Author's Note: Ahh, yes, a Walking Dead story. Sorry readers who are not fans; I bet you guys didn't know I was a HUGE Bethyl shipper. As well as this being my first, this will most likely be my only TWD story I'll write. But I liked this one enough to post it.
Disclaimer: Though I wish these babies were mine, sadly, they are not.
In the summer, the heat was sweltering. Even in the night. Grasshoppers humming monotonously between the blades of grass; sweat thick like pulp, dirty tank tops sticking to skin. Maybe even thick as grease oil.
The others didn't like the smoke but the others didn't say anything because no one objected to much these days. Perhaps if any humane activity brought some degree of pleasure to the individual, no one could think of a reason as to why it should be stopped. Like how one of the girls down the street used to file her nails.
Down to the bit, just before it hurt. Just before skin would peel, just before there was blood. She'd always be filing her nails and when she wasn't filing her nails her hands were in her pockets. Or… being occupied with something. Eating. Braiding her hair.
No one said anything because there was no reason to.
And perhaps others in the group had developed levels of obsessions with things to do; some more prominent and obvious than others.
Smoking just happen to have been Daryl Dixon's.
Because there was no wind, every blow-out was opaque and blurred his vision. It remained like a cloud on his nose-line, building layers on layers as his cigarette became a stub. There wasn't a system to how much he smoked but he knew finding a pack was only a once-and-a-while deal. He chose to be conservative about it.
The last few months had teetered by faster than anything since the big bang of it all. However, the last few months had also gone by the slowest. The most tender time, really. Everyone had been so cautious the first month. Some longer than others. But no one expected comfortability to grow in such a place of… stagnant. And even Daryl had to admit that there was no way to win an argument by using oxymorons but there was also no way else to explain it. Rick was the last person of the group to finally call it 'home' but even he did eventually say it. Use it.
"Carl, go get your sister and bring her home."
"I must have left it back at home."
"No, I think it's a little further out, don't you? Maybe, 7 or 8 miles from home."
Home, home, home, home, home.
Maybe Daryl's humane activity wasn't smoking; maybe it was resisting.
Though the houses were monsters, their group was rather large. And once a more normal setting took over, Rick felt it was better to split the group up.
They were next door neighbors. Half the group in one house, half in the other. White houses. Houses with porches. Houses with bay windows. Back yards. Houses with backyard fences; satirical humor always implied.
They were so close together that Carol once stuck her arm out of the kitchen window and was able to touch Michonne's pinky from the other window.
But their group was too close for even that distance. A lot of the time—most of the time, they would all gather in one of the houses. Stopping by to say hello to the baby. Stopping by to grab something. Stopping by to say hey I forgot my shirt here which sounded so strange dripping from the lips because they now had multiples of items now.
But that was the thing about their group. If they had the proper supplies, they would have just combined the two houses. Make them even bigger monsters. Larger porches. Lengthier fences. A stronger view for Daryl to see from the front steps and remind himself that he was still alone.
Including himself, Rick, Michonne, Carl, Judith, Sasha, and Carol lived in one house. The rest in the other. Father Gabriel had found his solace in the makeshift chapel down the block and more time than not had occupied those quarters.
Nearly around 2 am, or maybe 3—Daryl never used the clocks he was given since living here—a little light would turn on upstairs in their sister house. Someone would walk around, the shadow of their body blowing up in size against the curtains on the window. And Daryl would watch, from the front steps of his porch, as the body would pace back and forth.
Then, as expected, as it always happened, another shadow body would appear, would embrace the pacing figure, and pull them away from the window. The lights would then go out. And Daryl would then go to bed.
It was hard the first month there. It was. New clothes, new equipment, new setting, new faces. New jobs. Though he was impervious to just about everything and everyone, he kept up with his place in the community for the sake of the group. Just like everyone else, he complied.
And soon things became more complacent. Enough to say at the end of the day you were just tired, not exhausted. Not threatened, not scared, not troubled, still aware, but just tired. A work-all-day tired. And it really was enough.
Things fell more into step. Into routine. Daryl felt eased by this. Routine kept thoughts away. Perhaps it was healthier this way.
But then the day came where they walked right up to the gates; changed complacency forever. They came, hand in hand, supporting one another. It was a shock only to the group, not so much the community. For them, it was seeing strangers. For the group, it was seeing home. Real home.
Rick, in shoes Daryl barely saw him wear now, ran up to the two of them and collapsed on their shoulders. Others just felt the need to stay back. They didn't puncture the bubble of possibility because there was really no other way of seeing it.
She still had that little braid in her hair. It was more of a distraction to focus on rather than the ruby stained ivory canvas that took over her face. Her hair. Her clothes. The blood took forever to wash out, Daryl remembered. Morgan had found her and no one in that group really forgot it. Even now. Sometimes Morgan would walk about doing normal things, doing nondescript things, and someone would nod in recognition of who he was and what he had done and the whole exchange would be silent but no one forgot.
The only thing that was forgotten were the memories. Because as soon as Daryl ran to her, stumbled and wobbled passing every one, as soon as Daryl dropped to his knees in front of her, it was forgotten. Because she didn't remember.
Her name had barely slipped his tongue.
And then she had replied: "I'm… I'm sorry but… I—I don't know you."
They said because it was such a miracle in the first place, something even God had trouble delivering, that it made sense for there to be a little poison mixed in with the batch of good. Being shot in the head and all. And it wasn't just Daryl but everyone else too she had forgotten. Only Maggie seemed to have been something of hope for her.
She said she remembered that things were bad. In the world, things had gone bad.
She said she remembered Maggie, but explained the recognition as looking at a photograph and knowing who they were, but feeling a certain distance from them.
She said she remembered bits and pieces, nonsensical items and words but never a clear image of anything except her old farmhouse and loose childhood memories.
The first night there, she slept like a rock, so Maggie had said. But every night after that was hellish.
Daryl had been smoking a cigarette that second night when that little light went on in that room upstairs, that room he had known to be Beth's. And her little hands then slammed themselves against the window pane and made a big fuddling sound that no one could ignore.
He ran into the house and up the stairs to her room. He found her pacing around the room in her shorts and t-shirt, clothes Daryl had never seen her in, and she was mumbling to herself. Hands gripping her temple, her uncombed yellow hair sticking out in pieces in between her fingers.
"I don't know this place, I don't know this place." It was all under her breath and in a muttering style, almost something too hard for Daryl to comprehend. He stood, dumbfounded, feeling more useless than he could possibly know.
Maggie came in then, trotting over to her sister and curling the petite girl into her chest.
"You do know this place, Beth. It's Alexandria, remember? You came here yesterday with Morgan? You're here, with friends. With your family."
"I don't have family, I don't know family."
Maggie had let out a wounded sound, curling her lips into her mouth. Sadly, she looked up at Daryl and let her eyes downcast in sorrow.
"Don't say that, Beth."
The second time it happened, Daryl remained planted in his spot on the porch. He felt it in his joints, in his nerves, in his bones. An uprooting feeling that had his mind running wild, so much so that he wanted to jump over the railing, climb the stairs into that house, and go to her. But he didn't.
And eventually Maggie would enter the room, two shadows casting against the curtains, and she would caress Beth's mind until she would fall back to sleep again. Months of this, retaining the same routine. But eventually, like most things, it dwindled down and soon Beth was able to sleep through the night. Sometimes, it would happen, maybe once a week, or once a month, but it would happen. And Daryl would witness it all from his porch.
And he would do nothing.
Pleases and thank you's and no, I'm fine, really's and I'm sorry… I just can't remember's. She was polite the whole time doing it. She worked with some of the others doing laundry. It was more of a pity job, really. She had lost her memory, not her mind. But she was glad to help and did her job as diligently as any other would have.
Every day she'd pass the houses and go to the well with baskets of dingy clothes. She'd take her time. She'd work slowly on purpose, to make it a day's worth. Perhaps she did it because she wanted to avoid awkward conversation with people she didn't know, trying to talk about things she didn't know. The only people she really felt comfortable around were Maggie, for familiarity, and Deanna, because unlike everyone else, she was the only one who wasn't trying to convince Beth that she knew her.
A few times Beth caught herself humming and wondered to herself why; like it was an unnatural habit for anyone to fall into. But then Maggie would remind her that she liked to sing and it made Beth curious as to why she couldn't even remember personal details about herself. And it killed her every time because she was a lost girl in a lost world; and she had to stop looking for things in the place she lost them.
A young woman in Alexandria, no older than 23, worked as somewhat of a blacksmith there. She came to Alexandria with a bow strung to her sharp shoulders and homemade arrows made from tree branches. The community was so impressed by this craftsmanship that they asked her if she could make anything else that would work as a weapon, or tools in general. She said she was going to school for engineering when the world went the way it did. This was a good enough answer for Deanna. So the girl became their blacksmith.
10 days into the group's arrival there, the young woman had approached Daryl and asked if he wanted her to make him some new arrows for his crossbow, as it seemed he was running low. Not paying too much attention to the offer, he shrugged her off as he would with anything else. But she persisted the next time she saw him. And the time after that as well. She found his attitude to be rotten and she was not fond of him whatsoever. It begged the question as to why she even bothered with him but she was bored and wanted to something to do with her hands. Making arrows for him would be a cinch if she really wanted to. So she did, without his approval, and left them in a makeshift quiver, assembled on his porch.
Daryl was less than thrilled when he saw them later that night for his annual cigarette break. The next morning, he scooped them up and proceeded to head over to the girl's house to give them back. On his passing, Beth was walking with her laundry, right on schedule. It only took Daryl half a second to stop, letting the quiver dangle by his hip loosely in his hands. Beth noticed him.
"Hi, Beth," he muttered.
"Hi…." Smiling, though confusion washed over her face. "I'm… sorry. I don't—"
Daryl swallowed, shaking his hair in his face to brush her off. "Daryl."
Her lips pulled into a tight line. "Daryl," she repeated.
As it turned out, Daryl had forgotten what he was doing just before then and decided to head back to the house, finding his own mere state of confusion exhausting.
But that regime too had then become something of a routine and it would be Daryl walking by the well every day at the same time Beth would be washing her clothes and he would say hi and sometimes she would remember him and sometimes she wouldn't but both of them subconsciously remained loyal to this duty of passing for the days to come.
Because things had just happen to play out the way that they did, Daryl ended up never returning the arrows. He never used them either but occasionally he would get this strange appeal to take them out of their quiver and study them. Perhaps it was because he never wanted to admit that he had a certain appreciation for how well they were crafted. And maybe that even bothered him.
On one of his passings with Beth, he heard her humming a tune again and so he slowed his walk to offer a grimace and wave.
"Hi Daryl," she said, wiping water off her nose.
Daryl jut his chin out in acknowledgment.
"Maggie tells me I sang a lot before. I don't think she's being honest with me because I can only remember a time back in middle school during a play where I couldn't get the first verse out before crying and running off stage," she added, paying most of her attention to the soggy shirt she was working on.
Daryl shifted his stance, leaning on his opposite leg. It was a while before he answered, causing Beth to pear at him and make sure he hadn't left.
"No, you sang. You sang a lot."
Beth stopped her washing.
"Oh," she replied quietly.
Daryl resumed his walk.
Days, or weeks later maybe, he didn't particularly know or care, the young blacksmith had trotted up next to him. She kept in sync with his offbeat walking.
"How are the arrows?"
"I don't know."
She arched an eyebrow. "Have you used them?"
Daryl cleared his throat. "No."
She didn't seem hurt by his statement. Just off placed.
"Well, use them, and let me know how they work out. I can use a different wood if those splinter terribly. Maybe something sleeker so your target aim is more accurate."
As best as he could, he ignored her without coming off as terribly rude. And when he got to the house, he went inside without so much as offering her a word.
A cigarette or two, passed midnight, on the porch. More crickets, less tremble of noises from the community. One light flickered on upstairs of the sister house. But instead, the front door of the house opened and closed and out came a small blonde, positioning herself on the stoop stairs.
Slightly caught off guard, Daryl peaked his head over the railing.
"Hi," she whispered to him in the night.
Another grimace, another blow of his cigarette. He left it drying out in the grass. Leaning against the porch railing next to Beth's feet, he placed himself, feeling out the spacing between the two of them. Beth didn't seem to mind.
"Can't sleep," she mumbled under her breath, resting her chin in those calloused palms of hers.
Though months had gone by, the scarring of the incident still resided on her face and neck. And though Beth wouldn't let anyone see, even the doctor in Alexandria, she still had a massive wound on the back of her head. Most of the time she would disguise it with her hair, but people didn't have to see it to know it was there. Her physical bruises were just as prominent as the mental ones.
Looking out passed the yard, she focused on something specific, and let out a resonating sigh.
"You knew me, right? You knew me well…. Before?" she asked, not certain if it was okay to ask this.
Surprised, Daryl looked down at her, the top of her head only visible to him. He didn't know how to answer her though the answer was quite clear. Instead, he waited until she looked up at him formally before he nodded carefully, giving her his eyes.
"Was I okay? I mean, I know I couldn't have been happy, dictionary happy, but… was I okay?"
Again, Daryl prolonged his answering. His fingers wrestled each other, picking at is calloused skin as well. His dominant crossbow hand suffering the worst of contusions and maul.
"Yeah," he said quietly, "Yeah. You were okay."
She seemed satisfied with this answer and then turned back to the view far out. A couple of houses down, a window cracked open. It was hot tonight.
Silence grew and it was invited. Making its territory in the night, almost like it had done so long ago when he and she were in a familiar setting, on a porch, not talking about things but having things be said in ways that didn't require words. And the silence was in every way comforting now as it was then.
Until it was broken. And Daryl looked down at her once again as her breath caught her.
"I get flickers of scenes. Like a movie, but not in sequence. And I can't tell if it's the beginning or end or middle," she whispered, her tongue coating the words with disdain, "And, I want to know you, but I don't."
Crickets clicked their back legs. Click, click, click; feeling the mildew already building on the grass vanes. Summer was fading and yet, it still wasn't. September was coming, and yet… it still wasn't.
Beth was fading out; her body decaying with absence of real momentum and vitality. Her mind, rotting like pumpkins in the winter, like snow in the heat, like leaves in autumn. And like leaves in autumn, the most beautiful thing about them was their death.
And like Beth, she was fading into oranges and browns. Daryl couldn't help but feel it this way.
"It was real." Was the last thing he said that night.
He plucked a carved arrow from its quiver and secured it in his crossbow.
In the backyard, with its silly fencing and its silly single tree with what should have a tire swing hanging from its most protruding branch but doesn't, he aimed at a bird. It shot clear through the eye and the bird fell to the ground.
The arrow didn't splinter, not once, not at all. And when the wind picked up, something in the breeze told him summer was finally ending. The crickets would cease and the sweltering would cease but the leaves—the leaves would do what nature intended them to always do.
And Daryl would watch them fade out too.
Thank you for reading (: