Title: Five Senses (That Daryl Never Really Enjoyed 'Til Now)

Author: Sierra

Rated: M for Language & Sexuality

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Summary: From a prompt on the TWD kink_meme. The show definitely did good on showing emotionally stunted Daryl. Lets elaborate on that. Socially Awkward!Daryl being socially awkward and emotionally stunted with the group helping/supporting him to be less socially awkward. Also can I have some self-deprecating behaviours from Daryl.

Bonus: 5times fill if possible? some humourous/cute/angsty/romantic/etc.

xxx

1. Scent

"Did he say hot water?" Glenn asked, a smile already crossing his face even before T-Dog replied: "That's what the man said!" Groans of relief spread throughout the tiny group and they dispersed quickly, Rick and Lori grasping hands, the rest moving separately; Daryl hung back, watching them silently, confused. Hell, he was more interested in getting some food in his complaining stomach, more than he was wiping off some dirt.

City folk gotta get their priorities straight, he grumbled to himself. He took another step and swayed dangerously, his hand shooting out to brace himself on the wall; his throat still burned from the bourbon that he held in his other hand, and now his vision was swimming. Just a foot ahead was an open door, and he lunged for it, hoping he could stay on his feet; he did, just long enough to stumble into the bedroom and fall face-first onto the bed.

When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was the scent. He squinted toward the doorway, just barely able to make out the slim figure standing there, draped in a long nightgown, clutching a doll. "Sophia?" he muttered, swallowing as he sat upright.

Sophia walked over to him, smelling of some kind of flowery body wash, her red hair still wet and hanging around her shoulders. "Are you tired?" she asked, quietly.

Daryl paused. "Yeah, a lil' bit . . . guess we all are." He reached up and rubbed his eyes. "What're ya' up to, girl?"

"Mama's taking a shower," Sophia said, her little nose wrinkling slightly. "Are you going to?"

"Probably."

"You should." Sophia nodded. "It feels good, bein' clean again."

Daryl smirked. "Don't think I'm gonna come out smellin' as pretty as you," he said.

"You wanna borrow my bubble bath?" Sophia offered, "well . . . it's not really mine. But it's the one I used. I think it smells like tulips."

Daryl Dixon smelling like tulips. The thought was so funny Daryl actually laughed. "Naw, I don't think so," he said, "I'll just use whatever's in there." He glanced out at the hallway, then back to Sophia, she was standing somewhat awkwardly next to the bed, fidgeting on her feet. "Ya' wanna sit down?"

That was all the invitation she needed, and Sophia plopped down on the bed next to him; Daryl wiggled a little further away from her, but stayed seat on the bed as well. "How old are you?" Sophia asked, suddenly.

"Um . . . forty. How old are you?"

"Twelve." Sophia was looking at her doll, playing with its hair. "Your younger than Mama . . . she's forty-two. I'm almost thirteen. I think so anyway, I'm gonna be thirteen in September, just not sure when that is anymore."

"Hard to keep track o' stuff like that," Daryl said.

"My mama's brother was your age," Sophia said, as if he'd never spoken at all; she sighed quietly, her bony shoulders sagging. "Uncle Ted."

"Hey . . . " Daryl licked his dry lips nervously, putting his hand on her arm. "Ya' okay?"

To his horror, Sophia sniffled, tears leaking from her eyes. "I really miss him," she mumbled, wiping at her eyes. "He was gonna take me an' Mama away . . . move us out to Colorado, he said. Away from Daddy."

Shit. Daryl was not prepared for this . . . and the alcohol still coursing through his blood was making it even more difficult. Biting his lip and chewing it so hard it hurt, he wrapped one arm around Sophia and pulled her to his chest as she began to sob, still going on about her Uncle and how great he was, how he taught her how to play softball, and was saving up enough to rescue her and her mama. Daryl didn't have to ask what happened to Uncle Ted, he knew.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the tulip body wash and vanilla shampoo, and eventually Sophia calmed down. They sat still, silently, for a few minutes, before her tiny voice spoke against his chest:

"You really should take a shower, y'know."

Daryl laughed. "Your hair smells pretty good, girl," he spoke to the top of her head, "maybe I could use some o' that shampoo."

2. Sight

When most people looked at Daryl, he could plainly see on their faces exactly what they thought of him; the young cashier at the supermarket, the old woman at the bank, the man at the auto shop. They all looked down at him as the white trash scum he was, turning up their noses, clenching their jaws, and speaking to him as little as possible, hoping he would get discouraged and leave sooner rather than later.

That's the way it had been when he first joined the group, too; he wached as their faces went through a range of emotions, from suspicion, to disgust, to fear. When he tracked that deer for miles, only to have it gnawed on by that damn Walker, he suggested maybe they could eat around the infected part? Shane glared at him like he was an idiot, Rick observed him with an infuriating mix of pity and revulsion, Andrea and Amy cowered a few feet away, fearful of both the Walker on the ground and him.

That was what Daryl was used to seeing.

So when he opened his eyes slowly, blinking to clear away the blurriness, he was not expecting to see Carol hovering next to him with a cool cloth pressed to his forehead. Rick was standing at the foot of his bed, talking to Herschel but watching Daryl, his blue eyes wide and bloodshot. The others were standing around helplessly, some talking in hushed tones, all with the same expressions on their faces: Tight, pale, worried.

" . . . the hell is goin' on?" Daryl mumbled.

Carol's face broke out into a smile even as tears burst from her eyes, rolling down her dusty cheeks. "Oh, Daryl," she choked on a sob, bowing her head.

Rick was grinning as he came closer to Daryl, he put his hand on Carol's shoulder and squeezed it. "Thought we lost you," he said, laughing somewhat nervously. "You been laid up the past three days."

"Three days?" Daryl croaked, his throat beyond dry. He wanted to ask for a glass of water, or anything wet, but before he did, or could, suddenly it was there; Andrea held out the glass, her eyes meeting his. He took it, blinking slowly, and took a careful sip of the cool water; Andrea pulled up a chair next to his bed, and now behind her was Glenn, smiling ear-to-ear like a foolish schoolboy. Daryl frowned, his hand shaking slightly as he gave the glass back to Andrea. "What're you so happy 'bout?" he asked the Asian boy, "finally get some?"

Glenn blushed a deep shade of red, reached up to adjust his baseball cap. "No . . . well, I mean." He shot a look at Herschel, who was glowering at him from the other side of the room. "I'm just really happy," he said, finally, "we've all been worried about you."

Daryl wanted to stay awake, he really did . . . he wanted to continue to watch them as they watched him, because they were looking at him like no one ever had before. He lost the battle though, and sleep overcame him, their smiling faces the last things he saw before he passed out.

3. Taste

Macaroni and cheese. Spam. Old milk. Daryl's tastebuds had been abused his whole life, so eventually food just became something necessary for survival, but not something to enjoy; that was a good thing in a post-apocaylptic world, since it meant he could wolf down a raw squirrel if he had to. He doubted anyone else in the group could do that . . . they grimaced when it came time to shovel refried beans into their mouths, and those things didn't taste half bad.

It was getting colder, and they'd just found an old trailer park that was mostly Walker-free, stable enough to make use of for the winter. They needed the warmth, and shelter, especially with Lori's pregnancy getting further and further along. Just a few miles away was a little town, and Daryl was with the group that ventured into it, scavenging for clothes and blankets first, then onto the supermarket, in search of any food worth eating.

He was halfway down the nearly-empty cereal aisle, when he heard Andrea's voice: "Hey, what month is it?"

Daryl stopped short, just next to tipped box of generic Special K. "Think it's November," he answered, "late . . . gettin' close to December."

Andrea's hard face softened into a gentle smile, and Daryl followed her gaze to see her looking a magazine left near the checkout lane; on the cover was a family sitting down to dinner, a beautiful table with candles in front of them. "It's almost Thanksgiving then," Andrea said, wistfully.

"Hm," Daryl grunted, shrugging off her observation and continuing on his way.

"We should have a dinner!"

And then the seed was planted. Andrea told Lori, who loved the idea and started pushing for it in the way that only Mrs. Grimes could; her "semblance of normality" was so goddamned important to her that little Carl just had to have Thanksgiving. Daryl thought the whole thing was ridiculous . . . Thanksgiving during the end of the world? What the hell were people so grateful about now?

But when he was out hunting one day and he spotted the turkey in the distance, he shot it and dragged it home, feeling just a little pleased with himself when the women crooned and squealed with delight (though they had him pluck and gut it). Rick brought some MREs back from an old checkpoint, enough so that they could each have one for themselves; Carol had somehow gathered enough supplies to sew a tablecloth, and before Daryl knew it, they'd set up something so good it damn near could be on its own magazine cover.

He leaned in the doorway, folding his arms while Carol and Lori set the table, and Andrea began filling the drinks. "Daryl, come on!" Carl said, excitedly, patting the seat next to him. "We can't eat 'til everyone sits."

Daryl shuffled over and sat down next to the boy, muttering "thanks" when Carol handed him a plate and a warm smile. Rick said a quick prayer, his voice breaking but full of sincerity, and then the group came alive, laughing and talking over each other as they passed around the meal.

"Lemon poundcake," Rick said, chuckling. "From one of the MREs . . . not as good as pumpkin pie, but it'll do!"

"I got a chocolate bar!" Carl cried, holding up the ration as if it were made of gold.

Daryl stuck his plastic fork into the turkey and popped it into his mouth, chewing methodically and swallowing without ever tasting it; Carol paused, her glass midway to her mouth. "Daryl," she said, softly, "slow down. Take time to enjoy it."

Now that she mentioned it, the turkey did taste pretty good. Daryl chewed a little slower, trying to savor the sweet, juicy taste; he took his MRE and ripped it open, digging inside like it was a Chrismas present. The smile that flickered across his face was brief, but genuine.

"What'd ya' know," he said, "got a pumpkin poundcake in this one."

4. Hearing

Daryl couldn't remember the words from his mama's mouth, obviously; he liked to think that they were kind, because Merle told him their mama was the best in the world, before she passed away when Daryl was two. "Passed away" was really too simple of a way to put it, when in fact Laura Dixon had been fighting with her husband Ron again, when he pushed her down the steps and broke her neck.

It was all downhill from there. Daddy's drinking, his beatings, Merle mouthing off and getting into trouble; and the words that punctuated every fist, every kick. Worthless. Stupid. Ugly. Daryl curled in on himself, shrinking away from the steel-toed boot that shattered his fragile ribs and left him black and blue for weeks, sometimes months. They would heal in their time, and by the time Daryl dropped out of school at sixteen, he didn't look any worse for the wear (except for that black eye . . . ) He moved far away, determined to forget his father and the misery of living in that house . . . he almost succeeded. Years later, as Daryl aimed his rifle and squeezed off another round, it wasn't his father's beatings that he was thinking of. But he could still hear his voice in his mind: Good for nothin', piece o' shit, trash. I wish you'd never been born.

"Daryl, look out!"

Daryl whirled toward T-Dog's voice, just in time to get hit in the face by a Walker's hand as it reached for him; he gasped and stumbled back, bringing his rifle up to smack the Walker in the head with the butt. It fell to the ground and he finished it, bringing the rifle down square on its face, smashing bones and brains into the ground. Daryl straightened up, about to yell a thank you to T-Dog, but instead saw the black man being tackled to the ground by another Walker. Daryl put the rifle to his shoulder again, aiming carefully, and pulled the trigger as the Walker leaned closer to T-Dog . . . the bullet ripped through the Walker's head, it fell off T-Dog, and they all made it back to camp.

Except that's not how it happened at all.

Daryl missed. The shot went wild and the Walker's teeth sank into T-Dog's neck, eliciting an agonized scream from the man; Daryl didn't hesitate, running full-speed and knocking the Walker to the ground. They wrestled for a second, before Daryl managed to grab ahold of his knife and drive it into the Walker's skull; it went limp, and Daryl crawled back to T-Dog, who was wheezing painfully, his eyes wide but unfocused. "Shit man, hang in there," Daryl said, breathing heavy, his hands dancing across T-Dog helplessly. "Fuck . . . I'm sorry . . . "

Andrea and Rick made their way over to Daryl sometime later, pulled him to his feet and made sure T-Dog wouldn't come back, then they piled into what used to be Shane's Hyundai and headed back to camp. They were set up about ten miles outside of the town, although which town no one could really say for sure, they didn't even know what state anymore. But the spring had brought more Walkers to the trailer park, so they had moved on, and now they were living in tents again, with Lori only a few weeks away from giving birth. Rick went straight to his wife when they got back, Andrea went down to the creek to wash off the gore coating her body, and Daryl trudged over to his tent, remaining silent.

He sank down to the ground, pulling his knees up and resting his trembling arms on them, laying his forehead down; T-Dogs screams were still echoing in his ears, the powerful gunshot, the Walkers growls. It was all so fucking loud. "Stupid!" he hissed to himself, raising a palm to smack the side of his head so hard it made his ears ring. "How could ya' fuckin' miss?"

T-Dog was dead. Because he missed.

Daryl looked up sharply at the unzipping of his tent, and Andrea appeared on the other side, looking fresh but exhausted; she entered slowly, cautiously, and sat down on the ground next to him. "What'd ya' want?" Daryl asked, his voice quiet.

Andrea blew out a long breath. "It wasn't your fault, Daryl."

Daryl scoffed. "Don't . . . " he shook his head.

"It wasn't!" Andrea insisted, "it was dark out there, hard to see. God knows I missed plenty of times today."

"An' not one o' those times cost anyone their life, did it?" Daryl snapped, getting to his feet and exiting the tent, ignoring Andrea as she followed him.

"Hey," she called, stopping him before he reached the trees and disappeared into the woods. "Nobody blames you . . . you shouldn't blame yourself."

Worthless. Daryl finched at the word, crossing his arms protectively, trying his best to withdraw from Andrea as she came closer; but she wasn't having any of that. "What did you just say?" she asked, softly.

Shit, did he actually say that aloud?

"Nothin'," he answered.

"Good," Andrea said, "'cuz I could've sworn I heard you call yourself 'worthless' . . . " he winced again, cursing himself for the involuntary reaction. "Daryl, you can't be serious. What would we do without you? None of us can hunt for shit, so we'd probably starve." She smiled, but there was little humor there. "You're the best shot, that group of Walkers last week might've wiped out the whole camp without you. And Rick trusts you, he needs you at his side."

Daryl didn't have any idea how to process or respond to Andrea's words, so he just stood frozen in place, mouth open slightly, his vocal cords stubbornly silent. No one, no one, had ever said anything like that before . . .

"We all need you," Andrea finished, before turning and leaving him to try to work his way through all of that.

5. Touch

Daryl lay on the ground in his tent, running his finger lazily over the scars that criss-crossed and darted over his chest and stomach; they were angry looking, even after so many years, white and risen just above the rest of his skin. Reminders of his father, his belt and cigarettes.

It was hot, sometime in August, he figured, and sweat was running down his face and neck even though all he was doing was laying flat on his back. A figure appeared outside his tent, he recognized it instantly as Carol, and he tried to quell the flutter that danced around in his stomach. "C'mon in," he called, quietly, knowing she would never enter without his invite.

Carol stepped inside, her face flushed from the heat, her hair hanging down to her ears now; Daryl smiled just a little, and she returned it ten times as bright. "Thought you could use a drink," she said, offering the canteen.

"Thanks . . . " Daryl took it, gulping the water. "It's hot as hell, ain't it?"

"Mm-hm." Carol's hands were at her waist, her fingers fiddling uncomfortably.

"Ya' all right?" Daryl asked.

"I'm fine," Carol replied.

For a second, Daryl thought he caught her staring at his bare chest, and he instinctively went to grab something to cover up; she'd seen his scars before, poor woman probably had plenty of her own, but it still wasn't something he wanted to have on display. He picked up a shirt, grumbling quietly at it, and began to put it on over his head . . .

"You don't have to," Carol interrupted him, "I'll go. Just thought you could use this." She gestured at the canteen.

"Um, yeah . . . thanks again." Daryl dropped the shirt, instead reaching for the canteen that he'd put on the ground beside him; Carol reached for it at the same time, and suddenly their faces were inches apart, breaths hot against each other's skin. Carol's perfectly round eyes were gazing directly into his, and Daryl's breath caught in his throat. Goddamn, if she wasn't beautiful.

"Daryl . . . "

He pressed his lips to hers and held them there until she relaxed beneath him, her mouth opening to invite him in further; he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer to him as she came down to the ground with him. They pulled apart a moment later, breathless and blushing, neither one wanting to make the next move.

Then Carol smiled. "God, I've been waitin' forever for you to do that," she laughed.

"Hell, woman," Daryl said, "all ya' had to do was let me know." He smiled into her mouth, kissing her again and lowering her all the way to the ground; her hands came up to his chest, and for a moment he stopped moving as they rested on the scars. Flashes of his father, standing over him with his belt, pushing a lit cigarette into his skin . . . he shuddered.

"Hey," Carol said, softly, bringing her hands up to his face. "It's okay."

Daryl brought his head down to kiss her neck, forcing the memories into the back of his mind as the two of them fumbled awkwardly for each other's clothes; her hands working at undoing his pants while his hands grasped her shirt and pulled it over her head. She moaned, writhing under him in anticipation while he pulled her pants down and poised himself at her entrance; their eyes met again, her hands trailed up and down his back, then pulled him into her. Daryl groaned, thrusting slowly at first until she relaxed, and then pumped harder, his hips taking control over his mind; their bodies worked together, skin slickening with sweat, breaths coming out harsh. Carol's cries were muffled as she buried her face in his chest, and before too long Daryl found himself letting out a little cry of pleasure as he came within her; he stifled the sound by planting his mouth on hers again.

They fell asleep next to each other, Daryl's arms around Carol and her fingers lightly tracing every scar, every callous on his skin. It was unlike any touch he'd ever felt before.