so this is a more thorough retelling of chapter four in this thing (archiveofourown dot org /works/1198071/), because it's gold and deserves a full-length fic (i do love when daryl becomes reckless and takes initiative for once). it's a longer version of the scene in cherokee rose, where rick tries to talk daryl out of looking for sophia by his lonesome, then picks up again at the end of chupacabra, after carol leaves his room.

title from the film the crow's loft. nothing belongs to me but the plot (what plot?).

"My point – it lets you off the hook. You don't owe us anything," he tells you, soft and sincere, wearing his nobility like the sheriff's badge he insists on pinning on even at the end of the world.

Part of you wants to turn heel and get away, leave him to organize his half-assed search parties and start really looking for Sophia. But the other part wins over, the part you've kept under lock and key for so long 'til now, the part that can't stand his swollen eyes, his mouth looking bitten and ready, uniform wrinkled and easy enough to tear off.

You say, pitching your voice lower than usual, "Damn right I don't," slant a sideways look at him. Even this far away you can hear his breath hitch and see his grip tighten on his hat and. Isn't that interesting.

"We should talk about that, I think." He puts his stupid hat on, the shadow of its brim cutting across his cheeks and the hotly excited sensation in your stomach expands, taking up all you know. You jerk your head to the side and start off to the nearest clearing, knowing that he'll follow.

The foliage is thick enough that you're out of sight from anyone, and you don't bother with niceties, just set your crossbow to the side and crowd him against a young beech tree. His hat gets knocked off and he looks so shocked, rendered immobile by the press of your body to his and you smirk. He could've fought you off by now, put you in a chokehold and hollered for his attack dog Walsh, but he hasn't.

Which means you made the right call.

You pull his shirt and undershirt out of his belt, skim your hand up his side and he lets out a strangled groan. He's holding on to you so tight you can feel him leaving fingerprints on your shoulders.

"Daryl, what are you doing," he breathes out, and you shrug, trace the supernova etched into his ribs with your thumb. "I don't know, why would you think I know."

You watch his throat as he swallows, tries to climb out of the ditch he's found himself lying in. "Look, I think you've misinterpreted the situation –"

"Oh, I think I got it pretty clear, Officer," you murmur. You hand goes to his already half-hard cock, kneads him through his pants and he moans, scrabbles weakly against your chest in more half-assed attempts to push you off.

You step back, just a little, and try not to caw in triumph when he gasps, "ohgodno –"

Immediately you slam him into the trunk, slide his fly down and he keeps whimpering into your neck fuck jesus fuck daryl what are you doing to me.

That shouldn't make your heart constrict as much as it does.

Five minutes later when he staggers away, looking back to see you humming and licking your combined spunk off your palm, he walks directly into a tree.

Your head still hurts so you can't quite go to sleep yet, but you're too tired to do anything else. You stay in the dark of the movie that rolls behind your eyelids, cursing yourself for letting Merle get under your skin even when he's not there, for trying so hard to find a little girl, for actually craving more of Rick than that snatched moment you had the day before.

It's gotten worse, you see. You thought you could fuck him out of his system, get over your odd curiosity and move along. But now you don't care that he's a married man, that his son is as bedridden as you are, that he has no idea his wife cheated on him with his best friend. You want to pry into him, pick him apart until he can match you for every hollow crevice in your soul.

"Daryl?"

Your eyes snap open too fast and it makes your brain slosh about, so you shift onto your back, moaning a little when it pulls at your stitches. And there he is, the man himself. He closes the door and circles your bed, standing over you with his hands stuck in his pockets like he doesn't trust them on his own. His face is all pinched and solemn, and you smirk up at the ceiling. "Well hey."

The bed dips as he sits down, and the pain in your head bucks like the mare that threw you off, leaving you nauseous and uneasy. You stare straight ahead and will it down, push the barbed wire back from the edges of your mind.

"Those scars," he begins, and of fucking course he'd noticed them earlier, who didn't. The pity in his eyes is more than you can stand. But then he backtracks, and you don't know if you should be grateful for that. "Look, about what happened the other day –"

"Weren't no random thing," you tell him, more honest than you've ever been all your life. Your left eye stings a bit when you flutter it closed and open, but you ignore it. "But it sure as hell weren't some love confession neither."

He blinks, a downcast shadow passing over his face for a second before it's wiped clean, a most curious thing. "Then what is it?" he asks, almost a complaint, like he needs to label his guilt before storing it in a mason jar to put away for good. His spine straightens as he turns around, drawing his shirt tight against his side, his perfect profile marred by a frown and there's desire like sand in the back of your throat.

You sit all the way up, push his shirt up his back and let your palm skate across all that skin, feel him jerk back against your hand. Your head's broken its orbit, long moments of pressing your mouth to random places until he gasps, stifles it with his knuckles.

"Got a head injury," you rumble into his ear, and he shudders hard. "Startin' somethin I can't finish." You drop your forehead against his shoulder, trying to get the light exploding behind your eyes to disappear.

He blows out a groaning half-laugh, and you feel him nodding, his hair brushing your nose. With tremendous effort you peel yourself off him, fall back on the bed. Your wounds flare up but it doesn't last, you don't let it. You're invincible.

"Um," he says intelligently, his smile dangerously bright when he faces you again. "So we're finishing it?"

You pretend to think about it for a second, then snort, "Yeah, you dumbass." God, even with a concussion and blood loss you're much less stupid than him, sometimes.

He nods fast, hands worrying at the linen sheets as he tells you. "Well. Okay." He flicks his eyes at you, a half-smile and everything in him looks blurred out, so easy to touch. Your mind's already worn out from just thinking of what you'll do to him, fragmenting like shrapnel, sweet dreamless sleep beckoning at last and you yawn, turn on your good side again.

"Now that we made that clear, you gon'let me sleep?"

He blushes a bit, laughs, "Yeah." Then softer, "Daryl," and then his hand is touching yours as you sink into the black.

i'm kinda cheating with this because a jailbait!daryl won't be had for a good three weeks because fINALS. PROJECTS. DALLYING AROUND PACKING PLANTS. i'm so mad. so i polished this up instead. i'm sorry babies. i'll be back on track by next month after all the madness is over.