Daryl Dixon Imagines

Reminisce

By pickledmoon on Tumblr

You’d always liked the woods. Being out in the middle of the great outdoors had a calming effect on you, and even in a world filled with death and destruction, the effect continued.

Rick had been tentative about letting you go out on your own for a walk through the woods, but when you mentioned that you could get a good round of hunting out of it, he’d relented. So you went out frequently into the forest, just you and Daryl, you armed with your machete and him armed with his crossbow. While you were always on the alert, searching for prey and walkers alike, you also took time to relax, to breathe, listening to the air rustle through the trees, the trickle of water from the creek nearby.

It was a good time for conversations, too. Daryl was different when he wasn’t surrounded by the other members of the group. You’d seen how kind he could be; he’d been there to help you when you sprained your ankle last month, tripping over a particularly large root like the klutz you were. He’d practically carried you back to camp, doting on you in his abrasive way. Hidden in his stern reprimands and gruff comments you could see how much he actually cared for you. Over time, you’d grown closer, thanks to these moments alone, when it was just you, and Daryl, and the woods. You teased him about how unruly his hair was getting, and he teased you for getting lost in thought when you should be paying attention to your surroundings.

You were thinking so hard that you nearly ran into a tree. You would have if Daryl hadn’t cleared his throat, drawing you back to the present. You sighed but managed to laugh at yourself.

Daryl chuckled, shaking his head as he passed you. “You’re gonna trip again not watching where you’re going,” he huffed. “Gonna get hurt again.”

“How could I get hurt with you to protect me?” you shot back. “You’re the best protection I got next to this guy.” You held up your machete.

“Well, help me out then and protect yourself a bit,” Daryl grumbled. He paused and went completely still, his crossbow poised to shoot. Then he relaxed and kept walking, gesturing for you to follow.

Daryl didn’t mind walking in silence, but you did. It was a little hypocritical of you, actually; you left the group for the relative quiet of the woods, but you were desperate to fill the natural ambience with your own humming or whistling or even singing when you were in the right mood. And what you wanted most of all was to talk with Daryl.

You’d been struggling with yourself recently. The stress of the apocalypse was enough of a burden, but dealing with feelings? For another person? That was too much. You’d lost almost everything and everyone you cared about in this world and yet Daryl remained. He was too strong, you decided, too resilient to go down. He was a survivor, a hunter, not the hunted. You trusted him with your life, and he apparently trusted you with his. Either you were truly dense or Daryl felt a similar way.

“You know what I miss, Daryl?” you piped up, stepping carefully over a fungus-ridden log.

“Hmm?”

You reached out and trailed your hand through the brush as you walked. “Touch.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” You really did miss it; you’d always been an affectionate person, and going this long without so much as a hug that lasted for any longer than a few seconds was affecting you. Still, a pat on the shoulder from Daryl was a hell of a lot more effective than a hug from anybody else. “I’m a hugger, Daryl, you know that. I got needs as much as you do.”

“Hmph.”

You frowned. He only ever reverted to his noncommittal grunts when he was uninterested in whatever topic you brought up, but you weren’t ready for him to clam up on you. “I miss hugs. And kisses.”