Author's Note: If you like this one shot and are craving more, please read Walking the Line, which is goes farther into the relationship between Daryl and this OC. Please subscribe to it, because the updates might be a little random. Also, please leave a little love in the comment box. Authors work really hard on the site, and you'd be surprised what a little encouragement and constructive criticism can do to rev up our engines, resulting in more content for YOU.

I can finally see myself. The way that we all go on I never really get my hands on a mirror, and I can't say it would be a good thing if I did. Before I stepped into the shower, I saw a completely different woman. Now, looking at myself, I can see my skin again.

I'm tanner than I remember. I was pale before the outbreak. I know it's from all of the walking outside. And killing walkers for two years has left me far from shy. I stare at my naked reflection, taking the opportunity to really look at my body for the first time in a long time.

I wasn't really out of shape before all of this, but I know I've lost some weight. I've lost fat here, and gained some muscle there. I haven't decided if it's a good thing. In case this community doesn't work out, I want to take the opportunity to put some fat back on my body, maybe raise my chances of survival if this thing goes south. I laugh at myself. I can't believe I'm having a conversation about gaining weight. Two years ago, I would have loved to look like this. Now, it scares me.

There were clothes in the closets of one of the bedrooms. There are several different sizes of women's jeans, tops, and underwear alike. It'd be nice if these articles underwear had never been used, but dammit, I'm not going to be picky. Holding my old clothes in my hands, wrapped in a towel, I decide that the jeans are salvageable, with a few mends to be made here and there, but the underwear, shoes, and shirt have to go.

I throw them in the bin, wondering how they handle waste here, but the thoughts are forgotten as I pick out a pair of new jeans that fit, and peak into the closet. There's a layered, white, lace blouse, and it looks like it could fit me. There's also a light brown cardigan I could throw over it. I put on an entirely new set of clothing, and I feel like a totally new woman.

Inside the middle of the room, there's a giant queen bed. Its linens are crisp and fluffy. I press a flat palm into one of the pillows, and watch my print slowly fade out. It has been a long time since sleeping in a real bed. Even when we camp out in houses, we all stay downstairs with each other. I think tonight, I'll sleep here. I know the others will protest, but if I die over a good night's sleep, then that's a good thing to die for.

Back inside of the bathroom, there are toothbrushes and combs. If I can get my hands on some nail polish, I'd be a whole new woman. But staring at myself in the mirror again, I decide I need to take it one step at a time before I throw myself into shock.

Downstairs, everyone has littered the living room. Some have taken residence on the couch, there's a place for Judith to sleep, and everyone's made their pallets on the floor. But we have a guest. Rick is at the door, holding it half-closed while Deanna speaks to him from that position. He wants to have complete control over her access into the house, and by the looks of it, she doesn't mind too much.

I can feel eyes on me as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Deanna gives me a wide smile. "You look lovely," she says.

I'm grateful for the compliment, because I know that no one in the group is at all interested in looking aesthetically pleasing, unlike myself. (I will be holding onto my humanity.) "Thank you, Deanna."

I'm leaning against the wall, crossing my arms when Rick gives me a quick once over, but he quickly turns to Deanna. "I think we're all going to bed, now."

"Of course," she replies, cordially. "I'm sure you all need your rest. Well, let us know if you need anything."

Rick sort of gives her a nod as he closes the door, which is more like a silent, "Yeah, right."

As soon as the door is shut, Michonne speaks. "What do you think she has planned for us?" It's in a hushed tone, but she's aware I'm only a few feet away, and I decide that if she didn't want me to hear, she'd go through the trouble to make it so.

I don't even pay attention to what Rick says back to her, and their words meld together as my eyes fall on Daryl, across the room. He's in the corner, completely alone, as usual. As soon as we get off of survival mode, he goes back to being a broody loner.

He's been weird ever since we learned about this place. He's been on constant guard, twenty-four-seven. He's been skeptical of everything and very quiet with his opinions. Earlier, Deanna asked to interview him, and I can't even imagine how that went. I'd been put in front of a camera, and I think the same was done to him. How does Daryl Dixon handle a situation like that? He was probably vague, with a tough guy act, the whole time.

Daryl is cleaning his knife, and I suppose he can feel my eyes on him, because he looks up for a second. I don't look away. Our eyes meet. It's been almost a week since he's said a word to me, and since before Beth since we've had a full fledge conversation. He's been struggling through her death, just as hard as Maggie. I'm concerned about him, and he knows that. But Daryl's going to have to relieve that emotional constipation if he expects to work through losing his friend.

My eyes rip from Daryl as Rick approaches me. He gestures toward the dining table. "We're all sleeping down here tonight. I left some blankets over there for you."

I give him an awkward smile and I shake my head. "Sorry, Rick, there's a queen sized bed upstairs that's got my name on it."

His brows furrow at the statement, and he starts almost in a panic, "Spencer it's best we stay togeth-"

But I hold up a hand. "Rick, I've already scouted out all the possible entrances and exits. You can't even climb a tree to get into the window, and if anybody does, I'm a light sleeper. I'll take care of it."

He disagrees with me. He understands my logic, but I can see, in his eyes, the silent argument he's having with me in his head as he clenches his jaw.

"I will be fine," I try reassuringly. I glance toward the general room, and jokingly go, "If anyone wants to join me, I'm a cuddler." I know that Rick doesn't appreciate my comic relief, but I don't care.

Before I turn on my heels to head upstairs, my sight involuntarily settles on Daryl, and for the smallest millisecond, I entertain a stupid thought. It's quickly pushed away, and I continue up to my room.

The walls are a soft earth colour, and the comforter is an olive green. The pillows are a pure white, as are the matching sheets underneath the pulled back blankets. I shed my clothes, shoving them into my bag, in case we have to jump up in the night and dart. I place my shoes (that will hopefully soon be replaced) beside my bed, and I rummage through the drawers for some decent nightwear. I find a t-shirt, and some thin pajama pants.

Perhaps I'm being paranoid. Perhaps Rick and I share more of the same mentality than I thought, but I'd like to be prepared if I can.

I don't like sleeping in the dark. I feel like a kid, but the world's ended. I need to be able to see what's going on at all times. Not like a walker is going to stumble out of the closet, but in case anything did happen, I want to be ready for it. I shut the door, turn off the ceiling light, turn on the bedside table lamp, and place my knife underneath my pillow. Standing at the side of my bed, I survey my surroundings. I suppose that's good enough. All precautions taken, and all levels of comfort met.

But as I settle into the dimly lit room, snuggling into the fluffy pillows, burying myself underneath the blankets, I almost regret not staying downstairs. I'm kind of lonely. I wish one of the girls would crack open the door and climb in bed. I've formed a friendship with Tara, since Maggie's distancing herself from me. She's distanced herself from everyone though.

I know Tara's going to follow orders to please Rick, and Maggie will sleep by Glenn.

I don't even consider Daryl as a possibility at all. It would be nice, though, for him to fall into his thoughts as the lights were turned off downstairs, for all to become quiet and still. I can picture him lying on his back, his crossbow at his side and a knife underneath a bundled up blanket he's using as a pillow. His thoughts go all over the place, such as the past few days, the validity of the community, and eventually onto me. And then he would get up, make sure Rick was keeping watch, and he'd come upstairs, and not be a total jerk to me. Possibly even cuddle with me an express an emotion or two without busting a blood vessel.

We were great at the prison. He'd sleep in my cell on occasion, and I'd sleep in his. He would actually talk to me, and even told me a few stories about his childhood. He'd actually begun to open up. When my sister and father had died, he was there for me. And when we were reunited after Terminus, when I'd stumbled upon the church, he kissed me as he never had before. He'd embraced me, and didn't care who saw, when originally, we were very private with our relationship. Not necessarily secretive, but we cherished our alone time.

We were fine those few days at the church, before he disappeared without a damn word. Which, to this day has scared me more than anything. At least when separated at the prison, I knew why. I knew what was going on. But he'd chased after that car, supposedly after Beth.

And then, I watched Beth's brains get blown out. I watched my best friend's little sister die, and the man I'd decided I was in love with put a bullet in somebody's skull. After that, the entire chemistry of the group had changed.

We were different. When Lori died, which was before my time, they all moved on. We suffered through a lot of deaths with the flu, and we managed to move past Hershel's death, out of respect for him. They survived Terminus, which I'm still unaware of what exactly had been going on, as I wasn't there. But Beth – Beth's death wrecked us.

And I was a shitty person. I was shitty, because I didn't blame that cop. I didn't blame the hospital. I watched Beth pull something out of her cast, and Dawn kill Beth in self defense. Dawn was a dictator among those people, and I guess everyone thought that Beth was trying to save them, by killing Dawn. I…felt otherwise. I think it was a moment of arrogance. I think that Beth had one chance, and she'd had so many brushes with death, she'd confused luck with skill, and took one chance too many, which resulted in her death.

Of course, these thoughts will never leave my lips in the form of words. I will never say these things to anyone in the group. They're things you just don't say out loud. Whether or not they're true, they'd only hurt, and there's enough of that going around.

I'm falling asleep. Being in this bed is one of the most wonderful sensations I've felt in almost my entire life. It's like sleeping on a cloud, conforming to my every crevice and curve. My neck is perfectly situated, and I'm snuggly warm. I'm slowly drifting off, where I can no longer control my thoughts, where random images of giraffes and apple pie begin to dance behind my closed eye lids when –

I hear the door open.

I sit up, wrapping my fingers around the butt of my knife, underneath my pillow. Opening my eyes, I see a familiar dark figure in the doorway. Daryl is halfway through the door when he holds a hand up to me, letting me know that it's okay, silently saying, "It's just me."

I'm appalled at myself for wishing this to happen, and it actually coming true. Am I dreaming? Underneath the comforter, I pinch the side of my wrist. Nope, not dreaming.

He slowly closes the door behind him, as if not to make a sound. The mattress shifts underneath his weight as he kneels onto the bed. He doesn't say anything. He pulls back the blanket, maneuvers toward me, and wraps his fingers underneath the bends in my knees, and yanks me off of my butt and onto my back. And then, I'm underneath him.

He's being quiet, and silent. He's communicating to me without words, which isn't uncommon for him. He may not be verbally expressing himself, but he's expressing something to somebody. And I'm happy that it's me. I'm happy I haven't been completely forgotten or tossed aside in the midst of his anguish.

He balances himself over me, an elbow on either side of my head, and I'm quick to wrap my body around his, placing my legs around his waist, and my hands onto his upper arms, my nails digging into his flesh. Dipping his head down, he kisses me, and it's forceful. It's surprisingly hard, but I'm not complaining. The scruff on his chin scratches my face nicely, and I can taste the cigarette on him.

It's somehow reassuring when he rests his body weight on top of me, careful to distribute it. He's getting comfortable, he's committing to the kiss. So, maybe, he won't jump up and leave. Maybe I'll actually get to spend a little time with him. His breath is delicious on my face and even more so when he breaks away from my lips to travel from my jaw line to collar bone, that scruff providing even more of a complex, enjoyable sensation. I open up my neck, allowing him easy access, attempting to stifle a moan. My fingers have found their way into his greasy, dirty hair, but sadly, he pulls away.

I'm immediately wrecked with disappointment. My warm body, reacting to his touch, aches for his return, but I soon realize he isn't leaving. He sits up, on his knees, begins bunching my shirt up in his fingers, and pushing it past my stomach, passed my ribcage, off my shoulders, and over my head. He's displeased to see me wearing a bra underneath, as I can see the slight confusion on his face, the way he furrows his brow, and chews on the inside of his cheek. I take the opportunity, while he's up, to pull off that leather vest. This is where he would normally rip open that shirt of his, because shirts aren't at all valuable to Daryl Dixon. Jeez, you ought to see what he does to the sleeves.

But he's actually patient. With heavy eyes, he looks down at me, his knees in between my legs, his arms hanging at his sides. He watches me start from the bottom button, nearly topless myself, and slowly work my way upwards, caressing the skin underneath as I go from button to button. It's a rewarding sight to pull the tattered shirt over his hard shoulders, built up from constantly cocking that bow of his. And as soon as it's off, he wastes no time, cupping my face into his calloused hands, and urging me back onto my back.

He kisses my lips, just as rough as before, almost careless, and beautifully primal. His tongue whips out over my neck, but passes over it quickly, and turns his attentions to my breasts. I'm still wearing the bra, although I'm sure not for long. His teeth graze over each soft half-globe, causing my skin to form chill bumps all over and my breath to hitch. His tongue reaches out, lapping right underneath the top seam of my bra, near my nipple, and it's followed with a nibble. Then, he leans up again, reaching underneath me, and unclasps the bra, pulls it off, and tosses it aside. The top of my body is entirely bare for him.

Now, he's down to business. He doesn't pay anymore special attention to my chest right away, but hooks his fingers underneath the band of my pajama pants, and pulls them downward. Just as he saw the bra before, he's disappointed to see I'm actually wearing underwear.

"Jesus, how many layers you got on?"he quips.

The very sound of his voice makes me writhe, and I sit up quickly and start onto the buckle of his belt with a sly smile, amused by his words. He's being impatient though, and bends down to kiss me as I work on the belt. The jeans become unzipped, and we collapse back into the sheets, and somehow, between our kisses, hair pulling, and limb tangling, we manage to get his pants off of him and onto the floor. And of course, the panties don't last very long either.

He's beginning to slow down, become a little bit more careful, but there's just as much determination in every move that he makes. His fingers wrap underneath my knees again, and pull me forward once more, positioning me right where he wants me. My legs are spread, and he nestles in between them, placing an elbow on the side of my face for support and balance. My fingers of one hand have take residence in his thick hair again, almost pulling as the anticipation is high in the room, and I anchor my other hand onto his shoulder, as if I'm gonna fall off the earth if I don't get a firm grip onto something.

He adjusts one of my knees over his waist as he sees fit, using his free arm. There are a few slow thrusts at first. He knows my body well enough that he's trying to get me used to him again. It's been a while, and he's trying not to hurt me. But after those few initial thrusts, when he hears the moan escape my lips, right at his ear, the game completely changes. And he thrusts into me unforgivingly. I'm trying to not make noise, so there's a hitch in my breath.

His mouth is warm against my neck as he establishes his rhythm, and I begin to think that if he goes any harder, we're going to start banging furniture onto the wall. But he's careful. With the wall. Not that much with me.

There's a growl in the back of his throat. Daryl isn't really a moaner, during sex. It makes sense, he doesn't even talk in real life, but he still communicates with me. I can gauge his pleasure by how hard his fingers press into my hips, or when he scoops his entire arm underneath me, and grabs at my ass. There's the way he kisses me, as if almost to stifle any sounds that may escape. And sometimes, he even pulls at my hair or scratches at my skin. These are all typical signals that he's enjoying himself.

I almost die a little on the inside when he leaves me, when he pulls out of me. For a second, I'm worried, as if something is wrong. With furrowed brows, I stare up at him, but the room is still empty, it's still just us, and he's looking down at me expectantly. I know exactly what he wants me to do.

I turn over, flat on my stomach. His body heat is more than welcome when it returns to my aching form. He moves my legs, situating in between them, and reaches down, pulling my hips up so easily, I might as well be a rag doll. I move accordingly, allowing him to situate us the way he needs to, to get the job done. He's got more of the main field of vision here, so it's really all up to him.

My fingers dig into the pillows as he enters me again, this time from a completely different, way more enjoyable angle. But he isn't going to take me on my knees. As soon as he's inside, he bends forward, and my knees relax. He uses his arms to hold the position, and I can feel the skin of his chest on my back. Now that he's got me where he wants me, he starts to thrust, and I can't help the moan that escapes. But damn it, I love this position. It hits in all the right places, his girth grazing against my walls, and if I make sure to keep my back arched and hips accessible, there's nothing to it.

But he starts to go a little harder, and just a little faster. I'm muffling all my moans into the pillow, and the growl in the back of his throat is getting hoarser and more noticeable. I'm honestly concerned about how tightly he's holding my hips. They'll probably be bruised tomorrow, but it's a good hurt, offering a plethora of different sensations and emotions in the moment. The pain only amplifies the pleasure.

And then he does it. There it is - the stroke that's going to push me over the edge. It's just the right angle, speed, and force. Pleadingly, so needy, my fingers wrapped around the corner of the pillow I'd had my mouth buried in, I lift my head up slightly and say in an exhale, "Just like that, just like that."

I bite my lip, and he complies, perfectly replicating that same thrust over and an over, effectively pushing me over the edge after the pressure builds, and the damn breaks. I see a kaleidoscope of colors behind my closed eye lids.

I successfully muffle my sounds. I see the arm, Daryl had been using to support himself, move, and his fingers dig into the sheets, the growl in his throat changes, and his thrusts stiffen. I feel his body relax on top of me, his heavy breaths washing over the back of my neck. I kiss his forearm, which is located right next to my face. In response, he places a kiss in between my shoulder blades. The mattress moves underneath us as he sits up, and steps off the bed.

Before I can turn around to look at him, the comforter is tossed over my naked body, and he plops next to me on the bed. We're both still catching our breath, and honestly, I'm still a little mind-fucked from the orgasm's aftermath.

He's on his back, on top of the blankets, unashamed of his beautiful naked form. I snuggle up in the blankets he covered me with, and take the liberty of curling up into his side. I won't get to do this for a while, so I'm taking advantage of it while I can.

He welcomes the contact, lifting an arm and allowing me access. I rest my head on his shoulder, placing my right arm over his chest. There's a silence that follows. His eyes aren't closed, so I know he's not going to fall asleep. I'm a completely different story. I'm exhausted, and if I fell asleep right here and died before I woke, I'd have died a happy woman.

We don't say anything for a few minutes. I'm trying to take in the moment, enjoy it, enjoy being next to him like this. Because I know this grace is short lived. Finally, I risk sinking the ship.

My words are soft, so soft they almost don't come out of my mouth. "I've been worried about you."

His reply is gruff, and short. "Don't." And it sounds matter-of-factly.

I'm confused, though. I arch my neck to look up at him. He's staring at the ceiling, so deep in thought it's scary. "Bring it up?" I'm scared that I've said just the wrong thing to send this moment to hell.

He doesn't seem mad though, and he rips his eyes off of the ceiling to peer down at me. And again, in the same matter-of-fact tone, he adds, "Worry."

Don't worry.

It's hard getting something out of this man, but when you do, it's worth the trouble. Don't worry. Does that mean he's got everything under control in that head of his? Or is he just not in the mood to discuss it? At least he's fucking talking to me.

"Don't do that," I say.

"Do what?"

"You're doing that thing where you crawl inside of yourself." My finger draws small circles on his chest. "Don't do that. You need to talk to someone."

"Ain't nothing to talk about."

I can't hide my frustration with him. I sigh, sitting up and crawling off the bed. This is just how Daryl is. He's been this way ever since I've known him. At the prison, I promised him I'd never expect him to change, that we wouldn't adopt typical couple standards for each other. It would only complicate living in today's standard of living. So, I don't expect him to spiel his emotions all over the place. It's just not in his personality. I do worry about him sometimes.

I'm searching for my pajamas he threw on the floor. Orgasm or not, I'd still like to maintain precautions. He cocks a brow as I start getting dressed, sits up, and leans against the dark wood headboard.

"So you're pissed, huh." It wasn't a question. He was making a statement.

Pulling the shirt over my head, I shake my head. "No, Daryl, I'm no pissed at you." I plop back into bed, adjusting the covers, forcefully pulling them from underneath his legs. "We all grieve in our own ways." I lay back, and now I'm the one staring at the ceiling. "Don't talk if you don't want to, but don't just check out. We need you."

"I ain't goin' nowhere."

That had actually been on my mind. I was afraid that we'd all build something here, and Daryl would feel left out again, with his black sheep syndrome. I was afraid he'd just go on his own. "So you're not gonna leave us."

He scoffs. "After everything that's happened? Leave now?" He stands, and shimmies on his jeans. I hope he's not about to leave. "I don't like it out there, either."

I move onto my side, so that I can look at him better, and I'm happy when he comes back to bed, this time crawling underneath the blankets with me. "Just do me a favor."

Again, he's on his back. He's not looking at me. "What."

"Next time you do leave, let me know, okay?" I know he's not going to say anything, because I'm referring to when he went to Atlanta. I was worried sick, but I understand why he had to duck out when he did. I'm just grateful that he was with Carol. Men like Daryl shouldn't be left alone. "I get why you two left before. I'm not mad, but, if you can help it…"

His jaw clenches as a million thoughts run around in his brain.

Time for a topic change. "What do you think about this place?"

He stretches, arms receding into underneath the fluff behind his head, and his face contorts with confusion, pulling out my knife and staring at it.

I smile, taking the knife from him, and placing it under my new pillow, now that I've switched sides.

"You're as paranoid as Rick," he says.

I chuckle. I was raised by a Prepper. Part of my upbringing is to expect the unexpected. "So?" I try again. "What do you think?"

"The boy deserves a place to grow up. And the baby."

"So, you think it's safe?"

He gives a half hearted shrug. I don't want to pry anymore, so I don't push it, but does ask me, "What do you think?'

I'm not sure where to even start. My father raised me to question everything, and prepare for anything. No one knows what real is anymore. Dad was one of those conspiracy theorists, and I don't want to live my life like that, but I'm not sure how to swallow this cookie cutter neighborhood. "I'm waiting for everything to go to shit," I answer honestly. He wasn't expecting this answer from me. He shifts his weight onto his elbows, looking down at me. "Everything's going too smooth. There is such a thing as too good to be true."

"Why'd you come up here then?"

I can understand the question. Why would I break away from the group when potential danger is near? "They're not going to attack us. Not yet. If they wanted to kill us, they'd have tried already. Just like if we wanted to kill them, we would have already tried." I meet Daryl's eyes. "They want something from us. I just haven't figured it out yet."

I think back to Deanna leaving, and Michonne going, "What do you think she has planned for us?" Everyone was given jobs on the first day, except for Daryl, Michonne, and Rick. Staring up at Daryl, I realize I'm not worried because of the mourning process he's going through. I'm worried because he might be in danger, here. He isn't going to fit in, and he will be the first to challenge anything that may harm the group.

I think about the horror stories I was told about Terminus, and how helpless I felt. I was too busy helping other people that I'd never met, and putting off tracking the group, that they were put in a potentially deadly situation. I should have been there with Carol, to break them out, or at Daryl's side.

My mother, sister, and father are all dead. Sister and father bitten by Walkers. My brother was out there, trying to start a community. Maybe if this goes to hell, I can track him down, but that's if he's alive. That's the thing about to day. If you separate from someone, there's a chance you may never see them again.

So this group is my family. I love Carl and Judith. I love Maggie like a sister, and Carol like a mother. My relationship with Rick is complicated. It has been ever since I came to the prison, but I love him, too. I can't imagine what would happen if anything ever happened to these people, or even worse, this man at my side. What would I do if something happened to Daryl? I would probably go mad, and spill a lot of blood. I know I'd kill every person in this community if I had to, to keep my friends safe.

"If Deanna tries anything, Daryl," I say in the most solemn tone I can muster, "I'll kill her. If she hurts anyone in this group, I'll kill her."

He can feel how troubled I am, that I just slipped into my own thoughts, how dark I suddenly just became.

There's a troubled expression on his face when he pulls me into his chest, a rare act of comfort. His rough fingertips trace an invisible line along the side of my arm, right under my shoulder, and he places a kiss on my hair. In a soft voice, he says confidently, "We'll be alright."