A/N: This is partially inspired by Norman Reedus's comments about Daryl being a 'total virgin.' There's no Glenn involved because he and Maggie are cute together and I don't want to mess with that. Set before Maggie and Glenn went on the run.

The employee lounge in the prison doesn't have much. A few couches, old and torn, scattered about, a long since broken coffee machine, and a microwave. But Maggie finds it peaceful here, more so than the others do, for them it's a reminder of what day-to-day life used to be. Like a lamp left on in an empty house while the paint chips and the hinges rust shut, dinner left to cool on the stove; a snapshot of a life discontinued.

Maggie's heading toward the lounge now, freshly scrubbed. The prison showers don't offer any hot water, but scraping off the day's grunge and sweat is worth it.

Maggie finds her way to the lounge, her hair is still towel-wrapped, but the rest of her is clad in dark jeans and a flimsy black shirt. The prison is warm enough, but the water dries on her skin and she is shivering. She wears the shivers like a second skin, goosebumps prickling along her arms.

She peers through the crack in the door and then nudges it open with her foot. Daryl is seated on the couch, and she casts a look at him. His eyes flash upward, his hand twitches toward his crossbow where it rests in his lap, and he seems to deflate with relief when he realizes it's her.

"You going to take a shower?" She asks, unwinding the towel from around her head and combing her fingers through her damp hair. "The water's warm, well—nearly."

"I already did," Is all he says and he turns back to cleaning his crossbow.

"I didn't think anyone else came here," Her hands lift, gesturing to the plain room around them. "I come here sometimes to relax."

"We're going to clear out the lowers levels tomorrow," He tells her, as if she hadn't spoken.

"I know," Maggie nods, and they plunge into silence.

"How's little ass-kicker doing?"

She chokes on a laugh. "She's good, much better than before. My father says she'll be fine."

Maggie sits down on the couch next to him and Daryl shifts uneasily, "You got nothing to do?"

"No," She says slowly. "Look, I'm just trying to be friendly here." She crosses her arms. "Is it a problem?"

He grunts—a reply in the negative—and continues to clean.

Maggie lets her neck fall back, closes her eyes and lets her hands massage her neck. She feels him try not to watch her, eyes tearing away from the casual sprawl of her body.

"How long do you think we can stay here?" she questions, opening her eyes and letting her hands fall into her lap.


"No," She laughs, and when she pushes herself upright, her leg brushes against his and she quickly pulls back. "I mean the prison."

"Oh," He shrugs, noncommittal, setting the crossbow down onto the floor.

"You know, I miss the farm," She tells him. "Wish we could have stayed there. There were soft beds at least. And, well. Privacy."

In the dimness of the room, she can kind of see his face, and it totally catches her off guard because he's almost smiling. His mouth is slightly crooked to one side and she really doesn't get it because nothing she has said in the last five minutes were particularly amusing, at least in her estimation. She's sort of being serious here.

"What you want privacy for? You planning on ravaging me?" he asks in a completely wry and tired sounding voice, and maybe if she wasn't exhausted and paranoid, it'd be really kind of sexy

"In your dreams, Dixon," she boasts, sort of loud and there's this bray of a laugh first from her and then him. The room goes quiet as they sober up.

Maggie breaks the silence first, "Has it occurred to you, Daryl, that you are kinda well-suited to this world?" He doesn't reply, but he watches her closely. "Not like Shane was, but in your own, better way."

Daryl shakes his head, "I know." He moves to get up, "I'll get out of your way."

"You are welcome to stay here, you know," Maggie says a little awkwardly. "It's not like I own the place. And I could do with the company."

Daryl pauses, sitting back hesitantly. He opens his mouth, wordless, and he looks like maybe he's being strangled.

"You can talk to me, you know," Maggie tells him gently. "You have some Folsom prison blues to confess?"

He snorts, looks away.

"I confessed to a priest once," She says, "Made me feel lighter."

"Do I seem like that type to you?"

"I don't know what you seem like," She shakes her head. "Look, if you want to do the confessional thing? I mean—"

"Are you asking me to confess to you?"

"Only in a priest kind of way, not a 'I'm going to take your secrets and use them against you' way," She frowns. "Okay, so, that doesn't make it any less weird. I take that back, I take all of that back. I only mean, if you wanted somebody to—to listen and respond—"

He scoffs, "Yeah. No."

He looks uncomfortable although there's, what, a nice foot of space between them? And it's not like she's not trying to seduce him or anything. "So...what about your childhood?" she asks him. "Or are you mum on that too?"


"Fine," She moves a little closer on the couch. "Let's try something else?"

He looks amused for a brief moment before he smooths his face back to impassivity. "This is stupid, I just—"

"What?" she asks, and he stops, and then her mouth is on his. The kiss is almost completely one-sided. It's her mouth moving against his, and Daryl sucks in a breath, quick as hell, and his teeth graze her top lip. Okay, so maybe this was never going to be an unburdening, not tonight. When she pulls back, she feels completely self-conscious. Heat rises to her cheeks and she stammers for something to say, and settles on 'sorry'. Her skin feels hot—she is unsure whether this is out of arousal or shame. She shifts in her seat and thinks it might be both.

"I should go," she says quietly. She looks at him, finally, and his eyes are looking at her in the semi-darkness, there is something clear and razor sharp in the way he is watching her. Maggie turns away fast, shivering—damp skin and embarrassment.

"Wait," Daryl rasps, voice caught in the back of his throat.

She stalls and her fingers curl into tight clenched fists, the nails bite deep into the skin. He is leaning in, fixed, watchful, and his hand comes up to rest along her cheek and jaw, the sudden electric heat of him, and she stares, startled. He looks unsure for a moment, the look on his face saying what the hell am I doing as eloquently as words ever could. A sudden spike of heat hits her and a burning want swells inside her body like hot blown glass.

Then he's kissing her and she fists a hand into his shirt, trying for silence and probably totally failing, but whatever. His mouth is coal-hot, and she pulls him on top of her, shoulders first. His lips smear past hers, against her ear, her neck, and she gasps.

He is long in her lap and his thigh laying heavily between her legs, her shirt pushing up around her ribcage. "What are we doing?" he says, but she knows that he feels the ache too, and his need to speak goes pale.

"What does it look like?" She asks, breathless. Her blood is racing, but her mind is tired, her tongue sticking to the base of her mouth. She wonders if this counts as bold—decides, then, that boldness isn't a sin any longer.

He shakes his head disbelievingly, mouth parting; a familiar mouth with an unfamiliar flush. Daryl's mouth hovers, but does not touch hers, so she leans up and kisses him again. His hand raises of its own volition to bury itself in her hair and Daryl pushes her down further into the couch, his weight braced on his free hand.

Maggie's fingers crumple his collar and she slides her her hands down and slips them beneath the untucked tail of his shirt, on the warm expanse of his back, then she brings them around to his front.

Her hands are swift as they move down the buttons on his shirt. She's pushing the shirt from his shoulders; she is sitting up and pushing him back with her knees, peeling down her jeans. He sucks in a breath—hard—looks at her—and then looks down, away.

She pulls her underwear down to the edge of her jeans, where they're rolled at her knees, but she doesn't spread her legs for him, she cannot, not with the pants in the way, Daryl takes the legs of her jeans and helps pull them off of her.

And then her face is in his hands, her shirt is sticking to her skin until she lifts it off, and she can feel him hard against her thigh as she opens her legs for him, his mouth on her neck, and she reaches down, fumbling with his pants, but can't seem to make her fingers function well enough to get them open. Her hips cant up and she feels the ridge in his jeans pressing between her legs. She wraps a leg over his, knee to his hip, and his own fingers fumble at the button on his pants until he gets them off.

Then they are both bare and heated fever-harsh. She watches the breadth of his shoulders, the movement of his abdomen, and her breath hitches warmly in her throat.

Her hands brace on either side of his ribcage and his eyes watch her mouth steadily.
He parts his lips when he moves forward, slow, and her gasp as she slides down over him, slick and tight, is rapturous.

He's trembling, but he doesn't ask—is this all right— doesn't say anything, but he moves lazily, meticulous. He knows that if she wanted to, she could kick him and he'd roll over like a dog. But she won't, in any case. He lowers his face to her shoulder and she hisses between clenched teeth, hitching her knees against him.

Maggie inhales against the dizzy blackness behind her eyes and lifts her hips in time with his next thrust and this time he's the one who gasps, a harsh bitten-off gust against her cheek. Her eyes flutter open and she slides her hand up the back of his neck.

She brings one of his hands to her breast, his thumb grazing over her nipple, then she twines her arms hard and tight around his neck to pull his face down to hers. He half-sighs into her mouth and kisses her, frantic and messy, his other hand trailing down the deep curve of her spine to draw her close against him. Her nails rake up the back of his neck and flex into his scalp. He curls one hand around her knee, kiss turning clumsy, hungry.

When they break, he is panting and she bites at the side of his neck; he moans, she twists her hips, and as she arches her back, she bites harder. He thrusts, hips pushing up closer to her, biting a groan into her shoulder.

Maggie's hips buck and she writhes in his hands, her flesh warm and flush under his palms. Her nails rake down, harsh and delighted, against his chest. Her hips roll, she shudders under him, fiercely, and he clasps his hands to the fair skin above her hips. Her teeth drag down his collarbone. He closes his eyes against their sharpness, shaking with heat.

She clenches around him, and she can hear herself, hear the sounds she is making even though her mouth is muffled against the skin just under the hinge of his jaw.

She can feel the muscles of her inner thighs tense as he thrusts once more,then he jerks against her, groaning, and she starts to tremble, her entire body on edge. Her spine is a violin string tense against the pillows of the couch, her elbow digging sharp and uncomfortable into its hard cushions, and her throat is thrown back, moaning, gasping, mumbling incoherently.

When she lifts her flushed head she sees that he is biting a hard line into his lip, taking in a lungful of air to steady himself. When his eyelids lift, his gaze lingers slow along the contours of her face, and her teeth catch along her lip. She keeps her arms around him, his head resting, momentarily, on her collarbone.

It feels safe, warming himself against the nearness of her, until she pulls back.

She sits up, moving away from Daryl with a slick noise. Maggie inhales shakily, and slides a hand through his hair, it is smooth under her fingers, his skin surprisingly soft. These are fragile things in this world now, so her eyes close and she glories in it.