#worst thing is the teachers are just as tired and miserable as I am rn

[edgygayguy]

Just realized as I'm working on a presentation I won't have time to play Duviri, and I won't have time to play Vrising even though Secrets of Gloomroot will be out soon

[whirlybirbs]

— tenderly feral, iii.

summary: you settle in. things are okay. you’re trying. daryl is, too. together. pairing: daryl dixon x female!reader rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.1k a/n: set mid-season 5. i am full feral rn, churning out chapters at the speed of light so these two can just kiss already. again, @thatdamnokie​ made a playlist for this fic. please give it a listen! it’s perfection. anyways here’s daryl dixon having a crush.

                                           ✘      previous chapter.      ✘

When you wake up, the world is quiet.

The only sound is that of your breathing. You pull open your eyes, still heavy from sleep, and are greeted with the golden rays of the morning sun creeping in through the living room’s windows. The crisp, early breeze kisses the curtains, rippling the fabric like waves in the sea. The sun is warm on your cheeks. Everything is still. Peaceful.

So, for the first time since this all started, you roll over and go back to sleep.

Your knees knock Daryl’s, thigh pressed up against his as you bury yourself into your pillow and slip back under into sleep.

And Daryl watches it all -- watches you nestle into the blanket you’d unceremoniously stolen from him during the night, watches you inhale and exhale and tumble down into your dreams for another few minutes of bliss.

You nudge his hip with yours, content with the shared body heat of the touch.

It’s enough. His skin buzzes at the contact.

He’s not a religious man -- never has been. Merle neither. His pa sure as hell wasn’t, but his ma? Daryl can remember a glimmering golden cross around her neck; he can remember a prayer before dinner, a whispered prayer and before bed. She sure as hell wasn’t anything holy, but Hershel... Hershel had spoke of angels and heaven and all things beautiful in this world.

Daryl figures you’re just about all those things right now.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

✘

You feel stupid.

You look like you belong out there. As Carol changes behind you into an outfit that screams parent-teacher meeting, you huff and shrug on another sweater in hopes of looking less like you’ve just walked in from outside. You’re supposed to be a teacher. You’re supposed to be soft and kind and even-tempered and alive.

You don’t feel like any of those things.

The problem is, it’s set in your cheeks. In your eyes. You can’t shake the outside.

You’re on your third change of clothes when Carol speaks.

“Hey.”

Your hands are shaking from frustration. You drop them to your hips and serve her a miserable look in the mirror.

“Why don’t you wear the blue one?” she says softly, “It looked nice.”

“... I don’t want to do this.”

It blurts out from your lips quicker than you can catch it.

And Carol’s face warps into a look of calculated confusion.

But, before she can console you, you swipe at your eyes and haul on the blue sweater and tug your hair up and away -- the bruises around your neck have faded off into a delicate yellow color. If you squint, they look like nothing more than a smear of dirt.

“You know...” Carol speaks after a few beats of silence, “I don’t think any of us are ready to do this yet.”

You swallow. Your eyes hit your hands and you wring your fingers.

“I wanna try,” you breathe, “But...”

“But it doesn’t feel real.”

“Like it’s a dream,” you rush out, “And when I wake up --”

“None of it will have ever happened?”

Yeah. Something like that.

Carol’s hand touches your arm.

“When you an’ Daryl found me,” you shake your head, eyes fleeting shut as you grapple with the sting of tears, “I was gonna give up, y’know. After all these months of just... running and surviving and... doing what I had to do? I was tired. I was... I was tired of being alone. A-And, now we’re here and we’re alive and I... I slept in a home... A real home...”

“It’s okay,” Carol steps in to sweep her hands along your arms, “It’s okay to be afraid.”

You don’t know how to tell her you’re not. And that’s the worst part.

You don’t feel a damn thing.

✘

You slip onto the porch before Carol, feeling out of place and uncomfortable.

Daryl’s there -- he’s posed on the railing, perched precariously against the beam as he cleans his crossbow and loads and unloads his bolts. He’s not really there, he’s miles away, thinkin’ about things that he has no business thinkin’ about. Being in these walls... He can feel himself going soft. So, his own walls climb higher and higher up. Like armor around his heart.

And then you smile at him and they just... crumble.

It’s not a real smile. It’s tight-lipped and full of anxiety. But, it’s something softer than he’s used to. Your arms are wound tight around yourself, boots toeing the boards of the deck when he speaks up.

“... You look nice.”

Compliments. That’s a thing -- ain’t it? Pretty girls love compliments.

(Daryl wonders, off-handedly, when he started caring what pretty girls thought.)

“Yeah?” you shirk, glancing down at your outfit, “I think I look stupid.”

“Nah,” he croaks, eyes lingering on your face, “You look... good.”

You don’t feel it.

You don’t feel a damn thing.

Daryl sees it.

Carol steps out before you can speak, smile cut into her features at the sight of you both. In recent days, you’ve started to like the older woman -- Daryl’s apparent respect and care for her have gone a long way in your eyes. You relax a bit at her appearance. She looks as... domestic as you do. Her face lights up at the sight of you and Daryl chatting, and she makes a point of quirking a brow his way.

He ignores it.

“Have you showered yet?”

Her hand pats your shoulder, chin jutting as if to say let’s go -- and as you descend the steps, Daryl makes a huffy sound.

“Later.”

“M’ gonna hose you off in your sleep.”

“You look ridiculous, y’know.”

“Ha ha,” Carol chirps, “Shower. At least try to make this work, Daryl.”

He tosses his hand, something playing behind his eyes as he scoffs again.

“Ridiculous!”

You’re laughing a little as you head to the school, and Daryl sees it.

✘

“She’s stronger than you think, y’know.”

Carol scoffs at Daryl’s words. Behind her, Rick’s eyes narrow as he watches the treeline. It’s still early. The morning sun hasn’t hung itself high in the sky yet.

Daryl’s hand are glued to the strap of his crossbow. He grips the black strap tight, knuckles going white. Irritation bites at his nerves, then, boiling at Carol’s sudden motherliness -- she does this sometimes, and he hates it. Merle did shit like that, too. Tried t’ be the daddy he never had. But... Carol’s different. Like a sister. A good sister. She means well.

“She’s afraid,” Carol mutters, “She’s like a deer. Skittish.”

“She ain’t used t’ settling down,” Daryl supplies, “She ain’t weak.”

“Neither are we,” Rick chirps, moving to toe at the blender by the abandoned home on the outskirts of Alexandria’s walls, “And that’s what we need right now. We don’t know if this will work out.”

“We oughta try,” says Carol, “Or... I dunno, make it seem like we are.”

Silence slips between the trio.

“For now, this stays between us,” Rick breathes, “And we try.”

✘

You don’t know about that.

Because after one day of trying and four people asking you if you’d be at Deanna’s dinner party later, you’re about ready to run. You could pack your bag and be outta here in an hour. Forget this sweater and this fuckin’ McGraw-Hill science textbook in your hands.

The kids... there’s about ten of them. In the morning, it’s the younger ones. Later, it’s the older ones. It’s a good system, but as you introduced yourself and the days materials, you couldn’t help but feel like a fraud.

This version of you died months ago.

Daryl is swaggering towards the gates when you break at noon.

You cross paths like two comets in the sky, stopping short before one another without a word.

“How was it?”

“Shit.”

“Huh.”

You shake your head and wave the textbook.

“There’s a dinner party tonight.”

“Fuck that.”

“Right?”

You toe the dirt for a second while Daryl tries to pin the look on your face. He can’t put his thumb on it. Under the high noon sun, you glow with a melancholy sort of aura. Sad. Lonely. Makes his chest ache a little.

You sigh. “You goin’ out?”

“Might as well,” he scoffs, “Ain’t got a job yet.”

“Be careful.”

A smirk. “Me?”

It prompts another one of those tight-lipped smiles you do, the ones that are becoming more frequent. You knock his arm with your fist gently as you pass, rolling your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Need anything?” he asks as he begins to walk backwards, eyes still stuck to your figure.

“A drink, maybe.”

Daryl snorts. “M’ sure the dinner party will have some, huh.”

“Don’t remind me,” you call over your shoulder, “Have fun, wild child.”

The middle finger tossed your way is affectionate.

✘

Aaron finds him in the woods.

And they find Buttons.

And Daryl realizes he might as well try.

After Beth... it was hard to fuckin’ stomach the idea of trying. It is. Her death still stings like a fresh wound. Besides Rick, besides Carol, Beth was the only other person who’d managed to really know him. To stand him. Daryl, in all his bitterness, ended up being able to call Beth a friend -- they were different people, wildly different, but they’d kept each other sane when things got bleak and when she went missin’... He felt a part of himself go missin’, too. Just like after Merle.

That was for the best, though -- Merle’s death.

He could be Daryl, after that. Not Will Dixon’s son, not Merle Dixon’s baby brother. He could be Daryl Dixon.

And Beth Greene had been a friend to Daryl Dixon.

And you? You’re... you’re getting there.

“Who is she?” Aaron asks on the trek back to the walls.

Daryl blinks a few times at the curly haired man over his shoulder before throwing a scoff into the air. He swings his crossbow over his shoulder.

“Who?” he hoots, trying to seem indifferent, “Boston?”

“... Is that what you call her?”

Daryl shrugs. Aaron chews the inside of his lip. He sees the tense nature that creeps into the trackers posture.

“I heard you saved her,” Aaron asks, careful in his words, “In the city?”

“Almost didn’t,” he grunts, hauling through the brush. He seems to snarl at the memory, “I did, though, and... She’s a good person. Took a gamble, but she’s good. Sometimes y’ gotta trust your gut.”

“Deanna said she was a teacher... Before all this, I mean.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she wants to do it no more,” Daryl cuts in, “She ain’t... I dunno. None of us are who we used t’ be.”

Aaron falls quiet at that.

“You think you’ll try...?”

As the walls of Alexandria come back into view, Daryl wrings the strap of his crossbow.

“Maybe.”

✘

He does.

And you do, too.

You’re two beers in when you finally decide this dinner party wasn’t worth the threats Michonne and Carol had both hurled at you in an attempt to get you to go -- you tug the cardigan you’d thrown on over your sun-dress tighter around your shoulders as you decide that some air would be best and move to meander towards the front porch.

The sounds from inside sound foreign.

Alive.

And as you step outside, you catch the familiar figure of Daryl Dixon retreating down the street. At the sound of the door closing, he turns around --

And it’s like gettin’ punched in the gut.

He knew you were pretty before but... he knows you’re real pretty now. You’ve got a pretty dress on and your hair is done up in neat braids and you’ve got a necklace on that glimmers in the porch light.

If this was before everything, Daryl is convinced you wouldn’t have even looked his way. Not once. 

Your buzz peaks at the sound of his trademarked scoff. You follow the sound, lazily trudging down the steps and meeting him half-way on the sidewalk.

Something hangs in the air between you both, and your lips turn down in an amused smile. You’re closer now, noticing that he’s finally showered and changed into a nicer shirt. This one has a damn collar for god’s sake. His usual vest, though, still hangs from his shoulders as he eyes the party over your shoulder.

“How was it?” he asks finally, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Shit,” you chirp, noting the parallel from your earlier conversation as you drop your head and offer your half-full beer his way, “Not goin’ in?”

“Fuck that.”

He takes the beer and snags a long sip, tipping it back as you both begin to head back down the block towards the houses Deanna has allotted for the group. The silence is comfortable; between the sounds of your steps the night creeps out into the walls. Crickets and peepers and coyotes and... and if you close your eyes you can pretend everything’s normal again.

And you try.

And then, a voice calls out --

“Hey!”

Both you and Daryl turn, eyes wide.

It’s Aaron -- the lights of his house glow warm behind him. Beside you, Daryl’s face warps in confusion.

“Thought you were goin’ t’ that party over there --”

“Oh, I was never going to go ‘cause of Eric’s ankle,” the man glances up, laughing a little, “Thank god.”

Daryl squints, posture stiff. “Why’d you tell me t’ go then, huh?”

You blink between the two of them. Aaron does the same.

“You tried. It’s... I dunno, it’s the thought that counts.”

Aaron catches the glimmer of understanding the passes over your face.

“Look,” Aaron starts, “Come in. I made spaghetti... It’s... It’s pretty good --”

Blue eyes pass to you. You snag the beer, take a sip, then shrug.

“Don’t look at me.”

“You comin’?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“You’re both more than welcome --”

Your head moves between them both as you swallow, a bit of awe on your face as you realize Daryl’s pinned this on you; it’s a moment of comradery, a moment of ‘going down together’, and... and it’s nice.

So, you shake your head and give a little laugh and gesture for Daryl to lead the way.

And he does.

✘

You’re relatively quiet during dinner -- conversation fleets between Aaron and Eric who supply a hefty portion of noodles and wine. You have to admit it’s nicer than Deanna’s; you don’t feel like you need to smile and wave and maintain an unwavering sense of politeness. Daryl certainly feels the same way and you roll your eyes as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

You shove your boot his way under the table. He makes a face. You hand him a napkin and he scoffs with his mouthful of spaghetti.

“M’ good, thanks.”

He proceeds, then, to slurp another pile up and you pull a face.

“Sorry about him,” you mutter towards Aaron and Eric who share surprised looks between the two of you, “He’s part animal--”

The corner of his mouth is pulled upwards as he laughs, hunched over his meal. “Shut up.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

And for the first time, you flash a full smile his way before sipping your wine.

Eric just... sips his drink. Aaron kicks him under the table.

And all is well.

✘

Aaron wants him to recruit.

Your whole world is glowing from the wine buzz when he shows you both the garage, littered with bike parts. Daryl, then, seems to perk up -- he gravitates towards the table full of gears and engine components before taking pause.

It makes you wonder about the question you’d asked him the night before. About who he was before all this. Clearly, all this means something to him. You’re just not sure what.

“I don’t want Eric risking his life anymore --”

“Yeah,” Daryl breathes, “You want me riskin’ mine, right?”

From your spot in the doorway, you feel the bite of anxiety grab at your heartstrings. Eric, beside you, must have noticed, because his hand is careful on your arm. You spare him a tight-lipped smile as Daryl pulls the blanket off the bike and steps back; reminds him of his brother’s bike but... newer. This one isn’t a low-ride. It’s fast. Lean. Mean.

He catches your eyes through the bike’s frame and Aaron’s pose.

“Yeah,” Aaron exhales, “because you know what you’re doing. You’re good out there. And... because you do know the difference between a good person and a bad person.”

Your eyes hit the ground.

“You talked about saving her,” Aaron says, gesturing to you, “And... And -- we need that. Alexandria needs that.”

The air is heavy when Daryl finally speaks. “I got nothin’ else to do.”

You have to laugh, smile creating dimples in your cheeks as Eric mimics the gesture. Daryl winds himself around the bike, waving to Aaron.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll get you some rabbits.”

And you can tell Daryl is trying.

✘

The evening is quiet and you and Daryl are shoulder to shoulder on the front steps of the house.

The cigarette in his hands is nearing its end, embers swallowing it whole as ash litters the stoop. Daryl takes one last drag before dropping the butt to the cement and smothering it with the toe of his boot. It dies quick and the smoke that swirls around him is a little dizzying.

You’re still drunk.

He is, too, if he’s being honest. The wine snuck up on him.

You lean back on your elbows, watching him.

“You’re gonna do it, then?”

“What?”

“Recruit,” you say slowly, “For this place.”

“Might as well.”

“So, we’re stayin’?”

“Gonna try.”

He looks back at you and you snort, blinking up at the moon.

“... Alright.”

Daryl nudges your boot with his. “What’s that mean, huh?”

“Nothin’,” you chirp, lolling your head his way, “I’ll have t’ wait by the gates fer you to come back, I guess.”

His heart hammers a little.

“Shut up.”

“M’ serious,” you cry, shoving his arm, “It’s... That... I dunno.”

“What?” he presses, chin jutting as he speaks, “Use yer words, Boston.”

You roll your eyes. “That my nickname now?”

“Always been.”

“Gonna start callin’ you Dipstick,” you mutter, “Cuz you like ‘em so much.”

He laughs at that. “I’m surprised you even know what a damn dipstick is.”

“I know things,” you chirp, “I can check my own oil.”

He leans back, lip quirked. You’re still watching the sky, stray fly-aways escaping your braids. It’s cute. You’re pretty, still, in the glow of his four glasses of wine. Prettier than before. Maybe it’s the moon. Makes you all kinds of starry-eyed.

“Ain’t you somethin’ special.”

He means it.

“I will wait, though, at the gates,” you slur, “Make sure yer okay.”

His eyes narrow. Daryl mimics your posture, leaning back on the top step with his elbows and reclining a bit. You cross your legs at your ankles and sigh, prompting him to press on.

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re th’ only person here I like,” you supply, “Besides... I dunno, the others don’t count. I like ‘em enough but they ain’t my friends.”

Friends.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

“Friends, huh?” he asks quietly, “That what we are?”

You turn your eyes to him and his dart away. “I’d like t’ be.”

“Alright.”

“Friends, then.”

“Yeah.”

For the second time tonight, you look alive.