This isn't THE Bethyl that I've been hinting at on Twitter - I'll hopefully start posting that in the next few weeks; I'm almost finished. This is just a little drabble that popped in my head one day out at the cottage, when it was too hot to do much else but sit and ponder about the time Beth and Daryl spent in that trunk. This is a 'what if', and I'm just going to let this simmer here for a while as I work on other things. Feedback is lovely, and I'm not opposed to receiving prompts.

All recognizable elements herein are the property of their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

Thanks to incog_ninja for taking a peek and telling me to go with it.

When the lid of the trunk closed down over us, my eyes fluttered shut at the hard, heavy, hot press of Daryl's body against mine. It was the closest I'd ever been to another man. His breath puffed against my throat, and as his hips twisted against mine, he bit back a small grunt, before quickly uttering an apologetic word. I lay still and silent, my fingers curling to fists at my sides. The last thing I should have been thinking about was the way Daryl smelled: dark, and sweet, kind of like molasses, and spicy, like wild sage and peppermint. There was an underlying salt to his skin, too, something that we all carried: the scent of sweat, and of grief, tears, and blood. I forced my breathing to remain calm, when all I wanted to do was sigh like the silly girl I felt like, trapped in the trunk of a car with a man who, for all I knew, was twice my age. I felt another roll of his hips, this time squarely centered against my pelvis, and he froze. So did I. His belt buckle wasn't that big, and he didn't carry a sidearm in the front of his pants.

I allowed my eyes to open, and they almost snapped shut again at the clear, bright blue irises that stared back. A beam of light from a seam of the trunk cut into the darkness and landed right across Daryl's eyes, and they were watching me, flicking over my face, growing a little dazed and distant as his body shifted against mine once more. I sucked in a sharp breath, and his hand clapped over my mouth, muffling the soft moan I let out. My cheeks burned beneath his fingertips as the sound vibrated in my throat. He huffed then, having heard it, too, and he swallowed thickly.

"Beth," he murmured, though I couldn't see his lips move. Maybe I dreamed it. Whatever the case, he made no other move as the sounds of the walkers outside our hiding spot intensified. I didn't know what frightened me more: the proximity of the dead bodies that slammed into the car as they passed, or the frantic thud of Daryl's pulse as his wrist pressed against my chin, his hand still firmly clapped over my mouth. My own pulse matched, but it had more to do with the feel of him pressed intimately against me, and the way my own body reacted: I was hot, and it had nothing to do with the Georgia heat, and I was aching something wonderful between my thighs. Suddenly, I felt the damp, worn grime of Daryl's jeans as my fingers snagged his belt loops, and before I could stop myself, I pulled him closer, as my own body rocked up against his.

His hand over my mouth faltered, his rough, blunt fingertips slid down my cheek, and tangled in the hair that had slipped free of my ponytail. I blinked up at him, licking my lips, and then I said his name with the same intent he'd said mine. "Daryl." My voice didn't sound like mine; it was low, and dark, and in my throat. The skin of his flank tightened, and then rippled as my fingers wandered up under his shirt of their own accord.

He dug his toes into the bottom of the trunk and pushed forward, his eyes flashing to the space in the trunk and the walkers outside. He groaned then, resigned, and shook his head. "I know," he answered softly, laying down against me, his lips brushing my throat as he did so. His other hand made its way to my hip, and he brushed the skin and bone there, lingering, burning, and sending a clear message. "Just a little longer," he whispered.

Trapped there in a trunk with Daryl Dixon, I suddenly understood the closeness that Maggie craved from Glenn. I'd never felt it with Jimmy, or Zach, and I'd been resigned to the notion that I would probably never get to feel this way about someone. So, the fact that Daryl was sparking these thoughts made it seem that much more intense. Ever since he'd told me the news about Zach, it felt like we'd been getting closer, or, as close as he could let someone. Right then, I could feel his heart beating against mine, and every time he exhaled, the air would stir against the skin of my jaw, and a delicious shiver would run through my body. And every time I shivered, Daryl's fingers would squeeze my hip, but he wouldn't say anything, and didn't move an inch. If anything, he molded himself to me even more, slowly turning his body, and mine, until he was pressed behind me, his chin on my shoulder, the rough scratch of his beard scoring my skin and igniting another roaring fire in my belly.

The sun went down, and still we didn't move. I don't think either of us slept that night, and I was hard pressed to believe it had anything to do with the threat of walkers. The next morning, when we finally emerged from the darkness, we looked at each other for a moment, both realizing that something had changed between us. But Daryl wasn't talking, stubborn as he was, and I didn't know how to approach the subject - I wasn't even one hundred percent convinced that there was a subject to approach. It seemed better, for the time being, to concentrate on covering more ground, and work on a plan to find the rest of our family. I wouldn't let it get away from us for long, though. If there was one thing I knew for certain, it was that nobody knew how much time they had left in this world. I couldn't let those hours in the trunk go on without finding out where each of us stood.

TBC...?