Disclaimer: I quoted some of the dialogue from the show at the end of the chapter. I have put it in italics to show that I didn't write it!
Sleep came on him suddenly as he lay in the silk-lined coffin listening to her play. How long had it been since he had really slept? The hours he had caught the last few nights, curled up on the pine-straw strewn forest floor, had been too quick and too shallow – but here, with the security of four walls and the sweet sound of her singing, sleep caught up at last.
She played gently until she heard the soft sound of his snores behind her. Turning, Beth studied his face in the glow of the candles. He seemed younger when he slept; his face less lined and the concerned furrow of his brows smooth. Daryl looked more at peace than she had ever known him to be.
Beth limped quietly around the parlor of the old house, blowing out the candles she had lit hours before, then made her way into the moonlit hallway. Outside, the cicadas and crickets droned in a familiar way. She could almost imagine she was back on the farm, before the turn and the long, weary fight that had been the last three years. The world was so at peace here at this quiet funeral home and like Daryl she felt she could finally rest.
He had cleared the upstairs when they first entered the building and found nothing but a couple of pristine bedrooms and an old fashioned wash room. Grabbing her pack, she headed now for the main bedroom. It was a plain room, the walls covered in clean but yellowing rose-printed paper. The bed had a large wrought iron frame and a white eyelet blanket. Beth sighed happily, reaching out to stroke the clean white bedclothes. Her cot at the prison had been a blessing compared to the hard floors and car seats they had found to sleep on that long winter after the farm, but this – this bed would be heaven.
But even by the weak light Beth could make out the dirty smear her hand left on the blanket. She was so filthy, caked in sweat and soot and dirt and gore. Beth felt childish even thinking it, given all she had to be thankful for, but what she wouldn't give for a long hot shower and to feel properly clean again.
She peeled off her jeans and the yellow polo she had found at the country club, turning the shirt inside out and using it to wipe off her hands and body. When Beth was satisfied that the top layer of dirt had been removed she slid into the cool cotton sheets and, settling a down pillow under her blonde head, fell almost immediately to sleep.
Daryl awoke with a sudden start as the Walker alarm he had rigged up along the porch gave a clang. The pale blue-gray of predawn came in around the wooden boards that protected the windows. He listened again for the metallic clanging of hubcaps and tin cans, but whatever had disturbed the string of trash seemed to have wandered away. Breathing slowly, he lay back down.
As Daryl's eyes adjusted and his mind became more alert, he spied his bag and crossbow leaning against the door frame. Beth's had been leaning there too the night before, but it was gone now. With a sudden jolt to his heart, he wondered if it had been she who had set off the alarm – maybe she had gone out alone looking for supplies.
"Beth!" He cried, swinging his legs over the edge of the coffin and jumping to the ground. "Beth!?" He called again, running into the hallway. He tried to peer out the front window, but the boards prevented him from seeing far into the lawn. Upstairs, she had to be upstairs. Daryl tried to push down the wave of panic that seemed to be rising from his gut as he took the stairs in twos. He threw open the bedroom door, calling her name a third time – but the word died in his throat as she sat up in bed.
The sound of the bedroom door banging into the wall behind it had yanked her from her sleep. She blinked confusedly at the dark haired man in the door frame, who looked suddenly down and away from her. Blushing, Beth realized that the sheets had fallen from her when she had instinctively sat up, exposing her body in the graying bra she had slept in. She hastily pulled the covers back up.
"Didn't mean to wake ya," Daryl mumbled to his feet. "Saw your bag was missin and thought you might have gone off on your own."
"I wouldn't do that," she promised, trying to recover from her embarrassment. Her clothes lay on a chair some three feet away. She felt small and childlike, exposed before him.
"I'm gonna go see what we got to eat," he mumbled again, turning and heading for the stairs. She wanted until the top of his head disappeared from view before throwing off the covers and hastily pulling her clothes back on.
Downstairs, Daryl sorted through the kitchen cupboards before pulling out a box of instant grits. They had found a small tower of Sterno cans in the pantry the night before as well as an old camping stove their missing host seemed to be cooking with. Lighting the Sterno, Daryl poured a little of their remaining water into a pot and slowly began to heat it.
She had looked too thin, sitting up in bed with nothing on but her bra. In the few quick seconds before he had looked away, he couldn't help but notice the sharp outline of her ribs and collarbone and how small her round breasts looked, as if she had shrunk and her bra no longer fit her right. The girl needed to eat more. Mud snakes and squirrels weren't cutting it.
When Beth came hobbling down the stairs fifteen minutes later, it was to a bowl of lukewarm grits and a couple of Vienna sausages Daryl had tried to roast over the Sterno's flame. Still embarrassed from their encounter, she nodded a good morning without making eye contact. He grunted in response , passing her a fork and tucking in to his own small breakfast. Beth began to eat greedily, never minding the blandness of unsalted grits or the half-warmed wienies.
"Slow down, girl. Gonna make yourself choke," he teased. She swallowed a large mouthful and grinned.
"I slept in a real bed last night. This morning I had a hot breakfast," Beth sighed contentedly as she scraped the sides of her bowl for the last little bite. "I feel really good for the first time in days."
Daryl sat in the parlor with the contents of his pack spread out before him. He had been in the room for some twenty minutes now, cleaning his weapons and taking inventory. But what he was really doing was waiting, hoping she'd come in and start playing again. He didn't want to admit it, but he liked her playing. It was a nice distraction from the hell on earth around him.
A clang and a thump from the hallway caught his attention. Turning his head, he saw her limping through the kitchen door, lugging a big metal tub behind her.
"The hell you doin, girl?" he called. Beth flushed a little and looked up.
" I know it's stupid, and it doesn't really matter...but I just wanted to get clean. I thought I'd go down to the creek and fill up this tub. Take a bath, maybe wash my clothes. I mean, it's not like there's anything else to do." She sounded almost defensive, as if afraid he might laugh at her.
"You were gonna try and carry that back up here yourself? Can't even walk!" He shook his head.
"I know it's stupid," Beth repeated again, sitting down on the bottom step. She felt foolish again; what was it about Daryl that always made her feel clumsy and childlike? But then he was standing up, walking towards her and swinging the tub up with one hand to rest over his shoulder.
" Be back in ten," he called, grabbing his crossbow with the other hand and striding out the front door.
She had searched through the dressers upstairs and found nothing but men's clothes, all of which were very large. She now traded her own dirty outfit for a button up shirt, the hem of which went nearly to her knees. Beth cuffed the sleeves several times over until they stayed tucked above her elbows. Gathering her jeans and polo, she sat back on the bottom step and waited for Daryl to return.
The last several days with him had been a constant pull of anger and acceptance, embarrassment and intimacy. There existed between the two of them a tension; one minute he was her protector, her friend, and the next he seemed to mock her, to view her as a burden. She found herself feeling shy and painfully young sometimes – and yet there were moments when he seemed to look at her and take her more seriously than Maggie or Zach or even her Daddy ever had.
His sharp whistle and rap on the front door broke her from her thoughts. Limping forward, she unlocked the door and he came in, holding the half-full tub in both hands now. With a grunt he set it on the ground and strode back into the parlor.
"I found some clothes upstairs," she called out to him. Her voice sounded so unsure to her own ears, lilting upwards as if each sentence were a question. "I put some in there for you. You can wear them while I wash your stuff."
"Naw," he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on another. "I'm good."
"Daryl." She put her hands on her hips suddenly stern. "You stink. I'm going to wash those clothes. And you're going to have a bath,".
"Like hell I am," He called back. He wasn't sure why he was fighting her on it. Daryl felt like a kid again, saying no just to say no.
"I am going to get you cleaned up, Daryl Dixon. That's a promise," was her retort as she pulled the tub into the kitchen, walking backward through the door.
He leaned back further, chewing on the tip of his thumb and listening to the splashes and humming from the kitchen. Before long she was back out, her hair wet and knotted on top of her head. She hobbled over to the stairwell in the men's shirt and her grimy ankle bandage to drape her own wet clothes over the bannister before turning to him.
"At least let me get the Walker brains off your clothes. It's bad enough dealing with them, without you walking around covered in their guts." She pleaded. He looked down at his flannel shirt, noticing for the first time the dried gristle that flecked it. Sighing, he stood up, shrugged off his leather vest, and undid the first few buttons. Daryl reached back and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it at her. He reached for his fly before pausing, noticing that she still stood there watching him.
"Waitin for a show?" He challenged her. Beth flushed and turned away, clutching his flannel to her. He slid off his jeans and reached forward, nudging her elbow with the pants. Without turning, she grabbed them and made her way back to the kitchen. He shut the parlor door and lay back in the coffin, foregoing the folded clothes she had left for him on the piano bench.
Until the prison fell, she had been barely a friend to him. She was, by default, part of his family – that band that had fought and struggled through a cold and hopeless winter after the farm burned. As such he would have done anything to protect her, to provide for her, just as he would for Rick or Carol. But somehow he had never had much time for her, to get to know her. He knew she loved Little Ass-Kicker, knew she was good at farming and helped keep the prison going with cooking and chores, but they had never had the same bond that was made when two people went out on a run together. He thought now of the night after Zach had died. Daryl had dreaded having to tell her but felt duty-bound as the leader of the run to let her know. He had been surprised when she hadn't cried, and a little relieved, but the real surprise was when she wrapped her arms around him and buried her head on his chest. He had grabbed her elbow, not knowing what else to do, and held his breath until she backed away. It was a strange world she lived in, where you could wrap your arms around someone you barely knew like it was as natural as breathing.
He thought then of their last hug, outside the still, her narrow arms holding him tight from behind. He had felt so empty then, as if all the fight had left him and there was no where to turn for help. And yet she was there, a small but strong source of comfort. Since that moment he had felt a closeness to her, as the separate burdens of their grief where now shared between them and the load was lighter.
The heat of Indian summer dried their clothes quickly. It wasn't long before he heard her gentle tap at the parlor door, and then a small white hand reached into the room to hand him back his clothes. He pulled them on, aware of her presence just beyond the slightly open door. When the sounds of zipping and fabric on skin died down, she came hesitantly into the room.
He was laying back again in his coffin with one leg bent and chewing on the nail of his thumb.
"You aren't trying to sleep, are you? I thought I might play a little,".
"Go ahead," he nodded, not looking at her, but a small smile played around his lips.
As the afternoon wore on, the sun created long shadows in the room. Beth played and sang songs that seemed to be of her own invention while he periodically got up to look around the perimeter of the house. The occasional walker stumbled along the tree line, but all was otherwise quiet. It was as if the ugliness of the world outside were suspended in this old house, glowing golden in the warm sun.
When night began to fall again, Daryl headed back to the kitchen to throw together a dinner. She rose from the bench as if to help him, but he raised his hand to hold her back.
"Stay. I got it." And she smiled, turning back to her music,
The east-facing kitchen was darker than the front room had been. He lit a few of their candles and set about fixing their supper.
When their feast was set out – peanut butter, jelly, pigs feet and canned okra – Daryl strode back out to the parlor. Beth had turned at the sound of the kitchen door opening and begun to hobble in the direction of the kitchen.
"Hold up," he said, bending to lift her and carry her in his arms.
"That's not necessary!" She laughed as they moved to the kitchen. He had done the same at lunch.
"Need you to rest that foot," He told her as he placed her gently at the table. She smiled a little and grabbed a spoonful of peanut butter. Beth couldn't help but notice how much more physically comfortable he had become with her. A few days back, he could barely touch her arm to pass her a bandana. Now, he was carrying in his arms and even let her hold his hand when they had made their way through the graveyard. She had always shown affection through touch – it was nice that he was now doing the same. It made her feel more like his partner than his burden.
They ate in a comfortable silence, taking occasional swigs from the plastic bottles of diet cola they had found. It was truly a blessing, she thought, to be safe and comfortable with so much food.
"I'm gonna leave a thank you note," she said, pulling her old journal from her back pocket.
"Why?" he asked, pausing from scraping the sides of his jelly jar.
"For when they come back... If they come back... Even if they're not coming back I still wanna say thanks." She felt a little silly and wondered if he would laugh at her.
" Maybe you don't have to leave that. Maybe we stick around here for a little while . They come back, we'll just make it work. They may be nuts... but maybe it will be alright."
"So you do think there are still good people around. What changed your mind?" Beth grinned victoriously. Daryl jerked his head a little, a nervous flick.
"You know."
"What?" she insisted, grinning deeper.
"I don't know," he mumbled after a pause.
" Don't... mmmhh," she mocked him gently, rolling her eyes a little. "What changed your mind?"
He didn't reply but met her eyes with his blue-gray ones. Beth had never noticed the color of his eyes before; they were always so well hidden behind his dark bangs, and he so rarely held eye contact for so long. There was a nakedness, an intensity in his look that made her feel as if the floor had been pulled out from beneath her.
"Oh." And her smile faltered a little. This new honesty from him made her a little afraid.
But before the awkwardness of the moment could solidify between them the sound of clanking cans drew their attention to the front door.