The rain stings her bare skin as she shivers in her dress, her once perfect curls now drenched. He's equally soaked; white dress shirt clinging to his muscles, hair hanging over his eyes.
But that's nothing new.
"What do you want, Daryl?" she cries, exasperated, feeling her anger, her frustration wash away, replaced instead with exhaustion.
This is the same dance to the same tune. The same question she's been asking him, asking herself, for months.
"You know what I want," he growls and she sighs, stamping her foot, water splashing up her calves.
"That's not an answer!"
"How about," he takes a step closer, "you tell me what you want?"
For once, she's the one standing there silent.
.
.
.
.
"What do you want Beth?"
"Huh?"
"God, Beth," Maggie rolls her eyes, "where are you this time?"
"I'm sorry, I just – "
"Zoned out," Maggie interrupts, "again."
Again. She flinches a little at the accusation. Okay, so she's a bit of a dreamer. This isn't new. Always with her head in a book, or a guitar in her hand. Always in her own little world.
Much to the endless frustration of everyone around her.
"I was asking you what you wanted to do for your birthday."
Oh. That.
"I don't care."
She winces as soon as she says it. She didn't mean for it to come out that flippant.
"Seriously?" Maggie frowns, "you don't care?"
This is likely a test. One Beth already knows she's going to fail.
"No?"
"Is that a question?"
"No?"
"So you don't want to spend it watching terrible Pride and Prejudice remakes?"
Oh god.
"No?"
"Well then," Maggie grins smugly, "guess we're going out."
Definitely failed.
.
.
.
.
Beth started working at the bookstore right out of college. There aren't a lot of jobs specific to a music major (with an English minor), and the local record store closed down when she was back in high school. So this was one of her better options.
She doesn't hate it. It's only part time, and she teaches piano on the side. And she gets to live with Maggie, which is great.
Because Maggie has her own life, her own career, her own friends. And she doesn't care that when she's getting ready for a night out, Beth's likely getting ready for a night in. Just like she doesn't care about her Austen obsession, or all the period dramas she's made her sit through. Or how she's still figuring her life out.
One day you'll know.
Know what?
What you want.
For Beth, that day can't come soon enough.
.
.
.
.
The club is very loud.
To be expected, really.
Her dress is too short, too tight, too everything that isn't her and she can't stop tugging at the hem. She feels so out of her comfort zone that she wants to bolt, but Maggie's gone to a lot of effort, got them a booth so she could sit down, and even turned a blind eye when she shoved a book in her clutch.
(It's too dark to read anyway.)
The drink Maggie ordered her is sweet, easy to drink, and very alcoholic. Maggie's already on the dance floor, wrapped around some poor soul who doesn't know what he's in for. She catches her eye and Beth flashes her a forced smile.
A mistake, it seems. Suddenly Maggie is heading towards her, dragging her new friend behind her.
"Beth, this is Glenn," she shouts over the music, "Glenn, this is my sister Beth."
"Hey!" Glenn yells.
"Glenn can get us into the VIP section," Maggie grabs her by the hand, dragging her out of the booth, "don't worry, you can sit down and stuff."
She lets Maggie drag her towards the velvet rope, which parts when Glenn gives the bouncer a nod.
"We're celebrating," Glenn explains, "my client just won his third televised fight in a row."
When she sees him, she both does and doesn't recognise him.
It doesn't matter though. It's that moment exactly when someone crashes into her and she goes stumbling in his direction.
.
.
.
.
As a fan of romantic literature, she is, naturally, all about the meet-cute trope. Bumping into each other in a spectacularly romantic fashion, falling into one another's arms. It's the stuff that makes her heart skip a beat.
This is not something she has ever wished for in real life.
He must have the reflexes of a cat, this man, who jumps to his feet, catching her and steadying her in his arms. And she feels totally dazed, can barely mutter a thank you and instead grips onto his biceps for longer than what one might deem appropriate.
But, as Maggie would say, what is appropriate?
She feels herself blushing, cheeks growing hot, and Maggie glances over at that moment and frowns, suddenly concerned.
"Are you okay, Beth? I think my sister needs to sit down, she's looking rather flushed."
Mortified, is probably a better word, but the handsome stranger with the amazing arms leads her into the booth, sits beside her and requests a bottle of water from one of the wait staff.
"Alright?"
His voice is rough, hypnotic. Two syllables and she feels like she might be falling under his spell.
"Just fine," she tries to smile, but a pain shoots up her ankle, turning it into a grimace.
"You ain't," he frowns, and drops to his knees, grabbing her foot, gently rotating the ankle that's currently causing her anguish, "that hurt?"
"Uh huh," she nods, wincing, "what's the verdict?"
He smirks, running his hands up her leg, coming to rest on her knee.
"A sprain," he meets her eyes through his shaggy dark hair, "maybe heels aren't for you, girl."
"Beth," she bites her lip, so aware of his hand still on her knee, "my name's Beth."
"Daryl Dixon."
Fictional meet-cutes be damned.
.
.
.
.
Daryl Dixon, she discovers, after googling him on her phone during the Uber ride home, is a professional boxer.
He's on the older end of the age range, apparently getting his start late, but for the past five years he's been on the rise in the boxing world. Winning match after match, building an ever-growing fan base, and amassing an impressive collection of sponsors.
It makes her anxious. That and knowing he has her number in his phone.
(God knows what she'll do if he actually calls her.)
"I just wanted to stay home," she rests her head against a bookshelf, sighing audibly, "if I'd stayed home-"
"You wouldn't have a hot as fuck professional boxer itching to call you," Rosita, her colleague, interrupts, rolling her eyes, "who is rich to boot."
"That doesn't matter to me," Beth gives her a pointed look and Rosita holds up her hands in surrender.
"I know, I know. It's what's inside their hearts, not their wallets, that counts," Rosita rolls her eyes, "just promise that once you're married, you remember us folk down here in reality."
"Marriage, pffft!" Beth barks a laugh, "Like, he's probably not going to call me anyway."
"He's going to call you," Rosita smirks, "and if he doesn't then I'll finally read your beloved Pride and Prejudice."
.
.
.
.
He doesn't call.
Much to Rosita's chagrin, as she bombards her with snaps of her clearly not enjoying Austen's best known work.
Fuck, Marry, Kill: Darcy, Wickham, :. I would fuck the shit out of Wickham. Marry Bingley, because he's a rich fool. Kill Darcy. Kill him with fire.
Hmm, or maybe fuck Darcy and kill Wickham. Can I fuck them both?
Sidenote, do you want to hear my theory how Kris Jenner is basically Mrs Bennett? Thinking it might be a possible thesis topic?
Are you sure I can't just read the version with vampires in it?
Beth's a good friend. A great friend, and she proves it by letting Rosita off the hook, giving her the film adaptation to watch. The 2005 film version. Because she is a great friend.
Until the day he actually calls.
Then she is the worst.
.
.
.
.
So this is what a panic attack feels like. In line at the Apple Store, one hand grasping her broken phone, the other grasping what's left of her frazzled nerves.
Because Daryl Dixon did call.
And she flung her phone across the room in shock.
Maggie is berating her, shaking her head, even when they reach the counter.
"My sister broke her phone because a boy called her," she tells the technician who raises an eyebrow questioningly.
"This happen every time a boy calls?"
"No," Beth replies, a bit too defensively, "Maggie, I thought you said Tara wouldn't ask questions!"
The technician, 'Tara', smirks, and pulls out a few small tools.
"I told your sister I could swing you an appointment. Do you know how hard it is to get one at this kind of notice?" Tara pops the screen off, "At the very least you can tell me about this boy."
"He's not a boy," Beth mutters.
"Oh really," Tara leans over the counter, grinning suggestively.
"I think she means that he's all man," Maggie interrupts, chuckling, "like, Jesus Christ, his arms-"
"Maggie, please."
"So did he ask you out?" Tara asks, placing the new screen securely in position, carefully checking the alignment.
"Well," Beth takes a deep breath, "I didn't actually answer it."
"Oh man!" Tara laughs, "Maggie, your sister is a riot!"
"Yeah," Maggie sighs, rolling her eyes, "she's a regular Tina Fey."
.
.
.
.
Fuck Maggie.
No wait, that's too much. Too much.
Maggie is…
Maggie is…
Right.
Ugh.
"Hey, Daryl, it's Beth. From the club. Who you called. Returning your call..."
"Hi, Daryl? It's Beth. I'm so sorry I missed your call. I was having phone issues…"
"Hi Daryl, it's Beth. I freaked out and threw my phone against a brick wall and subsequently missed your call-"
"Hello?"
She nearly drops her phone. Doesn't, thankfully. Can't have a repeat of last time.
"Hi?"
"Beth?"
She looks down at her phone, her fingers, both of which have betrayed her and she's somehow ended up calling the man she probably had no intention of calling.
"You there?"
"Yeah!" she winces at how loud she sounds, "I mean, hi, I'm here. Did you, uh, hear much, from, uh, before?"
"Nothin'," his voice rumbles down the line, "glad you called, though."
"Yeah?" she feels stupid, and confused.
"Yeah. Thought I might have had to break my rule about chasing after girls who ain't interested."
"I'm interested," she blurts out, cursing inwardly at her lack of subtlety.
He chuckles.
"Good, that's real good. Can I take you out on Friday?"
She breathes. Focuses. Tries not to sound too eager, but eager enough. Tries to be cool girl Beth instead of nerdy, hopeless romantic Beth -
"Sure, that would be neat!"
- and fails.
"Yeah," oh god, she can hear the smirk in his voice, "neat. I'll call you later with the details."
"Okay," she replies, wishing this conversation to be over.
"So keep your phone away from brick walls, okay?"
I want to die.
.
.
.
.
She definitely wants to die.
What started off as dinner, which was nice enough, even if she did feel underdressed in a sundress and cowboy boots, has seemed to have turned into the most awkward nightclub experience ever.
Seriously.
She's never seen a man look so uncomfortable in his own environment. And as she sips on her diet coke (him, a beer), she wonders if maybe this was some advice gone awry. Maybe he asked someone where to take her and this was the answer he got so he went with it.
It wasn't like he knew her or anything. And he met her at a nightclub, didn't he?
"You want to get out of here?" she asks and he looks startled, not expecting that at all.
"Yeah?" he asks, and he almost sounds hopeful.
"Yeah."
He grabs her hand and practically drags her from the building. She laughs as they jog down the block, putting some distance between them and the headache inducing thrum of the club.
"Come on," she smiles, and this time she drags him to where she wants to go. Their destination being a second hand bookstore, which is always open late.
The bell chimes above their head and she breathes in deeply, savouring that old book smell that she has come to know and love.
He follows her as she walks amongst the tall and sprawling shelves. Past the new age section, past the self-help books. Past the extensive collection of fiction novels until they come to the back of the store.
"This is my favourite part," she giggles and he smirks.
Classics.
"You come here often, then?" he murmurs and she nods, eyes already scanning the shelves.
"Whenever I'm in the city," she replies, dragging her finger across the spines, pausing momentarily, before moving on again, "I work at a bookstore part time, but it's not like this."
"What else do you do?"
"I teach piano," she blushes, because here she is, working in retail and teaching children and he's regularly featured on ESPN.
"You should play me something sometime," he says quietly and her eyes light up and a smile stretches across her face.
"I'd like that."
She continues to peruse the shelves, lingering too long in the Austen section, even though she already has, like, ten different editions of Pride and Prejudice. She almost forgets he's there until he quietly clears his throat.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she blurts out, "I'm, like, always searching for a first edition Austen, which is ridiculous because they are so rare and so expensive, but a girl can dream, right?"
"You're not normal, are you?"
She should be offended. She should be indignant. But his question is so genuine, so honest, like he's just trying to figure her out and she keeps throwing him for a loop.
"Define normal?"
He kisses her instead.
.
.
.
.
His hands weave into her hair and the uneven spines and hard wooden shelves dig into her back. He has a leg between her thighs and there's a pressure – oh god is there a pressure. And she practically melts into the kiss – hands down, the best kiss of her life – whimpering desperately into his mouth.
And his arms…
"Beth? Earth to Beth?"
Her eyes snap open and she is met by the amused glance of her co-worker.
"Delivery. Again."
Giggling, she walks to the front of the store, Rosita in tow, eyes widening at the bouquet of flowers.
"For the record," Rosita rolls her eyes, "I feel like sending flowers every day kind of defeats the purpose of the three day rule."
"I don't think Daryl Dixon subscribes to the conventional rules of dating," she smirks, "but I'm not complaining."
"There was also a package that came with the flowers," Rosita points to the counter, "dare I ask what exactly happened on this date?"
"I took him to a bookshop," Beth shrugs, opening the box, "I mean, I suppose maybe it was a bit dorky but-"
She freezes, eyes glued to the contents of the package.
"But what?" Rosita rounds the corner, taking in Beth's frozen stance, "what's in the box, B?"
She peers over her shoulder and gasps.
"Holy fuck."
.
.
.
.
"Look, I don't know the rules here," Maggie shrugs, flicking through the racks, thrusting dresses in Beth's direction, "boy buys girl a rare and expensive book, boy invites girl to his exhibition match – I may be a wealth of knowledge, but these scenarios are not part of my repertoire. I mean, I'd suggest thanking him with sex, but aren't you an eight and a half date kind of girl?"
"I don't know what kind of girl I am," she replies, discarding some of the options, "I mean, when it's right, it's right."
"Cute," Maggie teases lightly, "but seriously, Beth, I don't know what to do here. I've got nothing."
"You know more than me," Beth sighs, holding up a dress, "I mean, this is our second date. But it's not even a date. It's him fighting some guy and me watching him do that."
"And after?"
"Some club appearance," she shakes her head, "which I opted out of."
Maggie gives her a look.
"You know it's not my scene. He understands."
"It's just," Maggie sighs, "don't be a Jane Bennett, okay?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, don't play it so casually that he backs off because he thinks you're not interested."
Beth nods because Maggie is right. Because she pulls away when she feels she's coming off too interested and that's usually the end. Most guys know better than to chase after a woman who is clearly not into it.
"He clearly likes you, Bethy," Maggie softens, "just enjoy it."
Yeah, enjoy it.
.
.
.
.
His 'team' consist of a coach, a trainer, a promoter, an agent, and a manager.
And his brother.
And they're present at every single match.
She's finding it hard to comprehend the difference in roles. Dale and Tyreese, his coach and trainer respectively, work together in perfect harmony. His promoter Glenn, agent Aaron, and manager Carol are opposing forces, hurtling towards one main goal.
The best interests of their friend and client.
And then there's the brother.
Merle.
He calls her 'Princess Peach' and she's uncertain if it's an insult or a pet name. She's uncertain about a lot of the things he does and she thinks that maybe makes him dangerous.
Especially after his confrontation with the Martinez camp. Which has left everyone scrambling.
"This was a damn exhibition match!" Dale curses, shaking his head, "Not a turf war!"
"Well, now there's a bidding war over the hosting rights," Aaron shakes his head, "I've got at least five offers right now, and Martinez's team are on my case to accept one."
"My phone is blowing up here," Glenn complains, "the sponsors are going crazy over this. Seriously, someone needs to control Merle Dixon."
Four pairs of eyes fall on Carol.
"I don't know what you think I can do," she crosses her arms, "or what kind of sway I hold here. Maybe it's a good thing. He was going to have to fight Martinez sooner or later."
The door swings open and the room quietens. Daryl storms in, his brother on his heels, both of them looking equally pissed. At each other.
Daryl's just gone five rounds with his opponent and he looks like he's gearing up for another five with his brother.
"You don't get to make these calls," Daryl growls and Beth flinches at his tone, "you don't get to involve yourself in my business."
"Woo, baby brother!" Merle laughs, "You think that you can call the shots? Think because you surrounded yourself with a bunch of 'yes men' that you know shit about this world?"
"Fuck this!" Daryl shouts, "And fuck your club appearance, too! Come on, Beth."
She jumps; surprised he still remembers she's in the room. He's already shrugging on his leather jacket and she stands gingerly, smoothing her dress, glancing around nervously.
"Hey! You can't cancel!"
He's already leading her out the door.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, stopping as they round the corner, "sorry you had to see that."
"Hey," she brushes his hair out of his face, wincing sightly at the angry bruises and red cuts adorning his skin, "are you okay?"
"Just want to get out of here," he murmurs, eyes meeting hers.
"Then let's go."
.
.
.
.
She takes him back to her place.
It's a bit of a drive and she knows he's tired, but it's all she can think of. He doesn't seem keen to go back to his penthouse – probably because his brother will be there, but when she leads him up the three floors to her apartment he perks up, suddenly wide awake.
"It's a mess," she blurts out, fumbling for her keys, "and really small. I, uh…"
She trails off, letting the door swing open and he enters first, glancing around her living room. She's got a grey couch and a blanket her mother crocheted for her and a flat screen television that used to belong to her brother. The coffee table is a mess of books and DVDs and sheet music and empty mugs.
"Bathroom is down the hall, second door on the right," she coughs nervously, "my room is at the end. Are you hungry?"
"Nah," he answers, looking around the space, "you said you play piano?"
"Oh!" she exclaims, "Yes! The spare room, I converted to a studio space, I'll show you."
She crosses the small space and leads him to the door on the left, revealing an upright piano, a small couch and a wall of books.
"What ya wanna to play me?" he collapses on the couch, stretching out on his back, arm resting on his forehead.
"Now?" she squeaks and he shrugs.
"Ain't no jukebox."
"Okay," she sits on the bench, lifting the lid, "okay."
When she's finished she turns around, nervous for his reaction. The way he's looking at her can only be described as awe.
.
.
.
.
His schedule is demanding and she can't drop her commitments for him. So they take what they can get, snatches here and there, an hour or two between shifts and training sessions. Mostly he makes the drive to hers, and they curl up on the couch and watch a movie. Or sometimes she plays for him and she swears she's never seen him look more at peace.
The first time she suggests she spend the weekend at his the night before a fight, he balks at the idea.
"You don't want to stay at my place, Beth."
"Didn't you say Merle's in Vegas?" she points out, "You'll have the place to yourself."
"My place ain't like yours," he notes and she wonders what he means by that. Until she sees it, that is.
She gathers there was an interior decorator hired at some stage. It's all black and chrome finishes and she equates it to a million dollar man cave.
And it's written across his face how much he actually hates it.
"Why?" she simply asks and he shrugs.
"Ain't I supposed to have this?"
It breaks her heart that he's worked himself to the bone to get to this point in his career, where the world is his for the taking, but his decisions aren't.
"What do you want?"
Daryl shrugs.
"No one's really asked me that before."
She bites her lip. Kicks her shoes off and stands before him, sock clad feet, wrapping her arms around his neck, stretching up on her toes.
"Well, I'm asking you now."
He shrugs, murmurs a quiet I dunno, and she rolls her eyes playfully.
"Don't, 'I dunno', me," she whispers, "what do you want, Daryl Dixon."
His eyes roam over her body and she shivers.
"Just you."
.
.
.
.
"You're gonna be late," she giggles, fighting back a moan. His head is obscured from view, the sheets tenting at her hips, his ministrations making her squirm with pleasure.
"Don't care," his reply is muffled, his mouth otherwise preoccupied, like he didn't drive her to dizzying new heights the night before.
Like he wasn't everything her novels promised.
"Good answer," she whimpers, breath hitching, hips threatening to buck against his mouth as he takes her between his teeth, draws out her release without showing any mercy. He slithers up her body, hair plastered to his forehead and he bats away her hand before she can return the favour.
"Nah, girl," he gives her a quick kiss, before licking his fingers clean, "it'll be good for the match."
"Channelling your sexual frustration into your fight," she giggles, "does it work?"
"You bet it does," he growls, nuzzling her neck playfully before rolling over, grabbing something from his nightstand.
"Here."
"Daryl," she breathes. It's long and rectangular and she has her suspicions, "you shouldn't have."
"I know we ain't official," he shrugs, "but you're my girl, so…"
Beth opens it the box and gasps. The bracelet is delicate and beautiful and blinding and she struggles to put her feelings into words.
"Oh my god," she breathes, "oh my god."
"Will you wear it, Beth?"
Of course. Like there's any doubt she would.
.
.
.
.
The first time she sees her photo plastered across the tabloids she's at the hair salon with her mother.
And she immediately starts choking on her latte.
Unfortunately she's not able to hide the magazine before her mother, naturally concerned, spots it.
"Oh my."
Oh my is an understatement. Oh my, is what women like her mother say when women like Maggie might opt for a holy fucking shit. But, regardless, the damage is done. And her mother is currently looking at a photo of her, wrapped around a pro-boxer slash her quasi-boyfriend as they exit a very popular Atlanta nightclub.
"He's famous, I gather?"
She clears her throat. The hairdresser pretends not to be paying attention, cutting her hair as if there isn't a big, juicy scene unfolding before her.
"He's um, an athlete."
Not a lie. Nope, not a lie at all.
"Bethy…"
"He's a boxer," she blurts out, "he's a professional boxer."
"And by professional..?"
"He made one point seven million from his last fight," Beth exhales heavily, playing with her hands, "he was the one that bought me the first edition Pride and Prejudice."
Her mother frowns.
"I knew you didn't just 'find it' at an estate sale."
She blushes. She hates lying to her family, but to her mother especially. The events of the last couple of years still weigh heavily on her and she long ago promised not to take for granted the time she has with her. And she feels like in a way, she's broken that promise.
"Did he also buy you that diamond bracelet I saw on your bathroom counter?"
The hairdresser's scissors clatter to the floor.
.
.
.
.
It becomes something of a ritual, Daryl presenting her with gifts before his fight.
Good luck charms for my good luck charm, he told her once and she giggled at how cheesy he could be when he wanted to.
She didn't laugh when he draped a very expensive necklace around her neck.
This time it's pearls, and she can't help but think that maybe there's some foresight on his part, the image of her sitting ringside, clutching them as he takes hit after hit. It's a bloody fight; his opponent is younger and faster. Cockier, too. But Daryl can take a punch as well as he can give one. And he can read an opponent like a book after going a couple of rounds.
So when he wins, she can finally breathe.
Merle slaps him on the back, always the first to jump in the ring after the final bell, to raise his brother's arm in victory. The redneck takes the ring again he yells out, but even Merle is hard to hear over the cheers of the crowd. His eyes meet hers and she smiles, mouthing a quick 'congratulations'. He never approaches her after a fight, reasons it's because he's covered in sweat and blood – not all of it his – and he doesn't want to dirty her up.
He's chivalrous, in his own way. Makes her swoon just as much as the gentlemen in her stories.
Maybe even more so.
She waits in the dressing room as he does his post-game interviews. They can go on for a while, depending on the opponent and the type of win. The tougher the match, the more questions he fields. His training team usually joins him, along with Merle.
And when they go 'public', she will too.
But they're not there yet. He doesn't want her to have to deal with that life yet. Paparazzi and rivalries, the boxing world in Atlanta isn't for the faint of heart and the spotlight that comes with it is harsh and unforgiving.
The door swings open and she jumps slightly at the surprise interruption.
"Dale," she breathes, clutching her chest, "I wasn't expecting anyone back for a while yet."
"I ducked out early," he chuckles, "I can only field so many questions about his exercise regime and diet."
Beth snorts.
"What diet?"
Dale smirks, taking a seat opposite her.
"Exactly."
He flicks his attention to the screen in the corner, the interview unfolding live before them. She has it on mute, has it like that because she still finds it weird, this version of the man so unlike the one she knows.
"They were asking about you," Dale tells her, smiling faintly, "should have seen how flustered he got."
She blushes and the older man chuckles.
"Yeah, a bit like that. Same way he got when he asked my Irma to help him pick out that pretty necklace you're wearing."
"Dale…"
"I know, I know," he waves her off, "you're not that kind of girl. But it's nice to see that boy spending money on more than just things his brother says he needs. He has five flat screen televisions that he doesn't even watch, you know?"
"I know," Beth giggles, "I had to show him how to turn on the blu-ray player."
"So if he wants to drop a few grand on a pretty, sweet girl, then good on him."
She catches herself playing with the necklace, and the coach gives her a knowing look.
"You're good for him, better than that brother of his. He's starting to fight with his heart instead of his anger. It takes some fighters years to work out that anger will only get you so far. You have to have something to fight for. Or, someone."
Someone like you.
Dale doesn't say it, but it's implied.
.
.
.
.
There are hotel rooms and limousines and private jets and luxuries she doesn't think she'll ever get used to.
Or him, for that matter.
"Gonna retire one day," he shrugs, "money ain't gonna last forever. Ya gonna live with me in a cabin in the woods?"
She's young. She's in love. She'll follow him anywhere.
"Who knows?" she hums, fumbling with the switches, raising the partition between them and the driver, "maybe I'll be a famous singer and you'll be following me around."
"You want that?" he asks, seriously, "Carol knows people in the music industry. Aaron too. They can make some calls."
Could it really be that easy? A few calls and, just like that, a record deal?
"Nah," she smiles, hand trailing down his chest, "that life's not for me."
There are penthouses and luxury cars and VIP sections and yet he'll opt for her tiny, shoebox apartment every time.
She would, too.
.
.
.
.
It's a rainy Tuesday, the day they go public.
An accident. Really. There's a reality starlet who's been dropping his name and in order to shake off the rumours he drops hers.
Just her first name. Beth who teaches piano. Yet the media have put two and two together, (probably with the help of an anonymous tip from an money hungry acquaintance), and they have the bookstore surrounded.
She's trapped.
"What do I do?" she hisses to Rosita, as she hides behind a bookshelf, "I can't even duck out the back because I'd still have to pass them to get to my car!"
"Call your boyfriend," Rosita suggests, "he'll know what to do."
"He'll freak out," Beth sighs, "do something stupid."
"Call his manager, then."
So she does. She calls Carol, anxious and panicky and the older woman responds calmly and evenly and takes down the address of the bookstore.
I'll send someone to pick you up – you said this place has a back entrance?
Beth waits by the recycling bins, staring at her phone every other minute, checking both the time and to see if Daryl's messaged. He hasn't, which is good because the last thing she wants is for him is to come speeding down here, and make a fragile situation even worse.
So when she hears the roar of a motorcycle, she's both confused and curious.
Surprised as well, when she discovers that it's Merle.
"Get on, Peach," he smirks, throwing her a helmet, "looks like ol' Merle Dixon has come to save the day."
She's never ridden a motorcycle before. Horses yes. A bicycle when she was a kid. But never a motorcycle. She wonders what Shawn would say, always teasing her how she was too scared to ride his dirt bike. She gingerly holds onto Merle's waist – who promptly grabs her hands and secures them more tightly – and he takes off through the alley, successfully avoiding the paparazzi.
Instead of taking her in the direction of her apartment, he heads towards the city. Doesn't stop until they're at Daryl's apartment and she shakily dismounts.
"You could have dropped me home," she points out and he shrugs.
"Carol's orders," he retorts, "and who am I to disobey her, Peach?"
"You disobey her all the time," Beth huffs under her breath and the older Dixon chuckles.
"Ya ain't wrong, but that don't mean I try to aggravate the woman. Would much rather be on her good side then her bad one."
Fine. Whatever. She spends the first half hour calling some of her students parents, cancelling lessons. Awkwardly avoids telling them the real reason (paparazzi stalking me, famous boyfriend, you know how it is), rather just blurts out a vague 'personal emergency'. When she's done, there's nothing else to do.
It's just her and Merle.
And she knows she has absolutely nothing in common with him, so rather than force small talk, she takes out her book.
"Jesus, Darylina's got some shit movies," Merle grumbles, "chick flick, chick flick – mini-series that's pretty much a chick flick-"
"They're actually my movies," Beth sighs, re-reading the same sentence over and over again, "if you don't mind."
"Well then, Princess," Merle laughs, "you've got shit movies."
"Have you actually seen any of these? Or did you go to film school when no one was watching so this is actually an educated critique?"
"Har har," Merle scoffs, "think you're funny, don't you Peach?"
"I think," Beth smiles, "that if you sat through one of these 'shit' movies, you'd actually like it."
"What are you willing to bet?"
"What do you want?"
Merle just grins.
.
.
.
.
"Wanna tell me again how you 'own' Merle's motorcycle?"
"Nope," Beth smirks, stroking the smooth leather, "I will say, however, that it had to do with zombies and corsets. And Jane Austen."
Daryl laughs, swinging his leg over the seat.
"He would like that," he smirks, "you gonna keep it?"
"Nah," Beth shakes her head, "unless you want it?"
"Can't," he dismounts smoothly, "ain't allowed to engage in reckless behaviour, it's in my contract."
"What else is in your contract?" she asks, leading him out of the parking garage, towards the elevator. He scans his key, hits the button for the penthouse and leans against the wall.
"No bungee jumping, no sky diving. Can't drink some brands of beer – sponsors," he informs her, predicting her question, "can't fly a plane."
"Don't know why you'd want to do any of those things," she steps close, standing between his legs.
"Can think of better things to do," he smirks, hand cupping her neck, tracing her collarbone only to pause at the top button on her blouse.
"Don't start something you aren't prepared to finish, Mister Dixon," Beth murmurs, biting her lip.
The elevator door slides open and in one swift move he throws her over her shoulder.
Her shrieks echo all the way to the bedroom.
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.
.
Aaron smiles at her sympathetically.
"It will be fine," he reassures her, "you remember what Eric told you?"
Eric being Aaron publicist boyfriend, who isn't actually employed by Daryl full time, but consults on occasion. This occasion being Beth's public debut.
It's a shit fight, Merle's words exactly. The opposition fights dirty and she flinches every time Daryl takes a hit. He's a tactical fighter; she has to remind herself of this, even though Dale is quick to tell her between rounds. She still has to fight the urge to squeeze her eyes shut and wait for it to be over. But she can't do that.
She's Daryl Dixon's girlfriend. And while his fighting skills are so clearly on display, now, so is she.
From her hair to her dress to the expensive jewellery Daryl gives her before every major fight.
"Calm and composed," she breathes out, "if you don't know an answer, deflect. You're a sweet girl from rural Georgia, you don't have anything to prove."
Daryl walks up behind her, his team already waiting to take the stage for the unavoidable media circus. He slips his hand into hers, and squeezes it gently.
"They'll love you," he whispers, "Just like I do."
She wants to vomit and cry and laugh.
This is the first time he's said those words.
Up on the stage, the flashing cameras are blinding. She hopes that she's smiling and not squinting, even though that seems to be Daryl's default expression at these sorts of things. They're shouting out questions before he's even sat down and Glenn is quick to get them under control.
There's a stream of questions about the fight, about his mind set, about the other opponent. They're trying to get a sound bite, something to cause headlines and twitter wars, but Daryl doesn't play those games. Fortunately for the media, Merle does, and does oh so well.
That's how he got them into the impending Martinez mess in the first place.
"Is this your lucky charm, Dixon? The reason you're on a hot streak?"
It's the first time they've spoken in reference to her and she feels herself blush and he covers her hand with his.
"Yeah," he looks her in the eye, "I'm lucky alright."
He's lying. He's gotta be.
How can he be the lucky one when it's so clear that she is?
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.
.
Two days later, she's the one doing the reassuring.
"It'll be fine," she strokes his thigh, voice calm and soothing, "my parents will love you."
He captures her hand in his, halting her movements.
"You know, you're much better at this than Eric was."
She smirks.
"I should certainly hope so."
She knows bits and pieces of his childhood. It's hard not to, when the scars of his youth are so publicly on display. An asshole of a father who beat him regularly and an alcoholic mother who died in a house fire when he was eight. Merle, more absent then present, determined to lead him astray. And she supposes he did; a decade spent following his brother across the country, cleaning up his messes and trying to keep him out of jail.
It was when he failed the latter that he found himself alone. And that led him to the inside of a boxing ring.
Still, she understands his nerves. Her mother knows bits and pieces and her father knows he exists, but not much else. A part of her wanted to hold off on the whole 'meet the parents' song and dance for a few more weeks, but that's the thing about going public. Everything feels like it's in fast forward. They're not going through the motions, but flying through them.
She'd be lying, however, if she said she wasn't nervous herself.
He pulls into the long driveway, parks where she directs. She gives him a moment to take it all in – funny how he doesn't blink twice at a fancy hotel, but seems all kinds of mesmerised by the sprawling white farm house. She grew up here. She was happy here.
Maybe that hurts in it's own kind of way.
Her mama and daddy meet them on the porch. A handshake for her father, flowers for her mama. Annette beams and gives her a knowing look, a look that says soon.
Oh yes, she's prepared for the third degree she'll undoubtedly get. Been practicing and everything with Maggie.
Annette gets her chance soon enough, when Hershel volunteers to give Daryl a tour of the farm. Hesitantly, he accepts, but Beth had warned him it was coming, and it was unavoidable. The famous HershelGreeneinterrogationtactics.
He always gets his answers.
"Oh Bethy," her mother sighs, passing her a bunch of carrots to peel, "he is very handsome."
"Yeah," Beth bites her lip, "I can't believe it sometimes, you know?"
Her mother frowns.
"Why? You're beautiful and smart and kind – seems believable to me."
Because she's not famous. Because she's not poised and glamorous. Because she's a dreamer with her head in the clouds…
"Enough," Annette places a hand atop hers, stills her peeling, "that young man wouldn't be getting the third degree from your father if he didn't care for you. If he didn't love you."
"Mama," she blushes and her mother laughs.
"You're happy," she smiles, "and that will always make me happy."
They resume their work, and she glances out the kitchen window. In the distance she can see Daryl and her father, walking towards the house. Can't hear their conversation, but as they come closer she can see her father's smile, and the moment when he claps Daryl on the back.
She finds herself smiling again.
.
.
.
.
She'll never get used to seeing herself in tabloids. Doesn't see why she should be the focus, but in this town, he's big news, and the more time she spends in Atlanta, the more she has to fend off photographers.
Daryl offers to hire her a bodyguard, but she argues that it's ridiculous, so he instead insists that she not to go out by herself.
So she hangs out with Eric a lot.
"Lunch is on me," he smirks, "I have my corporate card and I can just claim this as an expense. Client's girlfriend. PR thing."
"Ha," Beth chuckles, "so I'm good for more than just skipping work for shopping?"
"Oh, for sure," Eric grins, "you're so useful, B."
Beside her, a table of women are whispering, glancing at everything from her hair to her shoes to her shopping bags.
"You'll get used to it," Eric dismisses them, throwing them a pointed glare, "being a boxing WAG."
"Huh?"
"Wives and Girlfriends," he explains, "I mean, you're on full wife track. Have you and Daryl talked about it?"
"About marriage?" she sputters, the room feeling suddenly very small, "I mean, well, no?"
"Really?" Eric looks surprised, "I just thought, well, he buys you all this jewellery and, I mean, that Birkin bag – I just assumed that marriage was on the cards. I didn't realise it wasn't serious-"
"It is," Beth interrupts, "I mean, I'm serious. About Daryl. We just, haven't talked about the future."
"Sorry," Eric smiles sheepishly, "didn't mean to insinuate anything."
"It's okay."
(It's not okay.)
.
.
.
.
So here's the thing: it's in her head now.
The question. Their future.
"What do you want, Daryl?" she wraps her arm through his, glancing out the window of the plane.
Beside her, he shrugs.
"Right now? Maybe a BLT. Or In-N-Out."
"No," she smirks, "I mean, what do you want?"
"Is this a sex thing?" Merle yells out, "'cause I'm not gonna eavesdrop if it's not."
"Shut up, Merle!" Daryl yells, "Girl, what are you talking about?"
"I mean, from life, from me?" Beth implores, "What do you want?"
"I gotta want anything, girl?" he frowns, "I can't just be happy with what I have?"
That's not an answer, neither.
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.
.
.
The week before the fight there's a charity dinner for the local children's hospital. At Eric's suggestion, he buys a table.
"It's good publicity," Eric nods, "there's a lot of eyes on the lead up. Martinez is going to clubs and you're supporting the community. It's fight, but it's also a popularity contest."
Merle would have him right there in those clubs too. In fact, that weekend, he had a heap of lucrative offers.
But even Merle seems to back the dinner idea.
Only one seeming hesitant is Carol.
"Her kid was sick a few years back," Merle tells her the night before, while Daryl's gone to pick up their take out, "wasn't sure which way the chips would fall, but she pulled up good. Cancer free, Soph was – is – tough as hell. Carol doesn't like to talk about it though."
She can't fault the woman for not being keen on the event. She can't imagine the pain of almost losing your child. She understands that memories can hurt too.
(There was Shawn and there was an accident and there was…
No. Not today.)
In the end, though, there's a limousine pulling up to her house as she fights with her heels and tries desperately not to trip on the hem of her dress. Is fully prepared to rant on about how Austen's heroines never had this problem, but the car is empty.
And her phone is beeping.
Got caught up. Will meet u there.
Oh, okay.
He's busy. He's been training like crazy. She can't fault him for that.
But he just sent a car. Like an afterthought.
And it kind of doesn't sit right. Makes her feel sick in her stomach.
She has to navigate the ballroom by herself. And she can, that's not an issue. She's a grown woman and she can find her seat and sit down and ignore people staring at her. Can play Quiz Up on her phone too. Can distract herself as well as anyone else.
"Hey."
They all arrive at once and she imagines that they came together, squeezed into a limo and that funny feeling is back and she has to push it down, plaster on a smile.
"Been waitin' long?"
She shrugs, smile never faltering.
"It's fine."
Aaron and Eric not-so-subtly exchange a look.
Daryl frowns.
"Excuse me."
She makes a hasty escape to the bathroom.
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.
.
.
It takes her seven minutes to pull herself together.
Two minutes of breathing followed by a five-minute pep talk of how ridiculous she is being. He has a career defining fight in less than a week. He has other things on his mind.
She understands that. She respects that.
So when she returns to her table she meets their worried looks with a reassuring one. Smiles, makes up an excuse about a wardrobe malfunction, that no one probably believes but out of politeness accepts. Kisses Daryl on the cheek and tells him how handsome he looks in his suit.
Tries to act normal. Hopes she's not failing.
(She thinks she is.)
People are constantly coming over, wanting a photo with Daryl, quick word with Dale. Important people, and sometimes they talk to her and she is always smiling, always sweet and charming. Just like her mother raised her.
Maybe he picks up on her discomfort. Maybe Carol does. Either way, they end up in one limousine and the others in another. But he gets in one side and she the other and for the first time in their history, they don't meet in the middle.
"You wanna stay at mine?"
She turns from the window, previously distracting herself with the rain running down the glass. Still, she doesn't answer straight away. And he interprets that the only way he can.
"Or I can have the driver take ya home."
"Daryl…"
"Don't know what I did, Beth," he frowns, "I ain't good at this, but I'm pretty sure I ain't done nothin' to piss ya off."
"Daryl, it's nothing you've done…"
"Ya sure?" he's shaking his head, anger simmering below the surface, "'Cause you're certainly actin' like it. I mean, I treat ya good, I buy ya things, I take ya places! Ain't that what ya want?"
She feels the tears pricking behind her eyes. Feels them threatening to spill, but she won't do this, she won't cry in front of him.
"Pull over, please."
"What, girl, ya gonna walk home?" Daryl snaps, "don't be ridiculous."
She presses the intercom.
"Driver, please pull over!"
The car slows to a stop and she flings open the door. Not bearing any mind to traffic, she jumps out of the vehicle. The streets are quiet, a few cars here and there, and the rain is quickly soaking her dress, but she doesn't care. She can't breathe, she can't think.
She can't keep it together.
"Beth-"
"What do you want, Daryl?"
"You know what I want."
She wants to scream. Wants to push him. Wants to get up in his face. Wants him to take her seriously.
"That's not an answer!"
"How about," he takes a step closer, eyes dark, "you tell me what you want?"
That's it. Isn't it? What she wants. She reveals her dreams, her heart, her soul, and the world will right itself. Is that what he expects?
"That's the thing, Beth," he shakes his head, "you don't know what you want. Ain't no one gonna decide for you, girl. Not your mama or Maggie or me. What do you want?"
He pushes her towards the waiting car and she slides in, dress squelching against the leather seats.
"Go home. I'll walk."
He slams the door shut before she can even protest.
"Where to?" the driver asks and she gives him the address for the farm.
And sure, it's two hours away. And sure, it's a ridiculous request. And sure, she'll feel bad for waking up her parents.
But the moment she hurls herself into her mama's arms, it all seems very much worth it.
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.
A week passes.
He doesn't call. She doesn't go to the fight.
She finds out via Facebook that he lost.
And she knows it's all her fault.
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.
"That's a lot of boxes."
She glances up quickly, caught off guard. Her mother stands in her doorway, watching her as she stares at the bed, at all the gifts that Daryl had given her.
"How did you get in?" she asks.
"Maggie gave me a key," her mother raises her eyebrow, "you want to tell me why you look like you're doing some kind of insurance evaluation right now?"
"I have to give them back."
"Have you even talked to him?" Annette sighs, "I'm sure you two can still-"
"Kiss and make up?" Beth suggests, "He lost, mama. His reputation was on the line and he lost. Because of me."
"That's a bit presumptuous," her mother snorts, "ever thought maybe the other guy was just the better fighter on the day?"
"Mama," Beth whines, "can we not do this?"
"Do what?" Annette asks innocently, "I'm not doing anything!"
"Can I not just be sad?" she snaps, "Am I not entitled to that?"
"Of course, Bethy," her mama sighs, "of course you can be sad. But you need to remember you can feel happiness too. And you can feel lost. And you can feel love. Shawn died, but that doesn't mean you have to stop living. And he would not want to be an excuse as to why you are pulling away."
Silently, she sits on the edge of her bed, boxes sliding under the dip. Her mother joins her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
"I just wanted to talk about the future – our future," she sobs, "I wanted to know what he wanted. And then he wanted to know what I wanted."
"And what do you want?"
"I don't know, mama," she cries, "I don't think I've ever really known."
.
.
.
.
She gets his address from Eric.
Who may be the worst publicist ever, but oh well, she's grateful for that.
She places the jewellery and first edition Pride and Prejudice in the Birkin bag and makes the drive to his house.
Which is in the middle of nowhere.
She wasn't all too surprised when Eric told her that Daryl had gotten rid of the penthouse. Bought some place out in the woods, he waved dismissively, like the whole idea was madness.
Like some kind of recluse. Like he's chosen exile.
But Beth knows better. If Daryl's chosen anything, he's chosen peace.
It's not a shack, though, as much as he liked to say it would be. It's beautiful - all glass and wood, overlooking a lake. It looks spacious and, imagining him here by himself, it looks a little lonely.
With all the courage she can muster, she knocks on the door.
There's no answer. Of course there's no answer. Eric's probably led her on a wild goose chase and she totally deserves it because she was stupid and –
"Beth?"
She jumps and spins around. Daryl's behind her, his crossbow hanging from his shoulder and a confused expression on his face.
"What are you doin' here?"
"I, um, I…" she stutters, feeling awkward, feeling like this was a mistake, "I just…"
He sighs, gesturing towards the front door.
"Come in, Beth."
He opens the door, kicking off his boots and dumping his crossbow before venturing inside. She follows, tentatively, like she's not sure what to expect.
And she doesn't. Not at all. Because she's standing inside her dream house, because she's overwhelmed by how much this looks like everything she described.
High ceilings and wooden floors and natural light. A couch you can sink into and a piano that catches the last of the afternoon sun.
"Beth?"
He's standing there, waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to do anything.
Always waiting for her.
"This is yours," she blurts out, thrusting the bag out to him. He eyes it, unimpressed and folds his arms.
"Ain't got much use for a handbag," he frowns.
"You could sell it," she replies weakly, "Birkin bags appreciate in value."
"Don't need the money," he frowns, "did you really come here about the fucking bag, Beth?"
"Yes?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"No?"
With a sigh, he flops down on the couch.
"Just pick an answer, it ain't hard."
Oh, but it is. It is so hard and he has no idea.
"I'm sorry you lost the fight," she feels the words leave her mouth before she can stop them, "and I'm especially sorry in the part I played. In you losing."
"Why?" Daryl narrows his eyes, "Did you help Martinez develop a mean right hook?"
"I mean," she blushes, "if I distracted you in any way…"
"Beth," he stands, rubs a hand across his face, "ain't your fault I lost. And I don't really care that I lost. You're at the top until you're not, and havin' a target on your back ain't fun. So now I can take some time off. Refocus. Losing doesn't matter. Only thing that matters-"
He pauses abruptly, seemingly catching himself saying something revealing, but thinking better of it.
But she's read books. And she's seen movies. So she has her guesses.
"What matters?" she pries softly, "Please, Daryl, tell me."
"You know," he murmurs and god, she does know but she really, really, really needs to hear it.
"Don't 'you know' me," she whispers, taking a step closer, "please."
"Only thing that matters is I lost you."
She takes a step forward. And another. Until they're inches apart and all she needs to do is reach out to touch him. And she does, so carefully, so gently. Her hand on his cheek, fingertips barely brushing his skin, falling away to her side. He snatches her hand up in his, entwining their fingers until they lock.
Until they both can't let go.
(Won't let go.)
"You haven't lost me," she whispers, heart breaking, "you could never lose me."
"Stay," he whispers, lowering his forehead to hers, breaths shallow. Pained.
It's not a question that needs consideration.
"Okay."
.
.
.
.
It's funny, how after three hours in his house, it can feel so much like home.
His flannel shirts have always been the most comfortable piece of clothing in the world, so it's no surprise that she grabs a discarded one off the ground and shrugs it on over her naked skin. Slips on the panties he hasn't managed to destroy. Makes her way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Naturally, she gets distracted by the piano.
Daryl steps up behind her, arms curling around her waist. He nuzzles into her neck and she hums, angling away, granting him better access.
"This is beautiful," she sighs, running her hand across the baby grand, fingers itching to play, "may I?"
"Didn't buy it for me to play," he murmurs by way of answer and she freezes in her place.
"You, you bought this for me?" she stutters, turning in his arms, unsure, uncertain. He glances up at her beneath his hair, and shrugs.
"Bought this whole place for you. Bought it for us."
And god, if the whole thing doesn't make her feel a thousand times guiltier than she already does. Because every time she asked him about the future he wasn't just thinking of it, he was actively planning it.
And it well and truly included her.
"My brother died," she blurts out, "about a year and a half ago. It was sudden and it was…it was sudden. And I never wanted to be a musician, or a writer, but I studied the two because I enjoyed them. Which I realise is neither practical nor profitable, but I was encouraged to follow my passions. Just like Shawn with his art."
She shakes her head, blinking back tears.
"We were going to create a comic book. It was so stupid."
"Ain't stupid, girl," Daryl murmurs gruffly, "it's what you wanted to do."
"It doesn't matter," she sniffs, "because he's gone. And I don't know what to do with my life."
He's silent. So silent that it makes her nervous. Makes her feel like she's breathing too fast and her heart is going to explode in her chest.
"I didn't know what I wanted to do for thirty years," he shrugs, "don't know what I'm gonna do now. Who says you gotta know?"
"You won't care?" she asks, incredulously, "you won't care if I'm working part time at a bookstore and teaching little kids piano for the rest of my life."
"Don't care what you do," he looks her in the eyes, "only want you to be happy."
And god, does she believe him. Her Mama always told her that words can be cheap, but the eyes don't lie. And his are so full of hope, of sincerity. Of devotion and honesty and love.
So much love.
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Epilogue
OR, six months later…
Shawn's favourite move was Rocky. She was partial to it, liked the love story more than anything else, but if Shawn was watching it, and she wasn't busy, she'd sit down and watch it too.
If she learnt anything, it's that people love an underdog story.
And maybe that's what it is now: Dixon vs. Martinez, the rematch of the decade, one fighting for glory, the other for redemption.
He's in a good place. They're in a good place.
Mentally, emotionally, physically.
Definitely physically.
(Oh, how she shivers at the very thought.)
That's later. Much later. After the post-fight press conference and the obligatory nightclub appearance. That's later, when his hands start to wander in the limo and his lips are on her neck before they're safely in the hotel elevator.
Later, when her dress is in tatters and her lips are swollen and she's moaning his name.
This is now: a pretty dress, simple make up. Courteous. Welcoming. Soft. Warm. She's to take her seat soon. She's to cross her legs at the ankles and fold her hands in her lap and watch as the man she loves takes hit after hit after hit.
She's not to react.
"Hey."
As with his other fights, the others give them a moment. She bites her lip, scuffs her heel against the linoleum. Gives him a nervous smile.
"Last one, girl," he murmurs, "don't gotta worry much longer."
And this is it. His last fight, then retirement.
"Can't help it," she shrugs, "always gonna worry, ya know?"
Daryl chuckles, reaching behind her, to his duffle bag on the table. She follows his gaze, shifting her body and her focus, giggling as he crowds her in, placing a small box in front of her.
"For you," he kisses her neck, before taking a step back.
"Daryl," she giggles, her back still turned, fiddling with the clasp on the box, "you really shouldn't-"
It's a ring. A rose gold band and single, solitaire diamond. It's hypnotising. It's so beautifully simple. It's so her. It's so them.
"Daryl," she repeats, spinning around. He's on his knee before her, eyes fixed firmly on hers.
"Marry me, Beth," he says softly, "I ain't ever wanted much from life, but I ain't never wanted anything as much as I want you."
It's surreal, really, how in this moment, he's on his knees, heart on his sleeve, looking equal parts afraid and hopeful. And yet, he's minutes away from a career defining fight, where he'll get in that ring and become this intimidating force.
He's a contradiction, this man of hers. Yes, hers.
"Yes," she whispers, "yes, yes, yes."
He stands, taking the box from her hands, slipping the ring on her finger. Places a kiss on the knuckle. Presses his forehead to hers.
"I gotta get out there," she murmurs and he nods, pulling back, dropping her hand slowly.
"Guess I gotta, too."
In a matter of moments, she'll take her seat and he'll take to the ring. They'll slip into their roles. They'll count the minutes until it's over.
Win or lose, it doesn't matter. It's never mattered. Not to him, and certainly not to her.
All that matters is this.
.
.
(Oh, and he wins. For the record.
And they celebrate well into the early hours of the morning.)
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a/n: title taken from Battle Born by The Killers. It's been too long, folks, but I hope you enjoyed this little offering. xx