Pre Apocalypse Daryl Dixon One Shots

Gentle Touch

A soft melody hummed from the old radio on your shelf, the keys of the piano blending with the guitar lending a certain warmth to the atmosphere.

The lights were off, but the room was lit by the strand of lights hanging above the headboard of your bed. The glow a pale mix of orange and yellow.

Your walls were painted a light lavender, and posters hung in the corners, of bands you liked. School awards you won hanging as well, but your favorite was the collection of pictures you and your best friend took.

It was like pulling teeth to get Daryl to take a picture, so the collection of five was your most prized possesion.

Daryl Dixon; a mystery in the beginning but a blessing in the end.

He was your closest friend just like you were his.

When you first met him two years ago, you never would've thought that you would become friends with him.

He sat in the back of the classroom, everyday the same seat. A black sweatshirt and ripped jeans was what he always wore, even in the heat of the back to school summer weather.

Some days he wore the hood of his sweatshirt up-- until a teacher said something to him-- and others he didn't.

The days the hood was covering most of his face, he almost seemed like a shadow in the room. Barely seen and never to be heard from.

You didn't even know his name; it wasn't until two months into the new school year, on a chilly October afternoon that you first spoke to him.

The bell had ring, and as you were grabbing your things he walked past you with his own books. But standing up you hadn't noticed him, and bumped straight into his side. Causing him to drop his books.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't even--" You begin to apologize as he bends down to pick up his things but stop when you notice something seeping from his back through his sweatshirt.

Blood. Sticky red blood soaking through his clothes.

Watching him wince as he stands, you touch his arm gently.

"Oh my God, you're bleeding!"

Closing his eyes in both pain and annoyance, he shakes his head at you. His lop of dark brown hair shines lightly with sweat and as you look closer at him you see how pale he is. A sick and in pain kind of pale.

"I'm fine." He mumbles under his breath, not meeting your gaze.

"Your back is leaking blood, like a lot of blood. You are not okay," You pause, watching him avoid your eyes as much as he can. "come with me."

That gets his eyes to slowly look at you, "We have to get you to the nurse."

His eyes widen, and you see fear.

"No, not goin to no nurse."

Confused by his stubbornness you sigh, "Okay, no nurse. Let me clean you up at least. Please, you can't make the rest of the day like this."

In his moment of weakness and intense pain, he doesn't put up a fight.

Grabbing your bag and his books, you lead him towards the bathrooms.

"Don't worry, we can go in the boys." You say as you feel him hesitating to follow you as you get closer to the doors.

Opening it up, you are glad that it's empty. The bell has rung on your way here, making this your first time being late.. To anything. But something about this boy made it worth it.

"Can I know your name?" You ask, grabbing paper towels and motioning for him to stand by the counter.

Chewing on his thumbnail in a nervous fashion, his eyes flicker up to meet yours. "Daryl."

Your lips curve slowly upward into a small smile. The name fitting him.

"I'm--"

"Know who ye are."

His accent is heavy, much more than your own.

"Oh," You say and an uncomfortable silence floats over you. "well lets take a look at your back."

His hands move slowly to the zipper and pulls it down. But hesitates to take it off.

"Do you need some help?" You ask and he shakes his head, wanting to do it himself.

Taking it off, you see it in the mirror. The back of his grey t-shirt dyed a crimson red.

Slowly Daryl pulls that off too, and you listen to his grunts of pain from the movements and the way his shirt stuck to his wounds.

Turning around, Daryl looks down as he leans his elbows on the counter. Avoiding your gaze in the mirror.

Looking at his back, there are long scars. Lashes along his skin. Old and new, the newest seeping deep red blood.

Swallowing your sudden wave of emotion, you wet some of the paper towels and lightly touch his wounds with them.

His body flinches away, groaning in pain.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, the only volume you can muster.

The next few minutes are filled with silence; the only noises being moans of pain from Daryl.

Touching his shoulder comfortingly, you continue to dab the cuts in his skin softly.

"Who did this to you?" You can't help but ask, and it's a question Daryl knew you would ask.

"You don't have to tell me," You whisper to him, having a few ideas in mind. "I just can't believe someone would send you to school like this. That someone would do this to someone at all."

It felt unusual for Daryl, having someone genuinly care for him. And the feel of your hand on his shoulder, something he'll never admit, was the only thing keeping him from crumbling from the pain.

A knock on your window brings you from your memories, and turning to look you go over and open it up.

Climbing in, like so many nights, Daryl is soon in your bedroom. He lives only a block or two away, and on nights he could get away he came here. Tapping on your window, and let in.

Looking at him, even in the low light, you spot the blackness swelling in his left eye.

"You're father's back huh?" You whisper, wanting to touch his face but hold back in case you accidentally hurt him.

Daryl's father would go off on these benders every couple weeks and they were the only time Daryl got relief.

"Merle took the last of his beer, but when he got home thought it was me who took it." Daryl explains as he goes over and sits on the edge of your bed.

Following, you sit beside him. Touching his hand softly, trying to comfort him without making him feel like you were pitting him.

"You can stay the night," You whisper, leaning your head against his shoulder. "if you want."

Daryl nods, and the two of you sit in the nice quiet. The radio still softly humming, and the room warm and comforting.

"Thank you," Daryl speaks up, making you sit up and look at him. "for all ye do for me."

The edges of your lips curve upward, "You deserve to have someone looking out for you. Someone who cares."

Daryl squeezes your hand lightly, and soon your head tests back down against his shoulder.

Daryl appreciates having you care for him, but most of all he appreciates just having someone lend him a gentle touch. Something to sooth all the pain his skin and body has been through.

Your gentle touch.