People didn't touch him much anymore. It wasn't something he was used to.
Back before the dead got up and started walking around killing people, being touched meant violence was incoming. It was almost better when it was a belt or a shoe, or a glass thrown at his head. Daryl could ignore the human side of it, could pretend it wasn't his own Da, drunk out of his mind and slurring curses at him even if the belt left marks that fists wouldn't. Merle wasn't a big hugger, casual physical contact was limited in a way that was meant to protect Daryl but at the time, left him unsure, craving something he had no experience with. Rick would hug him, wrap an arm round his shoulders, act as Daryl's lighthouse in the storm even when he flinched away, Carol right alongside him with a gentle word and a soft hand on Daryl's so much like his own barely remembered mother that it hurt. Jesus had been so full of life it had bubbled over the edges, so much so it had driven him out into the woods were Daryl was hiding, leaning shoulder to shoulder with him, wrapping an arm around his waist in the small tent they had to share in a move that had terrified Daryl when it first happened, but he had gotten used to it, had learned to reciprocate casual friendly touches. But it was, it had been nice. But Rick was gone now, Jesus was dead, and Carol had her own happy life.
So, no-one touched Daryl anymore.
They didn't dare. He was Daryl Dixon, one of Rick Grimes' original group. They whispered behind his back, snippets passed down and distorted with each new utterance, stories of the Governor, of Terminus, and of Negan. He wasn't like them, couldn't relax even behind the high walls of Hilltop, always looking for the danger he knew was just behind him, knives ever present on his belt.
Daryl stared at the hand on his wrist, almost unable to comprehend it. Her hand was warm, fingers pressed into the pulse points on his wrist despite the leather cords wrapped around it and he fancied she could feel the hammering of his heart. Swallowing he raised his gaze to Connie's, meeting her eyes briefly before his gaze skittered to the side, unable to maintain eye contact. She sighed quietly, barely more than an exhalation of breath through her nose and slowly moved her other hand, Daryl tracking the movement, the urge to bolt rising in his chest. She circled his mouth and pointed to her eyes, brows raising.
Oh.
Daryl felt the twist of embarrassment in his stomach, heat rising in his cheeks. He'd forgotten.
"Sorry," he said quietly, eyes flickering to her face and back again. It felt strange in his mouth, hyperaware of the way his accent distorted his voice when compared to others like Carol or Aaron. Daryl knew his background was lower than most, surrounded by middle class families from the suburbs, his accent stuck out like a sore thumb. But he was a survivor, a hunter, and he was proud of it.
Connie stretched out once more, gently brushing her fingers against his jaw, her fingers rubbing across the rough of a few days of stubble, Daryl's eyes flickering to hers. She grinned, the movement easy and carefree, giving him a thumbs up with both hands, notebook precariously pressed against her palm. No harm done, she conveyed.
"Come on," Daryl said, managing to keep his face turned towards hers even as he glanced down towards his hands, twisting the crossbow strap round and round. Another thumbs up and grin, heart thumping in his chest. Dog returned to his side, tongue lolling out, whacking against his legs to encourage Daryl to pet him. The dead were up and walking, and dogs were still the same. A growl snapped his attention away, a momentary lapse of concentration that could have easily turned deadly, had turned deadly before. Two walkers, shambling up the dried-up stream bed, hands already stretching out to grasp at unprotected flesh. Daryl glanced over at Connie, her gaze already locked on the shambling intruders, slingshot coiled and ready to fire. A small smile stole to Daryl's lips and he raised his own crossbow, one deep breath to steady, release it and fire. His arrow erupted from one's head, her ball bearing lodging in the other in perfect sync. Daryl whistled to Dog, the animal bounding forward to retrieve his arrow, always a risk but practice makes perfect apparently. A broken arrow was the price he paid to see Connie laugh, silent but no less lovely, the corners of her eyes screwing up, shoulders shaking and head ducking down.
"Bad dog," he mumbled at Dog whose tail never let up wagging and that set Connie off once more into another set of silent giggles.
Daryl began walking, Dog at his heels and Connie at his side, her shoulders occasionally quaking as leftover giggles ran through her. A light bump on his arm and the notebook was offered to him, Daryl's lips moving silently as he read her clear blocky handwriting.
He's a good boy.
"Yup," Daryl replied, turning to face her, gaze locking onto hers before he twisted back to the ground beneath his feet.
┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈
It was almost like a phantom pain, he could almost feel the rough texture of Henry's sleeve in his hand, pulling the boy along behind him, the press of dead treated human skin on his face making bile rise in his throat and making him want to scrub his own face down to the bone and that still wouldn't be enough. Guts and viscera where one thing, familiarity born from a lifetime of killing his own food. But this was something new and twisted. But throughout it all, he could almost feel the imprint of Connie's hand lightly resting on his arm, her fingers twisted and scrabbling along the stained denim of his jacket to keep close amongst the mess of the dead and those wearing their faces.
Henry was safe, the girl- Lydia, he fought to remember, dark wounded eyes staring up at him from between bars of dark hair and iron prison bars even as he plotted to stab him with a rusty nail- safely tucked back in her prison cell, though for whose safety Daryl wasn't quite sure still. The boy had a heart of gold, almost like Carl had before it got him killed, and had nearly gotten Henry killed.
Faint crunching, gravel underneath boots, sent Daryl scrambling for his knife, heart thundering in his ears as he slunk further into the shadows, Dog leaping to his feet, ears pricked. Connie appeared slowly around the corner, wavering a bit as she balanced on her toes to peak into the depths of the shadows created by the house. Daryl relaxed, Dog yawning and lying back down, tail wagging lazily. He shifted forwards so she could see him and waved a lazy hand, enjoying another one of her cheerful grins in response. She walked forward and sat down next to him, mimicking his stretched-out posture. The notebook was passed to him and he squinted to read it in the low light.
Can I hide here too?
"Yeah," Daryl said, raising his face towards her as he spoke, nodding slightly just in case the light affected her lip reading.
'Yes,' she mouthed, raising a fist, palm facing Daryl and thumb pressed against the side as she rocked it forwards and backwards, almost like a head nodding. Slowly, Daryl copied her, mouthing 'yes' as he did so. Two thumbs up and a grin, before she wriggled her shoulders, slumping a bit further down the wall.
Daryl looked down at his hand, dirty and scarred, nails bitten to the quick and torn. She was close enough to him, a burning strip of heat down his left side, but strangely comforting, as she watched the slow movement of the clouds ahead, a few stars peeking through. He gently bumped her shoulder with his, her head shifting to half rest on his shoulder, eyes locked on his mouth as she quirked an eyebrow in a silent question.
"Can you teach me? Sign language?"
His stomach twisted once more, fear and shame rushing back in. He could almost hear his Da's voice yelling, twisted whispers of idiot, stupid fuck, useless bastard echoing in his ears even now after all these years. Connie grinned and the whispers faded away, Daryl could feel himself relax even as he had been bracing himself for a punch that he knew would never, could never land now.
Yes, she signed before quickly scribbling something in her notebook, passing it to him as she chewed on the edge of the pencil, awaiting a response.
After breakfast tomorrow? We could eat together?
Yes, Daryl signed back, feeling somehow clumsy in the simple gesture.
Connie reached over, gently squeezing his hand before she moved to rest the other on his shoulder, using it to lever herself back up. Dog raised his head and she quickly scratched him behind the ears before turning to face Daryl, waving goodbye with both hands. Daryl watched her leave, rubbing his thumb up and down his curled knuckles where the pressure of her touch still lingered.
