Archive of Our Own

If there’s one thing Daryl Dixon doesn’t need, it’s shit all over him when he’s asleep.

Blankets, pillows, sheets, it’s all piffle he went without. He’d learned to live without such comforts, for the same reason as every other screwed up thing about him. It started when he was a kid, because what’s new — every twitch and tick can be traced back to the Dixon home, and how neat it is an explanation.

Merle would roll in lit, high or both, and steal little Daryl’s blanket. And little Daryl, being a goddamn idiot, would be wrapped up in it, toes to chin, hands pinched beneath his chipped toothed grin. So when Merle would rock up, and yank it from the little dumbass, said little dumbass would end up on the floor.

That’d only turn into more laughter, and a nudge of toes against bruised ribs. There’s the feigned concern on Merle’s part, and a series of giggles from whoever the blanket was for. Probably some girl from down the street, who was stupid enough to pursue his brother for the promise of smack. Daryl would call him an asshole once he left, and bite back a sob because you don’t cry in that house. You just plain don’t, not when it’s as good as your own fault.

And those were the good times, the times he’d laugh about if he had to recount them. Maybe he’d bite out that Merle was a real dick, and isn’t it funny to think back to now. And it is, compared to the other times.

See, if it wasn’t Merle on the hunt for a blanket, it was his father. You’d be surprised how easily a screwed up individual like Will Dixon could turn a blanket into something to fear. He’d wake up sometimes with the length of it around his neck, too tight, all black vision with white dots, and Daryl learned it was better to go without.

Same story with a pillow, or sheets. The feeling of anything on him when he slept was an invitation for trouble, and so he dressed in layers and slept light. His arm was enough as a pillow, and the aches of weird angles were nothing compared to the alternative. Daryl was used to this now, the lack of peripheral things to aid his rest.

Then the world fell apart, and he was prepared. That was the saving grace of a life like his, that he was prepared for the worst.

What he was not prepared for was Beth Greene.

How the fuck do you prepare for Beth, really.

“I got you a pillow.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Lift your head.”

There’s a grumble of her name, spoken like a curse word.

“Lift.”

Daryl glared at the blonde, arm cocked over his face. He snorted in annoyance, only to roll onto his front. She couldn’t demand anything further from him if he wasn’t looking at her. She’d get the message, and leave, and he’d be able to sleep.

It’s a miracle that he’s on the couch to begin with. He normally took the floor, but he’d taken a fall from the rickety ladder on the guard post. He’d only fallen a short distance onto his back, but it was enough to wind him. He walked it off, but Beth had insisted that Daryl go see Denise about it. It was only after Denise had said he was fine that Beth had given him space, and he’d taken it upon himself to rug up in Rick’s lounge.

Denise had said he might’ve bruised some ribs at worst, but nothing was broken. Daryl had endured broken ribs before, so he knew his limits. Even after a few hours, he’d barely been able to feel the ache.

She had taken on the role of caretaker too easily, and wouldn’t leave him be. He trusted Beth, too, but that was an oversight on his part.

Because in his trust, Daryl had assumed she would read his body language. The little blonde would get impatient with his attitude and toss the pillow aside, and scoot out the door. Instead there’s the click of boots that were too close, and there was a wiggle of fabric against his head.

“Girl.”

“Denise said you gotta sleep well.” Beth insisted. “You’re bein’ awful stubborn — who’re you tryin’ to impress? Because I can tell you, it’s not workin’ on me.”

Daryl had to snort, for how persistent she was. That hadn’t changed, and was the whole reason she’d found them. She’d arrived with Morgan, the pair kitted with a staff and crowbar, and equally slackjaw expressions.

Now, he couldn’t even look at her for fear of what he’d say. Beth was being annoying, and she knew it. Daryl went without bedding, and people got it. They left him to his own devices, and didn’t pester him with any extras.

Carol had tried, but he’d swatted away any blankets. He’d kick it down to his feet, and off onto the ground if he was asleep. If he was awake, he’d toss it off once she was gone. Whatever the case, he’d blame the fact he struggled in his sleep, which was almost true. He moved with the intent of freeing himself from whatever was near him.

Right now Daryl needed to get rid of Beth, who hovered over him with the pillow wedged beneath his temple. He relented, enough for her to shift it beneath his head. He shot her a scowl, and she smiled down at him.

“See? Now, blanket…”

“Beth, don’t.”

“Why are you makin’ this such a thing?”

“I don’t want that stuff.”

“Why not?”

Daryl shrugged. “Never needed it.”

There’s silence where he expected her to fight him, to say that he obviously had needed it, or that he was being an idiot. He was ready to fight her on both counts, but there were no further words. Not now. Instead, Beth settled her hand between his shoulder blades, cautious pressure applied. Her fingers glanced his scars, not intent or avoidant, like it was simply skin.

“I need a pillow to sleep.”

Daryl doesn’t respond.

“I can get by, if I have to, but I’ll find somethin’. Jumper, or, or a bag , or somethin’. I used to sleep on Maggie’s shoulder, or stomach, when we were on the run. She’d play with my hair, and I’d go right to sleep. Don’t do that now, y’know, Glenn , don’t — don’t wanna be wrapped up with that.” Beth laughed, and Daryl wished she wouldn’t. Not because he disliked the sound, but because he liked it. He was close to needing it, a salve to a bad day or a reprieve from a dark day. “Know what I mean? Um, sleepin’, with people. Just sleepin’.”

Daryl buried his mouth in the pillow, aware he’d say too much. Anything he said was too much around her, with how she encouraged him. It sucked, to feel like someone cared about you. It made him feel like he was something, someone who could have the bed, the sheets, the pillows, like he could be comfortable.

Alexandria isn’t safe, not really, but with Beth at his back, he’s dumb enough to think he could be safe. It’s why he’s on his stomach, turned away with the blonde behind him. She’s still there, he knew that much. He could sense her, and the smell of lavender soap hung in the air. The stuff he’d gotten for her a few runs back, like the shirt she had on.

The hand at his back turned into the length of her arm, and he’s sure he’s asleep, because there was no way that Beth was wrapped around his back. There’s warmth from her cheek to his shoulder, a hand at his hair, and he was afraid to breath.

“You gotta take better care of yourself.” It’s whispered against the nape of his neck, and he wasn’t sure she had really said it.

Daryl grunted in response, feigned sleep his only safety from her.

“You gonna keep the pillow if I go, or no?”

“Dunno.”

“Then I gotta stay till you sleep then.”

Daryl furrowed his expression further, tensed and unsure. He was sore from the double shift on guard duty, and the knowledge that maybe it wasn’t the ladder’s fault he’d fallen. Whether his hand had slipped, or he was clumsy, he wasn’t sure. But his physical ache didn’t register, and left entirely when Beth’s weight was against him.

“S’nice.”

Beth started, a jolt from head to toe and he didn’t need to look to know he’d surprised her. It was nice to know he could return the favor, that it wasn’t always her with the tricks up her sleeve. Even if her sleeve was a little white one, soft cotton and so pristine he worried about how he’d muss it up.

“What’s nice? The pillow?”

“Nah, pillow ain’t doin’ anythin’.” And Daryl shifted, to stretch out more. He could feel her shift, too, to match his new position. He tentatively shifted his arm, away from his face so he could speak more clearly. “The weight, s’helpin’.”

By all accounts the weight should make his pain worse, but it wasn’t. Instead her weight, of blood and breath against his skin, it was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He never slept well, too concerned about what was going on outside the house he’d pass out in.

Right now all he can feel is the tickle of blonde hair against his neck, mixed with his lank brown locks, and he can feel her. There’s her hand, slim and light, idly set against the muscles of his shoulder. He’d flex and she’d shift in response.

“Don’t know if I can stay like this.”

Daryl glanced down, to see her halfway off the couch, her ass clear hanging off the edge. He scoffed low, to snatch up behind her knees to shift her and — so he hadn’t thought it through, not properly, because now Beth was across his back and face down against him. He shifted again, legs slotted against legs and her arms crossed over his shoulders.

The practicality of it made sense, even if his heart was going too fast. He was liable to pass out from the speed of it, if he didn’t have a heart attack first. There was no doubt in his mind that Beth could feel his pulse, but in turn he could feel hers — she wasn’t much better off. Maybe he’d fucked up.

He’d definitely fucked up.

God, he’s an idiot.

“This okay?”

“Yeah.” Beth giggled, though it was a vent of warm air down against his skin. “I’m not too heavy, am I?”

Daryl shook his head. She was lighter than any blanket he’d ever had. He knew this should feel uncomfortable, or unwanted, but neither are a words he can put to anything he does with Beth. She’s annoying, for how patient she is with him. It’s quiet now, too, given that he allowed her close.

They laid like that for a long while, and Daryl is too tired to fully appreciate it. He fell asleep, he knew that much. It’d been close to dusk when he’d first taken to the couch, and now he can see the orange of a sunrise through an open set of curtains. Neither of them expected to sleep, he gathered. Beth had likely meant to leave once she’d given him the pillow, because her boots are still on.

There’s a few low hums, and the clack of her teeth as she nibbled at her lip, or the shuffle of her clothes against his skin. He can’t see her, not fully, but he can catch a glimpse of an elbow, her arm, and the lengths of blonde hair as they catch on her fingers.

Despite the long hours, and how warm he was, Beth had remained at his back. Her arms remained looped over his shoulders, cheek against his hair, his neck, and he had made the dumb choice to turn his head to get more comfortable.

“Never slept with someone ‘fore.” Daryl shifted, his head turned cheek against the pillow. He should be appalled by how easily he said it, but it’s Beth. He didn’t feel like he had to clarify what he meant, either. She would understand, because she’s smart, and she got it.

“It’s okay.” Beth hummed. “It was nice, aside from the snoring — Daryl. It’s okay . Maggie snores, too.”

All Daryl can do is grumble, to which she fussed with his hair. Her fingers played at his scalp, in search of a spot that would satiate his upset. She was met with a low grumble, angry but satiated.

“I don’t snore.”

“S’what you think, Mister Dixon.” Beth snuck a peck against his shoulder blade, which he is quite sure was entirely his imagination.

Daryl can’t stand pillows or sheets all over him when he’s asleep, but he will gladly accept Beth.