Note: For Day One of Tumblr's Bethyl Week: Secret

Black Bar Shadows

The frigid air of the night slides inside through the cracks in the concrete walls of their home, as Daryl hovers anxiously back against the back of his bed and waits.

The mattress, if he can even call this flimsy shit that, is uncomfortable; the old metal springs sticking out and around in each and every jagged direction and diggin' painfully into the length of his back. It should be worse on him, but he's used to his back aching and all the cells' bunks feel the same on it, anyway- he's checked. Sometimes while he's laying there he thinks back to his tent back at the farm, before it fell in hell fire. He'd had a little cot all his own, then, the kind medical units set up in high-school gyms during the middle of a natural disasters and that. It had been good enough for him, at the time, even shot all up, like he was. His cell's cot's not surprisingly a big step down from that, seein' as it was intended to seat people like his brother and the state didn't care much for them. But, the rickety metal frame that squeaks with every harsh movement, is still better than a lot of the shit holes he's parked his ass on, during his lifetime. At least his cell, here in the prison, has a mattress and four walls surrounding him, which is, admittedly, an improvement from some of the things he's experienced in the past.

He looks through his privacy curtain (it's got a few small tears in it and it's too lightweight to really give him any privacy), towards the front wall, where all the windows are. It's black out, which is the lighting he's aiming for, and the moonlight casts down around them; black bar shadows slicin' through the visual. He can still hear Maggie's voice, though, coming out in careful whispers from her and Glenn's cell. And if he strains his attention, he can hear Hershel muttering verses quietly under his breath. So, he doesn't move, yet, and doesn't let himself think about how the ol' son'a bitch would look at him, if he knew.

It's gettin' colder out, as their days drag on. They're closer to winter, now, than they are to Georgia's heated summer. The skies are turning from the bright blues and blues, to the muted blues and greys and whites. It's familiar in a specific way that Daryl ain't really used to dealing with, yet. He feels the weight of the responsibility of the change in weather, though. Feels it sinking heavily in his shoulders; the stress of it all grinding into the fibers of his skin. And there's only one way, that he's been able to find, to get rid of the ache that only seems to go away whenever he's made contact with some part of his body. Any part.

While he waits, Daryl's mind races with all the things they gotta get done, before the browning leaves fully fall, snow sets in, and their runs become an impossible sort-of event. He knows that the fences need fortifying, because they always need fortifying. All the weak spots need'ta be stabilized, as best they can be, to combat the ice that'll eventually hug the wire. He needs to ask for volunteers to head outside those links to chop at the trees, for braces, just in case the walkers manage to pile up alongside the snow and cause a mess'a shit. They also need to head out to as many houses and stores as they can, to stock up on supplies; coats, blankets, food, guns, ammo.

Maybe some toys for the kids, 'cause they'll be spendin' so much time indoors in the coming months. Beth was the one that brought it to his attention, actually. He'd always given Lil' Asskicker's toy situation thought [even though she found more enjoyment in banging everyday objects together, instead of playin' with all the dolls and shit he brought back], but not much to the other kids. There was something 'bout the hopeful glint hovering underneath the plains of Beth's face, when she'd backed him into a corner of the front lounge and asked about it, that made Daryl wonder just how close an eye she was keepin' on that damn calender he picked up on a run, for her. Made him wonder if she was gonna manage to convince him start rifling through moldy old cardboard boxes with "Christmas" marked out on the side in permanent marker, to find ribbon and string, whenever he and Glenn managed to head out.

Made him wonder how she'd convince him to keep a watch out for wrapping paper and other frilly things he ain't never needed, before.

It's the first time since the turn that they've had a proper place to sleep during the winter, though, so Daryl's grateful for that change. Good'ta have a solid roof overhead and some space to themselves. Good to not be hunkerin' down in some shoddy shack with weak foundation, with the wind whipping through in a way far more drastic than these small cracks. But, it still don't ease any of his worries and hesitations 'bout how they'll fair when the food starts wearing thin and the game settles, in holes and other hiding places, away from his bow. He's responsible for these people in a way he ain't never thought he'd experience. He's responsible for the new ones who'd just been found shiverin' out in the middle of the hell, outside. He's responsible for the bus of petrified people he, Rick, and Michonne had shuffled over from Woodbury; lot's'a old folk and lil'uns that don't have much back bone, whether that's from too lil' experience with the world, or too much.

He's responsible for the people that he always plans to put before even himself; responsible for his family. Keepin' them warm and safe and fed, even if he has to bleed a brutal wound to get it done.

Greene's always tellin' him that he's responsible for himself, too. That it's wonderful how much he cares 'bout it all, but it's not all on him. She leans forward and raises a hand to clutch carefully at the side of his face, as if she thinks he's gonna spin on his heels and run away from her at any second. He'd scoff and bite at her for the assumption, if he didn't know she might be right 'bout that; that the small batch of guilt that won't seem to go away, sometimes slithers down to wrap 'round his throat and his feet itch to move in the opposite direction of those eyes. She leans forward, brushes the side of his face, and tells him that all of 'em got their strengths and all of 'em got something to hold over, as their jobs to keep their small island afloat.

She tells him that he's allowed to take a break.

To relax for just a moment and stop bitchin' over every lil' thing he can't control.

Daryl sighs out carefully into the night and focuses back on the things he wants to, instead of needs. All the sounds in their block died out, sometime during the frazzle of his thoughts. Maggie's voice and Glenn's tired responses have faded away and the small light of the candle in Hershel's cell, that he'd been using to hunch over his bible, had stopped lighting up the row of cells. It's quiet and dark and just what Daryl's been waiting for, since he finally got away from the questioning of their community and set his bow down for the night.

With a skill of silence, Daryl carefully raises up from his position, in bed. He's mindful of the way his mattress dips and the frame squeaks, as he pulls himself up and off, and crosses the small floor distance to walk through his billowing curtain. It's a black night, but Daryl still makes sure to give a courtesy glance in all directions. If there's one thing he don't need, it's anyone following him out of their block and through the halls. They've been living in the prison long enough for Daryl to know all the tells on the stairwell, so he casually makes his way down from the second level, where his room is directly above her's, to the ground floor.

Beth's room, the only cell in all of C Block really worthy of the word, is dark and her thick patterned curtain is closed tight. Judith sleeps in Rick's cell every night, so he ain't too worried about his friend going to drop Lil' Asskicker off only to find her room empty.

Instead, Daryl slinks through the back gate that leads into the tombs and starts the long trek through the halls, from C Block. The sound of his boots hit softly against the floor and the echo seems more grand than it is. He'd been paranoid the first few times he came through that, even with his certain lightness of foot, each soul contact with the ground was thundering evidence of his betrayal to the eldest Greene- that it would shake the very foundation of this building and Hershel would spring awake and just know what Daryl was doing to his youngest daughter.

It hadn't happened those first few times, though, and Hershel never did look at him any differently the next morning.

Daryl turns one last left and reaches out an arm to grab blindly at the door handle. He can hear the water spraying outta the shower head, already, and the muscles in his shoulders twitch knowingly at the relief he'll finally have, just by being near her; the small moment of relaxation and peace that she so effortlessly seems to give him. He's careful, as he walks in, to make just the right amount of noise, as to not scare her. He's loud enough that she knows he's there and quiet enough that he gets a moment to just watch. He gets a moment to just watch as the water falls over the top of her head, darkening her blonde hair, and glides down the span of wet skin, to the drains, below. Daryl ain't got no fucking clue how any of this happened- how Beth Greene, someone so kind and soft and sweet and so fucking far outta his league that he's sure Merle's jaw has dropped from beyond the grave, took anything of a look at him and felt a desire'ta feel his marred skin against her own. Didn't make no sense to him, really. And it probably wouldn't make no sense to anyone else if they got told about it, one day, whenever that came. Daryl felt like a damn fool, sometimes, when the sun was up and people were walking about.

But, she'd smile over at him, just as she's doing now and he'd feel better 'bout it.

"Hey," her voice whispers out, even though they're far enough away from any of the blocks to be able to speak at a normal volume, and leans her head back to get out of the falling water. "Thought you might've passed out, from exhaustion."

Daryl watches small hands reach up to grab at the bottom strands of her hair and twist, squeezing some of the moisture out. The shower block is just as dark as their row, but there's windows here, as well. The moonlight shines through just enough for the blue, the muted blues and the greys and the whites, of Beth's eyes to pierce out brightly through the night.

"Nah," Daryl hums back and kicks carefully at the backs of his heels to knock his boots of his feet. He don't want them to fly too far or he won't be able to find 'em 'til morning. He starts on his shirt, next, popping out each button individually, while Beth clasps her hands together underneath her chin and lets her smile soften out, while she watches him. The first time she'd pulled him to her, Daryl thought she'd gasp out at the marks covering his back, or maybe hum a sad thought that he wouldn't know if it made him feel better or worse about bein' that exposed in front of her. But, she didn't do none of that. Nah, all Beth had done was pull back for just a moment and place a softer kiss against the corner of his mouth and tilt her head in silent question. He'd responded by wrapping a hand around the back of her neck, with a shake of his head, and pulling her back to him. "Your sister never wants to go'ta sleep when we're headin' down here, for some reason," he mutters under his breath, even though he knows she'll hear it. "It's like she knows and she's fucking with me."

Beth laughs lightly under her breath and turns back to the shower pump, while he tugs at the belt of his pants. She grabs hold of the crank and gives it a few more pulls, to keep the water pressure up, "Maggie'd be more obvious about it, Daryl."

"Yeah, obvious. That's what you think."

"No, that's what I know," she speaks quietly and leans back, as Daryl finally slides under the water, behind her, his hair immediately slicking back against his ears. The first touch of her skin on him has Daryl letting his head fall, with a sigh; forehead skimming the length of her shoulder and tension seeping out of his body. He's so tired- didn't realize just how much work it was to have a huge group of people turnin' to him for answers and didn't like what it was doin' to the crick in his neck. Daryl was too damn old to be running around organizing people with knives and pointy sticks along fences, because they were too fuckin' dense to understand the basics of "point and stab". Beth just leans back into him, as he wraps his arms around the small of her waist and shuffles himself as closely to her body, as he can manage.

"One time," she tilts her head to look back at him, under wet lashes. " -there was this party bein' thrown in a abandoned barn by Randy Berkins. He was real cute." Daryl grunts in mock offense and shakes her gently. He isn't worried about no kid from, before. 'Specially no dead kid who'd meant something to her, in whatever way. Daryl often makes an subconscious point to remember that the pair of them grew up in completely different worlds. That Beth went to pre-planned high school parties in barns, with kids in skinny jeans and Letterman's jackets, and that Daryl drove down in his truck to parking lots with music blaring outta some speakers and bikes lining the asphalt, to get as trashed as possible and find something easy to bend over. They were the type of parties where girl's from the right side of the track, like Beth Greene, would'a stood out like a soar thumb, with their pretty curled hair and perfectly clean sun dresses.

Beth just grins and knocks her head against the side of his, at his small display, "He was though! Kind-a short and a little on the loud side, but he was real nice to everybody. Anyway, Randy's parents were going out'a town and that's a big deal, ya know? Because, most everyone I knew before all this worked on a farm and there wasn't a lot of reasons or time to just take random trips. But, Mr. and Mrs. Berkins found time and Randy-"

" -decided to throw a party."

"Yeah, and I-"

" -wanted to go."

Daryl feels Beth turn in her spot, so that she's standing directly in front of him, face to face. She fixes him with a pointed look and he feels his mouth quirk, through his exhausted haze. "You want to tell the story?" she looks up to catch his gaze and lifts an brow in challenge. He just shakes his head, slightly, until Beth re-starts and nods along. "It was gonna be real late at night, the party, and Daddy never wanted me out too far after dark. So, I decided the only way I was gonna be able to go was to sneak out after everyone went to sleep," Beth lifts her hands to place on Daryl's shoulders and begins to kneed them, gently. "I got up outta bed, snuck past him and Momma's room, and got down the stairs. But, when I walked through the sitting room, Maggie was lain out on the couch casually flipping through a magazine, with a smirk on her face," she presses harder against a knot. "I told her I was just getting some air, but she knew. Just started layin' it on real thick, so I knew she knew..." When her hands press against something particularly tightly wound, Daryl lets out a low groan. He's pretty sure he sounds like he's dying, 'cause Beth halts her story and her eyes dart up to take in his face, "You gotta get Glenn to take some of the work out of your hands, Daryl."

He just waves her off, though, and lifts an arm to brush the wet hair outta his eyes. "Nah, I'm good," he shrugs, once, and crouches down to skim his lips against that same spot on her shoulder, where he was resting his head. "See?" his breath glides across her skin. "I'm relaxin'."

"What you want to do is the opposite of relaxing, Mr. Dixon," she breathes as Daryl presses more fully into her, and Beth tilts her head to allow him to fit in more comfortably. There's just something about her that melts away all the bad bits for a moment; smooths out the stress. Her hands clench at his arms, as he bites carefully at her skin on her neck. While he's sure he tastes like stale cigarettes and the rabbit meat that everyone ate for dinner, that night, she tastes like lemon citrus and baby powder and... he ain't never gonna understand why she wants him to touch her.

Despite his confusion on the matter, Beth lets out a shaky sigh and runs her the flat of her hands up from his arms to grasp at the hair at the back of his neck, and Daryl lifts his head to pull her lips against his.

xxx

When he wakes up the next morning, the old metal springs inside his flimsy mattress are sticking out and around in each and every jagged direction and diggin' painfully into the length of his back. But, his mind is clear. The sun's just startin' it's crawl to the high of the sky and he can hear the other's of cell block C movin' around in their space; shuffling on pants, boots, and gun holsters. Preparing for the day.

Hershel's already sat out front, by the time Daryl pushes his way outside. He's got a book, with a worn yellow cover, clutched carefully in one hand and a spoon in the other. When he looks up to greet Daryl, his eyes are plain and honest, as they always are. He ain't looking at Daryl any different, as he never is, even though his friend's been hiding something from him. Something important.

Daryl feels like a damn fool, sometimes, when the sun's up and people are walking about. But, he hears the metal rigs of the prison door screech open, and turns to see Rick holding onto Judy, walking out alongside Beth.

Who scans the length of the courtyard, until she finds him standin' next to her Daddy.

Who looks at him.

And smiles.

And he feels better about it.

A/N: Hiyyya. Okay, so, I'm vaguely pretending that this just didn't happen, because it's not quite... yeah. See, I've been working on all of my days for Bethyl Week on tumblr and just... didn't work on Day 1? And I don't know why? And let me just say, that was a mistake, this was supposed to be flushed out more... But, I was rushing to pull something out, because I had a graphic and no fic hahaha life is wild. Well, I hope ya'll liked it, even though I feel frazzled. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last prompt, comments and whatnot are still welcome and yeaaaaaaah okily dokily.