First off thank you all so much for your support and reviews, I will get round to answering them all. I am very glad you're all enjoying these little one-shots (which I guess are not really one-shots any more)
This was a prompt for the word "Red" for Bethyl week going on on Tumblr (you should all check it out).
As always I own nothing (and I wouldn't tell you if I did)
He eats alone. Ain't the first time, won't be the last but he's disappointed anyway. Disappointed because he grabbed a good table, disappointed because he waited for a half hour before giving in to the hunger pangs. Disappointed because he's now finished and there's no excuse to wait here any longer.
He glances around at the other half -rotted picnic tables at Terminus. They're all empty and everyone is already inside, a dying fire the only indication that a meal was served. He knows he needs to get moving, but he still feels a little cheated. Sure, there's breakfast tomorrow, but breakfast is always a rushed affair with people scampering off as soon as they've had a bite or a cup of coffee, if they're lucky. And lunch, well lunch is usually done on the go. There's no time to linger, no time to relax.
He sighs, this is starting to get ridiculous. He is ridiculous.
Ain't like it's carved in stone, ain't like they have a date or anything dumb like that. Ain't official. But still, they usually sit together at mealtimes. Sure, they make like it's coincidence and sometimes she's so good at it he actually believes it is. He doubts he's anywhere near as subtle.
After all, there's always a place open next to Eugene. Always. And it's usually one of the best seats. Outside in the shade, under Terminus' solitary tree. But he pretends he doesn't see it and finds her instead. Doesn't matter if they're full on in the sun or squashed together at a table too small for either of them. Doesn't matter if she's with Maggie or Glenn or Rick. In fact that makes it easier. Less obvious. Can always make like he wants to sit with them and she's just along for the ride.
But still, he likes it best when they're alone. Or when the others all leave to go inside or do chores and they find an excuse to linger. When they get bogged down in the intricacies of something irrelevant, both knowing they should move on but neither willing to break the moment.
She does most of the talking. But he's good with that. Always preferred listening. Gets you into less trouble. Because when you talk you say stupid shit. Stupid shit like "keep playing", stupid shit like "maybe we can stay a while".
Stupid shit like "you know".
Even so, he finds himself speaking more when she's around, telling her snatches of his childhood, heavily edited stories because the unabridged versions are still too painful to share.
One day maybe.
Not now.
Not today.
But despite the shortness of his stories, the lack of punchlines, the way she has to know he's glossing over the darker details, she listens attentively, not interrupting, waiting him out so that he wants to say more, tell more.
Wants to show more.
And that ain't half the problem.
One night, while they're sitting outside by the fire (they got rid of the grill and every scrap of food that wasn't in a tin in Terminus and even some that was) she tells him out of the blue that she likes his tattoos. It takes him by surprise, almost as much as the rush of colour to her pale cheeks when she realises she's said it aloud. Sweet little Beth Greene likes his ink. He smirked at her then and changed the subject. Smirked because she shared more than she intended, because her face was so flushed she couldn't meet his eye. Changed the subject because he suddenly wanted to show her all his ink, all his marks, not just the ones on his hands and wrists. Not just the ones he chose to put there.
But tonight she's not here and after today and those goddamned mangoes when he nearly fucking kissed her in front of everyone, he's not sure if that's a good or bad thing.
She throws him off Beth Greene does. She throws him way off.
He's not sure what that means, he's not really sure how it happens. But he goes with it. Why, he doesn't know, but he just does because somehow the way he feels when he's around her - his sweaty palms, his pounding heart, his dry mouth, all shit that sounds really unpleasant when you think about it - is like a fucking addiction and he's pretty much both compelled and powerless to chase his next high.
Nice, he thinks to himself. Comparing sweet Beth Greene to a drug habit.
This is why you can't have nice things.
He stands, tossing his paper plate stained with his pork and beans dinner into the trash. He needs to walk the fence. It's sturdy here at Terminus, but they need to check it every day. Don't want any weak spots. Don't want any breaches. Not that they plan on staying but better to be safe than sorry. And sure, they haven't found a lot of walkers in the area, but truth was they didn't think there were a lot of walkers near the farm either.
And look how that worked out for them.
He's reaching for his crossbow when he hears the door behind him open and he knows its her. It's not his skills. They're good and he knows her walk, her movements, the way she sounds when she brushes against something. But it's not that. It's not tangible. It's more the way the night feels heavier and lighter at the same time, the way the air is charged with her scent and yet calmer for it. The way his heart falls apart and gets put back together in a split second of sweet and utter agony.
"Oh," she says as he turns to face her. "All done?"
It's his imagination. It must be. But she sounds disappointed. Like maybe she was hoping he'd wait for her, that he didn't have other stuff to do and they could have another of their long nights.
"Yeah," he says although all he really wants to do is sit down again with her. "Gotta walk the fence."
She nods and a lock of hair falls across her eyes. His fingers flex as he imagines tucking it back into her ponytail but her hand gets there first. She's exasperated, irritable even as she shoves it away, pulling it hard and fixing it impatiently behind her ear.
He sighs inwardly, he'd never have done it like that.
"I brought you these," she's holding a pile of folded clothes out to him. The solar lights they're using aren't that great and don't illuminate much but he thinks it shirts and jeans. Some socks and vests. He hopes it's not underwear, not that he couldn't use some but … yeah.
"It my birthday or something?" he asks.
"No," she says sitting down as he takes them, grabbing a lukewarm tin of chopped tomatoes. "Rick and Michonne just brought back a stack of clothes today and I grabbed some for you before Abraham took them all."
He could see that happening. Not that Abraham wanted them for himself. He was as content as anyone to wear the same shit day in day out. He just wanted to give everything to Eugene, whether it would fit or not, like he thought the extra layers meant less chance of being bit or something. He still bitched whenever he saw Eugene out of Glenn's riot gear, even when they were inside the fences and it was baking in the Georgia heat. Daryl got it though. Abraham was trained to get jobs done so it wasn't much of a surprise how seriously he took this. What he didn't get was how someone who'd been through the ringer as much as Abe, someone that smart and that honed couldn't smell the bullshit. No way Eugene had a cure - the guy probably only realised the world had ended when his mom stopped visiting him in the basement or his online buddies missed their World of Warcraft dates.
Eugene didn't have a cure. This whole DC trip was a wild goose chase.
Didn't matter though, he supposed. They had shit else to do.
"Daryl?" she asks and his eyes snap back to her. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"Ain't worth that much," he turns his attention back to the clothes because he knows if he looks at her too long he ends up staring and he really doesn't want to stare. Not again.
Beth's picked well, she always does when it comes to this sort of stuff. She knows his sizes, his tastes - for what they're worth. She's even cut the sleeves off two of the four shirts and found him a belt without one of those big dumbass buckles that he hates. He grins over at her but she's turned away and doesn't notice while she's eating. She's obviously hungry, attacking the tomatoes fiercely and shovelling them into her mouth greedily.
There is underwear but he finds he's not really embarrassed.
"What's this?" he asks pulling at a piece of red fabric wedged between two pairs of jeans.
"Hmmm?" she's not paying attention, concentrating on getting the last remnants out of the can, and he thinks he should have really let her use his paper plate instead of just tossing it.
He grabs at the cotton and holds it up. A red sundress. Small, shortish, with spaghetti straps that tie behind the neck. He's embarrassed to say that he knows this fabric is called Broderie Anglaise on account of his Ma having a fucking obsession with the stuff before she died. Figured she was going to start her own sewing business. Make a fuckload of cash and take him away from his old man.
Yeah, it didn't work out.
"Beth?" he says and she turns away from her tomatoes to look.
"Oh that," she says and she sounds a little embarrassed.
"It's cute," he tells her. "I'm just not sure it's me."
She chuckles. "Sorry. That was meant to go in the rag pile. Michonne thought I'd like it but we'd really get better use out of it if we cut it up for bandages or cleaning rags. Must have gotten mixed up with your stuff by accident."
She may be trying to sound light but he knows her well enough and there's more than a hint of sadness in her voice, a hint of longing and disappointment as she looks at the dress, her spoon of tomatoes hanging in the air, forgotten while she goes somewhere in her head he can't follow. No doubt to happier times, times when she could have worn a pretty dress like that, to go out with friends, a boyfriend maybe, like Jimmy or even Zach if she'd met him before everything went shitty. He suddenly has a very clear vision of Beth Greene in another life, Beth Greene in this dress, hair pulled back into a loose plait, strappy sandals on her feet, out on a date with some college boy who's studying to become a doctor or a lawyer. Maybe an engineer. Or maybe Beth would end up with some hipster artist or a writer and they'd live in New York and splash paint on their apartment walls. Maybe she'd stay at home and boys would come a courtin' and need to be vetted by Hershel before they were allowed in. He doubts it though. He knows Beth well enough to know that when she wants something she gets it and sisters and fathers and annoying older brothers don't get much say.
So many possibilities, so many broken dreams. It makes him sad and happy at the same time and he doesn't really want to analyse it because either way he ends up being a dick.
"C'mon," he says trying to break her - them - out of this spell. "Walk the fence with me."
He drops the dress onto the table and holds out his hand to her, big, rough, calloused. Dirty. Too dirty for her dainty clean ones. He thinks she'll say no, beg off and tell him she has stuff to do. But she doesn't. She doesn't even hesitate, doesn't falter as she replaces the spoon in the tin and twines her fingers through his own. Soft, smooth, refined, like everything about her.
And nothing about him.
Even so, there's something that makes him rub his thumb across her wrist. Maybe it's still the lingering disappointment from earlier when he watched the mango juice dry there, maybe it's because he likes how delicate she feels, even though that only exacerbates how awkward and clumsy he is. Even though it makes him stumble and wear his heart on his sleeve. Even though it makes him anxious and giddy at the same time.
Drug addiction indeed.
Why Daryl Dixon can't have nice things.
She stands and he knows this is the moment he should let go, but he doesn't and her fingers tighten a little in his, so he leaves it. Goes with it while his heart flops around like a drunk teenager. Doesn't think on it too long, too hard, too anything. Just accepts her hand nestled in his and hoists the crossbow over his shoulder.
"Ready?" he asks.
She nods.
"Got my hunting knife?"
She rolls her eyes, "Our hunting knife."
His mouth quirks and he hopes she can't see in the bad light. Of course it's theirs.
Everything he has is hers.
It's still hot as they walk the fence. It's not really even summer yet but the sun has been baking down the past few days and the heat lingers in the earth, the air, on their skin. It's also quiet, no cicadas, no crickets - not yet at least. No buzzing flies, although he suspects the fact that they dumped all the meat lying around had a lot to do with that. His stomach churns a little at the thought and he's glad Beth wasn't here to see all that. Wasn't here to live out those days of sheer terror in the boxcar. As much as he missed her, as much as he doesn't believe in a higher power, he sends up a little thank you every day that she wasn't here for that.
The stink of death isn't too bad here either which is a surprise because he thinks of all the places in the entire state of Georgia, this is the one that has probably seen the most death since the turn. Not the prison, not Woodbury. But right here, where the tracks meet.
He tries to stay alert as they walk. Looking for weak supports, holes, a build up of walkers. But the fact is all he's really aware of, all he's one hundred percent certain of is her small hand in his, how it's soft and smooth while his is clammy and gritty and how even that isn't enough to make her pull away.
"This afternoon…" she starts and he looks at her frowning.
"What?" that came out a little too aggressively, harsher than he expected and he sees something flare in her eyes. It's like they're back at the cabin and he's being a dick again.
Her mouth hardens a little.
"Just wanted to say it was nice," her voice is lower now, a little defensive.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat. He hopes it sounded dismissive. Nonchalant. Maybe even a little confused but not confused enough so that she feels the need to explain. Funny thing is he doesn't want it to be any of those things.
"You can do it again," it's a whisper, one he wants to ignore and wishes he could.
"Beth, don't," he tells her.
He's not ready to talk about it. Not ready to unpack it and look for hidden meanings or scratch below the surface. He still wants to cling to the notion that all he did was wipe juice off her face and that that was something he'd have done for anyone.
Well, except Eugene.
And Bob. He's still pissed at Bob.
But, when he gives it a moment, when he lets himself, he can still remember the feel of her lips under his thumb, the hint of her taste mixed with the tang of mango juice in his mouth.
"Ok," she says simply but her fingers tighten around his as if she's scared he's going to let go now. He ain't though. He can't. Can't let go any more than he can make those angel wings on his back into real ones.
They walk a little further, he kicks at one of the fence's supports more to prove to himself that he is actually paying attention than to test their defences. She's silent and the world feels heavy with it. Oppressive.
"You excited about leaving?" he asks, partially to just to say something but also because he wants her to talk, get rid of any trace of lingering weirdness between them now that he's gone and shut the conversation down.
She shrugs. "I guess so. Be good to be moving, but anyone who actually thinks there's a cure is living in fairyland."
She's sharp Beth Greene, she's very sharp.
It's sad in a way, coming from her, the girl who believed that her mom and brother were just sick and a cure was around the corner. Sad that she's hardened, cynical even.
"Yeah, I know," he agrees, he throws a stone so that it bounces against the fence.
"Don't like the thought of you going ahead on your own though," she says, leaning her head against his arm. "Ain't safe."
"I'll be fine," he says. "More worried about leaving you in the car with Eugene."
She snorts, but it's true. He is worried because Eugene is just weird and clueless and really shit at reading body language or frankly any other kind of language, including you know, verbal communication. He tried to get Beth involved in a conversation about Skyrim the other day by telling her he once played an elf that looked just like her.
"She had big blue eyes," he said. "And a sword. I prefer elf warriors to the mages, unless of course they're Dunmer, you know the dark elves, then I play with magic. Do you prefer the Argonians or Khajits for beast races? Or the Orcs? A lot of people think they're beast races, but they're actually an elf variant, kind of like in Lord of the Rings…"
Beth's expression would have been funny if it hadn't been one of those surreal moments that made the world seem a little bit more wrong than it already was. One of those moments when Daryl truly questioned the stupid ass move of putting them all on the line for this man who knew more about Klingon and ewoks than he did about medicine or diagnostics or viruses or any of the shit you needed to know if you thought you had an answer to any of this.
Beth had tried to beg off, telling Eugene over and over again that she hadn't really played games, that had been more Shawn's thing, but it hadn't stopped him. Started explaining the history of the game, the various characters, the different spells until she'd had to become forceful with him and told him she had stuff that needed doing.
Daryl's pretty sure Eugene intends to finish the conversation and let's face it, the confined interior of a car is the perfect setting.
Beth's less worried though it seems, "I'll drive with Maggie and Glenn and Tara. Or maybe Sasha and Bob. Abraham's going to want Rick and Michonne with him anyway. Won't be space for me in there."
He allows himself a moment to imagine her with him on the new bike, pressed against his back, her thighs flush with his. It's a nice thought, but insane regardless. No way that's ever gonna happen. No way she can ride with him. Too dangerous, too reckless, too stupid.
And yet.
And yet they made a pretty good team, just the two of them, before. A damn good one when he thought about it. There are worse things in the world than letting Beth Greene have your back.
She stops suddenly and looks up at him over her shoulder, her eyes big and wide and blue even in the darkness. He's always thought she was luminous, with her golden hair and ivory skin, even before the prison fell, even when they only existed in each other's periphery. Sure it wasn't like now. It wasn't this pain in his chest, this ache in his groin, this constant and consistent semi-arousal, which had just become part of his day to day routine. It wasn't like that then and truthfully it still takes him by surprise that it is now. But he'd noticed her. Her breakdown, the quiet strength that followed, the dedication to Judith afterwards and then … and then "oh".
And then now.
"Be safe, Daryl Dixon," she says. "I ain't gonna say goodbye when you leave."
"Stop, Beth," he doesn't want to think about this. Not on a night like this when he's here alone with her and his head is semi-clear and he's not afraid to hold her hand and let her lean against him.
"I mean it. I ain't gonna even think about losing you again."
"You didn't lose me Beth," he says. "You ain't gonna lose me."
She's quiet, studying him, fingers tightening and then loosening in his own.
"And I ain't gonna lose you. Not again," he says and he doesn't know where that came from because it sounds like a confession and he's told himself he's done with confessions.
"You didn't lose me Daryl," her voice is a small whisper as it echoes his, so soft he can hardly hear it even in the still night when the only sound is them and the hush of a breeze. "I was taken from you."
He really doesn't want to think on that. Not the car, not the night he ran along the tracks. Not the days that followed it, nor the weeks after that. So while he can find the courage, before he lets himself get in his own way, he releases her hand and slides his arm around her, across her back so that it rests on the curve of her waist. She stills as his hand brushes against her skin, that thin line where her jeans and top don't meet and she looks him square in the eye. He wants to look away but he can't, so he doesn't. He just waits and the world waits with him.
And then she kind of melts into him, so he can't be sure where she ends and he starts and, as she links her arms around his ribs in an awkward sideways hug, it's without a doubt, the best feeling he has ever had in his entire miserable life.
"Last man standing," she whispers.
"Stop," he tells her.
Not that, not now, not in a moment this perfect when he can smell the clean scent of her soap and the hint of her sweat just underneath it, when he can feel the press of her against him, her curves, her edges, her coolness and her heat. When his heart is pounding in his ears, his throat, his head and he knows hers is too. It's too flawless a moment to be ruined with thoughts of an uncertain future or a painful past.
She just feels too good, smells too good, looks too good to let anything bad in and he wants to touch her, kiss her, create a bubble that they can live inside where nothing can reach them, where they'll be safe and happy, but he ain't that brave. Never was when it came to women and girls. Especially not the luminous ones like Beth Greene. Never knew what to do with his hands, never knew what to say.
He thinks of the day Zach died, the day he took the stench of death into her prison cell and she'd ended up comforting him and not the other way around and it damn near kills him.
Her hair falls into her eyes again and before she can shove it away his hand is there, smoothing the wayward strands gently behind her ear, fingertips lingering on the satin skin of her cheeks, before travelling down her neck to rest on her shoulder.
She gasps a little, a short hitch in the back of her throat and he wants to turn into her, give himself up fully to her embrace, rest his chin on the top of her head, while he holds her against him, but his courage fails him and he's left with his fingers stuttering on the pale flesh of her arm.
Even so, he could stand like this forever, holding her in a clumsy one-armed embrace, while the world and all it's walkers are quiet and still. While Death still has a long way to go before it finds either of them.
Maybe he can have nice things.
Maybe they all can.
"Why you wanna cut up that dress?" he asks all of a sudden.
She huffs a little into his chest and he can feel her breath against his neck, his breastbone. "It's silly you know."
He shakes his head. "No."
She sighs, "It's bright red, it's like a beacon for every walker in Georgia to come after me. Too easy to spot, too easy to see. And it's a dress. Can't run in it, offers no protection. It'll get so dirty, it's just really impractical and there's no good reason…"
"You should wear it," he interrupts because he knows this is more about convincing herself than him. "It's pretty."
She stops and looks up, arms still tight around him.
"You really think so?"
"Yeah," he says but he's answering a different question now. A question about her hair and her eyes and her smile and her perfect skin and the way her neckline dips a little too low to ignore. A question about why his fingers are rubbing slow circles into her arm and why he's suddenly grateful for the darkness.
"Can't run from walkers in it," she says softly.
"Ain't gonna be running from walkers today Beth. Or tomorrow," his voice is huskier than he thought, betraying him more than his body ever could.
"How do you know?"
"You going on a run you ain't told me about?" Keep it light Dixon, keep it silly, he tells himself even as her hands drop to his hip and slide along the jutting bone.
"No. No runs."
Somewhere a lone cricket starts to chirp.
"Ain't going to be running from walkers," he presses his palm to her waist, to her flesh and it's smooth and warm.
"What if one gets through the fence?" There's a small, coy smile on her lips.
"I'd kill it for you," he's dead serious. When it comes to her safety he always is.
"I could kill it myself," she's less serious, but her hands are firm on him and her breath is warm and damp against his neck.
He pretends to consider this. "Get walker guts on your pretty dress."
"What if … What if there's a fire and we have to leave quickly?"
"I'll save you a space in the car," he swallows loudly.
"What if I don't get to the cars before they're all gone?"
It's a game now. That's fine, he'll play along. She does a better job of keeping things light-hearted than he does anyway. He makes a mental note to himself that putting his hands on her probably isn't the best way to keep his thoughts focused and honourable.
"Take you on the bike. What do you think girl? I'm just gonna leave your ass here?" he tells her, looking away, across the fence trying to still the thrumming of his heart, willing his body back under control.
"What if I can't get to the bike in time 'cos I can't run in my dress?"
"I'll carry you."
"You'll carry me?" her thumb brushes his hip once. Then again. Smooth rhythmic strokes over his skin that make it hard to concentrate on anything else.
"Did it before, can do it again," his voice doesn't even sound like his any more as he looks back at her.
She furrows her brow, considering. Like she's debating the merits of this idea.
"Serious piggyback or the other one?" she asks.
His mouth quirks. Definitely the other one.
"Sack of potatoes," he tells her. "I'll throw you over my shoulder."
She chuckles and his fingers slip further down her arm and slide up again. And her skin turns to gooseflesh under his hands.
"What if walkers grow wings and fly over the fences?" her voice is almost as husky as his now. A little low, a little breathy, more than a little arousing.
"I'll aim up, for the sky."
He will.
He already is.
"What if all the walkers in the world broke through the fences here and swarmed us?" one hand slides off his hip, over his shirt, rests on his belly, fingers splayed and he sucks in a deep breath.
"I'd kill 'em all," his mouth is dry and his muscles flex involuntarily under her palm.
"All of 'em?" Somehow, her hand is against his skin now, no dirty shirt in the way, no scratchy cotton.
"Every. Last. One," his fingers bite into her arm, her waist, with every word. Harder than he intends. Just as hard as he wants.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that isn't quite a gasp and isn't a word either.
"All so I can wear a red dress?"
He nods because he doesn't trust himself to actually form words any longer and suddenly she's moved - or he's moved her - so that she's in front of him and her hands are linked under his shirt in the small of his back where his skin is sweaty and slippery. He wonders if she can feel his scars. He finds he doesn't care. Leave it for another time. This moment is too perfect to let an asshole like his old man ruin it.
His breath hitches and it's almost automatic the way his hands both slide over the bare skin of her waist, the way his thumbs brush her belly before he loses his nerve and runs his fingers up her arms.
Almost.
She licks her lips. Her eyes are huge and she doesn't seem nervous to him but he's not sure of anything under the heat of his blood surging through his veins. Her hands press hard against his back, nails digging into his flesh, nothing gentle in her grip at all and he knows for certain that she does feels his scars, knows she knows his secrets if she didn't already. If her daddy didn't tell her all those centuries ago back at the farm.
His hands are rough on her now, tight, stiff, hard enough to bruise.
For some reason he expects things to go fast, he imagines covering her mouth with his, hard, harder than her hands, teeth knocking together, his hands gripping her hair, holding her tight.
But it doesn't, not at all.
She's slow as she tilts her head back, as she leans up to him and plants a lingering kiss on his cheek. It's almost chaste but her lips are searing and his skin prickles as an exquisite shiver runs down his spine. And then another as her mouth touches his neck, against his pulse, the very corner of his mouth. Their eyes meet briefly as she pulls away, a look that tells him that if he wants to kiss her lips, he's going to have to be the one to make the move, put himself out there in a way he's never done before. There's a defiance in her gaze, a brazenness that scares him a little, like she's daring him.
She is daring him.
He ain't that brave.
Even though in his head he's already backed her into the fence, his hands already under her clothes, his mouth on her skin, biting down on the flesh of her neck, marking her.
Making her his.
She is already.
His hands twitch on her as she puts her head against his chest, so that he can feel her breath on his skin and she can, no doubt, hear the thumping of his heart.
His arms slide fully around her to hold her, tighter, harder, than he should. He rests his head on hers, eyes closed, breathing in the strawberry and cherry scent of her hair.
It ain't even a question. Not really anyway.
He'd kill every walker in the world so that Beth Greene can wear a red dress.