First off, a huge thank you to everyone who bookmarked, left reviews, followed, favourited, just read it and thought "meh" or "fabulous", you guys have all been great and if I could give each one of you, your own personal Daryl Dixon or Beth Greene I would. Unfortunately, if I were to find either of them I'd have to keep them. Oh yes, also I don't own them.
This chapter is a little slower but when I was writing it I realised I really needed to position Beth in this story, instead of just having her there. This was my attempt at that.
Then my apologies if you guys received alerts twice. There was a gremlin when I posted this chapter (the gremlin was most likely me being technologically ignorant but I am going with nasty ass gremlin for now).
This also has a soundtrack. Once again, it won't really add or take away from anything but it's nice to have.
Thanks for reading and once again, any errors, let me know and I'll fix 'em.
Soundtrack:
This night - Black Lab
Stay - David Gahan
Bury me deep inside your heart - HIM
She wakes up to the sound of light rain, nothing more than a miserable drizzle - the type of rain that soaks you slowly, insidiously. Not real rain then, but just wet enough to piss you off. Outside the air is hazy, the colour of overcooked meat, grey and dull and, with a start, she realises it's already dawn, a full 24 hours since she found that little car abandoned on the tracks, longer since she killed two men in cold blood. Longer still since others fell under the steel of her blade.
She shakes the thought away.
Daryl's asleep, arm tight over her, rough hand gripping her waist, flush with her skin. She pulls the blanket higher over him, happy to see that he hasn't moved, isn't sitting up, crossbow on his legs aiming at the door. It makes her sad that they've learned to sleep like that. Always alert, always ready to run, always fighting for their lives.
He moves further back into the couch, head pressing against the corner where the arm- and backrest meet. She takes the moment to study his face, the lines of stress by his eyes, the firm, hard set of his jaw, the scowl he wears even in sleep. She wants to kiss him again, feel the warmth, the wetness of his mouth, lose herself in him. Lose herself forever. Fact was he surprised her earlier when he kissed her, when her eyes fluttered closed under his clumsy embrace and she felt that searing heat rise in her chest. But then he's done nothing but surprise her since that night outside the cabin, the night that this thing - whatever it is - started burning on the ashes of his past.
It freaks her out a little that only a few short months ago she'd been so pissed that of all the people in the prison to get stuck with she'd ended up with him; emotionally stunted man-child that he was. She doesn't regret it though, not one minute of it, not one bit because she knows that without those days of sniping and snarling at each other like an old married couple, they'd never be here, not like this. Not like now.
She breathes in his scent: leather, sweat, smoke. Blood. They'll never get the stench of death out of their clothes, their heads, their lives. She doubts they even really smell most of the decay any more, it's become part of the air, part of the world. It's the one constant in this thing they call existence.
He moves against her, says something unintelligible, a rough groan, hand tightening on her, arm heavy and she allows herself a moment to relish this, to revel in his warmth, his closeness. She rests her head against him, his beating heart, his gentle breathing.
Part of her wants to go and investigate the other houses. It's obvious that this place was abandoned before everything fell apart and chances are the other homes might have more supplies. But, looking at Daryl, she doesn't want to leave him. Not yet. Oh, who is she kidding? Not ever. It's weird when you think about it, falling this hard, this fast, when you didn't even know you were falling in the first place. How was she to know? How could she have prepared? She knows the answer. She couldn't. But that's ok. She's glad. Let it happen, let it take her - them - by surprise.
She kisses his chest, the dent of his breastbone. He sighs against her, another garbled sound from his throat. She hopes the rest of his sleep has been more peaceful than this. More peaceful than hers.
She doubts it though, his sleep isn't often tranquil. They spent long enough together before for her to figure that out. He'd toss and turn, sometimes moan, often getting up before her watch was done and taking over, telling her harshly to get some shut-eye, leave him be, go dream about boys or sing or some shit. Write in that stupid-ass journal of hers. Initially she'd gone, happy to be away from the world and its horrors, happy to be away from him and his bad-tempered growls, his cruel sneers. But then everything changed.
(You don't get to treat me like crap just because you're afraid)
Well, nearly everything. Except the way he slept. Still fidgety, still distressed. When they'd found the funeral home he'd been slightly better. Only slightly, while he tried to stay awake, sitting on a froofy, white satin chair after gallantly telling her to take the bed. He shifted back and forth, moved his too-long legs this way and that, even dropped the crossbow once or twice. Eventually, when she realised neither of them would get any rest she'd gone to him, picked up the Stryker and told him to get in the bed. She'd used her no nonsense voice, the sternest one she had. And he'd gone, grumbling and cursing and bellyaching like an old man bitching at the neighbourhood kids to get off his lawn. But he'd gone. And when she climbed in next to him, propped up on a continental pillow, crossbow aimed at the door, he'd looked at her long and hard before rolling over to face the wall. He hadn't stayed that way long though. A few minutes and he was facing her again, reaching across the mattress to link his hand with hers. Didn't look at her as he did it, as he pulled her fingers into his, stayed focused on where their skin touched. He was matter-of-fact about it too. As if this was just the way people slept. Brush your teeth, get your jammies on, say your prayers, take Beth Greene's hand and sleep. And it hadn't been more than a minute or two before she turned to him, free hand covering their linked ones and fallen asleep too.
And then there was the next day. The day of the white dog, the day of his confessions.
The day the world proved it could still get a little darker, a little harsher.
She hasn't told him what happened. He asked before they fell asleep and she waved him away. Told him she was here now and that's all that mattered. For the moment, that's true. She'll tell him eventually, but not now. Not here, in this place where they're safe, where they've locked the demons out. She stiffens as an image of gnashing teeth flashes through her head. Gnashing teeth and blood as black as tar, barking dogs and gunshots. The panic starts to rise, a dark wave that starts in her belly and threatens to choke her from the inside out. Like it has done every night, every single goddamned night since she lost him. She gasps, squeezes her eyes shut and presses herself to him, fingers hard on his hip. His hand moves to cup her head to his chest, holding her while she trembles, while she bites her lip to stop from sobbing, until the panic ebbs and she can breathe properly. Until her muscles stop buzzing and her body goes slack. She's not sure how much he's aware of, probably not much, his breathing is regular, eyes closed, but either way she's grateful. Grateful for his closeness, his decency.
She waits, waits until she can't feel it, can't feel the sting of the past few weeks, can't hear the screams, the sound of flesh being ripped apart, bones breaking.
Waits until all she can hear is the sounds he makes, steady breaths, beating heart, the slight hitch in his throat.
When she's calm again, for now at least - she knows it won't be for long, it never is - she moves her head back to the armrest. He is asleep, oblivious to the little panic attack she's just had, oblivious to the world.
One thing at a time Beth, she tells herself, one thing at a time and you'll make it. You'll get through it if you focus on one thing, the thing you need to take the next step. It's when you start thinking too far ahead, when you let the complications overwhelm you that it all goes to shit. That it all falls apart. Focus on what you need next. It worked for you before. Be logical, be practical. Be bold.
Thirsty, she disentangles herself from him, and slips across the floor to his pack, digging through it until she finds a bottle of tepid water. It tastes old and stale but they'll have more later when the ice-cream tubs are full. If they find soap, there may even be enough for a bath or at least a wipe down. The idea of being clean is as enticing as it is foreign.
She goes to the window and looks out into the haze, the fog. There's a walker inside the gate, one they must have missed when they arrived. It's only one though, nothing to worry about. They can get rid of it later. Easy. Simple. Straightforward. One thing at a time.
Across the street, there's empty fields and weak wire fences. Abandoned farmland, now dealing with the encroaching urban sprawl. She shakes her head, no actually, that's wrong. Urban sprawl is a thing of the past, dying along with most of the people on the planet. The next step is for nature to reclaim the cities. She finds the thought oddly comforting. Maybe Mother Nature will find a way of removing the blight of walkers from her pretty face.
Then again, maybe not.
Her legs cramp as she shifts to sit on the windowsill. Sore from running, from driving, from sharing a bed that isn't even a bed. A night she wouldn't trade, not for anything. She'll go back to him soon, to his arms, his embrace, but not yet, even though she misses it, she misses it so much.
She rests her forehead against the cold, clammy glass, mildly surprised by how calm she is now. Not only after what just happened but after everything. Today, yesterday, all the days since the prison fell and all the days before that. That's not to say there isn't a part of her that wants to be hysterical, to scream, cry, throw things, freak out. Part of her longs for that release, that cathartic outpouring of rage, of fear, of elation. But she holds it together. For him, she holds it together. Like he's trying to hold it together for her. But the gnawing feeling is still there and she wonders when it will chew through her defences and she'll just end up a goopy heap of tears on the ground somewhere. She wonders if Daryl will be there to pick her up again and she finds that even the vague thought that he won't is enough to choke her up. She knows she's still high from the last two days, still overwhelmed. This feeling of peace, uneasy as it may be, isn't natural. It's the calm before the storm as her Daddy used to say. She's tried to be strong, tried not to let the insanity of the last few weeks get to her. She won't have another breakdown. She won't be that girl any more.
Absently she rubs the scar on her naked wrist. Her bracelets are gone, she had to discard them but now it feels like they were taken from her, taken even though they had no value to anyone but her. But then there's a lot of stuff people have tried to take which have no value to anyone but her. She thinks of Len, his sloppy kisses, the smell of him, the way he rubbed against her. Strangely, that doesn't make her want to cry. It makes her want to resurrect him and kill him all over again. She wonders if that's real strength, or if it's bravado.
("I wish I could just change"
"You did")
A movement catches her eye, small and blurry in the bad light. It's another walker, this one stuck in the fence across the road, flailing about like a scarecrow in a wind storm. They'll kill it later, along with the one inside. One at a time. Simple. Easy. Straightforward.
Over her shoulder Daryl sleeps, lying on his side, arms in front of his face, knees drawn up. Always defensive, always ready. Beth sighs. It wasn't meant to be like this. None of it was meant to be like this.
(That's how unbelievably stupid I am)
She longs for the prison, for her father, for Maggie, Glenn, baby Judith. They had found a kind of peace there, a solitude they won't get again. Life just doesn't give out second chances, not like that. Not any more.
You've got to look after what you have, otherwise you lose it. You lose it and you don't get it back. And yet, watching him, she knows that she has got something back. It may not be perfect, it may not be everything, but it may be the only thing she ever gets back in this nasty world they live in. It's enough. He's enough.
She takes another sip of water before screwing the cap back on the bottle and returning it to his pack. You don't leave your stuff out any more. You've got to be able to up and run at a moment's notice.
(Beth, get your shit!)
The memory kills her. How eager he was to rush into the lion's den, how automatic it was for him to want to sacrifice himself. Did he love her then, she wonders. Did he love her when he saved her? Did he love her when he risked everything for her? Or was that something he'd have done for anyone? For everyone? She doesn't know. She wants to believe it was her, but she doesn't want to lose who he is. The determination, the dedication, the devotion that makes Daryl Dixon Daryl Dixon. She wonders if he knows he loves her. If he understands what she hears when they speak. If he knows what he is actually saying to her. She thinks he does, even if he doesn't have the words.
The question is does she have the words? Is there any use for words of love in this new world? She thinks of Glenn and Maggie and decides there is. There has to be.
He shifts under the blanket and she knows he'll wake soon. She wants to be there when he does. She wants to be there for him for as long as this evil world allows them to live.
This man. This crazy, broken, beautiful, ridiculous, frightening, fucked up man.
Thing was once you got through all the bullshit, the anger, the self loathing he's remarkably easy to love.
Easy to love. She rolls that phrase over in her head. Is that was he is? What she is? She doesn't know. She's never loved before. Maybe he hasn't either.
When she was younger and boys were just starting to register on the Beth Greene radar, the pretty little Southern belle with the voice of an angel, she thought that falling in love would be like an earthquake or a tornado. She longed for the day that she'd feel the earth move, rock her world, change the course of her existence. Well, the last part is right at least. The world has changed but that has nothing to do with being in love. But when she thinks of how she feels right now, in this moment, in this abandoned house with him, she's grateful that love didn't come like a natural disaster. Loving him is soothing, even if nothing else about him is.
"Beth?" his voice is raw, low.
She turns to look at the couch. He's frowning ... confused, spooked.
"Yeah, I'm here," she says going back to his side and sitting in the curve of his body.
"Ok?" he asks.
"Yeah, just thirsty," she says. "How's your arm?"
He grimaces and rolls onto his back, "Feels like it's been hit with a tyre iron."
She smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. She's been trying not to think too much about the previous day, trying not to let the million possible scenarios of how everything could have gone down get to her too much. It's part of that irrational calm, that denial of the chewing panic. She'd given herself permission to cry earlier, when he held her like she was the only person left on earth, and that's done now. She won't be scared for the rest of her life, she won't let herself sink into despair, especially when against all odds they were together again. He's here, bruised, scarred. But he's here.
She shivers.
He opens the blanket.
"Come on," his voice is a little strained and she hesitates. Briefly, there's something in his eyes that looks like hurt. She doesn't understand it at first, it confuses her, throws her off. That quick frown, the hard line of his mouth.
She knows that look.
(Is that what you think of me?)
And then she gets it. She gets him. She knows how he feels about her. He's been obvious, hasn't tried to hide it. But he's Daryl and despite the fact that he sees things others don't, she knows that until the words are out of her mouth he won't give himself permission to even imagine his feelings are reciprocated. She forgets that he can't look into head, into her heart.
And now, he's trying to see himself through her eyes again and her hesitation is a sign, a sign of discomfort, lack of trust. Despite the kiss from earlier, the sleeping together, the openness, he still can't find it in himself to believe in her, to believe in them. Part of her wants to laugh at how wrong he is, but she's not stupid. Daryl is what the world has made him, Daryl is who he has to be to survive and somehow over time, that's eroded his self-esteem, his confidence.
Wounded, he drops the blanket.
She leans forward and touches his cheek gently with her fingertips, a silent apology. He flinches, flinches like she's hit him.
"Don't," she tells him running her hand through his dirty hair, brushing it away from his eyes, letting her fingers trail across his forehead, tracing around an ugly bruise left by one of those assholes he was running with. Running with while he waited for her, running with to fill the loneliness. She wonders if he thought about her while she was gone. If she was in his head and heart when he laid down to sleep at night? When he was surrounded by those yahoos who thought he was like them. Or did he push her away? Pretend she didn't exist and make himself numb enough to follow the only people he could find?
He breaks her heart. He always has. Even before. He's like a beaten dog. Eager to please, eager to love, but so quick to fall back into bad habits, so eager to go to the first person who offers him a bone and bite anyone who'd give him something better.
"I'm glad I'm here," she says.
He swallows and he covers her hand with his, stops her stroking his hair.
"With you," she adds. Just to be sure. Just so he can be sure.
She holds his gaze, doesn't shy away, doesn't let him shy away. His thumb brushes against the hollow of her wrist.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a gruff rumble of understanding and surprise.
(Oh)
It's another of those moments, those moments they've become so good at. Those moments that last forever and ever and ever. And she can't, just can't any more. So she doesn't. Doesn't wait, doesn't think, doesn't stop and kisses him again, letting her tongue brush across his closed lips. He jerks, fingers flexing at his sides.
She sits back looking at him.
"Beth," his voice is strangled and he's moving to sit up but she puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back into the couch.
"Stop," she whispers but she's not sure if she's asking him not to speak or not to move. "Just … stop."
He stills and she makes a decision. Maybe it's because she's looking for a way to channel the latent hysteria, an outlet, a release. Maybe it's because she doesn't know what today will bring and lost opportunities erode the soul. Maybe she's still reeling from the events of today. Maybe it's just because it's him and she's not the blushing virgin everyone thinks she is.
Yeah. Daryl Dixon. She's noticed. Beth Greene sure as hell has noticed.
She lifts the blanket and settles next to him again, into the curve of his arm, head against his shoulder. He shifts onto his side making room for her. The skin of his neck, shoulder, turns to gooseflesh under her breath and he lowers his palm to her hip, no prompting this time, no stiff fingers, no fluttering hands.
She can hear his heart, wonders briefly if he can hear hers, then stops caring as she looks up at him. At his blue eyes, the scepticism written on his face.
(You gotta put it away … here)
She runs her finger down his cheek, thumb resting on the corner of his lips. Her kiss is chaste, at first, but this time he opens his mouth to her, responding to the wet stroke of her tongue. He tastes faintly of cigarettes and a lot like blood.
He tastes like a man, not a boy, not a stolen encounter behind her Daddy's barn, not a steamy session in a cold prison cell with a soon-to-be-dead lover. A man who's lived in this world and become part of it. A man dirty, hard, tainted with the decay of it and the world before it.
Even so, him and his kisses are awkward, deliberate, wary. But he's also soft, slow, unconsciously deft of hand and mouth as his lips find their way to her neck. She wonders if he's been faking all this time, if he's more experienced than his thorniness has let on. But she doesn't think so. He's no Don Juan, no Lothario. He's just Daryl Dixon and his hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses, thrilling as they may be, show he's nervous as all fuck.
It makes her want to soothe him, tell him it's ok, that this is exactly what she wants, but under the searing heat of his mouth, she doesn't trust herself with words, doesn't think she remembers any, if she ever knew any to start off with.
She's not sure what she's doing when she puts her palm against his neck, where his skin is clammy despite the coolness of the morning, and then runs it over his shoulder, down his arm, to his knuckles where she interlaces their fingers over her hip. But it makes him lean into her, shift his attention from her neck to her clavicles and then up to her cheek.
He's eager now and she lets him press against her, feels his belly against hers, muscles toughened and moulded by a world too harsh to live in, the hardness of his cock against her thigh.
He's perfect in his own weathered way. Perfect in his tenderness. She stifles a smile at the thought. Who would have imagined that it would come to this? Her and him? The Disney princess and the redneck Robin Hood. It's like a subverted Snow White, a twisted fairytale with teeth that'll eat you up and spit out the bones if you think on it too long.
He kisses her lips again, long and deep and hard, hand sliding up between them to cup her cheek, tangle in her greasy hair. She can't remember when she last washed it but he doesn't seem to care, so she decides she doesn't either.
"Missed you," he whispers. "Missed your sass girl."
She loves him fully in that moment. The feeling comes fast, unexpectedly, a swelling in her chest as her heart seems to burst. She's told herself she doesn't cry any more about the people she loses. But looking at Daryl half hovering above her in the morning light, she knows she'll cry when she loses him again. She hopes she'll go first.
It's almost certain she will.
(You'll be the last man standing)
He kisses her again, one last time, before bowing his head to her shoulder and then drawing away to lie down again, arms tight around her. Her body feels liquid and boneless and she thinks if he lets her go she'll just fall into the floor, become one with the house, a stain on the ugly black rug that no sane person would ever have spent actual money on. She touches his hip, holds it.
There's a part of her that's disappointed. Disappointed but relieved. She'd gone into this hoping for more, visions of sweaty, dirty sex clouding her brain but now she feels no reason to press any further, no reason to rush. They're safe, he's safe. It might be the end of the world but this? This is the start of something wonderful, the start of something good and pure and perfect and she's not going to push that, not going to push him.
One thing at a time.
They have all the time this no good world is prepared to give them.