A/N: I'm going to be super honest with you- a couple of my Christmas projects didn't go off as planned. It's been kind of a drag.

What has helped a lot were all of the reviews, follows, and favorites I received on this story over the last couple of days. Per usual, you're all awesome! Thank you so much.

I am extremely sleep-deprived, and throughout this whole chapter, I felt like I'd been better off writing it from Daryl's point of view, but it would have messed with the patterned p.o.v.s of my story, and I didn't want that. This is by far the longest chapter, so I hope it's to your liking. Yay for productive procrastination!

Anyway, much love. Merry Christmas to anyone celebrating. Reviews, reviews, and more reviews would totally make my day. Tell me what you think. Like it? Love it? Hate it? I'm down for it all.

Enjoy, ladies!

Chapter 6

She fell again as black things rose up out of the ground to tangle around her ankles in the darkness. She hissed as she felt something, a stick probably, dig in under her knee. Again, she climbed to her feet and sprinted on.

A flashlight. That's something else she'd forgotten to stock her home with. Branches whipped her in the face as she ran blindly through the foliage with only the dim light from the moon above to help her find her way, but she didn't slow. She knew she had to be close; she'd walked that trail leading the couple of miles between her cabin and Daryl's trailer on a couple of occasions. She'd gone there on foot to thank him for his contribution to her driveway, but he hadn't been home all week.

Suddenly, she broke through a clearing, and flood lights kicked on, illuminating the entire front of the trailer, the yard, and the object she was in search of- Daryl's truck. She ran over and pulled on the handle, thankful it was unlocked. Jumping into the cab, Beth searched for a set of keys. She checked everywhere she could think of; in the visor, cup holders, the center console, and the glove compartment. None were discovered.

She hopped back out of the truck, feeling the terror claw its way up her body. She wasn't a doctor. Beth had no idea what had happened to Daryl or how bad off he was. He had still been unconscious when she got him dragged into her kitchen. He'd nearly tumbled backwards off of her steps and took them both down, but she braced her weight against his and managed to keep him from toppling over. She hadn't known what to do for him; he didn't wake up when she shook him and shouted his name. All she could think about was how blue his lips looked as she dug an electric blanket her dad had sent her out of the chest at the foot of her bed. She'd pulled his crossbow off and leaned Daryl in the corner of her kitchen where the wall protruded out to the hallway, and there she was able to wrestle him out of his soaked shirt. She'd shakily toweled him off, re-dialing 911 every few minutes hoping for a connection to hit, but it never did. The only thing she could think to do was get him into the emergency care clinic the next town over as fast as possible, and for that, she needed a vehicle. She'd left him sitting up in the corner, undecided as to whether drowning in vomit had more to do with concussions, babies, or drunks. Tucking the electric blanket around him to cover every inch of exposed skin, she plugged it in, stuffed her feet in her tennis shoes, and bolted out of the back door.

Now, here she was with his vehicle, and no way to drive it. The urge to scream was becoming more prevalent. What's worse, she didn't even think to check Daryl's pants pockets before she ran all the way over to his place; what if he had the keys on him? She felt desperate, realizing not for the first time that she was terrible under duress.

Surely, though, Daryl didn't keep his truck keys in his pocket while he was out hunting. Wouldn't that make noise and scare off animals? And even if he did have them, he had to keep a spare set somewhere. Everyone had a spare. Before she could think of what she was doing, Beth grabbed a rock near Daryl's porch, jogged up the steps, and swung it at one of his front windows. It went through, but didn't entirely shatter the window, so she looked around and grabbed a slender piece of firewood off of a pile he had stacked in the corner of the porch under a tarp. Using the wood, she scraped it back and forth along the window frame, breaking out as much of the extra shards of glass as she could. She dropped the wood and ducked in, setting one foot on a piece of furniture perched under the window on the inside. As she shifted her balance and brought her other leg through the opening, she felt a burning pain along the tender flesh on the inside of her thigh. She jerked her leg away from the protruding glass that she'd missed, but it caused her to lose her balance and she toppled off of the stand and onto the floor. She crawled to her feet and felt along the wall for a light switch, stumbling as her toes collided with various things in the dark. Her hand finally found what she sought, and she flipped the light on.

The state of the room she was in momentarily stunned her. The living room in the trailer was small; it had obviously been built for only one person to live in. But the shock was the condition of the place. An orange couch sat along the opposite wall; it was stained and burned, with tufts of cushion coming out of the seams here and there. There was a green recliner off to the side, in a similar state of abuse, and a coffee table with knife indentions in it. In the corner stood a small stand with a TV on it that was much too large for it, and looked on the verge of just toppling over. The screen of the TV itself had multiple bullet holes in it. The coffee table and couch were bare, but the floor surrounding everything was covered in layers of trash, broken objects, cigarettes, and clothing. There were probably other things down there that Beth didn't really want to consider.

The area in front of the door was cleared out, and as Beth made her way to the kitchen, she noticed that all of the counter tops were sparse and looked wiped down, even. All of the dishes sitting in the sink were rinsed and stacked neatly, and there was even a towel hanging over the handle on the stove. The floor was void of loose trash and debris, and even the small table situated in the breakfast nook had no more than three envelopes of mail piled on it.

The contrast between the two rooms was like night and day, and if she didn't know any better, she'd have thought that two very different people lived there. She felt that, of the two, Daryl would've been the cleaner one, though. He seemed too collected and rigid to adhere to a living room full of trash and chaos. She felt like he was the type of guy who had a place for all of his tools.

With the shock of the place wearing off and her panic setting back in, Beth chose to begin her search in the orderly kitchen first, pulling open every drawer to look for the junk drawer that every person inevitably had in their kitchen. She found one that fit the bill, but even as she dug everything out and spread it onto the counter, she knew she was out of luck. Nothing resembling keys of any kind were in that drawer.

She slammed the drawer closed in frustration, turning in circles to see if there was anything she missed. Then, she spotted it. Across the room on the other side of the table, tucked away in the corner of the short half-wall separating the breakfast nook from the front door, sat a little round end table. Sitting on top of it was a shallow glass bowl containing sunglasses, a wallet, and a rather extensive set of keys.

Beth ran over to grab both the keys and Daryl's wallet, since it probably contained more vital information about him than she could offer the hospital on her own. She dug a thicker key out from the rest of what was on his key ring and was relieved to see that it had Ford stamped into the plastic.

She could feel the blood making its way down her bare leg from when she snagged it on the glass while she was breaking in, so she quickly snatched the dish towel off of the handle of the oven and sprinted through Daryl's front door. It wasn't until she was back outside that she realized something foolish; his front door had been unlocked the whole time.

Unable to worry about the unnecessary destruction in her wake at the moment, Beth pulled herself into Daryl's truck and started it up. Despite its banged up appearance, it started immediately, and ran smoothly.

Finally, she'd caught a break.

She tied his dishtowel around her thigh, tightening it over the cut in her leg without looking at it, too afraid of how deep or long it was to inspect it. She didn't have time to worry about it right now.

She made it from his driveway to hers in no time flat, and was thankful it hadn't been raining that night like it had been threatening to do all day. She left the truck running in her front yard as she bounded up her steps, only to remember that her own house was still locked. She ran around to the back door and went through it, hoping beyond hope that Daryl was no worse off than she'd left him. She wasn't even sure how much time had passed since he'd knocked on her door to begin with.

As soon as she stepped foot into her kitchen, Daryl's eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at her. She was relieved when his face settled into a frown as he looked her up and down like he always did. He didn't seem too confused or lost, just in pain.

"Wha' the hell happened to you?" he said, lifting his head gingerly away from the wall, wincing at the movement.

"Come on, Daryl, let's get you out of here," she said, ignoring his question for the moment. She figured she probably looked a little worse for wear after running through the muddy woods, anyway, and considered the question rhetorical.

Beth knelt down, pulling the blanket away from Daryl's front, and reached down to slide her hand beneath the back side of his arm. His blue eyes went from fuzzy to alarmed, and he leaned away from her, pressing himself flush against the wall. "I need my shirt," he said.

"Your shirt was soaked and as cold as ice," she answered, unplugging the electric blanket. "Just like you. So I took it off. Come on, let me help you up so we can get you to a doctor."

"I need it back," he said, scowling at her.

She pulled the electric blanket off of him so that he didn't get tangled in it trying to stand back up. Having his help was the only way she was getting him down those steps and into his truck.

His hand shot out and he fisted the blanket to prevent her from removing the entire blanket.

"Don't worry, we'll bring this in the truck with us. I just need you to stand up and help me get you there first," she said reassuringly.

"I c'n walk, just gimme my shirt back," Daryl said, his tone taking on an ornery note to it. He didn't relinquish his hold on the blanket on bit.

Exasperated, Beth pulled on the blanket to try and get him to let go. "You can't have your shirt back right now, Daryl. It'll do more harm than good; I told you, the damn thing is freezin'. Now let go of the blanket so I can help you up."

Daryl's lip curled at her in agitation, and she couldn't figure out what the hell his deal was with his shirt. It was torn and bloodied on top of being soaked, and it was nothing but a simple white tank top. He was being ridiculous. He stared at her, determination turning his features into stone. As she stared back at his angry face, she could see his jaw clenching and unclenching under his skin. He was well and truly annoyed, by the look of him.

"Hey," she said, releasing the blanket and throwing both hands up. "You're the one that stumbled onto my doorstep, remember? It's not like I'm trying to force myself onto you."

His eyebrows pinched together at the inflection of her words, and she realized how her sentence had sounded. She was relieved to see that some color beginning to tint his cheeks, though. It was probably a good sign, along with the fact that his lips weren't quite so blue as before. The heating blanket had done its job. She didn't bother to correct herself, though. Even if his mind followed her words into the gutter for a minute, they both knew what she meant. Besides, she was pretty sure that people who blushed at nonsense weren't on death's door, and the thought made her panic subside substantially.

"Do you want my help, or not?" She asked genuinely. He was definitely not fun to deal with while he was in pain, and she figured being firm would only make him more defensive and harder to work with. He seemed to relax at her question, if only a little.

"Once I stan' up, I get tha blanket back," he said, gentling his tone to match.

"Of course. It's not like I'm going to throw you back outside and let you freeze. I just don't understand why you're so intent on having your shirt if you're still cold. You know how wet that thing is."

Ignoring her words and her assistance, Daryl braced his hands on the wall and got his feet under him. Then he stood up, slowly and a bit shaky, but still managed it by himself. He glanced at her from underneath his bangs, watching as she picked the blanket up off of the floor and handed it back to him, as promised. Grimacing at the rotation of his right shoulder, he swung the blanket up and over, leaning away from the wall enough to drape it all the way around his shoulders.

"Do you have a really embarrassing tattoo somewhere that you don't want me to see, or something?" She asked, grinning at him for the first time that evening, now that he didn't look to be in any immediate danger.

At her teasing, though, he only shot a sharp look at her, and his expression was dark.

Backing off, Beth allowed him his space to walk on his own. She locked her back door and led him to the front one, where she grabbed her keys off of the hook by the light switch. She swung the door open and held it for him to pass through. He took two steps out before he lost his balance and stumbled right into her. She threw both arms around his waist to steady him before he fell.

He looked down at her and mumbled apologetically, "Guess 'm still pretty dizzy."

Not that it was something she should have been focused on given their current situation, but Beth was startled at how tall Daryl actually was. He always seemed to walk with a gait, head tucked down and shoulder blades out in the back, much like a large jungle cat. His posture made him seem shorter, and leaner somehow; even somewhat more intimidating. But standing smack next to him as she was, Beth was surprised to find that the top of her head only reached his shoulder, even half leaned against her as he was.

"Figured you would be," she said softly, releasing him when he seemed to have his feet again.

She locked her door, smiling at him thankfully when she turned to see that he'd waited for her at the edge of the steps, instead of attempting to climb down them on his own. She snaked her arm around his waist and he slung his arm across her shoulder, still gripping the corner of the blanket, to stabilize his descent down the stairs. She felt him tremble against her as the night air hit his exposed flesh, and he leaned much more weight onto her than she thought his pride would allow. She still wasn't sure exactly what had happened to him out there in the woods, but whatever it was had left him plenty weak.

He was getting into the passenger side of his truck when it happened.

Daryl had one foot propped on the edge of the truck, his left hand gripping the handle attached to the ceiling. He seemed to gather his strength for a second, and then hoisted himself in. Beth had her hands up right behind him in case he fell backward for any reason. She wasn't sure if she could catch him, or just be there to break his fall, but she felt better doing that than nothing to help at all. Before he'd cleared the doorway, though, the blanket slipped from the hand he had gripping the handle. It swung downward, exposing Daryl's entire bare back.

It was only a split-second peek before he was all the way in the truck, and Beth had enough sense to turn away from him, acting like she was searching for her phone. Pretending she hadn't seen anything.

She was so distracted by the image burned into her brain of what she'd seen; it took her a minute to realize that she didn't have her phone on her.

When she looked up at Daryl, he had the blanket around himself again, and he was focused on her face. He wasn't sure if she'd seen, but she could tell he was searching her face for confirmation.

"I can't find my phone," she explained. "I must've dropped it."

He said nothing, just continuing to stare.

Uncomfortable, and hoping he didn't read anything into her nervousness, she shut his door and went around to the driver's side.

She started the truck and drove straight through her yard, leaving tire marks in the soft surface. She focused on the road, following the twisting and turning route through the woods, heading for the main highway.

Beth couldn't shake the image of Daryl's back out of her head, though. She feared she'd never forget it. Lori's comments in the café they had lunch at in Atlanta came unbidden to her: "…his dad was known for being a really mean drunk, you get my meanin'?"

The welts crisscrossing Daryl's back were long-since healed, but they still looked vicious. An X marred his upper left shoulder, and two more marks ran vertically down near his spine. Another scar, broken into sections, started from his right shoulder and ran all the way across, down to his waist. A few more lines, smaller in size and lighter in color, were sprinkled across his flesh. His entire back bespoke a childhood riddled with punishment, anger, and abuse.

Beth's skin crawled at the images her mind conjured up of a little boy with shaggy brown hair and big blue eyes shielding his small body against a dark shadow wielding a belt. But even a belt, Beth thought, wouldn't have caused such severe scarring. She stopped her thoughts in their tracks as they tried to imagine what would have done so much damage. She shuddered, and shook her head as though to chase away the terrible ponderings.

She was so engrossed in trying not to think about it anymore, that she flinched when Daryl leaned over to turn the heater on in his truck. She'd almost forgotten she wasn't alone.

"Y'look 's cold as I am," he muttered, turning the knob to full blast. "Doesn't surprise me; you're hardly wearin' any damn clothes."

Beth turned to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring straight ahead, and she could see the tense lines on his face from the pain he was still feeling. He looked like he'd been through the ringer tonight, but he hadn't uttered a word of complaint about his injuries; he was criticizing her evening attire, of all things. Judging by the mars on his back, though, it looked like Daryl and pain were very old friends.

She scowled, hating that her thoughts of him keep creeping back to his scarring. No wonder he hadn't wanted her to see them; fixating on what might've happened to him thirty years ago wasn't doing anyone any favors. He was so proud and strong that she knew he'd be angry if he knew she'd seen the proof that he was weak once; over-powered and beaten down. Even as a defenseless child, Daryl probably felt ashamed of what had happened to him.

Little did he know, Beth, of all people, understood how frightening it was to be struck down by someone who was supposed to love you more than anything.

The silence had stretched out between them while Beth ruminated over powerlessness and the whims of madmen. Striving for a change of topic, and mood, Beth cleared her throat. She latched onto the last thing Daryl had said, bringing her back into the present.

"It's not like I had time to pick out an outfit. The way you collapsed on my back steps, I thought a bear had gotten a hold of you or something. What happened tonight, anyway?"

Daryl snorted a bit, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. From where she sat, the temple that had been injured was facing her, and Beth could see how much blood he'd lost because it'd run down and dried against his face and neck. He looked terrible.

"I fell, alrigh'? I slipped, an' I fell into the river. And I ain't talkin' about you bein' in pajamas; I'm talkin' about you bein' in anythin' at all. Don' you have pants to wear ta bed or somethin'? It's thirty damn degrees outside, girl. Your legs look like two icicles."

"I can't wear much to bed," she confessed. "I get all tangled up in clothing while I'm sleeping. I guess I roll a lot." She smiled over at him, not missing the fact that he'd repositioned himself toward the center of the truck bench, closer to Beth, tilting his heating vent so that it struck him on his torso wherever her giant blanket wouldn't fit across him. She didn't comment on him falling into a river. Tomorrow, she suspected it would be funny. But for tonight, she left it alone.

He pointed out her driving directions to make it to the after-hours care center in the next town. He was lucid enough to know where they were at and where they were headed as he murmured instructions to her. His face was still peaked and he blinked slowly and often, like fatigue was taking him over.

Finally, they pulled into the clinic parking lot. Beth parked so that she had plenty of room to open his door and help him out if need be. "I need a shirt," he grumped.

Now that she understood his reasoning, she felt more sensitive to helping him. "You don't have anything tucked away in the truck, do you?"

"Nah," he said, not bothering to look. "If I did, it'd be dirty as hell, anyway."

Once they were inside, the receptionist got up and went into the back to find a doctor. Beth had expected to be handed a clipboard right away, but they apparently took all of the blood covering Daryl's face and neck fairly seriously. Daryl swayed as they waited, not bothering to sit down because she'd acted like she'd be right back. On instinct, Beth hooked her arm around his waist and said nothing as he leaned against her. He seemed too worn out to care whether the gesture made him look weak. He was fading, and fast.

Before another minute could pass, though, a door opened to the side of them, and the receptionist stepped back and held it open for the doctor who came through. He was darker skinned with shortly-shorn hair and thin silver glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looked close to her father in age, and she felt relieved by the thought that Daryl would be in good hands.

The doctor asked Daryl to follow him, and Beth was about to let him go, but as Daryl stepped forward to follow, his arm remained draped across her shoulders, and she found herself beyond the door with him.

Rather than a series of patient rooms, the clinic had a long hallway with sinks every 5 feet, and a row of beds with curtains hung between them. The doctor seemed to notice Beth looking around in confusion, because he said, "the rooms on the other end are more for illnesses and things like that. We try to keep them separate from the injured patients. Have a seat right here, Mr…" he paused and looked at Daryl, who mumbled "Dixon," as though he was swearing under his breath.

"You may have a seat over there, miss," the doctor said to Beth, pointing at a chair near the head of the bed. A nurse followed in behind them and handed Beth a clipboard and a pen.

As the attending physician began asking Daryl questions in regards to his injuries, Beth filled out what she could of the forms. It took all of two minutes, since she didn't know of any of Daryl's allergies, medications, or other medical history.

While the doctor looked over Daryl's most pressing issue, his bloody temple, the blanket was still tightly wrapped around his shoulders. Using gauze, and astringent that burned Beth's nose, he cleaned up most of Daryl's temple. He asked simple questions, like what Daryl's favorite color was, (blue,) and what day of the week he thought it was. After the gash was cleaned, the doctor put a handful of stitches in it and warned him he'd have a bit of a scar there. Beth didn't miss Daryl's humorless smirk at the comment. What was one more scar to him?

Finally, the doctor asked him to remove the blanket so he could check out his shoulder. Daryl hesitated, glancing back at Beth.

"I can wait out there for you," she said, gesturing in the direction they'd come in from. She laid the forms on the bed right behind Daryl and walked out without meeting his eyes.

She'd flipped through four or five old magazines by the time the doctor came back out followed by Daryl. Despite the medical attention, Daryl's appearance startled her. The iodine the doctor had used over Daryl's temple was messy and protruding onto his cheek and forehead, making his face seem more pale than she'd ever seen it. He was wearing one of the paper gowns backwards, which would probably have looked comical on him under different circumstances. His arm was in a sling, she noticed, and her blanket was folded up over the other arm.

She stood when they walked over to her. The doctor handed her a bottle with some pills in it. "These are just Ibuprophen, Daryl said he didn't have any at home. He has a mild concussion from the impact with the rock. He's lucky it's not much worse. Just to be on the safe side, though, I will need someone at his house to wake him up every 3 hours for the next 12 hours, okay? He cannot sleep for more than 3 consecutive hours, or there is a risk he could slip into a coma if I'm wrong about the severity of his brain swelling. His shoulder bone was bruised pretty bad; I gave him a prescription for some better pain killers. Daryl also had mild hypothermia from being out there in the elements. He told me what you did for him with the electric blanket. It was very good thinking. His body temperature was only 95 when I took it a few minutes ago; I can't imagine what it must have been by the time he got to your place. You probably saved his life, honestly. It was good thinking." The doctor's eyes crinkled as he smiled and patted Beth briefly on the shoulder.

"Call me if you have any issues," he said, turning back to Daryl. "You'll be dizzy for awhile yet, maybe even have some sensitivity to light and sound for a day or two. I don't want you driving for three days, either. Just relax and let your body heal itself. It'll take some time."

Daryl grunted his thanks, handed the blanket to Beth, and then went to the counter to pay for the visit. Beth was glad that, amidst all of the other mistakes of the night, she'd at least thought far enough ahead to grab his wallet from his house.

Once they were back in the truck, Daryl slouched low in the seat and pulled the blanket up over himself. Beth had gotten warmed up between the truck heater and the nice inside temperature of the clinic, and now that the stress of everything was wearing down, she realized she was freezing. A tremor shook her as she threw the truck into reverse, and without saying anything, Daryl scooted closer to her and threw half of the blanket onto her lap.

She looked over at him and his lip curled in a small smile, the first genuine one she'd ever seen on the man. Then he let his eyes slide closed. He remained asleep for the rest of the ride home.

Once she pulled into her driveway and cut the engine, Daryl opened his eyes and sat up. "Thanks for takin' me in," he mumbled as he fumbled with the door handle.

"Any time," she responded. "Although, I really do hope this is the one and only time."

He chuckled a little and stumbled out of the truck, cradling her blanket in his slung arm. He walked a few steps before realizing they were back at her cabin. He turned, more alert, and asked, "Ain't you gonna drop me home?"

"No. You heard what the doctor said. Every three hours." She walked up and began unlocking her door.

"He said ta be on the safe side. I'm sure it's fine. It ain't your job to sit aroun' makin' sure I wake up."

"Then whose job is it?" She countered, walking to the edge of her porch and laying a hand on her hip.

"Mine," he said simply. "I have an alarm. I c'n get myself up every couple o' hours. I don' needta be babysat."

"Oh, good point. So you're going to call the doctor if you slip into a coma and miss your alarm?"

"I ain't goin' into a damn coma. Quit bein' dramatic. Gimme my truck keys, I'll drive myself home." He held out his hand, looking serious as all get-out, wearing nothing but muddied jeans, no shoes, and the hospital gown that was tied on backwards.

She looked at him again; really looked at him, without the worry of immediate danger to his health, and decided that she was glad for the gown. His hand was still held out palm up, waiting for his truck keys. His shoulder and bicep muscles were bulging from his irritation. And then there were his abs. Even with the gown tied as tightly as it would go, it didn't quite fit across his wide frame, and she could see his concaved belly button right above a trail of hair leading down into his low-slung jeans. Momentarily, she was transfixed, until he made his way to her steps and tilted his head at her. "Wha' the hell are you starin' at, girl?"

"You look like the Joker from Batman," she said, grinning. "When he was in that nurse's uniform, with the crazy hair and the paint all over his face." She'd die before she admitted to him what had actually caught her attention.

Daryl scowled at her, clearly not in the mood for her weirdness. "I'm not staying the night in your cabin, Beth. Give me my keys."

"Nope. Come on inside. It's nice and warm, and we can both catch some sleep before the sun comes back up."

Daryl shook his head, laying the blanket on the bottom step, and began walking off in the direction of his trailer.

Beth stood there stupidly for a moment, watching his retreating figure. Was he serious? He wasn't even wearing shoes or a jacket, and he would still rather walk all the way back to his trailer than just spend one single night in her cabin? Seeing red at how unbelievably stubborn this man was, Beth stomped down the steps and chased after him. "You hold it right there, Daryl Dixon!" she shouted, stopping in his path and turning on him.

"You crawled to my cabin half dead in the middle of the damn night, knocked on my door, nearly fell down my steps! I had to drag you inside my house, and believe me, you're not light! Then I ran through the woods in the dark in nothing but a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt to get to your truck, where I had to break into your house to find the keys! I cut my leg on glass, froze my butt off, and drove back here a hundred miles an hour worried you'd gone off and died right on my kitchen floor…! And now you think you're just gonna say 'see you later,' and head on back home to fall asleep and possibly never wake up again?! I think not!" By the end of her rant, they were chest to chest, and Daryl looked like his temper had spiked, too.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm gonna do! I ain't gonna go home with you an' get babied an' fussed over an' shit! I've had a bad fuckin' day, an' I just wan' ta go the fuck to sleep!"

"I'm not trying to baby you! I'm trying to make sure that after you go to sleep, you actually wake back up!"

"Why d'you fuckin' care so much if I never wake up again, huh?!" he leaned down so that they were nearly nose to nose, trying to intimidate her into leaving him alone; scaring her into retreating. Showing her not to care.

Then, the memory of the scars on his back flashed through her mind, and it was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown on her. That's exactly what this was all about. He didn't think she cared, or he didn't want her to. He must've felt like she pitied him; or was just doing the right thing because of what the doctor said.

Calmly, she relaxed her posture, giving them space between their bodies. "Because, I just do. I give a shit about you, Daryl, whether you give one for yourself or not. And if you won't stay here for your own good, then please at least do it for me."

Daryl didn't say anything, but he didn't move to walk away from her again, either. She could see him clenching his jaw, thinking, trying to make up his mind.

"Look, Daryl, I can tell that sometimes, I seem to really genuinely annoy you. If you're bothered by me approaching you when I see you in public, or sitting down to have breakfast with you, then I won't anymore. I'll never speak to you again, if that's really what you want. But I need to know you're okay first. Come back home with me, and let me make sure you wake up every three hours like the doctor said. By noon tomorrow, we can part ways for good, and I'll never bother you again. I promise." Beth stood and stared at him, and couldn't help but feel like her heart was breaking a little bit. She hardly knew the man, but she felt like she would be losing out on such an important thing in her life, and it saddened her. Regardless, she kept her ground and waited for his answer.

He rubbed his hand over his face and broke eye contact with her. Her heart sank, and she knew that she'd managed to get what she wanted for tonight. He nodded at her in agreement to her terms, and then turned and made his way back to her cabin.

They walked through the front door in silence, the air surrounding their blowout seemed stifling and awkward. She led him back to her bedroom and flipped on the lights. "You're welcome to shower off before climbing into bed. I encourage it, actually," she said, giving him a small smile. "You can leave your jeans on the floor; I'll grab them and wash them with the rest of your clothes. You can go home clean and dry tomorrow."

"I c'n sleep jus' fine on the couch," Daryl said, turning quickly away from her room like the thought of being in there creeped him out.

"Well, I don't have any spare sheets," she began, as Daryl interrupted, "I don' need any sheets."

"…and even if I did, I don't have a couch yet," she finished.

Daryl looked at her like he felt like he should keep arguing about it, but seemed too tired to actually do so.

"I'll be fine," she assured him, even if she wasn't sure if that's what his hang-up was with sleeping in her bed. "I have a really comfortable chair that I curl up to take naps in all of the time. Just go lie down before you fall down."

Daryl was looking pretty drowsy. He stumbled over to the bed and dropped his pants to the floor without bothering to see if she'd left him alone yet. He crawled under her covers and let out a soft moan as his head sank into her pillow.

"See?" she said, walking over to gather his pants off of the floor. "You feel better already, don't you?"

His breathing had evened out and she wondered if he could've possibly fallen asleep that fast. "Daryl?" she asked, stepping closer to him.

"Love the way you smell," he mumbled against the pillow. He cracked one eye opened and frowned like he couldn't figure out if he'd said it out loud, but then his eye fluttered closed and his features smoothed out. He'd fallen fast asleep again.

Beth felt the hope inflate her chest at his words. Maybe she had been wrong; maybe he didn't find her as annoying as he let on. As she stood there and stared at his face, younger looking without his stern looks plastered to it, she knew that no matter what she'd promised, she couldn't stay away from Daryl Dixon for forever.

After changing into different sleep-comfy clothing, she dragged her favorite chair into the room, grabbed her phone that had been accidentally abandoned on her kitchen floor, and set her timer for 3 hour-intervals. Grabbing a book and a blanket, she settled into the corner of her room and prepared for the long night still ahead of her.