So I decided to write another of these...
I don't own anything... hope you guys like it
"Getting rusty Greene," he says sternly as the bolt bounces against a rock and flips over to wedge itself into the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor.
She humphs and turns slightly to look at him, frown creasing her pretty features.
"Ain't done this in a while," she answers, scrubbing a hand across her forehead, eyes a little glazed, a little droopy. "And I'm really tired."
"Need you sharp," he tells her as he bends to retrieve the bolt. He's tired too though. Way too tired to be out here in the woods with her, under this canopy of trees, sunlight casting dappled shadows on the ground, on the leaves, on her. Not that there's any place he'd rather be, cos there ain't, but he just wishes that he was more alert, more focused. He knows there ain't no one to blame but him.
And her.
Maybe.
Those nights they spend outside in front of the fire, talking, touching, sometimes kissing have gotten longer, later. Those nights where he takes an eternity to run a roughened finger up her bare arm, knowing the exact point at which her skin will prickle and flush, knowing the exact moment that the goosebumps will replace the smoothness, the exact moment her breath will hitch and her voice will crack. Those nights that they sit together, until the fire is dead and sometimes until they can see the sun peeking at them over the horizon, see that faint tinge of purple dawn, before they realise that they should have gone to bed hours ago, that they'll spend the day exhausted and cranky only to repeat the process that night. Practically, they both know it's a bad idea. But then him and Beth… well they've never been the most pragmatic of people when it comes to each other. In a way he's ok with that though. Ok with being a little dumb about them.
It never bores him though. Those nights when it just him and just her. When he can touch her and tell himself its chaste, pure. That it's just a gentle kiss here and there, a whisper, a hand ghosting over pale skin. He knows it's not though. Knows it can't be, not when he touches his mouth to that special hollow where her neck and shoulder meet, not when he sees her nipples harden beneath her treacherous shirt nor how the scent of her becomes unmistakable. Unmistakable to him. To her. To the whole world and all its ghosts.
He wouldn't change it though, not for all the sleep in the world. He doesn't think she would either. She seems to relish it as much as he does, relish his need, his desire for her, the way his too obvious arousal presses against her back, the way his mouth lingers, a little too long, a little too wet, a little too needy on the skin of her neck, her shoulder, her cheek.
He shakes his head and takes the bow out of her hands to reload it. He knows this is silly. Her being out here with him, practicing. It's really fucking dumb because she can't load the bow herself. She's too small, and her fingers nimble and firm as they may be just ain't strong enough. Fact is they need to get her her own bow, something built for her frame, something with range that she can load easily. But so far they've come up empty-handed. Not like they've really been looking though. Abraham's been more focused on guns and blades. Doesn't see the point of crossbows. Says they're slow, heavy, cumbersome. He's right. They're also quiet and stealthy, but the big man doesn't see any value in it.
"Why are we out here anyway?" she asks looking around the woods as he hands the bow back to her.
"Just thought you needed the practice is all," he says as she takes aim again. "Need someone to watch my back."
She stops, finger wavering near the trigger and turns to look at him again, lowering the bow.
"Come on Daryl."
"I'm serious," he tells her. He is. Kind of. Fact is having her watch his back is comforting. Comforting in a different way from having someone else - Rick, Michonne, Glenn or Maggie - watch his back. He's not sure why though. It's a weird feeling through and through because he knows logically it shouldn't be any different from anyone else he trusts.
She's frowning again and he's not sure why she finds this so hard to believe. Tells himself it's because they're both exhausted. Because the birds were already singing brightly when they reluctantly parted ways to go to bed this morning. Because he'd been too interested in letting his tongue explore the hollow of her wrist and trace the veins of her arm. Because he liked the way faint blue lines formed a nexus under her bracelets and the way her breath hitched as he'd lapped at it. But even so, even though he knows the lack of sleep has dulled them both, he worries when she says things like this, worries that she didn't see how much the time they were alone meant to him, starts to think that maybe she didn't get it on the level he did. Maybe she didn't see how much he did rely on her, how much he needed her, how much comfort she brought to him and that scares the shit out of him.
They never did finish their conversation. After he found her again they just kind of fell into this thing between them. Just kind of accepted it, took it on as part of them, part of him, part of her. Sure, they have those moments now, their gentle kisses and the not-so-gentle ones. They speak, mostly about the past, or about the future, preferring not to label what they have between them, although he knows a point will come when they have to.
People have noticed. He knows they ain't exactly been subtle. It's no secret she slept by his side when he cut his arm open. Even less of a secret that they spend evenings outside together by themselves staring into the fire, his arms fixed on her, his lips exploring the soft skin of her neck and shoulders. He knows every inch of that pale flesh, every freckle, every hollow, every crevice. He knows the feel under his fingers, the taste under his tongue, the way it makes his blood strong and his insides weak.
Yeah, they know, or they think they do at least. Think they have a handle on what he feels inside. Think they get it.
They don't.
Not really.
They can't because he's not sure there are words really to describe this. Just like there ain't words to describe how you feel when you lose Beth Greene, there also ain't words to describe how you feel when she's yours. How you feel when she seeks you out and lets you put your hands on her, lets your unworthy mouth explore her skin. There ain't no words for that. Language didn't think anyone would ever need them.
He thinks out of all of them maybe Rick is the one with the best understanding. But then Rick's always known. Didn't even need to talk about it really. Rick knew that first night he'd found him and Michonne and Carl on the side of the road under those dense trees, as he played with the pine needles under his fingers. As he let their sharp point pierce his hands and palms because of the distraction it provided from the other pain. Not much distraction though, not much to distract from pain when you are pain, when it's all you have and you're terrified that if you let it go, you'll cease to exist.
Sometimes when he looks at her, he wants to just take her and run off into the woods again. Leave all the shit behind them. Forget D.C. and cures and all the weird crap that has gone down and go back to a time when it was just simple. When they'd live in the forest, live off the land. He'd hunt for them, maybe they'd find a place, she could turn it into a home. She'd have him and he'd have her and that's all the two of them would ever need. He wouldn't do it though. The others mean too much to him, to them. He couldn't expect her to leave Maggie, Judith, Rick. He couldn't leave them either, but sometimes he longs for those moments, those moments he was free to be himself, that he could test the boundaries with her and know it was only her derision that he would face. Not that he ever had. Not that there was a moment that Beth had ever made him feel the sting of rejection. Even his mumbled confession back at the funeral home… God, what a dumbass he'd been, what a stupid fucking dumbass.
They'd never spoken of it again. He knows they need to, because even though they're here, even though they're like this and he can pull her into his arms and put his lips on hers. Even though she's becoming more brazen with him (yeah, he thinks she holds back more for him than her) there's a part of him that craves that closure, even if she doesn't. Or maybe she does. Sometimes he thinks this is her MO, her plan, her game. Holding back to see if he'll make a move, to see how brave he is.
He is that brave.
"Here," he says moving behind her, sliding his hand along her arm to position it. "Remember I told you to try not to throw too wide an angle, keep things level."
"Yeah," she says turning her attention back to the bow. "I'm just a lot shorter than you Daryl."
He grins behind her.
"Short ass," he says, putting his hands on her hips, swivelling them slightly. His thumbs brush the naked skin of her waist as he does and absently he rubs small circles against her hips. She's so smooth, so very smooth and he always wonders how she does it. Here, in this shithole. How she manages to find whatever soaps and lotions and potions to keep her feeling like silk. Or maybe that's just him. Maybe that's just his whipped mind telling him how good she feels, lying to him and all that. Doesn't matter though. That pale flesh is the best thing he's felt in a long time.
He adjusts his stance behind her leaning in so he can speak in her ear. Her blue vest is loose against her and he slides his hands a little higher. Tells himself it's to get her standing right.
It ain't.
Even she knows that.
"Try for that tree again," he tells her low and close to her ear, his attention already focused on the jumping pulse in her neck, the cover of gooseflesh on her skin despite the heat.
She breathes in sharply, too sharply as she pulls on the trigger. The bolt flies wide and disappears into the woods.
"Greene!" He can't hide the exasperation in his voice and she eyes him coolly over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched, lips pursed before pointedly dropping her gaze to the tanned flesh of his fingers where they grip at the pale skin of her waist.
"May be a little easier if you weren't doing your best to distract me, Mr Dixon."
Mr Dixon.
Again.
Gets him, gets him every time. Got him the first time too. And the second. Was the reason he agreed to play that damn game. Something about Beth Greene filthy, sweaty and too fucking beautiful for words kneeling in front of him on that filthy floor of that filthy shack. Big beguiling blue eyes, hair golden like a fucking halo. He didn't quite realise how completely powerless he'd been in that moment until now. He wonders if that was the reason he'd been so eager to go outside, get away from the possibility of being alone with her, get away from that subconscious desire gnawing at him. Get away from Beth Greene. It's only now he realises just how fucking whipped he was even then.
He thinks he hears Merle somewhere in his head. Thought you ain't nobody's bitch.
Yeah, he ain't. Except Beth Greene's. And there are worse things in the world than being Beth Greene's bitch.
He follows her gaze to his hands, fingers splayed on her belly, still unconsciously kneading the skin there. Tanned, dirty skin on pale satin. Ugliness against beauty.
Pearls before swine
He shakes the thought away.
"Maybe the next time, we ask the walkers real nice to stop distracting Beth Greene cos her ladyship don't like it," That's Merle's voice though. Merle's words too and he suddenly feels ashamed. Because the thought of Merle touching her like this, the thought of his hands anywhere near her…
But unfazed, she rolls her eyes and elbows him gently in the ribs.
"My guess is walkers ain't gonna take the time to feel me up," she hits back and he can't hide the smirk on his face any more.
She's right.
So right that he's about to tell her the only thing walkers are interested in is eating her but he stops himself. It hits too close to home in too many ways.
Implications and all that…
"Gimme the bow Greene," he says releasing her to load it again thinking once more how ridiculous this actually is but knowing he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
When he hands it back he stands close enough to feel the heat of her skin but deliberately keeps his hands at his sides.
"Again," he says.
"Demanding," she grumbles hoisting the bow. He can already see her arm is too slack and she's not accounting for the slight breeze of the day but he leaves it, waiting for her to pull the trigger.
"Think I can't hear you criticising?" she admonishes and he chuckles.
"Check your arm," he tells her and she adjusts, muscles taught, the fine hairs of her forearm glinting golden in the sun.
It's better. Not perfect, the bolt is still going to fly wide, she'll miss the tree, but not by much. He bends down so that his head is level with hers. His intention to study her view but he's suddenly wildly distracted by the dusting of freckles on her shoulder. They're faint and closely spaced. Angel kisses his Ma would have said. Angel kisses because she's so lovely that when the angels saw her they wanted to kiss her. He's not sure about the angels but the desire to put his mouth on her is strong.
That part he gets.
He swears though that wasn't the reason he'd brought her out here. Wasn't the reason he took them to this secluded spot away from all the others, away from the world and its walkers. He had just been so pissed with Abraham who'd spent the day bitching about delays and Daryl's arm and how the virus could be eradicated by now if they hadn't kept running off on wild goose chases. Wild goose chases like looking for Beth, like saving a teenage girl, like fucking around saving lives when they could be out there doing something important. Something important like saving lives. It was Rick who'd put a hand on Daryl's arm, firm, solid. He wasn't even exactly sure it was to hold him back, wasn't sure Rick wouldn't join in if he decked the guy, but in the end Daryl had just left. Let Abe bellyache by himself, let's not have another argument about Beth which inevitably came down to a childish "you ain't the boss of us". Let's not rehash the same shit over and over again. So he'd stepped outside into the courtyard to clear his head, to breathe in that hot, dry Georgia air and that's when he'd seen her, exasperated and annoyed, as she tried to get Judy to sleep while Eugene followed her around doing his best to engage her in a conversation about some or other video game complete with fire ants and killer crabs.
It had been enough to make up his mind on the spot. Wasn't that he was jealous. Wasn't nothing to be jealous about but Eugene got under his skin in a way even Abraham couldn't. Thing was he got Abraham, understood where the asshole was coming from, why he acted like such a douchebag. He didn't like it but he got it, respected it. Eugene was a whole other can of worms. A can of worms that smelled a little of desperation and a lot of bullshit. They all knew it. Wasn't a goddamned single one of them that was fooled by his awkward demeanour and vague answers. Even L'il Asskicker went from her normal cheerful self to a wailing ball of snot and tears when Eugene was around. Girl had his number. Girl had him sassed and for some reason that made him proud.
So he'd taken Beth's arm, pulled her aside like he had so many years (or was it months? Weeks? Days?) ago when Lori died and told her they had stuff to do. That he was worried she hadn't been practicing.
She hadn't.
She knew that.
They both did.
It wasn't important.
But it really was.
Because it was important to practice. So very important. And no, nowhere here where the tracks met was good enough. It had to be out there. Out there in the woods. Out there where he felt like him and she felt like her. Out there where they'd found and lost and found each other over and over again.
A quick word to Rick, a kiss for Judy and a raised eyebrow from Maggie and they were gone, out through those ragged terminus gates, where dreams came to live and then to die.
Those who arrive, survive, he remembers the mantra.
Spoiler alert. It's a lie.
Or was it? Beth was here, he was here. They were all alive. Alive and raring to go. Or not. Fact was he didn't want to stay here but he could. Could stay wherever Beth was because despite the blood that stained the ground here, despite the horror they'd endured, despite everything, if Beth was here, it was home. And that's all that mattered.
So he led her back into the woods, away from the living and the dead, back to what they knew, what they understood, what made sense in his cluttered mind, even if he wasn't sure it made sense in hers. Away to a place where he could tell himself that they'll head back to the funeral home in a minute or two, where that stupid mutt would be waiting for its dinner, where Beth would play the piano and he'd lie in the coffin and listen to her sing. Watch how the candlelight plays off her face, her hands, think about how easy it would be to invite her to lie next to him. How easy it would be to fall asleep with her in his arms, her slow breathing a gentle rhythm that would lull and thrill him.
He glances up as she releases the trigger. The bolt flies true and hits the tree wedging itself squarely in the bark and the ridiculous desire to fist pump the air bubbles up inside him. He doesn't though. Fist pumps were from before, from days when Merle would take him out and teach him how to hunt. Times when Merle showed him that if he was going to eat he couldn't rely on his old man to bring anything to the table. Couldn't rely on anyone for anything.
"You ok?" She asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.
He blinks.
"Yeah."
He looks between her and the tree.
"Good shot Greene," he tells her and she grins. And despite his dark thoughts his mouth quirks.
"Told you I'm getting good at this." She says triumphantly handing the bow back to him.
"Yeah, after the fifth try." He grumbles good naturedly.
"Well it's easier when I ain't got someone being distracting and all," she teases as he retrieves the bolt.
"Yeah," he says. "But I ain't kidding. When you're out there… There ain't no askin' for quiet and patience Beth. You know it."
"Yeah, I know it," she tells him. "Just some people can be real jerks about it."
He knows she's teasing, knows this is how she flirts, knows she doesn't really want to practice and neither does he, but the thought of going back to Terminus just yet is not something he even wants to entertain.
"You ain't gotta make up excuses to spend time with me you know?" she says as he walks back because she can - you know - read his thoughts or something. Because he's a fucking open book to her, because she somehow knows him from the inside out and the outside in. Because it breaks the laws of the universe to keep anything from her.
"Excuses huh?" he says. "That would you think?"
"We both know this bow is useless to me unless you're around to load it," she takes a step closer to him. "And we both know, you ain't done nothing but distract me since we've come out here."
She rests her hands on his hips, thumbs chasing over the jutting bone, prickling his skin and sending his mind to dark places it shouldn't go. She's not wary any more, she doesn't bother with the niceties, with pretending that touching him through his clothes is an option. She goes straight for his bare skin, straight for his heart, straight for the man he tries to hide under too many layers of clothing and tough talk.
He could never keep up the act for her. She never believed it anyway.
She moves in closer and despite the heat of the day, despite the sweat beading on her brow and dark patches on her vest, he can smell her soap, a heady combination of rosemary and sage. Earthy, wanton, primal. He wants to ask where she got it but he doesn't really want to know, wants to rather lose himself in her scent, her eyes, her body.
When she leans in it's instinctive to press his lips to hers, instinctive to let her wind herself around him, drop the bow, grip her waist hard, maybe a little too hard, before running his hand down that brazen flare of her hips, the plump curve of her ass. Maybe he shouldn't, maybe he shouldn't let this happen, tell her they need to head back, they need to practice, they need to do anything but this. But the warmth of her mouth, the sweetness of her form and the way her eyes are eating him up, sucking him in, fucking him as surely as if they were both naked and her thighs were flush with his sides, makes him a little crazy and before he knows it, she's backed him into a tree, the sharp bark biting into his back, marking him, marking him like he's marked her and they've marked each other and this world has marked them both together.
The taste of her fills him up and empties him out, like it always does, the smooth stroke of her tongue hot and wet against his making him grip her a little tighter, a little meaner, a little harsher. He always tries to be gentle, to be soft and sweet, but part of him suspects that she likes this more, she likes the rough of him, the brute of him, the rage of him. There's something wicked in the way she bites at his bottom lip, something decidedly challenging as she sucks at his tongue and grabs at his shirt until her hands are both on his belly, plotting a steady course up his breastbone, fingers firm and sure and he wonders if she knows how she turns him to jelly, how he becomes a hot mess under her touch. He used to think he could hide it from her, used to think that she wouldn't know, that if he remained stoic and gruff, she'd forget all about it. Forget about the funeral home, forget about him, forget about her. Forget about "you know".
Forget about "Oh".
She didn't. Even if they don't talk about it much. He knows she didn't. And he knows that somewhere she is aware of what she does to him, that a part of her relishes the effect she has on him.
And yet, he's never felt so safe in his life.
Because when it comes down to it, there's something so comforting about Beth, something so real and pure and perfect. Something about knowing there ain't a mean bone in her body, ain't no lies or betrayal or manipulation. It's a first for him really. First time that love hasn't been tainted, hasn't meant giving up part of himself, hasn't meant taking on shit he doesn't need.
And yeah, he's willing to call it love.
In his mind at least, if nowhere else.
He lifts his hand from her ass to her hair, twisting the messy ponytail around his hand, fist hard again the back of her head as he licks at her teeth. The desire to flip them round, so that he can press into her is strong, raging almost but he doesn't, because if he does, he knows he's lost. He knows that'll be it and it'll be seconds before he's stripping her off, before he's on his knees, before he's asking permission to bury his head between her thighs. Begging permission to make her come, wanting to learn how, know her secrets and hear her crying out for him, just for him.
He wonders what she'd say, if she'd be surprised, embarrassed even. Or eager. If she'd grip his head and pull him to her. If she'd encourage him, beg for more. If she'd let him taste her, eat her, have her. He gets his answer from the subtle change in her scent as her lips move to his neck, teeth scraping his skin, tongue lapping at the tanned skin of his jaw.
"Now who's bein' distractin'?" his voice is husky, deep, so low he almost doesn't recognise it. And he feels her grin against him, hands sliding down his chest in a slow, languid movement that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, makes his knees go so weak that he starts to think she is the only thing keeping him standing.
Wouldn't be the first time though. Sure as hell ain't going to be the last.
"Ok then," she says and her voice sounds thick as she gives his neck one last kiss that's more of a devilish lick before taking a step backwards. "Why don't you show me how to shoot that crossbow of yours, Mr Dixon?"
He grins at her even though he feels the loss of her presence keenly, even though he's cold in the void she leaves behind.
But she's coy as she moves away, swaying her hips subtly, swaying them like she did that day her foot got caught in that damned bear trap, and he doesn't miss the flirtation underpinning her words. It scares him and thrills him but he finds himself walking towards her anyway although he's not sure if it's to lay his lips on hers, put his hands on her or simply to do as she asks and show her what he means about distractions.
In the end he opts for the latter, crouching down on the ground, pine needles pricking at his knees. It seems the best option, the safe option. He doesn't know why though. Why when he's exhausted and aroused and barely able to focus on anything but the taste of her in his mouth.
"Ok Greene," he says. "Arm firm…"
She nods but he can see the grin tugging at the corner of her lips and it pisses him off and excites him at the same time. He rolls his eyes.
"Keep your eye level with the bolt…"
He hears her shift down behind him, feels her hands settle on his hips, her breath near his ear, the brush of her breast against his arm. He wants to kiss her again. Knows that's her plan. But this ain't about that. He has something to prove although he doesn't know why.
"Now there's a breeze today. You got to account for that. Bolts ain't like bullets. Wider margin for error," his eyes are tired but he can smell her again. Sage, rosemary and heady musk, the hint of sweat. She moves closer and the wind picks up strands of her hair, lifting it and blowing it over his shoulder where it tickles his jaw.
"Then you gotta hold steady, don't rush it," he's told her all this before. Told her before the funeral home, before the piano and the white dog, before the white trash brunch. Before "Oh". Wanted to tell her more but didn't know how.
Still doesn't.
Still kills him that he can touch her and kiss her but the words elude him, the words are so hard to find. She knows though, he knows she knows. Ain't no way she can't.
"And then you squeeze the trigger slowly," his finger flexes and he breathes out trying to ignore her closeness, her presence, the fact that he could turn now and bear her down onto the forest floor and kiss her and touch her and….
"I think you should sleep in my room from now on," she says next to his ear and the bolt flies wide, through the canopy, lost forever.
He tries to take a breath. But it's like her voice sucked all the air and all the sound out of the world. Like she quieted the breeze and the birds, the insects and the gentle rustle of the leaves. Like the universe has stopped while it waits for a sound, a word, a roll of thunder, anything, anything at all so that it can breathe again, draw life back into it's earthy lungs.
Oddly, the first thing he registers is that he'll need new bolts, that he'll need to make them, that he's low on tips and he doesn't know where he's going to find any. And then that her hands are still on his hips and that's still the best feeling in the world because her hands are warm and smooth but also firm and squeezing him just a little too tight. Another moment tells him he's still breathing and that his heart is pounding a mile a minute from where it now sits in the depths of his gut.
Thinking about her words though, what she said - what he thought she said - that takes him a few decades, maybe a century or two because there's no way he heard right. No way she said what he thinks she did. No way. Because it's madness but he can't imagine what else she could have meant. Can't think what he misheard in that sentence to make it make some kind of sense.
"Daryl?" she asks, voice low and he realises he's still crouched, one knee down in the dirt, bow still aimed at nothingness, jaw clenched and shoulders taught.
He blinks and she takes the bow out of his hands, puts it on the ground and shifts to crouch in front of him.
"I really think you should," she whispers. "I really do."
He's not sure if it's the realisation that he heard right or the gentle way she touches her palm to his face, but when he meets her eyes he feels like he's suffocating. Like suddenly the world doesn't make sense any more, not that it ever had. But now, now in the world where the dead walk and the end is not the end and just a rancid beginning, where you kill your own and turn into a feral creature to survive, even the rules they try and live by are disordered, wrong, stupid. Thing was he felt this way once before. Only once though. When he sat down at the crossroads after running all night, when he cried his heart out over a girl he thought lost to him forever. The world didn't make sense then, it felt wrong in its very fabric, it's very existence.
And now this is the same. Exactly the same and yet, exactly different too. Because while it makes less sense than chasing a black car down an empty highway, it also makes perfect sense. Such perfect sense that it hurts and makes looking at her impossible and also the only thing he ever wants to do.
"Daryl?" she asks again.
"I can't sleep in your room Beth," he tells her but he doesn't know why. Because it isn't his voice or his thoughts or his mouth saying those dry words. It can't be. Because he would never say no to something like this. Never say no to her.
"Why?" she asks and her voice has that same twang as it did when she asked him to drink with her the first time back at the cabin. Accent heavy, eyes big, hair a mess.
"I can't be sleeping in your room Beth," he says again but it's still not his voice. It's still that other person's voice, that impersonator trying to sabotage him and her and them and everything that they've managed to save.
"Why?" she asks again.
"It's… it's not…" he tries but is distracted by the wide blue of her eyes, the way her hair frames her face and that goddam dusting of freckles on her shoulder and how all he wants to do is put his mouth there again.
"Not what?"
"Beth, we can't…" his thoughts are a mess. Jumbled and briefly he's ridiculously angry that she's brought this level of confusion into the woods, into the one place that the world seems sane.
"We did it already," she tells him firmly. "Slept side by side so many of the nights we were alone and…
"Beth," he takes her wrist, moves her hand from his face traces those blue veins he got to know so intimately the previous night. Likes the way they look like thin rivers leading to a lake. A lake he could drink out if forever. "Beth, we ain't alone no more."
"So? Daryl we can't spend every night in front of the fire, getting no sleep…"
It's so true, so very true what she's saying. They're both a mess, bags under their eyes, minds dull, feeling like they're in this world but not if it.
"It's just … we ain't told the others yet and…"
She sighs and moves closer, shoving him slightly so he sits on his ass on the ground and she can wedge herself into the frame of his legs. That's always been Beth's thing. Wedging herself in. Fitting herself to him, moulding herself to him, finding all the holes he needs filled, soothing his jagged edges until they ain't so rough any more. Only problem is that then she doesn't leave. She stays right where she is and won't move on. Not that he wants her to. The thought of Beth Greene anywhere other than by his side is hideous, obscene, indecent. But it's almost as frightening as the idea that this is ok, that he could have her, that they could have this. That she would want him, him and his scars, him and his clumsy hands, him and his dirty redneck mouth. That she would want him in her bed, sharing her room, her heart, her life.
He's brave, he just ain't sure he's that brave.
And he ain't sure he's worth it.
But she's looking at him, looking at him with those big guileless eyes, her hands now linked around his neck, fingers threading through his too long hair where it brushes his shoulders, where it touches his scars, scars she'll see if they start sharing a room.
The thought isn't as frightening as it should be.
"You ain't gotta earn me," she says, voice low, serious. "I want you. You don't need to do anything to make that true, cos it just is."
He's not sure what to say and that's ok, because there ain't no words for it. Thing is what do you say anyway? What do you say to Beth Greene when she tells you that it's you? That you're the one, that you're her guy, that you're the one she wants in her bed, that's it's your hands she wants on her and your mouth she needs on her skin.
There ain't no words. Why would there be? Ain't no one ever gonna need 'em.
And yet somehow he needs them now. He needs those words. Words that don't exist. So he does what he can, what he knows and wraps his hand around the back of her neck, presses his mouth to hers. Hard. Demanding. Rough. He's not sure if the plan was just to kiss her or to kiss her quiet but when she climbs into his lap it surprises him. It shouldn't though. It really shouldn't because he'd have to be blind not to have seen the new boldness in her, the new need, the new desire. Truth is he thinks it's actually a reflection of his, a reflection of how much he wants her, wants to be with her, wants to know her.
Know her.
Stupid fucking phrase.
Because he already does know her and if this is the only way he'll ever know her that's ok, it's fine by him.
It's not fine by her though. Not at all.
She moves fast, pushing at him and in seconds he's on his back and she's straddling him, lips hard against his, tongue demanding and forceful as she runs it across his teeth. He thinks briefly that she's trying to taste him, taste his grit and his smoke, his rage and his calm. He's ok with it. Ok to let her lick at his mouth, ok to let her take control, ok to give himself up to the maddening rocking motions of her hips against his.
For now.
When he moans into her mouth, she giggles like a naughty schoolgirl, but when his hands sneak under her vest to caress her back, sliding to her sides where he can thumb at edges of her bra, where his rough fingers can snag on the smooth satin her giggle turns guttural, deep … he'd go as far as to call it wanton.
And again he wants to flip them over, again he wants to undress her, bear her to him piece by piece, lick his way down her body, her curves, her edges, her softness and her wetness. but he doesn't, he doesn't because then there's no way to stop, no way to end this if he does. And he knows he'll go out of his mind before they even have her shirt off.
When she pulls back to look at him, he's both relieved and disappointed and he pushes himself up onto his elbows just so he doesn't feel so submissive, although he tells himself it's to meet her gaze. Her eyes are wide and her mouth open and her breath is coming out fast, faster than his. She's still circling her hips against him though and he has to put a firm hand on her thigh to still her.
"We should get back," she says, "You let me know if you change your mind ok?"
He nods before drawing her down to kiss her again and shifting her off him.
And he wonders if his mind was made up in the first place.
XXX
It's early that night when she extricates herself from him. The fire is still burning brightly and their clothes ain't even smokey yet.
She tells him she's going to bed. That's she's exhausted and that she'll see him in the morning, but right now she's too tired to do anything, be that think, talk or just sit and watch the fire. He wouldn't have cared though, wouldn't have cared at all if she fell asleep on him. Woulda stayed there all night again to feel her against him, pressed on him, moulded to him. But she tells him he needs sleep too and even though she knows he doesn't mind, she does. She tells him she needs him sharp.
And then she kisses his cheek gently, holds him to her for a moment, before heading off, leaving him alone at the fire with nothing but the thought of a cold and empty bed waiting for him.
So he walks the fence even though Abraham is on guard duty, even though he knows that if anyone could turn back the undead herds single-handedly, it's the big man. But he needs to clear his head, needs to stop the crazy voices telling him that he could go to her bed right now, that he could slide under the covers and pull her to him and fall asleep to the sound of her breathing. But he ain't gonna do that. Ain't no way he's going to her room after he finishes the perimeter check. Ain't no way he's going to sleep in Beth Greene's bedroom.
Except, you know, he is.
She's still awake when he shifts down beside her. She's quiet at first but when he reaches across the bed and rests his hand on her naked hip, she moves against him so that his chest is pressed to the hard line of her back. Her ass though, that's soft against him, against where he's not soft but he's not embarrassed, not even a tiny little bit as his lips find the nape of her neck and her skin erupts with gooseflesh.
"What took you so long?" she asks as if this is the most natural thing in the world. As if sliding into bed next to her is something he does every night and this night is no different.
He smiles. He could tell her that wrestling with one's self takes time, that walking the perimeter while hoping to get rid of your raging hard on and your insane thoughts is time consuming, that knowing there's someone like her waiting for you to come to her bed is enough to bring the strongest man to his knees. But he doesn't.
"Got distracted," he says kissing her ear, hand sliding off her hip and onto her flat belly. "But I'm here now."
He can sense her smile as she twines her fingers through his.
He puts mouth to her shoulder, on those freckles and he imagines he can taste them, that he can taste the sweetness of her through those angel kisses.
"I'm glad you came," she whispers.
Her hair smells strongly of rosemary and he breathes in deeply, as he moves his hand to trace his finger over her naked hip. Her skin prickles again at just the right moment and he worries he'll come against her like a teenager, come like he thought he would this afternoon in the woods.
"Me too," he answers and she turns over onto her back, drawing his hand back to her belly. He can just make her out in the darkness, the way her hair spreads across the pillow, the way the dim light from the outside reflects off her eyes, the glint of her teeth, the wet sheen of her lips and the elegant line of her neck and shoulder. Briefly, he considers shifting over her, bearing down on her, if for no other reason than to know what she feels like under him. Not that he'd take it further. Not that he'd undress her, put his mouth on her. Bury his head between her legs like he wanted to earlier on. Not that he'd do any of that. Not that he should even be thinking of this, because he shouldn't. Not that he should be wondering what she tastes like, not that he should wonder about the sounds she'd make and the words she'd say. He imagines her calling his name, imagines what her nails would feel like on his scars, what it would feel like…
"What changed your mind?" she asks as his fingers glide from her belly under her vest to her ribs, tracing the outline of each until he he brushes the soft curve of her naked breast. She breathes in sharply and he kisses her shoulder again as she turns her head to look at him. Look at him dead on, straight into his eyes, straight into his soul.
And this time he doesn't mumble something incoherent, this time he doesn't give her a useless "you know" or a stare that goes on for centuries. This time he traces loops over her skin, this time he presses his lips to hers, this time he says the words he never thought he could.
He can find the words.
This time he is that brave.