Title: Bathtub

Author: GageWhitney

Rating: M

Pairing: Daryl/Andrea

Disclaimer: Very much not mine.

Summary: He comes to in the bathtub in the Greene house

Note: Because there's that episode still of Daryl being carried, unconscious, by Rick and Shane, and a comment (I think at TWoP) about Daryl needing to be forcibly washed, like a dog. Somehow, this is what happened.

He comes to in the bathtub in the Greene house.

"Welcome back," Andrea says.

She's sitting next to the old clawfoot with a washcloth in one hand, which she keeps dipping into the warm water and scrubbing across his skin.

"Why am I in a bathtub?" Daryl croaks.

"You were knocked unconscious. Rick and Shane brought you back here. You were kind of a mess, so instead of getting you into one of the nice, clean beds, I asked them to leave you here."

He narrows his eyes at her. "Who undressed me?"

"I did. I figured better me than those guys," she shrugs. "Especially if you woke up in the middle of it."

"I guess."

She wets the washcloth and rubs it under his jaw, which he tolerates for about three seconds before batting her hand away.

"That's good enough, Florence Nightingale. Now, you want to leave so I can get out of here?" He's got his hands on the edge of the tub, poised to lift himself out of the water. She sits there and stares at him, so he moves to get up. "You can stay if you want, makes no never mind to me. You've seen everything, anyway."

"Come on," she says, pushing him back down into the water. "Stop. You've got a nice bump on the back of your head, but the Doc says you'll be okay. You just have to let yourself relax a little bit."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You've been going non-stop lately. More than usual, with the Sophia thing. Just… sit. Stay."

"I'm not a dog."

She smirks at him. "Yeah, well, I'll treat you like one if I have to."

With that, she picks up the bottle of shampoo near her feet and squeezes a dollop onto his head before he can stop her.

"Hey!"

"Shush. Be a good boy."

She rubs her fingers into his hair, working the shampoo into a lather. When she scratches the uninjured parts of his scalp with her fingernails, he can't help the small moan that escapes from his mouth.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "It feels good."

"Don't be sorry." She rinses his hair with her hands the best she can and combs through it gently with her fingers.

"You're petting me," he grumbles.

"Oh, you like it."

She moves behind him and puts a hand flat on his back, urging him to lean forward. He looks back at her suspiciously, but obeys. She scrubs at his neck and back with the washcloth until the last traces of grime are gone and decides to take advantage of her position.

She puts down the washcloth and touches his back gently, skating her fingers along an old tattoo before rubbing between his shoulder blades and down his back. He lets his head hang and sighs deeply. Her hands knead the tense muscles in his back and shoulders, starting near his neck and making their way down to the small of his back.

She draws circles in his skin with her thumbs. He groans, and she smiles at the back of his head.

Something in the air changes, then, and he looks back at her, still hunched over. "Uh, I think maybe that's enough."

"What?" Her hands still, resting on his shoulders.

"Just… You should stop now," he pleads

"Oh. I'm… Sorry," she says. "Were you not enjoying that?"

"No, I was. A little too much. So…"

And then, she gets it. "Oh. Oh…"

"Yeah." His ears are red with embarrassment, and he refuses to look back at her. "Maybe just… leave?"

There's something about the way his voice sounds, the way he's acting, that makes her move around to the side of the tub and kneel down again. She pushes at his shoulder, urging him to lean back against the cool porcelain.

"What are you doing?"

She touches his face, squeaky clean for the first time in who knows how long, and notes the way he unconsciously leans into her touch. She runs her thumb along the scratchiness of his chin, the softness of his lips. He keeps his eyes locked with hers, then watches as she slides her hand down his neck to his chest.

He stops breathing when she scratches her fingernails over his nipples and the rough hair on his chest. Her hand keeps wandering downward into the water, past his stomach, and he's rock hard when she wraps her fingers around him.

"Oh, fuck," he sighs. His eyes squeeze shut and he leans his head back, gripping the edges of the bathtub until his knuckles turn white.

She moves her hand up and down his length, squeezing gently and twisting her wrist. She rubs her thumb gently across his head, then harder with her palm, and he makes a strangled whimpering sound that she's kind of proud of.

"Quiet," she says. "They'll hear."

It feels heady, lustful, erotic, and man, if anyone had told her a month ago that she'd be jerking off Daryl Dixon in a bathtub, she probably would've thought they were crazy.

But she is, and he's thrusting into her fist and breathing hard and she can tell he's so, so close. She speeds up the motions of her hand, her efforts becoming more vigorous, and it's not long before he comes with a gasp, spilling through her fingers and into the water.

She waits for his tremors to subside, stroking him softly. When he cracks open his eyes to look at her, she smiles and kisses his knuckles, which hang limply on the wall of the tub.

"Finish up and get dressed," she says. "I'll see you out there."

She leaves, closing the door behind her, and sees Rick a few feet away. "He's awake."

"Good. How's he doing?"

"Fine." She tries very hard to keep her face neutral. "He'll be out in a few."

She walks away rubbing her wrist.