"Up more!" James calls down from the ledge.

The midday sun rises above their heads as they labor to further fortify the camp. Below the shelf's drop down from the island, Daryl, John, Tom, Rob, and Michael work positioning chopped-down tree trunks into the ground as sharpened angled pikes. Smaller versions of these have already been installed on the higher ground on the other side of the riverbank, keeping walkers or any other mobile thing from stumbling into or charging camp. Muscles strained they reposition the angle of the weaponized post and drive it in securely, hammering at it with a rubber mallet Tom had pilfered on a run a year back when they'd started most of the camp's construction. The posts are erected to slow and stave off the living and pierce through any on-comers without the ability to reason and navigate.

Next will come the trenches, more of them. Spread throughout the woods, meant to stop anything moving through the trees without care. The more they are shown Beth and Daryl see James, Peter and the rest have spent the last two years transforming the wilderness around them into a complex network of hidden weapons, hidden supplies, hidden escapes, and camouflaged traps. There are pits in the woods dug and covered to trap walkers, there are snare traps for animals, and others for walkers. There are transplanted gardens of wild edibles, others of plants they scavenged from the towns, from farms, and there are woven basket funnels used for fish traps both above and below the fall. James and Peter both were Eagle Scouts, Simon too had been a scout, and Tom came from a long tradition of hunters in his family, he was raised in the woods. They used and applied their skills and knowledge well. There are trip lines and alarm lines; there are marked trees with nails driven in making them easy to climb in an ambush. There are places in the brush at far off distances to leave messages should they get separated. Miles out in all directions there are wind chimes hung to attract the dead to them, away from the camp. Their defenses are far from advanced, and not plentiful, but they are well thought out, calculated and proving effective, so far, when happened upon.

Seated on a rock in camp Beth wipes her brow. She'd been down there, helping with the others till she'd stumbled and fallen to the ground. Daryl'd turned back and reached down and lifted her to her feet by the elbow. "Y'a'right?" he'd asked, looking at her, studying her face. Beth had nodded. But as his eyes darted across her face in inspection he'd seen she was both pale and flushed, perspiration wetting her face, and her eyes were distant and unfocused. "Beth," he'd said lower, his brow furrowing, "what's th' matter?" She was dizzy, that's what he saw. She might've almost fainted, he can't know for sure, he didn't see; he'd only heard her fall. "You're hungry," he'd said. Beth, in answer, had shaken her head. "Eat something."

"I'm fine."

Daryl had taken her by the arm and pushed her up the slope, back up to camp. "Drink something," he'd said, the only 'something' available of course being water. "It's hot." He himself had wiped his brow as evidence, brushing back his sweat-pieced hair out of his eyes with the crook of his arm. "You're not drinking e'nough."

Daryl saw her seated then returned to work. He picked up the log, shouldered the weight and dug in. He tells himself, leaning into his labor, It's malnutrition, dehydration. Beth is not getting sick. She survived the infection and fevers of the prison; in his mind, she will not get sick now. She is only overheated, overtired.

Beth now watches as the work continues, and she drinks water from a canteen, noting as she does it must be in need of a wash, or have been left out in the sun too long as the water tastes funny somehow, tinny, or bitterly sour. Still, she drinks, then stokes and tends the fire, sets water to boil and uses her knife to chop the roots they'll boil and mash for their evening meal. After rest and some water, Beth recovers, though several times as the hours pass Daryl holds his hands to her head, her cheeks, checking for a fever. She isn't warm, not so much that he can tell, but still her color's off, and her hairline and temples have not dried. Beth shrugs him off. She's fine.

In the coming days they build more defenses, dig more trenches, set more traps. They are diligent in their work, conscientious in every defense they make, every plan they orchestrate, every trip line they set, but it is not all work in the life they lead. With the gardens and the scavenging, the hunting, the snares, and the fish traps, they eat all right, they do not go hungry, and fresh water is readily available. They make rounds daily, but there is time to kill between, and there is swimming, and cards, and books to occupy their time.

After dinner one night Daryl watches from the corner of his eye as John pulls out a pipe, packs it loosely, and pulls a twig from the fire to light it with. He inhales, and Daryl recognizes the familiar pungent smell. His brow arches and he looks to the sixteen-year-old with an incredulous smirk, "Fr' real?" He scoffs. Even Beth recognizes the smell; though she never partook, she'd sit with her friends while they blazed. John takes another drag then passes off the old black, curved-bottomed pipe to his cousin. James takes a deep hit, drawing hard on the pipe, then offers it to Daryl, telling him as he chokes down his smoke, "Found the plants in the back fields of a farm." James exhales, "Transplanted a couple; dry the leaves an' keep 'em for a rainy day." His meaning isn't the weather.

Daryl shakes his head at the offer; God knows he's smoked a lot in his time, but getting high in a place like this doesn't exactly square with him. He nods his head toward Beth with something like a smirk, "Give it t' her; she's big on tryin' new things."

James cocks his brow at her as he passes it over. She, in turn, looks to Daryl. Not exactly for permission — he's never actually been her chaperone — but if he's abstaining she wants first, to know he thinks it'd be safe for her to try it (she doesn't know what to expect from it), and second, that he won't be cross with her if she does. Daryl only shrugs, squinting a wry smile at her. "Go easy," he tells her, chewing on a twig. "Keep yer head."

Beth's large pretty eyes blink and she takes hold of the pipe. "Hold up," James tells her. He relights the twig in the flames, holds it over the bowl for her, and as the contents light and burn and singe, he instructs her, "Now, suck it in." She does.

Daryl watches. He blinks from across the fire. "Hold it in," he grunts. "Not in the back o' your throat; down in your lungs." Beth does what he tells her, or tries to, her eyes staying on him; then she chokes and coughs, and the grey skunky smoke billows out. Daryl chuckles outright, his eyes crinkling in amusement as several of the others join in. Daryl tosses a pebble at her, "Y'like it?"

The night passes on, several of them get stoned, all stay up and talk, watching the fire burn, feeding it higher than they usually do. Peter, well enough now, stands watch, listening to the voices, but keeping his eyes trained on the trees, dropping the night goggles down to his eyes every now and then.

Scraps of stories are swapped and told, good ones and bad. Beth tells about the Governor finally, Daryl watching stoically as she does. All mentions of Hershel's demise are omitted from the telling, it's still too soon and raw to tell to strangers, to tell anyone who didn't know and love the old veterinarian and farmer. Heads nod as her words come, though none there had come across evil so vicious, so unfeeling as is recounted in this story. They do not linger on it long. By necessity and self-preservation the conversation drifts and changes.

Daryl uses a rock to sharpen his and Beth's knives as he sits, and he watches, head ducked, eyes lowered, as Rob fools with the cams in the crossbow. Daryl's face twitches, then he clears his throat, looks up and speaks, "What kind of draw you got on that?"

"Huh?" Rob looks at him.

Daryl rubs his mouth and lets his hand drop to his jaw where he rubs at and tugs on the scruff of his chin, his eyes focused as he looks. "How's it pull? What's th' draw speed? How's its aim?'

The kid looks at Daryl, eyeing him with reservation. "… It's all right."

"It yours?"

"I'm the one holdin' it."

Daryl's mangy head shakes, "B'fore."

Rob eyes Daryl again. "No." He looks down at it, pulling back on the unloaded trigger a couple of times. "Found it in a truck." He looks at Daryl, "Asked all you've got?"

Daryl nods impassively, letting it go for the time. Then he adds, "Gotta keep it oiled. And tighten the bolts." He bites his thumb. "Motor oil'll work, if ya can't g't nuthin' else."

James nods at Daryl, "You know these?"

Daryl nods cagily. "Some." His expression twitches imperceptibly. "Should keep it loaded and nocked," he mumbles.

Later, when Daryl rises to retire he holds out his arm and beckons underhanded with his fingers to Beth. "Com'on, Willie Nelson."

Beth smiles her 'goodnights' and rises and crosses to him; he nods a 'goodnight', stands back letting her by, then walks with her to their hut, brushing his hand lightly against the small of her back as he does.

Before they reach their rag-curtained doorway he grunts, "Y'gotta?"

Beth nods and they stop and cross down to the ledge by where the creek bends and drops. Keeping their footing steady as they scale the steep grade they then walk past the pool and down river several paces.

Daryl's got her knife tucked in the back of his waistband and is flipping and twisting and catching his own as he waits, leaning back against a tree keeping his eyes moving and askance as Beth squats on the bank. When she's done he passes her knife back to her, holds his own between his teeth, and undoes his fly.

Waiting, Beth runs her fingers in the cold water, letting her fingers just hang suspended, propelled forward by the constant flow of water.

"Hey," his voice rumbles as he zips, "you stoned?"

Beth keeps her eyes on the black water and shakes her head slowly, rhythmically back and forth, "I don't know."

"Y'like it?" Beth doesn't answer. She lets the current drag her hand forward as her body keeps her in place. "Listen," he says, scratching his jaw, "don't get used to it. 's no good gettin' wasted sittin' around."

Beth's answer comes out soft and warm and low, like honey dribbled slowly on a warm day, "I'h don' even know I am..."

Daryl smirks to himself, then crouches down beside her. Behind them, in the darkness, they hear the conversation of the boys and the popping and crackling of the fire. Daryl leans over and presses a light kiss against her shoulder, then rests his chin on her, watching her profile as she watches the water. "You al'right?" She nods. "F'r real? Y'ain't dizzy, no headache? Fever?" He's not so worried about the drugs as he is about her heat exhaustion a few days back.

"… Ih'm fi'hne…" He blinks, liking the way her Southern drawl gets a little lazier when she's tired or thinking on something.

"You're cute."

Beth tilts her head back against Daryl's for a quiet moment, then leans forward, scoops both hands into the water and lets the water splash against her face and scalp. Daryl moves back to avoid the bath. He scoops up a handful of river rocks and chucks them lazily, one by one, into the stream as she runs her wet fingers over her head. Her eyes lift up into the blackness, up to the stars. There are so many. Closer ones, bigger and brighter, and smaller ones, burning a little dimmer, a little warmer, more yellow, and tiny ones, glowing so small they disappear and reappear between the flutterings of eyelids.

Daryl reaches out and runs his hand over her head, over her forehead and back over the length of her skull. His hand lingers at the nape of her neck, rubbing at her soft tanned skin when she sort of scoffs. "Whut?"

"You know what—" she says with a half-released little effect near a laugh "—I used to love?" Beth lifts a rock herself and chucks it into the gurgling ripples. "Haircuts."

A scoffed half smirk emits wryly from Daryl's lips in spite of himself, then his expression creases and folds and he scolds her, his tone darkening, "Beth, it isn't a joke."

The graveness in his voice cannot be ignored, but still she feigns naiveté, "It isn't?"

Then everything stops. They'd put this behind them, put that night behind them, stopped talking about it because it didn't help, and changed nothing, and only put an edge of separation between them, and they both know the past is not to be lingered on, and in the scheme of all that's happened to them, that night doesn't rate as worst, so dwelling on it is moot, but now Daryl stops. He admires Beth's fortitude and resilience, but to a point. He turns her chin round toward him so he can really meet her eyes. His gaze is heavy and unflinching beneath his furrowed brow and grim long-hanging hair, "It wasn't a joke to them. It wasn't just hair. They were terr'izing you. Us."

Beth's voice is plain and quiet and unmoved when she answers him, "But it's just hair, Daryl."

"Tell that to the SS," he mutters.

She's been distant there beside the river but his words take her aback. Beth's large pretty eyes flash on him quietly. "The SS didn't stop at hair."

Daryl looks at her, and breathes, letting his body exhale, and then his hand raises to her cheek and he touches her lightly, fondly, like she's a deer that might up and bolt away if he handles her too forcefully. "No one stops at all anymore. Beth, that's the problem."

The girl looks at him, holding his lined scruffy face in her solemn gaze — he can't tell if she's lit — then she kisses him.

Daryl wasn't looking to be kissed, not in this moment, not after these words, but Beth is finished talking, and she wants his lips on hers, and spent from fighting too many things day in and day out — walkers, hunger, the elements, despair — he isn't up to fighting her. He lets himself sit back and enjoy the view of Beth gently positioning herself over him. He's not sure what made him try to tell Beth Greene the score, he knows she knows it, has been living it, right along with him, and if she doesn't want to dwell on it, and would rather enjoy her high and spend time with him, he figures he'll let her have her way. He tilts his head toward his girl, kissing her willingly, holding her thin strong back in his hands, thankful for her, her health and their time together…

Somewhere in the darkness there's a rustling. Daryl listens — it's not coming from camp. He and Beth stop. Silently he pushes her off and rises to his feet, squinting into the distance through the trees. He pulls his knife, handles it loosely in his grip, and waits. When the shuffling creature emerges Daryl sets his feet, reaches back and hurls the blade through the air, striking it right in the crest of its brow. Without a word he reaches out for Beth's knife and with it in hand, standing in front of her, waits to see if there are any more. A minute passes, another one, and nothing stirs. Daryl turns, presses his palm to her waist to position her back toward camp and whistles back to the others. "Pete—" he hisses. Peter, John, and Tom appear above them in the near distance. Daryl's two fingers signal for the goggles, which Peter drops down to his nose. "Cover me."

Peter nods and draws his knife, as does Michael, and Tom disappears and reappears with the crossbow. Beth's knife in hand Daryl steps into the cold water, wades through the current and crosses to the other bank to the edge of the woods where the walker dropped. Daryl steps his foot on the decaying chest, leans down to determine the kill has been made, then satisfied extracts his knife. Daryl wipes his blade clean, tucks Beth's in his waistband and his in his belt and drags the rotting festering thing back into the woods. Not too far, but far enough, all the while Beth waits for him across the water and the three boys peer after him from above.

Daryl returns shortly, having taken down one more stray walker lurking in the brush, wades back, washes his hands and face in the icy water, then straightens up and tugs Beth alongside him. "Com'on. Head back."

He helps her up the incline and Michael's there with his hand outstretched waiting to pull her up. She reaches up and the boy grasps her hand to support her as she climbs; Daryl follows behind, assisted in the cresting with the hand reached out to him by Tom.

"Ev'rything clear?"

Daryl nods at Peter and turns back to woods looking. "Only two. Slow moving." Peter nods. "Take watch with you though," Daryl says, rubbing at his jaw. "First night seen 'em this close to camp." He turns and takes up Beth's hand, tugging her near then takes her face his hand. "Get some rest." He presses his lips to her forehead then releases her. She steps away but he whistles at her before she takes more than a few steps; she stops and he hands her back her knife. "Sleep well."

Not missed on her how uncomfortable he'll be standing all night in his wet boots and trousers, Beth takes the knife and nods. "G'night."

"Hey!"

Daryl turns round at Peter's alert and when he squints he too sees the cause for alarm. Below, again on the opposite side of the stream, close to where the first had emerged, a dark figure lumbers toward the water. On instinct, without hesitation Daryl moves into action, grasping the crossbow from Tom's hands; Daryl raises it with precision fires and strikes. Where the walker had been there is still muted snarling movement — there had been two there, not one. In fluid rote motion he pulls a second bolt from the quiver, reloads, steps into the stirrup, nocks the bow, aims and fires.

Tom, Michael, Peter, they all stop and look. Daryl's breathing hard. He'd acted with such focused ease, his arms, his whole body moved with efficient muscle memory, not one unnecessary movement had been exerted. They'd suspected he was handy, they'd seen him wield a knife, but that display in front of them was something else. They're all efficient in dispatching walkers, if not skilled, but what they just saw was a level of mastery they have not seen.

"Woah…" Michael whispers. Daryl's shoulders rise and fall as his breath regulates.

All wait, watch, look, listen. The night is still. There is nothing more. Five minutes, ten minutes pass, and nothing. When nothing more happens their backs lower, their chests loosen, their heart rates steady, and in minutes more they turn back to the center of camp and the fire and their beds.

The camp settles in, Simon tosses dirt on the flames to dampen them some, and the others, all for Peter and Daryl, duck into their shelters, armed of course, and lie down to sleep if they can, ready to wake and rise quickly should the call come. Everyone in camp sleeps with boots on this night.

Before shutting her eyes Beth ensures both hers and Daryl's packs are packed and sealed and ready for a quick grab, should events take a turn and they need to run. Following the boys' example, she daily checks both their bags have a two day supply of dried food – replacing it each day as she uses what's packed as their midday meal. When she's satisfied she settles in, and lying back feels her head sink heavily into her pack. There is a slow spinning of the world that meets her there, but whether from the smoke or something else she cannot be certain.

In the quiet Daryl and Peter stand looking, waiting. After those four kills, Daryl is alive with adrenaline and pent-up energy. He stays light on his feet, ready to act, but no further call for action comes. His fingers twitch. It is not only the walkers that have got him on edge — this is the first he's been left with Peter on their own, and there are words between them that have gone unspoken, probably for too long.

"Sorry," he mutters stiffly, into the night, not to Peter. "'Bout your face." He isn't sorry actually — he'd do it again, rightly; there's no room for that kind of remorse or second-guessing anymore. He isn't interested in apologizing for or curbing his survival instincts to placate relative strangers, still though, he figures some shreds of old world sociability must still linger in him, and some sort of thing must be said and acknowledged between them two if they are to continue on in this camp as a whole, cohesive group. "'s just—" Daryl grips the bow, nothing feeling so at home in his hands as this "—you don't know." His voice is rough and low. "Young, pretty girl on the road? You don't know." Daryl's arms flex and strain even at the memory, "You grabbed her."

"I get it." Peter listens, then glances – his face still bruised and cut – at the bowman. He does get it, he understands Daryl's reaction that day, but he listens to the words this man speaks and Peter tries to picture how Beth might have looked before all this, that her companion and friend would see her as he does and not as she is, indeed stalwart and fierce, formidable in both her earnestness and intention of purpose. In her smile and her laugh and her quiet acts of kindness he can well imagine who she once might have been; only, it's not that girl in camp with them. The change must have been slow, and necessary for the man not to really see it in her, he treats her so tenderly, like she is fragile, like she is innocent, and still untouched by the losses of this world. And Peter wonders if the man still truly sees her this way, or if it is an act of kindness to make as though he does. And is this kindness for her benefit or for his?

There's an owl hoot, somewhere, solitary and haunting.

"The thing about Beth is," Daryl says, disrupting the stillness and taking a pause for meaning before continuing, "people are gonna misjudge her; because she's small, and blonde, an' she smiles." There's a space, and it seems as though Daryl'll stop there, but he does not. His gruff voice breaks the silence that had settled in the interim— "They'd be wrong. Beth knows how to be strong; an' she don't back down."

I'd thought about using 'Bob Marley' or 'Bob Dylan' as Daryl's stoner reference, but I stuck with country... Thanks to all the readers and all the regular reviewers(!), and especially to islandgirl33 for volunteering with some future chapter beta-ing (I so appreciate it and will get back to you soon, it's been busy!)