He wakes early morning, before the sky has even started to lighten, a sound.
He flinches upward, hand going immediately to the crossbow next to him, but he realizes it's only a sob, soft, the hitching of breath. On the steps, she's hunched over, leaning her face into her palms.
"Beth," his voice is rough with sleep, he tries to clear his throat. "Everyone ok?"
She nods her head, but now she won't meet his eyes. She looks away, she wipes at the tears on her face. She clearly hadn't intended on getting caught out. As he fully sits, he takes in what he can of her. The fire's burned low, barely smoking in the cold air. She's wrapped in a woolen blanket, on the stairs, and breathing through her mouth, trying to regulate it.
He pulls himself up. He feels old. His left knee cracks, loud in the sleep-quiet of night. So are her sniffles. He grabs some of the dry wood he'd collected earlier, crouches down to coax the bits of coal into flame again. He listens, too, for sounds of walkers, dragging, groaning. Creaks of the house. Beth's short inhales. When the flames catch, start eating at the kindling, get engorged, he sits back on his ass, leans his elbow on his knee. Looks over to her.
It still bothers him when she cries.
"Get over here. You're cold." He's gruff, but she shouldn't have any allusions that he's ever been so good with the words. Unless it was cussing. Merle had taught him how to be quite creative there.
She's unsteady when she finally stands, her hands holding the blanket around her shoulders. She won't look at him, but she steps over. She leaves a good foot between them when she finally settles on the ground. He doesn't know how to break this ice, his own bullshit. He doesn't know how to reach out.
For once, he's glad for the Greene x-ray vision. Glad when she does it for him. Her voice is rough, rougher than he's ever heard it, the words scratching her throat on the way out: "It was really hard."
He nods, slowly, but he feels crushed under a ton of rock. His guilt is heavy enough to pull his shoulders down. "I shoulda done something different. I've thought about it. All the ways I coulda-"
"That's not what I meant. I was so- so scared. Scared I'd never see you again." She's not too scared now to meet his eyes, even with her cheeks reddening, her damned eyes so big and blue and vulnerable. So vulnerable sometimes that he wishes he could warn her, tell her to guard that close, because people would use it to kill you. "It was hard to keep the faith."
He understands.
When he'd first seen Beth Greene, on that farm, her and her sister, he'd pegged them immediately. Maggie, clearly the farmer's daughter with the wild streak, the one that would ride mechanical bulls and drink you under the table. He'd not been much inclined then, but she was the type of girl that woulda had a drink with him at the bar some night without much judgement. But Beth- blonde hair, blue eyes, homegrown teenaged boyfriend and an over-protective father... he'd known exactly where he stood. The potential woman she would be, and the girl she was, would never have had a damn thing to do with him. Would avert her eyes if they crossed paths in public.
It's so strange, he thinks, that he'd find a mirror in her, sometimes. He tries not to be bitter that if it weren't for the zombie apocalypse, he wouldn't be sitting next to her. Ever.
She's looked away again, in his silence, watching the fire like she did that house when all the liquor went up, except this time her eyes are bloodshot from crying, not moonshine.
It feels like he's struggling when he starts to lift his hand, presses his fingertips into her bicep- over the blanket, through her sweaters, but it doesn't matter. At least he can feel her muscle jump under all the fabric. At least they're both alive.