he used to feel towards you? Maybe he had never really been annoyed with you? Maybe he didn't mind your smile and laughter? Maybe he just wanted you to smile at him the same way you smiled at everyone else? He didn't dislike you, he was just paralyzed by the fact that he was paying that much attention to you and his defence mechanism took the best of him. All the details he noticed, all the little things about you... Would he really have noticed them if he hadn't paid any attention to you at all? If he didn’t care even a little bit?
The answer came faster than he expected. The flu spread. And you got sick.
“What the hell?” he muttered as he watched you stumble over your own feet a couple of days later. He was on watch when he saw you leaving the building, and even from a distance he could see that something was wrong.
“Ya good?” he asked, running up to you.
You didn't even look at him, keeping your head down and taking slow steps. Oh, something was really wrong.
He stopped you by putting his hand on your shoulder.
You took a shaky breath. Your whole body was shaking. And then you looked up.
“Shit,” he groaned. “Ya’ve caught it.”
Your beautiful eyes were red and watery, your skin grey, your lips pale. You'd caught the damn flu. His chest felt too tight for his heart to fit in it; it felt like something was squeezing it from the outside and sucking the air out of his lungs. He clenched his jaw, cupping your face in his hand.
“We gotta take ya to Hershel.”
“Why?” you asked hoarsely, gasping for breath. You coughed, pulling your head away from his grip and trying to cover your mouth with your hand. When you looked at him again, your eyes were even redder.
He wanted to hug you and tell you that everything would be okay. It was an impulse deeply rooted in him that almost made him do it.
“That's not it.” Your voice was painfully weak. “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”
Those eyes, full of confusion and incomprehension, bored a hole in his head and reached into his soul.
Because I care about you, he thought.
“Yer sick,” he said. „C’mon.”
You shook your head but didn’t even took two steps back before you gripped on his forearm, almost losing your balance.
“Shit,” you muttered. “Sorry.”
He wanted to tell you not to apologize. That everything was fine. That you could just hold on to him, and he would lead you inside. He had never been an affectionate person, he didn't like being touched, but feeling your fingers squeezing his skin, he felt that it was right. That's how it should be. But he wasn't a very talkative person either, so he just repeated, “C’mon.”
He helped you back inside and to your cell, and then he went to get Hershel.
“You need to stay away, Daryl,” the old man said, heading for Block D.
„’S too late fer that. Already had contact with ’em.”
Well, that was true. He had already been exposed to the virus, and if he was going to get sick, he would have gotten sick anyway. Your presence had no bearing on that. It mattered to him. He was afraid. He had seen people die and turn because of this damn flu, and now you could become one of them. Your body was fighting the fever, your lungs were struggling to breathe, your eyes could barely open. You were coughing and crying at the same time.
“Everything hurts,” you whispered to Hershel.
Daryl saw how that man looked at you, as if he were looking at his own daughter. Well, you were friends with both Beth and Maggie. And Glenn adored you. You often talked about history and literature with Hershel himself. You were not only sweet and kind, but also smart and funny. They didn't like you for your face, but for your actions.
How could I not have noticed this before? he thought.
He felt like an idiot. He had been watching you for over a month and hadn't realized how much he wanted your attention. But he didn't think he deserved it. He was angry at himself and at others because they were worthy of you and your love, but not him.
That weak smile you gave the old man when he was leaving your cell made Daryl clenches his fists. He was jealous. He couldn't stand it. Not now, when you were so sick you could die. Not when he knew he had ruined everything.
When he was alone with you, he slowly approached your bed, crouched down, and looked you straight in the eyes. He wanted to brush the hair from your forehead.
“Thank you,” you whispered, looking at him with half-closed eyes. “I don't know why you're doing this, but...”
You started coughing again. Your whole body jumped up, and within seconds his hands were on your back. He could feel how sweaty you were, your top was soaked, but he didn't care. He held you while you tried to catch your breath.
“’M gettin’ those meds fer ya,” he blurted out. “’S gonna be fine.”
Your tear-filled eyes looked at him with a slightly vacant expression.
“I thought you hated me.”
He took a shaky breath and shook his head.
No, he didn't hate you. He didn't despise you. He didn't dislike you. And you didn't annoy him. He just didn't want to admit that he, Daryl Dixon, could ever feel anything for anyone other than anger. His own feelings scared him so much that he convinced himself it was something else entirely.
There's an old saying that we don't appreciate something until we lose it. Well, Daryl didn't have you, but he could have lost you before he had a chance to explain why he acted the way he did. Before he understood it himself. He wasn't going to let that happen.
“'ll be back,” he said, helping you lie down and gently brushing your chin with his thumb, then he left. He didn't see the little smile you gave him before he disappeared from view. The first smile in weeks. Something you could have as well never gave him again.
He knew what leaving you now meant—that he might never see you again. He might return to you when you were no longer alive. But he had to try. Besides... those drugs weren't just for you. He had responsibilities he had to deal with, no matter how much it hurt his heart and made his hands shake. No matter how much all he wanted was to rush back and sit with you.
It was still the hardest thing for him to believe that he could have such warm and strong feelings for someone, but since he wasn't the type of person to back down from anything, once he realized that this was happening, he couldn't pretend anymore. For a long time, he hid his feelings deep under a layer of denial, but the truth was that they were there all along. Not believing he deserved your attention, he turned everything upside down. The truth was, he wanted it. He needed it. That warmth spreading through his body every time he saw you? That tightness in his stomach? The tingling in his fingertips? The clenching of his jaw when he saw you with that idiot?
He wanted to punch himself in the face. Well, he wasn't going to act on those feelings, but he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid not to see it before. He could have done things differently. He wouldn't have made you feel like he disliked you or even hated you. He wouldn't have just... been around. He would have cherished every moment you smiled at him. Maybe he would even have tried to talk to you, to get to know you a little. And he would have taught you how to shoot that damn gun.
He had a lot to do. He had to deliver the medicine on time. There was no other choice, no other way. And he did everything. With your image deeply etched in his memory, aware of your condition, he overcame every obstacle and won. And he came back. He came back on time. Barely, but he did.
You and Glenn almost died. If it weren't for Hershel and Maggie, it wouldn't have mattered that Daryl did everything in his power to save you.
You were lying on the ground when he reached your cell. Hershel checked your pulse, you were breathing, but barely. There was blood in the corners of your mouth.
“Shit,” he muttered, falling to his knees beside you. “What can I do?”
“Watch her.” Hershel stood up. “I'll get the antibiotics. If she starts coughing, help her up or lay her on her side so she doesn't choke.”
Daryl nodded. With one hand, he brushed your wet, sweaty hair from your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek. His heart was beating fast and heavy in his chest.
“Ya gonna be fine,” he mumbled. “Ya hear me? Ya still gotta yell at me fer bein’ an idiot.” The next twenty minutes were the most terrifying. Daryl could barely breathe as he watched your chest rise and fall in slow motion. You were fighting, and he couldn't do anything. All he could do was wait and hope that everything would be okay.
He had never cared about anyone so much, and what was even more absurd was that he had fallen in love with you without even knowing you. He hadn't spent even ten minutes with you, but there was something about you that drove him crazy. And he had probably completely screwed it up.
“Hi,” you whispered, making him jump. He was watching your breathing so closely that he didn't notice when you opened your eyes. He felt his chest break under the weight of your weak gaze.
“Hershel’s gonna be back with antibiotics,” he said quietly, his voice full of emotion. “Told ya ‘s gonna be fine.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but a cough interrupted you.
“Shit,” Daryl immediately put his hands on you. “Ya gotta sit up, sweetheart.”
You tried to take a breath, but you gasped and coughed up blood. The blood stained Daryl's shirt, but he didn't care. He could be covered in it if it meant you would survive.
“Hershel!” he shouted, practically pulling you out of floor. You were too weak to sit up on your own. You started to choke, the blood in your lungs slowly drowning you. “Hershel!”
Maggie was the first to run into the cell. She looked like she'd been through hell, but she didn't waste any time.
“We need to intubate her,” she said, throwing her bag on the table and taking out everything she needed. “Can you put her on the bed?”
She didn't have to tell him twice. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing and gently laid you on the bunk bed. You smeared more blood on his shirt as you grabbed it with your weak hands.
The sight of Maggie pushing the tube down your throat while you choked made him think he'd rather fight a horde of zombies than ever witness something like this again.
“Just a moment, I know it hurts,” Maggie whispered, holding your shoulder. When the tube was finally in your throat and began pumping air into your lungs, your breathing slowly stabilized.
He didn't realize he had started crying until he saw Maggie looking at him. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand and cleared his throat.
“Everything will be fine,” Greene said. “And you suck at communication, Dixon.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed.
“Making a girl think you hate her isn't the best way to win her over, you know?”
He didn't say a word. He just looked at your face. That beautiful face that started to regain its colour after a few days. Meds were working. Daryl checked on you until you regained consciousness, and then he stopped. He was afraid you would ask him why he was there, and he wouldn't be able to answer. He avoided you like a little kid who had done something wrong and was afraid of the consequences. His behaviour was absurd, he knew that, but he couldn't bring himself to talk to you.
So, you found him first. After three days, you slowly and weakly made your way out of the Block and reached the bridge. As he later learned, Maggie told you where to find him and even helped you get there.
He was looking ahead when he heard the door open.
“Ain’t need no rest,” he said automatically, thinking it was Rick or Michonne, but when no one answered, he turned his head to look. And there you were, leaning against the doorframe, holding yourself up with all your strength. Warmth spread through his chest and his stomach tightened.
“Hi,” you said weakly, but your eyes were as determined as ever.
“Hi,” he mumbled. Suddenly, he had no idea what to do with his hands. “Ya should rest. Yer still weak.”
You sighed, inhaling the fresh air and shaking your head slightly.
That was exactly what he was trying to avoid.
“I don't understand,” you whispered, taking a step toward him and holding onto the railing. He almost lunged forward to support you with his arms. His legs almost moved, but he stopped himself. If you saw the hesitation in his eyes, you didn't show it.
“You saved me. Twice,” you said, taking another step. “And while I'm very grateful,” you paused briefly to catch your breath, “I don't understand why you did it.”
He clenched his jaw, looking at you as if trying to explain it without words. He wasn't good with words. He couldn't put them together to tell you why he cared so much.
“I thought you'd be happier if I just disappeared from your life. But you didn't let me die.”
“I couldn't,” he muttered, looking everywhere but at you.
“Nah,” he shook his head. “Ain’t hate ya.”
Oh, he screwed up if you thought he wanted you to die.
You sighed, leaning your hip against the railing.
“Then what is it?” you asked, looking at him with tired eyes. “What is it, Daryl?”
His name spoken by your lips in that soft voice made his heart contract in a spasm. He looked at you but said nothing. He didn't know what he could say. How could he explain it to you when it was all still so new and scary to him?
“I've always thought you were a good guy, you know?” you began again, undeterred by his silence. “We all do. But every time I tried to... I don't know... show you that I appreciated you, you looked at me as if you despised me, and I don't understand why. What did I do to you?”
“Nothin’,” he said, voice low and raspy. “Ya ain’t did nothin’ to me.”
“I ain’t good at that,” he blurted out, shaking his head. “Ya good at talkin’ but I ain’t. Ya always smile ‘n… Dunno, I jus’…” he stumbled over his own words. “Ya so sweet ‘n pretty, folks like ya ‘n I never…” He didn't know what to say, but he had to say something. His eyes darted around, looking at you nervously, as if he wasn't sure he should be looking at you at all.
“I ain’t used to pretty girls smilin’ at me.”
You frowned in surprise, but your cheeks turned light pink.
“You were acting like you hated me because you think I'm pretty?”
Now he felt his ears turning red. He ran his hand over his face and groaned. It was getting more and more embarrassing by the second.
“Dunno why I did that,” he admitted quietly, looking through his fingers. “Never know what to do when yer around.”
He didn't even want to look at you when he said it.
“You don't have to be embarrassed,” you giggled. “I think you're handsome too.”
He looked up, peered through his fingers, and lowered his hand. That strange feeling of warmth came over him again. He felt as if the air itself was trying to hug him.
You blushed, but you pushed through it and nodded.
“Should I be embarrassed?” you asked, and your playful tone made his face redden even more. You had never spoken to him like this before. Well... actually, it was the second conversation between you, and the first one where you weren't angry with him.
“No,” he replied, straightening up. “No, ya shouldn't.”
“See?” You pressed your lips together, holding back a smile. “It feels good, doesn't it?”
Oh, it felt incredibly nice. He never thought you could see him that way. Him? Handsome? Damn, the world had turned upside down. He was just some angry redneck with always dirty hands and sweaty hair. How the hell could a sweet girl like you see anything more in him?
And how the hell could he have screwed things up so badly?
“Next time a pretty girl smiles at you, just say hello and don't piss her off.”
He burst out a quiet laughter, “Yea, gonna remember that.”
Your beautiful eyes were still fixed on him, and a hint of a smile played on your lips. At that moment, he just wanted to be closer to you.
“’’M sorry,” he said resignedly. He was truly sorry. He never wanted to hurt you. “’M an idiot.”
You laughed, but it quickly turned into a cough. Well, you weren't completely recovered yet. With three long strides, he closed the distance between you.
The no sight of blood didn't calm him down. You shouldn't stay outside for so long.
He grabbed your chin with his thumb and index finger and forced you to look at him. That blush could just as easily have been from a fever or something else. He didn't want to take any chances, but your big, beautiful eyes made him bite his lip. He wanted to stay like this for a while longer. He had never been this close to you when you were fully conscious, and there was no turning back now. It was too late.
Besides... he didn't even want to back down, not anymore.
“I’ll help ya get to yer cell,” he muttered.
And you smiled at him. You really smiled, much wider than at first. You smiled at him the way you smiled at people you liked.
His knees almost buckled beneath him.
“You have to get used to pretty girls smiling at you,” you whispered. “Because I'm not going to let you get away from me so easily now.”
You stood on your toes and, resting your hands on his chest, you placed a delicate butterfly kiss on his scruffy, hot, red cheek.
“That's for saving me the first time.”
You kissed his other cheek.
“And this is for saving me a second time.”
His skin burned where your soft lips touched him. And he almost leaned in to taste them himself.
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
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