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A moment.
She just needs a moment.
A few quiet seconds.
The walls around her are too thick, the atmosphere tense and stifling.
Suffocating.
Squinting into the darkness, ignoring the dull murmur of familiar voices behind her, Beth pushes herself against the heavy door, cringing a little as it gives and opens; the soft slam that reverberates behind her echoing in her head like the crack of a gunshot as she stumbles outside on shaky and weak legs. Sucking in the cool night air greedily, she staggers and feels her way around the tall brick building, almost collapsing into its shadows as she loses her balance and nearly falls to the ground. Her throat threatening to close in on her, tears pricking at her eyes, she places damp palms on her trembling upper thighs, bends over with a muffled sob, and struggles to breathe.
She's been experiencing these little episodes for a while now, since the moment she was reunited with her people, her family— heart racing fast, thoughts jumbled and loud, limbs shaky and limp.
Panic attack, she thinks dimly, somewhat dejectedly, and as she attempts to breathe in deep once again, the sounds of the night slowly come back to her—the hum of crickets, the whoosh of wind, the sway of trees—edging out the rushing roar of desperate voices and blood-soaked visions that had been swirling in and consuming her overtired brain; her brow furrowing together a little tighter with the reluctant and silent admission.
She knows she should be stronger.
Knows there's no time for self-pity, knows there's no use dwelling in the past and letting the darkness take over. She's completely aware that allowing herself these little breaks and lapses, however brief they are, is not only a danger to herself but to those around her.
She knows this, gets it, understands it.
Everyone has a job to do, everyone has their own weight to pull and she'll be damned if she doesn't pull hers, if she doesn't step up to the plate. Not after all she's been through, not after everything she's survived.
On her own.
And God, she doesn't know what the hell is wrong with her anyway—doesn't know why she keeps slipping up, allowing the nerves and anxiety to crush and overwhelm her.
She should be happy.
Her sister is alive; she's with the people she trusts.
She is happy.
But she's also different.
They're all different.
She feels so confused sometimes, so despairingly out of place.
So much has happened, so much has changed, so much has been lost.
And sometimes, stuck between mourning and elation…
She just can't breathe.
Straightening and brushing at the ever-present dirt on her pants, she shakes her head a little, clearing it of the dark images and frantic whispers as she absently pats the knife she wears at her side and looks past the alleyway she'd stumbled into, listening to the low moans of the walkers that lurk beyond the fences that protect their temporary home. It's only as she moves to make her way back towards the door—her sister will come looking soon— her eyes still brimming with the threat of tears and her mind still struggling to clear, that she realizes, too late, that she's not alone; a small little whimper of distress escaping her lips as she closes her hand around her knife and raises the blade, adrenaline gathering and rushing hot and fast inside of her as she prepares to strike.
"Put that down before you hurt someone girl."
It takes a moment for his low voice to register in her brain, takes a second longer for her eyes to focus on his dark figure; but when her vision suddenly sharpens and her mind clears, her grip loosens around her knife in immediate relief, even as her body unconsciously tenses and her breath hitches in embarrassed realization.
Daryl.
He's shuffling from foot to foot; gaze fixed on her intently, lips pressed into a thin firm line, hands—surprisingly free of any kind of weapon—clenched tightly at his side. She supposes that she should be grateful that he's the one to find her like this—a tearful, confused and jittery mess. Had it been anyone else, save for maybe Michonne, a slew of questions would have followed—her sister's prying eyes and the others curious stares would've only increased as their doubts in her abilities continued to grow. Dimly she wonders what exactly she has to do to prove to them that she's not weak, nowhere near the fragile little girl they still seem to believe her to be.
It's something that both exhausts and infuriates her.
Aside from a quick once over Daryl on the other hand barely pays her any attention, silence instead of inquiries blanketing them both as his focus is drawn away, his eyes averted towards the fences and his body turning from her ever so slightly—a dismissive gesture that she can't help but feel deep in her gut. And it's then, with his back towards her, and his discomfort at being near her so achingly obvious, that she feels something else bubbling up inside of her; her nerves fading to the background as her relief turns into frustration, her frustration threatening to boil over into rage.
Suddenly she doesn't feel so confused, so out of place and anxious.
Suddenly she feels livid.
Since the moment they'd found her, since the moment he'd found her, he's been keeping his distance, avoiding her at all costs while the others have very nearly been suffocating her to death. Turning his back on her when all she really wanted, needed, was someone to understand—not coddle and smother her, but to simply just be there for her.
Maybe it's foolish, selfish, and childish to want those things so badly, to seek them from him. But she can't bring herself to care, can't help but feel as if it's somewhat of a slap in the face—his obvious desire to pull away, to keep some space between them—after all they'd been through, after how far they'd come, before…
Well, just, before.
She doesn't like to think about that time, after the funeral home, when she'd been beyond despair; when nearly all her hope had been ripped from her and cruelly stomped out. During that time, immediately after, it wasn't her faith in humanity that had kept her going, wasn't her trust in others, wasn't some sort of unwavering optimism...but rather…
Him.
It was simple really.
She'd known, without a doubt, that regardless what happened to her, despite any situation that she might find herself in, he would survive, he would continue on.
He would live.
He was what she had needed to at least try to get back to.
It was enough to ease the pain and keep her going; knowing that a part of her family was okay and carrying on.
She feels foolish now standing before him, his eyes barely able to meet hers, his expression as blank and emotionless as ever.
And really, she's not entirely certain what she'd expected after being reunited with him. She'd spent so long trying to survive with nothing but the memory of his voice in her ear quietly encouraging her when she did something right and barking at her roughly to toughen up and move on anytime she fumbled and failed. Too many times she had imagined his unblinking stare deep in her mind's eye, shooting her that steely piercing look that just dared her to even think about throwing in the towel and giving up anytime it had felt like too damn much. It's hard for her to remember anything past their time together right after the prison and the image of him she had stubbornly held in her heart. But there's one thing she knows for certain, and it's that she sure as hell hadn't expected to be thrown all the way back to square one with him—a handful of words here and there, averted and uncomfortable gazes, and unfamiliar territory.
And fidgeting in the cool night air, the lingering effects of her panic attack fading away, and nothing but the sound of hungry walkers in the distance and memories of soft parlor songs, pig's feet, and slow tentative smiles flashing in her head, she feels something inside of her ache, burn, and grow.
She wants to lash out.
Wants to stomp her feet and cry foul.
Wants to shift the extra weight she's been carrying around onto someone else.
Wants to yell and scream and cause a goddamn ruckus just so she can feel something else, other than sadness, guilt, and despair.
Lord knows she needs to.
So she does.
"What the hell's your problem anyway?" Her voice sounds a bit shriller than normal, the tone more than a little accusing as she squares her shoulders and takes a step towards him; the clouds overhead moving slightly to reveal the moon's soft and pale light, the simple effect casting him in an eerie almost iridescent glow.
And watching as he cocks his head in her direction, his body turning ever so slightly and his hands flexing once, twice, near his side, she feels a tiny thrill of satisfaction at the blatant surprise that crosses his shadowed features—the way his mouth opens and then closes a bit as if he's momentarily at a loss for words—before his lips pull up into a tiny humorless smirk.
"Ain't the one out here crying Greene."
She can feel herself flush at his words, her free hand inadvertently rising to slap at the lingering wetness still pooled in her eyes as she puffs out a hot sigh of irritation and shifts her grip on her knife just a little—she swears to God she's not entertaining the thought of using it.
He's just trying to rile her up, trying to throw up that unwavering emotionless wall, get rid of her and run her off. She can see it in his suddenly provoking and defiant stance, the way he seems to be silently daring her to make a move. And it's because she's feeling vulnerable, angry, confused and maybe more than a little embarrassed that she accepts the unspoken challenge and takes another step in his direction, her mouth pulling back to bare teeth and forming into a slight sneer even as a small voice in her head tries to reason with her, claiming that maybe her anger is just slightly misdirected.
"Why are you even out here? What do you care anyway Daryl?"
Almost as soon as she spits out the curious words, a part of her can't help but truly wonder at the question, genuinely interested in what he's doing outside—if it bothers him to see her upset, if she should even care if it does or doesn't, if he had followed her or merely happened to stumble across her when coming out for a smoke. But before she can consider his somewhat rattling presence too closely, his shrug of indifference and tiny noncommittal grunt has her quickly shaking the thoughts away. His lack of concern plain as day as he turns his back towards her once again, muttering something about "not caring 'bout nothing and getting on inside'—the pain she feels in her chest at the gesture and curtly mumbled words just another ache that she attempts to ignore.
He's just the same old miserable son of a gun from before.
And she's suddenly so very, very tired.
Clenching her jaw, self-conscious, frustrated, and craving solitude once again, she makes a move to leave, her cheeks still burning hotly and a soft indignant "asshole" slipping past her lips as she goes to walk by him.
Her thoughts a jumbled mess, eyes cast down, she almost doesn't see him move.
The flash of his hand reaching out to grab her arm stops her in her tracks; his body twisting so that he's standing in front of her, taking her by surprise and causing her to drop her knife; the soft thud barely registering in her ears as she struggles to regain her balance. And as she stumbles to a halt, her mouth falling open slightly and her eyes widening fractionally, she wants to be annoyed with him; irritated that he even dare try to manhandle her, that he has the nerve to even think about touching her when for weeks he's been avoiding her like the damned plague. But she can't work up the exasperation, not with the way her skin is suddenly tingling and burning where his fingers are gripping her hard; not with the way the air suddenly seems thick and dry and sparking with something hot and tangible and raw, not when she can see his chest heaving slightly with each and every heavy breath he takes—his eyes dark and slanted, staring at her with heat and anger and something else she can't quite place.
And it's as she's staring back at him, her own breathing labored, and the warm stirrings of dawning realization beginning to grow and spread within her, that she feels her eyes widen, a voice of calm recognition sounding in her head as she considers his mood and attitude more thoroughly, more rationally.
Echoing pants of their heavy breathing lingering in the air, their bodies so close that she can feel the exchange of heat between them, she swallows hard, holds his stare and allows herself to consider…
She thinks back to when he had finally found her, how he had seemed to move towards her almost unconsciously, his hands rising and then falling back to his sides before stepping away and letting the others embrace her. Recalls how whenever she's slated to go on a run, she almost always seems to end up in his group, under his watch, regardless of the task. Considers how while keeping his distance she can't help but feel as if someone's always looking out for her, the constant presence of vigilant eyes prickling across her skin. Contemplates the fact that out of all people to find her outside, in the midst of a panic attack, it was him; quietly standing in the shadows, watching her at her worst.
She remembers those last few moments at the funeral parlor before she'd been taken away from him—locked eyes, heavy questions, and quiet admissions.
And it hits her in a flash of stupidly misread signs and poorly timed moments.
Suppressed emotions boiling to the surface, surprising acceptance slowly sinking in, she allows herself a moment to finally, finally break.
"Oh." She whispers it softly, deliberately, watching as his eyes widen and round, feels the way he stiffens and tenses, hears the quiet almost violent curse under his breath, before he pushes her away from him; her feet shuffling backwards awkwardly, her limbs heavy and shaky for reasons that have nothing to do with anxiety and nerves, but too much feeling and heavy crushing emotion—her throat raw and narrowed, her skin sensitive and humming, her head tight and pounding.
And although she's reeling a bit, unable to sort out her inner turmoil just yet, she doesn't give him the chance to walk away from her, doesn't let him get too far before she gets right back in his face, grabs his arm much like he had grabbed hers—her fingers barely able to get a grip on the sweat soaked muscle—and secretly thrills in the silent struggle that ensues between them. She knows that she's no match for his strength but she'll be damned if she allows him to beat her in a battle of wills.
Not when she's on the cusp of understanding.
Quiet rage practically radiating off of him in near visible waves, he rips his arm away from her, nearly sending her flying backwards as he grounds out a low and gruff warning; but not one to scare easily, especially when it comes to him—she's fully aware Daryl Dixon's bark is worse than his bite—she grabs him right back refusing to back down. And she wonders at it for a moment, his near violent explosion of irritation and exasperation, curious if it's just as misplaced as hers was only moments ago. Fear and anger so closely parallel each other sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. But as she fights with him, her fingers refusing to loosen their grip and their gazes holding—his flashing hot and damning, hers threatening to blur and waver—she considers if perhaps she's looking into the eyes of a very frightened, very broken, very confused and lost soul.
It'd make for two of them.
And because she's still not sure how to place her own feelings, how to sort out her thoughts, how to pinpoint exactly why it is that his indifference has nearly sliced her up inside and left her for dead, she doesn't allow herself to think her actions through, merely acts on impulse and emotion and her own simmering pent-up frustrations. Using every ounce of strength she has, she drops his arm, grabs a fistful of his shirt and fights to pull him towards her; his surprise clearly giving her the upper-hand as she surges forward all at once and crashes her body and lips to his in a move that has him going utterly still against her—her brain screaming, both cheering cries and protesting shouts, as the air leaves her lungs completely.
For a moment the whole world dims out around her.
There's no panic.
No fear.
No confusion.
No right.
No wrong.
For one brief thrilling moment all she can truly make out is the feel of her lips on his, the taste of cigarettes, squirrel and canned peaches; the way his body, solid and warm, feels pressed against hers; the way his hands move at his sides, hovering just above her hips; the low guttural sound he makes deep in his throat; the way her skin sparks and her insides warm; how she suddenly feels as if she's about to really and truly live.
But like most things in the dark and godforsaken world they live in, the thrill is all too fleeting and before she can well and truly even appreciate her actions—the fact that she could feel his lips just begin to give and move against her unyielding ministrations—he shoves her away from him, not hard enough to send her flying, but enough to jar her no less.
And slowly the world shifts back into place.
Doubt, worry, and uncertainty, threatening to flood her.
Staring at him, her eyes big and watery and her breathing slow and ragged, she watches as emotions, so many emotions, too many emotions, play across his darkened features—regret, sorrow, guilt, want—his nostrils flaring, and the back of his hand coming up to roughly wipe at his mouth as they stand in still and deafening silence underneath the watchful eye of the moon.
A blush begins to creep up her neck, the telltale burn against her skin begging her to look away, to run as fast as she can as confusion begins to cloud her mind once again, a tiny voice growing louder in her ear, scolding her for her stupid, stupid impulses.
She's about to turn away, mumble some excuse, maybe go and have herself a good long cry, damn him to the deepest corners of hell, say a prayer after for being so awful, but her disappointment drenched anxiety is short lived.
Once again he takes her by surprise and she barely sees him move, only feels herself being pushed backwards, can hardly choke out a breath before she feels the scratch of brick rammed against her back as his lips smash against hers in an act that is as angry and defiant as it is raw, desperate, and needy.
It's not nice, not sweet, and gentle and clean.
It's messy and sloppy and awkward and harsh.
Too much.
Not enough.
Their teeth clatter against each other noisily, as their lips, chapped and dry from too much sun, move together frantically. Uncertain hands wander and roam, squeezing just a little too hard where they come to a stop—she'll have bruises on her pale skin and a darker part of her revels at the thought, reminding her to admire them in the morning. She can feel him, all of him, pressed against her, pushing her into the wall at her back, and it's almost unbearable, the sensations that he's forcing upon her, the way her mind tries and fails to keep up.
Daryl.
The man who made her stronger and kept her alive.
And oh Lord, with that simple thought alone she wants more.
She wants to throw caution to the wind and take and take and take.
Her hands develop a mind of their own, fisting in his shirt and bunching it together before moving to pull him closer. She can't get enough, isn't sure she'll ever be able to get enough; and when he crudely rocks against her, sending every nerve in her body crying out, she can't help the gasping moan that escapes her, the tiny sound giving him the perfect opening to deepen the kiss, the feel of his tongue sliding against hers causing her to momentarily forget where they are as her hands drift down his back, fumbling to yank his shirt up, needing to feel his skin against hers.
She feels desperate and reckless.
Free.
It's only as her fingers brush over knotted and raised skin—skin that she knows is rough and pink and torn from a life too harshly lived— that she feels him still abruptly, his lips suddenly dragging away from hers with a grunt as her hands slow and pause and then halt in their actions completely—her shoulders tightening, her eyes snapping open. Tension rippling between them, their breathing mixes and mingles together heavily as their eyes find each other slowly. A heartbeat passes and then another, and another still, before the sound of a low hungry moan draws his head snapping up towards the fences, his body pushing away from hers—a little more gently this time—as he mutters a soft "sonuva bitch" under his breath and runs a hand through greasy and tangled hair.
Feeling a rush of cool air wash over her as everything around her comes spiraling back into focus and his warmth leaves her abruptly, she shakily tilts her head up towards the sky, focusing on the smattering of twinkling stars above her as she attempts to steady herself for a moment—she just needs one moment—her pulse still racing rapidly, her thoughts a whirling and chaotic mess. Sucking in a deep breath, she fold her hands together, locking them tightly in an attempt to keep them from trembling, before chancing a quick and tentative glance in his direction. A good distance of space between them, she sees that he's staring at her unblinkingly, as if he's perplexed by her very existence, his spine ramrod straight and fists clenched together so tightly the knuckles have gone white. The shadows of the night darkening most of his features, she can't quite make out the look in his eyes, can't really see past the sudden wall of impassiveness he's clearly struggling to keep in place as his features straighten themselves into an expressionless slate of unyielding hardness.
She knows what's going to come next.
She can practically hear his gruff voice in her ears.
Careless actions, mistakes and regrets.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And frankly, adrenaline still flowing through her veins, enlightened realizations swirling in her chaotic brain, and her body still humming from where he'd touched her—her lips swollen from the bruising kiss, and her skin raw from his coarse and rough beard—she hasn't the time or the patience for it.
Not even a little.
But knowing the mental battering he's surely giving himself, aware of her own confusion, how she's just now starting to accept what she'd been so scared to embrace—even when he'd been her source of strength in her darkest of moments—she softens slightly; takes pity on him a little when he clears his throat, gnaws at his already bitten down thumbnail, and looks away as if the very sight of her reminds him of what they'd been doing just seconds earlier—a deep pressure slowly mounting inside of her and her legs clenching together at the thought.
And even though her heart feels as if it could pound its way right out of her chest, and she swears on all that is holy that the blush in her cheeks will never cool and fade, feeling just a little calmer and somewhat more rational she decides to give him a slight break.
"Okay. Okay...I'm...I'm gonna let you run." she says it softly, barely more than a hushed whisper; her tone raspy, her throat dry and tight as she raises a cool hand to her flushed cheeks and presses down lightly, attempting to gather her wits while trying to figure out just what to say.
And good God what a task.
Daryl Dixon.
She just threw herself at Daryl Dixon.
And he'd thrown himself right back.
And it had felt good.
Damn good.
Sighing softly, clinging to the feeling of warmth, of rightness, building inside of her, she watches as his head snaps up at the quiet sound, his eyes, bright and intense finding hers before looking away fast.
And that too she gives him.
"I don't know exactly what you're feeling right now. Got a lot to sort out in my own head. But—but I know you've been pushing me away because...because well...I think you feel guilty." she watches him tense at that, her stomach coiling and tightening at the way she can physically see that she's hit a nerve, the line in his shoulders so tight she wonders that he doesn't snap and break.
Guilt.
They'll deal with that in time.
"And I know you're afraid." she breathes the next statement out, her voice betraying her and going shaky; and with the way his mouth opens at that—the scowl that crosses his features, dark and annoyed—she knows that he's fixing to argue with her. But the stern look she gives him, the way she straightens herself against the brick and lifts her chin defiantly, causes him to snap it right back shut once again; his feet shuffling awkwardly in the dirt, yet another curse muttered under his breath. And she's surprised in that moment, by—while nearly scared out of her mind—how sure she suddenly feels; her uncertainty, while still there, right around the edges of her thoughts, is slowly starting to melt away. "And it's okay." she continues just as quietly, her raspy tone taking on a gentler, slightly sympathetic note. "It's okay...so I'm gonna let you go right now because I know you have a lot to work out in your head...I think we both do." Breathing in deep she pushes away from the wall—her legs only slightly rubbery, her hands just barely shaking. "But Daryl..."
He looks up as she says his name quietly, earnestly; and the utter mess of emotions in his eyes almost breaks her.
"You just better hope that you don't take too long to figure it all out. In a world like this, things don't stick around forever."
She's not sure if it's a low blow, reminding him that things don't always last; her own mind reeling backwards to a night not so very long ago when the beginnings of tentative happiness had been ripped away, darkness and despair and hopelessness thrust in it's place. But she wants to rattle him a little, wants to make sure his eyes are good and open before he even thinks about closing himself up and shutting her out again.
She deserves more.
They both do.
And feeling both justified and confident in her words, even though she had claimed that he could go, that he could run from her and figure out his own thoughts, deal with whatever internal battle is taking place inside of him; not knowing what else to do or say, afraid she might go back on her word and fight to seek comfort in his arms once again—it's been so long since she'd felt so warm and safe and secure—it's her, not him that breaks the moment. Bending over she grabs her fallen knife from the ground; and ignoring the way her stomach jumps a little and her breathing becomes just a bit too shallow, she moves to brush past him; but not before being sure to hold his stare one last time, not before she's certain that he can see every single emotion that she feels churning inside of her and shining in her gaze—fear, need, gratitude, longing, want.
And as she walks away, hearing the telltale signs of him fidgeting and shuffling behind her (she can almost picture him, biting on that damn thumbnail and shifting on his feet) before he takes off in the opposite direction, she closes her eyes for a moment, appreciating the way everything inside of her head has calmed and quieted. The confusion and pain from her panic attack, from her frustrated anger at him, a distant memory, a slowly healing wound, as new, more welcome, more transparent emotions slowly slide into place.
Glancing up at the moon, the hum of the crickets growing louder, the sound of walkers disturbingly familiar, she breathes in deeply, reveling in the feeling that after so much ambiguity and hurt she finally, finally feels one step closer to peace.
End.