How do you tell a girl-- a beautiful woman, one of the most beautiful he's ever seen, ever known-- not to expect much? Well, you don't, obviously. You just think it real loud and hope she picks up on it.
If she knows him, she should know? Hell, she doesn't even know about Leah. When else would he have had time for that kinda shit in the apocalypse- oh, right. No, that's what you say.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice soft with caution. "Been- been a while. Yeah. My bed."
"All right." She'd half-expected him to demur, though she's not sure why. (Because she's never seen him so much as look at someone in a way that might suggest they were messing around on the side, let alone expressed anything like interest around her. He's a private man, sure, but they've lived in close quarters, enough so that Maggie suspects she'd have noticed something.) Not that she's complaining at the fact that he's not interested in taking things slow, of course. "Give me ten minutes - I'm gonna make sure he's cleared out for the night."
Which means walking a change of clothes over, kissing him good night, thanking Carol for giving her the night off. The usual stuff. Shouldn't be long - and it isn't, though Hershel's visibly crestfallen at the sight of his toothbrush.
When she returns, she goes down to Daryl's room, pausing a moment at the threshold. "Hey."
Daryl is privately worrying about his shirt. Leah never asked questions, is it safe to assume Maggie won't? He doesn't want to keep it on. And then, seeing her in the doorway, he remembers the farm. Laid up in bed, she must have seen the scars. Over a decade, and she never said anything, never pushed. How could he ever have doubted her.
A real feeling crystallizes, beyond the vague appreciation-- he wants to kiss her. It's not lust, it's... thankfulness. Maybe that's all lust is. Thank you for existing, thank you for being here, with me.
He's sitting on his bed, messing with the dog, something to do with his hands, and there Maggie is, framed in candlelight. He feels like he's in another world, her world, the one where all her ideals stand self-evident and all her hopes insulate the walls. He pushes Dog off the bed before reaching for her, not getting up. Is that romantic? Welcoming? He's not sure; it just feels like the right thing to do.
Maggie doubts either of them is an expert in romance at this point. But Daryl looks at her with more emotion than she can remember seeing on his face in months - maybe years, maybe ever. The fondness he can't put into words lives in his eyes, when he's looking her way, and it draws a smile out of her.
She pulls off her boots, leaving them at the door to his room, and pads over to his bed.
"We get him back sometime after breakfast," she says, and it's shockingly easy to slip into we. They've coalesced into a household, blood coagulating to protect itself, even if their lives have maintained the illusion of separation before now. "So I'm all yours tonight."
She smiles, and some worrying thing in his heart is content. He wants that, he wants that every day, more than sex or heat or lust. He has her hand in his, and holds it close. "You have me," he murmurs, so mush-mouthed he doubts it's intelligible. Worth saying, though. No one has Maggie, Maggie has people. That's just the way it works.
He kisses her hand again, her wrist. The few times he's considered a sexual escapade successful, it's involved going on instinct, however stupid the instinct was. It's a shaky instinct, without the internal logic of hunting or tracking; he never knows when he'll slip up and do something truly ridiculous. But at the moment, all he wants to do is kiss her, all of her, everything he can reach.
Which happens to be her shoulder, then her neck. He lingers there, smelling sweat and soap and whatever she puts in her hair, while he tries, gently, to draw her down onto the bed.
If she had doubts, they're smoothed out by the time his lips press against her inner wrist. This isn't the action of a man who's lukewarm on the prospect of having her in his bed - and Daryl's just private enough that she's had time to wonder, walking to and from the kids, if she's pushing him into this. If this is too much, too soon, whether everything they've survived is prelude enough.
She'd come out on the end of Daryl's stubborn enough to say if he's not interested and anyway, he's had ten minutes to hightail it out of there. And now, tipping her head back as his whiskers scratch lightly along her throat, she's at hell with it, we deserve some happiness. Everything else in the world can wait for a few hours.
It doesn't take much to get her to stretch out beside him, shifting so she can kiss his smoky mouth. He tastes like being a teenager again, cutting class and stealing cigarettes for the joy of doing something dangerous. He tastes nothing like Glenn, feels nothing like him when her hand cups his cheek, and it makes it easier. This is something separate from the future Negan stole from them; it's a different life, one she's fortunate to be able to hang onto.
She touches his face, and there's the rush he never expects, the realization that he's wanted. He curls into it on instinct, like a cold animal finding warmth; his head turns to the side, and he kisses her back. Her mouth is soft where the rest of her isn't, calloused and scarred over with the hard marks of survival. But even her lips are cracked, and something about that elevates the moment, makes her more real.
A tiny whine escapes him, anxious and excited all at once, a whisper from his mouth to hers.
Instinct pulls him back, but keeps her close, rough hands on her narrow shoulders. He lies back on the bed, wanting to feel her near him, maybe atop him. That idea sends a bolt right through him, and finally, there it is, the lust, the pure wanting.
She lets him pull her close, sliding a leg over his waist, so she'll be straddling him, next time she bothers to sit up. And that might take a bit, because it'd mean pulling away from his mouth. Even when she breaks the kiss, she only draws back enough to see him without going cross-eyed.
"You ain't my prom date," she murmurs, the expression in her eyes light, "but if there's something you don't like, you gotta tell me. It's been a while since I had my hands on anyone but myself."
Which has happened plenty, in the years since Glenn's death, upstairs in her bed included. She's unbuttoning his shirt one-handed, slow and smiling, kissing his chin, along his jaw.
The want pulling in him helps immensely to guide his hand. If he has an objective, he can accomplish it. Stubborn pride steps in where the rest won't, and he murmurs back, "and you'll tell me."
It's stubbornness or bravery or want that draws one hand to her hip, to slide under her shirt. Maggie Rhee has everything that can make a woman beautiful, but what draws him, what he has most imagined touching, is the gentle curve of her side, from rib to hip. Warm and marked by time, he runs his hand over that space, and lets himself moan for the need of it.
He turns his head to kiss her neck, her collarbone, to feel the warmth of her pulse under her skin. She's beautiful, and he wishes he could tell her.
"Mm-hmm -" but it's a distant sort of agreement, distracted by the catch of his calluses moving over her skin. Old stretch marks, scars, the soft places that even in hunger have never quite gone tight again - her history is written under his fingertips, indelibly marked along her frame.
(Before, there'd been no reason to ask about the twisted net of scars he carries on his back - it would have been cruel to demand of him. These days, they're all caught in the same snarls; if his are older, they aren't necessarily unique. If he ever wants to tell those stories, he'll do it of his own accord.)
They're both needy in their explorations, of tongues on skin and grasping hands, and God, it feels selfish to lay there, eyelids fluttering, and let him kiss along her throat - but God, she's missed feeling something like this. Want, and being wanted. Hunger for something besides safety and dinner. Trust, more than anything. She's missed the security of trusting someone else's hands on her body.
Habit has made her quiet, but the breath she lets out is a long one, tinged with enough pitch to sound like a little moan. She's gotten the last of his buttons, too, pushing the when fabric of his shirt back so she can run a hand up his chest.
She'll find more tattoos, a skull, a star, a devil's grin. All older than the beginning of the end, from when all his money was spent on ink and bikes and hunting equipment. Maggie's hands on them make him feel prouder of the ink than he ever has, like it's a way to find him in the half-light.
He wants to see her. His hands move up, feeling the rivets of scars and stretch marks, all the things that make her real and true, and he stops himself half way up her ribs.
"Yeah." Jesus, Daryl, please strip her, she's not about to get prudish now. That he's sweet about it, though, is a point in his favour - gentle, really, his hands searching without demanding.
She helps him get her shirt over her head, and what's left is a bra that's clearly seen better days. For this, she's willing to sit up, even as it means moving away from the heat of Daryl's skin, unfastening it herself rather than risking it finally falling apart. Finding replacements has gotten increasingly annoying over the years.
Once it's off, she stays sitting there for another moment or two, letting him get a good look in - but the possibility of coming back down for another long kiss is too much to resist.
He's struck by her beauty, the power in her frame. Nude to him, she shows no vulnerability, only confidence, and a command for respect. And then she's kissing him, like he's worthy of that, and the sound he makes isn't anything restrained. He thinks her name might be in it somewhere, but he can't tell, too distracted by the heat of her mouth and weight of her body on his. He traces the length of her spine, the dip of shoulder blades, feels puckered scars and healing wounds.
It's slow, and he likes that. Rushed sex has always confused him, left him dizzy and lost. Still, he wishes he had words to explain this moment, but the only feeling worth expressing is the fact that she really doesn't need him. Something about that makes this beautiful.
He sits up a little, gets his arms out of his sleeves, throws his shirt across the room. He doesn't need it anymore, just her and the feel of her soft skin. A hand finds her waistband, and his awkward, stubby fingers linger there. "D'you want...?"
He isn't feeling bold. He just wants to feel comfortable, and he won't if he isn't sure she is.
He doesn't tell anybody, he just goes. It's probably stupid, definitely dangerous, but the urge to just go is too goddamn great. He knows, eventually, his people are gonna wanna explore DC. Daryl may as well scope the place out first.
He doesn't like sending Rick or Glenn out on this shit anymore. They're fucking married. He disappears, maybe people are sad, but it doesn't really matter. Especially since they're not living hand-to-mouth anymore. Alexandria's got gardens, resources, food stores and hydroelectric bullshit. He should be carving out maps, not sitting on porches like some tamed animal.
He walks through silent streets, blackened with grime and bodies. Clearly, people make their way around the place from time to time-- there are ladders and rope on some buildings, ways to avoid the street, to climb around dead ends. Daryl follows these patterns while marking it off on his map, trying to guess at how many of these are still in use, and how many are just relics, the last thing people left on this Earth.
He ends up in a museum, giant and proud. Daryl knows, unshakably, that he'd never in a million years have gotten near this place, before. But here he is, and he walks right on through. The metal detectors are still there, powerless but intact; Daryl waltzes through them, and he can't explain why it's so funny, so it's good that he doesn't have to.
He wanders through the exhibits, but they're mostly boring, or looted. There's a lot of cracked TV screens and fucked up dioramas. He starts to notice a pattern, though. Some places are conspicuously clean, no detritus, all pretty and well-cared for. If something's been smashed, the glass has been cleared away, and the shit on display's been carefully removed. Somebody lived here. Maybe they're still living here.
The neatest places are near the doors. There's always a clear in and out, nothing blocking any exits. He tries a few, and they're all locked or blocked from the inside. Somebody's got keys to this place.
He really shouldn't bug them. He's just too goddamn curious.
One of the doors has a smashed plexiglass window, and someone's papered it over with cardboard. Daryl reaches through and unlocks the door from the inside, lets himself in. What he finds is endless rows of bookshelves, except they ain't got any books. Shelves and shelves of endless curiosities, dead birds and arrowheads, bones and cloth and carefully cataloged teeth. Each has a little bit of information next to it, even if it isn't real informative. He has to guess most of what he's looking at, when it isn't obviously animal or textile. He finds some real shiny rocks.
Every time someone makes their way into her museum, Scully feels a little more like the villain from a fairy tale. She's not sure if she's a troll grumbling who's that trip-trapping over my bridge? or a giant shouting I smell the blood of an Englishman! - but either option is one of selfish mistrust, and that, she feels in her bones.
At least it only seems to be one person this time. When the dead get past her meager defenses, it's harder. They find each other and travel in knots of rotting flesh and grasping hands, and she's stuck trying to find ways to pick them off one by one. The worst, of course, is when it's a group of the living; more than once, she's had little choice but to hide herself away and hope to God that they wouldn't take everything she has.
Fortunately, most of them don't get further than the exhibits. The Natural History Museum is beautiful, even in its broken-down state, but most people see shattered skeletons and empty jewel-cases. (The Hope Diamond was snatched long before Scully ended up here, along with every other valuable gem on display.) Most of them don't realize she's turned patches of earth in the old butterfly pavilion into gardens, or that she's using the equipment in the back. The ones who figure that much out steal her crops, but only one group's tried to stay - and she'd managed to persuade them not to, for a certain meaning of the word "persuade."
"Stop where you are. Hands up." She's got her service weapon pointed on the man. If not for the gun, Scully doubts she'd make an imposing figure. The apocalypse has left her nearly as thin as cancer once did, and without reason to run around in heels all day, she's given them up. She's a small woman in a sweater set that's seen better days, her red hair cut into a blunt, ragged bob. But she's got a gun and an authoritative voice all the same. "What's your name?"
The smallest cop in the world lives here. Daryl is aware she has a gun, and that should be respected, but it's kinda funny, too. He takes a step back, hands in the air, but the gemstone he was fiddling with is still in his palm.
"Daryl," he says, clearly at ease despite her gun in his face. "What's yours?"
He's been looking for people with Aaron. Why not her?
"Call me Dana." Every time she gives her name, these days, it feels strange. The last person she spoke to with any regularity called her Scully, right up until the end, when he'd whispered, You have to promise me, Dana -
Two years alone, and neither name really fits anymore. She's been by herself too long - way too long, if making a stupid Moby-Dick joke is how she introduces herself now. The gun doesn't waver. "What're you doing here, Daryl?"
Perhaps its evidence of him not taking her-- Dana-- seriously, but if she's in the mood to ask questions, she's not gonna shoot him on a whim. He pulls the map of DC out of his pocket, complete with the red pencil marks through it.
"For whom?" Because of course she says whom. More importantly, the idea of 'safe places' might be a noble one, but the reality is that the next obvious question is whether they're likely to stay safe after their discovery.
"My people," he says, because that's all he can say. Location, age, group size, all of that's something he's keeping to himself, even if he doesn't think she's as dangerous as she is angry.
"Are you scouting for a new place to live?" My people doesn't tell her anything, let alone whether she needs to be concerned. "If so, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you're unlikely to be comfortable here"
"You don't look comfortable here, lady," Daryl says. He folds the map back up, sticks it back in his pocket. "Getting a feel for the area, is all. Ain't here to stir shit up."
"I manage." Anything more than that is beyond the scope of this conversation. Scully watches him put his map away, and for a moment, she's tempted to pull the gun up - ready for action, but no longer pointing his way. She doesn't. "Who are your people?"
"My people," he says, defensive, before he realizes what a shit job of recruiting he's doing. He rubs a dirty hand over half his face and tries again. "We got a settlement in the 'burbs. Clean water and plenty'a space. It's safe."
"Uh-huh." He hasn't reached for the crossbow on his back, nor has he tried to get out of range of her firearm. That shows good sense. But there's not a lot.
Trust no one, whispers a familiar voice in her head, but under these circumstances, Scully's not sure Mulder would've taken his own advice. She can imagine him putting his own gun away, smiling one of his megawatt smiles, and learning everything they need to know about this settlement.
But that was Mulder, reading people like books and playing along accordingly. If she's no slouch, she's not exactly the filthy-stranger whisperer, either. "If you need to know anything about the area, I can tell you. I just don't want you to have the wrong idea about the museum."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
https://pigsfeet.dreamwidth.org/730.html?thread=93402#cmt93402
If she knows him, she should know? Hell, she doesn't even know about Leah. When else would he have had time for that kinda shit in the apocalypse- oh, right. No, that's what you say.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice soft with caution. "Been- been a while. Yeah. My bed."
Going to hers just seems disrespectful.
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Which means walking a change of clothes over, kissing him good night, thanking Carol for giving her the night off. The usual stuff. Shouldn't be long - and it isn't, though Hershel's visibly crestfallen at the sight of his toothbrush.
When she returns, she goes down to Daryl's room, pausing a moment at the threshold. "Hey."
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A real feeling crystallizes, beyond the vague appreciation-- he wants to kiss her. It's not lust, it's... thankfulness. Maybe that's all lust is. Thank you for existing, thank you for being here, with me.
He's sitting on his bed, messing with the dog, something to do with his hands, and there Maggie is, framed in candlelight. He feels like he's in another world, her world, the one where all her ideals stand self-evident and all her hopes insulate the walls. He pushes Dog off the bed before reaching for her, not getting up. Is that romantic? Welcoming? He's not sure; it just feels like the right thing to do.
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She pulls off her boots, leaving them at the door to his room, and pads over to his bed.
"We get him back sometime after breakfast," she says, and it's shockingly easy to slip into we. They've coalesced into a household, blood coagulating to protect itself, even if their lives have maintained the illusion of separation before now. "So I'm all yours tonight."
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He kisses her hand again, her wrist. The few times he's considered a sexual escapade successful, it's involved going on instinct, however stupid the instinct was. It's a shaky instinct, without the internal logic of hunting or tracking; he never knows when he'll slip up and do something truly ridiculous. But at the moment, all he wants to do is kiss her, all of her, everything he can reach.
Which happens to be her shoulder, then her neck. He lingers there, smelling sweat and soap and whatever she puts in her hair, while he tries, gently, to draw her down onto the bed.
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She'd come out on the end of Daryl's stubborn enough to say if he's not interested and anyway, he's had ten minutes to hightail it out of there. And now, tipping her head back as his whiskers scratch lightly along her throat, she's at hell with it, we deserve some happiness. Everything else in the world can wait for a few hours.
It doesn't take much to get her to stretch out beside him, shifting so she can kiss his smoky mouth. He tastes like being a teenager again, cutting class and stealing cigarettes for the joy of doing something dangerous. He tastes nothing like Glenn, feels nothing like him when her hand cups his cheek, and it makes it easier. This is something separate from the future Negan stole from them; it's a different life, one she's fortunate to be able to hang onto.
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A tiny whine escapes him, anxious and excited all at once, a whisper from his mouth to hers.
Instinct pulls him back, but keeps her close, rough hands on her narrow shoulders. He lies back on the bed, wanting to feel her near him, maybe atop him. That idea sends a bolt right through him, and finally, there it is, the lust, the pure wanting.
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"You ain't my prom date," she murmurs, the expression in her eyes light, "but if there's something you don't like, you gotta tell me. It's been a while since I had my hands on anyone but myself."
Which has happened plenty, in the years since Glenn's death, upstairs in her bed included. She's unbuttoning his shirt one-handed, slow and smiling, kissing his chin, along his jaw.
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It's stubbornness or bravery or want that draws one hand to her hip, to slide under her shirt. Maggie Rhee has everything that can make a woman beautiful, but what draws him, what he has most imagined touching, is the gentle curve of her side, from rib to hip. Warm and marked by time, he runs his hand over that space, and lets himself moan for the need of it.
He turns his head to kiss her neck, her collarbone, to feel the warmth of her pulse under her skin. She's beautiful, and he wishes he could tell her.
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(Before, there'd been no reason to ask about the twisted net of scars he carries on his back - it would have been cruel to demand of him. These days, they're all caught in the same snarls; if his are older, they aren't necessarily unique. If he ever wants to tell those stories, he'll do it of his own accord.)
They're both needy in their explorations, of tongues on skin and grasping hands, and God, it feels selfish to lay there, eyelids fluttering, and let him kiss along her throat - but God, she's missed feeling something like this. Want, and being wanted. Hunger for something besides safety and dinner. Trust, more than anything. She's missed the security of trusting someone else's hands on her body.
Habit has made her quiet, but the breath she lets out is a long one, tinged with enough pitch to sound like a little moan. She's gotten the last of his buttons, too, pushing the when fabric of his shirt back so she can run a hand up his chest.
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He wants to see her. His hands move up, feeling the rivets of scars and stretch marks, all the things that make her real and true, and he stops himself half way up her ribs.
A whisper in her ear, "can I...?"
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She helps him get her shirt over her head, and what's left is a bra that's clearly seen better days. For this, she's willing to sit up, even as it means moving away from the heat of Daryl's skin, unfastening it herself rather than risking it finally falling apart. Finding replacements has gotten increasingly annoying over the years.
Once it's off, she stays sitting there for another moment or two, letting him get a good look in - but the possibility of coming back down for another long kiss is too much to resist.
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It's slow, and he likes that. Rushed sex has always confused him, left him dizzy and lost. Still, he wishes he had words to explain this moment, but the only feeling worth expressing is the fact that she really doesn't need him. Something about that makes this beautiful.
He sits up a little, gets his arms out of his sleeves, throws his shirt across the room. He doesn't need it anymore, just her and the feel of her soft skin. A hand finds her waistband, and his awkward, stubby fingers linger there. "D'you want...?"
He isn't feeling bold. He just wants to feel comfortable, and he won't if he isn't sure she is.
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no subject
He doesn't like sending Rick or Glenn out on this shit anymore. They're fucking married. He disappears, maybe people are sad, but it doesn't really matter. Especially since they're not living hand-to-mouth anymore. Alexandria's got gardens, resources, food stores and hydroelectric bullshit. He should be carving out maps, not sitting on porches like some tamed animal.
He walks through silent streets, blackened with grime and bodies. Clearly, people make their way around the place from time to time-- there are ladders and rope on some buildings, ways to avoid the street, to climb around dead ends. Daryl follows these patterns while marking it off on his map, trying to guess at how many of these are still in use, and how many are just relics, the last thing people left on this Earth.
He ends up in a museum, giant and proud. Daryl knows, unshakably, that he'd never in a million years have gotten near this place, before. But here he is, and he walks right on through. The metal detectors are still there, powerless but intact; Daryl waltzes through them, and he can't explain why it's so funny, so it's good that he doesn't have to.
He wanders through the exhibits, but they're mostly boring, or looted. There's a lot of cracked TV screens and fucked up dioramas. He starts to notice a pattern, though. Some places are conspicuously clean, no detritus, all pretty and well-cared for. If something's been smashed, the glass has been cleared away, and the shit on display's been carefully removed. Somebody lived here. Maybe they're still living here.
The neatest places are near the doors. There's always a clear in and out, nothing blocking any exits. He tries a few, and they're all locked or blocked from the inside. Somebody's got keys to this place.
He really shouldn't bug them. He's just too goddamn curious.
One of the doors has a smashed plexiglass window, and someone's papered it over with cardboard. Daryl reaches through and unlocks the door from the inside, lets himself in. What he finds is endless rows of bookshelves, except they ain't got any books. Shelves and shelves of endless curiosities, dead birds and arrowheads, bones and cloth and carefully cataloged teeth. Each has a little bit of information next to it, even if it isn't real informative. He has to guess most of what he's looking at, when it isn't obviously animal or textile. He finds some real shiny rocks.
Those, he pockets. Judy and Carl will like them.
no subject
At least it only seems to be one person this time. When the dead get past her meager defenses, it's harder. They find each other and travel in knots of rotting flesh and grasping hands, and she's stuck trying to find ways to pick them off one by one. The worst, of course, is when it's a group of the living; more than once, she's had little choice but to hide herself away and hope to God that they wouldn't take everything she has.
Fortunately, most of them don't get further than the exhibits. The Natural History Museum is beautiful, even in its broken-down state, but most people see shattered skeletons and empty jewel-cases. (The Hope Diamond was snatched long before Scully ended up here, along with every other valuable gem on display.) Most of them don't realize she's turned patches of earth in the old butterfly pavilion into gardens, or that she's using the equipment in the back. The ones who figure that much out steal her crops, but only one group's tried to stay - and she'd managed to persuade them not to, for a certain meaning of the word "persuade."
"Stop where you are. Hands up." She's got her service weapon pointed on the man. If not for the gun, Scully doubts she'd make an imposing figure. The apocalypse has left her nearly as thin as cancer once did, and without reason to run around in heels all day, she's given them up. She's a small woman in a sweater set that's seen better days, her red hair cut into a blunt, ragged bob. But she's got a gun and an authoritative voice all the same. "What's your name?"
no subject
"Daryl," he says, clearly at ease despite her gun in his face. "What's yours?"
He's been looking for people with Aaron. Why not her?
no subject
Two years alone, and neither name really fits anymore. She's been by herself too long - way too long, if making a stupid Moby-Dick joke is how she introduces herself now. The gun doesn't waver. "What're you doing here, Daryl?"
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"Findin' safe places," he says.
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Trust no one, whispers a familiar voice in her head, but under these circumstances, Scully's not sure Mulder would've taken his own advice. She can imagine him putting his own gun away, smiling one of his megawatt smiles, and learning everything they need to know about this settlement.
But that was Mulder, reading people like books and playing along accordingly. If she's no slouch, she's not exactly the filthy-stranger whisperer, either. "If you need to know anything about the area, I can tell you. I just don't want you to have the wrong idea about the museum."
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