Thanks to Pol, Lady-Alucard, texasbelle91, i luv ewansmile, Belladcmum, cindy2005 and ArcheryLefty for reviewing my previous one-shots and drabbles! It's always a joy opening up my emails and seeing a new review. Same goes with favourite-ers and followers, they all just gives you the warm fuzzies, so thank you!

This is my first attempt at writing Daryl as an adult and is the story that I feel the least confident in. Constructive criticism is welcome, so if you have any tips or spot any mistakes just drop me a line! :)

I also seem to have an obsession with Dixons and babies. I can't help it. They make my ovaries glow.

Quick warning: brief, non-graphic mentions of child abuse and infanticide.

Thanks again and hope you enjoy!

Oh, and TWD does not belong to me in any way what so ever, nor do its characters or plotlines.

**TWD**

At 19 years old Daryl Dixon met the love of his life.

She was a tiny thing, absolutely perfect. Rosebud lips, soft blonde hair, and the deepest blue eyes he'd ever seen. At only a few days old Oakley Dixon resembled her dad more than anyone thought possible. And Daryl was absolutely smitten with his little carbon copy.

Don't get him wrong. He had also been absolutely fucking petrified of the fragile, doll like baby he had held in his well muscled arms. She looked like the smallest breath would have knock her over, and Daryl wasn't exactly the most gentle-handed sod out there. But with whatever fucking higher power you believed in as his witness, no-one would ever lay anything but a loving hand on his little girl. God help the poor fucker who even tried.

Over the first few weeks of her life, Daryl learnt the art of feeding, bathing, changing and soothing a baby. Although he'd never admit to it, he'd fucking cherished the moments where he could just sit down in that big, old, ratty lounge chair and rock his little girl to sleep. Watching her eyelids finally flicker closed left him feeling like the proudest dad in the world. The small fingers that grasped his own like a life line, even in sleep, connected him to another human being in a way he'd never felt before. He couldn't believe how fucking lucky he was. Who else got to be this happy?

Merle sure was going to get a big fucking shock when he was released from jail though, that was one thing Daryl had been sure of. He hadn't even had a chance to tell his older brother about the pregnancy, let alone that the baby had been born. But Daryl couldn't wait to introduce Oakley to her uncle. Daryl knew he'd cop shit for knocking up a girl and being a dad, but he would also bet his life on the fact that once Merle set his sights on the baby girl, his daughter would be the most overly protected, loved and foul mouthed child that ever walked this green Earth. And he was absolutely fine with that.

Learning the tricks and skills of fatherhood hadn't come easy to Daryl though. He may have escaped his own Pa for now, but the years had taken their toll. Daryl could barely hold his little girl without second guessing himself, wondering if his actions were just a precursor to what his own childhood had been like. Had his Pa ever held Merle or him this way, tucked lovingly into the crook of his arm? Daryl doubted it.

But sometimes, when Merle got shit tank drunk, he would go on and on about how Pa hadn't always been such a hard bastard. Once life for the eldest brother had involved a Pa who made him bundle up before heading outside to play catch with their new ball, and a Ma who would stand laughing, nose red from the cold, warning that she wouldn't look after either of them when they inevitably got sick. Daryl knew that he should be glad his father hadn't always been a prick, but honestly nothing could have been worse. If Pa had once been capable of loving his child, did that mean that Daryl was capable of beating his own? The thought scared the fuck out of the teenager.

The moments that really left Daryl terrified though were when those tiny lungs screamed and cried and would not just bloody shut up. Running on little sleep and already stressed out of his God damned mind as he was, Daryl could feel the anger building up inside himself, all directed at his baby girl. And although the thought of harming Oakley made him feel physically sick, the frustration was still there and that left him blind with terror. 'What kind of dad was he if he could feel that kind of anger towards his own little girl?' In moments like those Daryl felt like he had no right to be anywhere near his daughter. He didn't even care if all the parenting books he'd poured over said that anger was a normal thing to feel. To Daryl there was no forgiving that emotion.

In the end though, Daryl shouldn't have been worried about himself. It wasn't him that finally cracked, wasn't him that should have stressed so much over being a good parent. In the end it wasn't him that ended it. He still felt fucking responsible though, guilty for not saving her.

Postnatal depression, the baby blues, is what they'd called it; what they'd blamed it on. Daryl hadn't even known such a thing existed, hadn't known what it looked like or how he could have helped. Charges had been laid, a court date kept and a mental health treatment plan ordered. The mother of his child had been led away and Daryl had been left with a deep, gaping hole which his baby girl had once filled. Within weeks of her first breath she had ceased to exist and Daryl had no fucking idea how to handle it.

With Dixon like fortitude though, or perhaps just a deep running stubborn survival instinct, Daryl buried thoughts of little Oakley Dixon and got on with his life. Grieving hadn't been an option in his world, so he kept it all under wraps. He had moved on with his life with a huge fucking chip on his shoulder and no explanation as to its sudden arrival.

When Merle finally got out he put his brothers new found attitude down to his own absence and their Pas fists. And Daryl never set him straight; hadn't been able to find the words to tell Merle about his perfect little niece.

And perhaps this was why, 20 something years later, Merle found it so unbelievable that his damaged little brother could look so comfortable with Officer Friendly's kid.

No one could understand it actually. Merle had only seen the last of it, small glimpses of Daryl as he walked past the makeshift crib, grubby fingers waving themselves in front of those wide, awe-filled eyes. He'd heard the nick name, Lil' Ass Kicker, and knew that his brother was the only one crass enough to actually call a child that. He just couldn't understand it.

The other survivors though, they'd been there from the very beginning, seen everything. No-one had understood his obsessive need to find Sophia alive. They hadn't understood the desperation, the determination in his face when Judith was born and he'd vehemently claimed that he wouldn't lose anyone else.

And each prison survivor could distinctly remember the shock they'd felt watching the rough and ready redneck gently scoop up the warm bundle that was baby Judith from Carl's trembling arms. The protective instinct that had surged through the older members of the group wasn't something they were proud of; even after all this time their initial doubts had still surfaced about the secretive man. Once upon a time the only thing Daryl Dixon had equalled was trouble and seeing him with the small baby was not something they had expected or even thought possible. After all, what possible experience could the dirty hunter have looking after new-borns? Feeding them, changing their nappy, clothing them?

But none of them understood this man. No-one understood his need to protect, his need to provide, his need to help.

No-one understood that at 19 years old Daryl Dixon had met, and then lost, the love of his life.

And no-one understood that he sure as hell wouldn't let that happen again.