twd one-shots

alone - daryl dixon

Plot: The prison cells might have been safe, but after months on the road, you couldn't sleep. Not alone, at least.

Requested by Anon on Tumblr. 

Word Count:
 4.4k

Warnings: pining. they're so oblivious 🙄

A/N: ok I've been gone way longer than I thought... im so sorry. life has been very stressful but also fun and I haven't had any time to write! or much motivation tbh... but I got some back <3 this one is sweet and simple, not much of a plot other than yearning and daryl crushing hard. hope y'all like it!

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It felt like hours.

Despite doing nothing to ease him the first and second time, Daryl turned on his back again. Like every time before, he stared up at the grey ceiling of the prison. Cracks ran up the walls and across the ceiling, interconnected like the lines of streets on Glenn's worn-out map. It didn't matter how many times he tried to trace them into a bored slumber, his mind was wired.

It was late into the second night here— the first spent under a real roof, even if it was worn down, and not only the stars. The day had been spent fighting the dead, clearing the prison's inner courtyard and first cellblock. Though no matter how exhausted and spent his muscles were, his eyes couldn't seem to stay closed.

And Daryl couldn't reason why.

The cellblock was locked up tight, the only sets of keys tucked deep into his and Rick's pockets. The glimpses of moonlight barely lit the perch he lay on and with all but three candles burnt out, it was darker inside the prison than underneath the forest sky. The concrete surrounding him was cold and pressed up against a wall, the heat of the Georgian summer had finally stripped off him. His family was protected and the heavy ache in his bones weighed him down, deeper into the mattress he stole from one of the abandoned cages.

But, he couldn't sleep.

At least he wasn't the only one plagued by insomnia. Ten, maybe twenty, minutes ago you had snuck out of your cell, creeping behind his back, down the stairs and into the common room. Your steps were gentler than the breeze at his neck, but he still noticed you— he always noticed you.

The soft glow of a candle just barely reached around the wall's bend, only visible from his position on the catwalk. Like a moth to a flame, the light beckoned him. Sore arms be damned, he pushed himself up and followed his urge— the only urge, sleep nothing but a lost thought.

When he finally curved the corner, he watched you shuffle through the group's shared belongings, organizing the abandoned baskets with a type of care that many people had given up on these days. For a fleeting moment, the corner of his lip curled up. You seemed to be good at that— picking and pulling tiny glimpses of affection from the cracks in his walls.

"Ya got a deadline to meet or somethin'?"

The light of the candle illuminated the tips of his boots, barely catching his face as he leaned against the large doorframe to the cellblock. The flame flickered, rapid but weak. The prison was old, and a breeze seemed to filter through the barred windows, even while shut.

With nothing but a small shrug, you looked down. The instant meals— snacks, really— were piled in front of you, smaller than the pillow you were cursing just minutes prior. Food seemed to run out the quickest, even faster than water somedays. Rationing and scavenging could only do so much to keep up with demand.