in a dark meadow | daryl dixon

morning cigarette

word count: 4310

Winter in Georgia was a fickle bitch.

While the cold months were often unpredictable, Avery was used to having the comfort of her in-home heater and fuzzy slippers to accommodate the winter chill. Now she was exposed to the elements, with only the clothes on her back to warm her.

Avery stepped out of their temporary shelter - an isolated, single-story cabin tucked within a maze of backroads. That morning, the grass and foliage had been iced over, leaving the area around them gray and unwelcoming. 

Inhaling deeply, she let the cold air fill her lungs. A silver cloud puffed out between her parted lips as she rubbed her hands together for warmth. 

It was a habit she'd recently developed since they'd been forced to sleep together in cramped quarters. Take a moment for herself. Breathe and examine the world in front of her.

A couple of months had passed since the farm was overrun. Though Rick's speech had left their group wobbly, they all stuck together and focused on one, collective goal - finding a permanent home. 

They'd been unsuccessful thus far, settling for abandoned homes and sleeping on creaky floorboards. They usually huddled together in one room, distributing whatever blankets or scraps of fabric they could find. 

Avery typically found herself curled up next to Daryl, their backs nearly pressed together or fingers grazing, just out of reach of one another. The nights were her least favorite part of her day - sleep didn't come to her so easily anymore. Nightmares jolted her awake, as she would often recount being trapped inside Otis' old truck, prowlers on all sides of her, desperate for her flesh between their teeth. On those nights, Daryl would lie a little bit closer to her, offering silent comfort.

They were always forced out of their temporary sanctuary for one reason or another - depleted wildlife, signs of scavengers, or most commonly, walkers. They'd pile back into their vehicles, while Avery had claimed a permanent spot on the back of Daryl's bike, and they'd ride off in search of their next place of living.

The cabin door opened behind her and another body stepped outside, settling beside her. 

Daryl fished a cigarette from his pocket - a treasure he'd uncovered from his last supply run, and brought it to his lips. Withdrawing something from his pocket, Avery listened to the familiar click of the lighter, followed by the soft exhale of smoke.

"Yum. Morning cigarette."

"Beats the canned chicken Glenn found last week."

Avery giggled lightly. Nobody could hide their horrified expressions when Glenn had revealed his haul that one evening, feeling proud of himself until he ripped open the can. A whole chicken plopped onto the table, covered in gooey preservatives. The group had stared silently down at the slimy lump of meat, considering starvation. Avery had never seen anything like it. She suppressed her laughter, exchanging an amused look with Daryl across the table.

"You heading out?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

"Mmm," He grunted, taking another drag of his cigarette. She watched him from the corner of her eyes, and while she disapproved of his habit, something swarmed in her stomach restlessly. A rugged man shaped and hardened by nature, smoking a cigarette like some badass, motorcycle-riding, apocalyptic warrior. She thought about his arms, carved with muscle, and the way they held her against him in his tent so many weeks ago, and how she craved to be that close to him again. She quickly corralled her spicy thoughts, blaming her pink cheeks on the cold.