Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise. Any recognizable characters/locations from the series do not belong to me. Author's Note: So, after discovering the joy of Bethyl, I decided to try my hand at a fanfic of my own. I'm not sure yet if this will be a one-shot or not. I want to thank bethgreenesgirlgang (or Schwoozie) for her sage smut writing advice on Tumblr, as I've never written anything like this before. Also, this is unbetaed and while I've edited it myself over a dozen times, I'm sure I missed something. So, feel free to point out any mistakes you find. Enjoy!


"Maggie, will you just go already! I can close up for tonight, ok? I've watched you do it a hundred times. Everything will be fine!"

Maggie was still trepidatious about letting her eighteen year old sister close up the bar for her. She could only imagine what their daddy would say about the matter. Too much could go wrong, and it made no difference how responsible Beth was. But on the other hand poor Glenn was sore and bloody from the recent beating he'd taken, and Maggie knew he couldn't drive himself to the hospital in his condition. So, she let Beth talk her into leaving behind the key, despite her nagging uneasiness about doing so.

"Alright then, but you lock this door as soon as I'm gone!" she orders, helping her wobbly boyfriend to stand. "And you do not open it for anyone!"

Beth nods her head dutifully, and follows them to the front.

"Keep your phone on you at all times. I want you to call me when you're leaving and again to tell me you made it home safe." Keeping a tight hold of Glenn's arm, Maggie pauses at the door to glance back over her shoulder. "You've got your pepper spray, right?"

Beth refrains from rolling her eyes. Linden County isn't exactly a hotbed of dangerous or immoral activity. The fight Glenn had gotten into tonight was the first to take place in Hatlin's Bar in years, and it had been some redneck drifter to start it. Nevertheless, she nods reassuringly and shoos them away. She pointedly locks the door for Maggie's peace of mind, and watches Glenn be escorted to her sister's car.

Alone at last, Beth shrugs off her knitted grey cardigan and releases a heavy sigh. Though she feels bad for Glenn getting his ass kicked, there's a part of her equally thankful to finally be trusted alone like the adult she is. She knows Maggie means well, but Beth can't help but feel that her sister sometimes forgets that she no longer requires a babysitter. Truthfully, she'd been reluctant to come out tonight, but Maggie and Glenn had ganged up on her, insisting that she needed to have some "fun". Beth knows they were only trying to keep her occupied, so as to keep any more thin scars from being etched into her skin. But she's well past that now. Or at least she wants to be. It's particularly hard to put herself back together when everybody keeps treating her like some fragile china doll that will shatter again at any given moment.

She goes about the regular closing duties she'd helped her sister do many times before, finishing with mopping the floors. Typically closing up the bar isn't any grand task when everyone pitches in, but with Maggie gone and Carol taking off early to tend to her still healing wrist, it's a lot for Beth to handle on her own. Not that she particularly minds. She likes feeling useful. While she's technically underage, the owner Dale is a family friend, and has never objected when she hangs around to help out. In fact, he's often winked and given her money for the jukebox before leaving. Thinking of which, Beth had just the song in mind for tonight.

She turns off most of the lights, not wanting to draw attention to life still inside the bar at such a late hour. She had promised Maggie she'd be careful, after all. Wringing out the mop, Beth starts working her way across the room, her low ponytail swishing with each push of the mop. Preoccupied with what she's doing, she doesn't notice the intruder until they come face to face across the billiards table. She shrieks and drops the mop, which clatters to the floor noisily.

"Fuck, girl," he says in a gruff voice.

Though the dirty looking man is somewhat intimidating in his stature, he appears to be more startled than she is. In worn jeans, a flannel shirt and a leather biker's vest, he shifts from foot to foot uneasily. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands and he's peering at her with dark, wary eyes.

"How'd you get in?" she squeaks, inching backwards. "I locked the door."

He ignores her question. "Won't hurt you," he grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

It takes her a minute to recognize him. His shoulders are slumped and he ducks his head to avoid meeting her gaze directly, but she remembers his face from an hour ago when it was a wrathful shade of red. While he's considerably less angry now, and his stance isn't nearly as menacing, a part of her is still tempted to reach for her pepper spray. He moves behind the bar with slow, careful steps, conscious of her eyes on him.

"We're closed," she reminds him, assuming that a drink's what he's after.

"S'fine," he spits back. "Don't like the frou-frou piss y'all are selling anyway."

She puts her hands on her hips and frowns impatiently. "What d'you want then?"

"Chinaman took my keys." He chews his bottom lip while he searches.

"He's Korean," she corrects automatically.

He's pacing back and forth now, harried. "Whatever. You seen'em?"

"So, is that why you bashed his ribs in?"

He finally looks her in the eye, but it's only to glare at her with hostility. "Aint none of your concern."

Antagonizing the man she'd watched beat Glenn into a bloody pulp was probably unwise, but Beth hasn't the tolerance for him required in order to censor herself. She squares her shoulders and juts her chin out stubbornly. "If you want your keys, it is."

He barks at her then, almost making her jump. "Douchebag wouldn't get out of my face, that's why!"

"Like that's a reason to go beating the shit outta him? He was only trying to keep you from driving home drunk," she scolds, as if he were a child. "And now you break in, after sending him to the hospital, and start acting like a jackass! Didn't your mother teach you any better?"

By the time she runs out of steam, he's staring at her with a look in his eyes she doesn't quite know how to characterize. He's clearly not happy with her; his nostrils are flaring and he's gritting his teeth, but at the very least, she's pretty sure he's not going to fly off the handle again. This lack of response is pointed—he's not going to argue with her, but nor will he admit he was in the wrong. So, he becomes stagnant, and just keeps staring. She tries to meet his stormy gaze, but soon learns she's no match for him. His dark eyes don't just look at her, they look through her. She feels like she's being measured, sized up for something.

Ultimately blinking first, she casts her eyes to the floor, unnerved and annoyed as hell that he'd been able to crack her with such little effort. Why does it seem like everything is able to break her these days? Obviously, she's not just small and delicate solely in appearance. The world has deemed her a meek lamb, and that's exactly what she is—the proof's there on her wrist.

Her anger shifts, turning inwards at this loathsome truth. Her arms wrap around her middle in an unconscious effort to try and hold herself together, as she distractedly blinks back tears and swallows the lump forming in her throat. It would be beyond mortifying to start blubbering about her problems in front of this stranger who's still looking at her. Timid under his scrutiny, she bends over to pick up the mop and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she does so.

"Try looking in the tip jar," she suggests, her words weighed down by a tired sigh.

He finally looks away from her, and if possible, she feels ten pounds lighter. She lowers her head, pretending to concentrate on mopping, but her eyes discreetly follow his movement. He locates the tip jar hidden underneath the bar, which does indeed contain his keys, and fishes them out. She notices to his credit that he doesn't pocket any of Maggie's tips, but had he tried, it's not as if Beth could really stop him.

For a moment she debates talking him out of driving, but he doesn't seem drunk to her. Quite the opposite, he's entirely too sober seeming—despondent, even. Maybe Glenn doesn't recognize what despair looks like, but she does. She's seen it in the mirror more times than she would care to recall. He walks out from behind the bar, intending to leave without another word. Her stomach suddenly drops and it's a bewildering disappointment that prompts her to stop him.

"Um?" He halts, waiting for her speak, but doesn't turn to face her. Her question escapes her mouth as she exhales, making it sound breathy. "D'you maybe wanna talk about it?"

"What?"

"Whatever's put you in this charming mood?"

"Nah, thanks, I'm good." He makes to leave again, but before he can reach the door he hears her call out in a small voice.

"Please stay?"

He looks at her again with that powerful stare, and it makes her want to shrink back again. "Why?" he asks, just as confused by her request as she is.

She feels a flustered blush rising in her cheeks. "I don't need a chaperone or anything, but I would like some company."

That's only half of the truth, however. She specifically wants his company, strange as it may seem when only minutes ago she'd been anxious for him to leave. But now she's seeing him in a new light, as a lifeline instead of a nuisance. And unlike Maggie and Glenn, his presence isn't overbearing. Granted he doesn't say much or anything that could be construed as friendly, but from the way he's folded in on himself with that pensive look, she knows he's hurting too. He looks exactly on the outside how she's feeling on the inside, and for that reason there's an odd sort of comfort in his just being there.

Misery really does love company.

He nods only once, but his affirmation is distinct enough for relief to settle over her. He removes his leather vest and leaves it on a nearby table along with his keys. The guarded expression he's wearing makes Beth wonder if he isn't just as unsettled by her, as she is by him. This thought bolsters her confidence, and keeps her from recoiling when he draws closer. He gestures to the mop hesitantly, as if she's going to whack him with it. "Give it here."

Surprised by the offer, she hands it to him without pause, and watches him get to work. Uncertain of what else to do with herself, she digs around in her pocket for the money Dale left her and approaches the jukebox. "Mind if I play something?"

He grunts noncommittally, and she inserts her money into the slot. Pressing the correct buttons, the room soon fills with the warm, gritty sound of Tom Waits singing "Hold On"—a personal favourite of hers.

"What's this crap?" he asks, drawing her attention.

She smiles, startled but authentic, for what feels like the first time in days. "This is Tom Waits. Have a little respect!"

He snorts at this and goes back to where he's paused in his mopping, but she can see him fighting back the beginnings of a grin. Something inside her flip-flops and she forces herself to look away before he can catch her gawking. Toeing off her sneakers so as not to trek anything across the newly cleaned floor, she goes to wipe down the bar again just for the sake of keeping busy. She slowly sways side to side, her body naturally succumbing to the music. Every so often her eyes flit over to the man.

"You know, if you wanted to talk about what happened, I wouldn't mind," she says, when the silence between them inevitably becomes too stifling.

"There's nothing to tell," he says, shrugging.

She raises an eyebrow, dubiously. "Glenn's face says differently."

"You don't even know me, Tinkerbell," he reminds her brusquely.

She snorts at the nickname. "My name's Beth," she offers, wryly.

"Beth? Anyone ever tell you you're nosy?" he admonishes.

"Sorry," she says awkwardly and finishes wiping down the bar. "I was just thinking that there are only some things you can tell to a stranger."

"Why d'you care?"

She restlessly plays with the bar rag in her hands. "It might make you feel better."

He guffaws. "I doubt it."

She rolls her eyes and whips the rag down onto the bar, defeated. "Fine," she says. "You win."

Beth turns her back to him, feeling foolish for having bothered. Just because she sees something similar between them, doesn't mean they automatically have this epic bond. She follows his example and becomes quiet, abandoning the fanciful notion of camaraderie. She tries to lose herself in Tom Waits just as she's done a hundred times in the privacy of her bedroom, but the soapy water sloshing inside of the bucket distracts her. Unable to ignore him completely, she listens as he wrings out the excess water from the mop, letting the noise drown out the music for a moment.

He eventually huffs a frustrated sigh, seeming annoyed with her silence despite having all but asked for it. "My brother bailed on me today."

She whirls around to face him, so surprised when he speaks that it takes a second for his words to seep in. When they do, she's taken aback once more. She debates back and forth whether or not he would appreciate her saying something, but he unexpectedly keeps talking.

"Normally it aint such a big deal, but…today's the anniversary of my mom's death. Me and Merle was s'posed to visit her grave—or what would've been her grave if there'd been a body to bury."

"Oh." Her response is terribly feeble, but she honestly can't think of anything better to say. When Shaun had died and then her mom, all anybody could say in condolence was "I'm sorry". She'd heard it so many times that she'd come to hate the hollow, useless phrase. In fact, she refuses to repeat it to him now, even though its ironically the first thing that springs to mind.

He continues mopping, and ducks his head again to avoid any pitying looks she might send his way. "Whatever, I was just a kid when it happened."

"She was your mom." There's no pity in her expression, only empathy. "Mine only passed away last year and I don't think I'll ever be over it."

He says nothing, unsurprisingly, but his expression softens. She abandons the bar and moves to stand closer to him, though still distanced enough so he isn't made uncomfortable.

"How'd it happen?" he asks.

"Cancer. Yours?"

"Fire."

He finishes mopping and leaves it propped up against the nearby post. She watches him sit atop the pool table with agile grace. He's almost catlike; standoffish and watchful to the point of extremity, as if she'll trounce him if he takes his eyes off her for even a second. He has heavy bags under his eyes, suggesting a lifetime of weariness. He's unshaven, and his dark hair is unwashed and badly needs cut. Altogether, he's pretty grimy looking. Yet, he's possibly the most attractive man Beth's ever clapped eyes on, a fact she's all too aware of now that they're in close proximity. Without her consent, her eyes go to his mouth, admiring the way his lips form the few words he speaks—though she abruptly realizes she's not actually listening to him.

"What?"

He repeats himself, not showing whether he knows the direction of her thoughts or not. "How you feeling now?"

She realizes that he's been studying her too, and is now eying the scar on her wrist. She instinctively moves to hide it, but stops. He's not judging her, as far as she can tell. In fact, she would swear that there's a look of recognition on his face. The tone of the question seems to imply that he knows why she'd done it. As tough a man as he seems, he's no stranger to loss, which makes her wonder if he knows firsthand what it's like to be permanently marred by it—if he's scarred like she is.

"Right now, I'm pissed off more than anything." It's a little more honest than she intended to be, but she doesn't buy it back. She trusts that he'll understand. "At myself for having been such a coward. And at my family and the rest of the world for never letting me forget it."

The music's stopped she realizes, though she's not exactly sure how long ago the song ended. The quiet somehow makes her feel all the more vulnerable and thus her words become more significant, more secretive, when she softens her voice.

"And all I wanna do is forget." She steps closer to him and places a tentative hand on his knee, a pleading look in her eye. If he believes it's possible, then maybe she can too. "I wanna change, you know? Be someone else. Be better—stronger."

He considers her a moment, glancing down at her hand on his knee and then peering up at her from under his long eyelashes. "What if we can't?"

"You can. We both can. We've both gotta," she insists, because she's not the only one that needs to hear this now. "Cuz the hits won't stop coming…and I don't know about you I bruise like a peach."

He huffs a small laugh at the stupid joke, which in a peculiar way makes her feel a lot less silly for being so open.

"I'm sorry for laying all this on you," she says, fighting back the tears that are threatening to rise to the surface. She cries far too much these days as it is.

"There are some things you can only say to a stranger," he repeats.

"Well, thanks for listening, mystery man."

There's a pregnant pause before he speaks again, as if he's giving whatever he's about to say extra consideration. "Daryl," he introduces.

The upturn of her lips feels like the most natural thing in the world. "It's nice to meet you, Daryl."

She's still touching him, a fact they're both very conscious of. The tips of his ears are reddening, his hands twitch, and it's all too clear that he doesn't know how to react. She doesn't want to stop touching him, the physical connection stirs something inside her she thought long since gone—excitement. It's so faint that it's barely there at all, but after months of nothing, it's enough to remind her that she's not dead. But he's uncomfortable, and that's more important. She lightly squeezes his knee, ready to pull away when he places his own hand over hers, keeping it there.

"I liked that song," he admits, in a low voice.

It's a revelation, one that almost brings her to her knees. She's not alone. There is camaraderie between them.

She leans forward, not even realizing what she's doing until her lips touch his. She nearly gasps from the warmth that rapidly spreads throughout her body. The kiss itself is gentle, but by no means timid. She knows exactly what she's asking for with the soft brush of her lips, and that conviction must somehow inspire his own certainty, because he sparks to life. His whiskers rasp against her chin and his tongue slides against hers, tasting of smoke and alcohol. Her hands, one now braced against his shoulder and the other tangled in the ends of his hair, pull him closer to deepen the kiss. He groans low in his throat, and it rumbles through her, making her insides clench with anticipation. She loves that sound and the emboldening power it lends her. Digging her fingers into his shirt, she moves to stand between his legs.

She's never been kissed like this before—like a woman. Jimmy, bless his heart, had been a boy awkwardly fumbling through sex, and always touching her with unsure hands. She'd never felt inspired enough to take the lead with him, but with Daryl she doesn't seem to have the same problem. His hands run down her waist to grip her ass, and pull her forward so that she's pressed against him tightly. A small whimper escapes her and she's scrambling to lever herself up and press harder against his mouth. She doesn't know precisely how long they stay there, kissing with this level of urgency, but when he pulls away to pant harshly against her mouth, she knows it wasn't enough. He starts to nudge her backwards—so he can stand up she realizes, relieved. She doesn't want her moment with him to end quite yet, not when there's still so much to be shared.

When he's fully erect—no pun, intended—she lets him guide her up onto the edge of the pool table. His hooded eyes are heated, and the way he looks at her makes her burn. Beth may have been the one to start this, but Daryl is swiftly taking control of things. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and lightly brushes her nose along his jaw. Leaving soft kisses there, she memorizes his scent of motor oil, smoke and pine—all the things men like him should smell like, she supposes. Yet, when he lays her back on the green felt of the pool table, she can't help but think that "men like him" wouldn't know how to be so reverently gentle with a woman. She wonders if this impassioned tenderness is unique to only him.

Only Daryl.

Scooting back further along the tabletop, giving him room to awkwardly climb up and drape his weight across her, she watches his graceless movements with a growing fondness.

"What?" he says, seeing the amused look she's donned. He shifts away from where he'd been nibbling her ear in order to search her face.

Beth smothers a giggle, not wanting to chance offending him, and offers a coy smile. After a moment his brow unfurrows and he returns it shyly. The sadness that clouded his features earlier has slipped away, and this smile he wears—small as it is—emanates such sincerity that it tugs at her heartstrings. Daryl, in spite of his unrelenting stare, has never looked at her with pity or worry; to him she is fully formed and he wants what he sees. Another swell of longing for this man crashes over her, and biting her lip, she settles her hands determinedly on his hips. He lets her guide him until they're slotted intimately together, the hardness beneath his jeans pressing into her clothed heat. His lips find hers and she's caught up in another needy kiss.

She lifts her hips to follow his subtle rocking, and tears her mouth away from his to let out a startled moan at the delicious sensation it causes. He's back to chewing lightly on her earlobe, and it's all too much, but not quite enough and—oh God, she needs more. Her fingertips skim softly along the skin above the top of his jeans, and he inhales sharply through his nose when he realizes she's reaching for his belt. She undoes the buckle and his fly with deft, piano-playing fingers and then, feeling particularly daring, reaches her hand down under the waist band of his boxers to brush her fingers against his now straining cock. He breathlessly takes the Lord's name in vain and arches his back, pressing further into her grasp. His eyes are clenched shut and his face looks pained, as if she's using pleasure to torture him for information.

The wide solid expanse of his body is stretched out over her. She buries her face against his neck and presses wet, sticky kisses there. She feels his Adam's apple bob with each thick swallow, his burly shoulders shudder and his cock twitch with each light stroke she gives it. When her thumb grazes the tip, he grabs her wrist tightly, stopping her.

"Too much," he mumbles an unnecessary explanation. "It's been too long."

She nuzzles at his throat and withdraws her hand.

He doesn't hesitate to help her shed her green t-shirt. She wishes for a moment that she'd worn nicer underwear, but the plain, white cotton bra she's wearing doesn't appear to deter Daryl. He tugs the straps down her shoulders, kissing along her collarbone. She arches her back off the table so he can reach around and unhook the clasp. When she's finally free of it, his eyes devour her hungrily. His breath is hot and moist against her skin, and she shivers with anticipation. Her pink nipples are puckered and sensitive, waiting for some kind of attention. A tiny sigh escapes her as his rough palms brush across them when his large hands cup her small breasts.

Eventually his lips capture a nipple, and she's tangles her fingers in his hair, yanking in time with each swirl of his tongue. He switches between them, suckling at her breasts like he can't get enough of her taste. Her eyes flutter and her stomach clenches from the sensation of his scruff against her pale skin.

"Please," she begs, not quite sure what for. He seems to understand though, because he undoes her pants and slides them off, unhindered thanks to her lack of sneakers.

She loves his rough hands, the nails bitten down to nubs and his knuckles bloodied from his altercation with Glenn. They're the hands of a man, a labourer—nothing like Jimmy's, who has never seen a hard day's work in his life. Daryl's hand slips beneath her panties and strokes where she's hot and aching. He drags a fingertip against the hood of her clit a few times, and that's all it takes to make her dripping wet. She gnaws on her bottom lip, groaning when one of those thick fingers enters her. He spends the next few minutes leisurely fucking her, tweaking her clit every so often and grinding against her hip. Her head falls back and she stares helplessly up at the light fixture hanging above them. They're on top of the pool table, and it briefly occurs to her that they were on display for anyone who came walking in. She's no longer sure if she relocked the door after Daryl broke in, but she can't bring herself to really care. The outside world has no place between them now, not when his fingers are reaching deeper inside her, curling up perfectly—and she's just on the verge of cumming, at which point he withdraws carefully, leaving her a trembling mess.

"Oh, fuck!" she sobs, grasping at his biceps.

"Lift your hips," he instructs.

She braces her feet against the tabletop's green felt and does as she's told. She watches in rapt fascination as he slips her panties off, his hands brushing down her legs. When they're off, and she's lain back completely bare except for her socks, he meets her eye again. Something significant passes between them, but she couldn't put a name to it if she tried. His expression is clouded by something raw and fathomless. She wishes futilely that she could know what he was thinking in that exact moment, but in the span of seconds it's too late to ask because he's kissing her again. It's desperate and borders on violent, but she doesn't want to pull away. This is bliss—freedom. After everything with Shaun, her mother, Jimmy and her flirtation with suicide…she needs this, they both do; an escape from the shit storm.

He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, fishing out a condom. Glad at least one of them is thinking clearly, she watches him tear the foil wrapper open with his teeth. She eagerly helps him shove down his jeans and boxers, and then braces herself up on her elbows so that her sweaty chest is pressed against his still clothed one. He looks at her as he's rolls on the condom. She's never considered herself much to look at—Maggie had always been the prettier one—but his gaze is admiring, and it makes her heart soar.

"You done this before?" he asks, smoothing back sweaty strands of hair from her face.

She nods her head, and lightly scraping her nails along his sparse treasure trail, watching his belly tense. "It's a bit late to start reading the warning label, isn't it?"

Another smile pulls at his lips, and she feels thrilled by it once more. However, it disappears when she starts lifting his shirt. He yanks it back down anxiously, and Beth removes her hand, sensing his sudden discomfort. He hunches over then, his frame looming above her, and he teases her entrance with his cock, forcing a strangled whimper from her. Any curiosity regarding his reluctance to be shirtless goes flying out the proverbial window.

"You sassin' me, girl?" he growls in that deep timber of his, causing a fresh wave of arousal to flood her nethers.

Even delirious from lust, Beth manages to don smirk and raise a challenging eyebrow. "No, sir," she snarks.

He rests his forehead against her shoulder. "Smart ass," he huffs out against her flushed skin.

She takes a gasping breath when the tip of his cock enters her. He reaches around with the hand he'd used to guide himself in, and grabs a handful of her ass, pulling her closer to seat himself even deeper inside. Her cunt squeezes snugly around his length, wrenching an animalistic grunt from him.

The unrestrained pleasure she feels sends her reeling. The roof could have caved in and Beth isn't sure she would've noticed when he feels this good. Her back arches and her legs wind around his hips in a silent plea for him to keep going. She can't speak, can't beg him not to stop, and for an instant she even forgets how to breathe. She didn't know it could be like this—like having electricity coursing through her veins. She feels more alive with every firm thrust inside her—every sharp snap of his hips a summons to ecstasy. He moves a hand from where it's gripping her ass to rub at her clit with the pads of his fingers, coaxing her that much closer to climax. Her body jerks uncontrollably, and a needy, high-pitched whine is torn from her throat.

"Feel good?" he asks, amidst another beautiful ragged moan.

"Yeah, yes," she murmurs feverishly. The heels of her feet dig into him, spurring him on.

His thrusts quicken to a punishing pace, and she instinctually reaches down to clutch at his ass hard enough to leave bruises. His jeans are slipping further down his thighs, and his hair is hanging in his face. With the hand that's currently clutching at her breast, she reaches up to brush the lank strands away. Jaw clenched and brow creased, his earlier gentleness has diminished, and in its place is desperation for release—to feel the intensity of something other than the crushing loneliness this day has brought. She yanks him down and assaults him with a biting kiss.

The squelching sound of their coupling would be loud and obnoxious at any other time, but right now its music to her ears. He doesn't cease pounding into her as he shifts his weight onto his other knee, and that slightest change in angle has her keening. The pressure of his cock inside her, together with the stimulation on her clit, is driving her over the edge.

"I'm gonna…I'm close," she whispers urgently.

And God, he's fucking her faster—harder—and soon she's awash in the tremendous tide of bliss. She's seeing explosions of light, and her body's wracked with shudders. It's like every molecule of her body is being pulled apart then slammed back together in a glorious rebirth. Her jaw drops open but she's silent as she cums, scream caught in her throat, choking her. Her pleasure is tapers off as his is arrives; he pumps into her madly a few more times before he spills himself into the condom, grunting from exertion and release. She shuts her eyes, fighting back the hot tears she can feel gathering. It's overwhelming—the best she's felt in what seems like forever. When she's settling down from her magnificent high, she opens her eyes just in time to see the rapturous agony on his face be replaced with a look fleeting peace.

It's over all too soon. He pulls out of her, and she grimaces uncomfortably at the loss of him. This interlude was not born from love or the like, but its pleasurable end ushers in a sense of loss. He's removing the condom, tying it off and dropping it into one of the side pockets carelessly. With hurried movements, he pulls up his pants and redoes his fly. He appears almost panicked, and can't seem to get away from her fast enough. He finishes buckling up his belt and starts to climb down from the table. Knowing that as soon as his feet touch the floor, every harsh reality in her life will come flooding back, she almost stops him. But she's too late. She winces at how loud his boots seem to thud against the hardwood as he stands.

He pauses a moment, searching for something to say. He's yet to really look at her, and she tries very hard not to take it personally. She'd welcome that penetrating stare now, endure his gaze for however long, but his eyes still avoid her. She sits up and stretches her legs out in front of her, the muscles sore from having been so tensed during their coupling. His hands, the ones that had brought her so much pleasure only recently, clench and unclench nervously at his sides. Still unable to speak his mind, he turns and strides away, swiping up his keys as he goes.

"Daryl?"

He falters for but a moment, and continues out the door without even a parting glance. A split second passes after his exit, and she scrambles to get dressed before her humiliation can deepen.

In a fugue like state she empties out the bucket of water and puts away the mop, her clothes sticking to her sweaty skin. Just as she's about to flip the remaining lights off, she catches sight of it. His leather vest is still lying in a heap on one of the tables. Something selfish tells her to take it, and against her better judgment she does. The twinge between her legs will serve as reminder of what has transpired here for days to come, but it's not enough. There's no real harm in taking it, she reasons, locking up the bar. Daryl won't come looking for it unless he wants a run in with an irate Maggie.

It's a keepsake—nothing more.

Unless he does come back looking for it, in which case it's the perfect excuse to talk to him again.


Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought, so please leave a review. Constructive criticism is always welcome!