𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: Daryl Dixon x Reader
𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: Fluff. | 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃: 1.8k
𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂: N/A. | 𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁: Tori Inkwyn
Authors note: set on the first Season, CDC.
It been in my WIPs for such a long time. I'll be posting more of my WIPs to clear it up.
𝙰𝙸𝙽’𝚃 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽
The CDC was the first place you’d breathed easy in months. Deep down, you knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing did. But for one night, the solid walls and locked doors let you sink into the illusion of safety. Wine, hot food, clean air — a miracle.
Dr. Jenner had surprised you by showing everyone to the underground quarters. No stench of rot. No gunpowder. Just sterile white light, the burn of disinfectant, the low hum of machines. You nearly sagged against the wall in relief.
Jenner’s voice carried down the corridor as he explained the rooms and muttered about conserving power. Something about not plugging in the video game console. You stifled a laugh.
Dale gave your shoulder a pat, told you to take the room at the end of the hall. “Be nice for the others to have privacy for once,” he said with that fatherly smile.
By the time you reached it, your bag slid off your aching shoulder and thudded to the floor beside the bed.
“Finally,” you breathed. The room looked more like a cheap hotel than a bunker a thousand feet underground.
A bed. A door that shut. And—God bless—running water. Hot.
Then the door creaked.
Daryl Dixon filled the frame, crossbow strapped tight, hair damp with sweat and road dust. He stared at you like you’d broken into his place.
“The hell you doin’ in here?” His voice was rough gravel. “Jenner said this one was mine.”
You straightened. “Dale told me to take it. Said it had a shower.”
Daryl snorted, stepping in. Boots heavy, attitude heavier.
“Figures. Old man’s always stickin’ his nose where it don’t belong.”
He dropped onto the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes cutting to you like a challenge.
“So what—this a sharin’ thing now? Don’t look like this place’s got spares.”
You crossed your arms. “I could ask Lori, or—”
“Don’t.” His jaw ticked, voice sharp. “Last thing I need is folks thinkin’ I can’t handle sharin’ a damn room.”
A pause. Then, softer, grumbling: “Stick to your side. I’ll stick to mine. Simple.”
You sighed, rifling through your bag. “Fine. Shower first, or me?”
“Don’t matter.” He shrugged, eyes flicking away quick. “Go on. Prob’ly take longer anyway. Hog all the damn soap.”
You smirked, heading for the bathroom. “Don’t you dare lie down,” you warned.
He jerked upright. “Ain’t crawlin’ in your spot.”
“Not until you’ve had a wash,” you shot back. “Not sharin’ with soil and whiskey.”
For a heartbeat, he looked like you’d dented his pride. Then he huffed, standing.
“Hell. Fine. Don’t get used to me doin’ favors.”
Minutes later, steam rolled out of the bathroom with him. His hair stuck damp to his forehead, towel slung low around his hips. Water trailed down his chest. He froze when he saw his crossbow propped neatly by the table.
“You touch my gear?” His tone snapped like a trap.
You arched a brow. “It was blocking the door. You want me to break my neck climbing over it?”
His eyes narrowed. A beat passed. Then a grudging grunt. “Sound like a damn wife already. Naggin’ me about my bow.”
“And cover up.” You nodded at his bare torso.
Color climbed his neck. He yanked a flannel from his pack, grumbling.
“Ain’t struttin’ around naked. Don’t get your feathers ruffled.”
He dressed quick, muttering under his breath. You caught the words anyway: “Ain’t never been told to put clothes on so damn fast.”
You grinned, satisfied. “Just because we’re stuck in here together doesn’t make us married, Dixon.”
“Don’t take much these days,” he muttered, voice low. “World’s gone to hell, folks’ll talk if they see us sharin’ a room.” He tugged at his sleeve, jaw set. “Still don’t mean you get to move my bow again.”
“Then don’t put it where I’ll trip,” you tossed back, ducking into the bathroom.
“Always gotta have the last word,” he muttered.
…
Later, towel wrapped tight and toothbrush hanging from your mouth, you nearly dropped everything when Daryl shot upright from the bed like you’d fired at him.
“Jesus—! Woman, tryin’ to give a man a heart attack?” His face flushed, eyes darting anywhere but your towel. “Coulda warned me.”
You mumbled around the toothbrush, “Not like I’m strippin’. First time seein’ a woman?”
He groaned into his hands. “Don’t start. Seen plenty. Just weren’t expectin’ one walkin’ out like that.”
You smirked as you dressed. He muttered about “playin’ house” and “wrong ideas.”
When you finally slid under the blanket, he yanked it right back.
“Oh, come on,” you groaned.
“First come, first served,” he shot back, but loosened his grip just enough for you to take some. “Quit bellyachin’. Don’t need the whole camp hearin’ you whine.”
You scooted closer for warmth. He stiffened, then muttered, “…Fine. But you kick me in your sleep, we’re done.”
A few minutes later, he rolled onto his side, forehead near your neck.
“What are you doing?” you asked, pulse quickening.
“Can’t sleep on my left.” Defensive. “Ain’t tryin’ nothin’. Just how it is.”
You rolled to face him, catching his ears burning red. “Sure, Dixon.”
“Tryin’ to sleep,” he snapped, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “Don’t twist it.”
You smirked, eyes drifting shut. “I doubt that.”
He started muttering immediately, like a man keeping score. “First it’s movin’ my bow… then orderin’ me to shower… stealin’ blankets…”
“I ain’t deaf,” you cut in.
He startled, color flooding his face. “Thought you were out. Just talkin’ to myself.”
When you yanked the blanket again, he finally growled and hauled you against him, arm tight around your waist.
“Alright, enough. Quit wigglin’. Stay still.”
You squeaked. “Coulda just said you wanted to cuddle.”
“Cuddle?” His voice cracked. “Hell no. Don’t even say that word. Just keepin’ warm. That’s it.”
But his thumb brushed absently over your hip, breath warm at your neck.
Too tired to argue, you let sleep take you. The last thing you heard was his rough whisper:
“…Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to ya.”
Morning in the CDC looked the same as night. Sterile lights. Humming walls. The only difference was Glenn’s grin when you and Daryl walked into the dining area together.
“Morning, lovebirds,” he sing-songed, mouth full of eggs.
Daryl froze. Bristled. “Shut it, pizza boy.”
Andrea raised her brows. “Lovebirds?”
Glenn grinned wider. “They walked outta the same room. Real cozy for folks who ‘ain’t sharin’.’”
Daryl slammed his fork down. “Weren’t no romance. Just the old man playin’ matchmaker. Nothin’ else.”
Lori smirked. Carl snickered.
Daryl’s voice sharpened. “What—stick her in with a kid instead? Nah. Don’t make sense. Ain’t explainin’ it again.”
Glenn only smirked harder. Andrea shook her head. Lori laughed into her hand.
You nudged Daryl under the table, biting back a smile. His scowl deepened.
“Don’t,” he muttered. “Ain’t funny.”
But the twitch at the corner of his mouth told you he wasn’t half as mad as he wanted them to believe.
