Chapter 45: just pin your heartbeat up against my heartbeat and you'll see how well we rhyme

When they walk again it's once more in silence.

It's not in response to any request from him. It's just what happens. They're not actually hunting so he has no reason to request it anyway; if they were he would ask her for minimal conversation if any at all. But they're walking, her beside him - close enough that he imagines he can feel the gentle heat radiating from her - and he can tell that he slipped her into a kind of trance from which she hasn't emerged. Hasn't wanted to emerge. She was already so intensely present, so in the world, so much a part of it and so unafraid of it, but somehow that's intensified even further. It's almost like she's vibrating with it. The light catches her and she's even brighter than before. When she looks around, scanning everything, her eyes are wide. Her lips are slightly parted and wet from the slow passes of her tongue. Now and then, watching her out of the corner of his eye, he sees her nostrils flare.

She's perfectly at home here. She's a little wild creature. He thinks again of the doe.

He hadn't had a specific place in mind - hadn't remembered from when he was here before - but he knows it's perfect when he sees it: a large grassy clearing encircled by young sycamores. Thick trunks but not too thick and not too slim. The shadows are starting to lengthen but the sun spills into it and he can tell it will for a while. They have a few hours before they'll lose the light. A few hours before they have to head back.

Gnats drift in soft little clouds in the flood of sun. He stops, takes a breath, and she stops with him, looking around and glancing up at him.

"So this is..."

He unshoulders the bow. "Said I was gonna teach you. Here." He holds it out to her, and with a look of mixed faint skepticism and considerably greater interest she takes it and holds it in both hands. He watches the slight strain in her muscles as she lifts it - not to her eye. Not even high enough to hit anything but the ground. He feels a ripple of approval but no surprise: even if it's not loaded or cocked, she wouldn't just point it at something without knowing what she's doing. Of course she would know not to do that.

"Not too heavy?"

He's teasing a bit, and she gives him a look that's clearly doing the same. "Yeah, I'm gonna drop it any minute."

He doesn't quite smirk at her, walks to one of the thicker trees and unsheathes his knife. He can feel her watching as he carves a deep X in the bark, curves a circle around it, and steps back to look it over. He glances back at her and moves aside.

"You see it from there?

She nods. He nods back and returns to her.

That odd fluttering sensation is back and making a home low in his stomach. Once it freaked him out, but he understands by now what it actually is: he's excited. Not to the point of jumping around, but just a bit. He's excited and he's happy, and he wants to do this, and there's no reason why he shouldn't, and he doesn't have to worry about her making a face and turning away from him and demanding to be taken home.

"Here." He holds out a hand for the bow. "Gimme."

A smile tugs at her mouth, her head tilted to the side, and she hands it over. He lowers it to the ground limb-first and tugs the string smoothly upward until it catches. Again, he can feel her watching him - closely attentive. She didn't ask to know this, probably didn't want to until he brought it up, but if he's showing her, she's clearly more than willing to learn.

The fluttering intensifies. Just a little.

"This is cockin' it. Guess you know this is first." He lifts it up, and when he shoots her another glance she's smiling wider. Observing him. Studying. Enjoying it, and he wonders on how many levels. She said he looked good that day when he was splitting logs, and he's now aware enough of himself to be able to imagine some of why. It's warmer and his arms are bare today, and he knows how the muscles there must be flexing.

And it doesn't freak him out, having her look. It's weird, he still doesn't totally get it, but if she does, if she likes what she sees...

You're beautiful.

He'd very much like to believe that someday he'll be able to hear that without a profoundly instinctive cringe.

In the meantime, he's busy.

"Watch what I do."

It's smooth. Easy. He doesn't have to think about it, hasn't in years upon years. When he started doing this he carried on doing it, over and over, until it was pure muscle memory. He has the bow in his hands and his body takes over and does what it does, and like the tracking, it isn't even about killing anything. Not really. It's precision, exactness, pure effortless focus; for the longest time his body has been purely for utilitarian things, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been capable of taking any pleasure in the feeling of it being used well. Of being set with a task and performing it perfectly.

He's good at this. He's very fucking good.

Bow smoothly up, braced against his shoulder, solid stance, aim, breathe, hold, stillness, squeeze.

And keep the stillness as the bolt flies.

It doesn't hit the dead center of the X. It's about a quarter of an inch off. Beside him, he's dimly aware of Beth's soft exhale.

"Wow."

He lowers the bow and the look he gives her - he's sure he must appear questioning. He feels questioning. On some level he gets it, why she might be impressed, but it's been so long since he thought about it like that. He didn't want to show her this to impress her. That's not what this is about, and not what it was about when he got the idea.

It's just about showing her.

He swiftly recocks, reloads, and holds out the bow, silent. A little more cautiously this time, she takes it.

"Alright. C'mere." He takes her shoulders, firm but gentle, and again he feels how slim her frame is, how she isn't exactly tiny but she still seems small against him. How he likes that, sliding his hands down her upper arms.

But he's not touching her like he wants her. He absolutely does, that ever-present burn deep in him, but on the surface it's all cool, calm. This is business. He said he was going to teach her. That's what he means to do.

"Get your feet about shoulder-width. Don't lock your knees." He feels her move, easy and without much awkwardness, her body sliding into a stance he recognizes as, if not practiced, more than good enough for a beginner. "Alright. You wanna put it against your shoulder. Get your cheek in the middle of- Yeah. Just like that." A smile comes to him, pretty much hits him in the face, and it aches a bit. He remembers learning to do this, and he remembers it being nowhere near this pleasant. He remembers very little in the way of tolerance for imperfection.

No one was allowed to be a beginner with Will Dixon. You were adequate or you were a useless little fuckin' retard.

This... This is how it was supposed to be. He deserved better. He knows that now.

He slides his hands a little further down her arms, feels her muscles, her wiry strength. "Keep your elbows in. What you're gonna do is you're gonna sight the target, you're gonna take a deep breath, and you're gonna let half out. Only half. You hold the rest. Then you squeeze the trigger. After you take the shot you don't move. You follow through the way I did." His voice has been dropping steadily as he looks over her shoulder, as he feels her body shifting into what it should do almost like she already knows, and he doesn't think it has anything whatsoever to do with his skills as a teacher. He's never taught anyone how to do this before.

Another I never. There are so many of those with her.

He steps back, hands leaving her without moving her at all. "Ready?"

Very slightly, she nods.

"Alright. Breathe."

Her upper body swells, releases halfway, and he watches the stillness come to her. He sees it before and above and beyond the shot itself. It settles over her, into her, and it's like watching her begin to pay attention the way he told her to: something pure and natural with no hint of artifice. Really no hint of effort. Maybe he's never taught anyone to do this, but he does know that someone shooting for the first time might overthink, might be too conscious of themselves, might under or overcompensate for an imagined fault. But she isn't. She is her body, and when she moves she moves without thinking at all.

She's not perfect. There is a little awkwardness there. And when he looks past her at the target he sees that the bolt is near and just outside the right lower edge of the circle.

But that stillness is still in her as she stands, as she slowly lowers the bow. She's still looking at the target, like she expects it to do something.

It's so beautiful it hurts him. Catches his breath, hooks it through his ribs and ties knots in the ends.

"'s good," he whispers.

She finally gives him a glance, half smiling and shaking her head. "I was outside, though."

"Yeah, well. Ain't that big a target anyway. Trust me, it was good." He walks to the tree and pulls the bolts carefully free of the bark, returns to her with them. "You wanna try again?"

Her smile widens. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

That hooked, knotted breath in him warms like the sun is touching it, and he nods.

They practice for what he guesses - by his own internal reckoning and the movement of the sun - is nearly an hour. At the final shot the bolt strikes the target just to the left of center, less than an inch away, and she lets out a soft breath that's almost a laugh. When she turns to him she's grinning, flushed and a little breathless when she speaks.

"I'm gettin' good at this."

"Could be. Don't get cocky, Greene." But he's pleased, overwhelmingly pleased, warm all through, and he knows she can tell.

He gathers up the last bolt and pauses on his way back to her, looking up. There's nothing especially strange about it, but the sky is so piercingly clear, just barely edging toward the subtler blue of the later afternoon, and it's lovely, and he can't remember the last time he had a day like this. A day that felt this good. With her he's had many good days, many good nights, but this is different. Not even better, not necessarily. But the breeze spins around the clearing and when he lowers his head she's there, and it seems to spin around her, gather up her hair and set it dancing. For half a moment she closes her eyes, her head tilted slightly back and a smile still playing over her mouth, and she fits there, right where she is, like she was just waiting to be there. This isn't the apex of her life, this isn't the entire point, because there is no one point, but everything has been leading to this, because this is happening. It's happening right now.

I do know how to pay attention.

He's there with her in the time it takes him to blink, and he would even be a little confused by the abruptness if he wasn't entirely distracted by the ease with which his hands slide into her hair, fingertips over her braid, and then distracted by the taste and the warmth of her mouth when she angles it against his with a soft mm, one hand settling on his arm.

She drops the bow. He drops the bolt. He doesn't care about either of those things.

For a few moments - or maybe it isn't, he has no fucking idea - he just kisses her, curling an arm around her, hand at the small of her back and pulling her in close and tight and fitting so perfectly against him. Her lips were wet - she was wetting them with her tongue, and now he wets them with his, nudges them apart, slips into her mouth as she moans softly and then not so softly. Louder. Loud enough that it sends a hot pulse rolling through him.

Not in her bed. Her bed was nice but this is better. Not even in the hot tub; that had been so nice but now they're in the sun, in the open, and he's so hard for her, rocking slightly against her and finding the pressure of her hip. Her breath catches, her teeth grazing his lips.

"Daryl."

"I want you," he breathes, and he thinks about the night in the field, telling her that, telling her that he wanted to fuck her when she was ready and Christ, he does, he wants it so bad.

She sighs and kisses him again, combing a hand into his hair and tugging him down, licking back into his mouth, and he thinks his knees might buckle.

So he decides to take that potential issue out of his consideration.

I do know how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed.

They don't quite fall but it's close, and they roll a little and she's under him, arching and spreading her legs, pressing her knees against his hips as he settles over her and runs a hand down her side - rougher than he has been, but it's okay, it's all okay, because she's tough, she is, and she knows it, God, she does.

"Christ, Beth."

She's already moaning and she just answers him with another one, deeper and almost strained, pushing her hands under his shirt, up his back - his back, her fingers on the lower edges of his scars, and he doesn't stiffen. He doesn't pull away. It's like she's tracing him with fire and he presses back against it, wanting more of it. Needing more. He's never going to be afraid of that again. Never again. Not with her.

"Take it off," she whispers against his throat, and he feels her smile, her tongue against his skin. He shudders hard - at the words, at her tongue, at her beneath him, at the whole thing, and he ducks his head and bites gently at her jaw.

"Take what off?"

"Oh." She tilts her head back and tugs him down by the hair, baring her neck, and it's absolutely clear what she wants. And after he bites her again - just as gentle - when he pulls back enough to see her, she's smiling and blushing, her hair spread out around her head like a halo. "Oh, take off... Take off..." She laughs. "Take off everything."

As he pulls back further and fumbles at his shirt, watching with vague incredulity as she pushes up on her elbows and fumbles at hers, it occurs to him that she still hasn't said she's ready. Hasn't said it. It also occurs to him that he doesn't care, doesn't care at all. He's all hard heat, pounding against his skin with how much he wants to be inside her, but it's also... This. He just wants this. He wants to see her like this, naked and sun-bathed in the grass, and he wants to be with her, and he wants to give her anything and everything she asks for and take nothing she doesn't want to give him.

He wants to be idle and blessed. With her. That's what he wants.

She tosses her shirt aside, works her bra off and tosses it too, and leans up and clumsily kisses him again, laughing and squirming as she tries to get out of her boots and jeans and panties with only one hand. So he tries to help her and that's clumsy too, and somehow they manage it, manage his, but the clumsiness doesn't go anywhere; it settles into them and between them, and he rolls with her, laughing into her hair, hands sliding up her back and groping at her hips as he presses his cock against her belly and she rocks up to meet him. He doesn't even know where his mouth is anymore. Her neck, her collarbones, the hollow at the base of her throat. Suddenly they're almost wrestling, almost play-fighting, and she comes close to pinning him, getting a leg over his waist as he brings her up on top of him, but she only did that because he let her and seconds later she's under him again.

She's found a rhythm and when she presses up just right, her cunt against his thigh, he can feel how wet she is and he loses all distinction between a laugh and a groan.

"Stay there," he whispers, and she shakes her head, still laughing at the sky, beating her small fists against his shoulders. He bites at her neck, sharp little nips that pull equally sharp little gasps out of her, and he murmurs Stay, girl, stay. Stay.

Oh, God, stay with me.

He somehow manages to line himself up alongside her, one leg slung over hers, and she's just turning toward him when he nudges her legs further apart with his hand, fingers slicking through her, and she gasps his name, sliding into a shaky moan when he circles her clit with a fingertip.

"Daryl..." She laughs again, shaky - Jesus, there is so much laughing here, more than he ever would have believed there could be - and rolls her hips up against him, seeking more. "Daryl, ah... ah, please, oh my God."

He licks up the side of her neck, tasting her salt, and it floods so hot and heavy through him, pulsing between his legs. But this is her. This is all her. "Please what?"

"Your fingers, I... Just touch me, please, I want you to..." And the words just sort of collapse in her mouth and fall into another long moan as she tries to grapple with his wrist, gives up, closes her hands tight over his shoulders and presses her mouth against his throat, her breath fast and shallow like she's come already.

He's not good at saying no to her. Never has been.

Her clit is swollen and he could almost swear he can feel it throbbing under his fingers as he presses, rubs her in slow circles, and she moves mindlessly, not just her hips but her whole body, letting her head fall back and gasping half-words at the sky. He's not in any hurry; he raises himself on one elbow and watches what he's doing. Watches her legs fall open wider and wider, the way his fingers glisten, the sun catching beads of her juices in the tight curls of her pubic hair.

"You're so wet, Beth." Whisper in her ear, just a hint of teeth at its edge. "Can you feel that? Feel how wet you are?" She whimpers in protest when he lifts his hand away and draws a little abstract design on her stomach in swooping, shining lines. "Like that. Ah, fuck, you're so wet for me, you're..."

And it's his turn to trail off as he slips a finger into her and she lets out a soft cry, bucking her hips up under his hand, forcing him deeper. He should remember this but it's like it's the first time, like it never happened at all, and anyway they're not in the water now - now it's all sun and softer warmth and the slickness of her up past his second knuckle, and the feeling of her cunt tightening and releasing around him as he slowly begins to fuck her.

It's like she's not even there anymore, and yet so completely there she's near to bursting open and scattering glittering pieces of herself into the trees. She's moaning in a hard little rhythm, matching his with her body, whispering his name when she can find the syllables but otherwise without words at all. She's already getting close, her movements faster and urging him to meet her, but he slows, slows enough to give himself time to do what he's been wanting to do since that first day he really understood that he wanted her. He shifts down a little, just a bit lower, trailing his mouth over her skin and over the swell of her breast, and when his lips close over her nipple and he feels it harden under his swirling tongue she lets out another cry and clutches at him, his hair, Oh my God, oh Jesus, Daryl. Daryl, yes.

It doesn't take a lot longer. He knows it won't. He's moving fast again, back to being clumsy though she doesn't seem to care, fucking in and out of her and trying to nudge her clit with the edge of his thumb, sucking at her, and when he takes a chance and closes his teeth over her hard little nub and gives her a careful bite she spasms and this time her cry is almost a scream, her whole body twisting and arching, her hands groping frantically at him as she floods against his hand.

He fucks her through it, sucking more gently now, and inside his head he's a rainfall of words.

You're so blessed, you're so blessed, girl, I love you, my beautiful girl, we're blessed together and you're so fucking alive, so alive, my God, I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

He has no idea how much later it is when she starts to go loose, starts to float back down, shuddering now and then with the aftershocks and giggling as they wash through her. His finger is still in her and she reaches down, closes a hand over his, and her other finds his hair and combs through it. Strokes him. He's released her nipple but his lips are still against her skin and he can hear her heart, hard and slow and steady. There.

"Oh. God," she breathes, and giggles again as another wave of trembling takes her. "Daryl. Oh... Wow."

He smiles, flicks her with his tongue.

And for a while there's nothing.

He lies against her and she relaxes and relaxes, stillness stealing back over her as she keeps working through his hair. At some point he withdraws his hand - she sighs and shudders again, lightly - and he licks his fingers clean with his head against her breast. And there's sun and the breeze cooling the sweat on their skin, the smell of warm grass, trees swaying gently all around them, and the calls of the catbirds and the tanagers, the low question-answer coos of the mourning doves.

Paying attention. He's paying very close attention. She is too.

At last she stirs, tugs him back up and nestles into his arms and kisses him for a while. He's still so hard, pushing against her belly, but there's nothing frantic about the way he presses, seeking a rhythm; it's as slow and easy as everything else, and like before he thinks there isn't really even anything he truly wants but this. Her, sweet and glowing and humming with life.

But she reaches down and wraps her hand around him, and he stiffens and draws in a sharp breath. "Beth..."

"I want you to come," she murmurs against his jaw, nuzzling him. "I... I wanna make you come, Daryl." She smiles and it pours through her voice, feels like it reaches right down into her fingers and into him. "I wanna see it. I wanna watch you."

He has no fucking idea what to say to that.

So he just nods.

She squeezes him, her thumb stroking against the underside of his shaft, and he just holds onto her, his hand against her jaw and his breath stuttering, because it's... "'s good, Beth." He closes his eyes and groans, lips against her brow, wondering just how long he can last. "You're so good, you're..."

Then suddenly her hand is gone, and he hears himself make a quiet little sound that's half confusion and half wait no come back, but she's rolling onto her back again and tugging him with her, and he really has no option at all except to follow.

But she kisses him, barely a brush of her lips, and shakes her head, staring up at him with her eyes clear and very wide.

"I want you on top of me. I want you..." She touches the top of her stomach, close to the undersides of her breasts. "Here. Close. I like when when you're over me. I wanna..." She laughs and flushes again, her eyes dropping briefly. She's actually embarrassed, a little. It's fucking adorable. Especially given that he thinks he's starting to understand what she's asking for. "I wanna really be able to see."

It's not something he would have suggested. It's not even really something he would have imagined. He just gazes down at her for a moment or two, searching her face, and she looks back - still flushed but completely unafraid.

She wants this. All he wants to do is give her exactly what she wants.

Whatever that is.

Slowly he nods, and pushes up and away from her, up to his knees. She reaches for his shirt just above her head and drags it in, makes a pillow of it and settles herself with one hand on his thigh, and she watches him and bites her lip as he moves on top of her, straddles her, and takes his cock in his hand.

And he can't quite breathe. Because she looks so small under him and he feels a surge of power that has nothing whatsoever to do with violence, a kind of power that somehow manages to be gentle at its core.

He had no idea any of this existed.

She lays a hand over his, licks her lips, and that alone pushes a moan through him. Her mouth. Fuck, her mouth.

Other ways in which he might have that. Take it. Jesus.

"Let me," she whispers, and his hand drops away as hers takes its place.

He watched her in the storage shed when she cornered him. He watched her slip her fingers into his fly and pull him out, stroke him, explore him, discover how she could touch him to absolutely undo him. But this feels even more like exploring than that time did - how she touches him, curls her hand around him and just holds him, clenches just a bit to feel him throb, almost twitching against her palm. She strokes him with both hands, runs her fingers over him, glides over his skin, travels slowly up to the head and down to the base again. Like before she seems fascinated by his balls, grazing her fingertips over them, weighing them, squeezing them gently, and it's all he can do to keep himself upright, all he can do to keep his eyes open.

He wants to. He needs to see this. He doesn't think it's very likely that anyone else will ever touch him this way.

He doesn't think it's very likely that he would ever want them to.

She slides her fingers back up and tugs carefully at his foreskin, her eyes widening slightly when she pulls it back and reveals the head - dark and glistening. She just looks at it for a moment, still pulling lightly at him, then flicks her gaze up to his face, lips curved.

"It's kinda ridiculous," she says softly, and he laughs. He can't help it. He drops his head forward between his shoulders and laughs at himself, because she's right, because it's ridiculous, sex is ridiculous, everything is ridiculous, and everything is so wonderful.

"This is what everyone makes this big thing outta," she continues, musingly now, and gives him a firm enough stroke that all his laughter deepens into a groan. She's still looking up at him, still smiling, and now there's something mischievous about it.

Something almost wicked.

"It's beautiful," she murmurs, and strokes him again, firm and steady. The exploring seems to be done; now she's all direct intention.

"Beth..."

Her voice drops to a whisper. "You're beautiful."

"Stop," he manages, but it's nothing more than a whimper, his head finally falling back and his eyes closing, losing himself in the motions of her hand, trying to brace himself up on his thighs. He feels her free hand closing over his, turns it without meaning to, and their fingers thread.

"You are," she's saying - Christ, he can barely listen to her. She's relentless. Everything she's doing to him is completely relentless. He should be worshipping her, even if she's no goddess, because she's something much more fearsome. "You're beautiful, Daryl. You are. You are." Almost in time with the rotations of her wrist, and he whimpers again, tries to keep from rocking forward, gives up and does it and starts to fuck her fist.

And shit, she's still talking. Murmuring. Like her voice - that clear, sweet, perfect voice - is an extension of her fingers. Reaching into him and stroking him until he falls apart.

"C'mon, Daryl. Yeah... C'mon, I wanna see it. I wanna see you come, please, I want-"

Like in the barn he tries to warn her. Why, he's not even sure, except that it feels vaguely like something he should do, but she wanted him here, she asked him, she said she wanted to see, and he hears her gasp and feels her fingers tighten in his as her name wrenches out of him and he shudders in hard waves, and opens his eyes in time to see himself spilling all over her hand and running down her wrist, spattering onto her breasts in shining drops and strands.

And all he can do is breathe. Or try. He's not having the best luck, though he's still clutching her hand and somehow that's steadying. Grounding.

He's drifting but he's here.

"Daryl," she whispers, and he swallows, shudders again - with his own aftershock or with something else, or some combination of any number of things - and eventually, carefully, he lifts himself off her and falls against her side.

He can't say anything. Fortunately she doesn't seem to expect him to. When he can focus on her she's sliding her fingers through the streaks of come on her breasts and lifting them to her mouth, and the world blurs away.

When he comes back she's turned toward him, arm slung over his waist and one leg between his, and her eyes are closed and her face is half sunlit, her hair damp and tumbled over her shoulder, her body rising and falling so slow. So relaxed she might be sleeping.

Maybe she is.

He slides an arm under his head and just looks at her for a while, looks at her in that way he loves - when she doesn't know he's watching, when she's completely unaware. He trails his fingertips up her arm, across her collarbone, along the line of her neck - lifting strands of hair out of the way - and she murmurs and stirs but doesn't open her eyes.

He can smell her. He can smell her sweat, the faintest hint of the shampoo she used, and he can smell her cunt, and he can smell himself. They're covered in each other.

She said she wanted to wait, and they are, and he will, for as long as she wants. As long as she needs. But he's not about to kid himself. Not in the slightest.

They're fucking. Even if they're not.

I love you, girl. He might almost say it, leaning close, his lips moving against her brow. He might come close to figuring it out, to loosening that knot in his throat that keeps it all back, crowds it into his chest, too much to escape him. Caged in his ribs. He might teach himself how to say what no one ever taught him.

He might.