A/N: AU ZA, post Alone. I just want these kids to be happy all the time. Title taken from Touch by Daughter. Thank you to those that read my little stories, your support blows me away.
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ONE
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The dog does not return.
There are no walkers. Not that night, not the nights that follow.
They stay at the funeral home. No one comes back.
He checks the perimeter, she sings her songs. There are simple runs and tracking lessons and her ankle heals.
They could stay here forever. But their family is out there, somewhere.
So they move on.
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It's better, on the road. A part of him couldn't shake that suspicion that the funeral home was too good to be true. That there was a trap, a catch somewhere and it was only a matter of time before it revealed itself.
His main priority is to keep her fed, keep her warm. Keep her safe. Sometimes he wishes for his poncho, imagines how the thick blanket would swallow her small frame and she wouldn't shiver at night. He finds her a jacket, an ugly green that blends so well with the surroundings that he almost loses her when she wanders away. Still, her jeans and threadbare with holes in the knees and sometimes he thinks that they should have stayed, at least for the winter.
It's not safe, that voice in the back of his mind screams, over and over again, and he listens. He doesn't know if they'll ever be a day when they are.
Winter is coming. Winter on the road is not easy. The chill seeps into your bones and the small fires that they allow themselves at night do nothing to thaw them out. He faintly remembers their first winter, after the farm, how she would curl into her father, her face burrowed into his side, a ball of sweaters and jackets and that scavenged purple beanie. This time round (winter number three since the turn) she's not much different; curling into him, the musty trapper hat he'd found for her, low across her forehead. She has a habit of shifting in her sleep, and more often or not finds herself sprawled across his lap in a way that warms him where the fire fails to.
(And again when he gently wakes her for watch, when she arches involuntarily and her smile is so perfect and blinding that he doesn't want to close his eyes for a second.)
It's weird, this new feeling. How he wants to give her the world and everything he has, too.
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Sometimes he thinks about her life before the turn. Ponies, Santa, frozen yoghurt. He doesn't hold it against her like he used to, doesn't blame her for the bad hand he was dealt. Feels a bit bad, if he's honest with himself, because yeah, sometimes it's like he's made for how things are, and she's simply made to break.
(Bent but not broken, she likes to remind him, about herself, about himself, about them.)
But she's still there. Still there, with him and there's something to be said about small miracles and how he's been able to keep her alive so far. That maybe once, she was a burden, but now she's a purpose, and he supposes this is how Hershel felt from the moment she was born.
Girl like Beth, well, she gives a man something to live for.
(Live, not just survive.)
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There's something about gated communities that makes his blood boil, thinks about all they stand for, thinks of all they represented, back before. To keep their rich inhabitants safe and sound. To keep the undesirables out.
Undesirables. Like him.
Fern Valley Estate carries the same cliché name and the same promise of security. On the edge of a small town, he imagines that these were people wanting to escape to nature, but still have Wi-Fi. Had iPads and compost heaps, vintage motorbikes and a Prius. Grew their own vegetables, not to save money, but because then they knew they were truly organic.
Maybe they got something right, he muses, because the small development, of maybe fifteen houses, and a good deal more still under construction, isn't doing too badly, three years out. Water tanks and solar panels and the fences, with an added layer of barbed wire and construction cut-offs, all stand strong.
The world changes and they change with it. When they dispel the few walkers that linger by the gate, he's surprised as he should be when they're then ushered inside.
When he's blindfolded and restrained, well, now it all feels normal. He fights and struggles and he can hear her shouting and making her own demands that he knows no one is going to give into. Not when it's two against a whole community.
Not when he knows they look positively wild.
Still, he fights. Still, he struggles. Because no one is going to take her away from him and he'll be a dead man before they do.
When the blow to the back of his head comes, well, that's expected too.
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"You know why this is necessary, don't you?"
Daryl doesn't say a word.
"You made it this far, you must have some common sense," the man continues, hand resting on the large hunting knife hanging off his belt, "or maybe you're just a lucky son of a bitch."
"Ain't no luck in this world," Daryl snaps, "ain't no luck in any worlds."
"That girl of yours is lucky," he comments, pausing, "pretty things like her don't usually make it this far."
"She's stronger than she looks," Daryl mutters gruffly, "she can hold her own."
"Against the dead?" the man's eyes narrow questioningly, "what about against you?"
His exhaustion is stronger than his rage at this point, and he opts for resignation, as the pieces click together like those of a gun. Here is a man that has taken one look at them and assumed the worst.
"Nothing in this world comes for free, huh son."
"Ain't ya son," Daryl snaps, "and I never laid a hand on that girl."
"You want to," he unsheathes his knife, "want to real bad, I reckon. She'd probably let you, too. You ain't terrible looking, keepin' her fed and warm. Bet you got her thinking she won some kind of apocalypse lottery."
"James!"
A sharp knock follows the shout, and the man sighs, placing his knife atop a water heater. His footsteps are heavy on the small staircase, the light that enters almost unnatural.
"She talking?"
"Yeah. But won't say anything without him."
"You believe her?"
"Offered her protection, a way out. Told her we'd send him on his way if she wanted us to. She's flat out refused to go anywhere without him."
His footsteps are heavy on his descent, and the man cuts the cable ties, sheafing his knife once again.
"It's necessary," he shrugs unapologetically.
Daryl doesn't say a word to the contrary.
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They were nut jobs before the turn. They are a well-organised community after.
James might be in his seventies, but he's still a force to be reckoned with. War does that to a man, he explains, almost nostalgic, breaks him down to build him up.
Daryl thinks that's bullshit because you don't need to step foot on enemy soil when the enemy could be your own flesh and blood.
James married Patty the summer he came back from Vietnam. Three kids and seven grandchildren scattered across the country, fates all unknown. They bought a house at the estate a year and a half before the turn. Befriended neighbours and what started as a home gardening project, morphed into something else.
"Folks thought we were crazy," James chuckles, showing them around the estate, "hell, we thought it was a bit crazy. A hobby, really, a community activity. Thought about going on that show…Patty, what was it called?"
"Doomsday Preppers," Patty shakes her head, smiling, "considered ourselves pretty prepared, didn't we?"
"We did," James nods, this time his mouth forming a grim line, "and we were damn wrong."
They are a well-oiled machine, but they are not without their faults. No system is perfect, and there have been breeches and bites and every loss is represented in a small graveyard so reminiscent of that of the prison. They have lost people on runs and had encounters with bad folk, yet they still stand strong, determined, undefeated.
For two whole years. And will for many more.
"The solar panels will fail one day," James says, matter-of-fact, "our easy food will run out. Medicine will expire and modern luxuries will be pointless. Children will be born and raised in a world where screens and gadgets hold no meaning and we will forge on as man has always done."
Daryl nods and Beth's eyes are the widest he's ever seen.
"We can't stay," he mutters roughly, "but we'll work for our keep."
James doesn't argue with the offer, simply shakes his hand, and hers, showing them to their temporary home.
Because that's what it is. It's temporary.
It all is, when he thinks about it.
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She looks breathtaking.
The thing though, lately, she's always taken his breath away. In her defiance, in her perseverance, in her unwavering faith.
But minus the dirt and the gore and the blood, she looks like a goddamn princess.
He wonders if maybe that's how the world sees her, why Patty has adopted her as her own. That she's this delicate thing that needs to be protected, needs to be adored. He wonders sometimes if maybe that's how he sees her, but that quickly passes, because it's more than that. He knows her strengths and her weaknesses, her dreams and her nightmares. He knows the best of her and the worst of her. She isn't a princess. She's just Beth.
(There's a moment, though, when she's singing to the children, her voice clear and uplifting, when a bird flies through the open window and settles on the arm of her chair that leads him to question everything he's ever known.)
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"Help me with this, would you, Daryl?"
Patty beckons him over, a washtub by her feet, filled with water. He lifts it and it's heavy, his muscles straining, and he gives her an odd look, wonders if she really thought she could carry it to her destination.
"Back ain't what it used to be," she smiles, leading him towards the covered patio, "a lot of things ain't what they used to be. World changed, but humans stay the same. We are born and we grow old and then we die. Ain't no way around it, even less ways now."
"Hmm," he grunts in agreement, placing the washtub down at her feet. She cocks one eyebrow.
"You gonna help me, son?"
"With the washin'?" Daryl asks, incredulously.
"You conformin' to gender roles, now?"
"Nah," Daryl grabs a shirt from the pile, "ain't no one ever asked me to do washing before, s'all."
"Well, I'm askin' ya'," Patty grabs a dress from the pile, dunking it in the water and scrubbing it with some soap. Daryl follows suit, and the two work in silence.
Well, mostly silence.
"Your girl doing alright?"
"Not my girl," Daryl sighs, knowing this was coming.
"Y'all share a bed," Patty raises an eyebrow, "you tellin' me this is platonic?"
"Nah," he shrugs, "but it ain't like that."
"So chivalry ain't dead," Patty scrubs at a particularly stubborn stain, "would never have thought it would resurrect itself in the form of a surly redneck."
"Bet you didn't think the dead would come back to life either," Daryl quips.
"Yeah, well, knock me down with a feather."
There's a moment of quiet, of peace, but Patty's words keep playing back in his mind and Daryl can't stand it.
"I'm going to do right by her," he says strongly, "I'm all she's got left. She's depending on me. She trusts me. I ain't about to go and ruin it."
"Just as long as you know that you're allowed to depend on her," Patty interjects, placing her washing down to fix him with a stare, "she ain't a little girl. She's a woman. And this partnership of yours is a two-way street. Gotta trust her too, Daryl. Gotta learn to rely on her. Won't kill you, I promise you this. But it will make you stronger."
"Ain't never needed anyone for anythin'," he says softly, glancing down at the shirt on his hand.
"Girls like Beth Greene," Patty nudges him sharply, "were rare before. Practically extinct now. You're a good man, Daryl Dixon. Don't you think you deserve a good woman?
Want. Deserve. Need.
These are words that just aren't in his vocabulary. But now, well, maybe they should be.
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Beth sighs, and he knows he's not in for an easy night. Almost wishes he had night watch, what with the way she's huffing and puffing and glaring at him out of the corners of her eyes.
"You wanna tell me what I did wrong?"
She stops what she's doing – turning down the bed, the same one she insists on making every morning, pile of useless cushions and all – places her hands on her hips and fixes him with a glare.
It's hard to be intimidated, what when she's wearing Minnie Mouse pyjamas.
She must decide it's not worth it, when a look of exasperation replaces her glare and she slips beneath the covers, scooting close to the edge with her back to him.
"Nothing," she mumbles, "night Daryl."
With that, she blows out the candle.
"Nope," he grabs the lantern he keeps on his bedside table, twisting the small dial and illuminating the room (illuminating the frown on her face), "I ain't playing this game."
"I'm not playing any game, Daryl," she sighs, burying her face into the pillow, her voice coming out muffled.
"Yeah, Greene," Daryl snaps, "you are."
"I'll stop when you stop."
There you have it. The first punch, courtesy of Beth Greene.
"Don't have a damn clue what you're talking about," Daryl grabs his pillow, and his crossbow "and I ain't gonna sit her and take this bullshit."
"Where you going?" Beth demands, sitting up quickly.
"Couch, outside, why do you care?"
"Fine," Beth snaps, "whatever. I don't. Clearly you don't either."
"Fuck, girl," Daryl runs a hand over his face, "are you on your rag or something?"
"Oh my god, seriously?" Beth laughs, "Are you really that clueless?"
"Yeah," Daryl growls, "so enlighten me."
"I ain't your daughter!" she explodes, "I ain't your kid sister or your niece or your damn ward! Why can't you just admit that you feel something? Why do you just pretend that the funeral home never happened?
"I ain't pretendin'," Daryl argues, "you're crazy, Greene."
"There was a moment," she snaps, "there was a moment and you can't just ignore it. It's not going away. I'm not going away."
She's so angry. Angrier than the moonshine shack, if that was even possible. Angry and crying.
"Beth," he mumbles, glancing at his feet, "you know I ain't good at this."
"You gotta try," she pleads, "I can't do this by myself."
"Can you," he swallows thickly, "maybe show me? Maybe remind me from time to time?"
"That you have me?" she breathes. He places down the lamp, twisting it off. In the dark, her hands grab for his wrist, pulling him down onto the bed. It's in this moment that he can't speak, can't find a single word to mumble his reply. Can't deny her advances, not when she pulls him down and throws a leg over his, pinning him in place. Can't bring himself to listen to the part of his brain that reminds him over and over again that she is young and he is old and this isn't right, this isn't acceptable, and how can Patty talk about partnerships like they are cut from the same cloth, made on the same factory line.
Their differences are so blinding, but it's in this moment, when her fingers trace the contours of his face, and her lips oh so gently find his, that they all merge into one single, bright light.
He has Beth Greene.
And that's enough.
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"James can marry you," Patty says one day, when he's walking the wall, "he was ordained a couple of years back. No such thing as marriage certificates, but we make do with what we have these days."
These days. Because only when the world goes to hell, would a guy like him be encouraged to marry a girl like her.
"She don't want that," Daryl mutters gruffly. Patty gives him a soft smile.
"All girls like her want that," she says kindly, "think her daddy, god rest his soul, would want that too."
Not the first time he's thought about that, what Hershel might want. Caring for his daughter, thinking about his daughter, touching his daughter. Never going further than that, but he knows that it's only a matter of time before she pushes for something that he's powerless to stop.
He wonders what Hershel would think about the moonshine shack and the funeral home and this place, Fern Valley Estate, and the little life they've carved out. What he would say about the garden and the chickens and the stray cat they have adopted as their own. Wonders what he'd say about the blinding smiles and soft touches and the way his daughter is too eager to curl herself around him in the bed they share.
Nothing good, if the old man had any sense.
(Though, he's starting to seriously doubt that these Greene folk actually do.)
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TWO
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They leave in the spring. It's her choice, not his.
(He's given up on Rick, given up on Maggie. Given up on Michonne and Tyreese and Glenn and everyone that had a chance at escaping the prison as it burned.)
It's a teary farewell, as Patty refuses to let go of them both, slipping an antique ring in his pocket. She doesn't mention it, but her look is pointed when she tells him sternly to protect that girl with your life.
Thing is, there's no other way to protect Beth Greene. It's all or nothing. No way around it.
She gifts the cat to a little girl, hugs it tight and even he feels the loss as they leave the safety of the looming, wrought iron gates. Fern Valley Estate, he spares it a glance back, this small sanctuary, this little block of peace.
"It was like nowhere we'd ever been," she murmurs to him, hand slipping easily into his, and she's right, so right. Doesn't remind him of the quarry or the farm or the prison. Doesn't remind him of anywhere they've ever been. It never hurt, they never hurt. There were no memories or triggers or nostalgia that would assault them out of the blue. They were Beth and Daryl, Daryl and Beth, and, for a spell, they were happy.
But this girl, this sweet, caring, good girl, is nothing but hopeful. And every night, she'd whisper to him that their family could still be alive, that they could still be out there, fighting, surviving. And they had to find them.
He'll follow her anywhere. There's never been any question.
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"Emmylou or Patsy?"
"Hmm," Daryl contemplates her question. This is her new game, a or b, and he's quickly noticing it that she's tailoring it to him, such as squirrel or rabbit, and flannel or leather.
(The latter he answered, whichever you prefer, girl, which earned him a shy smile and gentle fingers tracing over the stitched wings of his vest, a barely audible leather gracing her lips.)
"My mama was partial to Emmylou," he answers, and she glances up at him, cocking her head.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he nods his head, "mama had this small record collection. Used to play mostly Emmylou, sometimes the Highway Men. A bit of Merle Haggard too – Merle was named after him."
"She had good taste," Beth notes, smiling softly.
"She had a nice voice," Daryl notes, "not as nice as yours, cause' of the smokin', but she could carry a tune."
"See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world," Beth sings quietly, "See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world."
Her voice trails off, her brow furrowing as if she's forgotten the words. She'd do that sometimes, at night at the prison, sing bits and pieces of songs, getting lost and starting a new. Only time he'd ever seen her truly frustrated, back then, and it reached the point when Bob and Glenn both stepped in to help her remember the words of an old Bob Dylan tune.
(She'd got there, and it was entirely worth it.)
"Yeah," he murmurs, reaching for her hand, "nice."
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He can't protect her from her nightmares.
Sure, he can protect her, flesh and blood and bone, but he can't take a bullet in her dreams. Can't throw down his life for hers. And that kills him.
"I'm okay," she whispers when he wakes her, her shoulders so small in his large, calloused hands, "I'm okay."
But she's not. Not when she spends the night tossing and turning and running from ghosts. Not when she's thrashing one moment, whimpering the next. Not when she wakes up, gasping his name and clinging to him, pulling his weight down onto her lithe frame, anchoring him to her so she can't get free.
I want to drown in you, her sleepy murmurs fill his ears, a shiver coursing down his spine, I want to always know you're here.
He'll never understand how she takes whispered promises and holds them to her heart, when they feel so flimsy to him, like he should be able to give her more. Would give her more, if she asked.
Would give her anything she could possibly desire.
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All roads point to terminus.
Well, the train tracks, at least.
It feels like too much of a gamble, but when he thinks about it, everything to this point has been a roll of a dice. They've had good luck, and while he's never considered himself a lucky man, it's clear that she is.
Luck of the Irish, she teases, peppering his face with kisses, just stick with me and we'll be golden.
Didn't really need much convincing otherwise.
When they find the sign, handwritten in walker gore, her face lights up and she sprints towards it. Glenn go to Terminus and maybe his own heart stops beating in his chest, this first clue that someone, anyone, in their family might still be alive.
And it's Maggie.
"I knew there'd be others," she breathes, staring up at the sign, "I knew we couldn't be the only ones."
She's so happy, so overjoyed at this small sliver of hope, that naturally, he had to go and ruin it.
"Ain't got your name on it."
He immediately regrets it.
"Yeah, well," she sighs, giving him a sad smile, "who would you bet on? Glenn, or me?"
You, he wants to shout, you, you, always you. But he knows how they see her, knows how he used to see her, this girl made of sunshine, this girl who is the embodiment of hope and goodness. This girl who is simply not made to survive beyond fences.
"Let's go find her," he mutters gruffly, "you can rub it in her face when you see her. Ain't just another dead girl, remember?"
"Yeah," she grins, "I remember."
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Terminus is ashes and dust and rubble. No sanctuary to be seen.
Still, he didn't think it would be. No real sanctuary announces itself to the world. They didn't, Fern Valley Estates didn't. No one wants to welcome danger with open arms.
He holds her that night as she silently sobs, feels the tears seeping through his shirt as she cries for her sister and her brother-in-law. There was a sign and now there is nothing.
"What you want to do?" he asks, because it's always been her call, he's always been following her lead and if she wants to go back to Fern Valley, they'll go back. They'll make a real, proper go of it.
(And maybe he'll take Patty up on her offer.)
"I want to go north," she says determinedly, wiping away the tears.
North it is.
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There's a church in the middle of the woods. Organ pipes constructed as makeshift spikes, the pews dismantled to bar doors and windows, it looks almost demonic in its alterations, almost as if the structure itself had been sacrificed to the dead. He plies the boards loose with his crossbow, signals for her to stand back as they wait for the onslaught of walkers to spring forth.
The church is empty, full of broken pews and an organ in pieces. Blood stains the floorboards and Beth picks up a bible only to drop it when she finds it covered in gore. Empty cans line the small platform, and he kicks absently at a can of baby formula and tries not to think of Judith.
"I'm sorry, Daryl," she whispers.
Glancing up, she's sitting on the organ seat, head in her hands. He moves to sit besides her, awkwardly rubbing her back.
"Ain't you fault, girl."
"Yeah, but we could have stayed. We could have made it work. Except I dragged you out here to chase after ghosts."
He's quiet, knows it's best just to let her work through these things on her own. He spots a map on the ground, reaching to pick it up. Maybe he can find a quicker route back to Fern Valley, maybe he can take her away from this hellhole. Take her somewhere she'll be happy.
Instead, when he opens it, he nearly drops it in shock.
Come to Washington. The new world's gonna needs Rick Grimes.
"Daryl?" Beth questions, glancing at the map, a smile gracing her features.
Wordlessly, he presses his lips to hers and doesn't break away until their both struggling to breathe.
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"Why DC?" she asks, adjusting the straps of her backpack, "What do you think is there?"
Daryl shrugs. A whole lot of the same, if you ask him, but there's gotta be something, something that would make Rick pack up and head across the state borders.
That's the thing about Rick Grimes. He was always looking for something more.
"Do you think that means Carl's with him?" Beth presses, "Judith?"
"I dunno," Daryl sighs, wishing he had answers for her, or at least could offer her the hopeful certainty she so desperately was seeking, "I hope so."
"I think Maggie's alive," she says quietly, "if she found Glenn, then they could survive everything. They're stronger together than apart." She pauses, and he catches a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Like us."
Her words catch him off guard; make him search for a reaction that would have been his default, back before. Before what, he asks himself. Before the turn? Before he lost Merle? Before the moonshine shack?
Before Beth?
Daryl doesn't like to think of a time without her.
Instead, he knows her words are true. That he makes her stronger and she gives him purpose. That she is the Maggie to his Glenn and that's the best comparison he can draw because he never met a man that was as loyal and true to his woman than Glenn Rhee, and he never met a woman made of the same metal as Maggie Greene that would follow her man to the ends of the earth.
Well, save her sister. With steel in her veins and a song in her heart, he thinks, no, he knows, that there's something about the Greene women that makes them a cut above the rest. That makes men wage wars and lose their minds and walk through fire to keep them. And a part of him wants to tell her everything he believes, about her, about them, but he knows that aren't any words that could do him justice.
"Yeah," he settles on, capturing her gaze, "like us."
It's enough. The resulting smile she gives him is blinding.
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Her ankle gives her trouble when it rains. Patty, who had been a retired nurse, before, looked it over back at Fern Valley, frowned a bit and told them it had healed, but healed wrong. Was a fracture, not just a sprain, and told her she'll probably feel it worst when the weather changes. Feel it in her bones.
Beth joked then, said it made her feel wiser beyond her years. James had smiled, in that affectionate, fatherly way he seemed to reserve for her. Oh darlin, don't you know you are?
Girls like her don't make it this far. Some didn't make it at all.
But that's Beth Greene for you. Not just another dead girl.
"Next place we find, we'll stop," he wraps an arm around her waist, despite her protests.
"I can keep going," she argues, and he shakes his head.
"Don't argue," he says, not unkindly, "we both need this."
She's quiet, and they walk for a bit, well, he walks and she limps. Until she stumbles and he catches her, steadying her quickly.
"It's about to rain," she winces, rolling her ankle in the air. Daryl sighs, bending slightly in front of her.
"There's a driveway just up a bit," he mutters, "get on, we'll see what's out there."
"Serious piggyback, Mister Dixon," she teases, and he huffs.
"Ain't no other kind, girl."
And so it goes.
At the end of the driveway, there's a small two-storey cottage. The reanimated owners are its only occupants and Daryl takes care of them quickly and secures the small house just before the rain starts.
"How's ya ankle?"
Beth rotates it experimentally, wincing slightly. It's answer enough.
The rain is heavy on the roof and he won't lie that it fills him with a sort of peace. The rain hides their scent, disorientates the walkers. Keeps the living hiding, the good and the bad, and he wants to keep them as far away from her as possible.
She makes the decision to search the house, and while the kitchen doesn't yield a great deal, the basement is better stocked; some kind of couponing experiment from before that, had the owners not checked out early, may have been very beneficial. But one man's loss is another man's gain and he tries not to stare too long at Beth and the way her eyes light up at the cans of tuna and tinned ham and powdered milk.
"Come on," he gently tugs on her elbow, "still got the rest of the house to go through."
The living room yields a bunch of matchbooks and a liquor cabinet, stocked with flavoured vodkas and expensive whiskeys. The bathroom contains far too many lotions and a mess of half filled prescriptions, and looking at them, he now knows how the previous owners left this world. So does Beth, by the reverent, thoughtful way she traces the labels, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
He's too aware of his own footsteps as he leads the way to the bedroom. Beth runs her fingers over dusty shelves, tracing over the spines of books before stilling, her head low.
"Hey," he murmurs, gesturing towards the unopened chest of drawers. Nodding, they slowly make their way over, sorting through the drawers, starting at the bottom. There are some useful clothes, some less useful, and in the small left hand top drawer, he strikes gold. Three packets of cigarettes and a handgun with a box of bullets.
Beneath that, five familiar foil squares that almost make his heart stop.
In her hands she holds a baby blue negligee, eying it curiously, before placing it back, turning her attention to his drawer. He can't shut it quick enough.
"Oh," she breathes, a blush gracing her features.
Outside the rain pours down, and he starts to rethink his opinion on the situation.
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The rain is unrelenting and by day two, he feels like a caged animal. Checks the perimeter every hour, just to get some air, some space, and comes back soaking wet.
You're going to catch a cold, Daryl Dixon, she scolds. He simply shakes his wet hair in her direction.
This is like the funeral home, redux, but it's so much different. Here, there are no stolen glances, only long, lingering looks. Here, he does not stand in the shadows while she plays, rather it's her feet in his lap as they stretch out on couch, as she taps out a little tune on the small glockenspiel she found in the attic, cheeks red from stolen sips of flavoured spirits.
There are no white trash brunches, but there is dinner by candlelight. There are no looks to be interpreted, because she knows him. Knows his intentions, just as he knows her own.
Perhaps that's why he's not surprised when she comes to him, skin smelling like vanilla, wearing that damn blue negligee. They were given the pieces, and they knew how they went together.
"Ain't no turnin' back," he warns, as she kneels on the bed, her hair down and falling in waves. She bites her lip, nodding.
"I want this, I want you."
It's hardly graceful, when he kicks off his boots and crosses the room to sit beside her. Their kiss, though not their first, feels so hesitant, so new, and the angle is all wrong to the point where they keep over-correcting and their noses bump painfully. When he pulls back, she looks almost forlorn, her cheeks red and eyes watery.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, "I know I'm not very experienced-"
"Don't matter," he interrupts, fingers grazing the curve of her jaw, "never mattered to me."
His words must reassure her, and once again, he marvels at this, how he somehow can set her at ease. That she trusts him, trusts him with her heart and her body and her life.
She offers him a sweet smile, crawling to position herself with her back against the pile of pillows. Curling her legs beneath her, she tilts her head, blue eyes blinking up at him and fuck, he didn't think it were possible to get half hard from a woman's eyes. But this is Beth Greene, ethereal, breathtaking, spellbinding. Princess, goddess, take your pick because he thinks he'd bow before her like a deity any day of the week. He'd worship at her feet; beg her for absolution, if it meant an extra month, week, day, hour, minute of her by his side. Of her sweet voice and gentle smiles and big, blue, fuck me eyes.
He stalks her like he would his prey, boxes her against the pillows, careful not to crush her under his weight, but provide enough to pin her in place. Her breath hitches when his crotch brushes against her stomach; he is so hard that it's almost painful. This time, their kiss is all passion and intensity; building like a small fire that, if unchecked, could set them both alight.
Maybe that's alright, he reasons, maybe he wants her to burn him, to brand him with her lips and her touch and her sweet little whimpers.
His fingers trail up her legs, to the hem of the small nightgown. She's wearing white cotton panties, a contradiction to the lace and ribbons. When he brushes a knuckle against her centre, he feels how wet she is, how eager, in the way she arches towards him and a high-pitched whine escapes her lips.
"Daryl," she whimpers, reaching for his belt with shaky hands, pushing his jeans down with her small, dainty feet. In her rush, she takes his underwear with him, and his cock springs free from the confines.
And suddenly, all bets are off.
As much as he wants to make it perfect, he knows it won't be. It will be rushed, and lust-driven, and over too soon. It will hurt her and he'll come hard and fast and afterwards he'll whisper apologies into her hair and she'll curl herself around him trace patterns over his chest and tell him that it doesn't matter.
We have four more condoms.
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"I love you."
Her declaration comes five nights after their first time. After his world shifted on it's axis and she became his centre of gravity.
They only stayed one more night in the small cottage, touching and kissing and exploring and that's all he needed to burn the image, the feel, of her lips and fingers trailing over the torn flesh and red scars that mar his back, that represent his past; every bit the reminder of the man he struggles not to become.
It's easier with her there. Easier to block out his past and the memories and that feeling of drowning in darkness.
(She reminds him. Reminds him in the best ways possible.)
Beth's the kind of girl that wears her wears her heart on her sleeve; has a kind word for everyone, believes in the good in humanity, sees the beauty in everything. Still, when she makes her declaration, as he skins their dinner and the sun fades behind them, he pauses in his movements, and stares at the knife in his hand.
"Beth…"
"You don't have to say it back," she smiles softly, "but I just wanted you to know. At least once, before Washington."
Washington. At this point, the country's capital is a Pandora's box, but one wherein lies the faint promise of their family. Or part of it. The ones that survived.
Survived what? The prison? Terminus? The massacre at the church? Any of the three makes his blood run cold, makes him think of fate, of destiny, of how maybe he's just a lucky son of a bitch. Because while their family was fighting the evils of Terminus, Beth was singing to him while he slept in a coffin. And while their family fortified a church, only to abandon it to the dead, he slept behind walls, with Beth's lithe frame curled around him.
Surviving with Beth's never felt like surviving. Rather, he's been living.
"I want to live with ya," he blurts out, his words awkward and rolling off his tongue like a tidal wave, "Washington, or whatever comes first. The next safe place we find, we stay."
He won't do this anymore. He won't risk her life chasing after a fantasy.
She's all he needs. All he'll ever need.
"Okay," she takes his hand, the one grasping his knife. Pressing a kiss just above his bloodied knuckles, she gives him a reassuring smile.
"The next place we find, we make it our home."
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Alexandria is all high, metal walls and a gate. To look at it from a distance, you would think it to be a fortress. Up close, it is brick and steel and wood, an amalgamation of scavenged materials soldered and nailed and cemented together. It's not pretty, but it's standing. And could stand for a very long time.
Beside him, Beth breathes sharply as they survey the sanctuary from the tree line. There are several armed guards at the gate, more scattered from perches overlooking the walls. Trenches slow the walkers down, as does barbed wire and spikes. Fern Valley didn't have these measures, operated so quietly and remotely that a daily cull was enough to keep the walker population under control.
"You wanna do this?" she whispers, and he squeezes her hand. It's never been a question, not since the funeral home, not since the cottage, not since Patty slipped that ring into his pocket.
It's enough of an answer for her, and they step from their hiding place, hands and weapons in the air. There's a commotion at the gate, and gunfire raining around them, creating a path from the woods, to the entrance. He all but carries her, never letting her fall behind.
They're out of breath when they fall through the gate, which quickly and efficiently closes behind them. Someone gives them some water; another person asks if they had been bit. They get rushed into a house, where there are more questions and more water and a doctor, who checks their cuts and bruises and gives them the all clear.
"Names?"
"Daryl Dixon," Beth answers quickly, speaking for the both of them, "and Beth Dixon."
His heart stops.
"Relation?" the man spares them a quick glance.
"We're married," she replies, smiling at him reassuringly.
The man recites the safe zone rules, talks about a strict no weapons policy, how they'll be put in temporary housing and will be assigned something permanent in the morning. How they'll be assessed based on their skills and experiences and placed in suitable roles. Talks about the medical facilities and leisure activities and how they're already planning on extending the walls. Talks about a lot of things that Daryl only half hears because Beth has now pronounced themselves husband and wife and he only wishes he could have done it properly.
"I'm sorry," she apologises as soon as the man leaves, "I didn't want it to be a repeat of Fern Valley.
Of course. Fern Valley. How he was bound and tied and they all assumed the worst.
"That ain't the issue," he says gruffly, "just wasn't how I wanted to do it."
Fumbling for the ring, he bends to his knee.
"Oh my god," she breathes, "oh my god, Daryl."
"I ain't never had much," he murmurs, "before the turn or after. But I can keep you safe, that's a promise. And I'll do everythin' that I can to make you happy. I'll do anything you want me to do."
"Yes," she whispers, "yes, yes, yes."
Patty's ring fits perfectly on her finger; her small, delicate hand clasped in his large, dirty one. It's perfect. The whole thing is perfect.
And then Maggie comes barrelling into the room.
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THREE
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Maggie is screaming and crying and she throws herself at her sister, knocking her into the nearby table.
"Beth," she sobs, "oh my god, Bethy, you're alive!"
Amidst the chaos of their reunion, he finds himself still kneeling on the ground.
"Daryl?"
He turns his head to see Rick, standing in the doorway, his son by his side and daughter on his hip. Behind him he can make out other figures, but the chaos of Maggie's initial arrival has frozen, as she has suddenly realised, along with Rick, the tears in Beth's eyes and his position on the floor.
"Are we interrupting something?"
"Yeah," Beth pushes away from Maggie, "yeah you are."
And she hurls herself into his arms, jumping up to wrap her legs around his waist. He catches her easily, holds her as if she weighs nothing, pressing his forehead to hers. She's giggling, tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, positively beaming. He's done this. He's led her back to their family, kept her safe, kept her alive. Kept her loved. Kept her good.
"I love you," she breathes, pressing a kiss to his lips, chaste and quick. Then another, each punctuated by a quick I love you. Over and over again until he slips one hand up to rest on the back of her neck, keeping her in place and deepening the kiss until she's breathless.
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Hours later, and Beth is still wrapped up in her sister.
He doesn't blame Maggie; even though he still carries some of that resentment for the way she counted Beth out so easily, even when Beth may have absolved her of all her sins. Thinks maybe he'll always carry that, always remember the way her face lit up and subsequently fell upon seeing her sister's message to her husband.
Just another dead girl.
The thought makes his blood boil.
"Never expected this," Rick joins him outside, sans beard, offering him a beer. A genuine, honest to goodness beer, because this is the type of place Alexandria is. Not like Fern Valley, where you survived off the land, here there's scavenging parties hitting warehouses and distribution centres and bringing a back hauls that would make his head spin.
Just his luck that the first thing Glenn pressed into his hands after his rib crushing embrace was a pack of cigarettes. And he could rest easy knowing he didn't have to make this packet last.
"Nope," Daryl agrees, exhaling slowly. Debates on whether or not to tell Rick the truth; that he'd given up a long time ago on ever finding them. But the glint in Rick's eyes tells him that he already knows. And that maybe there was a part of Rick that had given up on him. He offers a cigarette to Rick, who accepts it with a slight nod.
"It's a good day," Rick shrugs, "plus, there's worse things that will kill you."
"Ain't wrong," he nods, smirking.
"Better day for some, though," Rick grins, "congratulations, brother."
He thinks it's fitting, really, that his proposal is overshadowed by the reunion with their family. Not that he's complaining, not when her smile is something he lives for, not when he's never seen her look so whole as she does when she has Lil' Ass Kicker in her arms. Doesn't matter that he hasn't touched her in hours, doesn't matter that he hasn't gotten a chance to see how perfect Patty's ring looks on her finger.
None of it matters. Nothing except this.
"Thanks," he murmurs quietly. Inside, Beth's laughter rings clear above the others, and when he lights another cigarette, he feels whole.
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In the end, she stays with Maggie and he stays with Rick. It is late when the small party breaks up, and when Maggie ushers her out of Rick's house and into the one she shares with Glenn, Sasha, Tyreese, and four new folk, they're both too exhausted to put up a fight.
A part of him thinks Maggie might have forgotten what she witnessed earlier. Or might be overlooking it, at least.
Rick offers him the couch, even when he protests, arguments about temporary housing ignored completely. It's oddly homey, Rick's place, which he blames on Michonne, who, surprisingly, has taken residence there as well.
(Though maybe it's not surprising. Things change on the road. Life goes on.)
There's no watch rotation. Guards work shifts on the fences, but they're further enough away to not hear the moans of walkers in the night. The quiet is unsettling, and Rick lends him a crowbar, because he knows.
(Apparently those first few weeks aren't easy for anyone.)
He tosses and turns, even though he's sleep deprived and wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for days. But it's impossible without her by his side, without him knowing that she's alive and safe, even though she is.
He needs her. Needs her in his arms. Needs her like man needs air. Needs her so fucking much.
There's a tapping on the downstairs window, and when the doorknob rattles, he's quick to draw his make shift weapon. Whoever slips through the door does so silently, and he's about to strike until a soft, familiar voice interrupts him.
"Daryl?"
"Beth?" he whispers, and she closes the door softly behind her, bounding over to him and throwing herself into his arms.
"I missed you so much," she murmurs, squeezing him tight around the waist, burying her head into his chest. His arms come up automatically around her, moving so she's pressed against the couch and his chest, cocooning her and shielding her at the same time.
"Missed you too, girl," he says softly, dropping a kiss into her hair.
"Couldn't sleep without you," she admits, "don't think I'll ever be able to sleep without you."
"Don't think I'd ever want to," he reaches for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. The ring is a sharp contrast compared to the soft skin of her hands and he presses a kiss above the band.
"It fits perfectly," she breathes, and he hums, tracing it with his thumb.
"It was Patty's," he admits, "slipped it in my pocket when we were leavin'."
"It's beautiful," she presses a kiss to his lips, smiling against his mouth as his hands find their way under her shirt, grasping her waist, "sometimes I think about Patty and James. Patty reminded me of my mama."
"James would have hated this place," he notes with a smirk. She giggles into his chest and god, this feels like home.
It doesn't take him long to drift to sleep. And when he wakes, he wakes to the smell of brewing coffee and cooking eggs and Judith's sweet laughter.
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"You kept her alive," Deanna comments, head tilted, looking at him carefully, "that's no small feat."
"Kept herself alive," he shrugs and she raises an eyebrow.
"Not alone though."
"No one makes it alone," he mutters, pacing the small room.
"You and your wife did," Deanna notes, "how long have you been married?"
The lie or the truth?
"What's it matter?" Daryl says roughly, "you gonna say we can't?"
He doesn't like this, the way the woman studies him, feels like her gaze is crawling under her skin. It was so easy when it was them, on the road, and this place, all white houses and mahogany furniture and even Fern Valley never felt like this, like a place trying so desperately to grasp tight to the threads of society as they once knew it.
James knew that the old ways were the only ways, and that a man should meet a barrel of his gun before he met those inside the walls.
Deanna nods, standing and making her way to the door.
"Beth, can you come in here, please?"
She's all sunshine and pretty dresses and new boots and his eyes never leave her as she takes a seat opposite Deanna, folding her hands primly and crossing her feet at her ankles.
"Beth told me about Fern Valley," she tells him casually, "told me how their leader married you and his wife gave you the ring. It's quite the fairytale. And then you travelled across the country in search of your family, only to stumble onto Alexandria."
"If that's what my wife said happened," Daryl shrugs, "her memory is better than mine."
There's a mirror behind the woman and he's suddenly aware of how they look. Beth, small and delicate, fitting in in all the right ways and him, looming over her shoulder, poised to attack, to defend, to step in if need be.
A princess and her knight, a voice echoes in his mind, sounding in that moment almost like his mother's and fuck, what kind of world is this, where a girl like Beth Greene chooses a Dixon to be her knight in shining armour?
This kind of world, a voice more familiar, a voice more like his own shouts. The same world that has him standing before an ex-politician, while his pretty, young, wife stares her down, face full of defiance.
"Well then," Deanna gives them a slight smile, "welcome to Alexandria."
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He is constantly on edge.
His tension eases somewhat, when Rick gives him the attic space in the house, and Beth soon after moves in with him. Maggie doesn't protest, seems to have come to terms with the situation on her own, but he imagines that Glenn may have played his part. There's no distance, no resentment between the two sisters, Beth tells him, in their bedroom in the dark. Maggie and her are closer than they'd ever been. We're both married women, she giggles, beneath the covers, ain't that something?
Yeah, it's something. The Greene girls against the world: walking through hell and finding each other on the other side.
He's still coming to terms with his new role, not unlike that of his old one, but on a larger, official scale. For the most part, she looks after Judith, something he's ecstatic about, but bothers her. Fiddles with her knife and explains to Rick, to Deanna, that she's useful, that she's strong. That she can hunt and track and shoot a bow and surely there's a more important way she can contribute.
To Rick, there is no job more important than Judith.
He has her there, because there's no way in the world that Beth would disagree with that.
He does take her out beyond the walls a few times a week. Hunting, tracking, knife practice, bow practice. Makes sure her instincts are still sharp, makes sure she can still kill walkers without breaking a sweat. As much as he wants her safe, he wants her prepared. Wants her ready for anything.
He takes a shower when he returns from hunting. Drops some of the game next-door, takes the rest back to his place, where Carol graces him with a genuine smile, telling him playfully to take a shower.
His hands are bloody and he imagines Beth how he left her that morning, clad in a pretty, yellow sundress, Judith on her hip, pressing a kiss to his jaw. He doesn't want to bring that near her.
She must know, when he enters the bathroom and finds a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt stacked neatly on the counter.
"Sending me hints now, woman?" he asks as he enters their room, boots in hand.
"Hmm," Beth glances up at him. She's stretched out on her stomach, feet swinging in the air, book propped up in front of her. Taking in his appearance, she flashes him a smile and shrugs playfully, "worked, didn't it?"
"Evil," he shakes his head, stretching out on his back beside her, arms under his head, "what ya' readin'?"
"Fairytales," she replies, placing the book to the side, "looking for something to read to Judith, but these are darker than I remember. Probably best not to fill her head with those kinds of stories anyway."
"You never believed in fairytales?"
She giggles, wiggling over to prop her chin up on his chest, looking into his eyes.
"Nope," she pops the p, "do you, Daryl Dixon?"
Never. Growing up the way he did, he never spared more than a thought to fairy godmothers or beanstalks. In his world, the wolves never disguised themselves. In his world you had to become the wolf.
Of course she didn't believe in fairytales.
Why would you believe in fairytales when your life was one?
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He gets her a dog.
Well, that's a lie.
He's hunting one day, checking snares, when out of the brush bounds a Labrador, coat mattered with dirt, a rabbit in its mouth.
Daryl would bet his crossbow that the dog took it straight from one of his snares.
He eyes the dog, who, in turn stares at him. Trotting forward, he drops the rabbit at his feet and sits, tongue wagging.
"Thanks," Daryl mutters, feeling a bit ridiculous, but still, he adds the rabbit to the rope, slinging it back over his shoulder. He continues along the trail, and behind him, the dog follows too.
"Nah, boy," he snaps, "get."
With every step he takes, the dog takes another. He stops, turning around, taking a few steps backwards, and keeping his eye on the dog. He stands still, panting, and once Daryl's put a bit of distance between them, he turns, continuing on his way.
The dog bounds over to his side.
"Guess I got no choice in the matter, huh?"
The dog simply wags his tail in agreement.
It's not a waste, he ends up bagging a deer and the dog proves adept at tracking. Quiet too, around the game, but alerts him with a low growl when a few stray walkers approach.
Back at Alexandria, he cleans the deer, tosses the dog the liver, delivering the clean carcass to the barbeque pit. Finds a hose and gives the dog a bath, who spends most of it trying to drink the hose water.
"Damn mutt," he scowls, when the animal shakes himself dry, spraying Daryl with water and soaking him in the process.
"Daryl!" Beth rounds the corner, eyes wide, a bright smile gracing her features. "Carl said you had a dog!"
"Nah," he shakes his head, "but you do."
Her expression goes from confused to surprised to elated, in the span of a few seconds and he barely has time to anchor himself until she's throwing herself into her arms, and kissing him breathless.
"Daryl," she breathes, eyes alight, "you got me a dog."
As he watches his wife embrace the wet animal, giggling as it licks her face, he wonders if maybe he's wrong, if maybe he's the one living a fairytale, and this, this moment, this place, this woman, is his happy ending.
If this is everything he's ever wished for come true.
Darkness lingers, but she helps him to see the light, day after day after day. And together, they move on.
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NOTE: Beth sings Sweet Old World by Emmylou Harris. Thank you for reading. xx