Friday Nights

Chapter 8: Want And Need

Beth didn't expect Daryl to pull into the parking a few moments after she had parked Maggie's big ole pickup truck—such sibling charity was a common and unsettling thing now. She didn't expect to stare at him as he swung his leg over the bike with a practised ease, shoulders straining at the leather of his vest and the fabric of his pants wound tight around his thighs. She didn't expect to clamber out of the truck's cab so fast she nearly tripped over and fell flat on her face, rushing to get outside. And she did not expect to run into Daryl Dixon's arms, wrapping her arms around his lean middle and nuzzling her face into his chest like she—like they—did this on a regular basis.

She didn't expect to do all those things, but she did.

Daryl was deathly still for a second, his first instinct to be to push this unfamiliar blonde away from him, but once he realized it was Beth—his Beth, his girl—his resolve melted and disappeared like dust in the wind. His arms came around her slowly, like he didn't trust himself to touch her, and once his tentative fingers brushed her silk-fine hair and felt the warm flesh beneath her thin summer dress he was lost. Daryl's vice-like grip encircled her small shoulders and delicate waist, enveloping her body whole. He breathed in the clean, fresh scent of her and she did the same to him—motor oil and leather, the human equivalent of an Old Spice commercial.

It was peaceful, being able to experience the simple delight of touching someone, and it seemed more intimate than kissing or participating in other carnal desires. But it ended much too soon, Beth thinking such behaviour was inappropriate between business associates—no matter how much she wanted to stand up on her tiptoes and seal their lips together—and Daryl feeling like he was abusing her trust—no matter how much he wanted to bend down and kiss her.

"C'mon," he said gruffly, pulling away from her, "we should go inside." His body was alight with smouldering feelings, fingertips seared raw from touching Beth's skin and hair and running along the slim length of her back.

Flushed with embarrassment and the ache of longing, Beth ignored the sting of rejection—even though Daryl was being the more logical of the two, that he was the one making rational decisions here.  She didn't even fully know why she'd run up to him, why she'd felt this magnetic pull just to be close to him. She pushed the flutter of feelings somewhere deep down inside her, unwilling to understand the depth of her emotions just yet.

Daryl coughed awkwardly, fingers tapping a rhythm on his leg as he moved towards the Cherokee Rose Bar. Beth followed suit meekly, noting the keen absence of Daryl by her side—he used to walk with her, matching his loping pace to hers. Daryl seemed to mull over a thought at the entryway to the dim red light of the bar, stopping to hold the door in an echo of gentlemanly-like mannerisms. He kept his head down though, hair hanging in his eyes so he couldn't quite meet Beth's gaze. She stepped forward, coming to a stop by Daryl, so close he was forced to raise his head and look at her. The lack of space between them was enough to raise a few eyebrows, the rules of proper society breached. The air was thick with an electric charge, something dangerous. Daryl swallowed dryly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Beth licked her lips, eyes trained on the succulent skin of Daryl's neck before parting her mouth to speak—

"—Beth!" Carol called from inside, catching sight of her in the doorway.

Startled, she turned to look at Carol. Daryl took the opportunity to get a grip on his emotions, slipping away from Beth without so much as a backwards glance, heading towards the bathroom—always the bathroom.