Walking Dead It Is What It Is

**AN: Just a bit of fluff and tumble with Daryl Dixon. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.**

It's been 13 months and 27 days since people started rising from the dead to eat the living, seven months to the day since my husband laid down his own life so I could run for mine, and 13 days since I found this ragtag bunch of people trekking across my path.

Drew and I were on a road trip when the virus hit. He wanted to go to DisneyWorld of all fucking places; he'd never been as a child. He kept joking with me, "Come on, babe, we're goin' to Disneyland!" I kept rolling my eyes and telling him we were going to DisneyWorld, a different place entirely, but he wouldn't listen.

We were both pretty resourceful, generally speaking, and Drew loved his gadgets and gear. He was a bit of a conspiracy theorist, too, so we were oddly prepared for the end of the world, if only hypothetically. Yet nothing can prepare a person for the sound of tearing flesh, or the constant and overwhelming stench of rotting, walking corpse.

Or seeing your best friend and partner in life ripped apart in front of your eyes while you run like a coward.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm having a really long dream brought on by too much fiction; I do have a pretty active imagination. Sometimes, I feel like Katniss Everdeen, especially when I'm purifying stream water for drinking with iodine tablets that Drew insisted we have in our survival kit, bless his soul. Sometimes, I laugh until I cry because I cannot fucking believe any of this is happening.

I thank whatever cruel powers that be for at least sparing my life-saving ability to remember seemingly unimportant details, though—like the stuff I remember from the knot tying class Drew and I took before one of our backcountry trips. Those knots came in handy more than once, and I felt like Ms. Everdeen even more, every time I climbed a tree and cinched myself up there to sleep.

Sleeping in trees was before I met Rick Grimes and his group. Now I have an actual bed, not that I sleep much, still. I feel safe, though, as off the rails crazy as Rick is. I mean, I get it, since he literally woke from a coma into the middle of the end of the world, but he's a very good man. I'm fortunate they took me in; I know he's turned others down who've asked for refuge.

I do wish he'd consider leaving Georgia, though. I don't really know that this is the absolute best place in the world for us to start planting roots, and I've voiced my opinion about heading to the Midwest—better farmland, fewer people, maybe even more resources. We'll never know unless we try.

God, I fucking hate the south, too. It's hot, and humid, and there are bugs everywhere. There are zombies, too, but they're _everywhere_ everywhere, so I'll just internally whine about the random shit I don't like about the south, specifically.

There's a distinct smell down here, too, underneath the current smell of rotting flesh. The southland smell reminds me of the morning I woke up in the car at sunrise after Drew had driven overnight. Pine trees and mist, mossy and thick. It smelled like heat and wet and dirt. At the time I thought it was enchanting, romantic even, and I said as much to Drew. He took a deep inhale and a huge grin spread across his boyish face as the light from the rising sun twinkled in his eyes. He nodded in agreement. That smell always reminds me of that moment.

Tonight, I'm on watch with Dixon in the gun tower. The guy is truly a charmer in no sense of the word. He never smiles, he's said about four words since I joined the group, and on the rare occasion that I find him looking at me, he usually looks like he wants to stab me. He smells bad, too. I get that it's the fucking apocalypse, but I notice that everybody else in this group finds a hot second to not smell and look like a fucking walker—not Dixon, though; and of course I get stuck on watch with him.

Maybe one of the reasons I'm so aggravated by his filth and gruff exterior is because he's actually good-looking underneath it all. He's got an unbelievable body, steel-blue eyes that won't let you look away, and cheekbones that he could use to gut one of those squirrels he likes so much. I wouldn't have noticed any of this if I hadn't been scheduled to keep watch with him. Still, he rarely speaks to me, and whenever he shoots me a death glare, I'm at least 10 feet away from him.

Whatever—this isn't a fucking high school dance, and we aren't teenagers. Daryl Dixon isn't even my type; I like All-American Boy good looks—clean-cut, broad smile, a dimple if I can get one. It's just that I haven't been touched by a man in any way other than to save my ass from getting eaten since Drew died, and everybody else here is either taken or even farther off my grid of compatibility.

Also, I sometimes wonder if Dixon isn't just completely disinterested in sex, because he doesn't seem to look at anyone in _that way_. It's so weird to me that such a physically aggressive and powerful man wouldn't be interested in being physical in that way. Such a strong, skilled, capable man, who's good with his hands, and fast on his feet, quiet and stealth, and the ultimate provider and protector with shoulders a mile fucking wide, and…

"Fallin' asleep over there?" he asks.

"Huh?" I eloquently reply.

Dixon purses his lips and eyes me sideways, like I'm a huge burden on him. I want to remind him of the other day when he was outside the fence and I shot a walker who was quickly gaining on him as he rode his obnoxiously loud motorcycle toward the gate. I practically saved his life, the ungrateful butthole.

"Were breathin' heavy, like you was sleepin' or somethin'," he says, and I don't even know what to say, because I was breathing heavy? What the fuck? "Gotta stay alert, or there ain't no sense in you bein' up here at all."

I roll my eyes. "If you'd rather, I could head to my cell. I have some reading to catch up on."

I'm kidding, of course; I've read every book in my Kindle three times since the geeks inherited the earth, and even with my little portable solar panel, it's a pain in the ass to charge up just to read one of the books I used to think were action-packed and thrilling. I used to read books with adverse plot points, developing strong characters and stronger philosophical debates. I live that shit now, and it's not nearly as exciting in reality.

"Pssh." Dixon scowls at my brush-off and rolls his eyes in response. He may be a dirty redneck and a superior tracker and hunter, but he's also an unparalleled snark queen.

"Look, I'm doing just as well as anybody else around here," I defend myself. "I pull my weight, and do the best I can, so if you've got some real criticism for me, then give it, otherwise you can go fuck yourself."

Dixon looks momentarily stunned, and is quiet for a few beats as I kind of fume off to the side. I'm not really pissed, necessarily, but I'm annoyed that he's such a judgmental prick about my watch skills, since he barely fucking knows me, or what I'm capable of.

"What's got your panties in a twist, woman?" he asks. As if that's a legitimate question.

See? Charmer.

"Are you fucking serious?" I ask, and now I'm kind of pissed. "My _panties_? Jesus, you are unbelievable, you know that?"

"Hold up," he says, raising a hand in a weak attempt at surrender, but I sense some sincere condescension in his hand gesture. "Let's just… back up a tick."

I set my stance and my mind races from him giving me shit for sleeping on watch and my interpretation of him being a sexist pig about my underpants causing me discomfort. I really wish this whole thing hadn't blown up so quickly, but it's done, and there isn't much I can do except take a few breaths and hope it doesn't go any further.

I keep my eyes closed while Dixon channels Rick Grimes and tries to make peace with me. I can tell it makes him uncomfortable, that it's exhausting him, so I'm kind of—like 35%—flattered, while the other 65% of me is equal parts confused by his motivation and still contemplating his shoulder span.

Damn the width of his shoulders.

"Thought ya might be tired," he says, his voice quiet and careful, and utterly non-Dixon. "You been doin' more'n pullin' your weight; you been doin' _too_ much, and don't think no one notices."

I slowly open my eyes, realizing how tired I actually am. I can't remember the last time I slept more than 20 minutes. I try to keep busy; Carol and Rick tell me to get some rest; and now Dixon thinks I'm going to pull a Tyler Durden or something.

My mind starts to wander around just how pleased Tyler Durden would be in this post-apocalyptic landscape with no banks, or government, or IKEA, or Starbucks, and then I remember that Daryl Dixon is talking to me with more than just grunts and vowels sounds. I realize that I should be paying attention.

"We got along just fine before ya got here," he informs me, then rushes to amend his statement. "Not that ya ain't appreciated, but ya don't hafta try so damn hard, girl."

I exhale heavily, because every time I hear Dixon call one of the women around here _girl_, it's with a kindness and gentleness that no one could ever imagine that he possessed. Or maybe it's just me that has a hard time imagining or accepting that he's gentle and kind.

And then it hits me—I'm an intruder. These people are a family, and I'm not part of that. My husband is dead and I'm alone. My eyes dart from side to side, and Dixon reaches out one of his hands, enveloping my wrist in his warmth, and I shudder.

"Hey," he says, squeezing gently. "Look at me. Look me in the eye."

I do, and his eyes search mine. "Ya ain't alone."

Shit. I must've said all that out loud.

I nod slowly, and the understanding that Dixon's actually making an effort to comfort and engaging me washes over me. "I am tired, but…" I pause, not really sure whether his interest in my well-being is fleeting or here to stay, but I persist. "I'm the new kid, and I wanna be sure I do my part."

He nods, letting go of my wrist, and my skin is cold and tingling in his wake. He looks out over our surroundings, listening and watching, always aware. I don't hear or see a thing, unless I hyper-focus, and then I can easily hear the dead things milling around outside our boundary fence.

"Ya do your part," he assures me. "It'll take time to recognize it, but you're already part a us. Don't fight it."

His voice drifts off, but not in a distracted way, more in a sage and knowing sort of way.

Several minutes pass in calm silence, but there's a riot in my head. I don't know why this group accepted me, and I don't know where I fit in, but I think Dixon's telling me that it's a natural progression. I've never been good at taking anything at face value, though. I have to question everything, poke it and prod it, lift the hood then crawl underneath the chassis. Nothing is whatever it is to me.

Before I can settle and sort my roar of thoughts into manageable categories, Carol's silvery spikes of hair appear in my periphery. She's here with Oscar to relieve Dixon and me from watch.

"Y'all should get some rest," she says, pushing Dixon's filthy hair out of his eyes. He flinches, but playfully bats her hand away from his face. "And… maybe a shower?"

Carol smirks when he mumbles something surely obscene under his breath. He and Oscar nod to each other, and Dixon ambles slowly toward the door.

"Left ya some clean clothes on your bed, Steph," Carol says with a smile. "Get a shower in and get some rest, huh?"

"Thanks, Carol," I say, feeling like a total psycho for going off on Dixon just minutes before. What he was saying was the truth; these people really do accept me. I'm having a hard time believing it, though, and I know it's just because I need some grounding, some physical proof—more than a smile and some clean clothes on my bed, or a few kind words.

I turn my head at Dixon's beckoning voice as he slips through the door. We go everywhere in pairs, even inside the prison gates, and he's telling me to hurry up. I look back to Carol, and she shoos me away.

"Go on, now." Carol looks pointedly at the door. "We got this."

I nod, and follow Dixon out the door, my legs and arms feeling heavy for the first time in a long time. I'm reminded of a mediation tape my P.E. teacher used to play for us once a week when we had "Yoga Day."

_Close your eyes and imagine an ocean wave—in and out, in and out_

_Let go of your inner thoughts and dialogue_

_Breathe deep and steady, cleanse your mind of thought_

_Your arms are like lumps of lead_

…_your hands are like lumps of lead_

… …_your legs are like lumps of lead_

… … …_your feet are like lumps of lead_

I follow closely behind Dixon, just off to his right. He's got a rhythmic, mesmerizing swagger that's as effortless as the tide, and I'm lulled by it. His every movement lulls me, really. Even the rippling of the large, dark tattoo on his right shoulder blade that peeks out of his sleeveless shirts, and dances over his lean muscles with every stretch of his arms.

I don't even think before the question comes out of my mouth. "What's your tattoo?"

Dixon's pace slows, but only slightly, and he shoots me one of his signature _what in the actual fuck?_ looks. Then his face morphs into that cranky old man face he gets when he doesn't want to say words. He's so fucking awkward sometimes, and right now, it's kind of adorable to me for some reason.

"Which one?" he sort of grunts, and shrugs.

"This one," I answer, resting three fingertips over the skin of his shoulder blade, feeling his skin is warm and a little damp.

My fingers move over the inked patch of skin of their own volition, and I'm fascinated at how smooth his skin is there. Up close, now, I can see that the visage is something dark, and not just in color. I can only see part of it, but it looks like some kind of frightening winged creature with talons. Still, the feeling of his skin and the detail of the design captivate me.

"Couple gargoyles," he mumbles, and his skin turns to goose bumps under my touch. He doesn't pull away, though his hands are fisting at his sides.

"Can I see it?" I ask.

"You're seein' it, ain't ya?"

"Not just this," I say, swiping my fingers over the exposed area again. "I wanna see the whole thing."

Dixon finally shrugs my hand away, and scoffs. "The fuck for?" He starts to walk again and I follow him inside the prison.

"Will you tell me about it?"

I don't know why I'm suddenly obsessed with Dixon's tattoos. He has more than one, and I've spied them before. I don't even like tattoos, really; they became so trendy and fashionable, but Dixon's are different. They're like my Uncle Larry's tattoos.

Larry was special forces in Vietnam, and somewhat of an outcast from my dad's side of the family with his tattoos and leather and motorcycle clubs. He'd randomly roll in on his Harley, eat dinner with us, regale us with stories of the road, then blow out the next morning before I even got out of bed. My mother would let go a final exhale of relief until his next, unannounced visit.

"What's t'tell?" Dixon non-answers.

I reach out and snag his wrist in my hand to stop him, but he won't look at me.

"I just… want…" I stutter over my words. I can't say what I want, and I don't trust how I feel or what I'm about to do, but I use his arm as an anchor and pull myself closer to him.

He's still and silent, but he's looking me in the eye, now that I'm directly in front of him. I'm shorter than him by a good five inches, but he seems like a tower above me. My hand slips from his wrist to his palm, and I lift it to my face.

Dixon reluctantly cups my jaw—the tension in his body protesting the skin on skin contact. I won't let him pull away, though. "Just… touch me."

He blinks slowly and sighs heavily, then slips his hand around the back of my neck, his fingers sliding up into my hair. It's a possessive gesture—one that ignites my insides with a heat I haven't felt in way too long. It's like a volcano is erupting inside my chest, spilling lava to fill the cold, dark cracks left behind so many months ago.

Dixon will never replace Drew, no one will, but I need this, and I think he does, too.

I pull him closer by the tattered placard of his threadbare shirt. I want his heat and solid weight against me. I want to curl up against him and never leave his side—to touch him everywhere and merge with his every cell and molecule.

I've never wanted anything as much as I want this. Logically, I know it's the need, the ache and loss that are intensifying what I want from him, but I don't care how dysfunctional or destructive it all looks in the black and white formula in my mind. I don't care that I would never have looked twice at Daryl Dixon before the end of the world, and vice versa, because everything he is, is making me feel like the world isn't crumbling and dusting and flying apart.

The formula doesn't compute, and no matter how many times I work it, no matter how deep I dissect or how many questions I ask, it will make zero sense. The probability of this ever being anything more than physical comfort, balm for wounded souls, in the world before we all went to Hell, is nil, but I just don't fucking care anymore.

The hand that's grasping the front of his shirt for dear life is mimicking his opening and closing movements on the back of my head. I lift my other hand up to pull his head closer to mine because I want to kiss him now. Kissing is the obvious next step since the touching thing is going so well. Maybe kissing will actually kill me, and I won't be in Hell anymore, but I'll go to Heaven. I've been a good girl, haven't I?

Dixon resists, but only a little, and his lips are warm. They're chapped and dry, but soft and pliant. His tongue sweeps between his mouth and mine, and I groan involuntarily and close the acute distance that separates our bodies. We're both giving in now.

There's a small guard's office just inside the door that no one uses for anything. I break our kiss and pull him by the front of his shirt through the door. We set our weapons to the side, and I close the door behind us.

The force of my hand against his chest drops Dixon into the desk chair. He looks up at me with what I can only describe as raw hunger. No one has ever looked at me that way. He looks like he wants to eat me alive in a distinctly different way than the creatures outside.

Without thinking, pushing forward on adrenaline and instinct—the things I never trust—I pull my tank top over my head and toss it aside, then unclasp my bra and quickly straddle his lap, immediately kissing him again. I feel the backs of his rough fingers, gently gliding up my side and around my front to cup my breasts.

His hands and fingers are calloused and rough, but his touch is light and tender. He squeezes and strokes with his hands, then takes a nipple between each finger and thumb. The light pinching and touching only make me more aggressive, so I bite his lip, and he grunts in response, his hands tightening on my breasts.

I'm rubbing up against him and can feel how hard he is right where I want him to be. God, I want him inside me, but I just can't figure out how to do that—we're all instinct and action. Then Dixon's out of his chair, and I'm on my back on the small guard's desk, office supplies digging into my skin. His mouth is on me, everywhere, and he's working on the button and zipper of my cargo pants.

My hands are in my hair, pulling and twisting, as he yanks my pants and aforementioned panties down over my hips and thighs. The papers and pens under me scatter to the floor with every one of Dixon's quickly roughening movements. He gets my pants down to my ankles, then unfastens his own, letting them drop open around his hips.

His eyes scan the room then land on something behind my head. He uses one hand to pull me to the edge of the desk, to steady me, open me to his approach, and his other hand to reach for whatever he's found.

He stands up straight, settling between my open, dangling legs, and I see that he has a condom in his fingers. He looks me straight in the eye, toying with the foil packet, as his other hand finds its way to where I'm wet and wanting, slowly slipping around and inside.

"This what ya want?" he asks.

I groan under him, twist my hips, and try to get his fingers deeper and _more_ inside. My eyes close automatically, since I've decided to go against all reason, I don't need to see the details—just feel them.

"Tell me," he says, and I feel a rush of air and his lips on my throat. "Is this what ya want?"

His fingers are more insistent and exactly what I wanted, but now I want more. I grab his face, and make him kiss my mouth, hissing against his lips. "Yes."

He nods faintly, then pulls his mouth from mine before tearing the packet open with his teeth. He works fast to remove the condom from the wrapper and roll it on, and then, he's finally slipping inside me—slow and wet.

I want to wrap my legs around him and pull, drive him home fast and deep, but my pants restrict my feet, so I lay there helpless, trapped by one hand on the table beside my head, and one on my hip. My hands move to unbutton his shirt, and my fingers trail over his chest, feeling the sparse hair and scarred skin, and my mind is blown by the brutal reality of this man above and inside me.

"Hmm," he hums into my throat when he kisses me again—wet and hot, teeth and tongue.

He shifts his weight and pulls back, but not out all the way, then slides back inside just as slow as the first time. His hand travels from my hip over my thigh, pulls my leg up by my knee, and pushes the wide leg of my pants over my boot, freeing my foot.

I swear out loud when he hikes my leg over his hip and moves deeper and harder inside me. His lips work over my throat and collarbone and breasts again. He traps a nipple between his lips and swirls his tongue around it, then pulls on it with his teeth.

Everything he's doing is pretty standard, I assume, it seems to come naturally to him, but it feels like something new, like a revelation, like I've never been touched like this before; and I haven't, really. I've never been touched with this level of intensity and sureness and raw power behind every thrust.

I can feel a familiar tingle in the bones of my hips, crackling and sizzling. I grip one of his shoulders, and press three fingers just above where we're joined.

Dixon keeps moving, just as slow, but a fuck of a lot harder—holding my thigh against his hip with a death grip behind my knee. He's scratching and clawing at the long forgotten paperwork beside my head, and breathing heavily in the crook of my neck.

Two more hard thrusts and I come apart beneath him, gasping for air, crying out, and probably waking the baby and anyone else who's within a 10-mile radius, but I don't care. Not one fucking bit.

He lands a quick kiss on my shoulder, then stands up straight, taking both of my thighs in his hands, opening me wider. With a few more hard and fast thrusts, he's coming, looking just the way I felt. He's quiet, though, save for his labored breath.

I watch him come down, a fresh sheen of perspiration across his exposed chest and a glow I've never seen on his cheeks. He pitches forward, bracing himself with his hands on either side of my head. He kisses my jaw and my throat, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders.

"Fuckin' A," I say.

Dixon chuckles—actually _chuckles_—against my chest.

"Seriously, dude, why didn't we do that sooner?" I ask, as he slowly stands, separating our bodies.

He shakes his head and does that side-eye thing. "You been here less'n two weeks, Steph," he answers quietly, discreetly pulling his pants closed. "And I don't…"

He suddenly looks at a loss for words, which I've never witnessed. He may not say a lot, but I've never thought it was because he didn't know what to say, rather that he just didn't care to say it.

I know what he means, though. I've never been one for casual sex, but I think this is different. All evidence points to this encounter as being tawdry, but it doesn't feel that way to me. I sit up and place a firm hand to his chest, stopping him from retreating away and into himself.

"I don't either," I say, reassuring him that I know what this is, and it isn't what it seems. "But I hope we can make it something."

He turns to face me, his eyes blazing through me and pulling me in all at once. There's a light behind them, warm and flickering, and he slowly leans in for a kiss.

**Thank you, MsKathy, for whipping this into shape, and to Siarh for giving me the thumbs up.**


End file.

Walking Dead, Humor, Romance