And whether he knows it or not,
I'll take my chances because they're all I've got.
And whether he knows what I do,
I just can't hide what I know to be true.
-Lisa Jaeggi, "Whether He Knows"
The walls of Alexandria are everything Aaron promised, high and sturdy.
It's late afternoon when they drive up and idle at the gate, and Beth tips her head back, squinting into the bright sun. From over the walls she can hear the sound of indistinct voices talking and laughing, and beyond, a whining metallic sound that could be a lawnmower.
There's a shout on the other side and the sound of metal grinding on metal, and the wide gate slides open, pulled by a young man Beth doesn't know.
Daryl drives the bike through the gates and parks it just inside. Aaron pulls up right behind, and he's out of the car and shouting to the young man even as the gates bang firmly shut behind them.
"Get Maggie and Glenn!" Aaron says, "get all of them!"
Beth stays on the bike, her arms still around around Daryl's waist as he kills the engine. The young man darts off and Beth turns her head to take the place in. Wide, quiet streets, a few people walking in the distance. Birds singing in the trees.
Beth looks at the back of Daryl's head, at the tips of his ears poking out from his hair. They're dark pink, and Beth doesn't think it's the wind that did that.
She's about to open her mouth, about to say something to him, though she's not yet sure what, when she hears a shout and footsteps. She turns, and Glenn jogs to a halt ten feet away. Behind him is Michonne, and she can see others coming.
"Holy shit," Glenn swears, and Beth scrambles off the motorcycle right as he swoops her up in a hug that reminds her painfully of Shawn's bear hugs. She's relieved that Glenn doesn't finish his off with a noogie or a headlock. He keeps saying "holy shit" over and over, breathless and laughing.
Over his shoulder, Michonne's grinning at them, tears in her eyes, before her gaze shifts to Daryl, still sitting on the bike, and Beth sees her give him a look that is tender and kind, and soaked through with grief.
"I gotta get Maggie," Glenn mutters as he releases Beth, dashing off in the direction of the nearby houses. Beth finds herself pulled into another hug, not recognizing the boy until she pulls back and sees it's Carl, taller than her now. She hugs him again, laughing, and it's complete chaos as she's pulled from person to person, Michonne and Carol and Sasha, until she finds herself being pulled into Rick's arms. He hugs her and drops a kiss on the top of her head, and with a bewildered shake of his own, says, "I'll be goddamned."
Beth hears Maggie before she sees her. She's shouting something, and then everyone is making way, and suddenly Beth's tough big sister is right there in front of her, her face stricken. They just stare for a moment, and then Maggie's holding her tight, almost too tight, sobbing, while everyone stands in a snug circle around them.
The press of bodies makes Beth's pulse pound, her breath shorten. She can't tell if she's excited or scared anymore, and as Maggie takes her firmly by the hand, she hopes there are no tears in her eyes.
The next few hours are a blur as Beth is introduced to the others who have joined their group along the way, the ones Aaron mentioned. She's trundled off to the house Maggie and Glenn share with Tara and Rosita. There's a hot shower, and clean clothes borrowed from Tara while her dirty ones are whisked away, and the ease and normalcy of it all unnerves her.
They gather that night at Maggie and Glenn's, only their family, over plates of casserole made by Carol. They spread themselves around on every available surface in the living room, close together, like a pack of wolves in its den. Beth can tell by the sidelong looks she gets that they're curious to hear her story, but no one asks it of her outright.
Beth sits close to Maggie on the couch as they all eat, sharing stories from their day. They interject with little asides for Beth, gossipy tales about their new neighbours, explanations of the way things work in Alexandria, and stories from their time on the road, tales of train tracks and churches, tales of losing and finding, tales of mad men and cannibals, tales of wandering and running.
They have so many horrible, sad, beautiful, amazing stories.
It's a lot to process. Beth almost wants to beg off, almost wants to go crawl into the bed Maggie's made for her in a room upstairs, but she can't quite make herself. After all, this is the reason she kept going. The gathering together, the warmth and laughter, Carol's creative, ad hoc cooking, the plates balanced on laps and armrests, the abundance of it all.
Family. Home.
Beth feels his eyes on her as they eat. Daryl, sitting by himself, next to the window, his body held perpendicular to the loose circle of people. He glances out the window regularly, vigilant as ever. Part of them, and yet not. Every time she looks over at him, he's staring down at his plate, eating methodically, silent. Like when they first ran from the prison together, when he would barely even acknowledge she was there.
It hurts. And yet she's not sure how else she expects him to be, if not this. Watchful. Careful. Protective, even in this place that appears so safe.
As everyone gradually finishes their meal, an expectant silence falls over the whole group, and everyone's eyes turn to Beth. They want her to tell it, now. Her story.
Beth looks down at her lap, unsure of herself, and Maggie touches her arm.
"You don't have to," she says softly. "If it's too hard. It's enough that you're here."
"It's okay," Beth replies, shaking her head. She means it. "I want to."
Beth tells her story. She tells them about waking up at Grady the first time, and the second. The intensity of a dozen sets of eyes on her is too much, at times, and she has to glance away, up at the ceiling or down at her hands. She catches Daryl's eye and now he's watching her, like the others, but different somehow. He's riveted to her, biting absently at one thumbnail as he listens.
No one says a word as she speaks. Not a single question or remark until she finishes with the house, the can of pineapple, with Aaron and Daryl.
(She doesn't mention the trunk, or the stillhouse, or the piggyback, or the funeral home, or the stray dog, or the number of times she's cried herself to sleep, or the nightmares she's had of Daryl dead and turned, or the way she collided with him, or the way he cradled the back of her skull and whispered her name.)
"That," declares one of the new men, the one called Eugene, "is the most incredible tale of survival and perseverance in the face of hardship that I believe I have ever had the pleasure of hearing."
The general reaction to that from everyone is one of barely restrained eyerolls, and Beth is saved from having to answer by a shrill cry from the other room, where Rick had laid Judith down while they all ate. Carl jumps to his feet and darts down the hall, returning a moment later with a teary-eyed and cranky looking Judith squirming in his arms.
"There's someone who really wants to see you before she goes home to bed," Carl says, glancing down at his baby sister with a look of such warmth and love that Beth feels her composure start to waver.
No one says a word, and Carl brings her over, passing the little girl into Beth's arms, which reach out automatically, by rote, without her even thinking to do it.
"Hey, Judy," Beth says, settling Judith onto her lap.
Judith tilts her face up at Beth, her expression serious and her brown eyes wide and curious, and she grabs onto Beth's shirt, pulling at it. She scrunches her face and grins up at Beth, all tiny baby teeth and pink gums.
Beth grins back at her, and holds the little girl close, kissing the soft brown hair on the side of her head, tears threatening her for what feels like the hundredth time that day. Her eyes ache from it. She hugs Judith closer, closing her eyes against the sting.
There's a gruff exhalation from across the room, a brusque movement, and Beth's eyes open to see Daryl slip down the hallway, out the front door. No one notices; they're all cooing and exclaiming over her and Judith.
Beth waits a moment or two for the room's lingering attention to dwindle as conversation strikes up again and Maggie offers to help Carol with the dishes. Everyone is up, then, chattering and helping to tidy, and Beth hands Judith to Rick.
"Good to have you back," he says, settling Judith high on one hip. He fixes Beth with a look, his eyes drifting to the wound in her forehead. "More'n good. It's everything, having you back here."
Beth nods, but doesn't know what to say. Good to be back! seems stupid. True enough, but trite, and abruptly the expression on Rick's face troubles her. There's an emptiness there she doesn't remember seeing before, not even when he was at his worst, right after Judith was born. Sadness swells inside her and she knows that the man who stands before her isn't the same man who once lovingly tilled the prison yard's soil by her dad's side, who once tried so hard to make a home for all of them.
That man's as dead as the girl who dreamed of summer picnics in the shade of a crumbling prison.
Beth turns and glances over her shoulder, then, in the direction Daryl departed. She wants to be outside.
"He was different, after you were taken," Rick says, low enough to keep the others from overhearing. Beth turns to look at him, sees the understanding there as he nods toward the front door. She wasn't the only one who noticed Daryl leave. "Never did say much about any of it, but we could tell that something… He's changed."
"We've all changed," Beth replies. Their eyes meet and Rick gives a nod of acknowledgement, and for a moment he's exactly the man she knew before. Beth wonders whether it's possible for a person to become too changed.
"Your father," Rick says, tilting his head. "I never got the chance - I'm sorry, Beth. I'm sorry I couldn't -"
"Don't," Beth says, shaking her head. "It wasn't your fault. He understood. I understand."
Rick exhales roughly and looks away from her, out over the room, at the ragtag group he's somehow managed to keep together. He looks back at her, and nods, accepting her words.
Carl calls him away, then, and Beth slips out of the room. She walks down the dim hallway and out onto the porch, lets the screen door slap shut behind her. Daryl's leaning against the porch rail in the blue moonlight, smoking.
At his feet are two crushed cigarette butts.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey," he replies, his voice almost inaudibly low.
Beth goes to stand next to him, but he turns himself away from her and faces the street, sighing a long exhalation of smoke into the cool night. The streets of Alexandria are dark but for a few porchlights, and the only sounds are a cricket rasping in a nearby hedge, and the muffled hum of conversation from inside the house.
Beth stands at his side, rests her hands on the wooden railing in front of her. It's a buttery cream colour, recently painted. It's jarring to see something new, something beautiful. Something that's been cared for. This whole place is so removed from the outside that it scares her a little. It's everything a person could want, now, and yet she's not sure if she likes it here, if she feels safe.
She wonders how far it is to the armoury, where they put her guns.
"I wanted to take you with us," Daryl says, then, gruff and abrupt. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. He's not looking at her, staring out into the dark street instead. Beth watches his profile. "Maggie too. Neither of us wanted to leave you there. We wanted to take you out of the city, find a place for you. Somewhere green, somewhere…" His words trail off and he's silent for several beats. "Hated it, leavin' you in that car in that fuckin' place."
Beth looks away from him, out into the yard, her fingernails digging into the painted wood. Her first instinct is to offer him some comfort, to tell him they did all right by her, that it's all okay now. But she can't. She doesn't know how to make this right for him; it's been so hard trying to make it right for herself.
Trying to understand how they could have left her behind.
Trying to understand how she's already forgiven them.
"If you'd buried me, I would have died," Beth points out. Daryl grunts and shakes his head, but doesn't reply. "Daryl, it's not -"
"I'm sorry," he rasps, still shaking his head. The expression of anguish on his face sucks the air from her lungs. "I'm so sorry, Beth. If I'da known, if we'da known, we never woulda - we thought - Jesus Christ, I'm so fucking sorry."
"It's okay," she says, automatically responding to the distress in his voice. "It's okay."
"No," he says harshly. His expression is thunderous. "It ain't okay. Can't believe we was so fuckin' stupid, leavin' you in that car when you was still alive. We didn't check. We thought - we thought for sure - you coulda died, and we never woulda even known, I never woulda – goddamn it."
But it is okay, Beth realizes, even as she holds herself back from saying it again. It is. She understands. If their positions had been reversed, she can't say she wouldn't have done the same as they did. And he's so sorry. He's so painfully sorry that it hurts her to hear it, to understand that he's carried guilt like a millstone for months. To know he only did what made sense, that he'd have done differently if he'd known.
That he would undo all of it if he could. All of it, right back to the moment he tried to offer a bit of their food to a wary stray dog, just because Beth wanted it.
Beth puts her hand on his where it rests on the railing, feels the rough, scabbed knuckles under her fingertips. Daryl inhales and glances at her. His face is half in darkness, but she can see the anxiety there, like he's waiting for her to blow up at him, to be angry. Like he expects it, believes he deserves it.
Beth's angry, sure. She's angry at a million things that have fucked up her life, obliterated her future, made her an orphan, flung her hard and fast into adulthood. She's not sure she'll ever stop being angry. But none of that anger is directed at this man who protected her with everything he had. This man who searched for her, who found her, who avenged her. Who mourned her.
She stares at his profile, at the devastation these months have made of him, at his shaking hand bringing his cigarette to his lips, and it's as though she can feel every aching moment of the grief he has suffered. It staggers her to think she could mean that much to anyone.
"What's this?" she asks softly, running her fingertip across a fresh, puckered scar on the back of his hand where it rests on the railing. She glances up to see him staring down at it too, his expression drawn. Not looking at her, he gives his head a shake, chews at his lip, and Beth knows. She knows, somehow, that there's no word for what that scar is. She knows all too well about that kind of scar.
Beth laces their fingers together and bends her head, pressing a kiss to the scarred flesh.
Daryl shudders beside her, and then he's crying, his face crumpling as he folds in on himself, tries to make himself small, tries to tuck his chin into his chest so she can't see his face.
"Oh," she breathes, and she's crying too, and she shifts, pulling him to her, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he wraps both of his around her waist, bending under the pain, bowing his face to her shoulder. She rests her cheek against his head and holds him close.
They stay that way until their tears dry up, until the pain ebbs. They stay there, holding each other, until the world has narrowed to the sound of their breathing. Until Beth realises that she has it back, finally. The thing that was missing. The thing that kept her going. The feeling.
Home.
"Fuck," Daryl mutters, pulling away from her. "Second time I cried all over you like a damn fool." He's blushing darkly, his nose red and eyes puffy from crying. He's a wreck, and Beth smiles at him.
"You can cry all over me any time you want, Daryl Dixon. It'll be our secret," she says.
Daryl scoffs, kind of, and glances back at the house. Soft laughter carries through the door, and Beth thinks again of the summer at the prison, of the good things that seemed possible then, tremulous and easily thwarted, but still possible.
birthdays and holidays and summer picnics
It fills her with hope, and with fear. It's possible that they can still have all that. It's possible that it can all be taken away.
Her head throbs and she feels incredibly tired, exhausted right down to the marrow in her bones.
"I'm gonna go," Daryl says, then, sticking his hands deep in his pockets. He looks at her a moment, chewing his bottom lip. "You gonna be all right here?"
"Yeah," Beth nods. She gives him a smile that must look as wobbly as it feels, given the doubtful expression on Daryl's face. "I mean, relatively speaking."
Daryl simply nods, and turns to go, and he's halfway down the steps before Beth stops him.
"Goodnight, Daryl," she says. He pauses, and looks back up at her from the bottom step.
It's jarring, how his expression can slide from guarded to something so tender, so open. An exposed nerve.
"'Night, Beth," he replies, tipping his chin in a brief nod.
She watches him disappear into the night. She doesn't know where he goes.
She hates that.
Inside, the evening is wrapping up, and one look at Beth's face has Maggie politely but firmly booting everyone out. Tara and Rosita don't linger, blowing out all the candles in the living room before disappearing up to their bedrooms as Carol leaves, clean casserole dishes in her arms.
The three of them stand in the hallway, awkward now that the noise and energy of their family has left the house. Glenn gives Beth another brotherly squeeze and kisses Maggie before heading for the stairs. Halfway up, he pauses and looks down at them.
"Your dad'd be so happy to see you two like this," he says, a sad smile passing over his face. "Night, girls." He climbs the last few steps, and disappears upstairs.
Beth looks over at her sister, standing only a few feet from her. Maggie is watching her, arms wrapped around herself, swimming in her oversized brown sweater. Her eyes are wide, and there are shadows beneath them and hollows in her cheeks that weren't there the last time Beth saw her. When they crouched next to the school bus, rifles in their hands while their world was obliterated yet again. When Maggie, fierce and frantic, ran off to find Glenn, and left Beth on her own.
Maggie stares, and swallows a few times, and when she rubs her hands against her upper arms, she trembles. She's still in shock.
"Come on," Maggie says finally, gesturing at the stairs. She leans down and blows out the last candle, plunging the hallway into blue moonlit shadows.
They walk up the polished hardwood stairs, finding their way in spite of the dark. Beth follows her sister to the door of her new bedroom.
"Bathroom's just right there, if you need it," Maggie says softly, pointing down the hallway.
"I know," Beth reassures her, "I showered earlier, remember?"
"Yeah, but new places and all that, and you never did like the dark when you were little, so…" Maggie rambles, her tone oddly defensive. She trails off, looking up at the ceiling, down at the floor, anywhere but at Beth. She falls silent again, and Beth lets it be, doesn't try to fill the empty air with something cheerful. Maggie clears her throat, and frowns. "Beth, I want you to know that I -"
Beth's throat is tight and her head throbs, and all at once she knows she can't do this right now, not tonight. She's worn thin, and she just can't. It'll have to wait. It can wait. They have time.
"Not tonight, Maggie," Beth says, taking a step forward and touching her sister's forearm. Maggie looks up at her, eyes wide and shining. "Just - not tonight, okay?"
Maggie nods jerkily, looks away. "Of course, I mean, you must be exhausted, don't know what I'm thinkin', keepin' you up any later than necessary, you oughta rest." She rambles to a stop, biting her lip.
"Goodnight, Maggie," Beth says, her hand on the brushed nickel doorknob of her new bedroom.
"'Night, Beth," Maggie replies, her voice hoarse. She pulls Beth into a quick, hard hug, then turns away and disappears into the bedroom she shares with Glenn. The door closes with a soft click.
The door is not thick enough to silence the sound of Maggie crying, of Glenn's soft, muffled words of comfort.
Beth enters the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She leans back against the door, takes in the bedroom that now belongs to her. It was a child's room before, judging by the bright blue paint and the wallpaper border of baseball bats and catchers' mitts. A small dresser and storage cube full of wicker baskets sit under the window, toys and picture books still stored there. She looks away.
Her backpack leans against the white nightstand. Beth leans down and opens it, reaching inside. She gropes until she feels the plastic flowerpot. She places it on the nightstand, angled so its solar panel will absorb the morning sun.
Beth sits heavily on the bed, her feet stuck straight out in front of her. She sits for a moment, her mind curiously blank as she stares at the boots on her feet. Boots that have taken her from her childhood home to a prison full of walkers, to the woods and the open road, into Atlanta and out of it, through four states, and now here. Home.
She can take them off, she knows. It'd be all right if she took them off, now.
Beth sucks in a breath, purses her lips. She stares at the scuffed, weathered toes. It felt so good to take them off earlier to shower, but it felt just as good to get them back on after. To feel ready.
Beth glances down at the single bed, at the dark blue comforter spread across it. One night won't mess it up too badly, she figures, and swings her dirty feet up onto the bed, on top of the comforter. She yanks it up at the sides and rolls around in it, cocooning the comforter around her. She lays back against the pillow with a sigh.
There are glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the ceiling, arranged in lopsided constellations. They glow faintly, not having absorbed enough light during the day to shine brightly in the dark. Beth wonders how the real stars look tonight, if they are bright, if a new constellation has moved into the scope of sky. She can't help but wish that she was lying outside, the hard ground below and the wide sky above, and no walls standing between her and the woods. Nothing to get in her way should she need to run.
Beth closes her eyes and pulls the comforter tighter around her.
She sleeps like the dead.
In the morning there's instant coffee and scrambled eggs and toast, but no butter or cream. They don't have cows yet, Maggie explains apologetically, just chickens. Beth shrugs and eats her eggs, doesn't bother reminding Maggie that anything beats expired cans of water chestnuts and charred squirrel meat.
They all eat together, Tara and Rosita chatting happily and goading each other about some kind of bet they have going. Maggie dodges around them, getting more coffee for Beth, while Glenn feigns aggravation at living in a house full of bossy girls, his eyes bright.
Beth sits on her stool at the bar and smiles, sipping her watered-down black coffee and marveling at the normalness of it all.
Tara and Rosita leave for gate duty, and Glenn drops a kiss on Maggie's cheek as he departs for some meeting about weaknesses in a section of the wall, and the two sisters are left staring at each other across the crumb-scattered breakfast bar, their hands wrapped around rapidly cooling mugs of coffee.
They sit in silence for several minutes. Beth listens to the sounds that filter through the windows - voices raised in greeting, children laughing, birds chirping in the trees.
"There are things I need to explain," Maggie says eventually, looking down at the table. Beth stares at the crown of Maggie's head. Her whole body is tense, her mouth a grim line when she lifts her face to look Beth in the eye. "There are things you need to know."
"I know, Maggie," Beth says, shaking her head. "They told me everything at the hospital. And they didn't lie."
"I mean before that," Maggie says. She takes a deep breath. "After the prison, I was… I got out with Sasha and Bob, and we found the school bus in the road, and it was too late. I knew you must have been in there, and it was… It was horrible. I couldn't think about it. Until we met up with Daryl and them, I thought you were dead."
Beth nods. It makes sense. It's a very reasonable, Maggie way to look at the facts. Beth doesn't say aloud what she thinks: I never once assumed you were dead.
"Daryl told me you made it out together, that you were still out there somewhere, but… I'm not like you," Maggie says, giving her head a sad shake. "I can't let myself hope. Not like you can. Not after everything. I decided you must be dead." Maggie stares down at the countertop.
"Daryl told me all of it, where you two were for all those weeks," she continues. "You were never that far from me and Sasha and Bob. You know that? We were all circling around each other."
Maggie sniffles loudly, wiping her nose against her wrist. She looks up, then, her expression pained and regretful.
"I'm sorry I didn't look out for you. Some big sister I am. I promised Dad, but I didn't, and I -"
Beth shakes her head, reaches across the counter to place her hand over Maggie's.
"Maggie, I ain't mad at you," she says softly. "You did what you had to do. So did I. We both made it, and now we get a second chance. That's all there is to it."
Maggie's expression cracks and she's crying again, and Beth realises that she's crying, too. Maggie stands up and comes to her, wrapping her in a hug and sniffling into her shoulder.
"When the hell did you go and get all grown up on me?" Maggie says.
Beth almost says "when you weren't looking" but she holds back. Just. Instead, she pokes Maggie in the ribs. "I've actually always been the mature one."
"I missed you, brat," Maggie mumbles into her shoulder. Beth laughs breathlessly.
"Missed you too, jerkface."
Maggie laughs, and the sound of it makes Beth bubble over with happiness, and she finds it easy to extend forgiveness in this moment. If there's even anything to forgive, and Beth isn't sure there is. They've all had to make terrible choices from meagre options, without knowing all of the story. They've all had to make do, had to live with every unintended consequence. They have to live with all of it.
"Deanna wants to see you today," Maggie says, then, taking a step back and wiping at her damp face with the backs of her hands. "She meets with everyone, it's nothing to worry about. It's how they - how we do things."
"What does she want to meet about?" Beth asks.
Maggie explains, telling her Deanna's mostly in charge, about the transparency and accountability she strives to maintain in Alexandria, about how they're trying to ensure that no one dangerous is admitted to the community.
Beth nods, takes it in. It all sounds reasonable. She wonders, though, what kinds of questions she will be asked, and what kinds of answers she should give.
Wonders what she'll say if she's asked if she has ever killed the living.
The interview is bizarre.
It's an interaction plucked from the past, from the old world. It's odd to sit in a room with a stranger and talk about her feelings, about everything that's happened to her. It's odd to sip a cup of peppermint tea made by her sister. It's odd to sit in a chair in clean clothes and listen to the indistinct music of people talking on the sidewalk outside.
Beth wonders if this is what college interviews would have been like.
Deanna asks where she's from, where she grew up, how she survived the initial outbreak and the months of chaos that followed. Beth tells her everything without hesitation, supposing she must have learned it all from Maggie already, anyway. She holds nothing back, tells her about Mama and Shawn, and how Otis and Jimmy wrangled them into the barn with their neighbours and friends. Tells her about the day Shane broke the barn open and she lost her faith in her dad, in the future. She tells her about the broken mirror, about the scar on her wrist. She tells her about the herd and the barn going up in flames, about Jimmy, about that first winter on the run. She tells her about the prison and the Governor, about Judith and how they almost had a real home.
When Beth tells her that she fled into the woods with Daryl, Deanna's interest is piqued.
"Tell me more about that," Deanna says, leaning forward and knitting her fingers together. She nods encouragingly. "Mr. Dixon was not the most forthcoming individual I've ever interviewed, and I'm very interested to hear more about what you two went through."
Beth stares at her a moment, then glances down at her hands in her lap. Abruptly she feels more guarded. The rest of her story is comprised of events Deanna has likely pieced together through Maggie or Glenn or any of the others. But the weeks she spent with Daryl are different. They're hers, and his, and if he didn't want to tell Deanna, neither does she.
"Daryl saved my life," Beth says carefully, lifting her gaze to meet Deanna's measuring one. She pauses, thinks of that hot afternoon in the fetid stillhouse, drinking moonshine, whipping their pain at each other like darts at a dartboard. How that was the moment everything between them shifted. Beth doesn't think she can find the words to explain what it all was, what it all meant. She doesn't think she can find a way to make anyone understand, and she hates to think of all the ways it could be misconstrued.
"We saved each other," she says. "That's all I want to say about it."
Deanna raises her eyebrows, nods, and makes a note on the yellow pad of paper on her lap. A clock on one of the bookshelves ticks the seconds, the sound loud in the silent room.
"I understand you were kidnapped," Deanna says, looking up again. "Is that right?"
Beth nods. Her tension easing somewhat, she describes waking up at Grady, explains to Deanna what the place was. She describes the work she did, her duties, the system of indentured servitude that kept her from leaving. She says more about the place itself than about the events that happened there, and when she pauses to take a sip of her tea, Deanna speaks.
"Have you ever killed anyone, Beth?"
Beth places the cup back in its saucer and lifts her gaze to meet Deanna's. The woman is observing her closely. Beth thinks about the kind of place this is, about who she needs to be. She blinks, shakes her head.
"Gosh, no," she replies, eyes wide. "Walkers, sure, but not people."
Deanna just looks at her for a moment. Then she smiles, tells Beth that's plenty for one afternoon. She shakes her hand and welcomes her to Alexandria, says she'll be in touch about a job.
When Beth walks out the door, back out into the sunny afternoon, Daryl is leaning against the fence at the base of Deanna's front steps, smoking a cigarette. He looks up.
"Maggie was waitin' on you, but some kinda fuss came up in inventory, I dunno," he says, shrugging. He doesn't offer an explanation for why he decided to replace her. "How'd it go?"
Beth shrugs, descending the stairs to stand beside him. She looks out over the mostly empty street, squints at the bright sunlight. "It was weird."
"Hm," he replies, noncommittal, eyeing her speculatively.
"It's hard to talk about some of it," she continues. She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, frowning. She wants to tell Daryl about the things that weigh on her. Gorman and O'Donnell and the man she killed with the wrong drugs. Joan and the other girls. But something holds her back, some fear that if she did tell him everything, that the gentle look in his eyes might disappear. That she might disappoint him.
Daryl flicks his cigarette away to land in the gutter, where it smoulders. He exhales the last of the smoke in a short huff. He resembles a cranky dragon as he looks at her, examines her, really, his eyes wandering her face, her hairline, the scars she's accumulated in the months since they were separated.
"I got a hundred things I wish I'd never done, startin' with tryin' to get that damn mutt into the house for you," he says gruffly.
Beth smiles, remembering the day they spent in the funeral home, devising ways to convince the dog to come inside, dipping their spoons into jars of peanut butter and grape jelly, talking about a dozen inconsequential things she can't even remember now.
It's the last truly good day she had.
"Yeah, the whole time I was stuck in that hospital, all I kept thinkin' was, 'damn that Daryl Dixon, if only he hadn't tried to get me that dog,'" she says, raising an eyebrow at him. He squints at her, uncertain. "I'm kiddin'," she clarifies.
"Ain't funny," he grumbles, jamming his hands in his pockets and looking away from her.
"Sorry," she says, reaching out and nudging his boot with the toe of hers. He grunts at her. "What are you up to today?"
"Nothin'," Daryl replies. "Why?"
"You wanna give me the grand tour? No one's offered yet," Beth says, smiling.
Daryl scoffs. "Ain't much to see." But he stands up straight and cups her elbow, nudges her to follow him.
Just like old times, she thinks.
Beth falls into step beside him and they walk down the quiet street. He keeps his hands shoved in his pockets, and the grand tour consists mostly of him saying people's names and pointing with his chin at different houses.
He points out the armoury, the clinic, the inventory where food stocks are held. He points out a house that's been converted to a school and a daycare, and the garden plots where crops of vegetables are being grown to feed the growing community. As they pass the fence, Beth sees white and brown chickens picking their way between tall corn stalks, scratching for bugs in the dirt.
"That's Aaron and Eric's place," he says, gesturing at a bungalow. They pause on the sidewalk. "They're good people. You'll like 'em."
There's a rustling sound in the tree beside them, and a squirrel scampers down the trunk and darts across the sidewalk. Beth feels Daryl tense beside her for a moment, then he exhales roughly and relaxes.
"I'd get it, but they don't like that much, 'round here," he says, and it's easy to see how stupid he finds that policy.
"You still go out huntin'?" she asks.
"Mm-hm," he nods, peering up at the tree as if to see if any more squirrels are hiding up there.
"Next time you go, you want company?"
Daryl's head swivels around to look at her. He frowns. "You wanna go huntin' with me?"
"Of course," Beth replies, smiling at him. "We only got partway through you teachin' me everythin' you know before we got interrupted."
"Pfft," Daryl says, half rolling his eyes and looking away from her. Beth sees colour creep up the sides of his neck, toward his cheeks and ears, and she grins at him. "Take ages to teach you all that, girl." He looks at her for another moment, chews his bottom lip. "You free tomorrow?"
"I'm free tomorrow," she replies, still grinning.
"Well," he says, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. He nods, glances at her for a moment, glances away. "All right then."
Then Daryl leaves her standing on the sidewalk in front of Aaron's house, grinning at his back as he walks away.
They leave at daybreak on Daryl's bike.
Maggie only puts up a slight fuss about Beth going outside the walls. It's the hunting itself that confuses her. After all, Beth used to cry every fall when Otis would bring home deer and turkeys and hang them up in the shed to drain the blood, and she never even held a gun until after the turn.
Beth firmly tells her sister that she's going, and promises to be careful, promises that they'll be back before the party being thrown tonight to welcome Beth. They hug before Beth departs, rifle slung over her shoulder.
There are things that have changed, Beth knows, that Maggie struggles to accept. She doesn't understand yet that the kid sister whose hair she used to braid is long gone. She doesn't understand yet, but she will. She has to.
The terrain around Alexandria is hilly and thickly wooded. They leave the bike up by the highway, hidden from view beneath a pile of brush. They walk in silence for most of the morning, both of them absorbed in tracking rabbit trails through the underbrush.
When they come upon a little spring bubbling up out of the rocks, Daryl touches her arm and they stop. Beth cups her hands and uses them as a dipper to drink from the spring. The water is so cold it hurts her teeth, and it tastes faintly of iron.
Daryl sits on a log by the spring and sets his crossbow down. He reaches into his jacket and produces two small packages wrapped in brown paper. He hands one to her and Beth realises it's a sandwich.
"Carol made 'em, don't worry," he says.
Smiling, Beth takes the sandwich and sits down beside him. She unwraps it, and the scent of peanut butter and grape jelly reaches her nose. She laughs, delighted.
"What's funny?" Daryl asks around a mouthful of sandwich, looking at her out the corner of his eye.
"Nothing," Beth replies. "Just - peanut butter and grape jelly remind me of you."
Daryl stops chewing and freezes for a moment, like he's caught off guard. He stares straight ahead for several beats, then swallows.
"Me too," he says.
Beth looks at him, at his profile, at the way his jaw and his Adam's apple work as he demolishes the sandwich. Now she's the one caught off guard.
They finish their sandwiches and brush the crumbs from their hands. Beth stares into the hushed woods, watching a sparrow flit from branch to branch. For a moment they could be on the run together again, before the funeral home.
Daryl makes a gruff little sound, like clearing his throat but not quite.
"Don't think you know what you done for me," he says.
Beth turns her head and looks at him. He doesn't meet her gaze; he's looking rather pointedly anywhere but her. Beth thinks maybe she doesknow, but she also wants to hear him say it, his way.
"What did I do for you?" she asks.
He squints at her, hesitating. He's quiet for a long moment, and Beth lets him be, lets him collect his thoughts and sort through them before speaking. She knows he will.
"I was lost, after they took you," he says, glowering out at the still woods. Beth watches the fingers of his right hand tap restlessly against his leg. He wants a cigarette. "Fell in with some bad people. Real bad. I didn't know it, 'til I did. That's how I met up with Rick, Carl, Michonne. Then we found the others. Like they was sayin' last night."
"I'm glad you weren't alone for long," Beth says.
Daryl gives her a sideways glance. "Wasn't alone. Had you with me."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Can't explain it right," he replies, shaking his head and looking down at his hands in his lap. "Just felt like… I dunno. Like you was with me. Tellin' me what's what. I dunno."
"You were with me too," Beth says, tilting her head to try to catch his eye. He avoids it. "You were."
"Why'd you stab that cop?" he asks, then, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. His face is flushed, his expression anxious. It's obvious that it's been bothering him, that it's something he's tried and failed to understand.
Beth can identify with that feeling.
"I'm not sure," she replies, after a moment. She looks down at her lap, picks at a thread coming loose on her fraying jeans. "I don't remember that day. I mean, I think I kinda do, maybe, but I'm not sure if what I'm picturing is just 'cause of what people have told me, you know?"
Daryl nods, his gaze heavy on hers.
"Dawn was… It's strange," Beth continues. "There were times when I almost wanted to like her. Times when I definitely felt sorry for her. But she was… She was wrong. She was trying to do the right thing. But she was still wrong. She did things to me - made me do things. And I think she wanted me to be like her. Like that would mean that she was right, that she had done the right thing, if I became like her." Beth pauses for a long moment, then sighs. "She wanted to prove a point to me. That the way I was wasn't enough. That I had to be more like her. That she was right to do things the way she did."
Beth looks out at the trees, at the leaves spinning on their stems in the soft breeze. She listens to the sound of the water bubbling up out of the earth, of the birds singing, of Daryl's breathing beside her. She feels the sudden urge to lower her head and rest it on his shoulder.
Grady feels like it's a hundred years behind her now, she realises. She got away. She's free.
She remembers how it felt, the glass shattering in her hand when she bashed the bottle into Gorman's head. How O'Donnell's eyes locked with hers in pure panic for an instant before he tumbled backwards and disappeared down the elevator shaft.
Beth shudders. No, she's not free at all.
"You don't gotta tell me what happened," Daryl says then, his voice soft and rough. "You can, if you want, but you don't gotta. You don't gotta explain a damn thing to me, or anybody."
"I lied to Deanna," she says. Daryl just watches her. Her throat feels tight. "I killed people." Beth blinks hard to keep the tears stinging her eyes from falling. "I don't… I don't know if I did the right thing. I never knew the whole story. It was all so… I don't know if I'm a good person, anymore."
Daryl sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out, and then his hand covers hers, wraps her fingers up in his.
"You're a good person, Beth," he says. "Whatever happened, whatever it was, you did what you had to do. And I know you wouldn't ever hurt nobody 'less you didn't have no choice."
Beth closes her eyes, tries to ease the tension pulling painfully around her eyes.
"What if they don't let me stay?" she whispers.
"Pfft," Daryl replies. "You? You're exactly the kinda person we need here. You ain't goin' nowhere. Don't worry about that."
"But Maggie said they're trying to screen -"
"You gotta put it away," he says. Beth opens her eyes and he's looking right at her, and the expression on his face stops her breath in her chest. He's calm and kind and knowing, and the faith he has in her goodness comforts her like a warm blanket being drawn around her.
Beth lets her head fall to rest on his shoulder. Daryl exhales noisily. He lifts his hand and it hovers in mid-air for one long, hesitant moment before he lets it drop back to his lap. Beth reaches for it, laces her fingers with his.
They stay like that for a long time.
The party is wonderful.
Beth has always loved parties, ever since she was a little girl. She used to get so over-excited for birthday parties - whose, it never seemed to matter - that she was notorious in her family for throwing up right before the guests arrived.
Carol's house is full of people. The whole group is there, and Deanna and her son, Aaron and Eric, and numerous other faces that have become familiar in the short time she's been in Alexandria. Introductions are made and Beth does her best to remember every name she's told.
The sound of laughter and conversation seems to take on a physical presence, filling the room with heat and air and life. Beth can't remember the last time she experienced that feeling. Before the turn, she's sure, before silence and caution became required of a person at every moment.
Beth stands by Maggie, mostly, and she's only half-listening to her and Deanna discuss something about the school and the daycare, when Beth feels warm fingers touch her elbow.
"Hey." Beth turns around, almost spilling her punch on Daryl's chest.
Beth stares at him for a moment, and she almost laughs. For some reason, when they'd talked about the party when Daryl dropped her off at home earlier and he'd promised to come, she pictured him showering and shaving and putting on a nice shirt like everyone else. Now she wants to laugh at herself for ever thinking that.
Daryl stands there in his vest and his dark, long-sleeved shirt, ragged jeans and boots. It all looks relatively clean, and the crossbow is absent, and it's possible he made an attempt to comb his hair, but aside from that, he's just Daryl. Same as always.
Maybe some things really don't change. And if that's true, Beth's glad that Daryl's total indifference to being presentable is one of them. She grins at him.
"You look real nice," he says abruptly, the words seeming to fall out of him almost by accident.
"Oh," she replies, hand rising automatically to shield her forehead, to touch the wavy scruff of her short hair. It's grown back quickly, and should be long enough to pull back into a short ponytail in another month or so. But truthfully, she's avoided mirrors since arriving in Alexandria. "It's - I mean, they had to shave it all off, and it's growing back kinda crazy, I don't know -"
"S'cute," he says. He just looks at her for a moment and then shrugs. "You could be balder 'n Mr. Clean and you'd still be beautiful."
Beth huffs a surprised laugh. Beautiful? "I don't know about that, but thanks."
"Modesty don't suit you," Daryl says, something like a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Beth gapes at him, tries to form a reply, but Maggie interrupts, steers her back towards the conversation with Deanna. Giving Daryl a helpless look over her shoulder, she smiles when he nods and tips his head in Aaron's direction, across the room. He disappears behind a small circle of people watching Abraham arm wrestle a grinning Carl.
"I'm sure we can arrange that," Deanna is saying, as Beth attempts to wheel her attention back to the conversation happening in front of her. "The library is well stocked, and we can put together some kind of committee to sort out a curriculum."
Beth figures her face must broadcast her confusion, for Maggie pipes up. "I was telling Deanna that you're really good with little kids, and you'd be a great fit in the school." Maggie nods, eyebrows raised, probably trying to look encouraging.
"Um," Beth replies, frowning and giving her head a shake. "I'm not really sure what I want to do just yet."
"Of course," Deanna says, holding up a placating hand. "You need time to settle in. But why don't we meet early next week, discuss some options?"
Beth nods, and smiles, and can't seem to make a word come out. Maggie smiles, and Deanna smiles, and Carol comes by with a tray of pigs in a blanket.
All at once the room feels too crowded, too close. The press of bodies and the noise of strangers' laughter grates where it once delighted. Beth wants to get away from everyone, to breathe fresh air, to be alone.
Excusing herself, she hurries out onto the front porch, tries to catch her breath. Her throat feels dry and her head has started to tighten ominously, a throbbing pulse that starts at the top of her head where her scar hides beneath her hair, and spiderwebs out across her entire skull.
Beth leans her forehead against the painted wood column of the porch, and counts to ten, breathing slowly in and out.
She gets as far as "seven" before she bends over the porch railing and vomits into the hedge. Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, she stumbles down the front steps and heads back to Maggie and Glenn's.
The walk is quick enough but still agonizing, the muscles around her eyes straining as she tries to keep them as closed as possible, tries to block out what little light there is in the dim street.
Beth finds her way into the house, collapsing onto the couch with a whimper.
Lying on her back, she covers her eyes with her arms and breathes slowly and deliberately, trying to ease the pain that presses against the inside of her skull.
She tries not to think of the bullet that left this pain behind. Tries not to think of the little pieces of bone they cleaned out of the wound. Tries not to think about the depression in her skull that will never mend.
She tries not to think about the vague, creeping sense of unease this place leaves her with.
A short time later, she hears the creak of the front door, and footsteps on the floorboards.
Something cold touches her forehead, and the sensation is so heavenly that she whimpers aloud. It doesn't drive the pain away, but for a brief moment the fiery band that wraps around her skull is dampened, like soft rain on a wildfire.
She opens her eyes a slit to see Daryl standing over her. He hasn't turned on any lights; the room is blessedly dark and she can just make out the shadow of him leaning over her.
"Migraine?" he asks, his voice low and soft.
Beth moves her head in what she hopes is the approximation of a nod.
"Hm," he gruffs. "Shoulda said somethin'. Hold on."
Daryl rearranges the cold cloth so that it covers her eyes, plunging her into cool darkness. Beth hears his footsteps go, but he isn't gone long. When he returns, he slides a hand under her shoulders and sits her up.
"Take these," he says, dropping a couple of chalky white pills into her palm.
"No," Beth replies. "We gotta save those, other people need 'em more."
"Nobody needs nothin' more than you," Daryl says, sounding annoyed.
Unable to find a way to reply to that, Beth swallows the pills. Daryl turns around and produces a glass of water. She drinks the whole thing.
"C'mon," he says, crouching down next to her. He scoops one arm under her bent knees and one behind her shoulders, and lifts her into his arms like she weighs nothing.
Beth briefly considers protesting, briefly thinks she probably should. But why? He wants to, and it feels so impossibly good, letting her heavy, aching head loll against his arm.
Daryl takes her upstairs, pausing to let her direct him to the right room. He places her gently on the bed, then steps back to pull her boots off, placing them beside the bed. She thinks of protesting that, too, for she still hasn't managed to sleep with them off. She looks down at her sock feet and thinks maybe it's time she managed.
"This happen a lot?" he asks, standing there by the bed with his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides.
"Yeah," Beth nods. "Since the… Well, you know." Daryl grunts in acknowledgement.
"You're tough," he says. "All right? Don't gotta prove it to nobody by sufferin' through this. We don't gotta live like that no more."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," Beth replies, arranging the cloth over her eyes again. "Just trying not to be a burden."
"Burden," Daryl repeats, his voice scornful. "Doubt you've ever been a burden a day in your life."
Beth holds the cloth tight to her eyes. She doesn't know what to say to that.
"Get some rest," he says, then, and she hears him turn to leave. Beth reaches her hand out and grabs for him, wrapping her fingers around his.
"Stay," Beth says.
Daryl exhales noisily. "Ain't why I came to check on you," he says.
"I know. But so what?"
"Yeah, well, Maggie'll have somethin' to say about it, she gets home and finds me here. In your bedroom." It's the way he says bedroom that sets her off, like he's scandalized at the very idea of Beth even having a bedroom, never mind him being in it. Beth laughs. It sends needles of pain prickling all over her scalp, but she laughs.
"Hmph," Daryl grumbles. "You laughin' at me, girl?"
"Yes," Beth replies. She shifts her weight over to make room for him on the bed. For a long moment he doesn't move, doesn't respond. Then he huffs out a short breath and Beth feels the bed sink under his weight. He sits back against the headboard, her head at his hip.
They sit in silence for several minutes. Beth feels a measure of relief to the pain, and hopes that means the painkillers are kicking in. Daryl is tense beside her, his body drawn and taught.
Then, with no idea what prompts it, Beth remembers something important.
"Daryl," she whispers, "know what I saw when I was out there?"
"What?"
"I was checkin' out a house and I found one of those ashtrays shaped like a bikini top. Like the one we found, remember? In that old stillhouse?"
"I remember," Daryl says, huffing a strange little sound that Beth supposes is a laugh.
"I stayed for the night but in the morning I burned the whole place down," she continues. She feels him shift beside her, turning his head to look at her.
"No shit?" he asks, brows drawn together and a genuine smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"No shit," she replies, grinning. "Burned that sucker right to the ground."
"Hm," is all he says, and silence falls between them.
Beth listens to the sound of his breathing beside her, feels the warmth of him. She's fallen asleep this way dozens of times, with him keeping watch over them both.
"I missed this," she mumbles.
Daryl exhales a long, deep sigh. There's a pause, and then Beth feels the tentative touch of his hand landing gently on the crown of her head. She smiles.
"Me too," he says, his voice little more than a rusty whisper in the close darkness.
Beth falls asleep to the sound of Daryl's steady breathing, to the sensation of him running his fingers through her hair.
When Beth wakes, the pain is gone, and Daryl's still there.
The first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is his arm beside her, illuminated only by soft candlelight. It's still dark; it's not even morning yet. She blinks, cranes her head to look up at him, and finds he's sitting up, awake, leaning back against the headboard. He's looking down at something in his hands. It's her old knife, still tucked in its leather sheath.
He's silent and still, his palms upturned in his lap, cradling the knife, seemingly lost in thought.
Like falling asleep beside Daryl, waking up to him is nothing new. There's so much about him that's the same as it was then, when they were on the run together, the roughness of him, the short, gruff way of him.
Yet there's something else about him that's different, something deep and quiet and calm, something wise. Something beautiful.
"Quit starin' at me," he grumbles, his gaze sliding to meet hers.
"Hey," she replies softly, smiling at him. The corner of his mouth twitches, and she grins. "You know, I had them turn that hospital inside out lookin' for that knife."
"Here," he says immediately, apologetically, pushing it at her.
"Daryl," she says, rolling her eyes at him. She takes it, though, props herself up on one elbow and holds it in her hand, thinks about the times she wished she had it on the road. Thinks how lucky she is she didn't die from the lack of it.
I'm so fucking lucky.
"Where'd you get it?" she asks.
"Carol," he replies. "She thought I'd want it."
"Did you?" Beth looks up at him, searches his face. He's looking at his lap, but after a moment he slants a look her way.
"Yeah, I did."
Beth holds the knife between them. She's happy to have it back, she supposes, but she's struck by the urge to return it to him, as though it doesn't belong to her anymore. As though he needed it more than she did.
"Your sister came to check on you when she got home," Daryl says, then. "Stuck her head in to say g'night."
Beth eyes him. "Oh?"
"Stuck her head back out pretty quick, too," he continues, a rueful little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Beth grins. "Good thing she's still walkin' on eggshells around me or else I'd probably be in for an earful."
Daryl nods, but he doesn't smile. "Go easy on her," he says. "Losin' you was… Just go easy on her."
Beth looks away from him, down at the knife lying on the comforter. She feels the sting of guilt, followed by a surge of frustration. It doesn't seem fair, somehow, that she's spent so much of the time since she got back tip-toeing around their grief. Like when she cut her wrist and she spent weeks making it up to Maggie and her dad, making sure they knew she was sorry, that it was selfish and wrong, that she was fine now, cheerful and happy and fine. Making sure they never worried, never feared the thoughts and feelings that crouched inside her. Never mind that she was the one so hopeless that she dug into the skin of her own wrist with a jagged shard of broken mirror.
Beth wonders if she could ever find the words to explain that to any of them.
Daryl clears his throat. "Every mornin' since you came back, I wake up thinkin' I musta lost my damn mind. I lie there tryin' to figure out if it's real or not," he gives a dry, humourless laugh. "Hard to shake it."
Beth just stares at him, at the scruff on his jaw. She has no idea what to say to him, how to talk about his grief. It makes her feel self-conscious and confused and sad, a sick feeling swirling in her stomach. He's been so hurt, and she doesn't know how to take it. Doesn't know what that means for them, now. Doesn't know how she's supposed to act, to feel. Most of all, she doesn't know how to comfort him, how to convince him she's real.
After all, none of the people she's lost have ever come back from the dead.
Beth shifts, inching closer to him, sliding under his arm and pressing close to his side, her cheek against his chest. Daryl's arm hovers in midair for a moment, and then he gently settles it around her, his hand on her side. Beth lets her left arm rest on his chest, her hand over his heart.
"I'm alive," she whispers to him. "I'm here."
Daryl exhales in a harsh gust, and his hand comes up to cup the back of her head.
"I need you to let it go, now," she says. She can feel his heart thumping fast and hard under her cheek. "I'm here. I'm back. It was horrible. I'll never know how horrible it was for you, and you'll never know how horrible it was for me. But you have to put it away."
For a moment, he just breathes, just lets her words hang in the still air between them.
"What if I can't?" he says, his voice low and gruff. Beth smiles against his chest.
"You have to," she replies. "Or it kills you. Here." She presses her hand against his chest, over his racing heart.
Daryl lays his hand over hers, cradles her fingers in his own.
"That's what you done for me," Daryl says softly. "That right there."
Beth blinks, feels wetness under her cheek. She's crying. She lifts her head and looks up at him. He's watching her, his eyes narrow and soft, and it's that same look he gave her that night at the funeral home, like he's standing on the edge of something, but he can't jump off on his own.
Beth leans up and presses a soft, brief kiss to the side of his mouth.
Daryl freezes, and Beth pulls back a few inches to look at him. He stares at her for a long, silent moment, his face flushed. He chews on his bottom lip and stares and stares, and Beth realises he doesn't know what to do. Slowly, trying to give him time and space to pull away if he wants to, Beth closes the distance between them again and kisses him again. He sighs, a rush of air on her skin, and Beth feels one hand slide gently up to hold her upper arm. They barely move, barely touch, just the gentle nudge of noses brushing against cheeks, of their lips tingling with the newness of each other.
Daryl pulls away.
"I should go 'fore everyone's up," he says. But it's not a brush off. Beth knows. He's not trying to get away from her. And she doesn't feel the need to insist that he stay. He says he needs to go, and she knows he'll be back. They have time now.
Beth smiles at him, and takes his hand, and leads him down the dark stairs and out onto the front porch. She flicks the porchlight on at the door and walks out with him. He stops and turns back to her.
"You all right?" he asks her, examining her face.
"Yeah," Beth replies, wrapping her arms around her chest, holding herself. "I'm okay. It's just… It's hard to get used to all this." She pauses, gestures at the quiet street, the dark houses. "It's… It looks safe. And a lot of the time it feels safe. But it doesn't feel like home. You know?"
"Anythin' happens, shit goes bad, we can't keep this place - we run. Simple as that. Done it before, we can do it again. You won't get left. Not again. Not ever." He looks right at her, steady and determined. Beth swallows the lump in her throat and nods, unable to speak.
There's an extended pause where Beth expects Daryl to mumble an attempted goodbye and leave, but he doesn't speak, doesn't move. Daryl looks down at his feet, and it kinda kills her that this man is standing in front of her with all the confidence of a kid with his first crush. And maybe that's exactly what this is.
"Aaron and Eric have me over for dinner now and then," Daryl says, glancing up at her. "Headin' over there tomorrow night. You wanna come?"
"Like a date?" she asks, arching a playful eyebrow at him.
Daryl blushes darkly and scowls at her. "Yeah, like a date. Damn."
Beth laughs. "I'd love that."
"A'right," he nods, chewing at his bottom lip. He stands there looking at her for a long time, and she just looks right back at him. Waits to see what he'll do.
Daryl seems to make up his mind, then, for he takes a step forward, cups her neck in his hands, brushing the scar on her cheekbone with a calloused thumb.
"Best thing I ever saw, you runnin' towards me," he says. And then he leans down and kisses her.
That feeling comes over her again as she runs her hands up to his shoulders and he presses dry lips to hers, curving into a smile - the warm, safe, familiar feeling. Home. Family.
They stand there under the porchlight, moths circling their heads, kissing like it's the most normal thing in the world.
Maybe now, after everything, in this place that feels like it could one day be home, it is.