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 alive—though 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 reason—and the like—weren’t anything you hadn’t become accustomed to throughout your marriage to the. . . let’s 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 night’s dishes, the world was still falling apart beyond those red gates; yet if you were to wake up here after all these years, you’d 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, alexandria’s doctor. quite simply, rick took a shining to pete’s wife who didn’t make an effort to rebuff his advances.
but since rick’s wife is dead and he’s yet to replace her, not that he isn’t trying (and with another man’s wife, no less) — pete’s sights settled on the next best thing.
and who better than the wife of rick’s 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, it’s painful. your fingers brush your throat where a gnarly bruise blackens the skin, you wince.
but when the front door opens, you jump.
it’s only daryl, of course it is. it’s always daryl.
“hey,” he greets in his usual tired, a little rough, very raspy voice. he’s always tired after a day of hunting or scouting with aaron. “y’alright, babe?”
you hum a meek ‘mhmm’, head faced away from him.
you know he heard you. he hears everything.
with his boots still on, muddy and wet, he slings a rabbit—already skinned—onto the kitchen island.
two things that would usually earn him a word of warning, or at the very least a stern glare. but you don’t so much as bat an eye.
red flag number one.
“got dinner.” he tells you, gesturing to the little animal—dead 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. “thank you, baby.”
daryl grunts. “uh-huh,” his thumbnail finds its way between his teeth, nibbled and gnawed, then he flicks his hair from his eyes. “whatcha do t’day?”
“not a lot.” you stretch your hoodie sleeves over your hands, then prop your cheek against your hand, conveniently shielding your face with your palm. “same old, really. did you and aaron find any survivors?”
“nah,” he frowns, fingers picking at the calluses on his hands. “just this lil’ guy.” he juts his chin at the rabbit, not that you’re looking at him to take notice.
you’re 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 he’s done.
but not tonight. that there is red flag number two.
“gonna tell me what’s up?” he asks, voice low. thin, even. like he’s afraid to hear your answer.
“i’m just tired.” you lie, pretending to scrub your eyes—just another excuse to conceal your injuries, something that doesn’t go amiss.
he sees everything, especially when it comes to you.
“i think i’ll head up to bed after i’ve made your dinner, i barely got a wink of sleep last night.”
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 sleep’s embrace, you’re happy. always happy.
the light of the group, the heart and soul that glues them together.
if you’d had a restless night, it would’ve woken him. daryl’s a light sleeper, but not you.
you’re lying.
and there goes red flag number three.
“ain’t gonna eat with me?” he asks, circling the kitchen until he’s in front of you.
you look away.
“i ate lunch pretty late, my own stupid fault.” you look down at your book, pretending to read.
he takes note that you’re 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 prologues—he 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. “hey,” he tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse of your face. “look at me.”
you refuse, finally turning the page of your book. you skim over the words, not absorbing a single one of them.
“baby.” his hand, tanned and weathered, flattens over your page. “need ya to look at me.”
you blink, then ghost a finger over his knuckles—scarred, 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.
“i’ll sit here ‘til ya do.” he takes your book and places it on the table beside him. “then we’ll both go hungry ‘n sleepless.” 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 weren’t his revealing themselves in all their morbid glory. “fuck’s all this?”
his voice is low and gritty. lethal.
it’s not what he says, it’s the way he says it.
“daryl. . .”
“who?” he asks, lower. you almost don’t 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.
“i was testing some lipstick shades but they were all a bit too bright—didn’t suit my complexion. they obviously left a stain.” you try to free your wrists but he holds them tighter. “. . .they’ll wash off.”
you don’t wear make-up.
“c’mon, then.” he stands, pulling you up with him.
“daryl—”
you struggle against him as he drags you toward the kitchen sink.
“wash ‘em off.” he finally lets go of you to turn the tap on.
you freeze, staring at the flow of water like it’s 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 he’s picturing every possible scenario or reconstructing a crime scene.
“do nothing.” you whisper, placing your hand over his heart. it hammers against your palm like its trying to punch itself free. “we need this.” you motion around you. “we earned this.”
he scuffs a knuckle over the swell of your cheek, then the purplish blotch that cups your eye.
you grimace, he scowls.
“got lipstick on yer cheek, did ya?”
“please,” you take his face in your hands. “i’m okay.”
“take it off.” he grumbles, eyes now pinned to your hoodie.
“what—?”
“fuckin’ take if off.” he repeats, dark. firm.
you shudder, a fat bile rising into your throat. you’re not afraid of him, but of what he’ll do when he sees.
“ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he softens his voice. “just need to see.”
you know he’d 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.
“name.” he gruffs.
“no.” you refuse.
his eyes find yours, permeating. “name.”
you huff out, hugging your arms to your middle. “pete.”
his jaw ticks, shoulders rigid like a board.
“but don’t do anything, please, stay here with me.”
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. “go upstairs.” he nods toward the staircase, expression dead like he feels nothing at all. you know it’s a front; that thing he does when he doesn’t want to frighten you. “i’ll meet ya up there.”
“daryl—”
“i’ll meet ya up there.” he persists, pressing you ahead of him by the small of your back.
“what’re you going to do?” you ask, turning at the step.
he gazes down at you, unreadable. masked.
you’ve seen that look before—you don’t need to hear him say it.
you head upstairs.
only once he’s 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 someone’s arrival.
or more-so, their return.
it’s even higher by the time you feel the mattress dip, a welcome warmth embracing you.
“where’ve you been?” you ask, sleepily.
“where’d ya think?” he murmurs, huddling against you.
you reach over to flip the bedside lamp on and you both groan—you 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 weren’t there before, like there was a bit of a scuffle.
“is he alive?”
your questions hangs in the air for a moment.
“barely.” he finally answers, arm slung lazily over your lap.
“how bad did you—”
“don’t matter.” he husks, eyes closed. “he ain’t gonna bother ya again, so don’t worry ‘bout it.”
“can he even walk? or talk? does he even remember who he is?” you don’t deny he deserved it, but if the monroes catch wind of this, you’ll be out on your asses.
“he can walk.” he tells you, thumb massaging your tummy. “go to sleep.”
you lay yourself back with a sigh, your face and torso still on fire. “did he say anything about it?”
“made him admit it first.” daryl shrugs a little, hand flat like a paper weight on your lower belly. “wanted to see if he was a man at all.”
“and?”
“beat it out’a him eventually, but if he was a man he wouldn’t’ve touched ya in the fuckin’ first place.” he goes tense against you, like he’d been trying to force that part from his memory.
“well, thank you for letting him live.” you place your hands over his, a lighthearted inflection to your tone.
“didn’t wanna, but he’s got a woman n’ kids at home—even if they’d be better off. ‘sides, it would’a been a mercy. he’s gotta live with what he did n’ what came for him after he did it.”
you hum, rolling your head to the side so you’re facing him. as if feeling your gaze, he opens one eye, droopy and tired. “what else does he have to live with?”
a small smirk teases the corner of his mouth—one of satisfaction. “few broken bones n’ a busted lip.”
“he’ll tell deanna and reg.” you warn softly, tucking a stray of shaggy hair from his face.
“nah, told him if he did i wouldn’t be so forgivin’ next time.” his breathing slows as you comb your fingers through his hair, nails scraping soothingly against his scalp. “he’s a doctor, ain’t he? he’ll be fine.”
“i guess.”
“want ya to go see maggie or carol first thing, get yerself checked up.” 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. “i’m fine, my ribs aren’t broken. just sore.”
“don’t care.” he grouches, hand lifting to point a finger at your face. “and these.”
“just cuts,” you catch his finger, then try to pinch it between your teeth. he snatches it away with a dry chuckle. “they’ll heal.”
“woman, just fuckin’ do it.” he insists, his tone jestful but still deadly serious.
you snort. “oh, i’m convinced!”
“damn right ya are.”
a knock at the front door disrupts you.
“ignore ‘em.” daryl grumbles, leaning over you to switch the light off.
“i know y’all are awake!” you hear a voice call up.
you frown. “is that rick?”
“yep.” daryl reaches up to close the window, then flops back down.
you wince. “daryl, careful.”
“sorry.”
“saw your light go out!” rick knocks again.
“go let him in.” you give daryl a nudge. “it might be about pete.”
“exactly.” he gripes.
“i’ll just keep knockin’!”
“you know he will.” you nudge him harder this time. “tell him the truth, he’ll be on our side.”
then the jarring sound of a nasally snore fills the room. he never snores.
“i know you’re faking.” you shake him. “daryl.”
the ‘snoring’ gets louder.
you purse your lips, then throw the covers off and kick your legs over the side. “making your wounded wife answer the door in the middle of the night.” you tut, tying your robe as loosely as you can. “unbelievable.”
his face meets the wrath of your pillow when you toss it at him, then you pad across the room. “coming!”
