Private Stuff
(Daryl x Fem!Reader)
tags/warnings: fluff, (pre) established relationship, shy daryl, first kiss, alexandria (SS6), swearing
word count: 2.6k
summary: Daryl struggles with physical affection, especially in public, but he tries his best for you
a/n: HEAVY FLUFF WARNING. Daryl's so soft I wanna squeeze him and put him in my pocket omg
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___
You and Daryl are a thing now–or, well, as close to a thing as Daryl Dixon would ever get. After everything the two of you survived together, the close calls, and the unspoken feelings that had stretched between you, it finally happened. You’d confronted it. Him. Each other.
Not that it looks anything like Glenn and Maggie, or Rick and Michonne. Yours and Daryl’s kind of “official” isn’t something anyone can put a neat label on. It isn’t for show. It’s quieter than that. Private but still real.
___
It had all started one night when he’d let something slip. Daryl told you how he felt, but it hadn’t been some grand confession – just an unintentional yet intimate slip of words.
You and Daryl had ended up sitting side by side, shoulders nearly brushing, when you’d made some offhand joke. Something about him being real romantic for a guy who’s never dated anyone. You’d meant it to tease. Normally, he would’ve scoffed, but this time he just sat there, fingers fiddling, his eyes fixed on the ground like you’d said something he didn’t know how to answer.
“What?” you nudged his shoulder, smiling. “Didn’t like the compliment?”
He gave a little shrug. “Don’t think I’d be any good at that kinda stuff.”
You were surprised he even said anything at all, especially about this. Whenever you’d jokingly flirt with him or mention anything related to romance, he usually brushed it off with pretended annoyance. Not tonight. Not now. He finally said something about it.
Your heart picked up at his rare vulnerability. You just needed to confirm it somehow before he tried to change subjects. So you reached for his hand, and when he didn’t pull away, though he looked like he might, your chest warmed.
Truth was, his heart was racing so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. Heat spread across his face, and he could only hope the dim night light did a good enough job at hiding the nervous mess whirling inside him.
You laced your fingers through his, feeling the faint twitch of his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it, of course he didn’t. “You’re better than you think,” you murmured, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “You don’t gotta try so hard with me.”
For a long moment, he was quiet. You thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. Then his voice finally came, low and almost uncertain.
“Ain’t never felt this way ’bout nobody before.”
You could almost feel your heart stop at that. That was it. A confession from Daryl Dixon. And it was exactly the kind you’d expected from him. “Good,” you whispered back, smiling into his flannel. “’Cause I feel the same way.”
His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. The gesture was shy and uncertain, but it stayed with you long after. That was the night it had become official. Not in anyone else’s way. In yours.
___
Daryl wasn’t someone who showed care through words or soft touches. His love was in what he did, the quiet, unspoken things. That was just him. Still, sometimes you wondered what it would be like to be openly touchy with him, to have that easy kind of affection you craved. Physical touch had always been your language, the way you gave love and the way you felt it in return.
Daryl knew that. He’d known it from the way your hand would always brush against whoever you were talking to. He’d known it the first time your fingers touched his arm without warning, when he unconsciously flinched back. You hadn’t understood his reaction at first, and your apology that followed had been so soft, so sincere, he couldn’t forget it. You learned soon enough, though.
So he’d known it, too, in the way you started being more cautious, more careful with him. But over time, it changed. Your closeness stopped feeling foreign. He’d begun to expect your touch, even if he never quite got used to it. Probably never would. But he’d try. For you.
___
You’re now up on the watch platform at Alexandria’s gate, restless and waiting. You’d traded shifts with Rosita hours ago without even bothering to explain yourself. No one questioned it. You just wanted to be here when Daryl came back.
Then there he is.
The car rumbles down the road, sputtering like it’s about to give out, and you hurry down the ladder to the gate. By the time you’re swinging it open, the vehicle is already rolling through.
Abraham’s the first to climb out, swearing under his breath like the air personally wronged him. “Biggest damn pain in the ass scavenging trip in history,” he grumbles, tossing his hands up. “World’s gone to shit and we still can’t find toilet paper. Civilization really is dead.” Glenn follows out, popping open the trunk until Maggie walks over to greet him with a hug.
Your eyes skip right over to the driver’s seat. Daryl’s still sitting there, arm hanging out the window, turning a crumpled piece of paper over and over in his hand. His brows are drawn, like the thing might bite him if he looks at it too long.
You walk straight toward him, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm where it rests on the window. “How was it?” you ask, smiling in that way you hope comes across as casual.
The reaction is quick, too quick. He stuffs the paper into his backpack and pushes the door open, stepping out as soon as he feels your touch.
Your smile falters, just for a beat, before you paste it back on. You hope he didn’t notice.
He manages to look at you, shaking his head slightly as a response to your question, and you nod back, the quiet understanding between you stretching a beat longer than it probably should. You both must have been standing like that for a while, because Abraham suddenly pipes up from somewhere behind you, squinting at the two of you like he’s trying to read a map.
“Y’all gonna stand there all day or actually hold hands or somethin’?” His grin is obnoxious, and you roll your eyes while Daryl mutters something that sounds suspiciously like shut up under his breath. Glenn snorts quietly behind him, and even Maggie shakes her head, grinning.
When the noise dies down, Daryl shifts slightly, finally starting to tell you about the run in a bit more detail. You hum quietly, letting him speak, waiting for the story to unfold. When he hesitates, you give a small, teasing smile. “It’s okay. We’ll do better next time. If you let me go with you, I mean.”
He chuckles softly at your words, his eyes flicking to yours for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by how easy it is to get lost in your smile. Almost instinctively, your fingers brush against his, lingering there.
For a heartbeat, he almost lets your hand stay. But then, like he suddenly remembers where they are, he pulls away. Not sharply, not suddenly. Just a subtle, almost nervous retreat, as if the act of holding your hand in front of everyone would make him combust. He leans forward, shifting his attention to Abraham’s rambling, pretending it’s nothing.
But you notice. Of course you notice.
And he notices that you notice.
Shit. The word echoes in his head. His chest feels tight. He didn’t mean to pull away. Hell, he barely even realized he did it until it was too late. He’s not even sure why. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s habit, maybe it’s both. All he knows is that your expression flickered for a second, quick enough that no one else would’ve caught it, but it’s burned into him.
___
Later that night, the living room has mostly emptied out, soft laughter drifting from upstairs as people settle into their own corners of comfort. You lean against the doorframe, chatting with Michonne and Eugene. Daryl watches from the couch, pretending not to, eyes flicking up only when you laugh or tilt your head in that way that always gets to him.
When the talk winds down, you do what you always do: hug Michonne goodnight, press a quick kiss to Eugene’s cheek. Nothing new, nothing strange. But Daryl feels his chest tighten anyway. He’s seen it a hundred times and it still gets him every damn time. Still makes his throat go tight, still leaves him cursing himself for not knowing how to let it come as easy as you do.
He shifts, adjusting his body and leans back into the couch like it might make him look casual, like he hasn’t just been sitting there stewing. You come over and sit next to him. Not too close. You already know his boundaries better than he does.
The room is quiet now. Cozy. Feels like home in a way Daryl never thought he’d get to have. But his head is a storm. He can’t stop replaying earlier, the way your fingers had brushed his hand, the way he pulled away like a coward. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t even think, just reacted. And he caught that look on your face, even if you tried to hide it. That tiny falter in your smile.
After a beat of silence, you both start talking at the same time.
“So-”
“Sorry ‘bout-” he cuts himself off, jerking his chin toward you in that way of his. “Go ‘head.”
“No,” you shake your head lightly. “You go.”
Daryl’s gaze drops, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans, while yours stay still at your side. He swallows before finally muttering, “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”
You blink at him, not immediately sure what he means. Then it clicks. Of course it does. You always seem to know what’s rattling around in his head, even when he barely says a word. “Daryl…” your voice softens, caught between surprise and reassurance. “You don’t have to apologize. It was nothing.”
“It weren’t nothin’.” His response comes fast, too fast, like the words are trying to outrun his nerves.
He glances at you then, just for a second, like he needs to make sure you understand. That he knows. That he saw the look on your face. That he wishes he hadn’t done it. His jaw works like he wants to say more, but the words tangle up somewhere between his chest and his throat.
You nod, trying to look understanding. “We don’t have to- like, do anything if… you know, if you don’t want people to know or…” Your words trip over each other, fumbling. You immediately regret saying it, wishing you could pull them back.
Daryl’s quiet, deep in thought, cursing himself over and over. Of course you’d think he didn’t want people to know about you. That wasn’t it at all. If anything, they'd known before you and him even figured it out for yourselves.
“It ain’t that,” he blurts, quicker than it normally takes him to respond. His eyes flick to yours, making sure you’re really listening. “I’m tryin’. Ain’t good at it – the public stuff. But I’m gon’ try.”
“You don’t have to,” you say softly.
“I want to,” he says again, just as quick, almost tripping over the words.
You smile then, a real, warm smile that lights your face. “Thank you.”
The next thing you know, his hand slips into yours. It was warm, rough, and hesitant. His fingers clumsily interlace with yours, like he’s still figuring out how it works. You glance down at the sight and let out a soft chuckle. “You’re getting good at this.”
“Stop.” He ducks his head, hair falling forward to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth.
You suddenly grin at a thought, your body fully facing his now. “Public stuff.” You say the words slowly, teasing.
Daryl sees that look on your face and groans immediately, head tipping back a little as if asking the universe for patience. You’re about to say something. Something that never fails to make him feel cornered. He doesn’t hate it, though.
You lean in slightly, eyes glinting. “Does that mean you’re good at, say… private stuff?”
He exhales through his nose, half a laugh and half a plea. His shoulders tense, not from discomfort but from the way his body doesn’t quite know what to do with itself when you talk like that.
A pause. Once the light moment passes, you’re both suddenly aware of your joined hands. You bounce your hand lightly against his, playing with it before stopping to lace your fingers together again. This time, his hold feels a little stronger, maybe you’re imagining it, or maybe he just doesn’t want to let go.
You straighten slightly, your gaze flicking to his arm. “Can I?” you ask, your hand hovering in the air. He nods once.
You touch him, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. His body shifts until it’s angled toward you too. You trace small circles on his arm with your thumb before moving higher, to his shoulder. Just as your hand nears his hair, you pause again. “Okay?”
Daryl nods. When your fingers slide into his hair, his eyes flutter shut. You brush a few stray strands away from his face, letting your touch trail down to his jaw. His stubble grazes your skin, rough and warm, and you swear you feel him shiver. His eyes open again, uncertain where to look.
“Still okay?” you whisper.
When he doesn’t nod, you glance up to meet his eyes. The look he gives you is answer enough, a silent yes. Your thumb sweeps across his cheek once before you start to pull your hand back, and he unconsciously leans into your touch. His eyes close again until you say his name softly. He opens them to see that familiar teasing smile tugging at your lips.
“This okay for private stuff?”
For once, he doesn’t scoff. He just stares, at your mouth, at the way your breath hitches, at how close you suddenly are. Don’t screw this up, his mind whispers, but he can’t move, can’t look away. You’re so close, the air thick between you, both of you waiting for the other to break it.
So when you start to lean in and then hesitate halfway, he gives your hand a small, almost hesitant tug. His wordless way of saying it’s okay.
You close the space.
It’s clumsy. Neither of you are good at this, Daryl most of all. The kiss is quick, tentative, like neither of you can hold it for long without running out of air, without feeling like your chest might explode. When you pull back, he swallows hard, heart hammering. Foreheads still pressed together, you let out a soft giggle, teeth catching your bottom lip.
Daryl pulls away to look at you and ducks his head again, cheeks burning, suddenly aware of what just happened. Every instinct tells him to get up, to leave this room, this house, Alexandria even, anywhere that’ll give him some distance from that damn glint in your eyes. But he can’t. He won’t. Because even though it terrifies him, it’s also the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
You squeeze his hand lightly, taking the other in yours. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “We can take it slow. Public stuff. Private stuff… We have all the time in the world.”
Daryl's hands squeeze yours back, as if grounding himself. A real smile tugs at his lips as the thought settles in: he’s never been good with touch, never known how to give it, but it’s your love language, and for you, he’s going to learn how to speak it.
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