Firstly I just want to say thank you all for your reviews. I am going to answer them all, life has just been hectic right now.

Secondly, this one-shot was also for Bethyl Week, the prompt being She is the Sunlight by Trading Yesterday. I took the line "She is the healing and I am the pain" from that song and went with it. I'm not sure I am 100% happy with this, but it is what it is.

As always this is a standalone story but it wouldn't hurt to read the others. I have one more of these up my sleeve but I'm not sure if I will finish it for Bethyl week, however I will add to to this fic occasionally regardless. However, I really want to get back to Burn so my plan is to focus on that for a while.

Thanks again for your overwhelming support. It really is wonderful.

As always, I don't own anything.

Abraham is at it again, his voice big and booming, a foghorn across Terminus' courtyard.

"Aw, hell no," he's saying. "Hell. No."

She doesn't turn to look as she shares a bland lunch of butter beans and creamed corn with Maggie and Glenn, Sasha and Bob. None of them do. Not even Rick who's shifting down next to them, a tin of peas and a bottle of water balanced precariously in one hand. Abraham's always getting uptight about something. Always getting others uptight too. Wasn't anything new really, wasn't anything to worry about. It was no doubt to do with Eugene, something he'd forgotten or something he pretended to forget to piss Abe and Rosita off. Yeah, she knew it was deliberate. Beth had gone through a phase of passive aggressive rebellion once too. Only difference was she did it when she was thirteen not thirty-two.

Point was though that nine times out of ten whatever Eugene was or wasn't doing was unimportant, irrelevant, not nearly as big a deal as Abraham made it out to be. And it could easily be fixed without the level of melodrama he liked to put into it.

Nothing to lose any sleep over.

So they ignored it. When you started getting sucked into Abe's worries it was like a whirlpool you'd never swim your way out of. Just kept coming back round to the same thing. Eugene should have been in DC already, they were all wasting time, too much dead weight (although he never phrased it quite like that - even he seemed to realise the hypocrisy of that statement). Regardless, it made for a few interesting moments between him and Daryl, him and Rick, him and Glenn.

Same shit, different day, different level, different air freshener, Daryl would say. Rick, ever the diplomat, would silently agree.

She eats another mouthful of beans, while Sasha and Maggie tuck into the corn. Butter beans, dull, lifeless, like cardboard. No one complains though, definitely not her, the fact that there's food is a win. Beggars can't be choosers and they aren't starving. Another win.

And the day is bright and there are no walkers at the fences.

All things considered, it's a good day. Not perfect, not flawless. But good. And she'll take good.

"Jesus Christ," Abe swears again.

Maggie rolls her eyes. Sasha shakes her head.

Beth glances over at him. He's standing now, facing the gates, hands balled into fists, shoulders twitching. He takes a step forward and then stops as if he's changed his mind and turns to look at her.

Directly at her.

That's a shock. That's a surprise. That's unexpected.

He didn't usually pay her heed. Not really. Michonne yes, Maggie yes, Sasha yes. But not her, not Beth Greene who he thinks of as some of that dead weight. Not Beth Greene, the extension of her badass older sister, Beth Greene, the one whose bond with both Rick and Daryl cannot be understood unless you'd actually walked in their shoes for the past two years, which he hadn't. Beth Greene, the girl who made it.

Not just another dead girl.

Truthfully, though what exactly were an ex-marine and a farm girl going to talk about anyway? The weather? The walkers? Food maybe? Rick was right, food really was all any of them ever talked about.

In the few weeks she'd known him they'd had one conversation, one real conversation. It'd been a rainy afternoon, the last of the spring showers before the wetness gave way to the summer heat and they'd all been inside, miserably watching as the downpour outside beat at their fences and soaked their washing. They were all restless, all a little on edge because of a hole in the fence they couldn't get to and the fact that their food supplies were dwindling and the weather was messing with Rick's plans for a run.

And Maggie suggested a song.

"C'mon Bethy," she said. "Sing us something to pass the time."

She'd wanted to say no, the word sticking in the back of her mouth, while she wished Maggie hadn't spoken so loudly because everyone was looking at her.

Everyone.

Like Daryl.

She glanced over to him where he sat with Rick in the corner, legs drawn up, crossbow on the floor next to him, aimed at the wall. He didn't smile, didn't nod, didn't do anything to encourage her one way or another. He watched. Waiting for her answer.

Her answer which was still "no".

There was something very weird about all that, something she couldn't put her finger on. As if somehow what Maggie was asking was an invasion of privacy. As if Maggie was asking her to do something very intimate in front of a crowd. Maybe it was because the last person she'd sung in front of had been Daryl lying in that coffin, his eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at. And that was intimate. She knew it then, she knows it now. It was something just for them, for him and part of her wanted to keep it that way.

But then she'd thought about her dad and how much he enjoyed her singing and how if he could be here with them right now, she'd sing until her voice broke and cracked, until there were no more songs left to sing.

Whichever came first.

She shrugged. "Ain't no jukebox."

And Daryl's eyes said more than his mouth ever could.

So she sang Lou Reed's Perfect Day, trying to force the feeling away that she was now doing this for Maggie, for Daryl, for the irrational belief that she could hold onto what was left of her family by doing what they asked. It wasn't only them though. It was for everyone, even the new people, even Tara, Abraham, Rosita and Eugene. Even though she barely knew them, she didn't want to see any more death.

She was also tired of losing people.

She glanced to Daryl at the thought, remembering how she'd held him in her cell the night Zach died.

Look how far we've come, she thought. Look how far. And I ain't going to lose you too.

So she sung for him. For them. It'd been a good afternoon in the end, a really good afternoon. Almost perfect in fact. Daryl's eyes never left her, not for one second while she sang, even while he fidgeted with a broken arrow in his hands, even while his leg bounced and he bit down hard on his lip. And when she was done, he was almost smiling. When she was done, she was too.

She thought he'd come to her then. Lord knows, she'd been waiting long enough. So had he, but Daryl walked to his own tune and she knew enough about him to know that when he does - if he does, she reminded herself - it'll only be when he's sure. Sure of her, sure of him, sure of everything because Daryl Dixon has no game, doesn't know the rules and regulations of flirting and courting and dating. He comes right out and says it even when he doesn't know what he's saying himself. You know.

But it was Abraham who'd approached her, which - to be fair - was an improvement on Eugene always finding excuses to talk. He hadn't said much, told her that her singing was pretty and that he could also hold a tune once upon a time. Not like her. Nowhere near as good he kept emphasising, but he was ok, his voice wasn't nails-down-a-chalkboard bad. She'd said that maybe they could sing something together, something they both liked and then he'd called her Lady Bowman and made a quip about how she was messing with his heart now.

And that had been it. Any conversation they'd had since then had been nothing more than a few pleases and thank-yous, maybe a "pass the salt" or a "where's Daryl". Never even a "how's it going" or "good to see you". As she thought, wasn't much an ex-marine and a farmer's daughter had in common.

But not today. Today he's looking directly at her.

Directly at her, even as he says the words. The words she dreads.

"Mother of Christ Bowman, what the fuck have you done?"

His voice was strangely calm, sure there was an edge to it, but there was always an edge unless he was flirting with one of the women. But the look on his face, the way he's looking at her, the fact that he's talking about Daryl is enough to turn her blood to ice, make her swivel around in her seat, follow his gaze.

See.

She doesn't know what she'd expected.

Daryl had gone on a run alone that morning, looking for medication for Eugene. He had some or other skin condition that was exacerbated by the riot gear Abraham wanted him in and no one bothered to tell Rick and Michonne to pick some up before they'd left on their run a week before. So, tired of Eugene's in depth description of the look and smell of his rash as well as a foray into the actual underlying cause of it which seemed to involve a lot of pus and other bodily fluids, Daryl had taken it upon himself to go into the closest town where there was a pharmacy and he could find some unpronounceable antihistamines and antibiotics. It was a short run, easy to do alone. He was due back any minute.

She's looking forward to it. She's saved his lunch. They could walk the fence again. She's going to tell him she'd decided to keep the red dress - the one he told her to wear. Maybe he'll hold her hand again, maybe not and they'll just talk. Maybe they won't even talk. Sometimes they don't need to and the pieces of the puzzle that is them just fit together so perfectly that talking about it just seems redundant.

She doesn't know what she'd expected.

But it isn't this.

Except when she let her fears drag her down and it is.

He leaves the gate open as he staggers across the courtyard, barely able to stand, legs buckling and caving as he stumbles, grasping at his right arm, red with blood soaking through his shirt.

It takes her a second to fully comprehend what's happening, a second to realise that this is serious, a second to realise he's not going to stand upright for much longer. That he's wounded.

Oh God, please don't let it be…

And in that second, she's eerily reminded of how she watched him go down decades ago when they still lived on the farm and he'd come out of the woods wearing a macabre necklace of ears and walker guts before Andrea had shot him. They thought she hadn't seen it, but she had. She saw a lot of things those days that others wanted to protect her from. There ain't no protecting anyone from horror these days. Ain't even really a good idea to try. She'd watched from the porch, heard the sound of the gun, the explosion as he went down, the way Rick had hurried him back to the house, the way her dad had cleaned him up, let him sleep in his bed. She hadn't cared much then, not in a real sense anyway, she didn't have an emotional attachment to these invaders living on their farm. Not like Maggie. Not like her dad or Patricia. She was too numb at that point, too numb from what was happening, from her increasing loss of faith in her daddy's beliefs. Too numb to care.

But now? Now she's not numb. Not numb at all as she flies out from her seat, pushing past Abraham and Bob as they stand there gaping like idiots. Not numb as she charges across the courtyard, barely hearing Maggie calling to her, barely aware of Rick on her heels. Not numb as she reaches him first, shoving her shoulder under his arm, grabbing him around his chest, as he stumbles, as he leans heavily on her and threatens to pull them both onto the gravel.

Someone is saying his name over and over again and with a start she realises it's her. Her as she's trying to keep him standing, her as she's trying not to cave under his weight, her as she's trying to find the source of the blood and dreading the moment that she does.

"Not bit…" he grits out between his teeth, his eyes already glassy, his blood soaking through her white vest, the one with the pretty brocade neckline. "Not … bit … Beth."

She lets out a breath she hadn't been holding. And it feels like every fear, every worry she's ever had goes with it. The thought of him being bitten, the thought of him being infected is not one she entertains, not one she allows herself to dwell on but it's always there, lurking just below the surface of consciousness, sometimes even reaching up tentatively to invade her thoughts before she can push it away, shake it out of her brain like an insidious, sticky cobweb.

But it is there.

Every time he goes out the gates, every time he puts himself on the line she can't help that feeling that it's almost inevitable that one day he'll come back to her with a bite mark, big and round and suppurating and she'll have to find a way to say goodbye.

Or worse, one day, he won't come back at all.

But not today.

Because today he's here. Even as his blood courses down his arm, runs out of his veins and leaves a mess on the tar, the gravel, the weeds, he's here. Alive.

Not sick.

Not infected.

Not bit.

Not today.

They stagger again, veering towards the fence, his body almost covering hers so that her face is pressed to his shoulder and she can't see anything as she desperately tries to keep him up, keep him standing. It's like a dance, a death dance, but she doesn't know the steps and neither does he and that comforts her somehow. She thinks she feels tears on her cheeks but she can't be sure it's not his blood because he's going down fast, pulling her with him, his hand fisting on the back of her top, grabbing at the cotton so it pulls tight around her throat, over her chest. If he goes down, she'll never get him up, not alone.

"Daryl…" her voice is strangled and she still can't see his wound, his arm, but he's falling now, they're falling. His legs crashing into hers, his hands grasping at her, at her clothes, her hair, at the air.

And then suddenly the pressure is off her as Rick reaches them and grabs at Daryl's wounded arm, shoving it over his shoulder, stabilising them.

It's always been the three of them really, bonds forged separately and together, closer than friends, closer than family.

The apocalypse has a way of putting that into perspective.

Or not.

"I got you," Rick says. "I got you."

And it sounds like he's talking to both of them.

Daryl mumbles something, which sounds like he's telling Rick off, but she can't be sure because all she wants is someone to bandage him up, stop the flow of blood, put it back into his body instead of leaving it to drip all over the ground. But no one moves as they stagger back to the tables and somehow this pisses her off even more. Bunch of them waiting around, mouths open, like fish out of water.

"Don't just stand there, somebody help him," she half says half shouts the words as they head towards the benches. His arm is slack around her neck and she thinks they're more dragging him than anything else, but his head is turned towards her, hanging but resting against her shoulder.

It's Sasha and Bob that move first, which is good because they're as close to emergency response as any of them have right now.

"Get him inside to the infirmary," Bob's saying, as he holds the door open "we can't do anything out here."

Sasha's already on her way, Maggie too, Glenn close at her heels.

"You Stookey, you," Daryl slurs as Abraham pushes Beth aside to take his arm, yelling at her to go and close the gate. Briefly she wants to fight him, because the last thing she wants to do is let Daryl go, let them take him away, but Abraham is at least three times her size and built like a brick shithouse, so she lets it slide as he and Rick pour through the door, all shouting, a flurry of feet and hands, as they all but carry Daryl to the makeshift infirmary inside Terminus.

Leaving her outside, door slamming in her face.

Dead weight indeed.

XXX

She sits outside in the passageway with Maggie and Glenn. She hadn't allowed herself any time to wallow. They don't get to do that. She'd locked the gate, good and tight, like she was told and then flung herself through the door after them, ran down the hall only to find the infirmary closed and her sister and Glenn lingering near some fold-out chairs, faces strained, eyes a little too wild.

Abraham is inside bellyaching about something or other and she hears snatches of Rick's voice and then suddenly the door opens and the two of them come out, Abraham not acknowledging any of them as he stalks away in the direction of the canteen.

She ignores him.

He's always uptight about something

"Ain't nothing we can do now until Bob stitches him up," Rick says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's bad, sliced his arm open real good, wrist to elbow almost."

She nods, touches his hand with her own and is surprised when she feels him press a kiss to her cheek. Rick knows, she doesn't have to wonder how. He knows Daryl better than any of them and while she doubts the two of them sit around talking about their feelings and stuff, it seems that Daryl let something slip. Because there's no doubt in her mind in that moment that she could ask Rick how Daryl feels about her and he'd be able to give her an accurate answer. She doesn't want to though. She doesn't want second hand information.

Not about that.

"He's tough though. Toughest son of a bitch I know," Rick continues, and it sounds like he trying to convince himself as he sits down on the floor. She gives him a wan smile.

He's wrong though. Her dad was the toughest son of a bitch any of them ever knew. Even Daryl knew that.

"Bethy?" Maggie asks gently. "Why don't you come help me with the…"

Her voice trails off as their eyes meet and she shifts down next to Beth linking their hands.

"It's ok," she says. "Glenn and I will sit here with you and wait."

And they do, Maggie smoothing her hair, Glenn fetching tea and sitting with Rick, just as if it were a real hospital.

Beth's grateful. Grateful that Maggie understands, even if she really doesn't. Even if she doesn't really get how Daryl means something different to her than he does to everyone else. They haven't spoken about this, the two of them. Mainly because there's not much Beth can say right now. Maggie knows they bonded. Maggie knows they share a connection that's somehow private, somehow elevated. But Beth doesn't think Maggie really knows. Really gets how either she or Daryl feel about each other. That's ok because she's not that sure herself and neither is he. But no, she hasn't told Maggie about last night by the fence, last night when his fingers dug into her flesh and she all but whimpered under the roughness of his hands. Or yesterday when her heart missed a beat as his thumb ran over her lips.

She shakes her head. Stop it Beth. This isn't the time.

Something smashes inside and she grips Maggie's hand even tighter. Then she hears Daryl's voice - motherfucking cocksucker fuck - and she can't help but share a small smile with her sister. At least he still has his way with words.

It's then that Sasha opens the door, she's exasperated, blood on her shirt, hair messy, a sheen of sweat on her skin.

"Beth, can you come in here for a while?"

She's already standing, dropping Maggie's hand and wordlessly following Sasha inside where the coppery smell of blood and the paleness of Daryl's face as he sits on the edge of a sleeper couch, makes her want to gag and weep at the same time.

Sasha closes the door on Maggie and Glenn and Rick as Beth moves to Daryl side, next to his unwounded arm.

Bob's kneeling on the floor in front of him, holding a tweezers. He's stopped the bleeding which is good, tied a tourniquet high on his arm, so that the wound is only seeping instead of gushing like she remembers it from earlier. Although now that she thinks back, it may not have been as bad as that. She'll be the first to admit she was hardly thinking logically, sensibly.

"Not as bad as I thought," Bob is saying. "He says he cut it on some glass but he pulled the shard out which is actually the worst thing you can do, despite what Hollywood spent millions trying to tell us."

He looks up at Daryl, an indulgent grin on his face.

"Woulda thought you'd know better Daryl."

Daryl tries to scowl, but can't.

"Unfortunately," Bob goes on, "There's still bits of glass in there, which I actually do need to get out before we stitch him up."

He glances over to Beth. "And Sasha isn't exactly the one he wants holding his hand while I do."

She nods. Maybe in another life she would have blushed. But not now. They're beyond that now. Way, way beyond that.

"Has he lost a lot of blood?" she asks, sitting down next to him on the couch, angling herself so she's slightly behind him.

"Hard to say," says Sasha. "He's still awake and you can lose about 40% of your blood before things get really bad. He tried to stop the flow when it happened but not all that well. It's not great, but let's hope it's not too bad either. We don't know his blood type or anyone else's and even if we did it's not like we have the equip-…"

"He'll be fine," Bob interrupts. "I've got this."

Despite herself and her own worries Beth realises she likes these two. The way they balance each other out. Sasha with her cold logic, her realism. Bob with his gentle optimism, his confidence.

"Come on Daryl," Bob is saying. "This isn't going to be fun."

Daryl mumbles something which sounds like a repeat from earlier.

"You Stookey, you."

And Beth reaches around him and takes his good hand - the left one - in hers, squeezes it tight. His grip though is slack, loose, not anything like the firm way he held her hand last night. He's weak and that makes her sad because this isn't a weakness that she can work with. It's not like the cabin, not like the day she stopped him from falling apart by willing his pieces back together. And then he did the same for her.

You can't will this back together.

You can only pray and hope God wills this back together.

Even so, she holds his hand as tight as she dares, pulling him slightly so that he leans back into her, his shoulder resting against her chest, his neck a hair's breadth from her mouth.

He's easy, compliant, as she does this. Doesn't put up a fight like he probably would if he had all his faculties and could think straight. Doesn't seem to notice the look that Bob and Sasha give each other. Doesn't mind as she wraps her free arm around his shoulder, across his neck and shifts so that he's pressed against her. At least this feels right, feels like them. She might not have the skills to fix this but going through the motions again, being his support and holding him up makes her feel like she's in the right place at least, makes it feel like something they've done before and made it through to the other side.

No reason this should be any different. No reason at all.

She doesn't look at his wound. Rick told her enough about it already and it's too much like hers and that makes her feel guilty because hers was self-inflicted and his was caused risking his life for someone else. And that just brings up too many memories and emotions and right now all she wants to do is focus on him.

So she does, pressing him against her, watching Bob's expression over his shoulder.

Daryl hisses a little as the tweezers dig into his flesh, pulling out a bloodied chunk of glass and dropping it into a Royal Doulton fine bone china saucer.

Say what you like about these Terminus people, they had expensive tastes.

The next extraction doesn't go as well and he thrashes around a little trying to pull away, trying to stand. But she holds him. Tight like she did once before, whispering nonsense words in his ear, his hair, dirty and sweaty getting into her mouth as she does. But she doesn't care. She'll take him dirty and sweaty, she'll take him clean and gentle, she'll take him anyway he decides he wants to be as long as it's alive. He knows this. He must. It's like breathing and living and being.

And then despite his apparent weakness he grips her fingers really tightly against the pain. And she lets him.

There's a lot of glass. A lot of glass. He must have fallen through a window or smashed it with his bare arm. She doesn't know but it feels like they sit there for hours as he jerks against her, as he tries to ask her questions that he can't really pronounce, insult Bob with words he no longer has. As he glares at Sasha, as he tries to say something about Merle that just comes out as a series of groans.

She sings to him, House of the Rising Sun, then Pink Floyd's High Hopes. She doesn't know why she chose those songs but they calm him, calm all of them, her included. Bob even has a small smile playing on the edges of his mouth as he works.

"Beth," Daryl grits out as she finishes. "Beth."

His skin is clammy as he tries to turn in her arms to look at her.

"Hush," she whispers in his ear, holding him tightly, holding his pieces together. "Hush. I'm here."

She plants gentle kisses against his skin, just pressing her lips to the space where his shoulder and neck meet and he stills, giving her hand a small weak squeeze.

"Beth," he says. "Not bit."

"I know, I know," she whispers. "Hush."

"Not bit. With you."

He is, and even if he doesn't know it, that's how he's holding her pieces together too.

"Yes," she says and kisses his neck again. "Last man standing."

"Not standing," he says and she grins, but his grip on her hand is firmer and he's stopped fighting.

"Last one," says Bob as he drops the tweezers and she breathes a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, the smell of sweat and blood and antiseptic soap filling her up.

She holds him through the stitching and the bandaging. Still whispering nonsense in his ear, still kissing him gently when he starts to fight, tasting the dirt of him, the man of him under her lips. It goes easier than she expected, except for the moment when he notices the rubbing alcohol and tries to give Bob grief about it.

"You have this Stookey? The put you in charge?"

But Bob shrugs him off.

"He doesn't know what he's saying," he tells her as Sasha finishes with the bandage. But he does, she knows he does because he told her about Bob and the veterinary college and then later about Bob and the day Zach died.

She'd been numb about that too at first and then she'd cried a little. And he'd been ok with it and let her.

The dressing is neat and clean against his skin and it makes Beth feel a little better about everything. Like all her fears are contained under that one nice, sterile bandage and that somehow makes them manageable again.

She holds him against her a little longer, leaning her forehead on his shoulder. He might be high from blood loss but she's buzzing on adrenalin and she waits for it to ebb, to flow out of her veins so that she can breathe properly again, stop seeing the world through this crystalline mesh that clouds her eyes. Fact is though, it's like her arm is locked in place across him and she's not sure she knows how to move it. Wonders if she even should, because surely if they just stayed like this forever nothing bad could ever happen to them again?

But when he releases her hand and moves his fingers up to his neck to skim across her forearm in a movement that makes her shiver against him, she relaxes, loosening her grip as she shifts so that he can sit back against the couch.

"Stay," he asks her, touching her knee.

"Ok," she says.

Like it was even a real question.

Bob tells him he needs to rest and pulls the couch out so he can. He doesn't bother asking Beth if she'll watch him. It's a foregone conclusion, the only acknowledgement anyone makes is when Sasha brings her a folding chair and her book, the bad one, that she's only reading because she can't find anything else. The one about the busty vampire-angel hybrid Jezabella who flies around in impractical clothing looking for men to save and kill at the same time. It's a very bad book.

A very bad book and she tosses it aside, along with the chair and sits on the sleeper couch next to him, holding his hand in both of her own, kissing the dirty knuckles, tracing the ink on his skin, the marks she likes so much, glad he's a little too out of it to see her leaky red-rimmed eyes.

They bring him something to eat. A tin of black cherries in syrup and a handful of stale tea biscuits. They'd been saving those for a treat but keeping Daryl alive is a treat in itself, so no one dares say anything, not even Abraham. Sasha tells her to make sure he drinks a lot of fluids and leaves a few bottles of water on a shelf next to the medication.

He struggles with the cherries so she feeds him, sitting next to him on the bed with a teaspoon. It's an effort because he chooses to fight her, because he's irrationally angry that he can't do it himself. He messes and his mouth is smeared with syrup by the time he's done. There's still some cherries in the bowl though but he tells her to have them, so she sets them aside.

She moves to the chair.

"You should sleep," she tells him. "Sasha said it's important."

He nods, wiping at his mouth, before lying down facing her.

He's odd like this, she thinks, the way the fight goes in and out of him. Odd when he's angry, odd when he's vulnerable. It throws her a little and she's not sure what to do with it. It's like the cabin, but different again. He knew what he was saying then, just not what he was feeling. Or if he did know what he was feeling he pretended that he didn't. Now, he's different, compliant. Like his edges are the first to go when things go bad and also the thing he tries the hardest to resurrect.

She suddenly longs for the funeral home. It's selfish, she knows it is and it's almost disrespectful to what she has now. The fact that they got their dwindling family back, that most of the people they love are still alive. But she longs for that closeness, the way his edges were smooth, the way she saw what he was like when he was happy, the way he not only let her in through the chink in his armour but grabbed her and dragged her deep inside. The way he was one hundred percent fully committed to her, to them, to finding a life they could live together.

Even if they can be together now she doesn't know if they could have that again. If he would want that again.

"Stay," he asks again.

And she nods.

"I'll always stay with you," she tells him and she means it.

His eyes flare briefly and then he turns over onto his back, arm across his chest, staring at the ceiling. He's so pale, so white, so pasty even under his tan. Bob says he'll be ok, says they stopped it before he'd bled out too much but she's still worried, worried that tomorrow he'll just be gone.

Like she was.

Divine punishment for her lie. For telling him she won't leave him.

She watches him chew his lip, then his thumb, watches him close his eyes, wince a little as he moves his arm. And finally watches him sleep.

But this time she doesn't leave him. She doesn't intend to break that promise again. It was bad enough the first time. Lies, she doesn't like lies. Even when they're unintentional.

She knows Maggie and Glenn lie to each other occasionally. It works for them, but she doesn't think it would work for her. No secrets. Not any more. Not when she knows what it's like to lose him. How many more things would have been left unsaid if today had been the day?

But it's not.

It's not today.

And as the light fades and the sun goes down and his breathing is still regular and heavy, she knows it's not tonight either.

Bob checks in on them, adjusts Daryl's bandage as he sleeps, listens to his pulse. Sasha and Maggie stop by later, her sister's brow furrowed in concern and confusion that she knows has nothing to do with Daryl's injury and more to do with the fact she was sitting on the bed, holding his hand when Maggie came in. Regardless, she lays a kiss on Beth's head and tells her to wake them up if she needs them. Rick comes by before bedtime offering to relieve her but she waves him away telling him she'll call him if anything happens at all.

He hardly puts up a fight. She thinks he knows it's pointless. But he sits with her for a while anyway before squeezing her hand and heading out.

Alone, she reads by candlelight.

The book is still bad.

Worse than she remembered. Full of purple prose and dubious consent and improbable love scenes. Full of bad decisions as the plot lurches drunkenly along trying to simultaneously convince you of the heroine's intelligence and badassery while having her turn into a shrinking violet every time something goes wrong.

She really hates it. As in really, really hates it.

But she reads because otherwise she just sits and watches him and worries and somehow even Jezabella and her fur bikini and her ice planet is better than that.

But in the early hours of the morning it finally beats her and she tosses it, unable to read another word. The book knocks against the foot of the bed and falls to the floor, pages open. She glares at it and rests her head in her hands.

She tells herself that he's going to be fine, that Bob wouldn't lie to her, to them, about that. She tells herself that in a few days they'll be laughing about whatever he did. She tells herself that she loves him.

She didn't need to do that.

She knew it already.

She hopes he does too.

"Beth?" his voice is soft, hoarse and she looks over to the bed.

He's on his side now, facing her, eyes open. He looks better, his skin is dry. He doesn't look like a corpse.

She pushes that thought away as fast as she can.

She starts to apologise for waking him but he waves it away, patting the bed next to him. He doesn't need to ask twice and she's there, bottle of water clasped firmly in her hand.

"How are you?" she asks settling onto the mattress, one leg drawn up under her, the other anchoring her on the floor.

He looks at her.

"A little dizzy," he says, words still slightly slurred.

"Well at least you can speak now," she whispers.

He gives her a half smile.

"You still managed to give Bob a hard time though," she says and he snorts.

"Yeah, I'm a dick," he says. "When I lose all my blood."

She chuckles.

"Hungry?"

"Nah," he says. "Just thirsty."

She helps him drink some water. They both know he's capable of doing it himself but he lets her slide an arm around the back of his neck, lift his head so that it's half leaning on her shoulder, half on her breast as she holds the bottle to his lips. He drinks greedily, the muscles in his throat flexing under his skin as he does.

When he's done and he lies back down she asks him what happened even though she's not sure she wants to hear it.

He frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose and then rubbing his hand roughly over his face.

"I was a dumbass," he sighs. "Walker got the jump on me, knocked me through a window. Couldn't get my knife, dropped the bow. So there I am fighting with the thing, its teeth way too close and then I manage to roll it off me, but as I do I come down hard on this motherfucking shard of glass, right in my arm. But this geek is still going for it, snapping at me and I ain't got no weapon, can't get a grip on it, so I bring my arm down on its head, hoping the glass will cut deep enough to get its brain. It did, but the glass got stuck. That's why it was out of my arm. Not because I'm the asshole Stookey thinks."

She closes her eyes. The thought a little too much to endure.

"Jesus," she breathes even though she hardly ever blasphemes.

"Hey," he says touching her shoulder briefly. "It's ok. I'm ok."

She nods, even as she feels the tears.

"I know," she gives him a wan smile. "It's just that if something were to happen to you…"

"Ain't nothing gonna happen to me Beth, we've been over this."

"You don't know that. Especially after today. You can't know that." She doesn't like her voice like this. It sounds petulant, whiny even, but she can't help it. "You're out there, every damn day and I don't know when you're going to come back or if you'll come back and I just don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

She thinks he'll give her some wiseass remark, brush her off and make like she's making a big deal over nothing. But he doesn't.

He's looking at her, his eyes hard, like he's on the verge of figuring something out but somehow it eludes him.

He bites his lip and tugs on her hand.

"How long you been here?" he asks.

She shrugs.

"Since they brought you in."

"You sleep?" he asks.

She shakes her head.

It doesn't matter. He's worth losing sleep over.

He shifts over on the bed, the invitation clear. And he watches her, watches her to see what she'll do. And it's like he's daring her now.

He is.

But she's Beth Greene.

And she is that brave.

She is so, so very brave.

She is also that tired. Tired from worry, tired from being strong, tired from the world and its walking dead. And the thought of sinking down next to him, of sleeping with him, even if all they do is actually sleep, is tempting enough all by itself.

So, she kicks off her boots, tosses her sweater and stretches out next to him, resting her head on his chest, arm over his waist. She wants to touch his belly again, feel the hard muscles there like she did last night but somehow just lying here like this, their bodies touching in all the right and all the wrong places is enough for now.

"Thanks for sticking around," his voice is low, as he maneuvers his wounded arm around her and out of the way.

"Rather me than Bob," she says. "Or Abraham."

He snorts. She chuckles.

It's not that quiet outside tonight. The crickets are out in full force, chirping away and she can hear a slight breeze working its way through the trees, the hoot of an owl but nothing else, no hissing walkers, no talking, no gunshots. Just her and him lying here in the dark, the solitary candle guttering and casting long, insane shadows onto the walls.

Insane like him. Insane like her.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he says into her hair. It's his apology, even if it doesn't sound like one. She knows how to read him.

Her lips are so close to his neck and she wants to kiss him there again, like she did earlier, but it feels like everything has changed, like somehow her earlier frantic embraces were more ambiguous and understandable then than they would be now. Like pressing her lips to him now would be to cross a line. Although why she feels this way she doesn't know. Lines are crossed all the time here. Lines were crossed way back in the funeral home and outside that dump of a cabin. Hell, lines were crossed the day Zach died, the way even then he'd been unable to keep his gaze from her naked shoulder, the hint of lust from his eyes.

"I tried to hold you together," she whispers.

"You did," he says.

He gets it.

She knows he does.

He kisses her forehead and it's unexpected and her skin prickles. She knows he feels it as he runs a hand down her arm all the way from her shoulder to her wrist and back again.

It could just be a thank you, but it could also be something else, so she waits, still and quiet, barely even breathing.

And then he kisses her again. Same place, same feeling, lips lingering a little longer this time, like he's working up to something, pushing ahead a little further, a little more. Waiting for her to stop him.

But she's not going to stop him. Part of her knows that even if he were to rip every last stitch of clothing off her body right at this moment she wouldn't stop him. He wouldn't though, she knows this but there's a part of her, and it's not a small part, that wishes he would.

She wouldn't stop him.

She'd help him, rip his clothes off too, climb him - ride him - right here and now on this halfway comfortable sleeper couch. Anything, anything to prove he's alive, he's here, he's hers. She wonders what he'd say if he knew her thoughts. If it would excite him or frighten him. Probably both, exactly like he's doing to her right now.

He's tracing patterns on her arm, circles and spirals, loops and she knows if he doesn't stop soon, she's going to have her hands under his shirt again, on his skin, on his belly and she's not going to be able to stop herself and she's going to give too much away and she really doesn't want to because she really, really wants him to make the first move. Although now that she thinks about it, she's hard pressed now to define the phrase "first move" because in this world it seems so juvenile, because so many of them have been made, and she's still not sure where it's at.

She rolls onto her back, just to create a little distance between them, a place where their mouths aren't so close that she can trust herself not to press her lips to his. Her movement leaves his fingers stuttering in the air. But he barely misses a beat and rests his hand on her belly where her top has been pulled high and tight. He glances over at her, his face serious, a little shy, like he's asking permission. So she covers his hand with hers, moving it slightly, so slightly, encouraging without being forceful before resting her arm back at her side.

Beth Greene is brave.

Even where Daryl Dixon isn't.

Where he can't be.

But still he doesn't need a second invitation as he thumbs the skin around her navel and then strokes outwards with his fingertips to her hips, to her ribs, stroking over each one individually now that they're so easy to see, to feel.

She draws in a ragged breath, focusing on his touches, his breath tickling her neck, her ear, on how she wants to put her hands on him but she's not sure where because he's like a beaten dog that you want to kill with kindness and only succeed in chasing away.

He kisses her temple, sweet, kind, gentler than she thought him capable of.

And the candle dies, leaving the room in near total darkness, the only illumination from the stars outside, shining dimly through a small window.

"Beth?" he asks, voice thick, low, heavy and she knows the question without him even having to say it.

"Yes," she answers, her voice just as coarse as his hands on her belly.

His palm flattens against her, hard on her skin, rough fingers spasming. It's beautiful somehow. Beautiful in the way it reminds her that somewhere she's still soft, still feminine, still smooth and pretty.

She feels his mouth on her cheek first, warm and damp, a gentle brushing of his lips on her jaw, just under her ear. A shiver runs down her spine and she thinks that if he does kiss her she will go out of her mind because if she can't deal with the build up the actual thing will shatter her.

But then he moves over her, cups her cheek, his hand rough against her. She can feel his belly half on hers now, the first kiss of their skin, their first embrace. Even though it's dark she wants to close her eyes, wants the feel of him to fill her up, to overpower all her senses.

It seems like she waits millennia there, on that bed, with him looming over her, the sounds of their breathing blocking out the night, the smell of him, the tickle of his beard against her skin while he wrestles with himself, while he fights the voices in his head. It feels like an eternity. But it's not.

Because all she has to do is touch his jaw.

Lightly.

Softly.

The smallest encouragement.

The beaten dog.

It's all he needs.

It's all he ever needs.

And he moves his mouth onto hers.

His kisses are gentle, wary even. A little clumsy, a little awkward. She can taste the faintest trace of cherry syrup and under that a hint of tobacco as his tongue strokes into her mouth, as their teeth almost knock together while they try and figure each other out.

She's not worried, they have all the time in the world for that.

It's not perfect.

But it really is.

It is so very perfect as his hand slides back to her hip, fingers kneading her flesh a little too hard, a little too forcefully, a little too different from his kisses. But she doesn't care if she bruises, doesn't care if he marks her, doesn't care as she gives herself up to the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him, losing herself in the wetness of his mouth, the brush of his tongue, holding him to her because she's petrified that if she lets go, he'll be gone and this will be a dream and she'll wake up to a nightmare.

But she doesn't.

Even when his lips leave hers.

Even though it's too soon for her when he pulls away, too soon to let go. She can't see him in the darkness and thinks that's probably for the best, probably a good idea not to try and read each others eyes and faces, best to leave that for another time when they're both stronger and surer. Now isn't a good time, now she doesn't want to think. And she doubts he does either.

She thinks that's it and tells herself that she's satisfied with it. No reason to rush, especially now, but his thumb slips inside the waistband of her jeans, rubbing against her hip, smooth rhythmic strokes. Divine payback for last night, she wonders, as she goes taut next to him, as she feels each brush of his thumb echo through her, through him, through Terminus, through the world.

"Ok?" his voice is barely a rumble.

She nods, then realises he can't see and makes a small noise which sounds exactly like the one she made the previous night by the fence.

Maybe it's that, maybe it's the blood loss, maybe it's fucking Cupid's arrow, she doesn't know, but he turns back to her almost immediately, and his lips are against her neck, trailing wet open-mouthed kisses along her throat, over her jaw, teeth grazing the skin as her flesh goes tight, pebbling under his tongue. Short staccato kisses that she feels all the way down to her toes and back up again.

She doesn't want to cry out. It's not that she's worried anyone will hear, the walls are so thick here she hasn't even heard Glenn and Maggie and her bedroom is right next to theirs, it's more that she doesn't want to spook him, doesn't want to give him a reason to stop, doesn't want to give him an exit back to reality.

So she twists her hand into his hair and tugs him back towards her, parting her lips, encouraging him with gentle flicks of her tongue. And she feels the moment that he gives into her, the moment that all her worries ebb out of her body, the moment when she's suddenly never been more sure of anything in her whole life.

He might be a little hesitant, a little uncertain - exactly how she imagined it - but there's an eagerness she didn't expect, an enthusiasm that belies the way he's been trying so hard to play it cool. A hunger that he's fighting to keep under control. That she doesn't want him to keep under control.

Still, he's slow, his kiss hot and deep, thorough. Not rushed. Not forceful. But not timid either, not timid at all.

She shifts against him, his hand leaving her hip and moving up her back under her vest, fingers spasming on her. Her palm is on his belly now, sliding up his chest, resting against his heart. His skin is smooth, soft under her fingers except for the hard scarified ridges that she knows he'd rather she didn't touch. They're both scarred, both marked, and one day, she knows they'll need to find a way past it if they're to survive, if they're to have this. But not tonight, tonight, they can be with each other in the dark, in a room that smells of antiseptic soap and rubbing alcohol, in a world that the good Lord has seen fit to abandon in its darkest hour.

Even that thought can't really distract her now. Not now, when he's so sweet and so perfect and his kisses are gentle and thrilling and graceless.

When he eventually rolls onto his back, groaning, she knows they need to stop, so she moves to fit herself against him, hand resting fully on his belly and he holds it there.

"Stay," he says again.

But she doesn't know why. Because she'll never leave.

XXX

The morning is a little awkward. The disentangling, the exposed flesh, hastily covered, the way he can't meet her eyes, nor she his. But he still kisses her forehead, strokes her hair and breathes in sharply when she squeezes his bicep.

Her head is fuzzy but he seems better, wolfing down the remaining tea biscuits and cherries and a mug of coffee someone left by the bedside in the early hours of the morning. She says she hopes it wasn't Maggie but he tells her it was Michonne and seems even less happy about that. Tells her he saw her slip in with a tray, tells her he pretended to be asleep. Tells her there's no way in hell Michonne will let him live this down now.

She asks if it was worth it and he's quick to say yes.

She pulls on her sweater and her boots as she sits in the folding chair. He sits on the edge of the bed looking at the floor.

"Need to take a piss," he says and she nods as he walks out the door.

She retrieves her book, walks to the small mirror and studies herself. Her hair is a mess, but no more so than it usually is when she wakes up and her mouth is swollen. There's a small mark on her collarbone and she touches it gently before covering it with her clothes. It'll freak him out, she knows it will.

This was inevitable, always was. There was no going back after the funeral home, not really, but she hadn't really thought it through any further than this. And she's not sure how to pick it up now. Beth Greene's always had boyfriends, it kind of went with the territory when you're a pretty Southern belle with big blue eyes and blond hair. But this is different. Daryl's skittish at the best of times and this isn't the best of times.

But they'll figure it out, she knows they will.

She's about to start clearing up when she hears his voice outside, a low rumble and she edges closer to the door to see who he's talking to.

It's Abraham. Of course it's Abraham.

"Here," Daryl is saying. "I got your boy's meds."

There's a shifting as she hears the pills being passed between the two of them and silence.

"Look Daryl," Abraham starts and suddenly she knows this isn't going to go down well. "It ain't like I don't appreciate what you've done here, but how soon do you think you're going to be able to ride again? Because I don't need to tell you how important it is that we all start hauling ass to DC."

"Better ask the doc," Daryl says. "He didn't tell me shit."

"Fuck," Abraham says, his voice irate. "It's just you know how important this is and now you've gone and fucked up your arm and I don't know…"

"Hey, I was out there for you. Because you bunch of losers don't know what medication you need…"

"Daryl, I have a job to do. You people are messing with my timeline. You can't ride now. Do you have any idea how much time we've wasted, first looking for that girl of yours and now this?"

She sees Daryl twitch, hands balling into fists at his side, the bandage now starting to stain. And that's when she snaps. She's had enough of this, enough of Abraham treating everyone he can use as if they're his recruits and everyone he can't as if they're just some dead weight with nothing to contribute. Tired of the shit he dishes out because they insisted on finding her before moving on, tired of the way he thinks she's nothing but a pretty face and a physical outlet for Daryl. Enough of his snide comments and dumbass innuendos. Enough of him. She walks through the door and suddenly it feels like she's back at the prison and Merle and Glenn are fighting over whether to kill The Governor or not.

Abraham ignores her, he always does, but she moves so that she's right in front of him.

"We get it ok?" Her voice is controlled, no waver, no trembling and she feels eerily calm. "We get that your bullshit mission is top secret. We get that you don't like being stuck here with us. We get that you think there's at least half of us that you think you can just feed to the walkers. But we're family. We stick together. We all have jobs to do. You might not like all of them, you might not think they're all necessary or as important as what you do. But they are. We need them. And Daryl's job right now is to heal, to get better. My job is to make sure that happens. You don't get to push us aside, dump us. And if you don't like that then head off to DC and we'll see you when we get there. If we get there."

The passage is silent for a few seconds after her outburst. Abraham blinks, his walrus moustache twitching. But his eyes are hard and she knows that overstepped the mark, knows that this is probably going to cost them down the line.

He's gaping again, like he did yesterday and then he shakes his head, turns on his heel and walks down the passageway, muttering to himself.

Maybe shooting a gun off into a closed room would have been a better idea.

They stand there for a few minutes, watching him go. She wonders if this now counts as two conversations.

"You gonna have to pick a hell of a tune to make up for that, Greene" Daryl says touching her shoulder, but he's smirking as they walk back into the infirmary.

Yeah, she knows.

But she's not going to lose any sleep over it.

XXX

Four days later she offers to change his bandage. They've left it up to Bob and Sasha until now because they'd be more likely to spot a problem if there was one. But there's no infection, no glass, the pain is manageable when she can get him to take his painkillers and Bob said it should be fine for her not to herd Daryl to the infirmary twice a day to get a new dressing and handed over a small bag of gauze and tape so he could do it himself.

Except you know, he can't do it himself, and after almost taping his wrist to his thigh earlier in the day Beth decided to take over.

"Look," he says as he pulls the old bandage off. His skin is still raw, a long puckered scar running from just below his wrist almost to his elbow. He seems oddly proud of it but it makes her want to cry. He doesn't need any more scars. He doesn't need any more marks. He has enough. She once fancied she would heal them, now it just seems like every time she turns around there's more.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"What for?" he asks and she doesn't know how to explain that she's sorry for the scars on his back, the ones she knows his daddy left there, even if he's not ready to tell her yet. That she's sorry that the world never saw him as she does, that no one ever loved him like she does. That she's just sorry that things are still shitty and she doesn't know how to make them better.

"For this," she says indicating his arm. "I'm sorry you keep getting marks."

He takes her arm, the one with the scar and pushes her bracelets up so that the entire ugly line is there for the world to see. She looks away. Too many memories, too many regrets.

"Don't," she says. "It's ugly."

"It ain't," he says as he puts their two scarred arms together, the heat of his skin against hers as he runs his thumb over her mark. "It's part of you so it's pretty."

For a second she doesn't know what to say. She has no words, so she leans against him and he turns and kisses her temple. They're still testing each other out. Figuring this thing out between them. He's attentive, sweet. Sappy even without realising it. But he's still wary. Treating her like she's made out of some fine bone china that he thinks he'll break just by looking at her too long or too hard. But he does it anyway and even though neither of them have said anything to anyone yet, his long gazes say everything.

"And since there ain't no one here who can give you a tattoo, we need something to show we match."

"We match now?" she asks, a little incredulous.

"Yeah," he says and smiles like he's proud, like he's just said something clever.

He hasn't.

It's a dumb thing to say, so dumb she wants to call him on it. But she won't because this is his way again. His no-games, no-nonsense, straightforward way of telling her what he feels. You know.

But it's still dumb. Dumb because he doesn't realise the subtext. Dumb even if it's romantic, dumb even if it's the confession she's been waiting for.

Dumb because even though they both have scars they don't need them to match. They've always matched.

Always been perfect.