notes: So, I'm totally re-writing chapter 2 of my other fic 'animal tracks' because I'm so nervous about how big it is in my head. Like I've never written anything longer than like...30 pages? I don't have the attention span. In order to calm down, I wrote this scene. Haha, avoidance. Ah well.

filthy, filthy

She stalks him with her gaze in undiluted interest. The sun is hot and bright, light flaring over his broad shoulders, glinting off the sweat slipping from tendrils of his lengthy bangs as he eyes his tacked up target. With his back to her, she's only able to view the rugged profile of his face, lined, weathered, and so goddamn dirty. His penchant for living like a mangy dog makes a giggle bubble up inside her, tickling her belly in toothsome joy, but she understands her presence is only tolerated because of her stealth—

—and also because he might like her, just for being Beth…just a little bit.

He keeps the heavy crossbow raised with ease, the musculature of his chest, back, and arms carved and pronounced for her to trace with her stare. He peers over at her, curious and slightly unsettled when he notices her focus. She knows there's nothing to feel embarrassed about, nothing to be ashamed about in admiring, but feels the hot flush in her cheeks anyway and it quickly becomes mirrored on his own face, so childishly open for once and clear beneath the layers of grime. They're two blushing fools beneath a blue Georgia sky.

Makes her warm. Like fresh honey on one of her Mama's buttermilk biscuits on a Sunday morning after church. Like Shawn gifting her with a canvas tote full of new records and tapes with liner notes for her to pore over. Like Judith's first word being 'da' and seeing Rick's eyes grow red with tears of elation, tugging at his beard like he can't figure out if it's all real. Like Carol's cool hands in hers while they watch a sunrise. Like Carl and Michonne starting their own comic together. Like Glenn's face when he catches a fish with his bare hands in a stream. Like the way her daddy hummed her name before he kissed her. Like Maggie's rank morning breath. Like family and love and love and hope and faith and blood and love.

"You ain't even payin' any attention," he grumbles.

A lethargic grin eases across her lips. "I got it."

He stares at her for a moment longer before turning back to his practice shot. He chuffs, "Getting' cocky, Greene."

She doesn't say anything to that. Too much happiness rushing through her.

At her silence, he lowers the crossbow slightly, and says, "Stop starin'."

"Does it make you nervous?"

"Only Nervous Nelly 'round here is Eugene. Fucker nearly set me on fire yesterday when I spooked him comin' from takin' a piss—" he pauses and smirks, eyes lighting up at the memory, "—was accident, of course. Didn't mean to scare the shit outta him."

"Course."

The heat makes the world seemed like it's tinged pink and she sighs.

He mutters, "I just don't get why you're starin'. Stop it."

Even his ornery nature makes her smile and she strides over to him, boots rustling across the forest floor. She stops mere inches from his embroidered leather. "Daryl Dixon, I'm starin' because you're cute."

"Cute?" he stutters and repeats like he's gone stupid.

"Yep," she replies. Her fingers dance up to his back and slip beneath his vest, lightly rubbing against the sweat-soaked shirt of his lower-back. He doesn't let go of the damn crossbow, but his arms begin to shake almost imperceptibly.

"You blind, girl?"

Another step forward has her pressed against him and he smells something awful, but really the whole camp does. She rests her forehead against his shoulder and their sweat slicks together.

Her voice is serene when she says, "Honestly. You're the cutest thing I've ever seen."

Idly, she wonders if she's making him angry by describing him with a word so soft, but he doesn't say nothing for a minute or two, and she takes the pause in conversation to run her knuckles up and down his spine, her other hand stretch around and lying flat against his belly.

When he finally speaks, she listens. "You've never lied to me before."

"Nope," she answers tenderly, popping the p.

"So…" he draws in a large breath, "must be true then. I must be the damn cutest sonuvabitch in this here apocalypse—"

She's laughing so hard she might cry, saying, "—shut up!"

"—cuter than Judy. Cuter than that ugly ass kitten you were fussin' over yesterday. Cuter than—"

"You may be cute, Dixon, but you're goddamn filthy. I'm afraid if I try to kiss you, I'm just going to end up with a mouthful of mud."

The tips of ears, peeking through his greasy dark curtain of hair, tinge bright red, but when he finally fully turns around, he's got a composed face, slightly keen and curious. He squints down at her like he's puzzling something out.

"Now, you wanna kiss me? Jesus, girl, you ain't blind; you're crazy."

But he's saying it as if he's filled up with that warmth too, like he's got some kind of frenetic energy twitching through his nerves, like he's tangled up in something she's cast out.

And Beth beams.