~Author's Note: Just a chapter with Daryl and Beth getting to enjoy some normal things while sheltering from the horrors of their world-appreciating the beauty in the ordinary.~


Daryl left out the back door while she stood alone in the kitchen. Opening the cabinet doors, she found that at least they had left the kitchen well stocked. Flour, sugar, canned goods, all the basics...and to her delight, a gas oven. Whatever they ate tonight, it wouldn't be cooked over a fire. Beth was startled out of her fantasy when she heard the familiar thrum of Daryl's crossbow followed by a high pitched scream. She ran to the back door, drawing her knife, almost bowling over Daryl coming back into the house with a chicken skewered on a crossbow bolt.

"Whoa there Lil' Bit. There's chickens out back. I got us dinner," he proclaimed proudly, presenting his prize.

"You shot a chicken?" It seemed a little bit of overkill to shoot a chicken, and the words were the filler she needed to calm the rush of fear that spread through her at the sound of the crossbow.

"Well, I sure wasn't about to go chasing it around the yard. Do you want it or not?"

"Yeah, but not until it's plucked and cleaned and has no head!" Beth had steadied her emotions.

"Jeez country girl...when did you get so bossy?" Daryl asked like a dejected child.

"Killing, cleaning, and plucking were never in my job description."

Daryl turned away, taking his kill with him.

"Daryl..." She called out, and he looked back over his shoulder. "There's a gas stove in here. If you can find some eggs, I can fry the chicken nice as Sunday dinner."

"Hell Beth, for real fried chicken, I'll lay the eggs myself if I got to." He smiled at her and went to work.

Daryl returned the cleaned gutted chicken to her promptly in addition to six scavenged eggs. With the stocked kitchen-a dream following the crash of society-Beth had no problem pulling together a meal that was not at all improvised while leaving plenty of food for the next day if they were going to stay as well as some they could take with them when they left. Southern fried chicken, fried (canned) new potatoes, fancy cut green beans, and sourdough biscuit mix, just add water. They had lucked out on the water front too when Daryl had discovered the hand pump in the back yard. She had a mind to make good use of that later.

Beth was humming as she was dropping breaded chicken pieces into the sizzling oil. Daryl passed through twice, dragging the bodies out the back, and she smiled at him both times. He returned the gesture. She couldn't help feeling happy. Everything almost felt normal.

How could she feel happy or even normal?

The world was in its death throes.

The dead walked the earth.

They had almost died a few hours ago.

Her family was either all dead or missing.

But he had kissed her...even if he was sorry.

And they were alive.

Could that be enough?


When Daryl came to the table with the lit Coleman lantern, he stopped and smiled. She felt proud. They had candles-no need for the camping lantern-folded crisp napkins, silverware-although she doubted Daryl ate fried chicken with a fork and knife-and a full meal any woman could be proud of, on a normal day.

"Dang Lil' Bit! You really busted out the Paula Deen on this one." He sat the lantern on the sideboard to provide extra light, then took his seat at the head of the table.

It was a good compliment. Beth fixed Daryl's plate for him before she took the seat at his right hand-maybe a little bit too 1950s housewife, but he'd taken care of her for so long, he deserved it.

"Sorry there's no butter or jam for the biscuits," Beth apologized while making her own plate. She knew there was nothing to apologize for, but her Mama always taught her to be humble when she felt her pride swell.

"I wouldn't even have noticed if you hadn't said anything," Daryl confessed before diving into his food.

To his credit, Daryl did use his fork for everything but the chicken, and he liberally applied his napkin.

There was very little talking at the table...just a lot of eating...and more eating. When Daryl had literally finished everything, he leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his back and stretching. The accompanying cracks and pops worried Beth a bit...had he been hurt today...but he didn't complain, so she didn't ask.

"Beth, that was amazing. Why were you never the one cookin' at the prison?" It was a lovely compliment, but they both realized the implications of the question and the loss it eluded to.

"It just wasn't my job," Beth replied calmly, refusing to let the loss of Judith ruin her night. "But dinner isn't over."

She jumped up, returning from the kitchen with dessert, setting it down in front of Daryl.

"Is that a pie?" he asked, his voice in awe over something so simple.

"I'd hardly call it a pie...a makeshift pie maybe. It's just a cornmeal crust made out of a prepackaged cornbread muffin mix, canned apple pie filling, some brown sugar, sugar, and cinnamon," Beth explained, serving him an oversized helping.

"Beth...shut up...the world's gone, and if I say it's a pie, it's a pie," Daryl proclaimed, taking such a big bite she didn't know how he fit it all in his mouth.

She took a bite of her pie. It was good.

And for the moment, everything was right in the world...even if it was just in their small sphere.


It took her more than a half hour to heat enough water over the stove to fill the old claw foot bathtub to make a decent bath, but she wasn't going to pass on this golden opportunity. Daryl decided to scavenge through the garage and dilapidated shed out back after he finished all but her piece of apple pie. In the culinary world, that was quite a compliment, even if there weren't many fine dining options left out there. And he didn't only eat because he was hungry. They weren't starving...not even close. Daryl's hunting talent kept them well fed...it was a godsend.

Daryl watched her quizzically from the garage door as she made the numerous trips back and forth from the outdoor water pump. She even made two extra trips for water to heat when she was finished so he might have a bath too.

"What're you doin'?" He asked on one of her trips.

"Taking a bath." Just saying it made her feel human again.

"That's absurd. Baths aren't allowed," he teased.

"Rules are made to be broken...what better time to break them than now?" She retorted before returning to the house.

Where was this attitude coming from. She had never been one who was good with witty repartee or even a suggestion about breaking the rules. Being around Daryl was starting to make her feel strong...and just a little bit rebellious...well, as rebellious as she was ever like to get in her lifetime.

When she dipped her foot into the bathtub to test the water, it was far too hot, but she couldn't resist. Beth slid into the water, embracing its cleansing heat and marveling at the fantastical shapes that appeared in the steam from her arms and hands when she lifted them from the water to come in contact with the cool air. She looked at the haul she was lucky enough to discover waiting at her disposal in the bath basket on the side of the tub. Shampoo, conditioner, scented soap, even a razor. She couldn't imagine Daryl found anything half so precious as she did-although her treasures weren't entirely practical. If only she could actually will herself to use them...it just felt too good, so she gave into the sweet euphoria of the moment.

When she emerged from the bath clean with smooth shaved legs and sweet smelling hair, she felt like a new person. The clean nightgown she found in the bedroom drawer and the fluffy pink robe she borrowed from the bathroom felt like heaven. She heated the extra water on the stove and warmed the bath before she went to find Daryl. He was finishing securing the front door, pushing the heavy couch in front of it to bar anyone, or more likely anything, from entering.

"I warmed the bath for you in case you wanted to take one..." She said softly, not wanting to be too pushy.

He turned, noticing her, shaking his head and grinning, presumably at the sight of her being eaten alive by the giant pink bathrobe.

"I won't argue against a bath...you gonna be okay alone?" She realized, in this calm moment, how much she liked the gravel in his voice.

"Umm-hmm...I'll be fine. I laid some clean clothes out in the bathroom for you. I don't really know men's sizes, but you can see if they fit. If you decide we can stay tomorrow, I'll wash our clothes," Beth offered.

"The doors are all secured." He squeezed her shoulder as he passed her. She liked that he touched her...he had never really been that way with anyone before...at least not that she had seen. "Thanks Beth," he added as he headed toward the bathroom.

"Hey Daryl...do you want me to take your gun and crossbow for you?" She questioned.

"No thanks...I always want em within reach."

He was a practical man if nothing else.


Beth pondered the bedroom question carefully. The apparent master bedroom where the wedding picture had been and she found the clothes was where Daryl had left his leather vest on the chair by the door and their extra guns and knives on the nightstands and dresser. A lantern and some random candles lit the room, all evidence leading to the conclusion that he had claimed this space. There was another bedroom. Did he want to sleep alone? He seemed to have been sleeping beside her these last few days since they were on the move out of necessity for security and warmth, but she didn't want to sleep alone. Maybe he wouldn't want to sleep next to her now that there was a choice or because he regretted some things that had happened earlier in the day. So either way, the decision had to be made. She would stay. If he wanted her to leave, he could tell her. He never had a problem with speaking his mind before.