After the Storm [1]

6 • Panic

Waking up wrapped in Daryl Dixon's arms felt serene. Warmth enveloped her, an indent from his T-shirt on the right side of her cheek. She could feel rise of his chest against her back, and hear the slight huff of air that left his lips as it fell. She never wanted to move.

Slipping from his grasp wasn't easy, but her need to pee was violent. So she carefully peeled his arms from around her and replaced her warmth with a blanket. She speedily tiptoed to the bathroom, practically throwing herself down on the toilet seat. The motion made her head spin, and the effects of the hangover fully set in then. There was no need for puking, but her head throbbed something awful.

She dragged herself to the sink, turning the faucet and gulping down the clean cold water that flowed. Oh what a luxury, to be able to turn a knob and have cold water at your fingertips. It was something she'd learned not to take for granted in the military, and was reminded yet again when the world ended.

When she raised her head she caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. The bags under her eyes hadn't gone anywhere, and she couldn't imagine they would anytime soon. But her skin was clean, the shower gave her pores some much needed relief from the sweat and grime that clogged them.

She and Daryl hadn't moved much on the couch, which was just comfortably big enough for the two of them, so her hair hadn't suffered much wear throughout the night. Her braids were still intact, though small pieces had fallen out and framed her face. It'd been quite some time since she'd seen herself this way. She didn't know if it was the shower, or the lingering feelings of waking up in a man's arms, but she felt pretty.

It was a nice change, to say the least.

She felt a small smile toying on her lips as she opened the bathroom door, expecting to see Daryl's sleeping figure on the couch. Instead she was met with disappointment, as the couch was empty save for the blanket she'd used to cover him.

He snuck out? She thought irritably, her eyebrows pulling together with a frown. Why? Had she scared him off with her night terror? The crying? Was he embarrassed of how they'd slept? Had the alcohol influenced his kindness towards her, and now he regretted it? She believed surely if he had snuck out of her room then all the signals he'd given her last night where done in a drunken stupor.

She felt embarrassed. Maeve had vowed after Shane to never allow a man to make her look a fool, yet she felt like one as she stared at the empty couch. She'd been more vulnerable last night with him than she'd been with anyone in years.

She bitterly changed into fresh clothes, pulled on her eternally dirty combat boots, and left her room in search of food. She could smell it as soon as she opened the door, the bacon, the eggs. If heaven was real, it certainly smelled like this.

She padded down the hall, turning to look behind her at the sound of an opening door. A loud groan could be heard from the room, and out stumbled a very hungover Glenn Rhee with his palm against his forehead and his hair tousled. His flannel hung off his slender body and his pants were on a little crooked, leaving him looking absolutely hilarious. Maeve couldn't help but grin at the boy, her heart swelling with a sisterly love that she usually reserved for Rick.