Author's Note: I've had this running around in my head for a long time. Probably going to be more than a one-shot, because these two are just my favorites. Please read and review! (This doesn't mean I'm necessarily done with Trails, but I just had to see what y'all thought of this one!)
"You know you ain't going to be able to wear that while we hunt."
They are scavenging. Or, well, he's scavenging. She's running her fingers over old photos, plinking piano keys, and shuffling through closets. It's funny how differently they see the same thing. He sees survival and safety, and she sees fragments of a life ended too soon.
"I know, too bright right? But I need somethin' warm and it's been so long since I've owned anything this comfortable."
She's holding an overly large sweatshirt, running her fingers over the soft cotton fabric. It's a jarring red – a color he's never seen her wear – but she's holding it up to herself in the mirror like it already belongs to her.
"Fine", he says, unable to deny her much of anything these days. "But you're the one carrying it."
She makes a little face, scrunching her nose in his direction. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she murmurs, brushing her way past him as she continues exploring the house. He follows her up the stairs, eyes guiltily drawn to the curve of her ass and arm tingling from where she touched him.
They decide to stay in the house for the night, both too tired to turn down a real bed and miraculously running water. Daryl is terrified of traps these days, but this house isn't close to picturesque and he's checked every door and window twice. He settles in uneasily, and lets Beth take the first shower. He can hear her squeal when the water comes out freezing, and he can't help but chuckle. Only Beth Greene would still be surprised by that.
He makes a conscious effort to ignore the sound of running water and decides what he really needs is a good book. Preferably one with simple language. No winding metaphors about soft skin or pale legs or golden hair. He hears enough of that in his own idiotic brain. He peruses the small bookshelf eagerly, creating a mantra in his head of the worn titles to block out the sound of her soft singing. "This'll do," he thinks, snatching one off the shelf as Beth dives into a particularly interesting song about love.
Daryl's pretty immersed in his book when he hears laughter from the bottom of the stairs. His eyes snap up, and almost immediately dart back down again.
"Hemingway, huh?" Beth laughs, walking over to the couch opposite him and sinking down. "It makes sense you would pick him – all masculine and short with his words. Y'all have some things in common." She's smirking at him, tucking her long legs underneath her.
Her bare long legs.
He thinks he might be smirking back at her, but he's not really sure. All he can think about are her thighs and calves and the sharp curve of her ankle bone. All he can see is the slope of her shoulder, peeking out from her too-big bright red sweatshirt. Her hair is wet, sticking to the side of her neck and Hemingway is completely forgotten in his lap.
He's shocked out of his stupor when he hears a low growl. Immediately his eyes are searching for the source of the noise, and he's a little concerned that Beth doesn't seem the least bit afraid. Instead, her eyes seem darker and there's a blush climbing up the fair skin of her neck. And she's staring right at him.
It clicks immediately, and Daryl can feel his own blush burning his cheeks.
"Oh," he thinks, dazed and more than a bit mortified. "That was me."
...
It's strange - the fairy tales always paint Little Red Riding Hood as entirely innocent. They never think of just how hard things are for the Big Bad Wolf. So hungry and desperate, longing for just a single taste. And here's Little Red, skipping her way right through his forest, too tempting to ignore. Maybe, in a more twisted version of the story, Little Red walks through the fading forest with more purpose than anticipated. Maybe she wouldn't mind being devoured.