Based on Samson by Regina Spektor.

He had wandered into my bed at some point in the night, unknowingly leaving the door ajar and allowing the cold to creep inside. His body was scorching against my own, and I clung to him selfishly, hoping his heat would melt some of the icy fear that was always in my heart these days.

I wrapped my arms around his torso, feeling the gaunt boniness against my fingertips. He breathing was uneven, spilling from his lips in harsh pants. I drug my lips along his shoulders, lowering them to linger on his deep ever-present scars. Not once had I pitied him for it. He didn't need pity, he needed someone to make him forget. That was my purpose, to make him forget all of the horrible shit that had gone on in his past.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving outward and I knew he was in pain. "Daryl?" I tried to ask, but my voice broke on the second syllable. He turned slightly, looking at me with those sullen eyes that had lost their fierce predatory demeanor. One thing that would never change was that slight grin he had on his lips.

The sheets slid along our skin, I let out a small whimper when he moved even more, despite all of his gasping and trembling. Now his body was facing mine, and I didn't let my pure melancholy thoughts affect my facial expression.

"I want ya' to cut my hair." Daryl rasped, bringing up his coarse hands to my cheek.

It was such a dark contrast to the first time we had shared this bed, and I closed my hand and leaned into his palm, nudging into him as much as I could before the weakness overtook him and his hand fell to the bed. I nodded profusely when I realized I hadn't given any response, pulling myself up to grab some scissors.

When I returned, he was sitting up on the bed, using the soft cushion to bear his weight that had become little to nothing in that past few months. I stood in front of him, intending for this to go like every other night where we shared few words, just saturating ourselves in each others company while it was still permitted by the universe.

So, I was utterly taken back when he spoke up again, twice in one night. "You're beautiful." He told me, flipping the blond hair that lay sprawled out upon my shoulder.

I felt guilt arise inside of me when my eyes stung violently, begging for a release of the pent up salty liquid. I had promised him long ago that I wouldn't cry, and I'd be damned if this would be the time for me to do it. "How do you want it cut?" I inquired, and he answered as I knew he would, but still hoped he wouldn't.

"Just, cut it all." He responded dismissively, and I bit my lip. His hair had just grown back, not as long as it had been when we had first met, and not as long as it had been when we passionately occupied this bed, but it still felt like a stab in my memories to remove what seemed to be that last string to his old life that he had left.

I delicately lifted the scissors, though, knowing it wasn't my place to keep him from what he wanted.

The hair fell around him, caressing his skin sweetly before disappearing onto the floor and being swept around by the breeze of the fan. His hand trailed aimlessly along my thigh, and I felt the familiar tremor that I received when he was touching me. It didn't matter what he looked like, I had never been able to help keep myself from falling into that never ending pit he seemed to create and made so tempting to jump into.

I watched his muscles move beneath his thin, nearly translucent skin. He couldn't scare a fly these days, but every now and then, I caught the glimpse of who he used to be. A glimpse of the man I had thrown myself heart first at.

When I snipped the final piece of hair with the dull scissors, he gave me an approving smile even though he had no idea what the outcome looked like. I laughed now, full and hearty, plucking teasingly at a piece that was clearly longer than others. He rolled his eyes, but the room seemed to grow colder when a wet cough was released from his mouth, filling the air with gurgling noises. I took a stepped forward, and he placed his hands between us. "I have to go."

It wasn't supposed to happen, but I couldn't help it. My breath caught in my throat and I let out an involuntary sob. I knew he meant he had to go back to his own bed where he was being given proper treatment, but I couldn't stop my mind from reeling over the deeper meaning of it all. The pale yellow light illuminated the streaks on my face, and I was fully aware of his hands sliding up my back. "I have to go." He had repeated, but I knew then that he didn't mean it. Just that once, he could stay. He would stay.

His now cold lips found mine, and I leaned forward, dropping the scissors to the floor. My fingers timidly moved towards the back of his neck, making sure I didn't pull him in too harsh a manner or cause him any sort of pain.

He pulled me awkwardly around him, not really exerting any strength, but I knew what he wanted and followed without hesitation. He wasn't strong enough to go too far, but kissing was enough. Hell, feeling his heart beat was enough.

I lie down on the bed, and he slumped beside me with a grunt, then sunk his wonderful lips onto my own, and once again, my heart was racing as if nothing had changed. Everything had always seemed to right, and even though I knew there was no happy ending in store for us, I just needed to feel this with him. If I didn't greedily suck up all of his affection for me, I would never make it.

He stopped, pulling his lips away only to look into my eyes. "I love you first." He said, showing me that rare vulnerable side he didn't let others know existed. It was the truth. He had been aware of the simmering tension between us long before I did, but I wasn't fully sure he had quite loved me first. Then again, Daryl wasn't exactly forthcoming with his emotions.

"I will always love you, Daryl Dixon." I said, feeling that it needed to be said.

He let out a rough chuckle, then kissed me chastely. "When I'm gone-"

I stopped him there, shaking my head and begging him to not speak anymore, but he silenced me calmly, making me yearn for the Daryl who would argue and scream. "When I'm gone, you have to live. You gotta put yourself out there. You're stupidly young," he said, kissing my neck, "and I'll be damned if you don't get your sappy happy endin'."

"I can't love anyone else." I whispered, looking him in his now dull blue eyes.

They crinkled slightly, and I regretted putting him in the position where he would feel any sort of discomfort. "You have to." He spoke with finality, and I knew then that I was going to live the rest of my life in constant agony and discomfort.

At some point in the night, he had wandered back to bed, leaving me with my arms spread along the sheets and leaving silent stains along the material. This time, he closed the door. It was almost as if he knew it was going to happen and just didn't want me to hear it.

The next morning, Daryl Dixon passed away.

I found him on the floor, feet away from his oxygen tank, so close to the very thing that would prolong his life, but I knew it wasn't saving him. Just dragging out what he knew was inevitable and what I knew he had already come to terms with. Yet, I still fell to the ground before him after calling for an ambulance.

I still pulled him towards me, grasping any sort of life he might have had left, but his lips were blue and his face was cold and hard. He had been gone, and all I could think of were his words, "I have to go." He knew, god dammit, he knew.

Three months before, Daryl had quit his treatment. He wanted to stay there and be with me, and even though the doctors were persistent, he refused and found his way back home. His plan... Well, his plan that he made up to amuse me was that he would go back to treatment when he got worse. I should have known whenever he began stumbling, unable to move correctly on his own. I should have made him go back. I should have forced him to stay in that bed. But, I knew and he knew that if he was motivated, he would get what he wanted.

It just seemed so unreal. What would be the most catastrophic thing in my life would land as a simple headline in the newspaper for someone else, possibly a story of gossip. It lead me to wonder why other people seemed so important to get their life stories written down and passed among the generations?

History books would forget about us, filling their pages with things that seemed to pale in comparison to the feeling I obtained having this dead man weighing down in my arms. The bible wouldn't mention us. We'd be just another thought, thrown to the wind and spread vaguely throughout history until soon enough, we had been completely neglected.

I had been unaware of my loud wailing, only hearing my vicious echoes when the soft patter of footsteps entered the room.

"Mommy?"

I pulled Daryl closer to my arms, unwilling to look at my little girl. I wanted to shield her from this. She didn't need this to be the last image she had of her father. "Ellie, go upstairs." My voice came out in different octaves, and I fought the urge to collapse in on myself when I felt he small arms go around my own, her fingers brushing her fathers now short hair.

"Daddy isn't dead mommy, he's just gone." She cried to me, and I didn't say a damn thing to stop her optimistic thoughts. "He's just gone." She repeated, and I felt her own small figure shaking. I turned slightly, pulling her to me as well, and I knew then that I had to live, and I had to love. I had to do it all for her, to show her that she could.

I was eighty-four when my body decided to give up the fight, and I had six beautiful grandchildren. I don't regret living for them, seeing them grow up and have their own children, but I won't lie and say it didn't feel like coming home when I took my final breath, warm arms around me and the nostalgic echo of a southern draw in my ear. They buried me beside him, but beyond our graves, we were together, and we were in love. I got my sappy happy ending when I saw his face, and I realized that he was my sweetest downfall, and I'd be willing to tumble over and over again.