Skin Contact

Chapter 3: Before Sunrise

At dawn Daryl wakes with a start. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep when Beth shares his sleeping bag—he doesn’t like to leave her alone and unprotected in the dark. But, as the night rolled in, his gaze alternates between the sleeping form of the woman beside him and the blanket of stars above. Even when he was a kid and his old man had forced him to spend days and nights in a constant state of hunger and coldness, Daryl could never seem to wrap his head around the vast endlessness of the sky. The sight of a hundred million stars blinking down at him had lulled him into a somewhat comfortable—well, as comfortable as you could get sleeping in clothes that hadn’t seen a bar of soap in weeks and stinkin’ of walker blood—slumber, although waking up was a whole different story.

Like most mornings, he awoke curled around Beth in a childlike position—her back to his chest, limbs tangled together, his head cradled in the curve of her neck. She’s smooth and soft against the scruff of his cheek, and she smells so damn good—the milky scent of Judith’s formula combined with her own natural flowery perfume—and Daryl lips twist into a smirk at his own musk, imprinted on her skin. Flyaway strands of her hair tickles Daryl’s nose, but he doesn’t want to wipe them away, he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. Because what he feels in that moment is content and warm and golden, blanketing him in a sense of security and something he ain’t never felt before, something dangerously close to—

—Beth rouses in her sleep, uttering a soft, drowsy murmur that sounds something like Daryl’s name. He realizes, a little too gleefully, that she was dreaming about him.

“Darlin’?” he whispers in her ear, feeling the rough catch of his stubble scrape against her skin.

She shivers in his arms and Daryl’s certain he hears his name on her lips—a low, husky plea that travels straight to his groin. Beth shifts in her sleep, a little moan escaping her as she pushes back against him. Daryl can’t stop his body from reacting—besides Beth’s tender, if chaste, caresses he hadn’t felt the real touch of a woman in about two years—and soon his pants are strung tight in a feeling he had long learned to endure with Beth. Squirming and uncomfortable, Daryl knew he had to leave Beth before she woke up, ignoring the wonderful feeling of friction she offered. It drove him damn near insane sometimes.

Just as he made the decision to gather himself together and find a secluded spot far from camp Beth rolled backwards, her body pressed flush to his chest. One of her long, thin arms curls around his shoulders. “Mornin’,” she says, her mouth stretching into a yawn that Daryl might’ve found cute save for the frantic pounding of his heart. He wore a boyish deer-in-the-headlights look that Beth first found endearing, and then disquieting.

“Daryl?”

“Mm?” He doesn't dare look at her, his fingers shaking with nervous energy.

“Whats wrong?” Beth turns fully onto her other side so she could face him without having to crane her neck and—

Oh.

Oh.

“Daryl?”

He grinds out a grunt of acknowledgement, eyes squeezed tight. Beth lays a hand on his cheek, running her thumb over the point of his cheekbone. Daryl opens his eyes at the touch, embarrassed and ashamed at his lack of inhibition. Beth can only grin at the sight of Daryl Dixon—a man of walker-slaying renown and physical prowess—reduced to no more than a little boy.