To Be Alone

by SwiftSnowmane

Summary:

Now he knows it will always be thus—a long, cold winter of discontent.

Notes:

• For bethgreenewarriorprincess.

“When Beth and Daryl bonded, Norman and I did too. I trust him and feel that crossover in real life. He stays in the moment in such a beautiful way. It’s really inspiring.” - Emily Kinney

 

This fic has been brewing for well over a year now, and this past summer I had no choice but to finally let the moonshine flow start writing it. Because, well, reasons.

Inspired by the events of the last three years, both real and imagined, and by the perfection that is badboy_fangirl's I’ll take with me the memories.

Title is a reference to the beloved Bethyl episode as well as to the Hozier song of the same name (and soundtrack of sorts for this fic).

Dedicated to Bethgreenewarriorprincess - I hope this takes you back to that magical night at Eddie’s.

 ~

 

If there’s nothing to be done
If there’s no part to be played
If there’s no song to be sung
Take this voice, take these hands
I can’t use them anyway
Take this music and the memory
Of the muse from which it came

- 'If It's True', Hadestown

 

~

He still thinks of it as that summer.

The one he spent shooting all those scenes with her, just the two of them. (And the cameramen, and the lighting crew, and hair-and-makeup, and the prop guys, and the extras, and Greg, and Julius, and well, not really just the two of them. But that’s how he remembers it.)

By then he’d worked closely with almost every other regular cast member, except her. It was, he had to admit to himself now, an idea he’d had in his mind for a long time. Maybe ever since that group interview when she’d so publicly let slip that she dreamed about him on his motorcycle during the off-season.

Or maybe it was even before then, when he’d seen her on the red carpet for the very first time. She’d been wearing some skin-tight white thing that had hugged all her barely-there curves like it was clinging on for dear life. When she’d strutted out to pose for the cameras, Andy had elbowed him so hard in his chest that he’d nearly doubled-over, wind knocked out of him.

(Which lucky fellow’s bed she'd shared afterward, he’d never found out. But Emily Kinney had escaped no man’s fantasies that night.)

After working with her for nearly two years, it had hardly been the first time he’d taken note of her. Blond, waif-like, and oh-so fresh and innocent-looking, with those wide eyes…fuck him if he hadn’t been at least a little bit smitten from the very first day she’d spoken a shy, smiling “Hi” to him on the set of the farm. He’d soon discovered that she was genuine, too. Honest, hardworking. Not in the least bit haughty or full of herself like some up-and-coming actresses.

For many and obvious reasons, he’d never actually tried for her himself.

If anything, he’d steered well clear.

Besides, he thinks back, it would very likely have proved a lost cause anyway. Not only had they both had other…attachments at the time, but he would not be the least surprised to find out that she’d been warned about him from the start.

Norman Reedus, the world’s biggest flirt.

(Well. He couldn’t have denied it.)

He might not have made any real moves toward her, and might have even studiously avoided her at times, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed her. They all had. Anyone with a pulse (and maybe even some without) on the show had, at some point or another, at the very least thought about it. (Hell, even the happily-married Andy would often sigh wistfully and shake his head at the mere mention of her name.)

But from the start, it had been clear to him that Emily Kinney was not just another cute blond to be chewed up and spit out by the Hollywood machine. From the first time he’d met her on set he could see that though she was young, she was sweet and humble and just plain good—a rarity in this business. The kind of girl you thought about late at night but didn’t dare try too much of anything with if you had any sort of decency left whatsoever.

(Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he never had.)

(Maybe that was the problem.)

Later, much later, he finds himself looking back at that first, electrifying glimpse of her on the red carpet and realizing that it had merely been a confirmation of what he’d already suspected for a long time—that he wouldn’t even have to try to pull it off with her.

He wouldn’t need much method to his acting madness.

~

When it’s time for the table reads for the fourth season, excitement flows through him, heady and unstoppable.

Already he senses that the dynamic between two such polar opposite—and yet oddly complimentary—characters has the potential to become the most compelling relationship on the show. (The fact that it gives him a chance to finally, finally work closely with such a sweet and attractive costar as Emily is just a bonus.)

What he’s seen of the initial script intrigues him more than he’d like to admit, and as usual he gives several bold suggestions of his own. Just little tweaks, here and there. But overall, he’s still unsure how their initial scenes will be handled. Unsure if the directors will decide keep things firmly in the realm of suggestion, or if they will dare go there with their characters.

He knows what he wants. His heart fairly thuds with the thought of it—holding her close to him, take after take, finally letting loose that side of Daryl so long kept at bay. But he knows he can’t get ahead of himself.

He knows it might come to nothing. They’ve shamelessly used his character’s sex appeal to tease and tantalize viewers before, after all.

He knows it isn’t that kind of show.

But his curiosity is piqued even more by their very first scene—Greg directs an awkward Daryl to hold a grieving Beth for far longer than he expects, and even suggests they re-shoot the accidental shoulder-slip from several different angles. All in all, the whole thing ends up far more tension-filled than he’d even dreamed. Both in terms of their characters…and themselves. He’s hard as a rock before the end of it, and to his delight, Em seems…into it, too. Gazing up at him—at Daryl—with such wide-eyed, twinkling innocence that it’s almost wicked.

He should’ve seen it coming, really. Should’ve known she’d have it in her.

But it’s the director who surprises him most—in fact, if anyone is more enthusiastic about Beth and Daryl than Norman himself, it’s Greg Nicotero. So much so that Norman half-suspects the acclaimed master of visual horror would gleefully order them both to take off their clothes right there on set and just get on with it if it weren’t for the pesky fact that there’s always so many damn people around.

By midsummer, they are over halfway into filming and the season itself is shaping up well. Everyone seems pleased with the scripts and with their characters’ story arcs—much more so than last year, that’s for damn sure.

Best of all, Beth and Daryl’s side of the story is already turning out to be everything he’d hoped it would be, and more. It’s more than any of them had expected. “Let’s just see where this goes,” they keep saying.

But none of them seem to have counted on a little something called chemistry.

None of them have counted on her.

(Even after the very early scenes, he knows. She knows. Greg knows. They all know. Opposites attract and all that. Beth and Daryl. Daryl and Beth. Either way, it even sounds perfect.)

But it isn’t until he’s hiding a turtle shell on the set of the moonshiner’s shack that doubles as a guidebook to Daryl’s life before the turn, that he has what could be called an epiphany. He’s always been swift to love, falling fast, pouring himself easily and readily into it—even before he’s actually certain. His record when it comes to long-term romantic commitments has been…less than stellar. His personal life has always been a string of intense but fleeting entanglements—relationships half-formed, started and finished with a flourish, but somehow never amounting to much of anything in-between.

But this…this innocent and beautiful, magical, entrancing thing that’s started between two lost and grieving souls at the end of the world? This, he can do. He’s ready for it—poised at the brink to put his (and Daryl’s) heart and everything he’s got into this fictional (but all-too real) relationship.

Deep within his actor’s soul, he feels certain that this is what he’s born to do.

The enthusiasm he feels bubbles over into the scenes themselves. They’ve rehearsed the drinking game a hundred times, but as he grabs Em and holds her against his chest during a particularly intense moment, he can’t help but give her a little tickle here, a lick and a smooch there. They’re both sweaty and covered in fake blood and dirt, but they end up having to shoot the scene another ten times because they’re both laughing so damn hard.

It happens so gradually, so naturally, so organically, that he almost doesn’t notice at first. All in all it’s hard, sweaty work—and at times emotionally taxing—but somewhere between collapsing side by side in an overgrown field, crouching uncomfortably for countless takes in the set of a trunk, squeezing together beneath bits of overturned furniture, kneeling on the ground before her, and carrying her both on his back and in his arms, they grow close. (Close as the script calls for, and then some. Close, in more ways than one.)

He’s acted opposite enough attractive actresses in his day that by now he ought to be immune. Not to mention the fact that hair-and-makeup continue to render little Beth Greene so young-looking that it’s almost painful. And yet, even fresh-faced and messy-haired, in those ripped jeans and ill-fitting tops, he still finds Emily Kinney more appealing than anyone’s he’s acted alongside in a long time.

Over the years, he’s done it all: kisses, sex scenes, nudity, and more. In comparison, Daryl and Beth’s time together should probably have felt quaint, almost tame. Full of hints and suggestions, hugs and handholds, longing looks and lingering glances, rather than outright consummation. But somehow, the opposite proves true. If anything, each scene they film together feels more intimate than the next.

Far more intimate—and far more real—than anything he’s done before.

Before they’d begun filming, a part of him had wondered if working this closely with Emily would be something of a challenge, given her relative inexperience. But, if anything, with her it proves far easier than he ever expected. She keeps up with him, and then some. Like him, she goes the extra mile and makes up details about her character that will never even be mentioned, simply to add realism. Simply for the joy of it. The joy of immersing oneself so fully into a character as to wear their very skin. And so, Beth’s life before the turn, Beth’s wardrobe, even a few of her lines…none escape Em's touch before the end.

It’s easier, too, than he’d ever expected to pretend they are alone in a room together—alone in their own little world—despite being surrounded at every turn by cameras and lighting crew. Even if they’ve been joking around off-camera, as soon as he needs to, he switches. And, in an instant, he goes from grinning like an idiot to watching her intently across the small space of the set of the embalming room.

That final episode together is his favorite. He tells himself it’s because he gets to hang out with the one-eyed rescue dog they’ve brought on set. But as he’s lying stretched out in an open casket, listening to Emily—or rather, Beth—singing and playing the piano, his lids close of their own accord, and the half-smile upon his face is entirely unsummoned.

It’s never been easier for him to slip into character than it is in these moments.

(Too easy, almost.)

All he has to do is look at her.

And that’s all he does, for the most part. Oh, there are a few, fleeting touches, both scripted and improvised, but for the most part what he does is watch her.

(Norman Reedus might not be able keep his hands to himself, but Daryl Dixon has far more restraint, the poor bastard.)

The fact that things don’t progress any further between their characters before the fateful moment at the door doesn’t concern him. Not only do they have to keep the suspense going over the hiatus, but he’d always insisted that Daryl’s romance would have to be a slow, simmering burn. And this, well…this is everything he’d ever wanted, every romantic moment he’s waited years for, and its more than a little thrilling to consider where it might go from here.

Even so, when they wrap their weeks of filming and part ways, it’s not without some reluctance… on his part, at least. Beth is missing after all, and he has no idea when Daryl will see her again. But with such a cliffhanger as that, he’s sure he will. (Andy assures him there’s no way they’d kill off someone as damn cute and sweet and utterly adorable as Em. And, after the later episodes he shoots with Greg, he’s even more certain of it.)

Their worlds separate again—she goes back to New York (and her life). He remains, as always, in Atlanta (where, he reminds himself, his life is.)

He sees her just once in that time, at the premiere in L.A., several months later. She’s wearing this tiny black number, so short he can see every inch of her legs, all the way up to the inner curves of those shapely, muscled thighs. She’s working it for the cameras, and she has such a coy, kittenish look in her eyes he can hardly stand it. (He’s notoriously rock-hard most of the time already as it is, but the sight of her is nearly sending him over the edge.)

And so, just like during their times on set, he doesn’t even bother trying to keep his hands to himself. He intends to just plant a quick one and be on his way—a tease for the audience for what is to come (and a little tease for himself, if he’s being honest).

But when he kisses her right in that sweet spot under ear where her pulse quickens, he slips a hand up and over her firm ass and gives her a dastardly squeeze. Though she feigns protest, she laughs in delighted surprise. And then somehow he finds her arms around him, her body pressed close to his, and the bulbs are flashing in both their faces as they stand side by side.

As though they’re together.

(Or maybe just meant to be.)

He’s standing on the red carpet with the sweetest girl in show biz at his side, and he can’t help but smile a secret smile to himself. Everyone’s just going to love this.

And when their episodes air months later, they do.

(Oh, they do.)

He doesn’t see her much before their three big episodes in the spring—they brush shoulders only briefly, first at the Talking Dead filming and then at a few cons. But she and Beth Greene are never too far from his mind.

As he’s gearing himself up, getting into character for the next season, his playlist keeps coming back to this one particular song, a track he’s always liked from U2’s debut album. The lyrics and mood seem to describe Daryl’s feelings perfectly and, on a whim, he sends it to her one night. She messages him back, thanking him, saying she’d never heard that one before.

He reads her text, chuckling wryly to himself.

Sometimes he forgets that he’s so damn old.

~

Summer returns to Georgia with its usual sweltering intensity, and with it the newest—and thus far, most highly-anticipated—season.

The cast (or, at least, most of it), is once more reunited. And all-too soon (or is it not soon enough?) rehearsals and early filming commence in a haze of heat and sun and sweaty stunt maneuvers.

He’s oddly on edge—he hasn’t seen her at all since she arrived back in town.

Neither the script nor the tight filming schedule has allowed much time for that, so they arrange to meet for some drinks one night, to catch up and discuss the future of their characters. Em might not be as experienced as he, but he knows damn well by now that she’s got more than enough enthusiasm to match his own.

To his relief, it’s just as he remembered, and he is reminded just how much he loves talking shop with her. It’s refreshing to work out the little things, the gritty details, with someone else whose character is almost entirely of their own creation. What Daryl would do, what Beth would do…what they would do together.

When he says goodnight with a chaste peck on her neck (his spot, he’s coming to think of it), he realizes just how much he’s missed her—and just how much he’s looking forward to working with her later this season, and in all the seasons to come.

So when the San Diego Comic-Con rolls around and she’s included on the guest list at the last minute, he can’t help but think that this is it. This is real, and it’s gonna be huge. She’s gonna be huge. Her stand-alone ep is going to be a hit—not just with viewers, but with critics, too. He just knows it. (They’ve all had a sneak preview of the new trailer and he’s almost giddy with the foreknowledge. When Beth appears at the end, alive and kicking ass, it’s gonna blow everyone’s minds.)

He can’t be more excited. For her. For what it could mean to the fans…to the show.

Maybe it’s the SoCal sun, or maybe it’s the throngs of adoring crowds, but he lets it all out that day. It’s almost impossible not to, what with her in that alluring crop top and tight skirt, standing beside him on a balcony, high above the waiting paparazzi.

High above the world.

They’re standing in the sweltering heat, under the beating sun for what feels like the hundred thousandth photo-op. His feet are already starting to ache and even behind his shades his eyes hurt from smiling so much, but he’s got his hand on her waist, nearly spanning her small frame, and she’s pressed up against him close, so close, and he can’t help but stand a little taller, a little straighter.

If he works the crowd with his disarming smile and endless supply of charm, she kills it. Without even trying, she steals the show completely.

And he finds that, just like on set, he doesn’t mind sharing her limelight. Not one bit.

Through that long, surreal day, he can’t keep his hands off her—press, fans, and personal life be damned. She can’t seem to keep hers to herself either, and is practically glued to his side all afternoon and into the evening—at the panel, at the table, in the van, at the photoshoots and all the after-parties.

He tells himself it’s just because she’s nervous. It’s her first Comic-Con, after all, her first step into the world of big-time stardom. It might be just another day at work for him, but it’s a huge deal for her, and he tells himself she just needs a reassuring presence. So he tries to be that for her, her knight in dark shades and button-down denim. But in truth, he’s a bundle of nerves himself, though he hides it well.

Behind his sunglasses, behind his camera. Behind his all-too easy smile.

(He’s not paid to be an actor for nothing).

For this one day their worlds have wholly and utterly collided, and it is glorious. He can’t stop grinning, and basking in it. In this…whatever this is, between them.

And neither can she.

And if, perhaps, they maybe take it one step too far, if, late that night after all the parties are over, he kisses her long and slow and deep at the threshold of her hotel room…

He’s bending forward, leaning right into her, intent on deepening the pressure of his lips against hers, but he’s forgotten about his camera, and it swings forward, narrowly missing her face.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles lamely. Despite having had a few, he’s not actually drunk, so he doesn’t even have that as an excuse.

But she just lets out a soft giggle. And then they break apart, with some reluctance.

Em has her back up against the door, and though he’s no longer kissing her, he’s still standing so close to her that he’s almost pressing her up against it. He can smell her in all her delicious freshness and she’s looking up at him and her lips are parted and her little chest is heaving.

His own breath is anything but steady and he thinks for a moment that this is it, that he’s gonna just give her a quick peck on the cheek, pretend this whole strange and amazing day never happened, and turn on his heel and head back down the hall to his own suite, when she reaches into her purse and pulls out her key card.

She doesn’t even turn around to do it, she just slides it across, and when the green light blinks she presses down the latch without warning, sending them both stumbling backward into the room.

Once they’re inside, Norman kicks the door shut behind them, and then turns to face her.

Before he can even blink (or think), she’s discarded her purse and her heels in a pile in front of the door, and she's standing barefoot before him, hugging her arms around herself like she’s cold, or maybe more than a little bit nervous. She gazes up at him shyly, as she has all day, and in her huge, moon eyes he glimpses mingled fear and awe and even, perhaps, a bit of adoration.

As he kicks off his own shoes and takes a purposeful step toward her, he wants to tell her that now is not the time to start being intimidated. Now is not the time to be overwhelmed. But his own breath is suddenly labored, and not for the first time during that long day in her presence he wonders if he really shouldn’t just give in and finally quit smoking.

But right now, the shallowness of his breath, the almost painful constriction of his ribcage is not from any cigarette, but rather the crushing weight, the excruciating torture of anticipation.

When he reaches her where she stands, so slight and small in that expansive suite, he nearly gives in to the overwhelming urge to take her into his arms, to hold her against him, to crush her to him. Until he realizes he’s still got his big, clunky camera slung around his neck.

He smiles sheepishly, half to himself, half to her, and frees himself from its strap. He doesn’t need it. Not right now. He’s already taken hundreds of photos of her that day, and tonight he doesn’t want to hide behind the lense any longer.

Tonight, he wants to see her with his own eyes.

(All of her, if she’ll let him.)

Without tearing his gaze from her, he lowers the expensive camera carefully to the floor, to rest there, nestled beside her things. He feels oddly bereft without its familiar weight against his chest, and an instant later he gathers her in his arms once more, presses her body flush against his.

(Has she has always slid so perfectly into the empty space under his arms? Has she always filled that hollow place in his chest?)

And then his mouth is on hers, moving slowly, down from the delightful, inviting curve of her lips to her neck. There, against the delicate, pale skin of her throat, he lingers, leaving hot, wet trails against her fluttering pulse. After a few pounding heartbeats he feels her go almost limp, almost weightless in his arms. Not in a passive way, but softly, languidly, in the way women do when they are finally relaxing.

When they are finally ready.

And then he’s lowering her onto the huge, soft bed, and kneeling before her. He grins hungrily, wolfishly down at her, and then swoops in and kisses her once more. In the process his entire body is momentarily pressed against hers, and even in his fully-clothed state he can’t help but grind against her.

She squeaks and squirms beneath him, and he chuckles darkly. For it seems her outfit is so damn tight that she can’t wrap her legs around him properly, and she’s moaning in something like frustration.

He grins again. Because he can ease things for her.

He can free her, even.

Slowly, he slides his hands down, down, over her already-exposed stomach until he reaches the front of her skirt, smoothing across the stretchy fabric until his palm rests there—not beneath her dress, not yet, but between her thighs all the same.

Before he proceeds, he lifts himself slightly to look upon her. She likewise gazes up at him—oddly, now that she’s on the bed, she seems more relaxed. Perhaps it is because she is now at least a little less uncertain of his intentions.

She breaks into another small, blushing smile, and blinks up at him under her lashes.

He grins down at her, and then begins to rub her gently through the fabric. All he can feel is warmth, so much warmth… and a rush of wetness.

“There you are,” he says, his breath catching as he presses his fingers slightly into her through the now-soaked fabric.

“Oh,” she breathes, licking her lips and squirming slightly against his hand. “Mmm—oh.”

When he looks at her again, he finds her usually wide, innocent eyes now hooded with lust, and it spurs him onward.

She cries out once, twice, each time a little more loudly as he puts increasing pressure on her through her thin dress. She bites down on her lower lip, as though to quiet herself, as though to hold back her pleasure, but her body betrays her, and soon she begins to arch into his rhythm.

Even through the layer of fabric his whole hand is soon soaked, and the scent of her arousal is starting to drive him wild. When fresh wetness surges, they both groan in unison this time.

(He wonders if this might just be the death of him. If tomorrow’s headlines will tell of the Walking Dead actor who met his end after one-too many attempted sex acts with his much younger co-star.)

Finally, he cannot hold himself back a moment longer—he does what he has longed to do all day, what he’s wanted to do since he first saw her step out of the car that morning: he rips into that skin-tight skirt with his hands, and his teeth, and tears it from her.

She gasps, perhaps in distress at the demise of her designer outfit (he’ll make it up to her, he promises her in his mind), or perhaps at the cold air of the room hitting her. For she’s bare before him, completely and utterly bare, and all he can think is that she’s got the prettiest little pussy he’s ever seen—prettier even than he’s imagined. He sucks in a long breath at the sight of her, all pink and rosy and flushed with desire.

Some strange, pained noise emanates from him, and he has to pause for a second to just look down, and…admire.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Fucking hell, Em.”

She’s blushing fiercely, looking half terrified and half turned-on by his open admiration.

Any and all protests about her torn skirt are drowned out by what he does next.

Because then his hands are on her trembling sides, and he gently raises her top to expose her breasts, tiny and pointed and likewise bare. It seems that she’d worn not a single undergarment the entire day, at the panels, at the photo-ops, in the van beside him… and he’s finding it hard to breathe at the thought.

He drinks in the sight of her, all of her, for she is well and truly bared to him. She’s even had one of those Brazilian waxes, he notices. The beach, the ocean…oh, yes. He remembers it now. Her favorite place to be. She’d once told him so, during a break between takes on a particularly hot day on set last year.

And oh, what he would not give to catch a glimpse of her pale form out there on the shore, gleaming beneath the California sun. But, he thinks with a frown, there are those in their lives, both private and professional, who would not take kindly to them being seen together in public—much less to them being caught making out on a crowded beach.

The unpleasant weight of the truth makes his shoulders sag a little, until he’s hovering mere inches from her exposed flesh.

The sight of her in all her glory still has him mesmerized, and god help him, but it wouldn’t matter who happened upon them right now—he’d not be easily dragged away from this, from her, by anyone.

Not tonight.

When he finally looks up again it is to find her watching him, watching her. Her darkened lashes, half-lowered, only partially conceal something that makes him wonder if maybe, just maybe, she has wanted this as long as he has.

But there is more—more than just lust, or even long-held desire. Something deep and trusting…and entirely without guile.

Something like devotion.

His insides tighten, and suddenly his easy confidence dissolves. For the first time all evening he feels something akin to nerves…and self-doubt. Maybe all the drinks he’s downed have finally gone to his head. His heart races, his stomach lurches with it.

What the hell does he think he is doing, here in this room, with this girl?

This girl, who has never once asked him for a single thing. Never once in all their years on set together asked him for anything. Never expected anything from him, other than his contractually-required presence.

Oh, Em. She’s always seemed content with whatever he’s been willing to give. And yet, here she is…vulnerable and exposed before him.

Willing to give him anything…everything.

For she is tiny and delicate as spun glass beneath him on the expanse of that inviting bed, and he could easily take whatever he wanted in that instant. He could break her with a single movement. With a word. With a look. With a touch.

He’s hard for her—so hard it’s almost painful. It would be easy, so easy, to undo his belt, unzip his jeans, and press himself inside her tight warmth, right there and then. To flip her over, grab that messy ponytail his fist and take her fast and rough from behind, to take her from every angle possible, and then some. To sink his teeth into her bare shoulder, to leave his own, darker mark beside that sweet little music note tattoo. To plunge in and out, in and out, until she’s begging for mercy, until they’re both so far gone they don’t even remember their own names. To thrust so deep, and so hard, into her as to penetrate her body and soul.

To take her in his hands, to shape her, to make her his. To finally take her for that ride he knows she’s been dreaming of all these years of their acquaintance.

He can still see the looks thrown his way as he left with Em on his arm: Lauren’s knowing smirk, Steven’s grin, Danai’s raised eyebrow. He can still hear Andy’s words of warning from earlier: “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Well. Norman Reedus loves nothing more than defying expectations, and tonight he wants to defy theirs, hers…and maybe even his own.

The others might have their suspicions, might think they could guess what was about to pass between them tonight, but it gives him a perverse satisfaction that only he and Em will ever really know the truth.

Some might say he was squandering a rare opportunity. Nearly every guy on set, cast and crew alike, had spoken of her in the same, hungry way. Speculated, how she’d be. Or rather, how their own image of Emily Kinney, a blank and empty canvas of youthful appearance and sweet innocence, might meekly spread her legs for whatever lucky fellow managed to get her in bed.

But the Emily Kinney he has come to know (and love, and oh god… love) is not and has never been the kind of girl to be put on a pedestal, simply be admired from afar, and then used callously and discarded, or set aside.

Yes, Em is sweet, and oh-so kind. But she’s also creative and funny and smart, and too good, too honest, too true.

She deserves so much more.

And so, he ignores the almost unbearable straining inside his jeans, ignores the primal urge to bury himself deep inside and leave his seed within her (Lord knows he’s given in to that particular desire one too many times in his life as it is).

Emily Kinney is not his for the taking. Not tonight, and maybe not ever.

No matter how willing she may be, lying there, smiling so sweetly, and so very trustingly beneath him.

Alone, with him.

His gaze falls upon her once more and he sees that she’s still blushing faintly, her chest gently heaving. Perhaps she is still as nervous as before, even now, but she seems ready. She feels ready. He nearly groans again because her sweet little pussy is within all-too easy reach, wet and open and so very enticing.

But he takes a deep breath, swallows once, and decides.

Tonight, he will take nothing.

(Not even a photograph, though fuck knows he’s tempted.)

He leans forward then, pinning her slender form beneath him, and she flinches and her breath falters and she whimpers, just a little…and just for a moment.

But it’s enough.

(Enough that he knows he cannot possibly bring himself to take advantage of her tonight.)

So he lowers his head, resting his cheek lightly against the hollow of her throat. “Shh,” he soothes into her, and he strokes the side of her face with one hand, and traces her parted lips with one finger.

“Norman, I—“ she begins in a small, halting voice.

“Shh, babe,” he murmurs into her. “‘s just me. Just me…and you.”

For once, it is true, and she breathes deeply and then stills beneath him. And then his lips are trailing across her jaw and down her neck as his caressing touch runs down her sides. Her delicate frame is easily engulfed within his hands—he can feel almost every single one of her ribs. She trembles and sighs under him as he progresses, her entire body quivering as though every brush of his lips or hands upon her travels through her entire body, from the surface of her skin to the marrow of her bones.

He can feel every tremor of her body, every shiver of her submission, and it shakes him, a little.

Taking a deep breath of his own, he continues on, pressing his open lips against her chest. As he breathes heavily against her bare skin, he takes one of her small breasts into his mouth. At the sudden warmth, she finally moves again, gasping and arching against him. Her hands dig into his scalp, her fingers twine into his hair as she holds his head to her chest, right against her fluttering heart.

They will be working together again very soon, and possibly for several years to come, but for all he knows this could be the only time he sees her in private—the only chance he gets to do this for her—for a long time.

And though he is taking no pictures tonight, he wants to remember this all the same. So he keeps the pace unhurried, takes his time, and makes her gasp again—and again, and again, as slowly, slowly his lips and tongue begin to memorize her.

Soon, he feels her nudging him onward, downward, and he lets her—to an extent. She’s trying to push him all the way down to the place where he, too, is desperate to be.

But he wants to make this last as long as possible.

All night, even.

So he remains obstinately where he is, and takes one of her nipples, hard and pointed against the chill of the air-conditioned room, between his teeth. When he bites down, her breath escapes her in a rush, along with a pleading moan, and her small fingers tighten and twist and pull at the roots of his hair—as though she, too, would harvest pieces of him to keep with her once he is gone.

He alternately takes each of her small, barely-there breasts in his mouth, between his teeth, all the while stroking her trembling sides, up and down, just slightly digging his fingers her sensitive flesh until his hot breath, sharp teeth, and strong grip make her gasp over and over.

Until she’s whimpering again.

She begins to whine. “Norman, please.”

Perhaps there is a part of him that is a bit cruel, a bit wicked in this. For too long now, Daryl Dixon has pined for Beth Greene, and perhaps there is a part of him that wants to take the simmering tension between them to the next level.

Perhaps, it is time for Beth to long for Daryl.

And so, finally, he tears himself away, but only so he can swoop in once more. Only so he can finally, finally slide his lips and tongue down to her flat stomach. And then his hands are on her tiny, slim hips, stroking lightly, for a time.

Her hands are still buried in his hair, and her nudges grow more and more urgent, until finally, he smiles to himself.

Until, finally, he believes in her want, and in her need, and not just in her submission.

And then his mouth is between her gorgeous, heavenly thighs, and he’s nuzzling into her, nosing his way in, moving his lips against her, all the while making strange noises of his own now, low hums deep in his throat. Lingering there against her opening, he makes sure that the vibrations emanating from him only increase her pleasure.

He comes up for air only briefly, and when he goes down on her again, he makes sure to scrape her, just a little, with his stubble. To nibble her, just slightly, with his sharpest edges of his canines.

To his satisfaction, she gasps aloud once more, and lets out a stifled cry.

The sounds she’s making increase in volume as he proceeds. For he goes slowly, passionately, easing into her, lavishing her with attention—with sensation—both within and without, until she’s whimpering and mewling with every squeeze of his hands upon her flesh, with every flick of his tongue inside her body.

Later, much later, after their worlds are sundered, after their lives are turned upside down, she admits that he had indeed left her aching that night—aching for more, aching for him.

That he had ruined her, in this regard at least, for any other man.

But in that moment he doesn’t think of it like that—doesn’t think of himself in that way.

Norman Reedus, the great lover.

Norman Reedus, the life-ruiner.

No, in that moment his only thought is for her, and her pleasure. For her body, all pale, flushed skin and gentle curves, those luscious thighs hooked over his still-clothed shoulders. For her sounds, little gasping oh’s, the arch of her spine, the dig of her nails in into his scalp, the bucking of her hips, and the surge of wet heat that accompanies each shudder and spasm (and there are many that night).

Sometime during one of her rolling orgasms, she presses her heels into the muscles of his back so hard he thinks she might have left a bruise, and digs her nails into his scalp so sharply he thinks she just might have drawn blood. The stinging pain serves only to increases his arousal and he comes perilously close to losing it once more. He’s so turned on that he nearly blows his load in his jeans, as though he’s fourteen years old again instead of the wrong side of forty.

(Maybe tonight won’t kill him, after all. Maybe it’ll even shave off a few of his too-many years.)

Throughout the all-too fleeting summer’s night they remain there, alone in that hotel room, high on each other and high above the old, glittering city and all its bright, shining lights.

The long strange day that had preceded this had been surreal enough in and of itself, but the fact that it’s ended with him in bed with Emily Kinney is somehow the strangest element of all.

As though, all this time, they had simply been coasting along, riding on alternating waves of impossibility and inevitability, until each mingled and combined and rolled over them, right over their heads, swallowing them up and leaving them at once drowning and gasping for air in each other’s arms.

(Good thing, he thinks, that he will never tell another soul about this.)

(No one would ever believe him anyway.)

Each time she comes down from her soaring height, she begs him to enter her—with her touch, and with her voice. She pulls eagerly at his shoulders, his shirt buttons, and his jeans. She even begins to plead with him, so softly.

Each time, he says nothing, just silently begins his ministrations once more. Each time, he leaves her more and more swollen, rubbed raw by his beard and stubble, her delicate little pussy fairly aglow in the aftermath of his attentions.

There is a moment, sometime in the middle of the night, when his resolve weakens.

The room is dark, and Em has fallen asleep. She’s lying with her back turned to him, facing the window. The only lights are those of the city, shining below, bright enough to illuminate her small form and give her entire being an almost unearthly halo of a glow.

She's been asleep for a while now. It’s been a long and exhilarating day for her, after all, and he can only imagine how tired she must be. He’s exhausted too, but he stays with her, resting by her side, just watching her shoulders rise and fall with each slow and steady breath.

He knows he should probably take his chance while he can and sneak back to his own suite now when everyone else—when all prying eyes—are likewise abed.

But he can’t bring himself to leave her side. Not yet.

That’s when she turns to face him, and snuggles into him. She wraps an arm around him, makes a little noise, a contented sigh, and rests her head right against his chest.

Suddenly, he’s hard for her again, with want and need and unfilled desire coursing through him like a river, hot blood surging through his veins like a tide. His heartbeat increases, his breath quickens, and he’s about to get up, lock himself in the bathroom for the few seconds it would take to find his release, when she murmurs something into his chest.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Love you.”

He freezes.

She goes quiet again, breathing softly, and his heart is pounding, fit to burst out of his body, and he’s close to panicking. He tries, desperately, to convince himself she’s just dreaming. Talking in her sleep.

She has no idea what she’s saying.

But then she speaks again.

“Norman?”

He clears his throat, takes a deep breath. Summons his voice. “Yeah, babe?”

“You’re still here,” she says. It’s not a question, but the way she says it sounds like she wants some kind of answer.

“Yeah,” he replies huskily. “Yeah, ‘m here.”

He feels her arms, so strong for someone so slight and small, tighten around his middle.

Then, she begins to move against him.

Her eyes are still closed, and for all he knows she’s still half-asleep. Her delicate fingers are splayed against his sides, and they slide gently, tenderly over his denim shirt, up and down his chest, and against his back. At her touch, at the sensation of her hands upon his body, he can’t prevent the bone-shattering shiver that runs through him.

(Good fucking lord, she’s still completely unclothed…and now pressed right up against him.)

And then, her hips connect, almost painfully, with his own…and she starts to grind against him, gasping now in sultry, breathless sighs. He’s gonna lose it for real this time—especially when she wraps her bare thighs around him. She presses herself against his groin, and he can actually feel her, right through the front of his jeans. That small, tight bud, opening just for him—opening in sweet and aching welcome.

“Fuck,” he groans, so loudly that her eyes snap open.

“What is it?” she asks, breathless. “You're so hard, Norman. Let me—”

“No,” he says, a tad too harshly perhaps, for she goes quiet again for a spell, deathly quiet, and he shifts uncomfortably beside her.

“Don’t you…want to?” she asks finally.

Even in the dark he can sense her hurt and confusion, and his heart skips a little beat.

“Um…uh…’m a'right,” he grunts out. “Go back to sleep, Em.”

His avoidance of her question is all-too obvious, and she just stares up at him, unmoving. He can feel those big, round eyes upon him, can feel the intensity of her gaze.

When she speaks again, her voice is so soft, just a frayed little whisper in the darkened room. “It’s just…” she hesitates. “I want you to.”

Her admission floors him, and he very nearly gives in, so very nearly takes her, right then and there.

But he just holds her tightly. And says nothing.

They lie together like that for a time, unspeaking. Just breathing in tense, labored unison.

Finally, she relaxes once more—he can feel her arm start to go limp where it’s still draped around him. He releases a long, slow breath from his lungs he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.

After a while, she begins to twitch and shiver in the cold air-conditioning of the room. Carefully, so carefully as not to wake her, he pulls the white bed sheet up from where it’s tangled at their feet and tucks it around her slightness. With one hand he strokes her back until finally, she begins to drift. Each of her breaths is a little puff of warm air against his chest, against his heart.

Her warmth, her closeness is so comforting, and she fits so perfectly against him, that he cannot help but press his lips into the top of her hair, cannot help but leave behind faint, ghost-kisses upon her brow, until her breathing deepens further, and she falls into dreamland once more.

Even just lying here beside her in her hotel bed, holding her in his arms…it’s perhaps the most intimate thing that has passed between them thus far.

(Why then, he wonders, does she suddenly feel so far away?)

(Like she might, at any moment, slip out of his reach.)

He hadn’t set out to upset her. All night, his only aim has been to pleasure her in the way that he’s always felt a girl like her deserves. But suddenly he wonders how much of this is really him doing what is best for her…and how much of it is him once more studiously avoiding…something.

His desire for her has not abated. If anything, it’s only grown more acute, more painful with each passing moment. And with her nestled right against him, breathing his air, her chest rising and falling in time with his…

Perhaps, after everything, he should have expected it would be this way. That in these quiet, intimate moments he would find her the most difficult to resist.

They’d spent the whole day in extreme physical proximity—bodies pressed close, heads together, hands holding, even lips, touching. But all had, largely, been for show. Just them doing their job—or so he’d tried to convince himself. A part of him had even wondered if it would be the same, behind closed doors. If, once they’d stood unmasked before the other, it would still ultimately be just an act.

To his surprise, and utter relief, it has proven as real, and as true, as anything that had passed between their fictional counterparts.

(And perhaps, just as raw, and just as messy, too.)

For as he lies there, breathing in the scent of her hair, every part of him is filled to the brim with awareness of her presence, and he knows that even if he never gets to do this again, even if things just go back to the veneer of the professional on set, this one night with her will still hold more meaning for him than the countless, empty nights he’s spent with others.

As the pale red glow of morning washes over the city below, he wakes her with his lips and his tongue and his mouth, gentle and apologetic upon her flesh. She moans prettily, arching her back and stretching her arms out luxuriously against the sheets. Even with her sleep-tousled hair and smudged makeup, he finds her utterly entrancing.

And then he’s worshiping her one last time, drinking her sweet honey in (as sweet, he thinks, as any of his many sins), and he knows that now that he’s tasted this, now that he’s tasted her, there’ll be no going back.

(She might not be his, but he thinks there’s a chance he could be hers.)

(Maybe he already is.)

Later, as he's standing by the door, readying himself to make the mad dash back to his own room, he reaches for his camera where it lies beside her things. In his clumsy attempt to untangle the straps, he knocks over her purse and something small, something innocuous, something all-too familiar falls out. He stoops to pick it up carefully from the floor, and turns over in his hands.

And there on the inside of a little turtle shell, beneath Beth and Daryl's joined initials, he reads his own inscription:

Slow and steady wins the race.

He swallows, hard. She’s kept it with her, all this time. Just like she’d said she would.

He steals one more glimpse of her sleeping form, there on the bed. After his morning attentions, she’d fallen back into a deep slumber, and he’d already decided not to wake her. And so, without a word, he carefully, so carefully, slides the gift he’d given her over a year ago back into her bag.

As he slips silently out her door, he tries to feel sorry. Tries to summon even the slightest hint of guilt.

But as he saunters down the hallway back to his room, all he can remember is the feeling of her hands in his hair, her body trembling against his mouth. All he can hear are sounds she'd made, the soft, whimpering cries that had escaped her throat. All he can see is how she'd looked as he'd gone down on her. That expression on her beautiful, heart-shaped face each time he’d finally, finally made her come and…

He doesn’t regret it one bit.

Not even in light of what happens next.

~

It’s news to all of them.

“Rewrites,” they are told, and it makes them all a little nervous.

“Who’re they killing off now?” they joke. But all in all, they laugh it off. A week off right after the biggest con of the year is a welcome, if unexpected, surprise.

So when they’re given the revised script the morning of filming and all comes crumbling down, he’s almost too furious to think. Not for himself. Not even for Daryl and Beth. Not even for the fans. But for her. Not even in his darkest dreams about how it could've gone down did he think it would come to this.

As the words on the page begin to sink in, he finds himself pacing around, heart pounding, thoughts racing. Who else had known? And how long? Why hadn’t they told him sooner? Why had they all but insisted that he and Em get cozy at the con if they’d had this planned all along? When had they told her? What, exactly, had the writers been on when they dreamed up this hot mess—and who the hell had given them the go-ahead?

It’s insane. It’s baffling. It’s infuriating.

All he can think, over and over is this is not how it’s supposed to be.

Norman’s usually a pretty flexible, easy going dude, but that morning he wants to punch something. Or rather, someone. And hard.

It seems the changes had been kept quiet right until the last minute, and the others are just as caught off-guard. Just as upset, too, in varying degrees. When they’d been informed of Scott’s fate last year, it had been a bummer of course, but at least it had made sense.

But this…no one can say anything. Everyone just looks at each other and shakes their heads.

Andy, however, is furious—no, seething—and when he approaches, Norman thinks he’s the one about to get punched.

“Did you know?” he demands, shoving a handful of crumpled pages in his face.

“What? Fuck, no—‘course not. Not ‘til just now.”

His friend just nods, but in his thunderous expression he glimpses a flash of Rick Grimes at his most feral—and it actually scares him, for a moment.

They spend some time discussing the possibility of a walk-out, but in the end conclude that they can’t do that to Em. If this is how it has to go down, well…there’s no other choice. They have to try to make this as painless as possible. They have to be there for her.

Later that morning, he sits behind a building on the set, prepping himself for the soul-destroying turmoil his character is about to face. It’s already hot as hell out there, or maybe hotter. The sun’s rays beat down relentlessly on Daryl’s leather-clad back, and Norman moves into the shadow cast by the building lest he melt—or burn—before he’s called up.

He’s got his earbuds in and his playlist running, but it’s the one he’d made when he thought Daryl was still going to find her and the song comes on and…

“The storm will pass
It won’t be long now....

Today is the first time they’ll be in character together, on set, in over a year. The first time they’ll be in character together, since that night in the hotel.

First and last, he reminds himself.

His heart leaps, his stomach churns with it. With all that he has, for so long, prepared himself for—all that was, and all that will now, never be.

A strange and terrible sensation (not unlike sinking, not unlike drowning) flows over him and through him, all the way to the bottom of his soul. What fools we have been. He shakes his head. Already wetness begins to tease the tired corners of his eyes, trickling down his face behind his shades.

Today, he doesn’t have to think about his own personal failures and losses, his own lost loves and past regrets.

Today, the two are mingled so closely he doesn’t need to pretend.

He’d seen her inside, earlier. All done-up in her brand-new scars. Scars that had been intended, from the start, to match his own. Daryl’s own.

He’d seen her, but not spoken to her. For there’d been heartbreak and disappointment written plainly across her face, and something like despair in her eyes—something not unlike the deep sorrow he's certain she had glimpsed in his own. It had all flashed past him in a lightning strike, a bolt of guilt and pain, and he’d had to turn and look away.

No, he couldn’t bear to look at her. Not like this. Not until…he gulps. Not until it’s time.

“Hold on, hold on tightly
To this love, last forever…”

The futility of it, of everything, hits him that moment. Whether he sits in the shade or swelters in sun, it matters not—just as none of these characters they portray day in and day out will ever escape the underworld they are all trapped in.

He shifts then, as though he's about to get up. As though he’s about to do something. As though he’s prepared to march up to the writers and the directors and demand…what, exactly?

To have things his way?

There is a dark suspicion, forming in his mind. Maybe that is precisely why this is happening in the first place. There’d been plenty of fans who hadn’t appreciated their antics in San Diego. Or maybe…

No. No one could have found out about their night together. He’s made sure of that.

But it seems he’s pissed someone off, and now they’re making him pay. Making her pay.

When Melissa had seen the script that had held her character’s untimely fate two years ago, he’d supported her in her plea for a re-write. Now, he is practically shaking with an impotent rage to think that, for Em, there are no avenues of appeal.

Not this time.

Andy’s right, as always. They all have every right to be furious. But he’s also right in that there’s nothing, at this hour, to be done.

(There’s only one thing left to do.)

It’s not quite time yet. He hasn’t been called. But he can’t bear to be out there a moment longer.

He rips out his earbuds, and stands up.

(Not for what is right, but for nothing at all, it would seem.)

Then he turns his back to the harsh and merciless sun, and goes inside.

~

Afterward, sitting there on that sun-scorched pavement, he clings to her far longer than the script demands. The tears that slide down his face and land on her where she lies, unmoving, in his lap are far too real.

(Perhaps, he thinks, enough to drown them both.)

And even when they rise—she from written death, he from a blow to the heart so deep it’s almost paralyzing—still he is loathe to let go.

He lifts her to her feet, and brings her trembling hand to his lips. He holds it there, not so much kissing it as breathing it. Breathing her pulse. It’s there beneath his fingers, beneath his mouth. Her lifeblood, warm and strong and pounding, and he can’t tear his lips away.

As he lets her delicate fingers, stained crimson with blood (not real, not real) slip from his grasp, the loss is almost unbearable.

Somehow, he knows he will always hold on to this. Will always cling to it and turn it over in his mind. The memory of that final moment: Beth Greene, breathing her last in Daryl Dixon’s arms. Emily Kinney, rising in her stead, somehow more alive than ever.

And then everyone is hugging and kissing and saying their farewells, a blurry sea of comforting gestures and apologetic words, but still he cannot see her. Even when it’s his turn for one, final hug…he cannot. Physically, he is unable. He’s still blinded by the harsh sunlight, and by his eyes, swollen red and stinging with saltwater. His tears, Daryl’s tears.

From that day forth, he can no longer tell the difference.

~

Days pass in a slow, surreal blur, and she answers neither texts nor calls. The waves fall silent.

In the end, he has to hear about it from the others.

She’s gone back, almost immediately. Back to New York. Back to her old life, on the stage. I still sing, little Beth Greene had insisted.

Maybe it’s for the best, he tells himself.

(He doesn’t believe it.)

Over the next few weeks, the sense of loss (the loss of Beth, the loss of Em) buries itself deep and takes hold, like something dead coiled around his insides, strangling him, choking the life out of him from within.

Back at work, his usually endless well of enthusiasm is nearly dry, and he can barely summon what he needs for the next few rehearsals. The show must go on, of course, but he’s not quite there. Not quite with it. He’s drifting out on some cold, black sea and he can’t seem keep his head above water. (It's only to be expected, he thinks—a man can't swim if you cut off his arm.)

It is the sudden, anchorless sinking feeling that accompanies only the most intense of disappointments—he’s felt it before, of course, but not this keenly, not for a long time. It is so pervasive and overpowering that he begins to realize he can’t just shrug this one off. He can’t just brush this one away.

It’s not like hasn’t happened before. It’s not like it doesn’t happen all the time on this damn show, and in this bloody business. After all, when Andrea had been killed off in such a ridiculous manner two seasons prior, they’d all been pretty pissed. Not only had Laurie been a key member of the cast and an asset to the show, but even a blind idiot could’ve seen that her character had deserved a far more substantial run.

But this…this is different.

Harder, nastier…and with something deeply unsettling in that way it’s all gone down. He senses it in his bones, and it makes feel old and sad and cynical beyond even his years.

For the first time, Norman Reedus questions his involvement in the very show that has been the making of him. The very show that has now proved itself to be so heartless, so cruel, as to break Emily Kinney’s heart.

Some melodramatic part of him wants to fall to his knees in front of the execs and beg them to kill him off, too. To please, for fuck’s sake, just put Daryl Dixon out of his goddamn misery.

(Now, more than ever, he regrets scrawling his name on that contract, signing away his soul for so many more years to come.)

Maybe it’s the nature of it, how they’d sprung it on them all without warning. How they’d lead Em to believe that being made full cast member had actually meant something. (Or maybe it’s the darker reasons that surely lurk behind such a last-minute re-write that he still doesn’t want to think about.)

Either way, for the first time he also feels a personal sense of responsibility. Of guilt. Of failure. That, somehow he’s failed the characters, failed the fans, failed the show. But most of all, failed her. It runs so deep he almost wants to lash out like a grief-stricken, drunken redneck in front of a moonshiner’s cabin at the end of the world. “Maybe I could’ve done somethin’.”

What, exactly, he doesn’t know, but surely his clout and not-inconsiderable influence could’ve at least bought them—could’ve bought Beth and Daryl—a little more time.

(If only he’d known. If only he seen the signs.)

He tries to convince himself that, simply by holding it together long enough to film the scene, simply by being there for her, he'd done all he could. That they'd all done what they could, under the circumstances.

But why then, does he feel the weight of it, the responsibility, so heavily upon his shoulders? He’s no stranger to regret. He’s done a shit-ton of stupid things in his day. Made many mistakes. Regrets upon regrets.

But that is not what he feels—he does not regret that sweet summer's night in the hotel. Far from it. But he can’t forget the vulnerability and devotion in her eyes. The trust she had placed him. In his experience. In his power.

He can’t forget it, and he knows that intentionally or not, in this, he has let her down.

He might not have taken anything from her that night, but perhaps he’d given her more than he’d realized. Hope. A promise. A binding oath.

And now, all lies broken.

(Later, he has the dark and twisted thought that maybe if he hadn’t been so blind-drunk on Emily Kinney, he might have been able to save Beth Greene.)

~

The night of her birthday, he sits alone in his house in Atlanta, lit cig and cold beer in hand.

It’s one of those a rare, one in a million occasions when he’s not surrounded by dozens, hundreds, or thousands of people. When he’s completely alone. (When he’s just some dude instead of the biggest actor on television.)

The evening is warm as always, but tonight there’s a slight breeze. It wafts in through the French doors that open to his balcony and drifts through his messy, sweat-tangled hair. (Hair he keeps dyed so his gray doesn’t show. Hair he’s grown long for continuity’s sake, but also because he’s been told—by stylists, by friends, by fawning women—that it suits him.)

It’s been a long, hard day on set and he’s dirty—filthy, even—and badly in need of a shower.

But it’s not like he’s got anyone special coming over. Not tonight.

He’s left the doors to the balcony ajar so the smoke can escape into the night air and the cat can come and go as he pleases. From where he’s sitting, half inside, half outside, he can hear the crickets, the cicadas, the creaking of old branches—all the familiar night sounds from the trees outside. The faint whoosh of cars passing, and even the distant hum of people’s voices from the street. The sounds of summer. It should be comforting, but…

Despite the character he’s most famous for, Norman’s not usually given over to brooding. Most of the time, he’s too busy working, rehearsing, socializing, and flying back and forth across the country to various award shows, photo-shoots, and interviews to think most of the time, let alone dwell on his thoughts.

But tonight he is pensive—morose, even. In the quiet moments like this, when he’s not surrounded by fellow cast members at work, by friends and family, and by the countless, eager fans that seem to amass around him wherever he goes, that’s when he notices. When all is quiet and dark and…still.

Perhaps it’s not really something that’s missing, so much as something that’s never been there.

Whatever it is, it leaves an old, familiar ache in the very pit of him, that gaping void that he’s tried his whole life to fill by wearing other people and personas like a mask, like a second skin. A hollow man, donning a jacket or a leather vest each day as though it could transform him into someone else—someone far better and braver than Norman Reedus.

(And right about now he’d give anything to be someone other than that asshole.)

Even during the toughest times of his existence, the long, hard years before his rise to stardom, before fame and fortune had smiled upon him, his zest for life and extroverted nature had never allowed him to take much note of it—the inner emptiness, the creeping despair.

But tonight, it is there. Or rather, not. Something dark and empty and so, so cold.

As though summoned, a black shape comes slinking out of the shadows of the balcony outside and rubs up against Norman’s leg, and lets out a soft, almost silent meow.

“Hey, Eye-ball,” he replies, reaching down to give the creature a quick stroke.

There’s another yowl, louder and more insistent this time.

“I know, bud,” he sighs, “I know. But we can’t always get what we want, can we?”

Eye just stares back, his gaze alien, impenetrable.

Norman shivers.

For tonight, there is a coldness in the pit of him that cannot be warmed. Something that even the summer breeze, even the ridiculous bunny slippers he’s wearing, or even the sudden, soft weight of the cat leaping into and then purring contentedly in his lap, cannot shake.

Eye’s his son’s cat, really, and his presence is a daily reminder of both past regrets and present joys. With one hand he strokes the curled-up ball of midnight-black fur for a spell, and it calms him, centers him a little. But soon, the creature grows bored and impatient and leaps from his lap to chase after shadows only he can see, leaving Norman alone once more with his uncharacteristically brooding thoughts.

He considers putting on a film, something familiar and not too heavy. Something he’s seen a million times, like one of Greg’s earlier works. But the hours pass, the night trudges on, he can’t seem to tear his eyes from the screen of his iPhone.

For she’s right there, in his hand.

No, not her, her image.

(Her ghost, maybe.)

It’s his darkest fear, the one he does not dare articulate to himself: that the Emily Kinney he’s known for the last three years, the Emily Kinney he’s grown so attached to despite himself, might now be gone.

(Gone from his life, at the very least.)

As he flips through the hundreds of photos he still has of her from that golden day in San Diego (was it really only a few weeks ago?), so full of light and hope and smiling like tomorrow still held all the possibilities in the world, he is close, so close to doing something stupid.

Like texting her, or sending her a drunken selfie. Or something even bolder. Something that might get him fired. Like tweeting her. Like publicly declaring that he’s sorry. That he misses the hell out of her. That he wishes things were different. So fucking different.

But the small-town girl from the Midwest has gone to try her luck in the big city once more, and as he exhales slowly, sending another ring of smoke into the breezy night, he promises her (and himself) that, this time, he’s not going to get in her way.

God knows his over-enthusiasm has already fucked up her life enough as it is. (Besides, he tells himself, he’s probably the last person she wants to hear from tonight.)

In his mind, he wishes her all the good things in the world. All the modeling gigs, all the tours, all the hit singles, all the music videos, all the best parts—on Broadway, television, or even the big screen. (If that’s what she still wants. He’s not even sure she’ll want to remain in this cutthroat business, after everything.)

But one thing is clear: her star, dimmed for now, will rise again upon other sets, her eyes will shine for other leading men.

In whatever she chooses to do next, she will go far, he knows. She will go far.

With, or without him.

~

As the filming season winds down, and in the long months that follow, his calendar is the usual busy blur of photoshoots, conventions, wrap parties, and awards shows.

He directs a couple music videos, and even acts in a few films. In the process, he works with, and makes the acquaintance of several very attractive actresses, each one more beautiful and more famous than the last. (He tries not to think about how beautiful each one of them is—or isn’t—compared to her.)

There is a strained, awkward meeting between them at a con in late summer that leaves him deeply unsettled. It’s not wholly unexpected, however, and he chalks it up to one, undeniable fact:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

He sees her only briefly and barely speaks two words to her at the season premiere—the last one she’ll be invited to attend, he thinks sadly.

This time, there’s no magic red carpet kiss, no beaming smiles, no posing side by side for the cameras and flashing lights. Even her hair and makeup seems far different than he remembers. Her usually wild and untameable locks are tonight shiny and sleek, styled into alluring vintage waves that evoke the femme fatale's of old. It lends her an undeniable mystique, but makes her look colder somehow—the dark queen of some lonely underworld.

It’s almost as though she’s deliberately tried to put as much distance between herself and the ill-fated, youthful Beth Greene as possible. As though she’s already distancing herself from all of it—all of them.

(No, he reminds himself, it’s not she who has put the gulf between them, but those with the final say. Those who alter lives and shatter dreams with the turning of a page, with the stroke of a pen. No, it is not her fault she has been so cruelly and unexpectedly severed from his world.)

She’s trying to let go, she needs to move on—he can see in every strained smile, every tense movement of her body. But she can’t, not yet. Not when everyone else is still so excited.

But he knows her. He knows her all-too well by now, and he can see right through it. Right through the pain and turmoil and whatever else surely simmers just below her uncharacteristically cool surface.

She’s in limbo. In some kind of purgatorial in-between. And he’s so tempted to walk across that red carpet (red as blood), take her hand in his, and pull her out of it. But he realizes, with a sick and twisting feeling in his gut, that if anything, he’d only be holding her back.

He’d only be dragging her down.

He manages to attend one of her gigs in late fall, but that’s the last time he sees her for months. As during all the previous off-seasons, they are rarely in the same place at the same time. But now, it’s different.

Now, he knows it will always be thus—a long, cold winter of discontent.

~

Over the next couple of weeks, he comes to a point where he’s sort of just…coasting along. Not numb, exactly, just…too busy to feel much of anything.

(Other than the moment, of course. He’s always been at his best in the moment.)

If there’s one thing that he’s not counted on, however, it is how the sudden and inexplicable change of script and storyline midway through the season (and the sheer, infuriating injustice of it all), would affect everyone else, as well.

He’s not present for every incident, but he hears tell of things. There’s a strange, awkward fan Q&A at a con that leaves Emily, Lauren, and Scott shaking their heads in disbelief, a couple of filmed interviews in which Andy can barely conceal his rage at the writers, and another panel that, under the circumstances, is so hard to stomach that Melissa walks out on, in tears.

He doesn’t hear from Em in this time—most of his communication with her is indirect, impersonal—through social media or the odd messages passed on from others. She seems to be doing alright, better at least, and it’s a load off his shoulders, a weight lifted from his heart and mind: she, at least, will be okay, even if things between them are not.

He loses any sense of hope in that regard until, oddly, the night that his and Melissa’s episode airs.

Emily sends him rare personal text, out of the blue and entirely unsolicited. At first he thinks it’s just to wish him luck as they all do for each other sometimes when their episodes air. But the message is simple and wholly unexpected: Check Instagram. There’s a little winky face at the end, but that’s it. He has no idea what she’s talking about or where she’s messaging him from, all he only knows is that she’s supposed to be at some awards show that weekend.

When he finally sees what she has posted he is torn between laughter and tears—and a strange sense of pride. For there it is:  I ♡ D A R Y L, written plain and clear across a pair of tiny pajama bottoms. His character’s name, plastered for all the world to see, right across Emily Kinney’s adorable little ass—and right before the episode in which Daryl is searching desperately for Beth.

And even though they both know his search will ultimately prove futile, it’s nonetheless an incredibly brave, gusty move. Cheeky, even. Something he might even have done, in her shoes.

He knows she’s just throwing a bone to the fans, but even so…some little part of him can’t help but wonder. Some little part of him can’t help but hope.

The night of the episode comes far too quickly for his liking. He watches the whole thing as it airs, feeling oddly detached, oddly distant, until…

It’s afterward, that gets to him. Watching her at the interview, forced to sit so uncomfortably on that couch beside the smug Kirkman, looking hurt and scared and like she’d rather be anywhere else the world—all the while being inundated with asinine questions about how it feels to be off the show. Watching Em fighting to hold back her tears in front of the cameras, in front of the whole damn world…

Finally, it proves too much. He can’t take it anymore, and turns it off in disgust.

He sits alone in the darkened room for some time, her tear-stained image burned into his mind (and his own tears gathering, threatening to spill), and decides that he has to do something.

They have to do something.

Something has to be done.

That evening, he leaves one single tweet, leaves it hanging there in the ether. Goodnight my girl. And if the message is for Beth Greene or Emily Kinney, even he does not know.

And if he chooses goodnight rather than the alternative, well…goodnight is gentler, and so much less final.

Goodnight implies that someday, somewhere, there will be a good morning.

~

His chance arrives sooner rather than later. There’s another con, a Walker-Stalker in New York the weekend following the episode’s airing.

Some actors dread such contractual obligations, but Norman loves cons. Official events where he’s able to let loose, where he can hang out with any and all of his fellow cast members without raising too many eyebrows—or too much speculation. (Events where, if he’s lucky, he still might be able to see her. Maybe even hold her in his arms for a few, eternal moments before they are, inevitably, surrounded by flashing cameras and smartphones.)

And so when he arrives at the convention hall that morning, he disregards his handler’s well-meaning advice to remain at his own table for a while. Sean’s no slouch, but even he has to jog just to keep up with Norman as he immediately sets off in search of her.

He spots her, morning coffee in hand, already surrounded by fans at her booth, and he’s ridiculously pleased to see that she’s heeded his text the previous evening about wearing matching colors. For she’s dressed in an adorable red-and-white striped crop-top, and she looks utterly delicious, like a little candy cane, and all he wants to do in that moment is gobble her up.

There’s a nerve-wracking moment when he’s still not sure if she’s fully on board with all of what he’s got planned. But then, a second later, she sees him, and her face brightens. To his everlasting surprise, he hardly needs to scoop her up as she immediately sets down her coffee and runs to where he stands, halfway between booths, and leaps into his arms.

He remains there, boots planted firmly on the hard floor, frozen in place for a few, shocked moments before he feels the old, familiar tug of his heart, the tipping of his soul towards hers.

“God, I missed you,’ he murmurs into her neck. “So fucking much.”

She giggles softly, nuzzling into him. “You better have."

Relief washes over him, and, if possible, he hugs her even tighter.

(Even if she’s just playing along, playing the part they’d both prepared themselves for so long, it’s already more than he expected. More than he deserves.)

But she hugs him back—with her arms, and with her firm, gorgeous thighs wrapped around his middle. His hands are on the small of her back, and the midriff-revealing top has rucked up so high he can feel almost her entire body under his palms, that beautiful expanse bare skin he’d memorized all those months ago, and he can feel her shiver, just slightly, under the heat of his touch.

(Maybe, he thinks with a thrill, she’s remembering it, too.)

They are still hidden halfway behind the curtain, and he knows people will be talking and taking a hundred-million pictures, but in that moment he doesn’t give a shit. Not one, flying fuck.

He remains there with her in his arms, just rocking her gently, just basking in her presence.

It’s a cold, cold winter's day on the East coast, but she is warm and alive in his arms.

Suddenly, she leans a little closer, and it is not until he feels the tickling whisper of her breath against him that he realizes how much he’s ached for it, all this time.

“Missed you too,” she says, and then he feels the faint, feather-brush of her lips against his cheek.

His world turns, his axis tilts, and for a moment all is righted.

For Beth and Daryl. For Norman and Emily.

For a moment, all is as it should be.

Suddenly, he decides. It’s time. Time for what he only wishes he’d had the guts to do months before, on a parched, scorching-hot pavement in Atlanta.

“Wait, what’re you—” she giggles as, one-armed, he draws the curtain aside and moves them into the light—into the full view of the assembled crowd.

He grins into her hair. “What needs to be done.”

~

Finally, he lets her down. But as she slides lightly against him to the floor, right down his front, right against where he’s hard for her (so fucking hard), he can’t help it—he doesn’t even give her a chance to turn from him or slip away from his grasp, but pulls her fast against him, takes her by the shoulders, fiercely, passionately, in the way Daryl Dixon always dreamed but was never truly allowed.

And then he wraps his arm around her back, right around her upper body, crushing her to him, and covers her mouth with his.

He knows he’s taking liberties once again—liberties that are not and never have been his to take—and at first she is a little caught off-guard, but then her inner actress, or perhaps the part of her that is still Beth Greene awakens, for her lips are suddenly pliant and yielding beneath his. And then she’s kissing him back, sweetly, so very sweetly, and her head falls back, and the noises that emanate from her throat are entirely unfeigned. And then her hands go to his chest, like she’s pushing him away and pulling him close all at once, like Rhett and Scarlet, and the old movie kisses rolled up in one.

Like she’s still his starlet and he’s still her leading man, and they’re still more than a little bit in love.

Sometime during that screen-worthy and very public kiss, Sean makes one last, feeble attempt to hold his clipboard in front of them, but the assembled onlookers cheer and whistle and ultimately have their way and he lowers it, laughing good-naturedly at his own defeat.

Oh, yes. Norman loves cons. Official events, where they can be seen together. Where, they can visit each other’s booths and he can hold her hand, and observe, from behind his shaggy hair and sunglasses, that shy, blushing expression that creeps over her face.

(Where he can smile his secret smile to himself, knowing that it’s all for him.)

And later that morning, when she comes to find him at his table, even after they’re joined by several others, including a jovial and enthusiastic Scott Wilson, he still can’t seem to tear his eyes from her.

Somehow he ends up holding her hand despite himself, and as he massages each and every one of her delicate fingers in their turn, he barely registers what she and Scott (and presumably himself) are discussing. Something about meeting up somewhere tomorrow, which pricks his attention (though all he can think is how much he would give for it to be just the two of them).

And even when she begins to pull her fingers away from grasp (she’s got her own clamoring fans to attend to after all), still he cannot seem to let her go.

Finally, he draws her into his arms for one more embrace, and cradles her there against his chest for a few, blissful heartbeats. She fairly melts into him, and he can’t bear to think of the ache her absence will leave when she finally disappears behind that curtain.

The buzz of the room is growing so loud now that when he murmurs something into her hair, his words are lost to all but her ears. “Don’t be a stranger, Em,” he says, his voice low and pleading. “Call me.”

She just nods against his chest, and hugs him tighter.

And then she’s gone from his table, gone from his sight, gone from his arms, but this time…

This time, he thinks he might actually see her again.

He stays in town one night longer than he intended, just on the slight chance he might be able to meet up with her for a coffee…and when he finally boards his flight back to Atlanta, he leaves with a lightened heart.

A few days later, during an online Q&A, he can’t help but let slip a very public admission as to how much he still misses her. And when, not long after, she responds to one of his tweets with an old joke known only to themselves, something inside him feels as though it has realigned itself…another long-fractured piece falling back into place.

Their carefully-constructed characters might have been irrevocably destroyed, their working relationship and burgeoning connection (not to mention her career) might have been cut brutally short before it had even begun, but in that moment he feels like there might, just might, still be some slim chance.

For what, he doesn’t yet know.

Something…anything.

(It’s still too much to hope for everything.)

~

Over the next weeks and months, the often surreal job of being a big-time celebrity requires him to fly back and forth across the country numerous times.

As he crosses the sky, following the curve of the horizon, he moves not only through time zones but climates, as well. One minute he’s stepping off a jet onto a sandy desert, the next onto a cold, windswept coast. A glimpse of summer, followed by a sudden dose of winter—the passage of time, the swiftness of the seasons, all in one day.

In another epoch, such a phenomenon would have been considered a miraculous feat achievable only by gods, but in this day and age it is simply the story of his life.

Time charges on, a runaway train dragging him its unfeeling wake, and the strange lightness of that midwinter encounter begins to fade under the weight of endless work and commitments (including filming an entire feature length film in L.A.), all too numerous to name.

She’s busy too, recording, filming music videos, posing for magazine shoots…and, he hears, auditioning for new roles.

To his everlasting surprise, she does call him—a few times, in fact. She even texts him now and then, too.

But there’s something still a bit fraught, something he cannot put his finger on. Something she’s holding back.

They start to FaceTime, late at night. Each time he inquires as to how her recording sessions are going, or how her latest shoot went, her face brightens at his interest and she begins to relax, to open up, a little.

One night, she asks him, so hesitantly, so shyly, his opinion on her new music videos, and he can barely speak in response. She sounds afraid, almost, to hear what he thinks, and his heart is close to breaking with it. So he just smiles, and praises her work to the sky, and makes naught but a few, gentle suggestions.

There's another night when he surprises her with something he's been practicing on the guitar. As he bumbles his way through the chords of one of her songs, he steals a glance and sees her grin lighting up his entire screen. And though there are hundred of miles between them, in that moment he feels her presence so keenly it’s like she is right there with him, and they are laughing together in his room.

But perhaps he pushes a little too far, a little too soon. For when he begins to speak of the possibility of visiting, she goes quiet or changes the subject. Each time he offers to come to her for a day or two, or to buy her a round-trip ticket to visit him on a weekend (or even just for one of his rare days off), she only smiles, and says in a small, sad voice maybe someday or that would be nice.

After a while, he stops bringing it up altogether.

Perhaps she doesn’t really believe him. Perhaps she can’t let herself get her hopes up only to have plans change or things fall through, as they are wont to do, at the last minute.

Or perhaps, he thinks, it is still too much for her, to step out from behind the protective armor of their professional boundaries into the full rawness of each other’s lives.

He doesn’t blame her.

After all, he’s not the one who’s been dealt a mortal wound. He’s not the one who’s just spent months trying to reinvent his entire image and salvage what's left of his professional life.

He’s not the one out of a job. If anything, his career has never looked brighter. (And right now, he kinda hates himself for it.)

He’s been warned, over years, about the price of fame. But no one ever told him it would be this high.

No one ever told him it would be paid by someone else.

~

In the spring, she goes on tour across the country, promoting her new album. The night she’s in town, he’s run ragged after a full day of stunt rehearsal, but he attends anyway.

He gets caught in traffic and almost doesn’t make it on time. Already worn out from a long day, he's now stressed to the max, cursing himself all the way. There hasn't been time to shower, and other than a quick dab of his cologne, he hasn't been able to make himself even remotely presentable. Insides clenching, he begins to wonder if, after all, this was a good idea.

When he arrives, Eddie’s is absolutely packed, and he sighs with relief to find that his usual table, at least, is reserved. And though the heat of the sun from earlier and the warmth of the crowded venue are, in that moment, combining within him in a strange, dizzying effect, at least he now has the chance to finally sit down, and take deep a breath.

As he’s waiting for her to come on stage, he absentmindedly stirs the ice in his drink—just coke, nothing more, as he still has to drive again later. His stomach rumbles and he nearly nods off. He’s hungry and tired. Too tired (and probably too damn old) for this, he thinks. Maybe he should…

But then the place goes dark, and quiet, and oh.

She’s there.

A hush falls, like the soundlessness after a first snowfall. The room and all its occupants might even be under some kind of spell, or enchantment.

In that moment, there might as well be no one else up on that stage, for all that he notices the rest of the band. Like the zoom effect in a film or music video, he zeroes-in on her. Up there, dressed in a cream-colored top and her favored tight jeans, she sways like a siren in front of sea of cerulean blue. In front of that curtain, she’s a beacon so bright it almost hurts to look at her.

Even her hair, turned almost white under the bright lights, is nearly blinding.

He watches her from the back of the room, and even from behind his hat and his shades it’s almost painful how she shines—no glows.

He’s heard her sing a hundred times and more by now. But when she leans into the mic tonight, her voice rings out so pure and true, he almost feels that it’s wasted.

Wasted on him. On an undeserving world.

He’s got a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat. For she sings of lost loves and last chances, the lyrics far more adult—and far more suggestive—than anything Beth Greene had ever been allowed to sing. Need stirs within him, and with it a desire far more selfish than anything Daryl Dixon would have allowed himself to act upon. (Anything, he knows now, that the character would have ever been allowed to express.)

With each new tune, the live audience—an intimate gathering of loyal fans—goes wild. As he watches her over the undulating sea of people, her delicate frame dwarfed by the guitar she strums with such quiet confidence, something becomes painfully clear.

She’s not wasted at all.

If anything, she belongs there, shining beneath the lights of the stage. She captures hearts anew every night; he is but a captive of faceless, fickle hordes on the far side of a television screen.

Suddenly, he feels sick. What the fuck does he think he’s doing? Coming here, drawing attention, bringing himself—and all that comes with him—crashing down on her? All that she’s tried so hard these last months to put behind her.

She doesn’t need this.

(She doesn’t need him, dragging her back down into his world.)

He’d taken the Jeep that night—he wouldn’t even have to call a driver or a taxi, he could just get up and walk out. He could drive off, be home in thirty minutes and she’d never even know. He could…

And then she looks at him, across the crowded room, and all thoughts of fleeing dissipate like a breath of smoke on the breeze. And even when she plucks the first notes of one of her new songs, strumming that guitar with such a wistful little smile, she’s still looking his way.

Holding him down.

His natural instinct is to look toward the exit. But from this, there’s no escape. Nowhere left to…

Oh, there's no one left to call
Nothin' much to say
Pretty sure the world is gonna end today
Drink up one last whiskey, head to the dance
Baby, this is our last chance

He knows this one. He’d listened to it repeatedly since she sent him the preview of her new album. He gets it. The last pretty girl. The last decent man. It’s about them—a redneck and a farmer’s daughter at the end of the world. He knows it. Everyone else seems to know it, too, by their reaction. She’s written it to humor them, the diehards. One last chance for Beth and Daryl.

A let down little mermaid trying to find air at the top
Pretty sure this spinning world's about to stop

But as the song progresses—and as she shoots several more glances his way—he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Takes several, nervous sips of his soft drink.

Norman’s never been the type to read too much into this sort of stuff, but with each line, each verse, his breath catches in his throat, and his heart constricts painfully as realization begins to dawn. He can’t help but wonder if there’s something else. Something more…

A life of fame and fortune and the star of some show
Now it's almost over, almost time to go, oh, go, oh, go oh, go, oh oh, oh...

The lyrics wash over him, and his heart is on fire, his heart is turning to ice, his chest feels like it’s going to burst open and he can’t move, not even if he’d wanted to. Not ever again.

(Not holding him down, no. Pulling him up, anchoring him in place. As though, after all this time, he’s still drowning and she’s the one hauling his dead weight back to the surface.)

So he stays. He stays for the whole set.

And through the applause, and the encore. And then…

Suddenly, she’s there, small hand on his broad shoulder, looking down on him with a tired but pleased smile.

He’d prepared himself for a difficult time, thinking he’d have to fight back the hordes to get to her. To hunt for her, track her down. But in the end he doesn’t even need to look. Somehow, she’s gotten away all on her own and found him.

He’s so startled he stands up too fast and nearly drops his glass, nearly sends it crashing onto the floor, to shatter into a thousand pieces. (Like so many fallen stars, just waiting to be crushed mercilessly underfoot by the masses.)

“Thank you,” she says softly.

For a moment he’s bewildered. 'The fuck is she thanking me for?

“For coming,” she adds, with a nervous little laugh. “You didn’t have to.”

I sure as hell did, he thinks. But he just clears his throat and shifts his feet, still too shaken by her sudden apparition at his table to reply, and too worried that any second his dumb, tired ass is going to blurt out something he’ll regret later.

Several silent moments pass. Her eyes shine up at him, inviting and yet slightly shy as always, and he gazes back beneath his shades, unable to do much more than thirstily drink in the sight of her.

She hasn’t even changed, he notices, and is still in the same tiny off-white halter top and tight black jeans she’d been wearing on stage. It’s dawning on him then, what it must’ve taken for her to get away so fast. What it could mean, for her to come straight out to see him, when surely she’s got hundreds of fans hoping to catch the merest glimpse of her, and hundreds of other pressing responsibilities awaiting her.

But still he is unable to move or speak, and stands looming over her for several, pounding heartbeats. The venue buzzes and rattles and hums around them, like they’re in caught in some kind of indoor hurricane. But her presence is steadying, centering.

The quiet eye of a never-ending storm.

And yet…tonight, he needs more. He needs to see her. Really see her. He needs to talk to her. To tell her…

(Never mind goodbyes. He’s not even remotely ready to say goodnight).

He looks past the top of her head (those wispy, silver-gold strands), searching, almost frantically, for a corner, any corner, somewhere they can sit together, just for a moment. Where, at the very least, they won’t have to shout to hear each other. He knows they need to be careful—she has to sing again the very next night after all.

(He’s so fucking exhausted, and knows that she must be too.)

Placing a hand on her small shoulder, he leans in close. "Think we should…” he begins, speaking right into her ear, close enough that his words don’t get lost in the blizzard of noise. Close enough that his lips brush the soft skin right above her pulse. Close enough that can almost taste the answering jump of her blood in her throat, the slight tremble of her body beneath his touch.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Please.”

As they skirt the edge of the crowd, his hand moves with a will of its own to rest protectively on the back of her neck as they are, inevitably, bombarded. Maybe even asked for a photo. He’s in a bit of a daze, dying as he is for a smoke, and he’s finding it harder and hard to think straight. His head is swimming with the lack of sleep and cigs and sustenance (and with her, with her).

“Dunno ‘bout you,” he rumbles, low in her ear, “but I’m starving.”

“God, me too.”

His heart is in his throat as he offers, “Wanna get someth—?”

“D’you wanna—?” she begins at the same time.

“Oh,” he laughs nervously. “Sorry—“

“No, it’s—” She hesitates, momentarily off-kilter, spun ‘round by the unexpected. “You drive then?”

“Yeah,” he says, mustering a slight smile. “The Jeep.”

At that, her entire face lights up. With hope and…something else.

Something that matches what he’s been feeling all evening.

He grins down at her, hand still on the back of her neck. He gives her a little nudge, and if he’s just a bit more enthusiastic, a bit more forceful now, he chalks it up to the prospect of finally getting the hell out of there.

~

Eventually, they wrangle their way out of the exit and step into the cool, damp night air.

Beside him, Emily shivers at the sudden shift in temperature. (It’s hot under those stage lights, he reminds himself.) He can feel her trembling under his arm and he helps her pulls her thin, green jacket more tightly around her bare shoulders.

It had been impossible to leave without being seen, and he’s certain there are people streaming out after them. He doesn’t even dare stop for a smoke, and so they reach his vehicle quickly, breathlessly, as though they’re back on set, outrunning a herd of walkers.

As he collapses in the driver’s seat, he releases a heavy sigh.

Finally, they’re alone.

(Almost. Not quite.)

They’re still not even out of the parking lot yet, after all. He’s got Em safely ensconced in the passenger seat, hidden from view, and the sight of her, with her hood halfway up, crouching down so as to be out of view, makes him laugh out loud.

She smiles up at him from under her hood. “What?”

“It’s just—“ He’s grinning too hard to even answer her, and waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing, never mind.”

(It’s just that this is whole thing is starting to feel less like an escape and more like an abduction, and he can’t help but chuckle at the dark irony of it all.)

He’s still grinning to himself, shaking his head, as he starts the ignition.

The radio comes on, so low it’s just white noise, soundwaves from another world.

In that moment, he really does have every noble intention of taking her to the dingy little place he knows just down the road. But as he’s pulling out of the parking lot, he reminds himself that, inevitably, there will be more fans there. More people. (There’s always more people.) When all he wants—all he needs—is…

He turns the opposite direction.

From the passenger’s seat, Em shoots him another baffled look. “You said 'The Paper Plane'. Where’re we…?"

“A drive,” is all he replies.

She just grins at him, and turns up the radio.

And then before he knows it, she’s singing, loud and clear. He’s about to tell her to keep it down, save her voice, but he glances over at her again and nearly crashes the damn car. For her hood has fallen back once more, and her face is as light and youthful as he’s ever seen it.

As light and youthful as it had been, nearly two years ago on the set of an abandoned shack.

Her eyes close then, as though she’s in some kind of pleasure-filled trance. As though she’s got absolutely nowhere else to be. As though there are no schedules, no responsibilities. As though there are no contracts, no television shows, no album tours. As though there’s not even another soul out there.

As though this vehicle and the long, dark stretch of road ahead are all there is left in the world.

He fixes his gaze upon the darkness ahead, and puts his foot on the gas.

And then they’re flying, flying into the night.

Leaving all the lights behind.

~

He finally pulls over a few miles later, on the side of a particularly dark stretch of road.

He turns off the Jeep, and the radio goes silent. (It’s okay, he tells himself, the song she'd been singing's been over for a mile or so now.)

Em is quiet now. Almost too quiet.

It’s dark in the front seat, and the space around them fairly thrums with some deep, abiding rhythm, Some feeling. Something so overwhelming, he nearly wimps out, nearly puts the key back in the ignition and turns around.

But then her gaze fixes upon him, across the seemingly-vast gulf of the front seat that still separates their bodies. From behind his shades he looks back.

A moment too long, perhaps.

For the silence is broken when her coat pocket buzzes, shockingly, demandingly. She sighs and pulls out her phone, and takes a minute to text a reply. He doesn’t ask who is trying to get in touch with her—family, friend, manager, bandmate…boyfriend.

(He doesn’t want to know.)

His own device has been off since before her performance. Normally, he’d have checked his messages and social media profiles several times over by now, but being in her presence after so long…

The seconds crawl by. He knows he really shouldn’t smoke too much around her, but he’s getting antsy. He’s about to roll down his window and light that cigarette he’s been craving, simply to pass the time, when he hears the sound of her phone powering down.

Lighter in hand, he turns to face her.

Her eyes are on him. Those big, blue-green orbs, huge as moons. Shining at him in the dark.

He pauses, mid-flick. The cig’s already in his mouth, but in that moment he feels it fall, as if in slow motion, from his lips. Without a word, without breaking their gaze, he slips the lighter back in his pocket, out of sight.

He’s got all the light he needs.

And it's as though he's suddenly switched-on. Come to life, with the realization that they are both here, and now.

Present. Together. Alone.

Truly alone, for the first time since, well… that night.

And so, as their eyes lock and hold once more, the message is unspoken but clear: such a precious rip in the fabric of their usually so carefully-managed time is nothing short of a miracle. To spend another moment without…

He never finishes his thought, or maybe she reads his mind, for she leans forward, and he reaches for her just as she reaches for him.

She makes the first, tentative move, warm-breathed, open-mouthed, but he is mere seconds behind. And then his lips are finally, finally on hers, and his hands are on her shoulders, for her jacket has slipped off to expose her skin to the cool air, and he can feel her trembling.

(She's nervous, and yet, for all that, she’s still made the first move. It touches him, that she still trusts him enough for that.)

His mouth is open against hers, his tongue already searching between her little teeth, and she responds in kind, surrendering her lips for him without hesitation. His grip on her shoulders tightens and he moves in closer, wanting to draw this out as long as possible.

The kiss deepens in pressure and feeling, and he wonders if he will die with it, after so long wanting—after so long missing. For the movement of her lips against his is somehow both urgent and passionate, greeting and farewell, all at once.

It’s relatively spacious in the front seat, but still a bit awkward, a bit cramped, and when they come up for air the first time, gasping together, they bump noses and elbows a few times in their haste to close the space between them once more, and reclaim one another’s breaths.

As his lips brush against hers once more, it hits him with sudden force, and he wonders how he could have been such a fucking idiot.

For he remembers it now.

It had not started during the filming of their scenes that glorious summer, nor even before that on the red carpet. It had been far earlier than that—the first summer on the set of the prison, long before Beth and Daryl were even in the cards. She’d been so under-utilized that season, and had been spending far too many of her brief days on set waiting off-screen. One day, he had come upon her sitting alone, looking lost and bored and more than little bit lonely, and he'd taken one look and decided to keep her company. To take her under his wing.

And so, they had cozied up, found a darkened corner. Just Norman and Emily. It had been mostly closeness, sitting with their heads together, a bit of friendly cuddling. A few silly selfies, to pass the time.

But being who he is, a passionate man (too damn passionate for his own good), he knows he wouldn’t have been able to resist. He knows that, before the end of it, he must have left a few long, slow kisses on her neck, on her face…on her lips.

(He is, if nothing else, the biggest flirt in the world.)

He knows, because he remembers it now, as her lips are on his, and he wonders if that is when this almost unquenchable thirst, this insatiable hunger for her had truly begun.

(He wonders why the hell he ever stopped.)

He has no good answer for himself. All he knows is that right now, in this moment, kissing her is far more necessary than breathing.

That latent passion now rises to the surface, and this time as he's tasting her, his hand finds its way to the back her head, and he slides his fingers up into her hair (no doubt messing up her artfully arranged ponytail), and with his thumb he begins to massage that sensitive place he knows and remembers she loves.

She gasps into his mouth in response, and her hands move gently but fiercely against the sides of his face, her own thumbs climbing higher, tracing the perilous ridges of his cheekbones. Their hungry mouths hold and cling, and their tongues linger along the seams of their lips, and he thinks they both whimper, just a little.

(Perhaps, he thinks, they’ll just remain here all night, leaning into one another, alternately savoring and devouring each other.)

When they come up for air again, they are gasping and shuddering, just holding each other close, cradling each other’s faces for a few, infinite breaths.

After a moment, her fingers move up the side of his face once more, and for a second he doesn't understand what she is doing. But then he feels her lift the cap from his head.

“There you are,” she says softly, stroking a tendril of his hair against his face.

He trembles at her touch. (She‘s only taken off his hat for fuck’s sake, but she might as well have removed every item of his clothing, he’s that bare, that vulnerable beneath her hands.)

“Don’t need these, either,” she whispers, so close he can feel her breath upon his lips. “Not in here.”

And then gently, so gently, she pulls the shades from his eyes and sets them on the dash.

His vision, shielded so long, takes a moment to readjust to the darkness. But after a moment he realizes that she is right. For as he looks across the space of the front seat at her once more, even in the dimness, for the first time he sees her properly.

Up close, he can see the tiredness behind her eyes, but also exhilaration, relief, and perhaps something a little sad, a little wistful.

Up close, she appears frailer, thinner than he remembers. He wonders with some concern if she’s lost weight since he’s last seen her. All that time on the road… damnit, but she’s already tiny enough as it is. How she hasn’t blown away in some breeze, like a little dandelion, he’ll never know.

He looks closer then, and can see that, small though she may be, there is still something formidable in her gaze. Oh yes, Beth Greene is still in there—he’s seen hints of her sweetness, of her fierceness in flashes, in certain expressions.

But tonight, he feels it in his bones. Tonight, the only person sitting before him is Emily Kinney.

He sees her, all that she is, all that she once was, all that she still could be, and he marvels at it. (And he cannot help but wonder just how much she sees of him, under his shades, under his mask.)

And then the magnets of their lips pull them close and press them together again, and then they are kissing and holding and touching, and she is once more leading the way.

At some point in this beautiful delirium she reaches down, unzips him, he springs out…fully cocked and loaded. Despite the heated passion of the last few minutes it’s still cool inside the Jeep, and he gasps a little at the sudden rush of air against him.

She glances down, taking it the sight of him, and she seems not the least bit surprised to find him bare—he doesn’t exactly hide the fact that he hates wearing underwear and avoids it at every opportunity, even while filming.

And then, before he can move or speak, she’s got him in her hand, and she’s stroking him gently but firmly. Her fingers are cold, and he shudders and moans under her grip, but then before he can form a single coherent thought, she’s leaning over and she’s taking him into her mouth, and she’s so warm, and the feeling of her lips closing around him makes him shudder in an entirely different way.

He groans, and his hand moves automatically to her ponytail, and he begins to guide her up and down his thick length.

He can’t help but let himself enjoy it for a few, heavenly moments. For she's licking and sucking her way up and gripping and smoothing her way down to the base, and the feeling of her mouth and the pressure of her fingers around him is even more mind-blowing than he'd imagined. But at a certain point he has to stop her, or else it will be a few moments too long and it will all be over before he even gets a chance to…

“Mmm,” she hums appreciatively around a mouthful of cock.

The vibration sends a fresh shudder through him and he nearly shoots off right then and there, right into her pretty mouth.

But fuck, he didn’t bring her out here for this, for him. He’d brought her out here for…for her.

Because he’d wanted her to feel free.

(And because, damnit, he just can’t help it. He can’t help but want her to be the one feeling good.)

And so without warning, he yanks her up, and his cock pops right out. She makes a sad, mournful sound, and looks almost bereft. Affronted, even. For some reason, that crestfallen little pout upon her adorable, gorgeous face is, in that moment, one the cutest, sexiest things he’s ever seen. And so he doesn’t give her a chance to speak, nor does he say a word, he just pulls her head back by her ponytail, and kisses her. His other hand wraps around her throat and lingers there before sliding down, seeking, and finding her little breasts.

As she so often does, she’s gone without a bra tonight and her nipples are already hard and pointed under his hand. She gasps into his mouth, but he simply kisses her harder, moving both his palms down her sides, to her bare midriff, right down, down the hem of those tight black jeans, all the way until he reaches the place he seeks, right there between her thighs, and…oh god.

A flood of wetness greets him. It’s just like he remembers… she’s so warm and slick and, like him, totally bare in all ways possible, both clean-shaven and not wearing a stitch of underwear.

“Damn, girl,” he exhales in appreciation. And then he slips a finger inside her.

She’s so wet and so tight, and she gasps in surprise and arches her back into the seat, but he continues holding her, kissing her, and then he slides another finger in, and with the base of his palm rubs her until she’s squirming in the passenger's seat, whimpering into his mouth, and with the slightest squeeze here, the littlest pinch there, he could make her come right now, he could…

Suddenly he feels one of her hands, light but firm upon his chest, and the other gripping his forearm, and he realizes she’s pushing him away.

“Wait, wait,” she pleads. “Wait.”

Reluctantly, he removes his hand from the confines of her jeans. “What?” He’s practically panting now. “Don’t you want—?”

“Yes,” she breathes, “fuck yes. But not…not like this…"

“Then what?” he asks darkly.

She is silent for a moment. Long enough for him to reach out, and cup her face in his hand. Long enough for him to begin tracing her bottom lip with the finger he’d just worked inside her.

At his touch, her lips part, her lids go heavy just for a moment, but she doesn’t succumb. She takes a deep breath and then her eyes blink open. And then she’s looking at him like he’s a complete idiot, and before he can stop her she reaches for the handle, pushes open the door. And then she's hopping out, slamming the car door shut behind her.

At first he thinks she’s pissed and is walking out on him. Or that she’s gonna do something crazy, like run off into the woods.

He's just sitting there like a dumbass with his fly unzipped and his dick hanging out, when she knocks on his window, giggling. “Backseat, silly,” she says pointing behind him.

He rouses himself then, wrenches his door open, and goes out after her. And then she’s there before him, and he’s looming over her in the darkness. Though she’s still smiling mischievously up at him, she takes a small step to the side, toward the rear of the car, as though edging away.

Suddenly he’s hungry for her, ravenous even, and with one hand he captures her wrist just as she’s opening the latch, and he pins her forcefully from behind, right against the side of his vehicle.

She’s squirming under him, struggling a little, but he only leans in closer, close enough to inhale her scent, to breathe her in. He breathes the wisps of her hair that have come loose, and exhales them into her neck. There, her pulse flutters, and he can’t help but nibble, just a little, at her throat. He moves upward, and as he takes the lobe of her ear between his teeth, her naked shoulders tremble under him. When he shifts his attentions back to her neck, she gasps—from the cold night air, or from the heat of his lips and tongue…or a little of both.

With his mouth against her thus, and with his breath gusting across the place where her blood pulses, he reaches down. He’s still holding her by the wrist with one hand, and with the other he yanks down her jeans, just far enough, and she lets out a yelp as her flesh is exposed to the night air.

“Norman,” she whines, and the way she says his name, desperately, and with that Midwestern twang, sends a fresh shot of lust through him.

He ignores her plea for now, and just licks his lips and grins. And then he reaches his hand all the way down the smooth slope of her ass, right up and under her so that he’s there at her opening once more. She makes another small, wordless sound of protest, but he is not dissuaded. Grinning now in earnest, he explores her from behind for a few moments, his fingers probing gently, and holy fuck, she is beyond tight, and so firm and oh-so sweet and inviting…but he doesn’t linger long, and when he pulls his hand away she cries out at the absence.

But then he leans forward and, taking himself in hand, presses his throbbing cock against her so that he’s sliding between her cheeks, almost into her slick opening.

“Like this?” he asks, right into her ear. “Is this how you want it?”

He’s still got her trapped against the side of the car, trapped beneath him, and with some guilt he realizes he’s probably getting her outfit dirty. It seems to be becoming a habit of his, ruining her things.

“No,” comes her reply from beneath him. “Inside.”

“Trying, babe,” he grins, and leans into her further.

“No, that’s not—” she starts, sounding more than little exasperated now. “We need to go inside.”

And then she’s struggling under him, trying to get away, and not for the first time that evening he feels like a complete asshole when he realizes why.

No cars have passed them for a while now, but even out here, on darkened road in the middle of the night, they are exposed, vulnerable to the sight of others. Sure, they are partially shielded by his vehicle, and the darkness of their surroundings makes it unlikely that anyone would see them, let alone recognize them.

But from the start, there have always been those out there who would jump eagerly at any chance to rip them to shreds. Wolves, lurking in the dark, circling, always circling, just waiting to tear them apart.

(Not to mention that getting himself and his former co-star arrested for indecent exposure isn’t exactly the next publicity move he had in mind. His career could weather it, no problem, but hers…)

No, there’s no question in his mind. Why she needs to do this in the backseat. She needs to be alone. With him. Behind closed doors. “Just me…and you,” he’d told her once, so long ago.

Immediately, he releases her, and she turns to glare at him over her shoulder. There are daggers in her gaze, but there is lust there, too…and something else. Something just as sharp, just as bright.

And then she disappears inside the door of the Jeep, which falls promptly shut behind her, leaving him alone once more.

He draws a deep breath and climbs in right after her, duly admonished, and rightfully abashed, but hungrier than ever now. He's about to reach for her but instead finds himself watching fascinated, mesmerized, as she shimmies the rest of the way out of her jeans and out of her boots, all in one swift, elegant move. Like a mermaid, shedding her tail.

She’s too damn good at this, he thinks with a stab of jealousy. For whom he doesn’t even know. (For the specter of whichever lucky bastard’s had the fortune of experiencing this long before himself.)

But any such dark thoughts are swept away into nothingness, meaningless, as he realizes that she’s now fully exposed from her slim waist, to her small hips, to her perfect ass, and on down…and that she’s climbing onto his lap. And before he can count to three, she’s holding onto him by his shoulders, and grinding mercilessly against his bare cock, and she’s so warm and wet against him and dear god.

As his head falls backward against the cool leather seat, all he can think is that going inside is best idea she’s had all night.

Em’s sliding back and forth in such a tantalizing, agonizing way that he knows he’s gonna have to be inside her, and soon. But first…

“Hang on,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. “I got something…”

She leans forward slightly, putting almost unbearable pressure against his lap. “It’s okay,” she says into his ear. “Don’t worry about it.”

And then she braces herself with one hand on his shoulder, and reaches down, and then lowers herself on.

His first thought is that she’s so tight he can hardly breathe—and by her strangled gasp, he thinks that maybe neither can she.

Emily Kinney is no virgin—he knows that damn well. But fuck if he doesn’t feel like he’s almost too big, too hard for her, like he must be knifing up inside her, thrusting right into her soft, tight flesh, splitting her open, and…

He’s really gonna have to hold himself together or this is gonna be a pretty short ride.

(Under normal circumstances, his stamina is nearly endless, but tonight he’s hell of a lot more tired than usual.)

Now that she’s on, now that he’s buried inside, she goes still for a moment, adjusting to him maybe, or accommodating his girth. He’s about to ask her if she’s okay, if she’s sure, but then, finally, she begins to move.

She’s as lithe as he remembers, and as bare as he always dreams, her small hips and firm ass rising in gentle rhythm under his hands, her shapely thighs squeezing the life out of him.

He begins his own movements in response, upward thrusts that send sensation pulsing through her—he can tell by the hitch in her breath, the sudden gasps of pleasure.

They’ve situated themselves in the middle of the backseat, and while it’s still cramped, it’s less so than up in the front, and with her positioned like this on his lap he now has much better access to, well… everything. He grips her alternately by her waist and by her thighs, as though to hold her up or maybe to hold her down, for in truth she’s practically weightless.

She glides against him, crying out with sensation at each movement, a little songbird bringing her own lyrics to life in his arms. They’re closer than they’ve been all night, closer than they’ve been in all the years of their acquaintance, but he wants her closer, if possible, wants her to melt into him. So he takes her by her midsection, wraps his arms right around her, and draws her to him.

He’s held her in his arms and on his back, held her against his chest in rehearsals and on set too many to count, but, for some reason, tonight she feels lighter, tinier than he remembers. It’s almost a shock how easily his forearms encircle her. As he hugs her tightly against him, his hands engulf her sides, her hips, and her waist. Yet even as he's gripping her like he’s afraid she will slip away from him again, even as the pads of his fingers dig into her soft skin, still he tries not to be too rough, tries to be gentle, for he almost fears he will snap her in half, or crush her at any moment.

She’s left her top on, and he slides a hand underneath it, and her breasts are small, hardened peaks under his touch. He rolls one nipple and then the other under his open palm, making her tremble, and then slides back down to her middle. As he holds her tightly to him once more, he tries not to think about the fact that she’s so small one of his hands nearly spans her waist.

He’s hardly the largest of men, but when he begins to lets himself feel her, really feel her, how little she is, how huge she makes him feel beside her (and inside her, fucking hell), it brings out something deeply protective in him that both terrifies and shatters him. He’s not sure he can afford to feel like that about anyone, or anything—any romantic partner, at least—but he can’t deny it when he’s got her in his arms, in his lap, and, for this moment at least, in his world.

He groans into her neck and thrusts up into her, and she cries out in response, her breath against his ear and his hair, her nails hooked into the meat of his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. And then he can’t seem to stop his hands from roaming across her slender form, right down and over her pert bottom to explore her from behind. And there, he plies her with practiced fingers, teasing and fondling and spreading her even as she moves over him.

Then, with his other hand, he slides across her hips and stomach to her pelvis, and she’s so soft, and so smooth, that his breath catches in his throat. And then he moves down to the front of her, to the place where she’s grinding against him. There, he squeezes gently, pressing her split-open folds tighter around him. She makes an almost pained noise, a wail of despair, and then she falls against him once more, her fingers clawing desperately at his chest.

(As though she's determined to rip his heart out for good, this time. To hold it, triumphantly, still beating, in her hands.)

But the pain that accompanies her nails sinking into him only spurs him onward, and then he’s caressing her from the front and from behind, stroking the place where her flesh is stretched taut in accommodation of his own. And then he’s pulling her apart, pushing her together, as though trying to learn what she’s made of, this Emily Kinney.

As if in answer, her teeth sink into his shoulder, and her hips jerk against him. He responds, shoving roughly up into her once more, and as he grunts and groans and fucks her harder still, all he can think that this has to be one of the wildest rides he's had in a long time.

It surprises him then, when her movements slow and she sits up. She leans back slightly, her arms falling loosely to her sides, like she is floating. But his chest already misses her, and he is about to pull her back down to him, when, with a shuddering breath, she arches her back and thrusts her hips, and squeezes him hard with her inner thighs, and then she’s riding him in smooth, hard strokes, undulating over him like a wave.

It’s hard to see much of anything back there, but somehow she still glows, her skin a faint, pale, almost eerie white shadow in the murky darkness. Like she’s swimming against the tide to get to him, to gather him in her arms, there in that a dark oceanic expanse, and guide him back home.

For he’s home, there inside her. She fits over him like she was made for him, and by the sounds she is making, he fancies that he fits inside her—mmm, ahh, fuck yeah—just right.

He is a born lover. It has always come naturally to him. Some kind of instinct. Like acting. Like everything he else he tries, he’s just good at it. His hands, his mouth, his whole body…somehow, he just knows how to use every inch of himself. How to bring out the most pleasure from an experience, regardless of the identity of his partner.

And tonight is no different, except…except tonight, he doesn’t even have to try, she’s pleasuring herself all on her own. I can take care of myself, little Beth Greene had once said.

She’s got her head thrown back now, her back arched like a bow, and her hands are gripping his thighs, bracing herself as she moves herself up and down his length. His blood rushes dangerously, and his breath hitches; he can feel her, likewise, begin to spasm around him, but then she shifts slightly, as though to drag this out. As though to make him—and herself—last as long as possible.

At one point, she leans so far back that her ponytail falls in a blond wave between the two front seats. And as she does, her nipples point up through the knitted fabric of her halter-top, and the arch of her spine flattens her stomach even further, so that the bones of her hips protrude slightly, creating twin, inviting hollows for his seeking fingers to find purchase. And so he grips her again, and as he does he cannot help but put some rough pressure on her small body, on her soft skin, as he pulls her down further, holds her to him as though to steady her, to guide her.

And yet in this, she needs no guidance. In this, she’s a natural as well.

It is in this position that he sees her. It is in this manner that he glimpses her shape and form as the headlights rush by, one by one.

Suddenly, he’s glad he listened to her plea outside, earlier.

Each flash illuminates her form as bright as day—like a strobe light, or heat lighting. (As brief as the flickering shapes on a tv-screen, as fleeting as the rise of any star.)

In those eternal, transitory seconds, he sees her, the whole of her. Up and down, and up and down again, he takes her in, the dark and the light, the chiaroscuro sight. The slim curve of her hips, the pale, almost flat expanse of her abdomen, and the flash of white, the tempting offering of her throat as she leans back once more.

That movement also exposes to him the flesh of her inner thigh, somehow visible even in the darkness that follows each, sudden glare. All of her tantalizing, gleaming skin contrasts with the shadows that pool in the shallows of her stomach and her hipbones—and in the deeper valley between her thighs, that tightest and darkest of spaces where their bodies are joined.

He’s held enough women in the midst of their pleasure to know, just by touch. To tell the superficial from the real, the false from the true. And so, even after the last car has passed, even after all goes dark once more, he doesn't need to see in order to know what he has, right there, in his hands.

All the true beauty in this world.

And he knows that this truth, this beauty…it doesn’t belong to him.

She doesn’t belong to him.

But tonight, he has her. Here in his hands, in his lap…and, thank god, in his life.

And tonight, he wants to show her. To mirror it back to her, to reflect her light tenfold.

She’s been floating, almost languidly, leaning back between the seats, but now he presses her down by her hips, and pulls her forward. He draws her bodily to him and simultaneously thrusts upward, piercing her flesh anew, wanting her to feel him, really feel him. And to feel herself around him, to understand the devastating effect of her own body. To know what she does to him.

(Because holy fuck, she's as tight as anything he’s ever felt before, and as breathtaking as anything he's ever seen, and he needs her to feel it, and to see it, too.)

He shows her with his touches, to which she becomes steadily more and more pliant. She allows him to guide her, letting him raise her by her seat bones and ease her down onto him, over and over, several times. As he lifts her up, her breasts come within easy reach, and he mouths each of her hard nipples through the fabric of her shirt.

Somewhere in the midst of this, as she glides over him and as he pulls her down once more, she peeks at him from under her lashes. She looks him right in the eye, and smiles.

He grins back, and gives her another hard, upward thrust, and squeezes her bottom. She whimpers, her eyes flutter shut, but she swiftly recovers. He spies a little quirk in the corner of her mouth. Then she raises herself up slightly on her knees, and comes down hard on his lap.

He groans, but helps her up again, with his hips, with his hands. “Yeah, baby,” he encourages as she slides back down his cock. “That’s it—ahhh.”

As she arches into him, she moves her hips and grinds against him, closing her eyes again as a haze of pleasure falls over her. “Mmnh,” she agrees, biting her lower lip, “so good.”

She’s taking him all in now, so deep he’s sure he’s going to get lost, sure he’s never going to leave her tight, warm depths if he can help it.

With each stroke, with each upward thrust, she’s making the most adorable little gasping oh’s, over and over, each sound hitting him right where it counts. She’s always had the most alluring combination of demure shyness and deep sensuality. Other women might fake it and fake it well, but with her it is unaffected, real. She really is this adorable. She really is this effortlessly seductive.

There comes a point when he can sense that her pleasure is reaching its zenith, for she begins to gasp almost incoherently.

“Ohmigod,” she squeaks over and over, with each piercing movement, with each stab of his hard length into her parted flesh.

Her tortured cries begin to drive him wild, and he can’t help but thrust even harder, eliciting even more little gasps from her open mouth. His shirtsleeves are still rolled up from earlier, and her nails dig into his forearms, so deep he knows there will be marks for days.

And then she loses her voice completely, and the noises she emits are wordless, primal—the mewling of some tiny, clawed creature.

The sounds she’s making…it’s as though she’s never had it like this before, never felt anything like it. As though he’s the only one who’s ever made these sounds come out of her. And the hottest thing of all is that he knows it’s not an act, she’s not following some script just for his benefit. She really is enjoying it that much.

Their joined movements, the soft push and hard pull, the rocking back and gliding forth, increase in fervor and intensity, even as she begins to draw strange sounds from him now, too, from the very depths of him—echoes of past pain and present pleasure at all once. He can hear his own grunts and groans growing louder and more inhuman with each stroke, reverberating around them in the dark.

He might be as tired as a man can be and too damn old for a lot shit these days, but he’s sure as hell enjoying this ride. Little Emily Kinney, bouncing on his cock the backseat of his Jeep. The mere thought of it would usually be enough to make him shoot off his load, but this…

The sound of her cries mingles with his, and the scent of her perfume mixes with the musk of arousal that permeates the space around them. He looks down at her in his lap, writhing under his hands, and it all begins to wash over him like a wave.

And then he glances down further and…the sight.

Fuck him, but what a sight. Even in the dimness he can see it: her tiny little pussy, shaved bare and spread wide, with his cock buried deep inside, and it makes him lose it completely—he grabs her by that messy ponytail that’s been taunting him all night, and pulls her head back.

He leans forward then, covering her mouth with his, smothering her sounds, swallowing her song, drinking her in. Inhaling her like she’s some kind of drug and he’ll never gonna get another fix.

(For all he knows, he might not. This might really be his last chance.)

He comes up for air, and when he looks down at her, her eyes have a glazed and glassy look, like when she was singing earlier. Like she’s in a trance too, like she’s high as a kite like him.

(Like he’s her drug of choice, too.)

Suddenly, he needs to look into her eyes, needs to know she’s still there, with him, in the moment.

He’s still cradling her face in his hands, still moving strongly within her, and he awakens her from her trance with a brutal upward thrust. She snaps back to life with a sharp, heart-piercing sound, her hands clinging to his wrists, her eyes meeting his for a few, deeply intense seconds.

“Do you know?” he asks, his voice hoarse, desperate. “How fucking beautiful you are?”

The words tumble out of him in a torrent of passion, and her eyes widen for a moment. But then he gives her another savage thrust, and she can only gasp in wordless reply.

And then her head is falling back again, and her eyes fall closed, and then she releases all hold on him completely, like she’s floating, like she’s flying, like she knows he’ll be there to catch her, to keep her from drifting away. And indeed, even when releases his hold on her, it is only to move his ever-tightening grip to her waist and to her hips. And then he holds her down, digs into her flesh, and anchors her to him.

With one hand he reaches around and gently rubs her. “Come on, baby,” he coaxes. “Come on.” And then he pinches her clit again.

Under his touch, at his command, her breathing quickens, and he feels her reach the height of her pleasure, feels her tightness constrict even tighter (fucking fuck) and flutter around him, hears her gasp and whimper and cry out with it, and he glories in the feeling and in the sound.

Finally, he feels her start to descend, and then she’s slowly, slowly, coming down. She falls upon him with an almost inaudible sigh, like a wisp of cloud, like breath of wind, right against his chest.

As he comes with a shuddering groan within her, he wonders how that damn fool Daryl Dixon could ever have said she was heavier than she looked.

(She’s lighter than anything. She’s lightness itself.)

They don’t move for several minutes, but it feels longer. It’s a cool but humid and damp late spring night in Georgia and the windows have steamed up, making things especially cozy. He’s no longer worried about anyone seeing them. Not in here. And there are no calls, no texts—both their phones are still turned off from earlier.

No, he’s not worried about anyone seeing them. Anyone bothering them.

Em seems similarly relaxed, lying lightly against his chest, just breathing into him. She’s nestled herself right against him, her arms tucked along her sides, her head resting against the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. And there upon his chest he feels her heartbeat, steady and slow in the after-sex glow.

As she rises and falls with each of his own slow, steady breaths, he traces her back, the curve of her spine, and caresses her up and down, from the small of her waist to her still-bare backside. With his hands moving gently against her, he leans forward, just far enough so he can place his lips against the side of her head, against her hair. There, he inhales her deeply, breathing in the sweet aroma of her body, of her sweat and of her perfume, all mingled now with the scent of their arousal—and of its sating.

(Thank fuck for leather seats, he thinks, with a rueful grin.)

Once again, it hits him how intimate this feels, just breathing with her. Perhaps even more intimate than the act itself.

Outside, the wind picks up, and the trees on the side of the road shiver and sway, gray ghosts in the breeze. Several cars pass, startling him. It seems he really had, for a moment, forgotten where they were.

Heaven, maybe.

(Later he thinks, if only they could have stayed like that. Not forever, of course. He’s not stupid enough to dream of forever. Not in his line of work. And hers, he reminds himself. But at least for the rest of the night.)

He’s still buried deep inside her when she murmurs something into the buttons of his shirt. “This is something they’d do, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” He’s so lost in thought, lost in her, that her sudden speech catches him off-guard.

“Beth and Daryl,” she says. “This how they’d do it. At night, on the side of the road. Away from everyone else. Just the two of them. Their little secret. You know, like the moonshine. Or like that time they got stuck in the trunk.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right. He’s had the same thought, several times over, all throughout this strange and uncanny night. So he has no idea what comes over him when he blurts: “So, that’s what this is? Just something Beth and Daryl would do?”

Her head shoots up, and she looks him in the eye and gives his chest a shove. “God, Norman,” she says (and there’s that adorable twang again), “don’t be such an ass. You know it’s not. It’s just…” she pauses, a slight frown on her face, a little crease her in forehead. And when she speaks again her voice has gone oddly flat. “They’ve got someone else. Lined up for him. Don’t they.”

“Em,” he speaks her name like a plea, and his hands go to the sides of her face, trying to hold her, trying to soothe her, trying to pull her back down to him.

“Don’t,” she interjects, shaking her head. “Don’t deny it. You know Lauren can't keep her damn mouth shut. Besides,” she says with sigh. “I was gonna find out eventually.”

He can’t breathe. He can’t find a response within him that won’t shatter them both. So he says nothing at all. But his fingers find their way to the back of her head, pulling her to him, and his lips move fiercely against her hair. His arms tighten their hold.

(Dear god, but she feels smaller and more vulnerable than ever, in that moment. And he has no idea how he will ever find the strength to let her go.)

With her pressed against him thus, he searches, desperately, for a reply. Tries and fails to clear the lump that is lodged in his throat. “You know how I—how you’ll always be the only one for—” he cuts himself off. Abruptly, before he can say something they’ll both regret, and the resounding silence speaks louder than any words.

In his arms, Em goes quiet, and oh-so still. Suddenly he’s terrified she’s going to cry. Maybe she already is.

As he strokes her back, he wonders how they could be in the same car, joined together in the most intimate way possible, and yet still feel like they are worlds apart. As though they are leading two, utterly separate existences.

After an excruciating minute or two, he feels like he’s gonna lose his mind—and then she finally stirs.

“This is it. What it’s about,” she whispers, and her voice is so soft. Soft as breathing, soft as singing.

She doesn’t have to explain any further; he understands. The new song. Her song. The one she’d performed that very night. The one that had practically flown from her lips and from her fingers, over the heads of the teeming crowd, and right into his heart.

He lifts his free hand and places it atop hers where it rests, so light, and so undemanding, against his chest. His fingers close around hers, protective, reassuring. “I know,” he murmurs.

(And he does. Somehow, he’s known it all along.)

“Guess I couldn’t let go,” she sighs, “not without—not without one last…”

One last what, he’ll never know. For in that moment he covers her mouth with his own, and kisses her fiercely once more.

At first she is almost lifeless under him, but then she begins to move her lips against his and her hand stirs against his chest. Not to push him away this time, but to pull him closer, drawing him in as though her palms are a magnet to his beating heart.

When they come up for air, he takes a moment to behold her, to gaze upon the faint outline of her in the darkness.

And through the darkness, he feels her hand upon his face and against his cheek, feels the brush of her fingers through the strands of his hair.

His heart pounds; his blood stirs. Something within the very heart of him awakens—something so passionate, so tender, and so full to the brim with feeling that it cannot be named. “Em,” he breathes, “oh, Em.”

In his lap, the girl—no, woman—who is not his lets out a shuddering sigh, and opens her sweet, yielding mouth to his own. And then he comes back to fierce and sudden life within her, and all firsts and lasts, all letting go’s, all changes and chances of the world are, for a little while longer, forgotten.

~

She's seated once more in the dark expanse of the front seat, facing straight ahead. As Norman observes her from the driver's side, he can already feel it. The ache, the longing. He's already beginning to miss her.

He knows he's being over-dramatic. But even though he can still smell her, still taste her, still feel her all around him, it’s too far. Too far away for his liking.

He's only just returned, only just slid back behind the steering wheel after finally caving in and having that smoke. The night had grown too chilly for even her thin jacket to guard against, so he'd left her to start freshening herself up while he'd stood outside, leaning against the cool exterior of the Jeep, watching the tendrils float from his lips and curl and disappear into the sky.

Out there, he’d remained relaxed, but alert, keeping an eye on the road, watching for headlights, as though standing guard for her. Finally, after stamping out the stub on the curb, he'd gone back inside.

There in the front seat, she’s still fixing her hair, adjusting her clothes, dabbing carefully at her makeup, and he takes the opportunity to observe her boldly, unabashedly, with a still-unsated hunger that surprises even him.

He’d thought, surely, he would have had enough by now. Restless creature that he is, some part of him had feared he might've grown bored, even. But with her, it doesn’t seem possible.

For now, he contents himself with just watching her as she smiles and hums to herself. But soon she feels his gaze, feels it like a brand upon her, for every now and then she shoots him glances from behind her freshly-applied eyeliner, as though she knows exactly what he’s doing.

And doesn’t mind one bit.

He watches her as she reaches into her purse for something, and he can’t help but wonder. But though the question burns within him, he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t ask if it’s still in there, nestled in the dark inner space, amongst her most intimate belongings.

He doesn’t ask, and is afraid to know.

His keys are still in the ignition and he’s about to start the engine and get them moving once more. But then he catches a glimpse of himself in the review mirror and nearly busts a gut laughing.

He looks like complete shit—bleary-eyed and sunburned, and so damn tired, and he swears in belated realization.

“What's a matter?” she asks.

She's still peering intently into the flip down mirror, applying her mascara when he turns to face her. “This," he says, pointing at his mug. "Why didn't—There's gotta be a million pics of us floating around by now.”

She just glances at him, and snorts. “You know you love it.”

Even in the dark he can see the little smirk forming in the corner of her mouth, and in truth he is laughing at his own ridiculousness. But his self-consciousness wins the day, and he's determined to try to mask the worst of it. He manages to locate his prescription shades where she’d set them down on the dash, earlier. But then he's patting around himself and searching blindly in the dark because he can’t seem to find…

“My hat,” he demands. She’d taken if off him when…

“Footwell,” she replies, without missing a beat. Without even looking away from the mirror.

She’s right, it’s there, right at his feet. And as he dusts it off and places it in his lap, he has the weird realization that they’re talking like some kind of old married couple, followed swiftly by the even weirder realization that it doesn’t freak him out as much as it probably should.

He’s got the keys right there in the ignition, ready to go. And in that moment he’s more than a little tempted to skip dinner altogether and just…keep going. To his place, maybe. To his bed. (A girl like Em deserves to be eaten out in comfort, and damn it if he doesn’t want to eat her out until she screams so loud the whole city can hear.)

Or away. Just somewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere…else. Away from fans. Away from people. Where they can hang out and eat and drink or fuck and sleep all night if they want to. Where they can just…

But he can’t—can’t just take her back to his place, back to his kingdom where he seldom tarries but to sleep, and leave her there with only a temperamental cat for company while he goes off filming all day, and expect to her to be happy or content in any way shape or form.

(If only he were home often enough to adopt a dog…or three. Perhaps the one good thing about the new set this year is that it will mean that Daryl Dixon can finally have that damn dog he’s been begging the producers for these last five years.)

No, he can’t just steal her away from her tour, from her future. From her band. From her friends. From all who know her, love her, need her…

There’s a hell of a lot of things he wants to do with her—for her—that he can’t.

So he just looks at her.

Part of him still can’t believe she’s really here. With him. That she’s still in his life at all.

(That she isn’t gone.)

(In more ways than one.)

In truth, he is more relieved than he’s been in a long time. Relieved to see that she hasn’t changed, not really, not deep down where it counts. She is perhaps a little more cynical than before, a little more jaded. A little more paranoid. They all are. It’s this damn business, he thinks, and he wants to tell her to get out now, while she still can. To get out and stay out. To keep doing what she loves.

To marry that rockstar.

To keep singing.

But he just glances over at her, just drinks her in as she finishes her makeup and then closes her purse. Finally, she looks his way, and from under her freshly darkened lashes she asks, “God, we there yet? I’m so hungry.”

He swallows down the words he only wishes he could say, then slides his hat back on over his sweaty, sex-tousled hair, and pulls his shades over his tired, sensitive eyes. With a resigned sigh, he starts the car, and then he reverses into the empty lane, and puts his foot on it.

And then he drives.

He drives back, through the night, down the lonely stretch of road.

Back to the world of blinding lights.

~

In time, he comes to look back on that night they'd spent together after her show as some kind of turning point. But for now, all he can think about is how much he had dreaded their inevitable parting—and how desperately he had striven to delay it.

For even after the restaurant, even after several more stops in his Jeep on the side of the road, even after he’d brought her back to where she needed to be, still he’d been reluctant to remove himself from her presence. And so, as they'd said goodnight, he'd inclined his head to her in what could only be called a bow, and had lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers, long and slow.

He'd taken his sweet time, caressing each of her fine, delicate bones. He could have spent a thousand ages of the world just breathing her in, just holding her hand in his own.

By the end, she’d been blushing fiercely, unused to such grandiose gestures, but he’d let his lips linger upon her hand for several heartbeats more, before finally, finally letting go.

~

Several weeks pass, and several more, and he doesn’t see her again. Life, work…it’s all too fast, too demanding, to allow them to take things any further.

As he'd known it would be.

But this time, at least, they talk. Not as frequently as he’d wish. But enough. Enough that he knows, at least, that she doesn’t hate his guts for what has passed between them. That she might even…

No. He cannot get so far ahead of himself. He’s done it too many times to count, and he knows better by now.

He knows he's gotta keeps a firm lid on the heat simmering just below his surface. He knows he has to hold fast, and bide his time. After all, there’s little possibility of them seeing each other again until her tour finishes. And even then, he’s still so busy. So fucking busy.

And so he keeps the memory of that night, the memory of being alone with her, like some kind of charm, like some kind of talisman in the back of his mind. And he holds the thought of the con she’s scheduled to attend at the end of the month like a bookend on the other side.

He hasn’t allowed himself to think any further ahead.

(Further ahead lies San Diego, and he can’t bear to think of it without her. He could pull a few strings, he knows. Get her invited to some of the cast parties at least. As his guest. His date, even. But he doesn’t assume anything, and just…waits. Waits until he can get up the guts to ask her if she even wants to be there, after everything.)

But further ahead is still a long way away. First, he’s got his job to do.

And so, the new filming season—the first in years without her smile lighting up the set even once—passes in a strange sort of daze. He has to admit that it’s exciting, at times. Different, but he’s always up for something different. Something new. And there’s new aplenty: new surroundings, new characters, new co-stars…

Nothing is the same, but he takes it all in his usual, confident stride.

(He’s good at his job, after all. Too good, he thinks sometimes.)

If anything, he buries himself more deeply in the character that, long ago, he’d lent a piece of his own soul. “You’re gonna miss me so bad when I’m gone…”

Some days, script becomes blurred with waking life. Some days he can no longer tell what has died with each passing season, and what lives on in the world above.

It's midsummer, and her This Is War tour comes to a finish on the West Coast. It's been a grand success from what he hears, and he couldn't be prouder.

And then it's finally time for the next Walker-Stalker, and he braces himself. She’s going to be there. (Along with everyone else, along with everyone else.)

She's remained out there for a few extra days in order to attend an awards show in Hollywood, but now she's crossing the sky, flying straight from L.A. all the way to Orlando just to attend this thing, and he’s…

He’s ready.

Ready to hold himself back. To reign in that effusiveness that comes so naturally to the surface of his being.

But all it takes is a bit of silly string in front of a crowd at his table, and a grin that lights up her whole face, and suddenly he’s back in the sweltering Georgia heat, on the sun-drenched set of a run-down shack, high-fiving her between every take.

He’d never once had trouble getting into character in those moments.

All I had to do was look at her.

They're smiling and laughing, standing side by side, and it's like old times again, like they're pretending to be the last ones standing at the end of the world. As they hold their cans up high and spray the assembled crowd several times over, they can't stop grinning at each other like drunken fools. Like Beth and Daryl, burning down their darkness.

But then it's over and she turns to leave, to go back to her own booth. Back to her own fans. Back to her own world.

He knows he can’t stop her. He also knows he’s still got to try.

A touch of his hand upon her arm is enough to stop her, for a moment. A touch of his lips upon the corner of her little mouth is enough to stop all the hearts in the building.

And then his hand is against her hair, and his lips are just barely upon hers, and his thumb is just above her fluttering pulse, and then she's reaching for him in shy, delighted response.

A touch of her hand upon his arm is enough to stop him, for a moment. Enough to remind him of their shared intimacies—that long-ago awakening in the hotel room, and the far more recent night of devastating passion on a darkened stretch of road.

It’s enough to stop everything.

(Except, of course, time.)

And then she's slipping away, and he's letting her go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her disappear behind the dark curtain, veiled now from his sight and everyone else’s. They haven't made any solid plans, and his stomach tightens with the uncertainty of it all. She's only right there, on the other side of the hall. Within his reach. It could be that he sees her hours later, but it could easily be another month. Or three. Could be another year. He doesn’t know. He makes no presumptions.

And so, he ignores the mad rush of insanity, the urge to call out her name, to run after her. He's got his fans, after all. But he can’t ignore the sudden chill that runs through him and grips his insides. Such cold has no place anywhere in Florida in the dead, humid heat of June, and he knows he can’t just blame it on the AC blasting through in the convention hall.

As he as he turns his attentions back to the people waiting in line, the smile that remains plastered across his face is but a pained mockery of a grin. And below the façade, his chest constricts, his heart wavers, and his foundations shake and tremble with the undeniable truth.

Those brief moments in her presence had been even as stepping from the shade into the blinding white sun, or surfacing from an endless dream of drowning to the sweetest, most vivifying breath. But now that she’s gone, swallowed up by the big, black curtains, already the cold, familiar ache returns. Already, the chasm between them widens, and he thinks desperately that this cannot be the final glimpse. The one, last chance.

For though the sun’s heavy rays beat down upon the world outside, it is she who shines light across their sundered lives. She who brings warmth to his long, cold winter’s night. The understanding of it settles upon his shoulders like a layer of dust after a desert storm, or the first, silent snowfall.

It’s only summer when she’s around.

~

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**** IMPORTANT REMINDER - please read before commenting!!! ****

PLEASE respect my wishes not to discuss the actors’ *actual* personal lives or the current happenings of the tv-show. This includes any and all speculation on the past, current, or future nature of their RL relationship.

This is of course a work of fiction. But it is intended as an homage to the very real chemistry between two very beautiful people — something that, no matter what, I will always deeply cherish. After all, it was their unique brand of chemistry that so convincingly brought to life one of my favourite romantic pairings of all time. And just as with Bethyl, I would not be able to write such a story if I did not believe in them, in spirit, at the very least.

And so my dear readers: please, please respect my wishes not to discuss any 'reality' outside of that included in this story. Thank you. :)