*Oh my God you guys I'm so sorry for all the confusion my last update caused. After I posted Ch.4, I saw a few errors and edited them, but instead of re-uploading this bad boy here I uploaded a chapter from one of my CS fics. Confused? Yeah...so were a lot of you. So so so sorry. I'm sure a lot of you were reading the chapter like WHAT THE EFF IS THIS? Spoiler alert: I'm a spaz and these things happen. That being said here is the CORRECT chapter. Hope it makes up for any initial confusion some of you may have experienced!*
RebelGeneral on asked: prompt for silhouettes - beth tending to daryl's wounds on his back and seeing his scars. I think that would be an interesting and fascinating read, ive been dying to see how she would respond to that :) and i think he would feel so vulnerable...
I decided to make this fairly vague in terms of timeline, you as the reader can headcanon it, placing it wherever you'd like.
Disclaimer: I don't own TWD.
Review please! :)
The silence in the small dimly lit room is nearly deafening, the air heavy and thick and all too still.
Attempting to focus on her task, she carefully wrings out the wet cloth in the small bowl in front of her, the sound of trickling water breaking the tense and uncomfortable quiet. Eyes downcast and focused on the chipped and worn dish, her hands shake a little as she sucks in a deep breath and clears her throat, shifting her attention to the man sitting rigidly in front of her—his spine ramrod straight, head tilted down and breathing slightly heavy. Gaze drifting over the large bloodied gash that mars his dark and dirty skin, she pulls her lower lip into her mouth, worrying it gently between her teeth as she stares, unblinking, at his naked back, noting with a lump in her throat the scars, both old and new—smooth faded white and rough and jagged pink—that accent his most recent wound. And as her eyes roam over the sight carefully, drinking in every broken and gruesome detail, she bites a little harder on her lip, stopping only when she tastes blood, clenching her jaw together tightly as she tries to push down the jarring pang that has suddenly settled deep inside her chest.
"Just gonna sit there and stare all day?" his voice is low—a raspy and rough growl—and starting a little at the sound, she tears her eyes away from his torn and battered flesh, trying to steel herself a little as she attempts to collect her jumbled and scattered bearings.
She won't cry.
Not now.
Not in front of him.
Not for him.
He'd never forgive her for it.
"Might sting a little." she whispers the words in a soft apologetic tone, and his answering grunt followed by a swift shrug of his shoulders—tight muscles rippling with the small movement—does nothing to soothe her frazzled and frenzied nerves.
Reaching out tentatively, she wipes the wet rag over the bleeding wound once, wincing a little at the way he stiffens with the touch—a quiet curse hanging in the air between them at the barely there stroke. Pausing, rag hovering over his skin, she hesitates for a moment, swallowing over her suddenly narrowed throat as she freezes, terrified of hurting him any further—the map of his pain laid out before her nearly unbearable, even as she silently acknowledges that the dirtied cut needs to be cleaned and dressed, reminding herself that now is not the time to be weak.
A panicked voice in her head whispers she's not strong enough for this.
A calmer, somewhat louder one assures her that she is.
"Go on."
There's a clear and lingering note of loathing in his tone, the sound drawing her attention back to him, her eyes widening a little as she watches his hands curl into tight fists at his sides, his spine stiffening, if possible, even more, eyes still shadowed and averted from her searching gaze. And whether he's upset with her or himself she's not entirely certain, a feeling in her gut strongly suggesting the latter as something fierce and protective sparks to life inside of her, itching to soothe, wanting to reassure him that he could never ever disgust her.
The mere thought makes her cringe.
The gathering wetness in her eyes burning and stinging and threatening to spill over.
Words of comfort and support on the tip of her tongue, she bites them back, opting to remain silent instead, knowing he'd appreciate it, prefer it—intent on doing what she can for him, determined to erase away as much of his pain as possible.
Blinking back the infuriating and frightening prick of tears as she raises her free hand slowly, her trembling fingers skim the raised and rough skin in front of her, following the path the now bloodied cloth had taken, watching carefully as he stiffens even further—hands flexing once, breath coming in sharp at the gentle and feather-light touch.
He hates this.
She knows he does.
Being cared for, touched, and tended to.
Straightening a little, mind racing and ears buzzing, she tries to collect herself once more, taking note with a vague sense of awe the sight of her skin, smooth and pale, against his, rough and dark, as she dips the rag into the bowl again and lifts it, sliding it slowly over his torn and bruised flesh, watching somewhat dazedly as the water trails down his back in reddish brown streaks.
Neither of them speaks again as she continues her work.
And as the silence around them grows, the tension rising in almost visible waves, she focuses on the chore. Working carefully, diligently; she pushes away her grief and concern, trying to steady the jump in her pulse as her mind cruelly attempts to place just how he got each and every scar—made-up scenarios flashing in her head in crushing and vivid detail...
A drunken angry father.
A stupid and senseless bar fight.
A mean and ruthless brother.
Annoyed with herself, frustrated with the images as they harshly taunt her, she attempts to harness what's left of her slowly dwindling strength, her emotions threatening to take over and consume her whole. Squaring her shoulders and pushing her feelings aside—despair, panic, fear, compassion, sadness—she continues to clean him up, her lower lip finding its way between her teeth again when he hisses out a short breath as she picks up a small set of tweezers and gently digs out what ingrained debris she was unable to wash away.
She's not sure how long they stay like that; the soft glow of the candles around them providing her only light, the scent of dirt and blood and sweat hanging in the air, the mingled sound of their heavy breathing disrupting the quiet, her eyes squinting and focused, his cast down to the floor. It seems like an eternity; seconds tick by into minutes, and minutes drag on into forever, until eventually, finally, she's smoothing a bandage over him, and wiping her dampened brow with her forearm; her legs shaky and weak as she moves away from him slowly, a soft and uneasy breath slipping past her lips as he grabs his shirt and throws it over his head.
And gathering her things—tired and watery eyes fixed on her task, unsteady hands stained with his blood—she stills, freezing completely, as he stands up quickly, his body brushing against hers ever so slightly, dirt covered hand reaching out towards her and stopping just short of touching before pulling back abruptly.
"Beth..." his voice is hoarse and raspy and the deep tone startles her a little, tweezers dropping back into the small dish with a soft clang, her gaze snapping up to meet his—bright and vibrant blue staring at her hard and searching, the intensity of it stealing the breath from her lungs as she tilts her chin up, angling her head just so. Holding her stare for a moment, body shifting, moving towards her slightly before drawing further away, his eyes implore hers silently, their dark depths sparking with varied emotions and a handful of unsaid words.
She can see the gratitude there, vague and uncertain, shadowed only by a desperate and unspoken plea...
The last thing he wants is her pity.
Silence continuing to linger, only drawing out the tension between them as neither of them move, uncertain what to do and unsure what to say, she finally clears her throat and nods once, offering him a tiny tremulous smile, watching with a dim sense of relief as the stiffness eases from his shoulders fractionally and he shoots her what passes for a small and forced smirk, before tearing his gaze from her and turning away, heading towards the door on the far side of the room—his stride a little less fluid than usual, a slight limp to his gait.
It isn't until she hears the door open and close behind him—a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in whooshing out of her lungs in one fast stuttering puff of air—that she slowly lowers herself to the ground, her legs threatening to give out on her as she continues to linger on the sight of his damaged and marred back—images of the twisted and angry flesh permanently implanted into her brain.
And as her tears fall, sliding down her cheeks in wet and damning trails, she silently promises herself and him, that this will be the one and only time she ever cries for him...
For his past.
For what he was.
For what he wasn't.
Before she locks it up and puts it away...
Review?! ;)
P.S.- Thanks so much for all the amazing reviews you've already left as well as the follows, and favorites! I appreciate it all so so so much! :)