SPLURGHHHHH!
SKRAASH!
SPLUDD!
At the fences Daryl takes out walker after walker, thrusting his knife through the chain links over and over again as the sun drops lower behind the horizon. His grip on the hilt never lessens as he works as a one man cull crew. He's been at it for some time.
"Hey. Daryl." Daryl, more than bloody by this point, turns immediately. It's Glenn, standing back, talking in that docile way he has. Daryl's right hand, his knife hand, is jumping at his side. The momentum of continual kill thrusts is still coursing through his tensed arm, but he takes a step back on his heels, moving back from the outer perimeter fence. "Think you've had enough?" Glenn asks. "You've been out here a while."
Daryl looks at him, and at the fence. He shifts his weight and wipes at his brow. He shrugs his left shoulder, "They keep comin'; gotta keep on it."
Glenn takes a step forward, nodding with an amiable scoff. "That's true." He moves closer to the fence and pulls a gator machete from the fence supply and steps up. He nods at Daryl, who eyes him, then nods in return and both men go back to the clearing.
SCLUDD! SHLURPSH! SKRAAASH!
"You missed dinner," he says, glancing at Daryl before plunging his blade in the head of what remains of a mail carrier.
"Ain't hungry."
They keep at it, driving their blades through.
"Maggie made you a plate. It's waiting for you."
WROKK! SVLAKK! SVASSH!
"C'n feed myself. Been doin' it for years."
Glenn looks at him, and shakes his head in a little smirk. "That's a great 'thank you', Daryl."
Daryl holds back his knife and half smirks at Glenn, "This you two sayin' your sorry?"
Stopping, and stepping back, Glenn lowers his machete. He looks at Daryl, "We didn't mean to be assholes."
"Oh. You didn't?" Glenn cracks a smile at Daryl's deadpan accusatory facetiousness about what Glenn and Maggie did or didn't 'mean'. "Well," he wipes his brow again, "ya know what they say," he spits dispassionatley from the side of his mouth, "road to good intentions 's paved with hell." He flashes Glenn a momentary grin, then retires his knife to its casing.
Glenn responds with the obligatory appreciative snort. "Really Daryl," he assuages, "we—"
"Stop."
"It's not you."
"Mm,hm."
"Well..." Glenn hesitates, not knowing what else there is to say. He nods in the direction of the prison, "You coming?"
"You sure I'm welcome?" Daryl retorts dryly, finding a little retributive pleasure in needling Glenn. "Won't be, messing up nobody's plans?"
"Daryl," Glenn shakes his head tiredly. "You can't fault me for looking out Maggie's sister; she's family."
"News to me I'm the problem," he retorts.
Glenn cocks his head to one side, "Just, come back with me. Eat something. Spend some time with the group. You're not helping yourself out here."
"Group's the one with the problem," he points out.
"Just, come on." Glenn hangs his weapon back in place on the fence and heads back to the cell blocks. It takes him a minute, of standing cock-hipped on his own, thinking things over, before Daryl exhales, hitches his pants waist, and follows after.
...
In the common room alone Daryl sits on the steps shoveling through the meal Maggie'd set aside for him. The others have retired to their cells, or are in the showers, through the echos of the quiet tombs he can hear at least one of them running. The cell block flickers with the light of candles, flashlights and lanterns, and all is still.
He thinks about Maggie. And Glenn and Hershel. Carol, Sasha, Tyresse, Carl. The group. And Beth. Him being with her won't hurt the group. Fact. It'll only hurt 'em to the extent the group believes it will. Daryl comes back round to Glenn. Glenn loves Maggie, he's taken on her family. It hasn't made him vulnerable, it's made him stronger. Glenn would say it's worth the risk. Any risk. Even ending up alone. In his mind he considers—
There's a soft padding on the concrete coming from C Block. Daryl glances up.
"Oh." She startles and stops short at the gate across the room from him. "I, didn't see you. Didn't think anyone was out here." Beth smiles faintly. She's in her summer pajamas, her hair pulled up in a wispy ponytail. In her hand's a small head lamp and her book.
"Can't sleep?" The left side of his face crinkles as he speaks. Daryl wipes his hand on the knee of his pants, waiting to watch her move in slightly further into the room.
"Uh,uh."
Blinking at her, Daryl sets his bowl down beside him on the steps. "Gonna read?"
Beth looks at the book. "Maybe." She also looks at him, her eyes dropping down to his shirt, his arms, his face and his hands. "You're pretty disgustin'," she observes.
"I 's working the fence."
"I can see." She stands there, shifting her weight to one leg, flexing her toes on the cool concrete like a dancer.
Daryl holds her in his gaze for a little longer, then breaks off and looks away. His lower lip caught in his teeth, Daryl worries his fingers, touching each end to his thumb in turn. After a moment more he clears his throat. "Gonna wash up." He rises, sets his bowl in the wash bucket, pulls a flashlight from the selection on the shelf, and makes for the dark hallway, turning the corner to the showers.
Beth moves for one of the tables, but before she sits there's a light signal whistled from somewhere in the near darkness. She knows that whistle. Beth abandons her book and her headlamp and crosses lightly to the doorway. But does not pass through. She leans there against the open gate, remaining in the partially lit common room, so close to the unseen one who'd called her.
Daryl had had the intention of making it all the way to the showers, to remove the blood spattered clothes, stand under the icy shower water, and scrub off the blood and the grime. But another desire had taken hold. Walking away from her was no longer feasible; self-discispline has its limits. And so he stopped, and unarmed with the words or the moves, leaned back against the wall, just on the other side of where she is, and waits there in the dark, giving this, his desire for her, precedence over all else.
Pulses quicken. Though separated by a ninety-degree angle of cold cinderblock and concrete, the intensity of their proximity to one another is palpable. There is a longing there, deep and ardent, and very, very still. The two are motionless, leaning into one another, closer and closer, with the stone wall between them. Their breathing slows but their heart rates accelerate. Anticipation brings a rush of blood to their faces and ears; and their lips, ever so slightly parted, moistened and at the ready, wait. There is a fierce yearning for contact.
His forehead finds her first. Leaning in, his brow meets hers, just. Two pairs of eyes flutter shut, and all movement stops. The space between them is fractional, but deafening.
With great stealth his lips find hers in the shadows, traveling the impossible distance of less than an inch to get there. Reaching her, finally, Daryl holds her face to his, fiercely angling her to him, pressing himself so tightly against her. His tongue finds hers and Daryl, who for a split second may have been in danger of imploding, takes hold of her in his arms, so solid and steadfast, and kisses her, taking her on, taking the responsibility on. Letting her in, and keeping her close. Daryl kisses Beth, and she him, till they're short of breath; till their lips hurt from their fervency. It's not fear, or pain, or grief that's overtaken them this powerfully, and the sensation of that is so foreign it is daunting. Breaking away Daryl buries himself in the softness of her neck and the sweet smell of her hair.
These past three years, the wretchedness, the terror… Daryl shuts his eyes and breathes her in; thrills at the warm touch of her skin, her lips at his ear, her arms round his back.
This is how it felt when the group had found each other again, meeting up on the highway after the Greene farm fell. This is how it felt when they took the prison. How it felt when Judith survived her first day, and when he found Carol alive and not dead. But this is better. Because it does not stem from horror. Or tragedy. This is the embodiment of hope. And they hold on.
Walker killing onomatopoeias as they appear in Kirkman's comics. Again, NOT mine. :)
