Daryl Dixon one shots

Stranger

You had always been relatively alone in life. You were intelligent, and friendly, but always had a hard time making and keeping friends. So it was no surprise that even in the apocalypse, you ended up alone. You live in the middle of the woods, far from any kind of civilization. Walkers rarely make it up to your part of the mountains, and you have a well and garden to sustain you. Lately, though, you've become more desperate for human contact than anything else. Specifically for human touch.

One night, it was late and it was pouring out, an occasional bolt of lighting striking a far out tree, when you heard a knock at your door. You hadn't blown out your candles because you typically have no need to camouflage yourself, which you regretted as soon as dread crawled up your spine. Nevertheless, you grabbed your shotgun, and hid it behind the door as you opened it. In your doorway stood a tall, strong man. He was absolutely soaked through with water, and covered in blood. You had realized it wasn't his quickly, though. "May I come in ma'am? Please." He rasps out in a thick southern accent, sending a shiver up your spine.

You don't say anything, but you open the door and step aside, allowing him to step out of the rain. He thanked you with a nod, and stepped in. You close the door behind him, and he begins to step off your rug when you clear your throat loudly. "Shoes and weapons off inside." You assert, looking from his mud-caked shoes to his mature, attractive face.
"Yes ma'am." He responds without question, slipping off his shoes, a tool belt, and the crossbow slung over his shoulder.
"And the knife?" You say knowingly, holding out a hand.
You had spotted it when he walked in, a sheathed knife tucked into the back of his pants. Fairly large, too. He grinned, knowing he'd been caught, and handed it to you. His calloused fingers brushed softly against your palm as his hand left the knife.

You unsheathe the knife to inspect it, carefully looking at the delicate carvings worn almost entirely out of the handle due to use. You notice how well kept it is, like he treasures it. You smile at that, and put it back in the sheath before dropping it into his boot for safekeeping.

"I'll start a fire." You say, padding to the stack of firewood next to the fireplace.
You nimbly grasp a few pieces of wood and toss them into the fireplace, before lighting a match and letting it's fire catch on the wood before tossing it in as well. You peek around your shoulder at the mysterious man who's still standing there, watching you curiously but saying nothing. "Grab me some kindling, would you?" You ask, pointing to a bin of thin wood scraps beneath a shelf across your small living room. He nods, stalking to grab them and give them to you. You give him a thankful smile, and add it to the fire.

Once the fire's going, you sit back and warm your hands for a moment before turning to look at the silent man again. "You need a shower." You say, "You stink like death."

"What, you got runnin' water?" He asks.
"Yeah, now get out of here before you stain my carpet. Wash your feet."
"Yeah yeah, mom." He teases, grinning a little at you.

~~~~~

Daryl turns off the shower with a satisfied sigh, entirely relaxed after allowing himself to be pelted by some warm water instead of cold for once. He dries off, then pulls back the shower curtain, only to find his clothes gone.

Damn clean ass lady

Daryl sighs and wraps the towel around his waist before stepping out of the shower. He dries his feet on your cute fluffy shower mat before leaving the bathroom. He holds a hand at his waist to keep his towel up while looking around for you, as you've seemingly disappeared. He finally finds you in your room, back turned to him as you shuffle through drawers in your dresser. His clothes are placed on a chair, looking miserable as compared to your clean, plush bedroom. "Hey-" he starts, interrupted by your aggressive flinch as you whip around to look at him, not having heard the shower turn off.