Daryl's Angel (10th Anniversary Edition)

Chapter 47: The Same Cloth

The next day is uneventful. Merle isn't much trouble after all, keeping to himself, reading over the Bible that Hershel lent him. Rick, Michonne, and Carl leave on their run early and the rest of us do all we can to keep busy. That's all you really can do.

At least this time, Daryl's around. He takes a shift or two with Judith, wandering around bouncing her on his arm, looking at her with a quizzical bend in his brow, making faces at her, talking to her. I totally don't spectate and in fact, get plenty of work done, thank you very much.

I swear, I hear him humming to her when he wanders back into the common area. It's nearly tuneless, gruff and grumbly, all in his throat, and I love it. She's already asleep on his shoulder, chubby baby cheeks squished up and drooling on his shirt. He carefully maneuvers her into Beth's arms and I focus on the shirt in front of me. It happens to be Daryl's, the one he came home in that was ripped to hell, and I figure that if anything it'll be good to use for mending practice. With how he took it off, it's basically a puzzle to put together.

"What were you humming?" I ask.

"I wasn't," he retorts.

He sits down across from me. He left his crossbow on the table earlier and, once seated, he pulls it into his lap and starts checking it over, doing routine maintenance. I adjust the shirt in my hand and do another stitch, nodding slowly.

"Mm, sure," I muse. I glance over at where Beth watches over Judith in her crate. More stitches. "Whatever it was, she seemed to like it."

"Kid's got taste then."

I smirk at him. "So you were singing."

"Shut up," he mumbles, but his eyes seem to twinkle when he looks up at me. I blow him a kiss and he shakes his head, focused on his crossbow again. "Motörhead."

"Oh, I should've guessed," I sigh good-naturedly. "Still need to get our hands on a CD or something. You've gotta educate me."

He hums affirmatively. I lift up the shirt and gawk at how absolutely horrid it looks, all wonky edges and mismatched arm holes. It's more patchwork than shirt and certainly not wearable. I drop it back in my lap and inspect it, frowning.

"I messed up somewhere," I say.

"That's why it's practice."

"Wanna rip another shirt for me? Or I could do it myself...?"

Again, his eyes fall on me through his ever-growing bangs and I purse my lips against a smile. He huffs.

"You're terrible," he mumbles.

"I'm not hearing a no."

He growls at me under his breath and I giggle, going back to my work as I pick out the wonky stitches.

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It doesn't take long before we're back in bed and Daryl repays his pleasure yesterday back in full, with interest.

I sigh, nuzzling his neck as he strokes lazy lines up and down my back, and he grunts a little when I nibble his throat. I'm tingly all over, relaxed, drunk from release.

"You seem happy," he says.

"Really? Can't imagine why I would be," I tease.

I fold my arms under my chin and gaze down at him from my comfy spot on his chest. I kick my legs a little, but I start to slip and he grips my hip, holding me steady, and he smirks softly.

"Careful," he mumbles. He exhales as he tilts his head back onto the pillow, face blissful. "Wish I could just take you away," he says, squeezing my hips again, eyes still closed. "Find some real privacy, have my way with you."