Sleep
Of all the things Andrea misses, a good night's sleep is high on her list. Funny the things we miss, when we think about it. Post S2, AU after that. Written as a one-shot, probably not my best but fun all the same.
Pairing: Andrea/Daryl.
Rating: T.
Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to Robert Kirkman and AMC, I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.
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Before the dead started walking around, if Andrea had been asked to make a list of the things she would miss once the world ended, her answers would have been logical, if pedestrian enough stuff: tampons, her Benz, her vibrator, a steady supply of laundry, being a lawyer … stuff that she couldn't imagine being without. She remembers vividly the conversation she shared with Amy, Carol and Jacqui all that time ago, when they laughed and joked about the things they missed, back when the end of the world still felt more akin to a giant camping trip deep in that quarry, watching Shane and Carl frolic and laugh as they tried to catch frogs. Back when things were simple and the end of the world didn't seem quite so … helpless.
But now Amy's dead and Jacqui's dead and Jenner laid out in frighteningly simple terms just how screwed they all are, Andrea realises that her list was luxurious. Because while she misses all of those things on her list, they were too obvious. Now, the one thing she really misses from her old life is sleep: six to eight hours of blissful, secure REM sleep where she would dream of sheep and moonbeams or those awful, naked-in-the-grocery-store dreams. She misses the rare luxury of waking up on a Sunday morning to a man in her bed, of closing and opening her eyes and knowing that there was another warm person in bed with you who would watch over you while you slept. Hell, she even misses the drunken oblivion that came with ill-advised drinks on a Sunday afternoon that segued into dancing at three am, or the exhausted blankness that came with a heavy caseload and long hours.
She misses all those kinds of sleep. In fact, she just misses sleep, period, because what she gets now, that fearful terror that grips her soul as her exhausted body forces her mind to shut down for two to three hours each night isn't sleep. It's not restful, it's not healthy and it does nothing but make her wired and exhausted all at the same time.
"You look tired." Lori says as she hands Andrea a meagre plate of breakfast and it's all Andrea can do not to pull out her gun and shoot her right there. Or at least, she would if she wasn't starving.
You look tired? Seriously? That's what Lori had to say?
Hiding in the woods with nothing but a bag of guns with a woman who had two walkers on chains wasn't exactly good for her sleep cycle. But Lori Grimes wouldn't know anything about that. Lori Grimes probably sleeps just fine in her husband's arms, her son sleeping soundly next to them. Lori Grimes probably doesn't lie in bed at night, clutching her sleeping bag so hard that her knuckles turn white, listening to every sound, every snapped twig outside her tent. She doesn't wake up each morning with dreams of her dead sister flashing before her eyes.
"Ya look tired."
When Daryl says it, it sounds different to Lori but it doesn't stop Andrea from pointing out the similarity.
"Way to state the fuckin' obvious." He mutters.
"She meant well, I guess." Andrea says.
They're out on a supply run, at a supermarket off the highway. They have some provisions but not much, but winter is coming and they're woefully underprepared. Daryl scoped the place out, said it looked okay. Andrea volunteered to go with him for lack of anything else to do, but between them they've found some winter gear: tents and sleeping bags, but what they really need is someplace sturdy and sheltered, some place to call home.
"It's funny." Andrea says as they pillage what other camping equipment they can find. "I used to be able to sleep anywhere: my car, my couch, the library – I even fell asleep on a date once."
"Bet he loved that." Daryl smirks.
"But now … I can't manage more than thirty minutes at a time." Andrea selects a thick sleeping bag for herself and folds it up. "When I was out in the woods … I didn't sleep for two days."
"We got complacent, at the camp site and the farm." Daryl says. "Didn't make us forget what was happening, but …"
"It blunted the danger." Andrea finishes.
He's right, in a way: the weeks and days spent at the quarry and the farm had wrapped them in a cotton wool of kinds. People still went on supply runs and Sophia came out of the barn, but everyone went home to a tent at night, sat around the camp fire and sang songs, swapped tales. The herd blew all of that away.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to fall asleep again." She murmurs as she helps him load their wares into his truck.
'Ya need to rest.' He says, giving her a concerned glance. "You're damned near the best shooter we got. Things get ugly we don't want you fallin' asleep and shootin' us."
Later, when its dark and chilly and they're sat around the dying flames, swapping yet more stories and Andrea's belly is full of squirrel, she finds her eyes begin to drift shut. She jerks herself awake each time with a nod and a yip that attract the curious stares of others. She's too afraid to close her eyes, too afraid to let herself dream. But she's tired, so tired….
A husky voice in her ear startles her.
"Ya wanna sleep, I'll keep watch."
Daryl's voice is quiet; only Andrea can hear. He's close but not touching, but Andrea's cheek finds its way onto his shoulder as she feels her eyes drift closed. She doesn't remember anything else after that, but wakes up the next morning in her own tent with a crick in her neck, the sleeping bag carefully tucked around her body. She doesn't feel refreshed or rejuvenated, but it's the first bit of real, true sleep she's had for as long as she can remember.
Daryl doesn't say anything when she emerges, just gives her a nod in greeting, but it sets a precedent of sorts, for them: every few nights, when her eyes are bloodshot and her moves sluggish, her head will find its way onto his shoulder and she wakes up the next morning in her tent.
"You can stay, if you like." She mumbles against his skin one night, her lips brushing the skin on his shoulder, still in shirtsleeves even now.
"What?"
He lifts her as though she weighs nothing, his arms sliding under her legs and her arms. She can hear his heartbeat through his skin, through his shirt. It's like a lullaby, pushing her into sleep.
"You don't have to drop me and go. You can stay, if you want."
He doesn't say anything, but when Andrea wakes up the next morning, Daryl's asleep in the corner of the tent, his body blocking the entry point. In sleep he loses a lot of the aggression he carries on his shoulders, and like her he hums and twitches as he chases imaginary squirrels around his dreamscape.
He does it a few days later when its a particularly chilly night. Andrea wakes up and reaches for another blanket, when she spies Daryl still asleep. He looks cold, lying there in her tent without so much as a pillow, so she crawls along the floor towards him and shuffles up close, pulling her sleeping bag and extra blanket around them both.
She wakes up a few hours later to Daryl's light breathing tickling her ear, his arms around her, his body pressed against hers. They're in a warm haven of musky smells and goose down sleeping bags and heavenly, unmitigated warmth. And it's the best sleep that Andrea's had for years.
But like hers, Daryl's sleep is dark and twisty, full of nightmares that creep into the waking hours. Several times she hears him mutter in his sleep, feels him jerk awake with a yip and a howl just like her.
"Ain't nothing." He mutters one day when she asks him about it, and she knows not to push. Maybe he'll tell her himself, one day. Sometimes she stays awake while he sleeps, whether they be nestled in a tree keeping watch, tucked away in her tent, or – eventually – in the small cluster of houses they come to call home.
"So y'all are sleeping together?" Michonne says to Andrea one day as they clean their weapons and watch the others.
Andrea smiles. Michonne doesn't dress things up. She and Daryl are more alike than they realise.
"Yeah, but not in the way you think." She says.
"Whatever you say."
She kisses him when they're hit by an unexpected, freak snowstorm. His lips are warm but his hands are cold and when they slip under her shirt she squeals and shivers in shock until his lips follow where his hands thought to tread, her eyes roll into the back of her head and she thanks whoever it is in heaven that she chose this moment to kiss him.
Afterwards, they lie in that delicious limbo between sleep and wake, wrapped in Andrea's sleeping bag.
"Are you tired." She murmurs against Daryl's shoulder, her fingers trailing across the scars until his fingers push hers away.
"No." He yawns.
"Liar. You can sleep if you want, y'know." She says. "I'll keep watch."
"S'okay." He mumbles, but its barely words.
Andrea watches him for the longest time, smiling ruefully. She'd forgotten about this kind of sleep, although maybe that's because she's never really had it: the kind of sleep that you don't have. The kind of sleep the person you love has, while you watch them to make sure they're safe, just as they do for you.
FIN.