It started from a discussion with a friend. This question has been bugging me for over a year, and so I proposed the dye idea. To which my friend replied "Hah, yes, and he probably dyed it because Rick happened to mention he likes brunettes".
So screw us.
He fucking knew it.
When Rick had casually dropped that he likes brunettes in one late conversation around the bonfire, Daryl felt cheated. He should've fucking guessed, how much more obvious could it've been, really? Lori, Shane. And yeah, Daryl wasn't stupid, he'd seen the glances the two cops exchanged when they thought no one was looking.
And so Daryl spent the rest of the night disgruntled, finishing his food as fast as he could and proclaiming he'd take the watch. Not like anybody argued — everyone wanted to get some sound sleep.
It was months later, when the winter was in recede, that that little snippet of memory flashed across Daryl's mind. They were scourging for supplies in a small run-over town, and the hunter was assigned with finding various hygiene products. It was a small rectangular box with faded shiny writing that shot his neurons up and triggered the memory of Rick's offhand comment.
A box of hair-dye. Brown hair-dye.
Daryl stood glued to the spot for several minutes, haphazardly trying to sort through the jumping thoughts running through his head. What the actual fuck? Was he seriously considering... No, no way in Hell. Hades would freeze over before a Dixon became some fucking douche-fairy who dyed his hair just because some guy (okay, maybe not some guy, but still) thought that color was so much more attractive than his natural blond.
Nope. Wasn't happening.
Giving an angry snort at the shelf, Daryl was about to grab for some toothpaste (and dear Lord, did they need that; some people might start missing a few teeth if they carried on foregoing such simple routines) when he froze mid-way, his arm outstretched and fingers almost settling on his purchase.
It wasn't practical. There was no water to spare, much less time, and he...
He was still debating with himself over it.
Feeling his fuse shortening by the second, the redneck ground his teeth and glared at the offending box to his right through slitted blue eyes.
Fuck, but what if it actually helped?
Rick was so withdrawn from everyone these days, especially Lori. The two didn't work out, not after what happened with Shane. Daryl heard their constant bickering, heard Rick yelling and Lori crying more than one night. It was always followed by hush apologies and muffled sniffs, but the next morning there was always a stone wall ejected between the two, and Lori's doe eyes were filled with so much hurt and regret that one didn't need to be a genius to understand it was over.
And really, Daryl wasn't even considering, he'd put his slight minute-crush on the back burner since that night, and reasonably so, as Grimes was a goddamned married man, the fuck, Dixon, what were you thinking.
Nowadays though everyone kept on saying that Rick needed a distraction. Needed to take it easy. And, well, technically, it wasn't so bad if Daryl decided to nudge the cop a little, maybe draw his attention, show him that there were still options.
But Rick was deaf, blind, and, apparently, stupid.
So, with an annoyed grunt, Daryl quickly snatched the dye and stuffed it in his rucksack, into the furthest, darkest corner he managed to find.
When Daryl came back from washing up one evening, hair still dripping onto his sleeveless shirt and jeans drenched to a dark-blue (he forgot to bring an extra set of clothes, so he decided he might as well wash what's on him in the damn lake), Rick had casually waved him over to the Hundai, a map spread out on the hood.
"Hey, Daryl, I was thinking we could..." Rick never got to finish, his mouth going slightly slack and eyebrows rising up into his hairline. Daryl might've barked out a laugh if he wasn't feeling so smug this evening.
"Quit starin', Grimes. Yer eyes might pop," his southern drawl seemed to finally snap Rick out of his trance.
"Daryl, what is that?"
"Wha?"
"Your hair. What happened to your hair?"
Shrugging, Dixon allowed one corner of his lips to tug into a smirk. "Don't know what'cha talkin' 'bout, sheriff. Always been like that."
All Rick could do was nod dumbly, owlishly blinking his tired blue eyes, and carry on explaining his plan to the strangely pleased hunter.
No one dared to ask Daryl about the obvious changes the next morning, when his hair had dried and shone a deep, dark color. They just kept shooting him weirded out glances.
And that was fine. Because for the first time ever, Rick was amongst the crowd. The redneck caught him looking, noticing, and that was all the justification Daryl needed for snatching that stupid box of dye from the dusty shelf.
And when, almost a year later, Rick was threading his fingers through his grown-out tresses, placing an outlandishly gentle kiss on Daryl's sharp cheekbone, the hunter could even justify the extra effort and time spent scavenging and stocking up on dye so he wouldn't run out.
Fuck anyone who knew about it and thought of the habit as girly.
He would shoot an arrow in their ass.