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There’s a flick of a Zippo in evening light, they’re both sitting on the back porch of their home. Between them sits a bottle of water, half full. Sun sets slowly, bathes them in amber and it almost feels nice. Southern heat makes her t-shirt stick to her skin, little bit of humidity makes cotton cling from a hard day of work. Her fingers trace the raw wood of the ledge of the step they sit on, little splinters are dull but catch on her fingertips.
Flame must not start. Flint clicks a couple more times before the familiar woosh of a lit fire sounds. Crackle of burning rolling paper, a couple short, shallow breaths as he starts to smoke. The smell of tobacco and ash fills her nose-- a smell she used to abhor, but has since become a scent of safety. Motor oil, leather, menthol cling to him like second skin. She makes a home in what would ordinarily be too barbed, abrasive, intense. Defies what usually wards people off, takes pride in her own adaptation. When she looks in dirty mirrors, she still sees herself. In the reflection of polished blade, she sees capability rather than cruelty.
He’s been quiet since dinner, cleared both their plates like usual and joined her back at the house. Sat down beside her, pulled off his vest and set it away.
There’s a sniff after he takes a particularly long drag, she turns to see him puffing smoke slowly out of his mouth. Billowing thickly, he pushes another breath out fast and forces it to dissipate. Seeming to notice her staring, he raises a brow.
“Daryl?”
He grunts, nostrils flare.
“Can I… Try?”
His whole expression quirks with an incredulous, quick shake of his head. Chuckling bemused, he scratches at the scruff on his cheek. “You want a cigarette, sunshine?”
There’s something that colors the pet name. Not something he defaults to, she remembers a time when the nickname used to be a point of spite. Insult, sarcasm, as he’d prod at her optimism. Initial mistrust of her led to intentional goading. The diminutive morphed into something more meaningful during a supply run, a couple months after she joined the prison. Caught out by a group of walkers and separated by fallen upper flooring, she recalls the genuine concern in his voice when he shouted for her. Scuffling as she shrieked. He shoved crumbling tiles away as her dagger embedded in the skull of the last of the pack, brows furrowed and troubled. He had checked her over for bites much more professionally, tried to play off the lapse in aloofness on the ride home by icing her out.
It didn’t last long. By the end of the week, she had kissed him for the first time. Chaste and simple as the floodgates broke.
Harper shrugs, purses her lips. “Figure one wouldn’t hurt.”
“Shit habit,” he grumbles, but smacks the back of the nearly full box against his palm and shakes out a cigarette anyway, filter first. He’s squinting a little when she meets his eyes, momentarily distracted from his hands. “Didn’t think you’d pick it up.”
“I don’t really wanna,” she returns, feeling somewhat shy. “Just wanna see what it does for you.”
This seems to ease him a bit. Daryl pushes the fresh cigarette back into the pack, conserves it instead. The box gets shoved in the pocket of his vest, which flops back onto the deck after he finishes lazily manhandling it with a sigh.
“You’re sure?”
She nods as he takes another drag from the cigarette. Long, deep. Holds the smoke in for longer than she’d think is necessary and then tilts his head to the side to blow away from her. Studying her for a second longer, he passes the cigarette to her.
Eight months ago, the prospect of this would’ve made her giggle. Peach flush over her freckles as an indirect kiss sits between two of her fingers. Now, it just gives her moments of a smile-- though the kiss they’ll share before bed will give her the same butterflies it has since they first settled in together.
“Careful now,” he says. Cautionary caring over something so small, she feels a sense of forever gratitude to have him at her side. Heart the size of the sun, he loves just as furiously as it shines.
Lips part and she takes the cig in her mouth, small breath out to prepare and then a proper inhale. He’s watching her, crows feet crinkle in amusement at her inexperience. It’s not the first, and likely not the last, time that he’s seen her out of her element. At least these days, the ribbing he gives her is light, and he’s more prompt with offering a hand or some guidance.
This situation doesn’t really call for anything he can meaningfully do when moments pass in burning silence, acrid full lungs that expel smoke as soon as it attempts to settle. She coughs reflexively, rough, he immediately takes the cigarette from her hand as she begins to double over.
Hisses “
christ
” and presses a hand to her sternum as air heaves out and sputtering barks are most of what she can manage.
His hand is warm at the back of her neck, even if the laugh he lets out is less sympathetic.
She shoots him a look as she gathers another gulp of fresh air and hacks it back out. Daryl, ever the gentleman, just shrugs his shoulders and rubs a circle into the top of her spine.
“Cheap shit,” he huffs. It’s an attempt to coddle or comfort, he looks mildly apologetic. “Should’ve warned you. Some of it’s better.”
She can laugh now, turns and spits out the layer of film inside her mouth that still holds remnants of distilled bonfire on her tastebuds. “You like feeling like this?”
“You get used to it.” Corner of his mouth turns up a little bit. “When you’re not a little bitch.”
Her nose scrunches up and she grins, dimpling. “You’re calling me a bitch?”
Fondly, he says “you’re soft.”
The glint in his eyes confirms he likes this, though. They soften to melty things, little puddles, she has to roll her eyes to fend off the smile that threatens to make her cheeks hurt. He pulls another breath of smoke, tilts his head back this time to exhale and she watches a bead of sweat trickle down his Adam’s apple. It cuts a little stream through the grime from his day out, she swipes the droplet away with her thumb.
“Maybe,” she agrees, then moves their bottle of water to sit by her feet. With it out of the way, she can shift closer to him. Tries to be subtle at first, but it’s not particularly secret, what she’s after. He hums deep in his chest and then chuckles when she giggles, pulls an arm around her waist until their sides press flush together.
Sounding thoughtful, even sentimental, he grouses, “stay that way.”
Wordless, she leans into him. Nuzzles her head against him as she sighs. This breath is untainted, clean. Harper closes her eyes under Alexandria’s sunset.
“I promise.”