The Walking Dead: You're Beautiful - A Tara and Rosita Fanfiction

Chapter 5: Let the Whiskey Do the Talking

The room is aglow with everyone's warm smiles, with their bellies full of warm spaghetti courtesy of Aaron and Eric. They all look so content. Even I feel a bit better (though there's still an emptiness inside me that feels like it'll never heal). I'm reminded of the time we were all gathered around at the church, drinking wine and celebrating – it was the same night I told Maggie about my involvement with Brian at the prison. I try to ignore those nibbling bites of sadness inside me.

Aaron looks over at Eric, whispering softly to him. The next thing I know, the two of them get up from the table and head to the kitchen, followed by the sounds of shuffling and rattling. Before long, they've returned with two medium-sized bottles and what looks like a six-pack.

"I found these the other day on a quick supply run. Red wine, whiskey, and a pack of IPA...the way I see it, what the Saviors don't know about won't hurt them." Aaron comments.

Rosita eagerly grabs a beer almost as soon as it hits the table. She cracks open the can and guzzles it down.

"Jeez, slow down there," I laugh.

"Hell no! There's a lot of shit I just wanna forget. Pour me some that whiskey, will you, Tara?"

I know I shouldn't let her drink away her pain like this, but given the circumstances – witnessing her ex-lover be smashed to death by some psychopath with a baseball bat covered in barbed wire – it's justified. She deserves to take away the edge. I know what she's going through. I hand her a glass and she downs the shot.

"Abraham used to drink this shit all the time..." she mutters reminiscently.

I grab a beer myself, taking only a few swigs at a time. There's definitely some skunkiness to it, but the little bit of buzz is worth it all. Hell, we might as well celebrate together. Moments like these are irreplaceable in this world. I look over at Rosita. She seems a bit tipsy, but she seems happier now. A gentle smile befalls my face looking at her. Damn, she really is beautiful. I really can't think of her like that right now, though – we both lost the ones closest to us. I mean, to be fair, though, I've always had a thing for her. That smile of hers is so damn beautiful.

After several drinks, she pulls me aside and looks me in my eyes. We're both fairly hammered by this point and we're both wobbling a little bit (who knows, maybe it's just the beer goggles). She pulls me in close.

"You know, Tara, you're special...you know that? You are SPECIAL."

She drunkenly pokes her finger into my collarbone as she says it.

"You...you like girls. You don't take shit from men 'cause you like girls. That's easy. No heartbreak like that tramposo Abraham...no...no need..."

I'm so confused and shitfaced. She is, too.

Rosita slings her arms around my neck and pulls me in close, her eyelids struggling to stay open as her eye contact shifts. I feel her index finger press against my lips, tracing them with her fingertip. She pulls me in closer; her warm breath sticks on my skin. My heart is racing. I find myself swept into a kiss. It's deep and passionate and very raw. I cannot stop myself. It feels surreal. I have thought about her for a long time – since we've met, really. Her tongue dances in my mouth. My whole body tingles. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the surging hormones from this encounter. When she finally breaks away, her breathing is heavy and her eyes are closed.

"Oh God..." she mutters. "I've always wanted to do that."

The interaction seems to sober her a bit. I know I shouldn't do this...not so soon after Denise...but damn it, I can't stop myself. I've wanted her for so long. Her perfect curves, her beautiful smile, her badass personality...there were nights I was kept up fantasizing about her. After what happened at the prison...with Brian...it was what kept me alive. The idea of having that gorgeous girl by my side as my girlfriend; hell, the idea of being in bed with her, laying that perfect body down on top of me...it was everything. Now, here I was, with her in my arms and the both of us drunk as all hell.

"Come on," I say, grabbing her hand.

Together, hand in hand, we run back to my house. I shut the door quickly behind us as we enter. I help her up onto the kitchen counter. Our lips lock again, but this time it's more heated and aggressive. We can't stop ourselves, nor do we want to. It's not right for either of us so soon after the loss of our lovers, but in this world, there's no margin for putting things off another day – it's not guaranteed. I'm running my fingers through her hair. Everything is clumsy and raw. Our tongues dance in each others' mouths. She slings her arms around my neck and I lean into her. Soon, she's lying down, her legs now wrapped around my waist. I kiss her belly softly, tracing around her navel. Her skin flutters reflexively. She pushes me off of her and then directs me to the infirmary bed, shoving me into it as she straddles me from above. I feel her put her palm on my left breast and give it a squeeze; I can't help but let out a quiet moan. We continue making out. It's cathartic, really...I've wanted to do this forever. If only we had the energy to go all the waaayyyyy....zzzzzzzzzzz.

I jolt into consciousness with a pounding headache. Oh god, it's late in the morning...what the hell happened last night? I yawn and roll over. Jesus Christ! Rosita is next to me, sound asleep. What are we doing here, together in the same bed? Her hair is mussed up. My shirt is slipping off one shoulder and my pants are unbuttoned and unzipped. Oh my god...we made out last night! Rosita begins to stir and then wakes up. She looks at me and a look of horror comes over her face. "Did we...?"

"I don't know...I think we may have!"