In the stifling afternoon air of his tent, Andrea presses herself up against him. She feels small in his arms, but her size is no indication of her strength - beneath her soft skin she is flexing muscle, lithe, like a cat. Her hair is soft and slightly wet, all pulled back from her face, and smelling lightly of soap. Sometimes, in front of the fire or across the camp, he will look at her - the curve of her body, her brilliant smile - and think that like the sun, she is almost too much to look directly at. And then there are times like these when she comes to him, crawls in to his arms and kisses him, or just lays next to him in the tent, talking - and he thinks this is definitely all too much for him. Soon, he tells himself, she'll realise who and what he is, and the light that she casts in to his existence will flicker out.
For now, though, he has her to himself - brilliant, funny, intelligent Andrea - hair the colour of the sun. Whatever momentary insanity she must be under the grip of has brought her here, to his tent, where she lies curled with him underneath a thin blanket they had found. Here, she runs her hands over the tattoos on the plane of his shoulder and pulls him closer towards her, their bodies moving against each other, tongues flickering as her lips swipe against his. For all his prowess with a weapon and unshakable confidence around walkers, he can't help but feel nervous around her. She's not like the women he had seen back home at all - they belonged in the cover of low lights and the dark bars where he drunk with his brother; they were limp hair and gangly limbs, too-short skirts and nicotine-stained fingers. She is sun-kissed and smiling, lying with him in the tent sharing her observations on the world as the afternoon light dances across the skin; making comments that surprise him and make him laugh before finally sliding her leg over his and pulling him in to her.
Today is one of the rare occasions when he's given her hands free reign (he prefers to hold them in his when they kiss, the less they can wander, the better) and she takes advantage of it, running her fingers through the sparse hair on his chest, dancing them along the top of his waistband, and threading them through his hair. He sighs against her lips as she rocks her hips against his; he's hard in her jeans and she can feel it, he's sure. She breaks the kiss and his eyes flicker open, meeting hers: they are bright with lust, above her lips slightly parted.
"I think you're wearing too many clothes," she whispers, fingering the button of his jeans. He makes a small, non-committal noise, and kisses her again; taking her hand in his and moving it back to his shoulder. She perseveres. "Let's take these off...?"
"Mm. Don't," Daryl whispers against her mouth.
"Why not...?"
He shakes his head but says nothing, and kisses her again. He always said to himself that when it came down to the line, he'd rather push her away and have her think he doesn't like her, than let her get too close; but who was he actually kidding? He feels powerless in her orbit.
She decides to try a different line to take things further, and unzips her fly slowly, guiding his hand down. Heart racing in his chest, his hand ghosts over her underpants, fingers tracing a pattern over the fabric. This is okay, he thinks, as she settles in the crook of his arm. This is managable. She reaches over to squeeze the bulge in his pants and he draws a shaky breath; hand stilling on her hip as she works the zipper down.
"Ah..." he begins, as he feels the fabric slide down over his behind, but she covers his lips with hers and swallows whatever he was about to say. His fingers can't help but press in to her hip as she rubs him through his underpants, and when she finally slips her fingers past the elastic, he grabs her wrist. "Wait...".
"You okay?"
He's silent for so long, trying to find the words, that he actually considers lying and faking some huge confession to her - I'm actually gay, I have a horrible incurable STI, I need you to wear a full-body latex suit before I can consider having sex with you. Instead, he just steels himself - it's the end of the world, how much worse can it get? - and with what he tells himself is a perfectly calm and casual voice, says, "Never had anyone's hand on me but my own".
She stills. "...this is your first time?" He's searching for a response, an excuse to wash away the feeling of what a fucking loser he is at this very moment in time, and also trying to convince himself that his hand is not actually trembling; when she kisses him again, deeply, and slides her hand in to his underpants fully to grasp his erection. He gasps against her mouth as she starts to slide her hand up and down, slowly at first, squeezing him lightly in her palm.
"Is that okay?" she whispers, and all he can do is nod.
"Ah, yes. Don't stop."
Now or never - he pushes her panties down and dips his hand between her legs, swearing under his breath as his fingers meet the warmth there. He strokes his fingers backwards and forwards slowly before she reaches down and pushes them inside of her, gasping as she's filled. At the same time as he tries to control his breath, he's attempting to silence the thousand or so thoughts running through his mind at freight-train speed: primarily, he's thinking that this is Andrea he's with, Andrea, Andrea who he had fantasized about a thousand times over in his tent alone, first thinking about her mouth doing amazing, wicked things to him, and then just thinking about that mouth smiling or whispering secrets to him. Then, he realises with a start that Glenn has more experience in this department than he does, as evidenced by the twelve-pack of rubbers he had found in the Greene's bathroom after Glenn walked cheerily out of there one morning, followed suspiciously by Maggie. And finally, he's trying desperately to silence the voice in the back of his head that sounds so much like Merle, or his father, telling him that he's going to fuck this up spectacularly and be a huge disappointment to her, and why doesn't he just give up now because -
"Jesus; fuck," he whispers against her mouth as she squeezes his balls in one hand, massaging. She giggles against his lips.
"That okay?" she asks.
"Mmm," he sighs, "Yeah."
"I don't want to rush you or anything," she purrs softly, withdrawing her hand and placing it on his chest as she rolls him over and pushes herself on top, "But I really want -"
"Daryl?" Rick. "Daryl!"
Fuck, fuck, fucking hell. Daryl freezes and Andrea sits up, the blanket sliding off her shoulders.
"...yeah?" he responds, trying to ignore the fact that his voice ends in a pitch ten octaves too high.
"Randall, Daryl," Rick says, and he sees the man's boots walk by the tent in silhouette. "Come on, get up. I need you, man."
"...coming," he responds, and they listen as Rick's boots stomp away from the tent. On his chest, Andrea makes a small whimpering noise and collapses against him.
"I gotta go," he says, as she rolls off him.
"I know, I know. Rick," she says, with a roll of her eyes.
"Let me take care of this," he says, a hand on her exposed stomach. "When I'm done, will you still...?"
"Yeah," she says, softening. "Of course. Come back quick."
As he leaves the tent that afternoon, squinting in to the sunlight; he doesn't know what lies next for them all. The night ahead of them will feel like it stretches on forever, an eternity of mud and bullets, fire and flesh. He will see limb torn from limb, bright red blood staining the ground, and thick black walker blood on his boots. He will pull Carol from the clutches of the walkers, her long limbs threading around his waist as he powers them away from the farm on Merle's bike; and he will try to ignore her whispers against his ear. The next morning as the sun finally rises, it will be as though someone flicked a switch - the day is overcast and grey, the air seemingly full of gunpowder.
Andrea will not travel with them the next day, nor will she for a good month or two. He doesn't know as he walks away from the tent that he will need to light the next several weeks with his memories of her, and rely solely on fond thought and faith that he never knew it was possible to have, that she not only made it away from the farm alive, but that she will make her way back to him. Optimism is easy in theory, perhaps. His hands carry the black dust from his crossbow and he wipes them off on his jeans before swiping a hand across his face to wipe away the beaded sweat on his brow. A smear of black dust settles on his skin.
The Carols and Glenns of this world may have an easy time with faith, but Daryl Dixon wasn't made for positive thinking. He glances briefly over his shoulder at his tent as he walks away from it; not knowing this is the last time he will see it, not knowing most of the earthly possessions he has will be burnt to cinders by this time tomorrow.
"It'll be okay in the end," Rick says as they walk towards the barn, clapping him on the shoulder; giving him a knowing look.
"Yeah," Daryl says, but although his feet propel him forward, he can't bring himself to really agree.
He doesn't have Rick's optimism.
His outlook is much darker than that.
