It must have been a hell of a run.
A hell of a run.
Because the amount of shit Rick, Michonne and Carl brought back looked like they'd gone on a shopping spree, the likes of which would have made the Queen of England jealous. Although, come to think of it, Daryl doubts the Queen does, or ever did, her own shopping.
Either way, they've found clothes for everyone, blankets, toiletries, gas. And guns. More guns than they've seen in a long time. He's pretty damn sure the Queen doesn't shop for those.
But the cherry on top - the motherfucking icing on the cake - is the bag of ripe mangoes Rick pulls out of the back seat and even his grizzly beard can't hide his grin as he does.
Carl's face is already stained orange, his fingers sticky and Daryl wonders how many the kid's already had. Fruit is hard to come by. Really hard to come by and in these times it's almost the equivalent of candy for them. Junk food even. So no wonder Carl has already gorged himself.
And no wonder everyone is eager as Michonne starts handing out the remaining mangoes. Sure they're all trying to be courteous, trying to be polite but grasping fingers and licked lips betray the nonchalance they're all pretending.
They have to share. The group outnumbers the mangoes and there's no way there's one for each of them. Michonne is fairly indiscriminate in how she divides them up. It really just happens to be who's standing closest to whom. Maggie and Abraham, Tara and Rosita, Glenn and Tyreese. Eugene gets his own because even when it comes to rationing food he's a little too weird to pair up with anyone.
They all make sacrifices. Sometimes it's your life, other times it's half a mango.
Daryl glances over to Beth. She's sitting next to him on the ground where he laid out his poncho so she could enjoy the sun, her nose stuck in a book, which she's obviously bitter about judging by the way she's been glaring at it. He'd asked her about it earlier and all she would say is "plot development by stupidity". Yet she's still reading and he's ok with her reading shitty books because it means she stays in one spot for a long time and he can linger near her, sit with her, be close to her without actually actively seeking her out and following her around.
Fact is he's been around Beth a lot lately. He's pretty sure it's a conscious decision on both their parts, but it feels almost inherent, instinctual even, the way they gravitate towards one another now. The way she's always the one to bring him something to eat or drink during the day while he's walking the Terminus fence, the way she's the first one he looks for after a run to show her whatever he's found. It's usually dumb stuff like a brightly coloured stone or a flower or something, and he feels cheated if he doesn't find an excuse to go to her the minute he's back. But he knows that just showing her he's alive - not bit, safe, unharmed - is excuse enough. It's the same for him. Checking up on her is as good a reason as any to seek her out and that's more than adequate for him.
Looking up, he notices Eugene staring at his mango, a contemplative expression on his face as he turns it over in his hands slowly. He glances around, eyes settling on Beth as she's tucking a torn slip of paper into her book.
Daryl sighs.
Aww hell no dude.
He'd already asked them earlier if he could share the poncho and Christ, the poncho ain't that big. Daryl said no, pointing out that there are more than enough chairs around and even more ground where he could park his ass. Eugene had blinked and then said matter-of-factly that he would like to sit with Beth if Daryl wouldn't mind.
He'd been about to reply that he did mind even though he really didn't want to give voice to that especially after Abraham and the Romeo incident but Beth had stepped up and told Eugene that all she really wanted to do was read and if he could give her a little privacy she would appreciate it.
He'd actually answered with "as you wish" like he was in The Princess Bride or something and Daryl had to bite his tongue not to call him Farmboy or Dread Pirate Roberts.
And now, well now he is looking for someone to share his mango with and Beth is it.
So when Michonne tosses Daryl a mango, it's an answer and an insinuation all at once. An answer because it'll keep Eugene away. An insinuation because of the sly wink she gives him and the way she purses her lips.
This woman. This goddamn woman with her dreadlocks and knowing smiles.
She hasn't let up. Not since two weeks ago when Abraham called him Romeo in front of everyone. The rest had let it slide. Didn't notice. Didn't care. Didn't want their faces broken or their asses kicked. He didn't know which but they stayed the fuck out of his business and he liked it just fine.
But not Michonne. No, not her. Up until her and Rick left on this last run a few days before, she still called him Romeo - something even Abraham hadn't dared to do, instead opting for Mr Bowman which pissed him off because it made him think of Joe but he didn't press it.
Michonne had no such qualms and was always close at hand with a quip.
Like when he'd fumbled over what to say to Beth after the Romeo fiasco.
His jolted explanation had gone something like, "Guy's moustache has messed with his head. Dunno why else he woulda said something so stupid or think we're together. Not that you ain't … nice or anything…"
He stumbled over his words, most of them getting stuck in his throat while Beth's big eyes just watched him. Impassive. Accepting.
And then when he'd turned to leave, there was Michonne, arms crossed over her chest, a foot against the wall.
"Dixon, you smooth operator, you," she said and he thought it might have been loud enough for Beth to hear. So he just flushed red and left, Michonne's eyes burning a hole in his back.
He hates it. Mostly. Sometimes, there's a small part of him that doesn't and he finds that hard to process. But mostly he hates it, especially now when she quirks an eyebrow at him before turning away to hand the last mango to Sasha and Bob.
At least Bob also gets a wink but it still pisses him off.
"Here," he passes the fruit to Beth as she sets her book down and stretches her legs out in front of her.
"Don't you want?" she asks.
"You have it."
"We can share," she offers.
"Nah, really you have it." he tells her, glad to see Eugene has turned around again.
"Don't want you getting scurvy," Beth says bumping his shoulder teasingly with her own.
"Ain't a pirate," he tells her but he likes the way she keeps her arm against his.
"Arrrr," she answers dismissively. "Ain't taking no for an answer. You can put that in your buckles and swash it Mr Dixon."
She has a way with words Beth Greene does.
He, on the other hand doesn't. He's yet to figure out how to say no to her. Truth is he's not convinced it's any more possible than growing wings and flying to the moon for a day trip.
So, his mouth quirks on the one side as he takes the mango back and starts slicing it with his - no her - hunting knife, trying not to mess too much juice on the poncho beneath them. As usual she's thrown him off a bit. Idiot. He should be used to it by now because it's all this damn girl ever does, but she still surprises him. Like when she pulls his rag out of her belt and lays it between them so he has somewhere to put the mango pieces.
"Was wondering where that was," he says.
"Was wondering where my hunting knife was," she answers.
"My hunting knife," he tells her. Damn girl forgets that once upon a time it was his.
"Our hunting knife," she concedes. "And our rag."
He tries to frown at her but can't so he just says "Yeah ok, our rag."
"And our hunting knife."
He tries to suppress a grin but can't so he shoves a slice of mango into his mouth.
It's sweet and delicious and he's suddenly very glad Beth thought it so important to save him from scurvy.
"Happy?" he asks when he finishes and she nods, selecting a piece and taking a bite. Her eyes close and she chews slowly and he can see how much she's enjoying this little treat.
He likes the way her jaw moves, the way her throat muscles work as she swallows.
He likes seeing her happy.
He also really likes the way a drop of the juice clings to her bottom lip, the way it shimmers in the afternoon sunlight. And suddenly he wants to put his lips there, taste it
(taste her)
and kiss it away. Feel her mouth under his. Gentle but firm.
But when she looks at him, he falters. Wasn't like he was going to do it anyway. Definitely not with everyone around, although the look on Eugene's face may be worth the crap he'd get from Michonne or Abraham.
Instead, he looks pointedly at her and touches his bottom lip to show her where the droplet is.
She grins, wiping at her mouth and inexplicably missing the juice entirely even though there is no way she should have.
No way on earth.
He shakes his head and she tries again. Misses again.
He sighs.
"Here," he says licking his thumb and before he knows what he is doing, he's wiped it across her lips, the drop now clinging to his dirty skin hovering like a tiny kaleidoscope in the sunlight before he raises his hand to his mouth and sucks it off.
It's a kiss of sorts. In its own way.
Her eyes go wide and it takes a second before he realises what he's done, before the colour rises in his cheeks. And he feels like there's too much air and too much sun and too much earth in the world and not enough at the same time.
And then he's embarrassed, looking away from her and her pretty eyes, her open mouth, her lips that a second before he was touching like he could, like they were his.
He chances a glance around the camp - even the tips of his ears feel like they are burning - but everyone is too interested in their own mangoes to notice. Everyone except Michonne who's smirking at him.
He sees her mouth something in his direction but he turns away before she's finished because he knows she's saying "smooth".
He doesn't know where to look so he stares at his poncho, at a red thread that has worked itself loose and is starting to pull and he wonders if someone here knows how to fix it. Beth fixed her father's pants once but if she starts fixing his clothes, it'll just add more fuel to the flames and soon they'll be sitting together at every meal and talking about their favourite movies (hers is The End of the Affair, his is Die Hard) and figuring out if they're cat or dog people (for the record, they're both both). Yeah, all this. You know, just like it is now. Or something.
"Have some more," her voice is light, she seems to have recovered well enough, or maybe she didn't notice at all but she's already tucking into another piece and, God's honest truth, when he looks at her there's another drop of juice clinging to her bottom lip, shining and plump and insanely arousing.
Well, she can deal with it now. He doesn't care if it stains her nice clean top or its pretty brocaded neckline. Doesn't care if she walks around with juice on her face all day and becomes a magnet for every bee and fly in the whole of Georgia. Doesn't care if Eugene offers to lick it off her face for her (except of course he does … and he wouldn't put it past Eugene either).
But no, her mango juice, her face, her problem. No way he's going to try that shit again. No way he's going to let anyone - his mind says Michonne - see. Let her keep it on her face all the way to DC. Let Maggie tell her or something. He doesn't care. Never did actually. Earlier he was just trying to help her out, really. What happened had fuck all to do with him. Because he doesn't care that she now has more juice on her face. He really doesn't. Cares less that she has juice on her face than he cares about the rivulets of juice cascading down Abraham's front, or the fact that Glenn has big orange stains on his once white T-shirt. See, he really doesn't care.
And then she gives him a shy grin and wipes at the drop with the back of her hand. She gets it this time, a thin trail of juice already drying against her wrist.
And he's not sure he can ever forgive her.