A/N: Forgive me for any editing errors – I have been writing nonstop all day between this and the other story I recently published as well as the super-delayed next chapter of prevaricate. This is a one shot bethyl canon divergence fic, set in season 4 episode 12 ("still") and containing dialogue from various other episodes. Warnings for language, smut, slapping (non-sexual), beth's sharp teeth, daryl's grumpy ass.

Reviews are always appreciated as is anyone who is reading (or even considering reading).

xx

you may be a sinner (but your innocence is mine)

Beth put the bottle of peach schnapps back down on the bar without even bringing her lips to its brim. She couldn't fight the tears away this time. No matter how many times she insisted that she didn't cry anymore. She let the sobs wrack through her body, each one punctuated by the sound of the darts Daryl was still throwing as they pierced the board or the wall or whatever the hell he was throwing them at.

She tried to cry quietly. This had been her idea in the first place; they'd come here at her child-like insistence. To find a damn drink. And now she couldn't even make herself take a damn drink.

She saw from the corner of her eye that Daryl had stilled and turned his head toward her. And then he was stalking over toward her, and she really didn't want his pity.

"Hope it was worth it," he sneered.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" She snapped. And the remainder of the tears that'd been forming in the wells of her eyes had dried up. Ceased to exist.

"You dragged us here. Wanted your damn drink. So fuckin' take it." He grabbed the abandoned bottle from the surface of the bar and shoved it at her chest.

She shook her head, eyes wide at Daryl's sudden outburst – at his sudden interest in initiating a conversation, if that's what this was. Because he'd been mostly an infuriatingly silent and unwilling companion since they'd escaped the prison together.

"You fuckin' kiddin' me?" He huffed a breath in her face. She tipped her chin upward in some kind of defiance and didn't respond.

He suddenly yanked the bottle from her loose grasp, brought it to his mouth, and took a long pull.

And then he roughly shoved it back at her.

"Take a fuckin' drink, Beth."

"Fuck you," she spat. "Can't force me."

"Fuck me?" Both the pitch and volume of his voice increased as he shoved the crossbow from his back in one smooth movement and stepped closer to her, closer to where she still sat on the barstool with her arms folded across her chest.

"What, can't hear? Fuck. You." She repeated her curse slowly and with deliberate enunciation of each syllable of each word, letting a little venom leak from her heart to her voice. And it felt good. To release this. Her frustration, her despair, her blinding fucking anger.

"Spoiled little bitch." He almost growled the words in her face, and it caused her pulse to quicken.

"And you're a bitter, closed-off asshole." She twisted her body around in the seat, shoving her face closer to his. And she was seething. Not necessarily because of the name he'd called her. But because of everything and everyone they'd lost.

"Yeah? Then why don't you do us both a favor an' go on, get the hell outta here?" He challenged.

And Beth was mesmerized by the slow trail of a sweat bead rolling down the side of his face as he gripped the bottle away from her, tipped his head back, and took another loud drink.

She wrenched the bottle from his hands, meeting a little bit of his resistance as she did. But he let her take it. And she could feel him watching her as she downed the remainder of the bottle's contents.

She slammed the bottle down on the bar. Wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. And she kept her eyes on him, watched the muscles of his jaw clench and release in an uneven pattern, the sharp angles of his cold narrowed eyes and the hard, angry line of his mouth.

"Happy, Mr. Dixon?" She ignored the biting sting she felt as the liquid slid down the distal end of her esophagus and landed deep inside of her empty stomach.

"Happy? Can't remember the last time I's happy, but I sure as hell ain't been since I got stuck babysittin' you."

His eyes were piercing hers, blue on blue. His – hard and knowing and weathered and tired. Hers – curious and challenging and energized by the small amount of liquor she'd consumed.

She reared back her arm, preparing to smack that smug fucking look off of his face. And she couldn't wait to feel the sting in her palm.

And inches before her palm connected with his cheek, he reached a hand up and latched it around her wrist, stopping her.

He was breathing hard as he pulled her arm and yanked her off of the barstool and onto her feet.

He kept his grip hard and firm around her wrist, and, yeah, it hurt. But she almost liked it. The feeling of pain was better than any other alternative at the moment.

He pulled her forward by the wrist, ducking his head down so that his face was inches from hers as he spoke.

"Don't ever fuckin' try that again," he breathed, and his voice sounded like sandpaper and Beth was suddenly struck with the longing to rub herself up against it - or him, maybe; she wasn't sure - like a cat.

"Don't tell me what to do," she retorted, voice tight. "I'm not a fuckin' child, Daryl."

"Then don't fuckin' act like one," he sneered, face still close to hers.

Beth suddenly felt a little dizzy, a little heated, and she wondered if the alcohol was pumping through her blood now and circulating to all of her organs. But she found that she almost liked it, this vertiginous sensation, too.

"You are such a prick," she finally responded when she was able to drag her attention away from the dizziness.

She started to turn away – no clear idea or thought as to what her next move might be – but he was still gripping her wrist. And even when she tried to struggle, to wriggle free, he wouldn't let go.

"Let the fuck go, Daryl," she said, enunciating each word separately, as if they were each one thought independent and separate and different from the next.

"No. Not gonna fuckin' chase your ass again." His voice was low. He tightened his grip.

"Let me go," she repeated, a little louder, as she brought her other hand up to claw and pinch at the skin overlying his hand. And she almost laughed at the faded image of Maggie and her clawing at each other's scalps when they were children that suddenly passed through her scattered thoughts.

She struggled for a moment or two longer before she realized he wasn't going to let up.

And that pissed her off. Because in what way was she acting like the child here – or at least the only child?

So she simultaneously surged forward and hoisted the weight of her body up onto the tips of her toes, fast and sudden, and sunk her teeth into the flesh on the side of his neck.

And she didn't put much thought into where she'd bit him, though her attention had been drawn to that particular area as the sweat dripped down over it, accentuating the pulse point created by the flow of his blood through his carotid artery.

To her surprise, he didn't release her wrist. In fact, it felt to Beth like he was gripping her harder.

And his other hand came up to the expanse of skin between her opposite shoulder and side of her neck, and he pinched the skin there momentarily before his thumb ascended the column of her neck and slid roughly down the side of her jaw. The length of their bodies were pressed together from chest to pelvis, and she felt a subtle - and likely involuntary - jerk of his hips into hers.

She felt him shaking. She felt herself shaking. And she didn't know what the fuck was happening.

"Fuck, you fuckin' bitch," he breathed, and the words trailed out and danced along his rough exhale, slowly and in a way that Beth felt everywhere – in the space behind her wide eyes and between her thighs and low in her belly.

And his voice hadn't sounded angry when he'd spoken. Not at all.

She felt him gradually release his grip on her wrist and so she instantly relaxed her jaws, releasing his skin from her teeth. He kept his other hand firmly against her neck. And then, after she'd given herself a few fractions of a minute to dampen her wild thoughts, she backed up just slightly, just enough so that she could see his face.

And the anger was still there in his eyes, but it had taken on a different shape. A different form.

She swallowed and felt the friction between the skin of his hand against her neck and the muscles that controlled her throat.

He brought his free hand up to graze over the spot on his neck where Beth's teeth had been firmly secured just moments earlier. He swiped at the spot, keeping his other hand against her neck, and Beth could see the thin streak of red that he'd collected on his fingers.

And when her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, she tasted thick copper.

"Oh shit," she breathed. "Daryl, I – I'm sorry."

He snapped his eyes from his bloodied hand to her face.

Beth did her best to disregard the indecipherable look swelling behind the ice of his eyes.

"Let me see it." She reached a hand up to his face, intending to turn it to the side so that she could visualize the wound she'd created. And she suddenly wanted to cry in shame, because she'd likely created yet another scar to brand his skin.

"'S fine," he grumbled, smacking her hand away and releasing his own from her neck.

"Stop it, Daryl. Let me look at the fuckin' thing."

"Ain't my fuckin' keeper, girl." He backed up a few steps and the desperate anger radiated from his entire body.

"No shit," she said loudly with an air of exasperation, "not tryin' to be. Just tryin' to make sure my family member doesn't get a ragin' infection because of somethin' that I did!" She stepped towards him and he continued to propel himself backwards in half-steps.

"The fuck's it matter? Gonna die anyway."

He stopped his retreat so quickly that Beth didn't have time to realize it and she was suddenly smashed up against the solid wall of his body. He grunted – and it sounded vaguely irritated – but his arms shot up quickly, instinctually maybe, and circled her waist.

And she was hit with the overwhelming scent of him – blood and smoke and leather and earth.

She took advantage of the position that they were in and gently but firmly turned his head to the side, eyeing the wound.

It wasn't bad. Wouldn't require stitches. Would probably scab up fairly quickly, and, if the world hadn't gone to shit, it'd probably look something like a hickey.

And that thought caused a visible shiver to overtake her trunk and her limbs.

She could feel his hands, which were still wrapped around her middle, begin to shove at her as he attempted to disentangle their bodies. And, for some reason unbeknownst to her, that seemed even more intolerable than if she hadn't escaped the prison at all.

On an impulse, she pushed herself further into his body and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, angling his body down toward hers.

She tried to control her breathing as she abided by some magnetic force that she couldn't even begin to comprehend that drove her to press her lips, softly, against his neck. Against the wound.

His entire body stiffened when her lips made contact with his skin. She kissed the skin gently, and it was an apology. A white flag.

Her breath was hot and it occupied the space between her face and his skin, and she could feel his fingers digging into either side of her waist. There was a distinct force behind his grip, but she couldn't discern whether he was pushing her away or pulling her closer or holding her in place.

"We aren't dead yet," she whispered directly into the canal of his ear, and she almost didn't recognize the thickness of her own voice.

"Beth – " he started in a strangled, quiet voice, "don't."

She shook her head and felt the wispy ends of her tangled ponytail as they brushed across his skin. This was what she needed – a distraction, a connection – and she would've ventured to guess that, deep down, he needed it too.

But Daryl Dixon didn't need jack shit. Or it'd be a cold day in hell if he ever actually admitted that he needed something. Especially this, whatever this was or might become.

So she wasn't surprised when she felt one of his hands leave her waist and burrow into her hair. She didn't cry out when she felt the strength of his fingers gripping at the roots of her hair, when he pulled her head back and away from where it'd been nestled against his skin with his grip.

She was surprised that he didn't toss her completely off of and away from him. Her breath caught in her throat when he held her head in place and directly in front of his. And his eyes looked different somehow. Darker, maybe, and akin to two kaleidoscopes of emotion that never stopped morphing into something new.

"The fuck you doin'?"

"I – I don't know," she stammered a little and she was admittedly feeling nervous and embarrassed, but the heat that seemed to suddenly rise and engulf her insides was far more prominent than anything else she was feeling in that particular moment. And it made her braver.

"Need somethin'," she said in a voice that was suddenly more breathless than it had been. "I don't know, Daryl, I just feel like I need somethin'. And when I was close to you, like that, I felt a little less empty. World felt a little less shitty."

He narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, earlier you needed a damn drink. 'Member that?"

"No, actually, I'd forgotten. Thanks for bringin' it up," she snarked. And the heat inside of her transitioned from a bonfire to a house fire.

"Well, just thought I'd point out the obvious to ya, girl. Don't have a fuckin' clue what ya need. Ain't gonna let ya blame me for lettin' ya make stupid ass mistakes."

House fire to forest fire.

"Lettin' me? You ain't my fuckin' keeper, neither, Daryl. And don't you go assumin' that you even think you know what I need or want. I can make my own fuckin' mistakes – and maybe mistakes to you mean somethin' else entirely to me."

Daryl snorted and stepped back towards her, and here they were again. In this odd limbo of physical proximity and emotional opposition painted in anger.

"Really wanna sit here and talk 'bout the meanin' of words, Beth? Jesus fuckin' Christ – don't you get it? Everyone we know is dead." Daryl's voice was louder than Beth ever remembered hearing it. His face was slick with sweat and his veins were engorged with the nearly-visible rush of his blood.

Forest fire to world fire.

"You don't know that!" Her voice cracked under the force of the breath she used to create the words she screamed back at him.

"Might as well, 'cause you ain't never gonna see 'em again. Ain't never gonna see Maggie again. Or Rick. Judith. How's that make ya feel, Beth? Make ya feel like ya need somethin'?"

"Stop it, Daryl. Shut the fuck up! Just stop!"

"No. This is what you need, spoiled little princess. Reality check. You're gonna die too 'less you learn how to fuckin' defend yourself. We get separated 'cause you feel like you need somethin', you'll be walker lunch or human lunch or just another fuckin' dead girl."

"So help me!" She couldn't stop the hot tears that spilled from her eyes as she pleaded with him. Because, on some level, she knew he was right.

"Help me, Daryl."

"You're - you distract me. I can't fuckin' protect you. Can't protect no one but 'specially not you. And you fucked it up even more. Fuck."

He was like a crazed, wild animal pacing back and forth across the floor of the former country club. He picked up one of the bar stools and proceeded to swing it behind his shoulders and then loudly into the side of the bar, as if it weighed mere ounces. Wooden shards flew across the room.

Beth started to approach him – cautiously, because she wasn't sure about the stability of his current state of mind – but stopped in her tracks when she heard the familiar gurgle – no, gurgles – of the undead. They were quiet and muffled at first but became louder within minutes, as did the sounds of their shuffling feet against the floor and the objects in their path.

Beth turned toward the large gaping hole in the wall of the country club across the room from the bar in which she and Daryl stood.

She sucked in a breath and tried to count the walkers that were slowly but surely approaching them. She lost count at eight, because suddenly Daryl's body was directly behind hers. He circled an arm across her chest and yanked her backwards until they were both behind the bar.

"Gonna teach ya how to shoot, Greene." He clearly hadn't calmed down much. He was quickly nocking his crossbow, mumbling to himself.

"I don't think this is the best time for an introductory course, Daryl - " Beth started.

"Ain't ever gonna be a best time. Here." He positioned himself behind where she was slightly crouched, placing the shaft of the bow in her hands. It was heavier than she'd anticipated.

"I don't know how to shoot this! This is stupid."

"Shut your mouth and listen. A'right, point the bow at the first son of a bitch ya see."

She tilted the bow toward the walker that was leading the horde toward them.

"Good. Find his fuckin' head and tip it upward just a li'l bit further – yeah, there. Keep both your eyes open. Wait for his stupid ass to quit trippin' over every goddamn crack in the floor and when ya got as clear a shot as you're gonna get, pull this here trigger."

He cupped a palm over the back of her hand, guiding it to the trigger. Her heart was pounding rapidly in her chest as she struggled to keep her eyes open and remain calm and still enough that the bow didn't shake like her body felt like it was.

"C'mon, Greene. He ain't gotta be five fuckin' feet away. Just take the first decent shot ya got."

She huffed a breath and fought the urge to jerk her head backwards and crack him in the face with her skull.

A few seconds later, she curled her index finger around the trigger and held her breath as the arrow flew through the air.

It hit the bumbling walker, but it hadn't been a headshot. Wouldn't kill him.

Daryl yanked the bow from her and stood up while simultaneously nocking the next arrow in one fluid motion.

Less than a minute and a half later, all ten of the walkers were dead – for the final time.

Daryl was breathing heavily and she saw him place the crossbow on the counter in front of them in her periphery.

And at least she gave him that much courtesy.

She whirled around, pissed and scared and shaking and mostly just pissed, and this time she was quicker. And she wasn't quite sure where these violent tendencies were originating from – except for him. And the crumbling world that surrounded them.

She channeled her rage into the swing of her arm and her palm connected sweetly and neatly with the side of his face.

His face turned to the side with the force of her hand, and they both froze for a moment.

Beth was shocked at herself, at the stinging in her palm.

But she couldn't help it when the ends of her lips curled slightly into a small smile.

Daryl rotated his head slowly. And Beth could've sworn she saw his nostrils flaring from the force of his exhales.

And, as they were suspended there in time and space, she didn't even try to deny the thrilling wave of energy that broke free and crept up from the base of her spine to the top of her scalp.

He stepped toward her, anger evident on his face.

She backed away – not in fear, because the truth was that she felt more excited than anything and she didn't even have time to consider how fucked up that was – but was only able to take a few steps before her ass collided with the edge of the bar.

He pressed his body close to hers, and it was a heady thing, because he certainly wasn't one for proximity if he could help it.

"Told you not to even fuckin' try doin' that again." His voice was low. Animalistic. His arms shot out from his sides and he slammed the palms of his hands into the edge of the bar on either side of Beth's torso, corralling her. Trapping her.

"Anythin' to say?" He asked.

She wanted to spit in his face and grab him by the sides of his head and turn it from side to side as fast as she could so that he could experience to some extent the volatility that she'd been experiencing since becoming his travel companion. The only other person – that they knew of, at least – who was also a living person.

"If you think I'm gonna apologize, you're insane," she said.

"The fuck d'ya want from me? Huh? Ya've already led me all over lookin' for a fuckin' drink that I practically had to force down your throat, fought with me, bitch slapped me, fuckin' bit me –"

"Don't act like you didn't like it." There. She slaughtered the elephant.

"What's got you thinkin' that I liked it? And you're callin' me fuckin' insane? That what you think of me? That I'm some – some fuckin' dirty old man that likes fuckin' around with little girls?"

"I am not a little girl. I am not a child. Wouldn't be if the world hadn't ended and I definitely ain't now. And I know you liked it. Felt you shakin', same as me. 'Least I can admit it." Beth leaned her weight back into the bar and let her arms fall down by her sides.

She sighed and dropped her eyes from his. She was exhausted from her feeble attempts at figuring out his thoughts. At navigating through them for him. She started to move away from where he'd cornered her.

But his arm left the bar and moved toward her quickly but without any discernible confidence that she could detect.

And then his hand, clumsy but rough, was on the sharp bones of her hip. Digging into her skin underneath her clothes. Anchoring himself.

And his other hand gripped her mandible on one side of her face. Before she could form a coherent thought, his mouth was on hers.

World fire to the beautiful depths of some kind of hell.

His mouth was hesitant, but hers opened up, embracing the contact, as if she were preparing to sing what had once been her most favorite hymn or recite the fucking lord's prayer while groveling at his feet.

She parted her lips and finally felt him there, felt the insistence of his tongue along hers. And she didn't know anything. Couldn't think anything. Nothing. Nothing except for the warmth of his mouth and his body and his hands – hands that could save her or hurt her or kill her or kill for her and make her scream her own name or make her scream his name – on her hip and on her face. The quiet, muffled groans he was releasing into her mouth. The squelching of their wet lips and of their saliva mixing. The throbbing ache at the apex of her thighs and the pounding of her heart beneath her sternum.

Both of his hands were on her hips, then, and he was lifting her up onto the bar. She parted her legs – and that was almost painful because the need for some kind of friction was slowly consuming her – and he stepped in between them immediately. Her higher position, up on the bar, enabled their faces to be level. Allowed them to be equals.

Beth caught sight of the bite marks she'd left on his neck earlier and she flexed her spine so that she could dip her head and drag her lips across his skin there. So that she could drag her tongue across the broken flesh. The flesh she'd broken.

One of his hands was pressed firmly into the back of her head, causing her to lick and kiss the spot more roughly. More urgently, even, because she could hear him. The sounds he was making. Beth hadn't been the most experienced young woman before the world ended, but she certainly wasn't a virgin by any version of the definition.

But the sounds he was making and the heat that seemed to travel from his nerve endings to hers via some impossible channel of energy and the ache and urgency that she was feeling all the way down to her fucking bones was making her feel like she hadn't experienced a damn thing in her former life.

She scooted her ass closer to the edge of the bar, because she needed something to dull the ache between her legs. And Daryl clearly seemed to receive the message, because he pressed his palms firmly into her ass and pulled her as close as humanly possible to him – and the contact between her core and the hardness she felt underneath his dirty jeans made her sob loudly into his neck.

Daryl's mouth was everywhere – gliding over the expanse of the skin overlying her chest that was revealed by the cut of her tank top, trailing hotly along her neck, her face, her ear, her shoulders, her arms and hands and fingers. And she couldn't do much besides silently beg him to make her feel good – to make himself feel good with her body.

Beth worked her hands down the ridges of his muscled chest and middle to the top of his jeans and started to fumble with the belt buckle while she struggled to breathe.

She finally unbuckled the clasp of the belt and she wasted no time – because, despite what he may've wanted to believe, she knew him – in snaking a hand down into his pants, through the coarse patch of hair covering his pubic area to his cock.

"Fuck," he hissed when she wrapped a hand around him. He snapped his head back and made to grab her arm – as Beth had suspected he'd do.

She gripped him more firmly and pumped her hand along his length as best she could considering the tight space of his jeans in which she was maneuvering.

It was everything she'd always imagined it'd be. He was. As hard and thick and velvety as he was strong and loyal and stubborn as hell.

His lower jaw went slack and he gripped her thighs – hard – as she pumped her hand up and down a few more times.

And suddenly something snapped – his restraint, maybe. Because he was moving her hand away from him with actual force and working one of his own hands into her jeans before she even knew what was happening.

"Oh, shit." He breathed the words through gritted teeth when she knew he felt her – the heat and wet of her cunt. Her underwear was soaked and her inner thighs were coated in it.

"Please touch me." The words were mostly in the form of a needy moan as she spoke them. But she needed. God, she needed.

He slipped a finger inside of her, clenching his jaw tightly as he did, and then stilled. He exhaled heavily and leaned his forehead against hers.

"I want you to," she urged him, rocking her hips slightly.

He moved his head back and winced a little at her words – in pain or nearly-intolerable pleasure, she wasn't quite sure.

And, finally, he started moving. Thrusting his thick finger in and out of her and they were moaning in unison, almost, she somehow realized through the fog of her mind.

She rocked her hips in rhythm with his movements and he'd only just barely put pressure on her clit when she came so suddenly and so forcefully that she saw stars and twinkling flashes of light through her tunneled vision. He rode it out with her, gradually slowing the movements of his fingers as she came down.

"Oh god," she choked out, trying like hell to inhale enough oxygen to her brain so that her vision would normalize itself.

Daryl pulled his hand from her pants and had started to back away when Beth grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward her.

Wordlessly, she sucked the finger that he'd had buried deep inside of her into her mouth, licking him clean of the bittersweet taste of her.

He made a sound low in his throat that seemed to vibrate out from his chest as he watched her.

"Ain't fuckin' you." His voice was hoarse. Thick. And his cock was hard against her thigh.

She stopped her ministrations on his finger. "Why? I want you to. I want you. And you want me."

He was striking the match.

"I'm good," he said, not meeting her eyes.

"Fine. I'll just suck it, then," she said, hopping off of the bar and shoving him backward in the process. And though she wasn't sure from where her sudden impertinence had come, she was reveling in it.

"Think you can just go 'round suckin' dicks whether the owner of 'em wants ya to or not? Ain't how it works."

"Are you fuckin' joking, Daryl? Why're you so afraid to admit it?"

"Ain't afraid of nothin'." His voice had hardened and grown distant.

"'Cept this. 'Cept doin' somethin' just 'cause you want to. 'Cause it feels good."

"Only feels good when it's happenin'."

"What doesn't? Especially now? When's the last time you felt good 'bout somethin' that happened a week ago – hell, a day ago?"

He shrugged. And she wanted to smack him again.

"Gotta take the good when we can, Daryl. We aren't promised tomorrow. Hell, we aren't promised the next ten minutes. And – and you said it yourself. I'm gonna die. I'll be gone one day."

"Stop, Beth."

"What? I will. And you're gonna regret it. This. You will. You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon, and it's gonna hurt even more when you think 'bout this moment. This moment when I'm tellin' you that I want you." She felt tears welling up in her eyes but she refused to let them fall – not this time. No matter how truthful her words were likely to be.

"Don't know how to say it right, but – listen. It's gonna be hard enough now – after this – for me to protect ya. Might be an ignorant redneck asshole, but I ain't never gone 'round kissin' and screwin' girls just 'cause. Not since I was a young dumbass blindly doin' what Merle told me to do."

Daryl scrubbed a hand through his messy hair. "You understand? When I'm s'posed to be listenin' for walkers, I'm gonna be thinkin' 'bout you fuckin' lickin' yourself off'a my finger, Beth. I'm gonna be thinkin' 'bout those fuckin' sounds you just made. Gonna be daydreamin' like a fool 'bout the way your mouth tastes." He walked closer and closer to where Beth stood, which wasn't all that far from where they'd been before. When he'd touched her until she came. When he'd given her the first orgasm she'd ever experienced that wasn't self-induced.

"Won't make it go away. And I ain't the type to go 'round kissin' and screwin' any random man I meet, either, Daryl. I've had sex once in my life. I've never done that – what you did to me. Never came before 'less it was just me alone."

He stared at her in silence, and she vaguely noted the sun beginning its descent outside of the mostly-occluded windows.

"I'm not gonna make you do anythin'." She shrugged. There was something here. Something between them. She was as sure of that as she was that the world had ended. And she may not have tomorrow, but the last thing she wanted to do was make him uncomfortable.

"Couldn't if ya tried," he murmured. And he was standing closer than Beth had anticipated.

And in the span of her very next inhale, his mouth was on hers again.

And they'd already established some sort of pattern, some sort of familiarity with one another. Their lips kissed more deeply, their tongues stroked more slowly, their explorations of one another were more thorough this time when their mouths collided.

"Haven't done this in a long time," he muttered into her mouth. "Pro'ly won't be no good at it."

And she could've told him that just the thrusts of his tongue into her mouth were igniting a firestorm inside of her – one that she wasn't quite sure could ever be extinguished.

But instead she wrenched her mouth away from his and slid her lips, hot and wet, down one side of his neck. She pulled at the top of the sleeve of his shirt and eventually exposed a small bit of the skin in between his neck and his shoulder and she licked and lightly nibbled and kissed at the skin there.

"Already good at it," she murmured into his skin, and her flesh was scalding hot all over.

She backed away from him long enough to remove her grimy shirt and, since she was at it, she removed her jeans. And then she was standing before him, half-naked and, to her own surprise, not ashamed. Not afraid. Because even if she weren't in love with Daryl Dixon, there was no denying the fact that Beth felt safe with him. And she definitely had a thing for him.

Daryl assumed Beth's former position with his backside up against the counter of the bar. She still stood a few feet away and she watched as his eyes dipped and rose and raked and explored the sight of her. She saw the slight shake of his head when his eyes finally returned to her face.

"Like a fuckin' angel or somethin'," he muttered, biting at his thumb. And then he began to unbutton his own shirt. And, after being on the run together for several days, it wasn't as if they hadn't seen – to some extent – one another's body. But there'd been purpose before.

When he doffed his jeans, Beth felt the blood rushing to the surface of her skin, reddening it – even her legs and arms, and she could see it. But it was okay.

She walked over to him and pressed her body against his as best she could with the jutting evidence of his arousal causing there to be a small amount of distance between them. She ran her hands along and across his bare chest, watched her fingers tremble as she did.

She trailed her hands down to his cock, which was now bare before her, and watched as it flexed in her grip.

"Sorry." His voice was a strangled whisper. And she could sense the tension in his entire body.

"Nothin' to be sorry for."

She pumped her hand up and down his length a few times before he grabbed her wrist.

"Gotta stop," he breathed.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and flipped her around so that her back was up against the bar counter again.

"C'mere," he said, holding his arms in a wide circle. She wasn't quite sure what his intentions were, but she went to him. And she smiled at the trust she had for the man, even when she was half-naked and in a country club full of the dead undead.

He assisted her up onto the top of the bar and then he followed, climbing up beside her.

"Lay back." She followed his instructions and moved the debris and random items out of the way so that she could sprawl herself out on her back.

He hooked his fingers in the waist band of her ratty underwear and lifted his eyes to hers. She nodded and bit back the comment that'd appeared out of nowhere in her mind regarding his insecurity despite her obvious fucking need for him.

He slid them down slowly and his eyes followed the path of his hands. Beth took it upon herself to remove her bra. He was bare and fully exposed and she wanted to be too. She wanted them to be equal. Partners. Not just in sex, of course, but for now that was enough for her.

He brought a hand to his cock as he lifted his eyes and took in the sight of her naked breasts. She watched his hand flex around himself just briefly and looked at him questioningly.

He shook his head, dismissing her unasked questions, and inhaled deeply before bringing a hand up to palm her breast.

She exhaled noisily at the contact and felt the skin of her chest heat up almost instantaneously as he began kneading her in his palm.

"Like that?" His voice was quiet but she could hear the genuine curiosity and wonder in his tone.

She nodded, not quite trusting her voice at this sensation that was somewhat new to her. Or at least it felt new – her skin under the rough skin of his hands.

He dipped his head down, then, and pressed his lips to the skin just below her navel. His breath was hot against her and it made her want to squirm. She felt the heavy wetness of his tongue as he licked his way down to her hip bones, and he took his time to kiss and lick and bite one side and then the other.

When she felt his mouth hovering over her mound, her hips jerked up involuntarily, just a little. And she heard him groan before she saw his head dive down and felt his hot mouth against the aching bundle of nerve fibers of her clit and the tissue surrounding it.

"Oh, fuck," she swore, and her hand shot down and her fingers curled into his hair – and she wasn't sure if she wanted to pull him off of her or push him down with all of her strength. "Daryl – oh, god - "

Her words became jumbled and caught in her throat as his tongue pressed directly onto her clit and circled it over and over and over and then flattened against her before circling it again.

And this was an entirely new experience for her. One she could definitely go for again if she lived long enough. If she didn't die from the sensations crashing into her from multiple directions.

He reached a hand up and roughly grabbed her breast, rolled her nipple in between his thumb and index finger and it was an almost-painful kind of pleasure that shot down from her chest to her clit to her toes as he continued assaulting her with his mouth and his hand and his breath and his tongue and the deep vibrations that she could feel echoing through her body from his.

And, without any distinct warning, she came – harder than the first time. Hard enough to cause her to buck her hips upward and off of the counter and into his face.

And this time, he didn't patiently wait until she returned to her body from the stars. He shoved her hips down and shoved his cock inside of her even as she continued to crest and dive across the waves of her orgasm.

"Fuck," he groaned. And he stilled himself when he filled her completely. And she was so fucking wet. Dripping in arousal and come and his saliva.

"Beth," he ground out between his teeth, "gotta tell me if I do somethin' wrong. Please." Through her euphoria, she could hear the pleading in his voice and somehow found it in herself to give him a nod of her head in response.

And then he was moving. And despite how incredibly wet she was, she could still feel the size and hardness of him inside her.

The tension was building inside of her belly again despite how completely satisfied she felt. So she started rocking her hips along with his and wrapped her legs around his hips to bring him closer and deeper into her.

Nothing about this was smooth. Sweat was dripping off of him and stinging her eyes and she could smell herself on his breath and his thrusts were uneven and jerky. But when he looked at her, she wanted to stay in this moment forever. Until the world came back or really did end.

Because he looked at her like she was giving him something – and she guessed that she was, but then he was giving her something, too. He looked as though, if she asked him to, he would walk outside naked and feed himself to the nearest walker. Like he would kill for her and die for her and take everything she had to offer.

His thrusts were becoming shaky and even harder, and she sensed that he was getting close to the edge. And she wanted to shove him over it and watch him shatter into beautiful little pieces above her.

So she squeezed the muscles of her pelvic floor around his cock and lifted her head to latch her teeth lightly onto the lobe of his ear.

"Feels so good, Daryl. You make me feel so good," she whispered breathily into his ear.

"Tell me what feels good," he choked out with much effort.

"You inside of me – you wantin' me. You fightin' with me. Kissin' me. Lickin' me. Lookin' at me. It all feels like – like nothin' I ever felt before." The words rushed out of her in a voice that transitioned smoothly into a moan that originated from her chest and her core and her cunt.

His head snapped up, then, and he brought a hand up to thread through her hair.

And it wasn't like any of the raunchy pornos she'd watched before the world ended. He didn't scream out that he was coming or yell her name.

His face twisted into a grimace, but Beth knew it wasn't one wrought from any kind of true pain, and then suddenly he lifted himself up and off of her body and she heard him groan, soft and long, as he pumped his hand up and down his cock a few times. And then she felt his hot release spilling onto her stomach and her chest and the tops of her thighs.

He collapsed onto his side, facing her as he caught his breath.

Beth turned her head toward his and she could feel the awe on her own face, across her own features, as she looked him.

He lifted his eyes to hers. And they were the same eyes he'd always had, but he was still looking her as if she were some goddess that he'd worship until his final breath.

He reached a hand blindly above him and fumbled around for a few moments before returning it with a semi-clean dish rag in tow.

Without a word, he cleaned her off. Meticulously and methodically.

"Sorry 'bout that," he mumbled, keeping his eyes cast downward.

"Don't be. It was probably the sexiest thing I've ever seen," she admitted.

He smirked a little. "Need to watch more television if that's the sexiest thing ya seen, girl."

She folded her hands behind her head, enjoying the lightness of the moment.

"I'll add it to my list of shit to do, according to you. Probably should practice with the crossbow before I set out on that kind'a mission."

He leaned forward then and pressed his lips to her temple.

"Sorry for bein' such a dick earlier."

"'S okay. I wasn't exactly nice to you today, either." She thought about her stinging palm and the blood that trickled down his fingers from the wound she'd created with her teeth. With her teeth.

"And I'm sorry you got stuck with me, Daryl. But I'm gonna show you that I can survive. And one day pretty soon, maybe I won't need ya at all."

"Better get to practicin' if that's the goal we're aimin' for," he muttered in a sleepy voice.

"Tomorrow we start," she responded, rolling onto her side to face him. "We safe to sleep here tonight?"

"Safe as we were sleepin' out in the woods. Too dark to go out now." He closed his eyes and draped an arm over her side.

"I got first watch," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his lips.

She flipped over to lay on her back so that she could listen more closely to the sounds – or, for the moment, the silence – while Daryl got some sleep.

"Glad I got out with you," were the last words he spoke until much later that night. And they were so much more than enough for Beth to feel the wings of hope – something she'd thought she'd lost somewhere along the way since leaving the prison – spread and flutter inside her belly.