Uuuuuuughhhhh! Tonight... This show is killing me. (And no reveal of Beth's grave? Whaaaat?)

It's late in the night when their pace finally lulls. They've covered rows of houses — little more now than abandoned ransacked shells — killing collectively in that time well over a dozen walkers, maybe twice that, avoiding so far, even in the thick blackness of the night, any ambushes. Even in the dark the close calls never took them down; it was luck, as much as anything else – a breath slower, an inch further to one side, a hair less prepared; so much could have played out differently, but as it happened all three are still standing, and their haul, though light in food, is mostly successful, and worthy of their efforts and risks taken. They're slowing down now; Beth seemed to have hit a definite wall some time back, and with her fading quickly, and both Daryl and Tom weary, and a long walk back through the woods in pitch dark, they call it quits and determine to hunker in for the night.

Wanting to be positioned best for a quick exit out of town should they get swarmed – or attacked – in the small hours while they rest, they move to the outer edge of town, to the old outskirts where there had been farmland before suburban sprawl had developed the town. The house they move into is an old one, a once well-kept farmhouse, three-storied and, excepting for electricity, mostly likely never connected to the city's utility lines when the town sprung up around it. The three stories, the narrow staircases, the veranda roof wrapping full around the house, the short distance to the cover of the woods, they all meet Daryl's requisites, so after clearing it, they drop their gear and barricade the doors.

Daryl and Tom work to block the first floor windows with furniture and whatever they can, avoiding as much as they are able and deem safe the hammering of boards, the noise of which would only announce their presence. While they work Beth ventures upstairs to the second floor, keeping herself, as she does, from looking too closely at the house – the sun-bleached walls, the heavy wavy-glass windows, the worn floorboards, the homey antique furnishings, the ancestral black and white photographs... While pilfering and rummaging through those countless houses her mind had been focused acutely on two things: safety and supplies. The houses hadn't been homes to her, they were bargain-bin warehouses, but now their searching is on hold, and this place is a home, once loved and well cared for; so like her own, empty now, without a family, without sound or warmth or soul. Her heart twinges and would pang again for what's been lost, but she reigns in her thoughts and settles into a sitting room, and anteroom to a big windowed bedroom just beyond, and sets to work to piece together a small meal for the three of them. Staying busy is what she's learned, the doing the things that need being done. Her home on her family's farm was lost, her family also is lost, she can't change these things, but they are tired and hungry, and she can do something about that. She uses her knife to cut and pry open a can of vegetables, and spreads out on the old rag-knot rug the other provisions they'd happened upon in their searches.

Beth listens to the sounds of furniture being moved below her, of boards being put up and trip lines strung. Her eyes droop heavily; she's tired, and worn out. She tries to eat, but somehow she just gets stuck. Beth's frozen in place when Tom finds her — right hand stuck in the journey of bringing a forkful of canned green beans to her mouth. "Hey—" Tom tries for her attention. "You awake?"

Jolted from her waking doze, Beth's eyes blink as she manages to reanimate herself. She looks at her raised fork – halfway to her mouth – and lowers it. "Mm,hm," she murmurs.

Tom shuffles heavily into the room and drops himself onto the rug beside her. "Long day." Beth nods, and pushes the can into his hands. His brow arcs at her, "Any good?"

Through her exhaustion Beth brushes back the hair that's now just long enough to have any movement in it at all, and fights her way through a yawn. When her eyes reopen Daryl's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his soft eyes watching her quietly. "Should get some sleep," he says. "Place 's shut up pretty tight. We got alarm lines on the windows an' stairs."

Tom glances at him, his mouth full of beans, "We standing watches?"

Daryl uncrosses his arms and moves into the room, "Think we'll be al'right." He takes the half-eaten can being passed to him and shovels a forkful into his mouth. "For a coup'l hours anyway." He glances at Beth, nudging her foot with his boot, "D'ya eat?"

Her eyelids are growing leaden; Beth's head answers in movement, but from the limited exertion it is unclear whether it was meant as a nod or a shake.

"Think we've lost 'er," Tom observes with a half grin as he eats a handful of beyond-stale saltine crackers.

"Al'right," Daryl nods, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. His head jerks sideways at the bedroom just beyond, "Which one've you claimed the room?"

"My guess is she's not movin' easily," Tom replies. "I'll find another." He rises, with another handful of crackers and a strip of squirrel meat dangling from his teeth, and moves toward the narrow hall. In the doorway he leans with his hand on the knob before pulling it closed, "Sleep a couple hours, then get back to the woods?"

Daryl shrugs, biting into what dried meat's left from camp. "Maybe check around a little more. Like this one said," he glances at Beth, "still gotta check for garden transplants."

Tom nods, "Yeah. Got it." Though it's dim in the room, it appears as though from nowhere a small blush hits Tom's freckled ruddy complexion, and he clears his throat awkwardly, "So, y'all—" Daryl's brow piques at this change in his demeanor, "I'm heading upstairs… but I'll be in shoutin' distance. …" Self-consciously he clears his throat, "G'night," and shuts the door behind him.

Alone now, and skipping past their companion's fumbling innuendo, Daryl reaches down and holds a hand out to Beth. With her best effort she pulls herself up. "Ya tired?"

Beth yawns again, "Guess I'm no't used tuh the walkin' anymore." She's awake, but lethargic, and as soon as she's upright she's leaning into him, relying on him and not her legs to keep her standing; the words she mutters disappear into his leather vested chest, so muffled are they by how she rests.

Seeing no point in keeping her standing, Daryl scoops her up and lifts her, carrying her through the sitting room to the bedroom. The house is cold, the air is chilled, but it is not drafty, and she is warm in his embrace. Walking through the darkness with her Daryl remembers the feel of her in his arms the night he'd carried her to the table all that long time back in that other old house, the mortuary. He hasn't had occasion to since; her ankle healed.

So much has changed since then. There'd been nothing to carrying Beth back then, it had been a means to an end — getting her to the table quicker; now he's getting her to a bed quicker, but it's different. She had been just a friend back then, more than a companion, but only a friend, maybe a sister, of sorts. That's all he could see her as, those early days, weeks on the road; that's all that was possible. He hadn't wanted more, couldn't formulate the thought, the desire, the risk. He'd been tied to her — more so, deeper, since that night, at the still — but she hadn't been his, not in that way. There had been nothing particular of love in the old act of carrying her, Beth Greene, in his arms, on his back; but love came. It came both slowly and suddenly — like the slow gathering of rain clouds, the air growing thick and heavy with moisture, but no rain, the sun burns on, the birds still call, then boom, an instant torrential summer downpour. The moment Beth was his to love he loved her fully, and now when he carries her – which he still would have done had this love not bloomed between them – he does so so familiar with her body; he knows its weight, its bends, its capabilities, its vulnerabilities, its secrets. He knows her now as well as he's ever known anything.

Daryl sets her on the bed, and dumps a handful of broken glow sticks from his back pocket into a dusty glass on the bedside table for some light. Beth yawns and rubs her eyes while he draws close the curtains and pulls an extra blanket from the back of an antique rocker by the bed. The old floorboards creak as he moves.

Beth slowly and methodically unfolds the blanket he'd handed her while he unknots and tugs off his boots. "How're y' feeling?" The lines around his soft eyes crease as he looks at her. Daryl keeps his jaw square but his eyes study her intently, and though standing very near her his posture keeps him a little ways removed.

Beth's soft blue eyes blink solemnly. "I'm okay."

Daryl's quick eyes dart right to hers, "Naw Greene," his rough familiar voice rumbles, as he shakes his head at her. "Really."

Beth's passively tired expression shifts, she's twice as alert as she just was only seconds earlier "... If that's you asking if—"

Daryl keeps his steady watchful eyes on her, "Are you?" His voice is deep and strong in the darkness, fixed almost, like a rooted tree, or a Georgia mountain. Blue Ridge; Daryl is like the Blue Ridge Mountains, standing fast, keeping his gaze steady on her as Beth looks at him, her eyes wide, and equally watchful.

Her lips part, as though she's readying to answer, but in the end she makes no reply but instead asks, "What makes you think I am?"

Daryl only looks at her. His deep blue eyes blink. "You are."

The room is silent after the words are spoken, echoing heavy and gravelly in their ears. He can't say how he knows, what first put it in his head. She hasn't been sick; it probably hasn't been all that long. But once it caught in his mind it stuck, and it's just felt more and more true.

Beth looks at him, with all her honesty, and finally nods. "I am. I think I am."

Daryl looks at her, his eyes unconsciously narrowed, blinking, taking a moment to process what he'd thought he'd already known. "Y're?" His eyes flutter as he looks at her, struggling to maintain eye contact under her solemn look. "A baby…" he half chokes on the whispered utterance, so constricted is his throat around the knot that's growing there; his chest tightens and swells, his eyes water some, so impactful and daunting and sacrosanct is this new knowledge. His body strains under the weight of his emotions.

"A pregnancy," Beth distantly amends. The secret she wasn't certain she was keeping has been spoken, the one she wasn't revealing to herself, and now it has been, she sees no use in ignoring the realities. There may be no baby, no pregnancy brought safely to term. Things go wrong. Too many things; every day. There may never be any motherhood to come for her. She could die, so many many ways before her time, or the child could. What would have in another life seen their numbers grow from two to three, in this life she fears will stay an undetermined two, or even reduce them to one—

Daryl's head shakes gravely, "Don't talk tha' way."

But Beth Greene, as ever, will not be persuaded from her way of thinking; her belief in the good has never not been tethered to reality — no good comes from not seeing danger where it lies; to see a walker, and not to see the threat, would be madness. "Lori didn't make it," she states flatly. Daryl grimaces. His rough hands flex and twitch at his sides. Beth has faith for days, but nothing gets between that girl and the truth. If she knows it to be true she'll say it regardless of the pain it causes and she'll smile as she does it. Though she isn't smiling now. This is not a thing she would choose to be right about. "—And she'd done it before."

"Lori ain't you," his stony voice rumbles and agitated he paces in place. Daryl swallows hard and he looks at her intently. "Things'll be diff'rent."

"… You don't know what will happen."

Daryl swings his arm in her direction, "Since when're you the pessimist?" He can't abide when she gets this way — truth above all decency. He might do it to her, and probably much more often, but he can't take it from her. Beth's the one who's supposed to believe in the good things. Especially for this. Most importantly for this.

"I'm not."

He also hates when she's this succinct and sure-minded, it makes it harder for him to badger her into what he wants from her. In this case, to believe. "You're gonna be fine," he declares, swinging his arm again and pacing more briskly. He tugs at his beard as he eyes her, then points with assumed authority. "That baby's gonna be fine. 'S all there is to it. You 'n it."

Beth studies him through watchful eyes; she nods. "All right."

"Just gotta have some faith, girl."

More to come...

I'd originally written this scene as the first time the pregnancy popped up at all, but I thought it might be too abrupt — if Daryl noticed it, there must be something he noticed — but I think I set it up a little too heavily :-/ as everyone guessed it. Oh well ;-)