She holds an arrow to his neck with trembling fingers, tries to remember the times she'd helped her father treat people – impromptu lessons on human anatomy. She wishes she had something more substantial, like the knife Michonne had given her. Michonne... Her resolve threatens to crack when she thinks about the older woman. It happened too fast, too quickly, too unexpectedly. Both of them let their guards down – even the ever-vigilant swordswoman – and for what? A glimpse of peace in this chaotic world? A chance to live instead of merely surviving? Both of them were caught completely unaware and then that person...
She shakes her head, chastises herself for being sidetracked, tightens her grip on the shaft of the arrow. If there was one thing Michonne had managed to teach her, it was how to be resourceful, to work with what you're given in the circumstances and just pray your hardest that you'd make it through. Right now, what she has is an arrow, carefully pilfered from the hunter's sheath while he was too busy snarling at the man who had come crashing through the bushes.
The two men seemed to be in a group together, the trade of insults sounding awfully familiar and routinary. She didn't like it, especially with the way the man - Len, he was apparently called - took one look at them and assumed the worst. She hated it even more – the way he raked his eyes across her body like one of those sleazy, perverted guys who hung around in back alleys outside their high school. It made her skin crawl and her stomach churn and she found herself almost grateful for the rough way the hunter, the man who had her pinned to the ground just seconds ago, had shoved her behind him, taking her out of the other man's line of sight. Dixon, Len had called him, and apparently he had Claimed her. She'd frozen at that, thoughts of exactly what that may have entailed making her blood run cold and she'd tried desperately not to think of Michonne, not to think of anything really, to focus on the most pressing concern at the moment.
"I'm sorry," she says softly, her breath stirring some of the strands of hair at the hunter's nape, hoping she doesn't sound as scared as she is feeling, hoping he doesn't notice the way her heart thumps loudly against her chest. "Please don't make me hurt you, Mister Dixon. All I need is just for you to promise not to tell anybody you've seen me and walk away."
She feels him tense against her for a moment and she can't help but feel a bit of triumph at having caught him by surprise but then he's laughing and it's the most genuine, human sound she's heard in a while.
"What's so funny?" she finds herself asking, in spite of herself, honestly curious as to what could have caused the man who was just moments ago ready to take another man's head off this much amusement.
"I have to hand it to you, girl," he says in between his chuckles. "Can't say I've ever had anybody call me something like 'Mr. Dixon' before, especially not someone threatening to slit my throat."
She swallows hard, tries not to let the way he so nonchalantly dismissed her as a threat get to her. "Put down your bow, please."
Surprisingly, the older man complies, tossing his bow to the ground and letting his arms fall to his sides.
"Alright, there. Now why don't you put that pointy thing away and let's talk."
She pauses, "How do I know I can trust you?"
He groans then, going from mild amusement to the beginnings of frustration in a heartbeat. "Damn it, girl! If you only knew what hell I've saved you from, you'd better be-"
"I know!" she interrupts, feeling the emotion she's been trying to suppress rise up and threaten to choke her. "I know all too well what your kind does. I know how people hurt other people – it's happened before – and I'm never going to make the same stupid mistake of trusting anybody in this world ever again."
She feels him tense for a moment but nothing could have prepared her for when he spins around and pins her against the nearest tree, nicking the side of his neck in the process. She watches, mesmerized by the trickle of blood from the shallow wound.
The man doesn't seem to notice it nor her morbid fascination at the fact that she has just drawn a breathing, living person's blood.
"So it's my kind now, huh?" he seethes. "My kind? I have half the mind to drag you all the way to camp and let the bastards have at you, if this is all the thanks I get for putting my neck on the line."
She meets his eyes then - gray and green and brown in turn - and is floored by the intensity of the emotions she finds there. She doesn't understand, wants to think that he has no right to be angry, but there's something so raw, so honest with what she finds in his eyes that makes her want to try and trust him. She doesn't understand him - this rough, ill-mannered stranger who not just moments ago was having a laugh at her expense; this man who had apparently saved her from rushing headlong into a much bigger mess than what she was running from; this man who is now looking at her with a kind of hurt that pierces through the haze of fear she finds herself in. Her father had always said that instincts made a good judge of character and right now, her instincts are telling her that this man is different – different from Len and that person and all others she'd ever met before. She swallows audibly at that, her mouth feeling dry all of a sudden, her throat constricted.
"What do you want from me then, Mr. Dixon?" she tries to say it bravely but it comes out as an almost breathless whisper.
She watches as he takes a step back, closes his eyes, tries to get his breathing under control. She stares, transfixed, as he takes deep, calming breaths, still seemingly oblivious to the wound she had inflicted on him. She holds her breath until he opens his eyes once again and finds that they are clear and openly taking her appearance in, as though seeing her for the first time.
He sighs.
"Are you travelling with anyone?" he asks neutrally, almost diplomatically.
She stalls for a bit, wonders what lies she has to say that someone like him would believe. Coming up short, she settles for a version of the truth instead. "Yes – a woman. We got separated from our group when the prison we were living in was overrun."
The man cocks a curious brow at the word 'prison' but focuses on his original question.
"And this... woman - is she out looking for you?"
She bites her lip to keep it from trembling. "No. She's gone. He killed her." And she forces herself to stop at that. For even if her instincts were telling her to trust this man, she couldn't afford to give him something to use against her.
"And is it him you're running from – the man who killed your friend?"
She glances at him. "No," she lies against her teeth. "I was running from a forest fire and a herd of walkers. That man – he's dead."
He gives her a calculating look but doesn't press the issue, turns to pick up his crossbow and what appears to be a hunting bag. She watches his movements curiously, couldn't believe what they could possibly mean. This man, she had told him so much and yet now...
"So you're letting me go?" she asks, incredulously.
He looks back at her, shrugs. "Ain't no business of mine, you running around telling those lies, pretending you've killed people." And then, without warning, he approaches her, unsheathes a knife she hadn't noticed from his hip and places it in her hand. "Just steer clear of this area – around ten miles out is the main road. Try to stay alive as long as you can. It would be quite tough to do alone but..."
"Is that why you're with those people?" she asks spontaneously. "You seem to be a good hunter. You don't need them to survive."
And by the way he jerks back and doesn't meet her eyes, she suddenly understands.
"You don't know nothing," he growls weakly at her, defensively.
"But I do," she insists. "You are a good person," says it with so much conviction. It startles the both of them when she takes one of his hands in hers and says, "My name's Beth, Beth Greene. Come with me, Mr. Dixon."
He looks disbelievingly at her and she's sure that if he expected anything to come out of this, this wasn't it.
"Daryl," he says after a long pause, squeezing her hand.