Disclaimer: I do not own AMC's The Walking Dead. I'm just happy to borrow the characters and plot and this scene off of them for a little bit.

Touches were a strange thing. There were an array of different touches that a person could dole out. An array of different touches that a person could be on the receiving end of. There were the scars over his back from his childhood. Fists and broken beer bottles. Leather belts and burning cigarette butts. There were cuffs on the back of the head as the word "pussy" slammed down hard against his chest from an older brother he just longed to have acceptance from. There were black eyes from bar fights, bruises from bouncers all too happy to throw him out on his own, and the sting of a slap from women not interested in poor excuses for pick up lines.

There were cold hands that would reach out and grab for anything warm, teeth that snapped always ready to rip tendons and drink veins dry.

There was the soft brush of chapped and cracking lips over sore and bandaged temples, words of comfort and gratefulness painting the air.

There was a contrast of shirt and arms, clutched tightly, trembling. The touch of a sob ripping through someone's chest as the world shattered, and you couldn't help but feel guilty at the relief of still feeling every breath as it rose to bump the center of your palms.

There were shoulder bumps.

There were tentative fingers against forearms, against elbows, brushing and caressing with permission every time. Touches that understood every flinch and accepted them without hesitation or lingering questions of why. Those touches knew without long discussions to explain painful pasts. Those fingers knew that the world was full of the wrong kind of touches, and had built up their own confidence to reach out for more in the first place.

There was soft skin of cheeks and the gentle curve of chin bones. Fingers draping like long spider legs at the back of his neck, arms hung and hooked about his neck as the comfortable weight of relief filled his arms.

There were hugs. Soul-crushing embraces, desperate and all-consuming. Fingers at his neck, in his hair. Forehead to forehead, forehead to shoulder. Hair tickling the side of his face.

There were hands that flattened against chests or arms, a barrier between the cold and the living, telling a story that eyes weren't able to drink yet, promising to lead to safety no matter the cost.

There was her hand covering his in the van, the meaning behind that clasp spoke volumes and as he looked into her eyes, he could see that overwhelming fear that took over her. He heard that farewell in the gentle outline of her fingers pressing into the back of his hand. Her trembling palm whispered of the love they both knew was there, but never spoke of.

"You hold on"

They would have another chance, they had to. Daryl had brought her here to find Beth and soothe the ache of letting her down, he had come to this van and ignored her when she suggested that she be the one to climb in alone and search the van for answers. He had been stubborn and solid and now they were trapped on this bridge, planning on taking a fall, without being aware of the outcome of the fall. He was terrified, and as much as he wanted to be strong and a comforting presence for her, he knew that she saw him for what he really was. She always had.

The earth let go, and the decent into hell began, and he marveled that perhaps the worst touch he ever felt in his life was the absence of touch as their hands were torn apart.

I apologize if any of it doesn't make sense, I may still be a little too out of it from last night's episode to be posting this, but I don't see myself calming down anytime soon.