Baptism by Muckalee

Summary: Scarecrows, devils, and the dead are the only things out and about this late at night, and what that says about Daryl Dixon – well, it's probably true.

Rating: T

Pairing: Daryl/Beth

Author's Note: I'm not sure where this came from, but it's my first time delving into the Walking Dead, and so I thought, "What the hell?" and wrote it up. Enjoy.

Scarecrows, devils, and the dead are the only things out and about this late at night, and what that says about Daryl Dixon – well, it's probably true. Not very many people knew him before the infection hit and the world went to shit, and even fewer people now. By his count, it's only guaranteeing one – and honestly, he's not sure if she's still alive anymore after Rick banished her.

He's far from being an ideal citizen, but he's not the coward of the county, either – he isn't a hero or villain; winner or loser; champion or warrior or night in shining armor.

He's always looked better in leather and denim opposed to heavy metal armor, anyway.

But nowadays it's hard to conclude who belongs to what social order in the world. He's killed people, yes – living and dead – and participated in some questionable activities, both before and after the shit hit; he's not much of a talker, but still, things about his past and who he used to be has gotten around one way or another. He's still not sure who was eavesdropping the night he and Carol were on watch duty, but he hasn't forgotten about what a ruckus it stirred.

Yes, everybody. Gossip is still heavy in the end of the world. And even Daryl can't escape it's viscid clutches.

And everything it says about the young girl running beside him, who's gasping and panting and wincing as the low branches slap her bare skin and face, and doesn't fall under any stereotypical category that Daryl happens to is all wrong. Beth doesn't fit into any of them – murderer, because she isn't, not really; winner; loser; devil; or, hell, even an angel. Nobody's that innocent anymore – not even Beth.

They lay down, probably three hours ago, after Beth fell – her injury isn't bad, but her knee is still oozing some thick, crimson blood around all the caked dirt and grass. Daryl knew they needed to rest, and so he took his time to help her, allowing her to regain her breath and drink and vomit from the endeavor. Because, to be honest, he's far from the prime of his life at thirty-seven, and the effort was getting at him, too.

However, a small branch of the herd at the prison found them, forever hungry and desperate, and Daryl yanked Beth up and has been shoving her in front of him for the passed hour.

He is aware that she's tired – beat down and battered to the bone; exhausted and probably nearing overexertion. She's sluggish now; slow and weighted and demanding his tug and pull on her tank top strap. He's tired, too – more than tired, because he's been up for who knows how long, and all he's felt for the passed seventy-two hours was fear and pain and shock and dejection and worry.

It's a wonder he can still feel all that, actually.

But he knows Beth can. She may have stated that she doesn't cry anymore – whatever; Daryl called bullshit on that as soon as she said it, but he allowed her to pretend like she doesn't care anymore and for her to seek any bit of comfort she needed when she wrapped him up in her small, sinewy arms. But she did a whole hell of a lot more comforting him than he knows he did for her.

She's not the fragile girl she was at the farmhouse, and he's aware of this – painfully, actually, because she's a woman now and he can see it everyday – but there are different types of strength, and she doesn't have the physical or mental or even emotional health to process everything at the moment.

Beth can hold her own with a gun – growing up country – growing up with Maggie – taught her how to handle a firearm; how to point, aim, and shoot, and always clean the barrel after firing. She's not all that bad with a knife, either: he's seen her take the walkers out before, when they had all been on the road for that long winter when Lori was pregnant and Hershel was still alive.

A sharp, piercing pain stabs deeply into his chest at the thought of the old man, and Daryl swears beneath his breath.

What kind of sick, twisted man decapitates two girls' father in front of them and flaunts it like it was some sort of trophy from winning a game? Daryl's gotten soft – honestly, it wasn't like he fought it; if he even could have – and when he saw Michonne's blade slice through Hershel's neck, the only thing he saw, aside from all the red that was obscuring his vision and throwing off his aim, was the tears that were leaking from both Maggie and Beth's eyes as they went to town on their weapons.

Daryl's not even sure if the two ever hit anybody – they did, however, shoot the shit out of those guns, he'll give them that. Scared him almost as much as it amused him.

He's worried – okay, more than worried; borderline petrified and half insane – for Beth and how she's going to handle it all when everything settles and purchases in her mind. It's not uncommon that adrenaline wrecks one's response to actions and the reactions of those moves are a bit... off, so he wonders how she's going to take it. If she'll go through it and come back out the person she was before it all went down. If she's not too far gone, like Carol seems to be now.

Broken people can be fixed, he knows; not as good as they were before, probably, but better, maybe, and stronger and happier and more faithful. Well, he prays, at least.

He needs to find a shelter – safe, secure, preferably with four walls and a roof; dry lightning's been striking across the western sky and he can smell the rain in the air – for Beth to break down in. If she breaks down.

And in a sick, morbid kind of way, he hopes she does. You can only be strong for so long – you can only push it down for a limited time before it gathers and bursts and you're left a crumbling mess with overwhelming, assaulting sorrow and desperation that you'd do anything – absolutely anything – to get rid of that feeling.

Even suicide.

But Beth's tougher than she was before, and she chose to live – she wasn't guilted into living by her family, he knew, because Glenn's a little bit loose-lipped, and Daryl knows she wants to live. She opted for staying alive. And he's glad – he's never been a liar and he won't start now.

Over the passed months, Daryl's made it his mission to scour every single part of the forest surrounding the prison in a twenty-mile radius whenever he went out hunting for one simple reason: if things ever went south, he wants to know he has somewhere to hunker down for a while that's a safe distance from the tombs but close enough in case. Just in case.

There's a small cabin-type house up ahead, probably no more than a quarter mile – if he's still going in the right direction. Daryl's an inept tracker and hunter, yes, but even the best get disoriented when you were fighting the dead, the evil, and your own people. It's not big, and the last time he checked it looked as if somebody was calling the place a "temporary home", but it'll do for the night because he reckons the group is dead and him and Beth can only run so far in the middle of the night.

He really regrets not hopping on his bike and taking off – the thing wasn't worth much before and is worth even less now, but the sentimental value makes it priceless. Maybe one day he can go back and retrieve Old Glory. Maybe.

"There's a cabin up ahead," he says, his fingers curling around her shoulder and pulling her along – it's the Dixon code: you don't leave your own behind. And Beth... well, she's his own, in a weird kinda way – not like a sister, but like a prodigal friend who understands. "Ain't far; prob'ly 'bout a couple hundred yards."

She nods, lethargic, breathing heavy. She stumbles slightly, over an uprooted vine, and before she can plummet to the ground once again he catches her, steadying her swiftly before taking off at a dead run. Still, though, she's lagging, and he can only pull, digging his nails into the tender skin of her shoulder, for so long.

"Okay," she responds, hoarse.

He gives her one last sweep over his shoulder before reaching down and curling his fingers through her belt loops and yanks, hauling her along, praying it'll all be okay.

I was right, he notes with glum dissatisfaction, those folks did die.

Or, more or less, died on their own terms and not by the walking dead, it seems because there's no bite marks he can distinguish as he and Beth mount the stairs. It's admirable, in an inhuman, barbarous sort of way – but, then again, who the hell's much of a human anymore? – to go out the way you want. But killing yourself is an act of cowardice – these folks either were murdered by the Governor or were too much of chicken shits to see it out to the end.

Oh well. Daryl's long passed caring for people that aren't his own.

But Beth – it's almost like the stench of decomposing flesh is worse in a body that didn't return because it can sit and sour and rot in it's own way. At least the walkers move around and spread out their stench. She's puking again before he can do anything – hide her from the disrespectful sight, at least – over the railing of the house.

He cocks his head and bites his thumb, torn: he wants to help, but holding a girl's hair while she's hurling her guts up has never been his forte. Protecting Beth and keeping them both alive is his goal now, and he knows she'll be of little use inside clearing from the look on her face that's screaming she's about to fall out.

"Take your time, Beth," he calls, bringing up his crossbow, readying it as he kicks twice, hard, on the door, a beacon to draw out any walkers that may be housing inside. "I'll take care of this part – shouldn't be too hard anyhow. Just... keep your gun out, m'kay? And if you hear me holler, don't wait – you just run, 'kay?"

She nods once, sickly, and flashes him a reassuring glimmer of the small hand gun in the moonlight and thunderous lightning; in response, he nods, too, and goes in as she's returning to her position over the railing to resume her heaving.

He definitely wants no part in that.

The house is clear, he discovers, and he ushers Beth in from outside immediately; slamming the door and grappling for any hefty piece of furniture – whether it be a couch or desk or chair; or you know, a refrigerator – to barricade the door. Beth catches onto his point quickly, and the two spend the next ten minutes creating a thick barrier against them and the dead outside.

Afterward, both are too weary to search for any food – it's not like either could stomach anything after everything, he reasons, and the water is still on, so there's honestly no rush to eat as long as they have liquid to drink.

Daryl's aware that the best way to bring her out of her misery is to talk, to recount every good thing and bad thing through all the years she can remember – the happiness and joy and irritation and confusion and love and warmth – but he's not good at heart-to-hearts and she doesn't seem like the type that willingly wants to discuss her grief and hurt. Anger, though, is different – Carol told him what Beth said when he didn't return with Rick when they rescued Glenn and Maggie, and after his initial mirth, he realized that there was a lot more to the girl than met the eye.

She enjoys talking, but she doesn't talk much to him, though, which is okay with him because he's not into speaking much at the moment, either. They communicate, with small nods on her part and grunts on his. She does, however, squeal, just a little from surprise, when she enters a bedroom and gathers dusty pillows and blankets after uncovering a small army of mice.

Daryl snorts – it's entertaining, but shocking she still has enough energy to be a... well, a girl.

At the moment, though, they need to rest more than anything; to regain their strength as fast as they can so searching for the remaining members of the group isn't as taxing as it could be. But it'll probably take a while for the both of them to recuperate – running endlessly for however many hours through open fields was a bit more strenuous than ducking in and out of alleyways and department stores had been.

Daryl tells Beth as much, and after retrieving two patchwork quilts from whatever room it was, they both bed down. Two couches are placed facing each other, with a long, wooden table in the middle; Daryl places his crossbow on the table, along with his knife and the sheath of arrows he stashed in a hollow log long ago for easy access.

Beth clutches the hand gun against her chest, facing away from the back of the couch and toward him, somewhat, and he hopes she's smart enough to click on the safety.

There's so many things running through his mind – ranging from Beth and her stability and Carol's wellbeing and the harsh worry of everybody else to Hershel and Merle and Beth, again. And where it would be most proper to unzip and go to town on relieving himself. He's a man, after all, who drank beer on the weekends and partied – his bladder's not what it's all cracked up to be, but Beth doesn't need to know that, and he promises himself as soon as her breathing evens and her fingers loosen on the gun, he'll ease up and take care of himself.

But the thing is, Beth – yeah, she's wide awake and restless. Moving around and making these little noises that he can't help but jump at and causing the goddamn couch to squeak almost like a friggin' mouse. A lot's got to be on her mind, too, but he doesn't want to talk, and she probably doesn't, either.

"Beth. Quit and go to bed."

There's a tense moment of silence, and in that minute thunder booms and lightning strikes, simultaneously, resounding through the thin walls of the cabins. Daryl wonders if the walkers are distracted by the display of lights in the sky and the reverberation of cracks that echo. Probably so, he reasons, and so worrying about whether or not he should take watch is taken off his mind.

"I can't. I'm too busy thinkin'."

He grunts and rolls over, facing her, but he can't see her through the dense darkness except when the stretching illumination from the lightning brightens the room. "Stop."

She makes a noise, one he can't distinguish, before replying, "It's not easy."

He never imagined she would be so difficult. "Try," he whispers, coarse but quiet, and holds his breath, hoping she'll take his shitty advice and just shut up.

The lightning cracks and he can make out her outline as she moves, the blankets falling from her shoulders, into a sitting position. She places the gun on the table, next to his bow, and lays her hands in her lap to twiddle her thumbs, sighing.

Something's definitely on her mind, and she's about to talk his ear off.

"Daryl?"

He grunts, but doesn't tell her to shut up. Grieving people are supposed to talk through the pain, right? Okay, he'll let her – he'll let her only if it brings her back because she can't be too far gone. He'll not let her be – he'll not let her turn into somebody like Andrea was or Carol is. Or was – he's not sure which one is the proper tense.

"Are you upset about Carol?"

Her words catch the air in his throat and he coughs, ignoring that insistent burn in his gut. "Huh?"

"Are you mad? About Carol?"

It's supposed to be about Beth and her dejection; not his. "What's there to be pissed 'bout?"

In the darkness, she moves her shoulders, but he can't see her face. "Rick didn't talk to you before he left her alone," she says, and he tries not to wince at her bluntness. She's just like Hershel, he thinks: straightforward, not giving a rat's ass who has a problem with it. "He talked to Maggie and... Daddy, but it was after he got back. Maggie told me this mornin'."

"Yesterday mornin'," he corrects because it's got to be passed midnight, right? She's silent afterward, and he rolls his eyes, pushing himself up to sit, facing her. "Really don't matter what I think anymore, Beth. I ain't the leader. I just been standin' in till Rick grew his balls back and got some gravel in his gut and 'member what all he's done. And it's always – always – been 'bout keepin' the group safe."

"Even if that means leavin' one of our behind?" she asks, counters, and Daryl's too tired to even wonder why he's not resisting this little interrogation.

"You 'member what happened back at y'all's farm," he reminds her, blinking as the lightning breaks the sky; the rain is light but steady, resonating off the metal roof like pebbles striking the serene water of a lake. "Rick killed Shane to keep us all safe."

"Shane was tryin' to kill Rick, Daryl," she reminds him, stark and adamant.

He scratches his beard, itching the scruff along his jaw as he looks down at the black floor. "Well, that's what Carol done. She killed some'a our own, right? And Rick was just thinkin' 'bout the best for the group. After all, we got kids now. The world's already shitty enough – growin' up thinkin' it's a'ight to kill somebody over a little cough ain't good. They ain't gonna know what's wrong or what's right."

She's quiet, and he imagines the gears turning in her mind as she comprehends it all. He's not at all clear, he knows, but he hopes he at least gets a fraction of his point across to her: whatever it takes to keep the group alive.

"So you agree with what Rick done?"

"Ain't sure," he replies, and hurries to explain because he knows she'll ask regardless if he wants her to. "I can see why, but I'd have to talk to Carol 'bout it."

"That's a sad excuse," she says, monotone, but he can just barely catch something underlining her emotionless exterior.

He's caught off guard, and he feels his face stutter as it jerks up, wishing he can see her face in the darkness to read what she's thinking. "What?"

She says, simply, "You're wastin' my time tellin' me lies I don't believe."

"Beth..." Her name isn't a whisper, and it's not a scream, either; but the way he says it, it's both, quiet and loud, filled with so much emotion that it's almost dripping as it flows, and Daryl wonders how a name can sound so desolate and sanguine – like a curse and a prayer; a warning and a plea – at the same time. "How're you doin'?"

She catches her breath; the sound harsh and abrupt, chilling Daryl. He feels guilty about bringing her daddy up, about crossing the line that he said he wouldn't till she was ready – Beth's not, and neither is Daryl, and they both know it, but he's not ready to talk about Carol, either. So it's a lose-lose either way, right?

Beth breathes deeply, shakily, but she speaks with power and approach that astounds him deeply. "It hurts... a lot more than I would'a expected it to – feels like a part of my heart got ripped out and threw away. It was different, when Momma and Shawn died 'cause they told me it was just a disease, an infection, and that Maggie took them both to the hospital to get fixed. I was at school, and we weren't allowed to watch the news to see what was happenin', and so I believed them. I believed Momma and Shawn were at a hospital gettin' better when everything just started to fall apart and... Shane... and the barn."

Daryl furrows his brow, his mind refusing to allow Sophia's infected face to enter. He thought Beth was aware of it all; of the walkers that were ambling in the barn and that her mother and brother were long gone, and she just went along with her father's idiocy because she wanted to please him. Like Maggie. But now, looking back, Daryl realizes her reaction to seeing her mother shot – running to her, crying, clutching and grabbing at anything for a tether – was so real and unfettered because she really didn't know. The pain and betrayal he experiences for her that she must feel tenfold is enough to render him speechless for a moment as she continues.

"You know, I always knew he was gonna die – I mean, we all are, right? This world'll eventually kill us all. But I didn't think it'd be today – or yesterday. I'll be okay, though. I think... I think the fact that he died the way he did, defendin' Rick and the everybody, was how he wanted to go, you know? I think he knew it was his time – that smile, before... it told me everything he didn't have time to say."

It's his turn to sigh, and he does, loudly. "Beth," he says her name – he wants to feel that sweet twinge it gave him when he said it earlier; wants to not feel like his heart is crying and his head is breaking and everything's just so far gone that it's all shit now anyhow. He hopes saying her name will help. "Quit tellin' me lies you know I ain't gonna believe."

She doesn't respond verbally, but she stands and moves just as the lightning flashes again – like a walker, her arms outstretched and her eyes wide as she reaches for him, rounding the small table, and collapses beside him on his couch. He grunts and jumps, surprised, but doesn't shove her away when her arms slide around his waist and she roots her nose into his neck. And then they're hugging, kinda, with his arm around her shoulders to offer warmth and hers clutching his hips, burying her face into his shoulder, her breath ghosting in scattering bursts against his skin that feel like a sin when it's meant to be a prayer.

They sit together for a moment, him giving her everything he can in hopes that it'll comfort her somewhat – but she's not crying, he realizes, because there's no wetness or shaking or twitching. She's just breathing, albeit shakily, against his skin, and he can't help the tingles that race through him at the sensation – it's not at all romantic, but it's still intimate, still too close to be considered anything other than lovers, and the thought scares Daryl. He cares for Beth, that much is obvious, but he doesn't want to love her for the simple reason that loving somebody in this shithole will only speed up the impending death. He cares about her already enough – so much that he'll do whatever he can to keep her alive; not because of an obligation toward her father, no, but because Daryl needs her. Needs her to not feel alone and broken and to remember that with the bad comes the good, too. One can't coexist without the other, and that's how Daryl and Beth are.

She yawns against him, squeezing tighter. "I just don't know why it had to be Daddy," she admits, soft. "I don't know why it couldn't have been somebody else – and I know that's mean, and it's awful to say that and I know it ain't right but... it could'a been me. I don't know why it wasn't; he ain't never done nothin' to anybody, you know? So I don't see why he had to go."

Daryl shakes his head, his chest tightening at her words. She shouldn't say that; shouldn't wish it was her instead of her father because, honestly, everybody knew Hershel's time was limited. And both Beth and Maggie are so young, so spirited, and they have so much going for them – they have to live; not just survive. And Hershel knew that.

"I ain't Buddha and I damn sure ain't Jesus, so I can't answer your questions, Beth," he tells her, hoping he isn't too gruff – but that's the way he's always been. "I don't know much of nothin', and I really don't know shit about the 'why's' and 'why not's', but I can tell you that you lived for a reason. Everything happens for a reason, right?"

She nods, but doesn't speak.

"And, you know, sometimes that reason ain't very... noticeable, at first. So you gotta give it time. You gotta live your life long and slow to find out what that reason is. 'Cause – and you gotta trust me on this, Beth – God, he saved you for a reason. He kept you alive for a reason."

And maybe – Daryl's hoping, but he doesn't deserve to hope anymore – that her reason to live might be akin to keeping him alive, too.

"And you know damn well where your old man went, Beth. Bet'ya money he's lookin' down on you and your sister this minute, checkin' in, makin' sure that the two of you are doin' just fine. And you'll see him again, Beth, when you're old and gray and fat 'cause I ain't gonna let you die."

"Money ain't worth nothin' no more."

Daryl contemplates for a moment. "I bet'ya an arrow then. If you think I'm wrong, I'll give a bolt to ya and let you do whatever with it. M'kay?"

Again, she nods and doesn't speak, and that's okay with him. He didn't pour his heart out for her to dissect, and she is fine with that – he did his best, to get her mind off of her father, and even if it didn't work all that well, maybe it at least helped to ease her heart. And reassure her that she's still got somewhere safe to go when everything's said and done.

"Thanks for savin' me back there," she whispers against his neck, her breath hot, but Daryl steels his heart because he can't afford to be experiencing these unsettling emotions. "Don't know what I would'a done if you weren't there."

Lived. That's what you would'a done, I'm sure. "It's what we do."

She nods, her head clipping his jaw sharply. "Just... before you leave, wake me up, m'kay?"

He's confused – bewildered, perplexed, bemused; all those fancy words that mean the same thing: he has no idea what's happening. "Leave?" he repeats, with a high pitch of baffled shock.

Again, she nods, considerately, and keeps her head from his jaw; the impact must have rattled her brain, he thinks, because if she's meaning what he thinks, she's dead wrong. "I wanna tell you bye before you go."

"Go? Where the hell am I goin'?"

"Well," she sighs, "you're obviously gonna leave now that the prison's gone to search for Carol and Rick and everybody else. And me taggin' along will only slow you down. It's only reasonable to leave me behind."

He shakes his head, but she can't see it. "Beth, I ain't gonna leave," he admonishes, anxious, his mind trailing away. It would be nice to find Carol, he thinks, because she is his friend – was the first to actually reach out other than Rick. Daryl misses her and the way she flirted, even when he would tell her to stop; the way she understood, and cared, and nurtured, and took no shit. But he doesn't miss her enough to leave Beth – somebody that's nearly twenty years younger than him who's tough and strong and who he needs to exist, at this point – behind to search for a woman who might not even be alive. He misses Carol, yes, but it's that kind of absence that is frowned at, but not entirely... unwelcome. It's that kind of lack that he's known was coming, and has prepared for it, and doesn't feel so floored by it.

Daryl will forever feel connected to Carol, though, because growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time the both of them grew together, side by side.

"It's okay, Daryl – "

"Don't say somethin' so stupid again," he warns, but it's heartfelt, in the way that one would ask somebody to stop crying before they start crying along with them. They're so far down shit's creek that it's not right to leave her – and, if he's honest, he doesn't want to leave her because... well, just because. Beth's tough – and he knows that; knows she can take care of herself if ever she has to – but that's not her job. It's his: taking care of those he loves. "I ain't... that's chicken shit. Bullshit. I ain't goin' no where."

"You ain't?" she asks, hopeful, and he tries to not feel that tug, that movement inside his stomach – but he fails anyway because he can't ignore that note of expectation in her voice. It's worse now, sitting in the dark huddled up, than when she's singing because people can only be given false hope for so long, and he isn't sure why she thought he would leave her. The dark around them is like a cloak, moving and shielding them from the world, tossing them into a world all their own, and it's as terrifying as it is exciting.

"No," he replies, grunts, angry that his vocabulary isn't above a middle school level and that he can't put what he's feeling right now for her into words – admiration; desire; faith; trust; anger; devotion; misery; alarm. Deeply. "No, I ain't. And I won't, Beth. Jus' shut up now, and go to sleep."

"Why?" she persists, and he's certain it's because she can feel the way his skin prickles beneath her breath and how he leans into her.

He curses, creatively, even for for him. "Beth. Get some sleep."

"Why, Daryl?"

Daryl sighs, ragged. He should've known she wouldn't give up so easy. She's a Greene, after all.

"'Cause that's what we do. We don't leave behind nobody. And I ain't leavin' you behind. You're my family, Beth – there ain't nothin' I wouldn't do for you." He's trying to tell her what Glenn was trying to tell him, when he split with Merle: blood makes you related, but loyalty's what makes you family.

She scoffs and raises her face from his neck. "Even if it means you die, too?"

He cocks his head and smirks; it's a shame, really, that it's night and he can't see her face. "Always knew I'd go down in flames," he muses.

"Don't say that," she asks, but it's more of a beg, of a silent prayer on her lips that pleads with him not to joke. "Please don't talk about that."

He nods, understanding. "Okay – okay, that's okay," he says, nodding, pushing down his racing heart. It's not that he doesn't like having people close; more precisely, it's that he's frightened to have people close because it's not hard for them to be yanked away and leave him with an empty, gaping hole that'll never be filled. "But you do need to sleep, m'kay?"

Against his shoulder now, she nods, and he breathes out a quick gust of air, thankful he's finally gotten through to her. She moves slowly, pulls away, and he has just enough time to go rigid before he feels something damp and soft on his skin, right below his ear; it registers with a start in his mind, that it's her lips pressed to him. The tender skin below his ear feels electrified, and he reasons that she can't have known he's so sensitive in that particular spot because nobody is aware – she was probably aiming for his cheek, or jaw, and in the dark landed on his ear.

Or she could've been aiming for his lips because he did turn his head away – he won't lie or read in to it any further than that. It's not healthy for him.

"G'night, Daryl," she says, her lips grazing his earlobe as she pulls back, and he thinks she's going to stand and make her way back over to her couch.

Oh, he's wrong, alright.

Daryl's sitting in the middle, almost, and she's to his left; she raises her feet and pulls her legs in, flushed against his hip as she curls her arm beneath her head for a pillow on the hard armrest. Her toes, socked still, are digging into his thighs, and she's rooting around, striving for a pleasant position, and he's frozen, not sure what to make of the situation. Not for the first time tonight, too.

He's conflicted – she's so comfortable with him, so carefree, that he almost thinks she'll be offended if he doesn't warm up to their sleeping arrangements. And so, with a heavy heart that feels like lead and a mind that won't quit imagining all sorts of sticky predicaments that he and Beth are bound to get in, he lifts her feet, pulls her legs, and rests her limbs in his lap as he tugs his blanket off and drapes it over his thighs and hers, too. For added warmth, he thinks, but it's because he likes to feel her body heat mingling with his beneath the blanket, like a soothing caress on aching skin. Like a reminder that even though the world may be cold and wet and harsh, there are still some things that will always – always – be warm and dry and caring.

Her feet are cold, and he rubs them, tries to warm them up after folding one arm behind his head for a makeshift pillow as he reclines against the back of the couch and elevates his feet on the table. He tries to calm his heart and his mind and his gut – and whatever the hell else is making him want to protect Beth, want to keep her safe from everything and forever here, with him, where he can hear her and smell her and touch her.

But they do need to garner some rest. Urgently. His drooping eyes are a testament to that fact for sure, and he knows his exhaustion is going to win out over a warring heart.

"Daryl?" Her voice is almost like a baptism on his skin – muddy, like the Georgia water, but crisp and cool and refreshing; something he'll never forget and always hold onto.

"Hmm?"

"You're gonna be an old, gray, fat bastard when you see my daddy again, too, and I'll hold your hand so you don't fall on the way."

Hell, he's wide awake now.

Yes, I ship the fuck right out of those two.