AN: One of what will become a compilation of Bethyl ficlets and one-shots. Probably won't be posted in chronological order and will eventually go off canon. Don't hate me for my Carol description, I think I did her some justice there. I've always just felt they were both too dark together, that they both needed a light in their life as far as for a romantic pairing.
They run for almost an hour. Their bodies are weak, malnourished and the moonshine sloshes around inside their empty bellies but each movement is propelled by pure adrenaline. He picks a spot because eventually they all seem as good as the next, and they collapse into the brush. Their chests heave but they both chuckle, breathing up at the stars in some kind of after-glow and endorphin overdose. Daryl can smell burning flesh and it's another odd effect of their world that it gives him comfort, because he knows every walker within a moderate distance has made their way to the flames like mosquitos to a bug zapper and staggered into them.
"Ain't nothin' quite like the stars in Georgia," he tells the sky that's twinkling like an aluminum Christmas tree, but knows she's listening beside him.
"Thought you said there wasn't anything left worth seein'," she teases, their shoulders brushing.
"Maybe a couple things ain't so bad," he whispers back before he can even think to stop himself, can hear something alter just so slightly in her breathing. They lay like that for a while and like has been happening a lot lately, Daryl has trouble keeping track of time. It could be ten minutes have passed, maybe three hours. Every time he lets his eyes blink closed he can see the way her blue orbs had danced, the way she'd smiled with every single tooth, "we should burn it down." Just a little bit of a hellion dressed up like the farmer's daughter.
Beth's still beside him, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.
"Hey," he murmurs, testing to see if she's still awake. After a beat, she rolls onto her side, closing what distance was left between them.
"Hey," she whispers back, offering a small, closed lip smile. He can feel her breath on his cheek. "You ok?"
She's the only one ever asking if he's ok, about things other than surface injuries.
At first he grunts, something like a yes in the back of his throat. She keeps watching him, her lithe body twisted at the torso to look at him. That dirty yellow polo is stretched across the expanse of her chest, rising up just a few inches to reveal a slither of skin like snow above the waistband of her jeans. The stars offer just the slightest glow that reflects on her cheekbones, so much more prominent with their new diet of berries and squirrels.
"Daryl," she sighs his name, kind of impatient and pushy, prodding him to say whatever it is that's sitting on his tongue. He wants badly to hate how she seems to know him, how she fits under his skin without any irritation. He doesn't though, not at all.
"Felt like my old man back there," he tells her, crosses his arms under his head, "all fired up on moonshine in a little shack like that, yellin' at ya like that. S'how it always was in my house, between my parents, then between me and the old man. I mean it was worse, a lot worse. Still feels shitty."
She said she would remind him, who he is and who he isn't anymore. He needs to add who he could have become but didn't. Maybe the world ended to stop him from becoming his father. He's never been selfish enough to be able to believe anything like that, but if that's what it took then maybe he can live with the world on pause. Maybe it's why he survived.
"I can take it," she dismisses, unhurt and unscathed. At first glance she seems so fragile, like wet paper, ready to disintegrate at the first hint of pressure. Except she's not at all, so far from it. He's lashed out at other women before, Carol, Lori. They always backed away just so slightly, a little wounded, maybe a little afraid. All those times made him retreat into himself with guilt, although he rarely showed it, feeling Will Dixon's voice spit out of his mouth. Beth had stood her ground, hadn't conceded to his tantrum one bit, had even pushed back. He wasn't sure if it was worse or better that she hadn't feared him. "You had something to get out."
His ma had said that once, when he'd climbed onto the bare mattress with her, pushed the brittle bleached blonde hair away from her face and touched her blackened eyes. He was little, probably just a toddler but it's one of those memories that wallpaper the lining of his brain. She'd lit a Virginia Slim with trembling hands, after he fetched the pack for her and sipped Irish whiskey from a high ball that was always on the bedside table. "I can take it, don't worry baby."
"Shouldn't ever have to take it," he shakes his head, "you're too good for that. Never gonna happen again. Ok?"
He looks over at her, her face just inches from his, resting on her forearm. Hesitantly she moves the arm not folded under her head and places her hand on his chest. She watches his face, reading his reaction and he's never been good at poker because she keeps it there. A heat rushes through his body, something he hasn't felt in ages, maybe ever if he's being honest. Not like this. Carol's tried before, nestling against his body in the middle of the night, trying to let her hands wander places they weren't invited. There were times he yelled at her, stormed off to find a new resting place because it felt like she was trying to take something he wasn't willing to give. Other times he'd removed her hand gently, when she was weak and weeping and they were both torn in half over her little girl. He'd always moved away though, always. He didn't want it, thought she thought it was the only way she could show him she appreciates him, because her husband crushed whatever sense of worth with men she might have had once. They were cut from the same thread of an angry man's fists and even though it wasn't her fault, letting her dark into his would've gotten them both lost. Carol's probably dead though and it hurts his chest because he did love her, not in the way she wanted in the middle of the night maybe, but she saw him before anyone else did.
Beth's got long dainty fingers; dirty, bitten fingernails like his though. He can feel the heat of her palm through his shirt and wishes it was against his skin instead. He can't remember ever thinking that about anyone, ever wanting to invite someone under his armor. He'd never take it off, but maybe she could come in, let it protect them both.
"We're not them," she promises, "you're not him. You never will be."
"Ok," he agrees and it's a hell of a thing that when she says it, he believes her. Daryl wonders if she can tell how much she terrifies him, if she could read the signs that flashed 'liar' when he growled that he wasn't scared of anything. She lets her arm fall back to her side, not without letting her fingers ghost down his side, lingering. "Get some sleep," he tells her, swallowing a lump of nerves rising in the back of his throat, "We're moving on soon as the suns up."
She blinks up at him, those long lashes leaving shadows on her cheeks and smiles.
"Ok."
He doesn't even pretend not to watch her as she drifts to sleep and then all the way through until the sun comes up. Her lips open and part, sometimes she jumps in her sleep, murmurs and yells. She says his name though, once, kind of quiet and lazy and her lip quirks almost into a smile. It must be hours, but it feels like seconds.
