The Color of Blood in the Moonlight
The stench of blood both human and walker hung in the room like a shroud, cloying and thick. Through the tall narrow windows a faint glow from the moon, waxed and waned as clouds scudded across its surface. It was enough light for her to see him seated on the floor against the wall, legs drawn up, his head resting on arms propped on knees. Her heart ached.
The run had gone badly. Beth knew that much. One life had been lost, multiple others had been endangered and little was gained. The same scenario had played out too many times. Without speaking she picked up clean washcloths, a towel and soap, and filled a basin with water before she approached him. She set the basin on the floor, settling on her knees in front of Daryl. Gently, she ran her fingers through his tangled, sweat matted hair then leaning forward kissed the top of his head.
Daryl raised his head to look at her, but his eyes were distant, reliving she knew, this and countless other horrors too numerous to count. His face was splattered with blood, bright red human blood and foul, rust colored walker blood. She knew the colors. But in the moon's soft blue light both looked the same, dark blotches splashed across his face like paint. Beth dipped her wash cloth into the water, and very gently began to wipe his face, checking as she did for any open wounds. He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall and submitted to her gentle ministrations. There was a time, Beth thought as a small smile touched her lips, that he would not have allowed anyone to touch him with such familiarity. But Beth had always been the exception to Daryl Dixon's rules.
As she cleansed his neck she saw the tension begin to ease from his face, replaced by simple exhaustion. She continued to remove the blood from his hands as well and when she was satisfied that she had removed every last speck, she leaned forward again and placed a kiss on his forehead. He opened his eyes
"If you need me to," she said softly, "I'll go with you when you tell Helen."
Daryl closed his eyes and sighed. "Been told already."
It had become an all too often repeated routine. If someone died on Daryl's watch, he felt personally responsible for telling those closest to the deceased. It had been that way since the prison. Beth took both his hands in hers and squeezed gently. She was here for him. She would always be here for him. He knew that. But she never failed to remind him.
She remembered the first time they had held hands, fingers curled into each other, his hands careworn, coarse and calloused from his bow. Twining her fingers into his she raised them to her lips, as if to kiss away the sorrow she could see in his eyes. She would never be able to explain why so simple a gesture warmed her to the depths of her soul.
"Remember how I told you I was tired a loosin' people?" he asked.
Beth nodded. How could she forget?
"Still tired of it," he said.
"Then you need to rest," she said. Pushing herself up to her feet, she pulled him with her. Walking around behind him, she gently removed his vest and jacket. "There's nothing else can be done tonight. Come lie down with me. We can talk about it in the morning."