A/N: Apologies for the horrendous delay. Thinking this is the final chapter (but I don't trust myself). Hope you enjoy. Just wanted to say thanks to anyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, followed, or even glanced at this story. You're all inspiring, and I can't believe I continued this experiment of mine for so very long. But I hope it's worth it to you.

Much love.

xx

chapter 10: fight for now (reflect me)

"So, what's this big surprise?" Beth yawned as she waited for Daryl to finish re-dressing himself. There was no plumbing or water in the house quite yet, so they weren't able to wash themselves off. Daryl had offered to take Beth over to his and Merle's house to shower, but she'd declined for the time being and instead wiped herself down as best she could with some paper towels that she'd found in the kitchen.

She felt an anxious kind of curiosity when she thought about whatever else Daryl could possibly have up his sleeve.

"Still got the patience of a four year-old, don't'cha?" He muttered as he slid his arms into the long-sleeved shirt he'd been wearing and began securing the buttons. Slowly. Maybe intentionally so, judging by the nearly imperceptible half-smirk that she could just barely detect in the darkness of the room.

"Well, you're the one makin' me get up when I was all comfortable," she retorted, and she almost stuck her tongue out at him.

"Sorry, girl. 'S nothin', though. Could wait 'til tomorrow, if ya really wanted."

"I'm already up. Let's go." She crossed her arms and tapped a boot-clad toe on the wooden floor, but she was feigning impatience, really, because the ideas that were forming and scattering rampantly inside her head made her want to curl up on the blankets and fall asleep and just live inside of this moment, just inhaling the scent of him. Of them.

"C'mon," he said, securing the last of the buttons on his shirt. He jerked his head toward the door of the bedroom and turned to walk out into the hallway.

She followed him. Stayed back behind him a few feet, walking a few paces more slowly.

He led the way down the stairs and onto the first floor of the house, which looked the same as it had the previous evening – beautiful and shiny and empty – and she could almost imagine what it'd look like one day in the future, when various pieces and styles of furniture would occupy the empty spaces of the floor and artwork would cover the walls.

Daryl opened the door that Beth knew without actually knowing would lead to the basement. The door was located just around the corner from the bottom of the stairway that led to the second floor.

"'S down here." His voice was quiet as he flipped the switch that illuminated the stairwell.

She pulled the sleeves of her sweater-dress down so that they covered her hands, and it wasn't that the house was cold - but her hands suddenly were. Cold and clammy and twitchy.

She rounded the corner at the bottom of the basement stairs. It wasn't quite finished, she could tell, but it was spacious and the floor was nearly fully-carpeted. There were a few windows lining the plaster of the textured walls. She wasn't greeted by the typical musty, moldy basement smell. It smelled much like the rest of the house – new and untouched and perfect.

There was a small card table sitting in the center of the large room that was separated from what she knew was the storage area by a wall and another door.

Several items sat on the table – a few small, closed cardboard boxes and a few black binders.

Daryl stopped walking when he was halfway between the base of the stairs and the center of the room, where the table sat. He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Beth, who was still slowly walking up behind him. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, then, and turned his head back around in front of him, directing his eyes and his head toward the floor.

"A card table? I – uh – yeah, we could pro'ly use one of those. Thanks, Daryl."

She was half-joking. He snorted quietly. Nervously, maybe. He didn't look at her.

"Go on. Look inside of 'em."

"Inside of what, exactly? The boxes or the binders?" She inched closer to the table, passing by his side without touching or looking at him. As she reached the table, she let her hands emerge from the protective shell of her dress sleeves and wiped them on her leggings.

"All of 'em."

"Y'know, I really don't like to be – watched. When I'm openin' gifts. Forget that 'bout me?" Her voice was shaky. She could feel the increased rate of her pulse in her neck. In her chest. And she couldn't quite explain the physical reaction she was experiencing.

"Don't have to watch." He shrugged and started to turn away from her.

"No, no. It's fine. I'll make an exception for ya. Just once, though. This ain't – ain't gonna be a trend or nothin'. Got it?" She almost rolled her eyes at herself, at her attempts at masking her irrational fear and anxiety with snark and unoriginal humor.

She picked up one of the small cardboard boxes and clumsily opened up the flaps. Hummed quietly to herself to fill the emptiness of the room – or maybe the fullness.

She furrowed her eyebrows when she pulled out the first item with which her hand made contact.

A small mini-notebook. It was old – she could tell by the way the pages had yellowed and become crisp to the touch. By the way the spirals that bound together the pages were slanted like they'd been smashed or kept underneath several pounds of heavy books.

"This your diary or somethin'?"

Her voice was shaking. So were her hands.

His eyes met hers and he rolled a shoulder, just slightly. Brought a thumb up to his mouth.

She flipped open the faded cover – it used to be a hunter green color, she could tell.

The first page didn't say much, but there were a few lines written in his scrawled handwriting. He'd never written fully-formed letters – like he couldn't be bothered to close an o or dot an i. She smiled in spite of herself, that she could still recognize it like she'd been reading his writing every single day for the last decade.

first day without you. can still smell you. i wish i could take it back. make ya stay. i'm a fuckin' dumbass, that's what merle keeps sayin'. he ain't wrong.

And the first several pages continued in a similar fashion. Self-deprecation. Anger – at her, at himself.

you tried to call, i told ya i didn't give 2 shits. i'm a fuckin' liar. be easier if ya'd just forget all 'bout me.

Halfway through, the invisible yet, to Beth, tangible tone of the entries to this actual diary, or something super fucking similar, changed.

bet you're gettin straight A's in all your classes. nellie's actin crazy, probly missin ya. keep tellin her she ain't alone.

all i want is your dreams to come true. your dreams're mine

graduatin' next week, your pops told me so. damn if i wouldn't give up my fuckin' crossbow to be there. see the look in them eyes when ya get what ya earned.

A lump formed in Beth's throat as she continued reading. They weren't love letters, that's for damn sure. He clearly couldn't recognize a proper noun when it smacked him in the face. It didn't matter. She didn't look at him. Just kept flipping through the pages.

said i wasn't gonna do this shit no more. you're happy. you're engaged. i'm drunk. i bought the land for our house last week. done paid for it. even if you're gonna live in it with him, i'm still gonna do this.

She stopped reading. Lifted her eyes slowly toward his face, which was still cast downward.

"Know I ain't great at this shit - at expressin' myself. Never have been. Thought this'd make it easier. Or somethin'. So ya could – I'unno – know what I was thinkin'. Couldn't really talk to nobody 'bout it. Ain't no writer, neither, but – "

"Thank you," she whispered. "Means more than ya know. Can't change anythin'. Can't make the past different or disappear. But you givin' this part of yourself to me – to anyone – that's somethin', Daryl. That's everythin'."

And she thought about all the times over the past several months when she'd broken down and used her own pain against him in a way. She thought about all of her assumptions, that he hadn't lived in any kind of hell that was comparable to the one in which she'd once dwelled for so long, despite what he'd revealed especially over the last several weeks.

The rest of the contents of the cardboard boxes were lighter in nature though not necessarily in weight. A large rock that Daryl claimed Beth had thrown at his motorcycle when they'd been fighting one of the many times before she'd left. The linen that'd once covered the pillow she'd used when she'd stayed over at his and Merle's house when they'd been dating – it still smelled like her hair, and he admitted he'd never been able to wash it.

The binders were full of pictures covered by the laminated pages – pictures of them, pictures of Nellie (both before and after Beth had left for New York), pictures of her family, pictures from Maggie and Glenn's wedding, pictures of Merle. Frozen memories and images of everyone and everything and every place that'd ever been important to her. And those were the same things that were important to him. Always had been. One binder contained photos of the progress of the house – from its beginnings as a dream and a large acreage of empty land to large holes in the earth and piles of dirt to how it stood now in all of its perfection. And at the end of the binder was the deed to the house. For her.

"Thank you, Daryl. This is – the gifts, the house, it – it's all so much. Means so much."

She stepped close to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She could feel him trembling just a little, and she knew that this – giving himself in this way – had been a profound amount of emotional exertion. And that made it all so much more meaningful.

"Glad ya like it. Don't expect it every Christmas, though. Took me a long time to get all o' this shit together and even more time an' a few pep talks from Merle to actually go on an' give it to ya. Was gonna burn the shit a couple'a weeks ago."

Beth leaned back a bit, removing her head from the solidity of his chest and tipping her head upwards so that she could look at him.

"Glad ya didn't burn any of it."

She pulled his head down and covered his mouth with hers. She let the visions of his written words and the care he'd taken and the effort he'd given to constructing all of this – the house, the gifts – saturate her feelings. And it – this moment – felt simultaneously like an end and a beginning. As if they were dancing along the edge of something that would determine the course of forever. While once upon a time Beth knew she'd have wished they could have skipped over all of the bad and just ended up here – right here, in this very fucking moment – she knew now that it didn't matter. Didn't matter how many times they tripped and fell and fucked up and hurt each other. She'd have lived the same life over and over again so long as – every single time – the two of them would end up here like this, like two people who knew each other better than any other person knew or would ever know or understand either of them. Two people kissing in the basement of the house about which they'd created from their dreams.

"One more thing," Daryl murmured against her mouth.

She scoffed. "No more, Daryl. I don't deserve anythin' else. I didn't even get ya a card or anythin'-"

He pulled his head back and brought a rough hand to the side of her face. His eyes were narrowed, like she'd said something absurd.

"You bein' here an' givin' me – givin' us – y'know, givin' this a chance when I don't deserve shit from ya – Beth, that's more'n anyone's ever done for me. More'n anyone could ever do for me." He choked on the words a little as he spoke them in a tight whisper and dropped his eyes to the floor.

"No dwellin' on shit, Daryl Dixon," she said firmly, grabbing him by the chin with her index finger and thumb and turning his face upwards. "We aren't the same people we used to be. We gotta put the past away. Okay? We both gotta be in this, like this, for it to work."

She was a little surprised to see the small half-smirk overtake his mouth. A little amused at the subtle shake of his head that served to – finally, just this once – move the hair away from his face. The shake of his head that appeared eerily akin to something like disbelief. Like wonder.

"See, it's shit like that. Sayin' shit like that – shit I never dreamed of. Couldn't never even think to say. 'S why I gotta ask ya this – why I gotta tell ya that I know I ain't perfect. Ain't never wanted to be no one's boyfriend 'cept yours. Ain't never wanted to get married and have no babies – still don't know if I could ever be a dad."

He averted his eyes again and fumbled around with something in his back pocket and his words became jumbled and muttered and muffled by his thick breaths.

He brought one hand in between him – a hand that was holding an object that Beth couldn't quite distinguish, because his other hand came up to the side of her face and kept it locked in place and space and time.

"Don't know how to do this, Beth. But – god, ya know how fuckin' much I love you. Don't have to say nothin' or do nothin' now or ever. Don't make no difference to me. This place – 's yours. I'm yours. This - " he brought his other hand up higher and in between them, and, through the fluorescence illuminating the objects and the world and life, she saw the sparkles of the diamonds of the ring, and what the fuck – "is yours. And I – I'unno, Beth Ann. Think I've done fucked up 'cause I ain't down on a knee or surprisin' ya or hidin' it somewhere and sendin' y'out to find it. And I'unno – I ain't really askin', 'cause you ain't gotta give me no answer. Ain't nothin' to be answered. I love you. I wanna marry you. Wanna build ya shit and take ya on motorcycle rides and hang out with your family and tease ya 'til your face turns red and ya laugh. Wanna watch ya outsmart Merle and put him in his place and watch ya brush Nellie. Wanna hear 'bout your job. Wanna go fuckin' grocery shoppin' with ya. Wanna feel like I feel when I'm with ya. Wanna make ya smile. Wanna be there when you're – I'unno – when you're pissed and bitchy and when you're happy or cryin'. And – here."

Instead of sliding it onto a finger or giving Beth enough time to process or respond or take a breath, he opened the palm of one of her hands and placed the ring inside of the cup formed by her flesh and blood.

"Was your grandma's. 'S beautiful. Belongs to you. Always has, Beth."

Beth's breaths had become lodged in her chest – deeper, maybe in the alveolar sacs that comprised the tissue of her lungs. Maybe in the rapidly pumping blood vessels that were meant and existed only to deliver oxygen to her brain, to her body.

"I love you," she managed after several moments. She rolled the ring around with her fingers and her tear-filled eyes widened in awe at its beauty. At his.

He stepped back and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Giving her space. Allowing her to think. To figure things out. And maybe that's what he'd always forced her to do. She hadn't always found it particularly helpful. But he wasn't pushing her away or pulling her closer. Wasn't insisting on anything at all. And she almost laughed when she thought about some old saying about people never change. Maybe they don't or didn't or couldn't. But they could fuck up and hit rock bottom and learn something and evolve.

And she was still evolving. She knew that. But in that moment, she also knew that she didn't want to take another step forward without him.

So, without saying anything, she slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. She heard Daryl swallow audibly from where he stood a few feet away, but she knew he still wasn't expecting anything. Wasn't anticipating anything and, probably, wasn't even hoping for anything.

And none of that was conducive to their growth. So she cleared her throat softly and took a few steps towards him.

"You deserve to be happy, Daryl. You deserve everythin' – and you ain't the only one scared. I'unno if I can be anythin' like my momma. I'unno if I can be everythin' you need. But I wanna be. And I'll spend the rest of my life tryin' to be, if that's what it takes. And I don't want to be with anyone else on this entire planet when I live through my saddest day or my happiest. Don't wanna be with anyone else when all of my dreams come true or when shit hits the fan and blows up in my face. This has always been my dream. Still is."

"Y'ain't gotta say nothin' now, Beth," he mumbled, as if he hadn't heard a word that she'd spoken.

"I know that. But I wanna, so I am. And I'm sayin' yes."

Time stopped for a moment as he looked at her and a thousand emotions crossed over his features – made brief homes within the wrinkles of skin by his eyes and the corners of his lips. Fear, relief, anxiety, disbelief, adoration, love – so much love, and it pooled into the icy depths of his eyes like a silent poem that only she could hear or read or feel.

And the world began spinning again when he wordlessly surged forward and hooked his arms around the back of her. She felt the force of him attempting to lift her up, and it felt like he needed that closeness with her at that moment more than he needed air or water, and so she released the tension from her muscles and allowed him to suspend her in the air and space between them for a moment. She wrapped her legs around his middle as he pulled her impossibly close – crushed her – to his body and buried his lips and face and breath into her neck and her chest.

And it was sometime later that evening, just before they'd gone to sleep pressed closely together on their bedroom floor, when the scattered pieces of her mind began to make comparisons. And they didn't mean much. Not now. But she – her mind – couldn't help but notice how peaceful she felt at this moment in comparison to the way she'd felt after her previous engagement. After Zach had proposed and she'd accepted and then fell headlong into dread because he'd never met her family, because there was so much about her that he hadn't known - that he still didn't know and that he never would know. And it was because Daryl knew her – every inch of her body and her past and her present and her fears – and this man knew her family; he loved them as they did him. And, truthfully, he was already a part of her family – they were each a part of the other's – and had been for years.

So fuck fairytales, she thought. Fuck secrets, fuck the glamorization of getting to know someone new, fuck going away to find yourself – because I've been here all along. With him.

She smiled at her own thoughts and let her mind drift towards that love story – their love story. She had a few chapters to add. It wasn't complete – far from it. She couldn't anticipate the specifics of the end. The specifics of future conflicts and resolutions and rises and falls of the unwritten, un-lived narrative.

She wondered if it should really even be referred to as a love story. Maybe life story was a more appropriate label – a new genre. A real life story. Confusing and tragic and happy and sad and filled with just as much pain as joy. As the images of their story flickered behind her eyes, she saw herself. Every version. She saw him – who he was and had always been at his core, at the very part of him that couldn't be described by any type of humanly or earthly term. And, at several points in time within many of the chapters, even she couldn't delineate who the protagonist or antagonist of this story was or if there'd ever been one or the other. She couldn't determine who the "good guy" was. And, yeah – life story, she decided.

The invisible outlines she'd drawn for the next chapters were just skeletons of potential events. A wedding. A honeymoon. Long talks. Arguments. Difficult times, when one or both of them wouldn't be able to let the past die. Good times, when they'd agree that none of the bullshit mattered. Angry sex. Make-up sex. Purchases, big and small. Kids, maybe.

As her consciousness began to dissolve, she felt him align his hand with hers and lace his rough fingers - that felt like home and hurt and love - with hers. And she wondered, then, why she'd ever needed to try to see the future when her present felt like this.

And her last decision before she drifted off was to shred the fucking outlines, the embryonic versions of expectations and hopes – the future kids, the future them – and watch them bleed.