Your fingers brushed against the worn spines of the books that lined the abandoned wooden bookshelves. The texture of the aged paperbacks that threatened to rip beneath your touch, brought you back to the days you spent roaming your small towns library. It was your sanctuary when home was anything but. You could disappear into those tall shelves and surround yourself with the warm company of a million words.
The light is dim in the small rec room of the CDC, a single light fixture hanging from the ceiling above you. And from that fixture, one of the four lightbulbs flickers from light to dark and back again. Straining your eyes as they scan over every faded title of book that adorns the bookshelves.
The room is empty. Sophia and Carl, who had last been in here with their mothers, had long since gone to bed. And despite the late hour, your feet guided you here. To this literature filled oasis in the middle of a death ridden desert.
Brushing a strand of hair, that had fallen from your messy bun sitting on top of your head, back behind your ear, you wrap your arms around yourself. Your palms touching the cold bare skin of your arms that remain exposed from the loose t-shirt you wear. And your legs, that remain exposed to the cool air from the black shorts hidden beneath the shirt you wear, feel the nice and long over due effects of a good clean shave. Something you had missed since the outbreak began, and something you would never take for granted again.
You're about to head back to your room down the hall somewhere, and try again to close your eyes and get some sleep before morning comes. But your eyes land on a title that draws you in instantly. One that causes a smile to slowly rise against your lips, and reaching your hands out, you pull it from its secure spot between two other novels.
The pages feel like something from a dream as your fingertips trail across the paper. And the scent, although changed with age and the different environment, still causes you to close your eyes. The smell of a book and the ink on the pages would always be one of your favorite. Nothing could replace the experiences books provided you with. A screen could never give you the experience of a fresh page or the light crack of the spine opening for the very first time.
Bringing the open book closer, you bring it to your chest. Hugging the book with a longing that people shared with loved ones. It was something so simple, yet made all the difference in the world in a time like this.
A ruckus in the doorway, causes your eyes to snap open and your mind is pulled instantly from your calming and sentimental moment.
Whirling around to see what the commotion is or rather who it is, your wide eyes slowly soften as you spot Daryl Dixon stumbling into the room. He holds a hand out that loosely touches the doorframe, in an effort to steady his steps perhaps. For he looks like he's tripping over his own feet with each small step he takes.
And you knew the moment you saw him in the doorway, that this man was clearly intoxicated.
"Hiding in here?" His voice hasn't changed though and the fact surprises you. It isn't slow or as slurred as it should be, instead it's the familiar soft yet gruff southern voice that he's always possessed. The voice that could only belong to the younger Dixon brother.
Closing the book that still lays open against your chest, you shake your head. "No. If I was hiding, you wouldn't have found me."
A smirk stretches against your lips, as you turn away from him to return the novel back to its rightful spot on the shelf behind you. And you hear a low snort escape Daryl; a slight mix between a low chuckle and a grunt.
"Touche." Daryl mumbles under his breath and you can hear his footsteps entering the room further. Your back may still be facing him, but that only makes his presence heighten your other senses more.
