This is the fourth piece in my Bethyl Week series. As I announced in the previous pieces, this scene will be one of those that is lifted from my full-length work entitled Settling, Surviving, Thriving, Living, albeit edited and altered to fit the theme of the event for the day.
Please note that, while these pieces are part of a larger story, they are stand-alone one-shots; therefore, they do not follow the chronological order of the show. The selections will be posted to follow the schedule of the prompts for the event. Once Bethyl Week is over, I will create a separate story and re-post the one-shots in chronological order there.
In essence, this one-shot does stand independently and can, therefore, be enjoyed whether you have or have not read the original story :-)
Beth, due completely to her healing injury, stayed inside while he strung up their cans and set to securing the house. That was quite fine by Daryl, as his thoughts were a tangled mess that couldn't have been sorted out with her there by his side.
There was something about having her there, at his side. It made his gut clench, almost as if her tiny wrist held an iron fisted hold on his stomach. Every time she smiled, it was like she gave his stomach a squeeze, clenching all of the contents together in one large heap that pressed against the back of his throat.
He knew what he was feeling, what that—not necessarily unpleasant—clenching sensation was that seemed to be keeping a grip on his gut every time he spent too much time talking to her or thinking about her. If he were honest, he'd admit he had it right now, just knowing she was inside, waiting for him to come back in.
When had this happened, he wondered. When had things changed? At one time, he had wanted to get to know her, wanted to get to know how she thought—processed and perceived so much while assuming so little. Somewhere along the line he reckoned he had taken it too far. It had gone from wanting to get to know her to admiring her to…something more, something permanent, something unbreakable.
It was how she felt about those damn Walkers in the cellar, he thought. That was when he really saw her for what she was. He had admired her—for her hope and her faith that their family was still alive—really since the prison had fallen.
But not like that, not like he had when he realized she had somehow managed to come out on the other end of the world going to shit with her personality, beliefs and viewpoints still intact.
Daryl thrived with the world gone to shit; he was made for how it was now. Beth, on the other hand, took the end of the world and made the best of it, generated purely from her simultaneous ability to adapt to the demands of survival and her hard line to refuse to compromise herself in pursuit of living.
It was…gripping, he realized—damn near enchanting, if he were to be honest. It grabbed his attention—demanded it, really—and made it impossible for him to focus on much of anything else. The second she made that stand outside their moonshine shack, she had grabbed his attention and demanded it. Really, he realized, it hadn't left her since then.
With the cans strung up, there was nothing else he could do to further guarantee their safety. With a hopeful sigh that that should be enough, he retuned inside, recognizing that the setting sun really kept him from doing much more anyway.
As soon as he was through the door, he heard it. She was singing again, but it sounded so different to him from the last time he had heard her, at the prison. Sluggishly he realized she wasn't the one who had changed. It was his point of view on it and her that had been altered.
As silently as he could, he took the hall, his bow still slung over his shoulder, although he could admit that he wasn't as quiet as was per usual for him, as he realized his attention was, of course, trained once more on her.
This time, though, it was her voice that called to him, enchanted him, demanded his attention. It left him lacking focus and cumbersome in his movements, to the point where he was assured she would hear him coming and stop singing long before he even got to fully drink it in.
She was a good tracker, a good hunter and a good shot; he need look no further than that Walker she had almost managed to off, while injured, to confirm that fact. But in the peace of the funeral home, he supposed she wasn't nearly as alert as she had been when they had been on the road; she didn't even hear him coming, didn't even startle through one note.
He should be angry with her, he thought; failing to be absolutely alert in this world could bring nothing but death, not just to her, but to anyone she was with.
But, after meager moments of continuing to watch her, listen to her voice, he knew he just didn't have it in him to be hostile at her failure to heed his warnings from their time spent on the road. The sight of her sitting there, hunched over the piano, her soft, sweet voice drifting shyly up from the keys—it was just too much, too drawing, too enchanting for him to worry of much else.
In that moment, she was no longer simply enchanting. She was damn near enthralling, as she sat there, the perfect picture of focus and contentment. It was reassuring, he realized; it was a stand from her, meant to declare that they were nothing but safe and secure here, in their funeral home.
That was it, he realized. That was why she was singing, because they were no longer on the road. They were safe—or as safe as they could be, tucked in to the funeral home…and together, he added as an after thought. He wondered if that served as a factor for her, as it did for him.
Beth had first sung out at the prison in the yard, that first night they finally managed to get through the fence and set up camp in an area protected from Walkers. It had annoyed him at the time, as he saw it as nothing more than a means of enticing the Walkers to try to find their way to push in.
But, now, he could appreciate what it had meant, what she had been saying with that choice. She had been making a stand, choosing to sing in spite of the fact that there were still Walkers on the other side of that fence and that they could find a way in. But she had faith that they wouldn't, that the walls would stand and that they would live to see the next morning. That was what propelled her to sing—she had felt safe and at home and alive, able to thrive for the first time probably since the fall of the farm.
This was repeated several times once they actually entered the prison. Then it had annoyed him less, as they were in a safer location. Of course, this only prompted more singing on her part, as she grew steadily more secure in their ability to hold the prison and the ability of the walls to keep the ugliness of the outdoor world from them.
Now, here she sat, singing in their funeral home. She hadn't even done that in their shack. It told him that she felt safe, happy, secure.
And happy she was. He could feel the joy coming off her in waves, even though he could barely even see her face from his vantage point resting against the door jam. It was riveting to him; he wasn't so sure he'd ever really found that much joy in anything.
A few weeks ago, before the stand she had made at their moonshine shack, perhaps he would've envied her for it—for that persistent and prevalent happiness that just seemed to come off of her with so little effort. Daryl just knew that, no matter what efforts he made, no matter what he had ever tried to do to satisfy those who surrounded him, it had never made him or those he sought to please as happy as she seemed to be sitting there at the piano.
But there was also just something about her and the situation that made it impossible for him to hold it against her. Her voice was so innocent, yet her strikes against the keys so assured; there was no way he could not feel the enchantment brought on by the actions, he realized, and that alone made it impossible for him to begrudge her of her happiness.
Daryl didn't know how long he lingered there in the door jam, just watching Beth perform. It was nothing extraordinary, he supposed; Beth was always happy, always smiling. But, somehow, this was different. He had never seen it to this extent, never been this enchanted by just seeing her, hearing her.
With every second he stood there, the clenching in his gut tightened. With a jolt, he realized once again that the sensation wasn't necessarily of a negative connotation. But this same shock brought his own staring to his attention—jarred him forcefully out of his enchanted state.
Embarrassment immediately rolled over him, as he almost couldn't handle what he had been allowing himself to do. His eyes, as they usually did when he was embarrassed, came to rest on his feet and he began to fidget, wondering how he could make it seem as if he had just entered the room without seeming conspicuous.
Daryl chose to clear his throat, despite the fact that his every impulse yelled at him not to—told him to let her keep singing, to keep soaking in the enchanting light and hope her voice provided.
He forced those impulses down and did what he thought he owed her—cleared his throat to let her know that she wasn't alone—and shifted his weight, in an effort to make it appear as if he had just entered the room. He forced himself to meet her eyes as she turned to face him; he needed to see if she was suspicious of his behavior, if she could read him for signs he had been there far longer than she had suspected.
He was surprised to see that she seemed almost as startled and embarrassed at being caught as he was at watching her. Beth had sung out plenty of times before, why would she worry about him? But, as far as he could tell, it wasn't necessarily in a bad way; just in the way that sudden noise always set people on edge now.
The fact that she seemed thrown off served as a comfort to him, providing him with solidarity. Regardless of the slight easing it brought him, the nervousness still gripped at his gut, causing him to fidget even further than he already was. He mumbled something about locking up the house as he actually removed his bow from his shoulders. His body ached from their time on the road and he wanted nothing more than to sit down uninhibited.
But where to do so, he wondered. Thinking about it had him gripping at the hem of his shirt, as another round of nerves poked at him. He wanted nothing more than to sit near her, as the enchanting feeling tugged at him in an effort to neutralize the poke of the nerves. But they would not be ignored, he realized, as Daryl decided he couldn't sit too close to her and risk making her feel uncomfortable or raising her suspicions.
He knew this and, yet, he couldn't deny that that joy that was still coming off her in waves inherently drew him in, made him want to be closer to her. As he took in the room, he knew exactly where he could choose that would allow for a diffusion of the tension, if it was needed.
Having made his choice, he eagerly hopped in the casket, hoping it could serve as a comfortable place to possibly watch her play a bit more.
"What are you doin'?" he heard her ask as his eyes came back to her after settling in a bit. Her smile was wary, but he couldn't help but notice it was still there. Seeing hers made his smile make an appearance. Well, that and the actual comfort provided by the casket.
"This is the comfiest bed I've had in years," he said, settling in even further.
"Really?" she asked with a laugh as he laid himself down to fully enjoy it.
"I ain't kiddin'," he said, his smile still in place. His shifting had forced his eyes from hers, but, now that he was settled, he found his eyes coming back to her and the piano instinctually. Another wave of nervousness hit him as he thought on what he really wanted to say, replacing the bit that their talking had managed to get rid of.
His hands lowered to his shirt to resume his fidgeting. Yes, the pull of his nerves was strong; but, this time, the echo of the enchanting sound that was her voice overpowered it. "Why don't ya go ahead," he started, feeling that clenching in his gut as it took a firmer grip. "Play some more?"
Beth's smile shined even brighter than it usually did and he wondered if she saw through his vague request. "I thought my singing annoyed you?" she asked, but that smile was still in place; he knew there weren't any bad feelings there, over the things he had said in the past.
Things had changed, especially things between them. The thought crossed his mind that she may have received the message he was trying to send—that he really wanted to hear her sing, that he actually liked hearing her sing, now that he knew her better, understood her better.
"There ain't no jukebox, so…" he trailed off, hoping she would let his smirk finish his attempt at diffusing the tension. Despite the fact that he wanted very much to hear her keep singing, verbal expression was never reliable for him, a fact that seemed particularly true now; at this rate, he didn't even trust his voice to keep from cracking embarrassingly like a boy going through puberty.
Thankfully, she seemed to get his message and turned to face the piano again, taking her eyes off of his. Without the pressure of her eyes on him, he felt able to allow his thoughts to wander. Even so, for several seconds, he couldn't do anything but watch her, listen to her song and her lyrics, as that joy and downright enchanting quality just continued to come off of her in waves.
That joy and its lack of familiarity to him had several things pushing, pulling at his stomach, trying their hardest to push their way in. His bewildered enjoyment and enchantment at her hands put up a good fight but, eventually, his insecurities won out, prompting his finger to find its way to his mouth, as it tended to do when anxiety would start to grip him.
He tried so damn hard to pack it all down, but sometimes it was unavoidable. And as he lay there, in his casket, finger still lingering in his mouth—even as he released a deep, almost restless breath and his eyes made their way to focus on the ceiling—he knew he was in for another unpleasant bout.
What if she said no? If she wasn't interested?
What if their family didn't approve? Beth was certain they were still alive and, now, that was enough for him to believe it too. It hadn't always been—and damn if it wasn't still hard for him to keep in touch with that feeling—but he knew now, that she had to be right. She always was; why should this issue be any different?
And if their family was alive, and a reunion was in the near future, what if they didn't approve? The age gap was definitely a concern, and not just from the potential point of view of their family. He thought it might look suspicious to anyone they stumbled upon.
But, him, completely on his own—he didn't care about it. She may be a teenager physically, but emotionally and mentally, she had years on even him. No, that wasn't a concern from his point of view. And, if—when—they found the others, if that became a problem, he'd deal with it. He had enough personal demons running through his veins to bid too many thoughts to the possible complaints of others.
But her. The feelings of their family didn't mean a damn, if she didn't see him in the same way he saw her. Was it possible? Could she even see him in the way he looked at her? He had long since sought to follow her lines of thought, in the hopes that he could get to know her better, get to understand what was so damn enchanting about her, get to know why he just couldn't help but admire her.
What if she didn't? What if she rejected him?
Well, why wouldn't she, he thought. Obviously she didn't see him in the same way that he saw her. They were opposites, which usually worked for them, in their daily interactions. But it meant they each valued the other for completely different reasons. What if the things she valued in him—strength and a sheer, strong will to survive—what if they weren't enough? What if he wasn't enough?
Of course he wasn't enough, a voice whispered in his head. It sounded suspiciously like Merle and, had he been of a clearer mind, maybe he would've recognized that on a deeper level and not let it infect his brain as it did. As it were, he was soon in a fit of panic, because he felt certain he wasn't enough. Not just for her, but for love in general—he just didn't deserve it. He was a redneck asshole who had needed the world going to shit to thrive. Who the hell looked at someone like that and thought—that. That's what I want.
No one like Beth Greene, that was for damn certain. She was too much for him, too good for him. What had he done to deserve a girl like Greene? What made him deserve her?
What made him deserve her? Nothing, he realized. She was enchanting and full of light and brightness and happiness and hope—she was everything he wasn't. Everything he hadn't been for a very long time, if ever.
But that isn't the case now, is it? A voice whispered, and he realized it sounded suspiciously like the singing voice drifting towards him from just a few feet over. How many times had she told him? Told him he was a good person, that he wasn't responsible for anything Merle had done, for anything that the Governor had done, for any of the shit that had rained fire down upon their lives.
But it wasn't just that. She hadn't just freed him from guilt. She had gone out of her way at the moonshine shack to tell him that he was a good person, that he deserved to not only survive, but to live.
The way he tended to Little Ass Kicker. The way he looked after Carol and the others. The way he'd run straight through a collapsing building, if only it meant he could save any member of their family, no matter how long they had lived at the prison, no matter how long he had known them. The way he looked at her differently—the way he had been the one to first see her as more than background fodder, the way he had been the one to elevate her to caretaker, in those first few precious moments after Lori's death.
A promotion he just continued to carry out, he reminded himself, as he remembered how many times she had thanked him for his efforts to train her in the time since they had parted ways with the moonshine shack. Now, he had gotten her to the point where he felt confident she wouldn't need to rely on anyone to make her own damn way in this world.
And she was grateful. To him. Continued to rely on him, as a result—out of choice, not necessity.
But she was grateful, not just for what he had done for her, in their time alone or in their time together with their family at the prison, but for everything he had done for every single member of their family. No one else seemed to give a damn what he did on a regular basis, but she had all but told him that wasn't the case for her—that she had long since appreciated what he did for them.
The way she stepped in to stop Maggie from focusing in on blaming Merle for the impending attack on the prison. The way she had smiled at him in his return to their family, even with his asshole of a brother by his side—an asshole who, it should be noted, had tortured her own sister a lousy few days prior.
She, like him, wasn't one for words. But she didn't need to be, he realized; she was still always processing and perceiving, seeing right through him in the process. The stand she made at the moonshine shack had been all he needed to know that as a fact.
Her actions and reactions flashed before him and he knew. He just knew. That was the end of it. Almost everyone in his life had always taken Merle's mistakes out on him. But not her, apparently. She could see that Merle was far from a saint, but she not only managed to not judge Merle himself, but managed to not look at him any differently either. That was just part of her, he realized, part of how she was able to draw him in, strike his curiosity to the point where he was damn near enchanted by her.
She didn't see him as some pathetic asshole who had needed the world going to hell to get his shit together. No, he realized. That was just how he saw himself, even after the numerous times she had persisted in telling him otherwise. With difficulty, he repressed a laugh that pressed on his tongue. He had been right, at their moonshine shack; he needed her to remind him sometimes.
And she had. She had been reminding him since that very day. No, she didn't see him the way he thought others might see him. She looked at him and saw someone who was possibly even worthy of some form of attention in return.
He was a good person, she had told him. He still wasn't completely sure, but, for her, he'd try his damndest to prove her right.
As he came to some form of a conclusion, he felt the rigid lines of stress ease out of his body, allowing him to finally relax and fully appreciate her singing for the first time in several minutes. Her enchanting voice only drew him in further, compounded by the emotions he was already feeling at his conviction—hopeful, enchanted and almost, for lack of a better word, committed.
"And we'll be good," she finished, her smile bright and her eyes set to the piano.
Yeah, he thought, they would be.