"I never had a pony, you know."
Her voice cuts in out of nowhere, but that doesn't surprise him anymore. It doesn't bother him, either, not like the first couple days after the prison, when he just wanted to sink into misery and her words were like hooks, digging into his skin and pulling him out of of that black pit inch by unwilling inch.
He did still furrow his brow every time, though, mostly because he had no idea what prompted half of Beth's random stories or conversations. Just like he had no idea what made her bring up having a pony now, of all times.
They were currently making the trek from the cabin they'd been staying in to another one he'd scouted nearby yesterday. He didn't like to go too far without her at his side, so he'd waited to check it out until he could bring her with him. They were walking through the woods now, side-by-side, and it had been silent for a few minutes before she broke in. For the record, he hadn't seen a single damn pony the whole walk, and yet there she was bringing them up.
"When we were playing I never..." Beth darted a glance over at him and then away. He was surprised, because they never really brought up that part of the night. Just the reminder had his stomach churning with guilt over the things he'd shouted at her, the same things she was bringing up now as she went on, "You said, I never had a pony, like you thought I had. But I never did. I had a horse... But not, like... Not like I was some spoiled brat who got a horse as a gift or something."
He found himself considering interjecting, telling her that despite the shit he'd flung at her, he didn't actually think she'd been spoiled, like that. Compared to him, she just had what seemed like a spoiled sort of life. A family, and a home, and Christmas, and fucking ponies, and whatever else pretty girls like her probably got growing up. But before he could even think of finding the right words, she was carrying on.
"My horse, her name was Patsy. After Patsy Cline? She was a singer. You know... I go out walkin', after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like we used to do, I'm always walkin', after midnight, searchin' for you..." Beth seemed to be keeping her voice soft, so as to not draw anything to them, but it was still enough to have him unexpectedly mesmerized for a moment until she broke off. There was just something about her damn voice that always pulled him in, even if he tried his best to act like he didn't care.
Daryl cleared his throat and nodded, and that seemed enough to have her going on. "I raised her. Daddy let me be there, when her mama Rosie had her, and he told me she could be mine, but only if I took care of her. I must have been like ten, when she was born. But I raised her from a baby, or well, I helped her mama raise her, anyway. But I weaned her, and I taught her how to wear a halter, and a lead, and I was the first one to ride her, too. We were real close. She was a good horse."
The look of pain in her eyes for just a moment made Daryl frown, and again he felt a surge of anger for himself at lashing out at her that way. Treating her like she was some 'dumb college bitch', some girl who'd been gifted a pretty little pony when that was far from the truth. Though he couldn't find the words to express it out loud, he admired her for raising the horse like that. Daryl hadn't ever even raised a goldfish, then again, his family hadn't been the pet kind by far.
They walked along in silence again, until Beth cast him a sidelong glance. "Nelly was her older sister." She flashed him a hint of a smile. "You remember Nelly? She was the horse you rode on. The skittish one. She was Maggie's horse." Beth stuck her chin up with a hint of pride, and added, "Patsy never would've thrown you over a snake. She was too good for that."
He chuckled at that, cause he just couldn't help it. "That damn horse spooked like it was her job, or somethin'."
Beth's giggle cut through the air, hooking on something deep inside of him that he couldn't pinpoint. A smile even flickered at the corner of his mouth for a moment, before he sensed a shift in the girl beside him. Sure enough, her voice was softer as she asked, "Have you really never gotten gifts from Santa, Daryl?"
So that was how she'd gotten onto the subject of ponies. She'd been walking next to him, thinking of all the things he'd said he'd never had, like a pony or frozen yogurt, or Santa, and the horse had just been her way of bringing up how sad his life had been. His gut clenched and he shook his head roughly. "No. And don't you go feelin' sorry for me. Don't need no pity party, y'hear?"
"Daryl! I-" The regret (and faint hint of pain) in her voice was too much for him when he was filled with the memories she'd dragged up of his childhood, and the things he'd shouted at her that night. He shoved away the voice in the back of his mind that tried to tell him Beth wouldn't bring something up like that just to pity him, or even just to be sad over it. That wasn't who Beth was, and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
"C'mon," he said roughly, pushing past her to point out the somewhat run-down cabin up ahead. "Get your knife out, Greene, we gotta clear this place. And don't fall back."
He thought she'd put the conversation behind them. She hadn't mentioned it the rest of the day, though the guilt he'd felt at snapping at her a bit had settled low in his gut and refused to let go. It was like it had grown little claws and dug them into his stomach, twisting every time he remembered her perfectly sweet, careful voice and the way he'd just snapped in response.
It turned out she hadn't forgotten, but he didn't realize it until the next morning.
Beth had taken second watch, and he'd actually slept, which could be a rarity these days. Usually he was too much on edge, or the nightmares kept him awake, or he just plain couldn't sleep. Tonight, though, after Beth had cooked up the squirrels they'd caught, and he'd spent four hours keeping watch with her curled up warm and close to him, sleep had taken him easy.
At first when he woke up, he didn't realize what he was seeing. He'd fallen asleep with his back to the arm of the sofa, his legs stretched out on the floor to the side of the coffee table. When he'd drifted off after his watch, the coffee table had been empty, but as the sun shining though the window coaxed him awake, he realized that the surface of it wasn't empty anymore.
With a grunt, Daryl leaned forward to try and get a better look; it took a few blinks before the sight became clear. It was a stocking. One of the same fluffy red and green striped ones that Beth had so exuberantly put onto her feet a couple days ago, only this one wasn't on her foot (obviously), and it also wasn't empty. Confused, he reached out to pick up the small square of torn-off paper that was set just in front of the sock on the table. In curly, neat handwriting was written:
To: Daryl Dixon
From: Santa
He looked around the room, but Beth was nowhere in sight. Any other morning he might have been worried, but he knew from the handwriting on the paper that she was around. Maybe she was giving him space, though if she was, he couldn't help wondering if it was to let him open whatever the present was in peace, or to avoid any potential lashing out he might do. All things considered, she'd probably figured both were options.
Instead of lashing out though, Daryl slowly dragged the stocking over to himself and pulled it into his lap. He sat there for several minutes just staring at it; the red and green so bright against his dark, dirty jeans. So bright and clean, sort of like Beth was. It was the thought of her (and this being from her) that got Daryl to finally reach into the stocking and pull out the contents.
It isn't much, but he could tell just from looking at it all that she had gone to an effort to find each thing. Maybe she'd even been collecting some of it longer than he'd realized; possibly even since that night they'd burned the cabin down together. There was a sprig of mistletoe at the very top, which made a faint smile cross his lips at the remembrance of the warmth of lips on his cheek. The second thing he pulled out was a picture of the waterfall. She must have found it in the stack in that box from the closet; unlike the one they'd seen int he album, there were no people in it. All that was in the picture was the little pond and the waterfall behind it, and if he closed his eyes he could almost just see her, lit up by moonlight and lifting her hands to let the water trickle over her fingers.
The third thing he pulled out made him laugh out loud, low and rough before he stifled it. It was a tiny green elf hat. It looked like she'd sewed it, maybe out of t-shirt fabric and the spare little sewing kit they'd found in the bathroom their first day here. There was even a little white pom-pom on top that looked like half a cotton-ball to him. He stuck two fingers into the hat and held it up, remembering the way she'd laughed when he jokingly called her elf cause she was too damn short to reach anything.
Daryl reached in a fourth time and pulled out three cigarettes, tied together with some red thread in a little bow. As far as he could tell, the cigs weren't even from the same brand, which meant she'd been collecting them here and there, maybe as they made runs and cleared out cabins and houses. She must have been collecting them for days, or longer. Since the moonshine cabin. The funniest part to him was that he knew she thought it was kinda gross, his smoking, and yet she'd collected them for him anyway. Cause she knew he liked them, knew he missed being able to smoke whenever he wanted to.
There was one thing left in the stocking that Daryl could feel, and he almost didn't want to pull it out. A part of him just wanted to leave it to know it was just right in there, waiting... for him. It was a feeling he didn't think he'd ever had before. Realizing that, and remembering it was Beth that gave it to him, was what encouraged him to reach in and pull out the last little gift. The moment he saw it, he didn't know what to say or do. It just settled into his hand, resting right against the lines of his palm as he just stared down at it; a tiny, miniature black motorcycle. Not exactly like Merle's bike, but similar enough to bring back memories as he looked at it in bafflement, wondering where the hell she'd found it and how long she'd had it; how long she'd been saving it to give to him.
He was still sitting there ten minutes later staring down at that damn toy bike, when he finally heard her soft tread on the stairs and her light voice calling out, "Good morning."
After a low grunt, Daryl managed to get out, "Mornin'." The stocking and it's contents rested in his lap and he sat there with his hand outstretched, still watching the little miniature motorcycle in his palm.
He heard her rather than saw her; her soft footsteps behind him, her gentle breathing, the faint shush of her hair sliding against her back as she leaned over the side of the couch to look down at him. "Guess we had a visitor, last night."
"Mm."
There was just silence, and then Beth came around beside him and set down behind the coffee table. Her legs stretched out underneath it, and her arm brushed lightly against his as she looked down at the motorcycle in his hand. Her finger traced lightly over it, grazing his palm in the process, but all Daryl could do was just stay like that, hand open, watching as she delicately drew her finger across the little metal toy.
"Santa wanted me to tell you something." Her voice was almost a whisper, and though he didn't look at her, he could sense her eyes on him. "He said he's sorry. Sometimes, it takes him a really, really long time to find the good boys. He said he knew this wasn't much, but... He hoped it would make up for some of what you missed out on."
Finally, Daryl curled his fingers over the motorcycle in his hand and leaned into her just enough to press their shoulders together. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper so quiet that only she'd be able to hear. "It does." He sighed, as his leg shifted to brush just lightly against hers. "If y' see him again... tell him I said thanks."
"I'll try," Beth said softly, her head tipping to rest on his shoulder. "But Santa doesn't do things like this for thanks."
"No?"
"No. He just likes to give people the happiness they've always deserved, even if they always thought they didn't."
His only reply was a grunt, but as his fingers curled around the bike and squeezed it tight, Daryl briefly let him consider that maybe, things like Christmas weren't so bad.
At least, if he had Beth Greene around.
