Beth finds him out in the woods.
He's not sure how long he's been here, behind the camp house. He couldn't stay inside. There's too much movement in the walls, too many bodies, packing, preparing to leave as soon as possible. Carol wantin' to fuss over him, everybody's concern. The same questions over and over. What happened? Are you okay? Who? Where?
It was too fuckin' much.
They made it back, though, even with the fuel gauge on E. That's the important part. They rode fumes and cruised in neutral down hills for miles, till he got Beth back with the others. In a better situation.
Everything is still off, faraway. But he's stopped shaking enough to get a cig lit, a little flattened in the fight. His hand hurts. So does his head and neck, the whole inside of his throat. But it's life. Pain means alive.
He smokes, sat against the roots of a tree, watching a bird in the branches above him groom its feathers in the cool sunlight still glaring down. It all feels distant, even Beth's tired tread dragging through the leaves, louder than usual. It feels somewhere he can't quite reach.
She stops near him.
"Will you come with me?" She asks, quiet enough that the bird doesn't startle. "I gotta wash."
She's got an old, square tupperware container in one limp hand, a nub of well-used soap in it. Glenn's coat swallows her up some, but doesn't hide the grime and blood. Her tone is flat, still not her. But more her than when they were in the car.
He clears his throat, rough sandpaper scraping. "Where's your sister-"
Her muted voice interrupts him before he can finish. "Will you come, please?"
Daryl really looks at her, blinking a few times to gather himself. Still a mess, her hair that dark nest, dried blood down her face, splattered on her neck and flannel. Her hands are streaked. There's a bruised egg on her hairline, the skin split. She's still pallid and wan. She looks like he hadn't kept her safe.
Still. She's come here. She's askin'.
He thinks of the cop's oversized hands gripping the side of her face. Her secret little blade going into his head. Hidden in her boot the whole time, he only realizes now. He thinks of her thigh quaking under his hand. Her voice, from another fucked up time, shouting distantly, I won't leave you!
He exhales slowly through his swollen windpipe, staring, and thinks of demanding, Come to me for this.
He nods slowly, and puts the cigarette out on the bark. He gets to his feet, swinging the crossbow on over his back. They walk in silence. Seems pointless to ask her if she's alright if he really isn't that alright. They go to the small creek, in the woods. It ain't much more than a few culverts diverting water between houses, but it was enough to be useful for now.
They'd be leaving anyway, soon as they could. Doesn't matter if it dries up tomorrow. Doesn't matter if this whole place burns up tomorrow.
He's not really sure what to do once they get there. It's calm in the small woods, no walkers, good thing. He could probably handle it if some came, but it wouldn't be pretty. He settles against another tree, the bow against his thigh. The sun shimmers through the leaves, flaring in his eyes.
She tries to pry her hair-tie out of her ponytail, but it won't work free. It's so wound in the matted strands, she can only pull till the elastic snaps. She sighs, tossing the rubber away. She slides Glenn's coat off her shoulders and tosses it to the ground near him. He looks away when her shirts join it and she plunges her hands into the water.
Her back shines in the edge of his vision, very white in daylight, the bruises dark. It's hard to ignore, she stands out in the browns and olive greens. She muffles a sharp gasp when the cold water hits her scalp and neck for the first time. She moves quickly, dumping water over her head. The only sounds are Beth, the water and birdsong.
He can't remember the name of the bird that went with the song. Warbler? Thrush? The names flit out of reach.
He tries to center himself with air. Each inhale hurts, each one wheezes.
"Daryl?" She breaks into the dissociation he'd been drifting in. Trying not to remember before. Trying to recall what that damn bird's name is.
He turns back to her. She's got one knee planted in the gravel and leaves, leaning over the little brook. He knows he shouldn't be looking at her topless– again– but he can't make himself care this time. Her jeans are held up by her thick belt, but low, very low on her hips. She's still got her bra on, but it's threadbare and pale as her. She empties the container over her, water falling over her shoulders.
"Huh?" He grunts, clearing his throat again. Feels terrible. Her hair is mostly wet, but the tangled mass still resists, like an old dog's coat. She dumps another tupperware-full of water on it.
"Can you help?" She asks. "I don't wanna take forever."
When he doesn't move, she says, "Please, I needta get it off," in a way that he could almost describe as begging. Like the panic's about to break through her shock. Like the thought of that tacky red blood on her hands is what's too much for her.
This is all somethin' someone else should be helping with, but he leans the bow against the tree and goes to her. She's scrubbing her hair with the soap nub, so he fills the tupperware.
"Gonna be cold," he warns, even though she already knows.
"It's fine," she replies dully. Back to detached. One step to the side of reality, like he feels.
He does as she asks, pouring water till her hair's fully soaked. He takes the soap from her and scours the worst spots and what she hadn't yet reached. He is especially careful around the egg. He finds another, smaller bump near the back of her head, too. She flinches a little when he first touches it, but says nothing. He wipes the dried blood from her hairline with soapy fingertips. Then her forehead, the side of her cheek, the back of her neck. Eyes closed, she unfurls knots with her fingers.
He'd only ever done something like this once. Sometime before the house fire. He don't know how old he was, but he remembers the bruises and scrapes on his mother, her face and arms. The smell of stale wine and vomit in her hair. Her pitiful, drunk weeping. One real bad night. He'd done his best to rinse the sick from her, knelt over the bathtub.
He doesn't remember where Merle was then, if he'd ever known. Or his pops. Maybe just passed out in his chair.
He doesn't wanna think about any of them right now. This is a whole lifetime from that.
He washes the memory away with another bowlful of water.
This feels surreal, all of it, but he's glad she's given him reason to touch her. It's gravity pulling him slowly back to Earth, sucking him back into his skin. Don't even matter his hand is throbbing– the cold water kinda helps– and the silk around his fingers is soft, strong, a real detail he can focus on. The sunlight still looks too bright, he's not that sure-handed chasing the soap from her curls, but it's almost nice. Kinda comforting.
They work fast though. Her shoulders, arms and back are all goosebumps. She shivers through the rinse.
"Here," he says, holding her wrist, helping her stand again.
"Wring it out," he orders, and he means for her to do it, but she's trembling-cold and he finds his hands doing it anyway. When she leans back over, he squeezes the water out the ends of her hair.
"Alrigh'," he mumbles, releasing her, and she straightens.
But she doesn't turn away, doesn't go for her clothes. She's close, and far too undressed. Again. Her bra was definitely white once, but now it's graying and dingy. Wet, too, and thin, her nipples hard in the cold. He can almost see their color through the fabric. Water drips from her hair and her chin, her chilled shoulders shake gently.
She's delicate, so fine, for what she'd done earlier.
Daryl sucks in a rough breath to say her name. It never comes out. The sun catches her blue eyes at just the right angle, reflecting off the iris strangely, making them ghostly. It shuts him up. She's staring at his neck.
She steps a little closer, the leaves rustling quiet underfoot, and he should step back, but he doesn't. He's caught in the otherworldly picture she is, in this weird waking dream. She grabs ahold of his coat's sleeve, steadying herself on his arm. Her other cold hand touches his cheek again, like she did at that traphouse, trying to get him up off the floor.
"I got blood on you," She murmurs, her damp fingertips brushing at him. Pointless, since he's covered in days– weeks, probably– worth of shit. She leans in closer, gently wiping at his cheekbone, the scruff of his beard, near the corner of his mouth.
Daryl lets her, taking a long, deep breath.
He's crashing back into himself in fits and bursts. His palm on her bare elbow. Her body- cold and hot somehow- shuddering in the brisk air. Her hand dropping from his face to fist in his shirt. The water pooling in her collarbone. The smell of the plain soap. Her breath warm on his chin when she tilts her head. Her wet cheek brushes against his.
All his blood starts to pump again finally. Feels like the first time since he heard the engine growl. His heart punches inside his chest, pounding hard against his breastbone.
"Hey," he whispers, and he's sure he's gonna stop this, gonna say something, gonna push her away by her elbow. Tell her she ain't gotta do this. That they should go back to the house. That she should put her fuckin' shirt on. That he doesn't want to be thanked like this or thanked at all. Ever.
He knows what's coming, even while wondering if this is just another weird fuckin' dream, and he'll wake up disoriented and turned on and pissed off.
She waits, giving him plenty of time to pull away or shove her back. Her inhale is stilted, but when nothing else comes out his mouth, she skims her cheek against his one more time, scratching her skin against his beard. He turns to her.
He can't help it, the temptation it is.
It's enough: she kisses him.
Tentative, apprehensive, soft. Waiting to see if he'll jerk away. Testing the water. Dripping water all over his coat and shirt.
He's not sure if he will or not, till he doesn't. He lets it happen. He can feel her shivers against places that make him feel jittery too. He inhales her breath, staggered by the hard rush of arousal, sudden and so human, so animal. A real-body feeling he isn't accustomed to anymore. Mixed all up with rage still, and fear, and the adrenaline comedown, a miserable churning ice cream inside him– and such fucking stark relief that she's alright, considering. Still here, still breathing, still feeling the cold. Safe for now, and alive. And with him.
It almost overwhelms him.
For a moment, she breaks away and meets his eyes. She draws in another shaky breath.
Whatever she sees, she puts her mouth back on his, not so much asking permission this time but still light, still feathery. Her boot knocks into his when she steps in closer, a jolt too real to be an hallucination. She bumps against his stomach.
He lets himself kiss her back now, cause it feels more concrete, realer, than everything else. He scrunches the hair at the back of her neck in a fist, so his hand doesn't go elsewhere. Forcing himself to stay easy, let her do as she pleases, just moving with her. He resists rawer impulses closer get closer, shit he shouldn't wanna do pull her head back open her up taste inside her, shit he hasn't thought about doing in years touch touch touch while you can-
He wants to convince himself she's fine and whole with his hands; he stays white-knuckled on his control. Barely holding it together.
It's solid, grounding, but a dream-like quality persists– the tranquil sounds of water trickling, the birds singing, the harsh sun, their breathing. He sucks in another sharp breath with her lips still on his, taking her air again. He's partway in his body, in the small details: the way her lips feel, cold and wet and coaxing, her hands grasping at him, her belt buckle clacking against his. Her bare skin so close, rubbing against his clothes. He's hot under his coat.
She presses her tongue to his bottom lip, gentle. Another questioning touch that he don't expect. It shoots sensation rough down his body– jarring but good. A strangled sound like a moan in the back of his throat hurts his voice box.
She hums in response– it sounds like approval. Like encouragement. Like pleasure. Swallowing the sound makes his whole body shudder. She shifts against his hard-on; he draws her cold body closer by the elbow, gives in to gently pulling her hair till she tips her head back further. She licks his lip again, a tantalizing touch.
Her fingertips graze his neck– and for a scary moment, he feels too-large hands crushing around him. The memory slams back into him viscerally. He jerks back thoughtlessly. It pops the strange bubble he's in.
Reality starts to join them.
He leans his head back a bit more, still holding her in place by her dripping curls. She is far too pretty for him, icy and pale, her lips very pink now. She waits for him with an unabashed expression his body understands far better than his brain does.
He draws in another loud breath. He's too fucked up– desperate and scared– to act on that look she's giving him. He knows it.
"Are you okay?" She whispers, her hand resting on his ribs gingerly inside his jacket. She stays right there where he holds her, head back, half-dressed and trembling.
"Yeah," he whispers back, but he ain't really stopping to think about it. Doesn't wanna think about the painful parts of his body right now, or why it is.
He allows himself one more thing. He untangles from her hair, and trails his hand down her back while she's still leaning into him. Over the fabric of her bra, down her spine- the wet skin drags against his callouses- to her belt. She licks her lips, then scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip.
It's hard to squash it all down, but he can't keep on. There's no way in hell it'll stay so innocent if they keep toeing the line– it already wasn't that innocent– testing his goddamn resolve. It wouldn't take much.
He didn't wanna give her all of the trainwreck inside him. He couldn't just let her take what she needs, not right now.
"You're freezin'," he mutters, before stooping to grab her shirts off the ground. Daryl hands her the radio station shirt and shakes out the leaves sticking to the flannel, trying not to openly stare at her flat stomach. When she's got her tee on, he holds the long-sleeve up behind her, so she can put her arms in. He lets her button it, scooping up Glenn's jacket to pass her.
Looking down at her numb fingers, struggling to get another button in a hole, she says, "I just got this stupid shirt."