Beth wakes alone, blinking up at the stippled white ceiling of a stranger's living room.
She shifts, groaning as her muscles stretch, to look around the room. Soft sunlight filters in through the gaps between the boards Daryl fastened to the windows, bathing the room in a hazy glow. Beth wants nothing more than to turn over and go right back to sleep. The couch might as well be a king-sized feather bed for how comfortable it feels after so many nights sleeping on the hard ground.
Beth hears the creak of a floorboard and the sound of the sliding glass door in the kitchen gliding open and shut. Grudgingly, she sits up, pushing the blanket off of her. She glances down at it, fingering the wide, crocheted loops of candy apple red and sky blue yarn. It's cheerful and a little tacky, like something her Nana would have made. She spares a thought for her father's sweet, tough mother, the sparrowish woman who taught Beth to play the piano and lived to see 97 years before dying in her sleep when Beth was nine.
She stares down at the afghan. She doesn't remember finding it or pulling it over herself when she woke Daryl to take his turn to watch in the middle of the night. He must have thrown it over her in her sleep.
Standing, she stretches her arms over her head and wanders out into the hallway. Through the large glass doors, she sees Daryl standing on the patio, smoke rising around him from the stone fire pit. He crouches down to poke the fire with a stick, nudging at the crackling branches.
Beth observes him for several moments. He rises, looks out over the yard. He cocks his head slightly before turning and looking back through the smudged glass door, right at her. He reminds her, in that moment, of the half-feral black barn cats that roamed the Greene farm, whose keen awareness of their surroundings made it impossible for Beth to ever sneak up and pounce on them for a forced cuddle.
Daryl meets her eyes and a little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He nods, and Beth grins at him.
"Mornin'," she says as she pushes open the door and steps out into the crisp bright air.
"Mornin'," he replies, breath escaping his mouth in a cloud. He nudges at the stone base of the fire pit with his booted toe. "Was hopin' to have some breakfast goin' before you got up."
"What's on the menu?" she asks, pulling her hands into her hoodie sleeves to keep her fingers warm.
"Beans and pickled watermelon rind," Daryl replies.
"Dang," Beth sighs. "I wanted a Belgian waffle with mile-high whipped cream and strawberries, but I guess beans and pickled watermelon are almost as good." A smile pulls at the corner of Daryl's mouth, and Beth grins.
"Tell you what," Daryl says, setting the stick aside and shoving his hands in his pockets, "next Waffle House we see, we'll stop. Just for you."
Beth snorts and Daryl smiles, and Beth thoroughly enjoys the sight of the tips of his ears turning dark pink. She likes the subtle little reactions she can wrest out of him sometimes. He's been so serious since they fled the prison, so stoic, so that even the briefest glimpse of lightheartedness in him ignites a matching joy in her.
Daryl glances at her hands, bundled into fists in her sleeves, and frowns. "You cold? C'mere," he says, giving her sleeve a tug to pull her closer to the fire. He moves her in front of him, his hands clasping her elbows. There's a strange pause where he's standing behind her, breath ruffling the hair on the top of her head, and it almost feels like he might stay there, might wrap his arms around her and pull her back against his chest. Beth wonders just how pink her ears are turning.
But Daryl steps back from her, puts space between them and stands beside her. Beth releases a tight breath.
Holding her hands up to the heat of the fire, the flames thawing the chill from her fingertips, Beth watches as Daryl pries open two cans of beans and sets them on the grate. He pulls the jar of watermelon rind out of his pack and unscrews the lid with a metallic pop. He holds it out to her.
"Thanks," Beth says, fishing out a pale piece of rind. It's tart and sweet and vinegary on her tongue, and the taste reminds her of home, of Patricia's preserves, of winter.
"Mornings ain't as nice as they were a few weeks ago," Daryl says, pocketing the closed jar and holding his hands out to the fire.
"No kiddin'," Beth says, rubbing her hands against her upper arms to scrub away the chill. "You wanna know one nice thing about the weather gettin' colder, though?"
"What'sat?"
"No bugs," she says, smiling. Daryl just makes a soft "pfft" noise in reply, and Beth grins. It seems like mere days since they were sweltering in the woods, being bitten raw each night by swarms of mosquitoes. Now each day is shorter than the one before it, the bugs have all gone, and there's a hint of frost in the air when morning comes.
"You sleep all right?" Daryl asks, without looking up from the fire. Beth glances at him.
"I guess," she replies, "why?"
"Nothin', you was just thrashin' around a lot, talkin' in your sleep."
"Oh. Just dreamin', I guess." She shrugs, slightly embarrassed, and decides not to ask exactly what she said.
Daryl nods, a subtle look of relief crossing his face.
They're quiet as they eat the beans side by side on beige plastic adirondack chairs. Beth looks out at the yard, at the overgrown grass, at the large houses packed close together on every side, pool slides and pergolas peeking over the tops of the tall fences. There's not a single tree in the neighbourhood.
"You ever wanna live in this kinda place?" Daryl asks, then. Beth looks over at him. He's squinting out at the dark windows of the other houses, his spoon gripped in his fist. He glances at her, and Beth suspects he might be asking her another question altogether.
"What, like when I pictured what my life was gonna be?" she asks. He nods. Beth considers it, frowning as she thinks back, tries to recall what she imagined for herself at 16, before the world fell apart. It's hard to remember. She put all that away somewhere, months ago. Now it feels like a recollection from a past life.
"I wanted to move to Nashville," she says softly, looking down. She pokes the tip of her spoon at the few remaining beans swimming in sugary brown sauce at the bottom of the can. "Live in a crappy little apartment, write songs, play coffeehouses and bars. Get discovered." She rolls her eyes; her girlhood dreams are embarrassingly trite and naive to her now.
"You woulda," Daryl says, scraping at the bottom of his can, peering into it. He glances up at her and a half-smile curves his mouth. "I've heard you sing; you're pretty good."
Beth turns her face away to hide her pleased smile. What would have felt like faint praise from almost anyone else feels like much more from Daryl. "What about you?" she asks. "Did you wanna live somewhere like this?"
Daryl makes a soft, derisive noise, tosses his empty can into the fire. "Hell no. Too many people crowded 'round, watchin' you all the time. Gives me the creeps."
Beth isn't surprised; he looks incongruous here even now, with the place easing quietly into ruin. But there's something about the way his mouth twists as he rejects the idea - places like this rejected him first. Beth scoops the last few beans into her mouth, licks the spoon clean, and thinks about all the things she wants to ask him in that moment.
Where did you grow up? What was it like? Do you miss anyone from those days? Did it scare you, when your dad would shoot things inside the house? What was your mom like? How old were you when you finally got away?
Why on earth do you stay with me?
"Let's get crackin'," Daryl says, standing up. Beth blinks up at him, startled from her thoughts. "Gonna go see if there's anythin' worth keepin' in the garage, the basement."
"I'll check upstairs," Beth replies, glad to have a job to do. It pushes her gnawing thoughts aside.
They go back inside the house and split up. Beth heads upstairs, keeping her footsteps as light as she can. It's more reflex than choice, now, moving quietly. She doesn't need to be; they cleared the entire house last night before locking it down. But there's something about poking through people's homes, pawing through their things, that still feels wrong to her. It still feels like the owners are about to appear out of a back room, demanding to know what she thinks she's doing.
Beth wanders into the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. It's a teenage girl's room, crammed with things, untidy, the walls covered floor to ceiling with posters and drawings. A little TV table under the window creaks beneath the weight of scented candles and bottles of nail polish. Dozens of photos of grinning girls adorn the wall over the desk. The bed is unmade, and clothing and shoes and books litter the floor. Beth smiles. The mess is not evidence of a struggle, she knows. It's only evidence that the space belonged to a teenage girl as she exploded into adulthood. Beth was tidier than the girl who once occupied this room, but the riot of colour and music and books and life is painfully familiar.
Digging through the closet, Beth is delighted to find a pair of jeans that fit her, as well as a couple of long-sleeved t-shirts and a pair of leggings. Most of the clothes more or less fit her, in fact, but there's only so much stuff it makes sense to carry, even with cold weather approaching. So, Beth changes into the jeans, stows the t-shirts and leggings in her backpack, and leaves the rest.
The pack of rainbow hair bands and the unopened stick of deodorant she finds in the girl's nightstand spread a grin across Beth's face, and she shoves them in her pack.
Searching the other bedrooms and the bathrooms, she finds a half-full bottle of antibiotics, a roll of gauze, a blue flannel shirt that might fit Daryl, and a few books of matches.
When she descends the stairs to the main floor, she finds Daryl at the front door, removing the boards he nailed on the night before.
"Find anythin' good?" she asks.
Daryl nods, grimacing as he braces to yank the last board off the doorframe. "Found a box of ammo for the handguns. They took their guns with 'em, though."
"Dang," Beth says, watching him as he opens the front door. A chilly gust of wind blows into the foyer, belying the cheerful sunshine that lights the hallway. Daryl adjusts the backpack and the crossbow on his back, and looks at her.
"There's more houses to scavenge," Beth says, looking around the neighbourhood. "Might be worth it. What do you wanna do?"
"What do you wanna do?"
"I asked you first."
Daryl glances at her with barely restrained impatience. "I think we oughta keep movin'," he says. He gestures out at the neighbouring houses. "We pick a house and secure it, sure, but what about all the places nearby? Good cover for all kinds of - whatever."
Beth stares out at the other houses, and she sees what he means. They could be watched from so many places, and they'd have no idea. The dark, empty windows of the other houses take on a different appearance to her now, ominous and staring.
"Yeah, okay," she says, and suddenly she wants the cover of trees and the shelter of a little holler somewhere. She wants the soft sound of their boots in the dirt, of the forest's creatures moving through the underbrush. She wants to leave this place.
So they do. They walk out of the cul-de-sac and along what must once have been a lovely paved bike path that curves around the edge of the suburb. It's overgrown, now, with weeds and grass, wild scrubby hedges of chinese elm and honeysuckle. They follow the trail until it ends at a railway crossing.
They cross the tracks, Daryl throwing their bags over the tall chain link fence. He climbs up and over, landing on his feet on the other side with a soft oof. He stands up straight and flips his hair out of his eyes, and there's something terribly young about the motion. Beth wonders if he's always been this way, this jarring blend of confidence and uncertainty, and she tries to imagine him at her age. Was he cocky and brash? A sullen loner? Awkward and defensive? Loyal and kind? He's all of these things, she's learned, and she suspects he's many things more. She hopes he'll keep showing her, even if it's one small glimpse at a time.
Beth climbs the fence, swinging her leg over the other side to climb down, and she jolts in surprise when she feels Daryl's hands grab her hips. She lets go of the fence, lets Daryl ease her safely to the ground.
"I can climb a fence on my own, you know," she says gently, turning around as she straightens her hoodie. His cheeks are pink and he shrugs.
"I know," he replies, turning away from her.
They follow the path cut by the railway for a while. The only obstacle they meet is a fallen dead tree that's downed a portion of the fence. Beth walks along the steel rail like a balance beam, watching Daryl search the ditches and the trees beyond for squirrels or rabbits, crossbow in hand.
"We should remember where this place is," Beth says. "Might be worth comin' back to, sometime, you know? When we have more people to fill the houses, maybe."
"Hm," Daryl replies, neutral. "I'll remember where it is."
Clouds drift across the sky as they walk, blowing slowly together until the sun is hidden and the sky has turned cold grey. The wind picks up, and Beth shivers inside her hoodie. She wonders if it's November yet, or still October.
When the rail line crosses over a creek, Daryl points at the treeline with his bow.
They descend the gravel bank and disappear between the trees.
Beth dreams.
She dreams about the time before the turn, of harvest time and church and algebra and dances and trail rides in the woods. She dreams of her life now, of running and scrabbling in the dirt. Living like a wild animal, finding a strange sort of comfort in the shade of the trees, in the dirt beneath her fingernails, in the smell of pine sap and rotting leaves.
But she dreams most of all about the prison, about singing to Judith and cuddling her close, about all of them sitting outside in the courtyard with plates of roasted rabbit and fresh cucumbers on their knees, about Lori's kind smile, and the way Daddy always knew just what to say to make her feel like everything was going to be all right.
Beth dreams about things that have happened, things that haven't, things that now never could. Like the orchards and grain fields she wanted to see stretch out to the prison's fences in every direction, the smokehouse Daryl and Rick were going to build for when they slaughtered the hogs, the birthdays and holidays she imagined, that would offer them all reprieve from the nightmare of the outside world.
We can live here.
We can live here for the rest of our lives.
Beth is woken by the sensation of Daryl's hand covering her mouth. He's holding her tight from behind.
"Walkers," he whispers in her ear, his voice no more than a breath stirring her hair. Goose pimples break out all down her arms and legs as her heart slams against her ribs and adrenaline begins to pump through her veins.
Beth nods quickly against his hand and Daryl releases her. She knows better than to speak. She turns toward him as silently as she can, resisting the urge to panic and scramble away into the dark woods.
Their fire is long since dead and cold, not even smouldering anymore. Beth can barely see Daryl's face in the dark, can just make out the clouds of foggy breath they pant into the chilly night air.
Daryl makes a gesture to indicate there are at least two of them, and that they're on the other side of the tin can alarm on the far edge of the camp. He points at their few supplies, then jerks his thumb away from the walkers. Beth nods again, and Daryl stands with his crossbow, moving silently across their camp.
Beth throws the backpack on, removes her knife from its sheath and grips it in her right hand, crouching in the darkness as she waits.
She hears the walkers shuffling through the brush, then a soft thwunk as Daryl discharges his crossbow. Beth hears something heavy hit the forest floor in a crash of leaves and branches, followed by a muttered curse from Daryl. He's at her side again, grabbing her hand.
"Too many," he hisses. "C'mon."
They take off into the dark woods at a run. Daryl's grip on her hand is almost crushing as they move. Beth knows they could run easier without holding onto each other, knows Daryl must know it too, but he doesn't let go.
The moon is large and bright and low in the sky, almost a harvest moon. Beth is grateful for the light it reflects into the woods, allowing them to move faster than they would in complete darkness.
"Where are they?" she gasps as they run.
"Where the fuck ain't they?" Daryl snaps back.
They run and run until it hurts to draw breath. Beth's muscles ache with exertion, her head throbs, and dark spots dance before her eyes.
Daryl is the one who stops, finally, skidding to a halt in the fallen leaves where the terrain starts to slope downwards. Beth hears the sound of running water nearby; they're by the edge of a creekbed.
Beth half collapses against the solid trunk of a large oak tree, leaning her head on her arm as she pants for breath. Her lungs burn and her head swims as she struggles to suck in enough oxygen.
You're alive, she tells herself, hugging the scratchy bark of the tree. If it hurts, it means you're alive.
Daryl is a foot away, leaning down on his knees and struggling to catch his breath himself. He glances up at her, sees her looking, and for a moment they just stare at each other.
Beth doesn't know how to feel about the fear in his eyes.
A rustle from the nearby underbrush startles them, and Daryl's hand finds hers.
"C'mon," he whispers, giving her a tug.
They crouch down and move as silently as they can through the dark woods, the shuffling of the herd never far behind.
They emerge from the woods at a crossroads. The moonlight is brighter in the open, and Beth watches Daryl as he scours the clearing, searching for a place to hide. He points at a narrow metal culvert that runs under the road. He drops her hand and runs to it, bending down to kick free the rusty grate that covers it. He turns to look back at her, waves her over.
Beth crouches beside him, eyeing the corrugated metal tube doubtfully. The opening is only about two feet across.
"It's narrow enough to keep 'em out," Daryl whispers. "They ain't coordinated enough to follow us in here. Keep quiet and they won't spot us."
Daryl nudges her in the arm, and Beth reluctantly hauls herself feet first into the culvert, lying on her side. Daryl climbs in next to her, pulling the grate into place after him and squeezing in beside her so that they lie face to face.
"Hold up," Daryl grunts, maneuvering his crossbow down to rest behind his bent knees.
It's damp in the culvert, and smells vaguely of something dead and rotting. Beth peers down past their feet, where she can see a pile of leaves and something lumpy at the other grated opening, the likely source of the stench. She looks away.
The sound of their laboured breathing reverberates off the corrugated metal. Beth stays tense, trying to hold herself away from Daryl, trying not to crowd him. But their positions make it impossible and her muscles shake with the effort. Reluctantly she allows her muscles to relax, and lets her head slowly sink to rest on her bent arm, her forehead falling against his chest.
Daryl remains tense beside her, but says nothing. He exhales noisily, his breath brushing her ear, sending goose pimples down her arm. In the distance, a low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky, bowling in their direction.
Minutes later, the herd of walkers catches up with them.
Beth cranes her neck to see through the end of the culvert. The walkers shuffle back and forth across the entrance, seemingly confused that their prey has disappeared but its scent hasn't. Beth supposes the two of them will be safe enough like this, but there's no real barrier between them and the walkers. It reminds Beth of the night they spent in the trunk of that abandoned car, thunder and all, only this is less secure.
Beth trembles, hates that they can still affect her this way.
Daryl's arm falls across her, heavy and solid. Beth freezes as his hand spreads wide between her shoulderblades. He pushes, urging her close to him, and his hand is a warm, solid weight in the middle of her back, holding her close.
The sky flashes with lightning, illuminating the inches between them. Daryl's arm is snug around her middle, and she can feel every breath he takes against her like he's tugging an electric wire behind her bellybutton. Lightning flickers in rapid succession, but there's no thunder, no rain.
Beth presses her face to Daryl's chest, feels the comforting weight of his arm, and waits for the storm to pass.
Beth wakes to the sound of birds singing, to the morning chill, and to the comforting sensation of being pressed close to Daryl's warm body. She opens her eyes slowly, breathes in the damp, musty air inside the culvert. She shifts, stretching her sore muscles, and takes in her position.
She's snuggled right up to Daryl's back, her nose touching the collar of his jacket. He must have rolled over in his sleep. She can smell the dried sweat and dirt on him, although she supposes she could just be smelling herself. Her arm is thrown across his waist, covered by his forearm, his hand over top of hers. His breathing is deep and even; he's asleep.
Beth props herself up on her elbow and takes a moment to look at him without him scowling at her or turning away or telling her to "quit gawkin' and start walkin'" or whatever gruff brush-off he comes out with.
His face is slack, his long, unkempt hair falling in his eyes. His head is pillowed on the arm beneath him, the other resting on top of hers, loosely holding her hand. His crossbow rests against his legs, loaded and ready to be grabbed at the slightest sign of danger.
It's strange to see him so unguarded. Stranger still that he didn't wake up when she reached an arm across him in her sleep to anchor them together.
He shifts in his sleep, groaning and rolling towards her, onto his back. He doesn't let go of her hand but doesn't hold it, either. It simply rests gently sandwiched between his palm and the solid muscle of his abdomen. Beth watches, breathless, as he frowns, his eyes moving restlessly under their lids. His breathing shallows, and he opens his eyes, looking right at her.
"Good morning," she says, smiling.
Daryl's frown deepens, and before she can say a word, he's squirming his way out of the culvert. Beth follows him, hauling herself out with her elbows and getting to her feet.
Face flushed, he stands there for a moment, pointedly looking anywhere but at her, his hands in fists, tense like a cornered animal.
It's almost ridiculous, his embarrassment, given that they've spent weeks keeping watch for each other while they've slept. Beth feels the urge to laugh, but it passes quickly at the sight of his mounting anxiety.
"Daryl, it's okay, it's -"
"Gotta take a piss."
Beth watches his retreating back as he disappears into the brush, his ears poking out from his messy hair, bright red. She swallows, her throat dry, and tries to think of something other than how her hand felt, pressed gently between Daryl's hand and the plane of his stomach.
Sighing, Beth retreats into the bushes to pee.
Daryl's waiting for her when she returns, and in silence they turn and walk into the woods.
Daryl leads, keeping a brisk pace that Beth suspects she's not meant to match. She lets him charge ahead, keeping her eyes on his back, allowing him the space to avoid her. She knows he can't - won't - avoid her forever.
Beth watches Daryl as he draws his hunting blade against his cheek slowly and deliberately, wiry beard hairs falling like leaves into his lap.
They've stopped by a little spring that feeds a stream. Daryl finally relaxed enough to let her catch up to him in the mid-afternoon, and now they sit by the stream, Daryl crouched on the rocks, using his knife and a piece of broken mirror to shave. Beth sits on the ground across from him, her back against the trunk of a tall tree.
"You clean up real nice," she says, teasing him. He gives her a look like he can't tell if she is mocking him or just playing. Beth grins at him and he huffs a little laugh, his face turning ruddy under her scrutiny.
"Was startin' to bug me," he says, running the knife against his jaw. Beth watches his careful movements, watches the rough skin of his face redden from the abrasion, his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows.
"Same," Beth replies, screwing up her nose and lifting an arm to indicate her armpits. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and Beth can actuallysee him stifle it.
Beth looks at the little stream, not deep enough for a proper wash (or at least what passed for proper these days) but clear running. She chews her lip, acutely aware of the dirt and sweat caked to her skin, and decides.
She stands and walks a ways down the stream where the ground slopes, not so far that she's wandered out of his eyesight, but not so close that it's awkward. She strips her hoodie and her layers of scavenged, filthy tops until she's only wearing her bra and her jeans and boots.
Her feet itch for fresh air and hot water, for soap and a pristine white bathroom. Soon, she tells herself. Soon they'll find somewhere safe, with water, somewhere to stop and rest and get really clean. Soon.
For now, a half-assed bird bath in a frigid stream will have to do.
She unties her hair and lets it fall in greasy, clumpy waves around her shoulders. She unwinds her braid and rubs the pads of her fingers against her scalp. She can feel the dirt and sweat and grunge, and oily flakes of skin fall all around her. Where once she would have been repulsed, she now only groans at the relief of scratching and yearns for shampoo to wash it all away.
"Hey," she hears Daryl call from up the bank. She glances and sees him standing there, his back to her, holding something in his right hand.
"Yeah?" she calls back.
"Soap," he says, and tosses it backwards over his shoulder. It sails past her, into a clump of weeds several feet away.
"Dang it, Daryl," she mutters, frowning. He could have just turned around and tossed it to her nicely. She hardly cares if he sees her in her bra at this point.
Of course, maybe he cares.
Beth retrieves the soap from the brush, relieved the soap didn't land in the small patch of poison ivy she finds there. Returning to kneel on the sandy bank of the stream, she holds the bar of soap in her hand. A fresh one, still in its printed wrapper. Pine View Golf and Country Club. She's surprised there's still any left, although they don't exactly use soap liberally. Not with the thoughtlessness she had before.
She peels the paper wrapping from the soap and lets it fall to the forest floor. She cups the off-white cake in her palms, lifts her hands to her face, and inhales the scent deeply. It smells like hotel soap, a generic, plain soapy smell, like clean laundry. It smells like heaven.
Glancing up the bank to see Daryl still standing with his back to her, Beth removes her dingy bra, shivering as she tosses it at the pile of clothes she's heaped on a nearby rock. It would feel so good to strip everything off, to wash it all and herself too, but she doesn't want to remove her boots in case they need to run. Instead, she soaps up and scrubs her arms and her face and her armpits, scrubs at the dirt and sweat that stain her neck. Her skin stings from the cold water, prickling her arms and stomach, but she doesn't care. It feels luxurious to get even half clean like this.
Beth flips her head forward and soaks her hair, gasping at the sting of cold water on her scalp. Futile as it seems, she rubs the soap into her roots, trying to dislodge at least some of the grunge. She rinses it carefully, gently pulling tangles apart and watching long threads of blond hair disappear with the current.
It's too cold to luxuriate for long. Beth wrings her hair out and grabs the spare rag she keeps in her back pocket, using it to pat herself dry.
"Y'almost done?" Daryl calls from his watchpost.
"Yeah, I'm done!" she replies, squeezing the last drops of water from her hair. It's gotten incredibly long, falling past her shoulder blades and creeping towards her waist. Beth holds the damp strands in her hands, threading them through her fingers, examining the frayed ends. She supposes she should cut it. It would be more practical for her hair to be short, like Maggie's. More practical, perhaps, but somehow not quite her.
Beth pulls all of her hair up and piles it on top of her head, securing it in a messy ponytail. She remembers the way the men who tried to take her grabbed her by her hair, using it to restrain her. She frowns, absently rubbing the crown of her head.
An owl hoots nearby, and Beth shivers. The sun has gone down past the trees and it's getting cold in earnest now. Beth glances up the bank to see Daryl's gone.
Beth dresses, pulling her dirty bra and her tops back on. She trudges back up the bank and through the woods to the little ridge where they'd staked out a camp. Daryl's there, banking up a fire much larger than they're normally willing to risk.
Daryl looks up as she approaches. "Thought you might…" he trails off, gesturing with a stick at the fire.
Beth smiles, sitting down beside him, her knee bumping against his. He has his knife and a bolt out, sharpening the tip. The warmth of the fire is intense, chasing away the chill on her skin and drying her hair in a halo of frizz. Her stomach rumbles.
"Guess what," Beth says. Daryl glances over at her.
Beth leans down and rummages in her pack until she feels the cans. Two, without labels. She turns toward him and holds them out.
"It's mystery can night," she says. "Hurray?"
The corner of Daryl's mouth quirks, and he sets aside the bolt and knife.
"My turn, right?" he asks, scratching his chin with the tip of his thumb. Beth nods. Daryl contemplates the cans a moment longer before pointing to the one in Beth's right hand. She nods, and places the rejected can back in her pack.
"I hope it's ravioli or something," Beth says, pulling out her knife.
"Damn, girl, this ain't Thanksgiving," Daryl replies. Beth glances at him, sees the half-smile lurking around his mouth. "We'd be lucky if it was beans. Probably gonna be beets or some shit."
Beth laughs. "I wouldn't mind pineapple or peaches or something. But yeah - no more beets."
"C'mon, Greene," Daryl says, rubbing his hands together. "Get 'er open. Ain't got all night."
Beth smiles, rolling her eyes, and punctures the top of the can with the point of her knife. She hits it three more times, then begins to prise the lid off. Creamy liquid bubbles up through the fissure in the metal.
"Creamed corn," Daryl says immediately.
"Oh," Beth says, unable to help her disappointed response. She's so sick of creamed corn.
"Fed up with it?" Daryl asks, his tone carrying no admonishment.
"No, it's fine, of course," Beth replies, shaking her head. She's embarrassed; it shouldn't matter what food they have, just that they have some. She places the can carefully at the edge of the fire. She's gotten the hang of how to place a can so that it warms quickly, but doesn't scald or heat unevenly.
"Gettin' kinda tired of it myself, to be honest," Daryl grumbles. He twists around in place and rummages in the leaves behind him. "Got good news for you, then," he says, turning back around. In his hands is a squirrel, skinned and gutted, skewered by two sharp sticks, ready for roasting. "We're havin' meat with our creamed corn. Ain't much, but..." He shrugs.
"When did you catch that?" Beth asks, more delighted than she'd have ever imagined at the prospect of roast squirrel.
"Dumbass wandered right by me while I was sittin' up here waitin' on you to finish your spa time," he replies. "Weren't nothin.'"
"Spa time," Beth grouses, trying to hide her smile. "You could use some spa time."
"Thought I cleaned up all right?" Daryl says. He slants a look at her, a playful glint in his eye, and Beth grins.
"You do," Beth insists, nudging him in the arm with her elbow. "When you actually clean up." He doesn't reply, just leans forward to arrange the squirrel over the flames. He sits back beside her and in silence they watch the flames lick at the meat. Beth takes the whetstone from her pack and starts sharpening her knife, dragging the blade against the stone. Daryl's quiet beside her, his hands still for once except for the occasional adjustment to the squirrel roasting away in the piney smoke over the fire.
It surprises Beth, then, when Daryl's gruff voice disturbs the silence.
"I shouldn'ta fell asleep," he says, his hands cupped loosely in his lap. It takes Beth a moment to figure out what he's talking about. He means that morning.
"Oh," she replies. "It's okay. We were pretty safe in there, right?"
Daryl exhales in a sharp, disagreeable huff. "It ain't okay. Ain't smart. Sure as hell ain't safe. We gotta take turns."
"I know. We do, mostly," Beth says.
"Think that's enough?" Daryl says, flat and blunt, turning to look at her. His eyes are narrow and hard. Troubled. "Out here, every night, takin' turns? With nothin' between us and them but a goddamn piece of twice and some cans." Daryl pokes at the fire with a stick. "Now we ain't even got that."
It's hard to hear his frustration, the depth of his pessimism. Beth swallows hard, looking down at the knife and whetstone in her hands. She wonders whether it's truly pessimism, or if it's simply pragmatism. Moreover, Beth can't help but wonder if he's right, and even as she wonders, she knows in her gut that he is. He's right - it isn't enough. It's been enough for them to get by, but only just, and it won't be enough forever. There's a reason they haven't run into tons of people like them, wandering in little groups.
Those people are all dead, by now.
"We need a place," Beth says softly, only realising it as the words trip uncertainly from her mouth. She swallows the lump in her throat. "We need to find some kind of place. I don't know what, or where, but something. Where we can spend the winter. We have to."
"Yeah," Daryl scoffs. "Until it gets overrun, or people come, or…" He turns slightly and glances at her. His face is half in shadow but Beth knows what he means. The car with the white cross. The men.
"Don't think about that," Beth says, reaching for his hand. It trembles in hers. He's scared. It should frighten her that he is, but it doesn't. Instead, she feels resolve. She knits her fingers with his and squeezes. "Don't think about it. Not yet. We just gotta take it one step at a time. We don't know what's gonna happen or not happen. So let's find a place. Let's start there."
"Won't be safe," he says, the frustration gone from his tone, replaced by something lower, something sadder. "Won't ever be safe."
"I know," Beth replies, squeezing his hand again. He looks up and meets her eyes. This time, he squeezes back. "But it'll be somethin'. And that's still better than nothin'."
Daryl nods, his grim expression lifting slightly at the prospect of having a plan, or at least the idea of one. He chews his lip. "A'right," he says, nodding again. "Tomorrow, we start lookin'."
Beth smiles at him, and soon they're passing the can of hot creamed corn back and forth, and biting every morsel of meat off the squirrel's bones.
Neither of them mentions that finding a place means that they're no longer even pretending to search for their family.