A/N: Well, I was working on a different AU, but today I was driving past the annual Lights on the Hill convoy, and this happened. Hitchhiker AU? Let's go with that. Title from Take me Home by Sian Evans. Thank you for reading.

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It's a hot day in Georgia.

Some days, she wonders why she didn't wait until the fall, wait until the temperatures started to drop and the sun didn't threaten to turn her pale skin pink. Sweat pools at the small of her back and her eyes blink desperately against the blinding flame trees.

When she hears that familiar rumble, she says a quick prayer, jumps to her feet and steps off the dirt track out into the road. Her sign held high, Nashville or bust, and she's so close to her dreams that she can taste it in the dust.

Summer has left her restless. Summer has left her yearning for life beyond that of her daddy's farm.

So here she is.

The truck comes to a stop, brakes compressing loudly, the engine of the rig growling almost angrily at the sudden disruption. The driver reaches across to push open the passenger seat door, looks her up and down, eyes narrowing.

"Your daddy ever tell you it ain't safe to hitchhike?"

"My daddy told me a lot of things," she flashes him a smile, "besides, I'm a pretty good judge of character."

He considers her, and his eyes don't roam like those that have stopped previously. With a sigh, he beckons her closer.

"Nashville?"

"Or as close as you're going?" she asks, hopefully.

"Alright."

It's as good as answer as any, tosses her guitar and duffle onto his cot, climbing in awkwardly, all legs and boots and she notices his amused smirk.

"Thank you…"

"Daryl. Daryl Dixon."

"Daryl Dixon," she likes the alliteration, likes the way it rolls easily off her tongue, "I'm Beth."

The engine roars to life as he throws the truck into gear.

And her dream feels so much closer.

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Maggie calls her when she's at a truck stop outside of Columbus.

Why? She asks, exasperated, why now?

Why not? She can't help but ask back, If not now, when?

There was no right time. No time that could make her leaving any easier. Hasn't been a good time, since her mama and brother died.

Daddy's losing it, Bethy, and it's a harsh blow, one that nearly makes her throw her phone away. Cut all ties because she doesn't need Maggie piling on the guilt, not when it's already so heavy on her shoulders.

Daddy will understand.

And he will. He's lost two wives and a son and her leaving isn't forever. She needs to do this, just like Maggie needed to go to Atlanta, just like all children need to taste freedom.

When she ends the call, her heart feels so heavy that she wants to sink down on the nearby milk crates, put her head in her hands and cry. But she doesn't cry anymore, hasn't since she buried her mother, since she tried to end her own life.

"Beth?"

Daryl's standing by his truck, bottle of water in one hand, phone in the other. She accepts the water gratefully, offering him a bright smile in return.

"My boss called. Gotta go down to Pensacola. Sorry girl."

And he sounds genuinely sorry, which catches her off guard, because it's only been a couple of hours and all she's really done is highjack his radio and sing too many songs.

"I've never been to Florida," she offers, feeling suddenly shy.

He gives her that half smirk, and turns on his heels, heading back to his truck.

Her boots are heavy on the pavement as she runs to fall into step beside him.

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She's never seen the ocean.

Feels like such a small accomplishment, but she has to stifle a gasp when she spots that first glimpse of blue, stretching all the way out to the horizon.

And by the pointed look he gives her, he just knows.

"Never stepped out of Georgia until I was thirty," he admits and she feels a bit better, she guesses, because she's just hit twenty-one and here she is, her first taste of the world.

"Can we stop?" she breathes and he gives her a quick nod. He's dropped his tautliner at the job site to be loaded, told them he'll be back in the morning, so it's just them and the rig for the night.

The sun is setting when they arrive at the beach, and she's quick to jump out of the cab, boots landing hard on the pavement. He gives her a half nod and she runs towards the water, shucking her boots and socks and dropping her backpack in the sand. She shimmies out of her jeans and pulls her tank top over her head, flinging it in the direction of her pants.

The water is colder than she expects, and she squeals with delight. It flows between her toes and she marvels at the way she sinks slowly into the sand. Giggling she turns back to shore.

He's just staring at her, squinting into the sun, her things in her hands, head cocked to the side. He makes no move to join her, just plops down into the sand, lights up a cigarette, and watches her lazily.

She shakes her hair out of its ponytail, twisting it into a topknot to keep it dry. She wades in deeper, throws herself against the waves, and laughs when they threaten to knock her off balance.

This isn't Nashville, but it isn't Senoia. It isn't the farm.

She's not sure what it is. But she might be tempted to call it happiness.

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Daryl Dixon, she decides, is an enigma.

When the sun is almost set, she wanders back up the beach to where he's sprawled out, leaning against her backpack. She opts not for her jeans, but for a dress in her bag and he averts his eyes the whole time she is in his eye line.

"I'm decent," she calls out teasingly. He flashes her a glare.

"Alright," he nods, "let's get some dinner."

The diner is just outside of town, next to a truck stop that he seems pretty familiar with. Services mostly travellers, so there isn't much of a dinner crowd, just a few drivers like Daryl and a family, passing through.

He chooses a booth by the window, and she slips in opposite him.

"I ain't got much money," she admits, and he shrugs.

"Doesn't matter," he mutters, "gonna be awhile until we reach Nashville. Probably owe you for the delay."

"You don't owe me anything, Daryl Dixon," she smiles softly, "and I just happen to like the scenic route."

"Ain't much to see."

"Maybe you ain't looking properly."

And when he looks at her, through his too long hair, she's startled by how clear and blue his eyes are, and how maybe, possibly, she's the one that hasn't been looking.

(She's looking now.)

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From Pensacola, they head east to Jackson, Mississippi. Feels weird, driving through Alabama with little fanfare, only the welcome and leaving signs to mark that they had ever been there.

"Favourite place?" she asks, feet on the dash, munching on some twizzlers she picked up at their last stop. He refuses one when she offers them to him and she shrugs, unfazed.

"I dunno," he shrugs, "they're all the same after a while?"

"Seriously?" Beth peers at him over her sunglasses, "You know that ain't true."

He shrugs again and she presses forward.

"Well, then, what makes them all the same?"

Daryl's quiet for so long, she thinks that he's ignoring her question.

"Same truck stops, same run down diners. Same bored waitresses, same greasy food. Same bitch ass customers who want their stuff delivered yesterday. Same lazy road construction crews causin' me delays. Only thing that ever changes is the price at the bowser."

Beth thinks about this, thinks about how maybe the novelty wore off for him long ago, thinks about how there might be a time when it wears off for her too. How she might yearn for the farm, somewhere to put down her roots.

Maybe she yearns for it a bit now.

"One thing's different, though," he mutters, glancing at her almost shyly, "there's you."

"There's me," she echoes.

"At least until Nashville," he adds, clearing his throat.

Oh yeah. Nashville.

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Some days, she thinks Nashville was just a place she chose out of convenience. Thinks about the other cities she considered; New York, Los Angeles, and how it came down to the fact her southern roots were too deep and she wanted to hold onto something, anything, slightly familiar, even if it was just the lazy drawl that was more a comfort than anything else.

But it's been two days since Daryl picked her up, stopped by the side of the road and opened his door to a girl with only a half formed plan.

Nashville. Then what?

A job, she guesses. Find someone looking for a roommate. Sign up for some open mike nights and karaoke and maybe she could find a group of like-minded souls to lean on, a band looking for a singer. A writing partner.

A partner.

The further they drive and the more places she visits, she's starting to realise two things.

Firstly, even when they driver further and further from Nashville, she feels as if she's closer to her dreams than ever before.

And secondly, maybe partners come in many different shapes and sizes.

Maybe she could find one anywhere.

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"Gotta visit my brother," he tells her, after he's dropped off his load, "then Little Rock. Probably make it by nightfall."

"You have a brother?" Beth asks, "Where does he live?"

"Parchman Farm," Daryl answers, and Beth's not that naïve to not know what it really is.

"He's in prison?" Beth murmurs softly, "What for?"

"Being a dumbass," Daryl shrugs, "drug charges, mostly. Too many strikes against his name."

"I'm sorry," Beth offers. Daryl just grunts.

"Ain't no one's fault but his own," he mutters, shaking his head.

"Was he a good brother?"

"When he was around. When he was sober." Daryl pauses, brow furrowing, "Which wasn't very often. But he's blood."

"I have a brother," Beth blurts out, "had a brother. He died during my junior year. He and my mama, they were in a car accident."

"Sorry," Daryl says gruffly, and it's Beth's turn to shrug.

"Sometimes things happen," she whispers, "ain't much we can do about it."

He touches her elbow, just so.

Quickly, he pulls away.

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The drive to Little Rock is silent.

He doesn't move to turn the radio on, doesn't do much really, save stare straight ahead at the road.

She spends a few hours wandering about town. Buys an old copy of The Handmaiden's Tale at a church op shop, along with a hat and a denim jacket. Does her washing at the Laundromat. Does Daryl's too. Spends the rest of time in an air-conditioned diner, sipping on a coke and munching on a plate of fries, nose deep in her book.

Daryl returns when he said he would, down to the minute.

Ushers her quickly to the cab, ignores her when she asks if he wants something to eat. Starts up the truck, throws it into gear, and swings out of the car park, away from the town. Away from Mississippi.

"Sing something."

Glancing up in surprise, she stares at him, at the way he knuckle grips the steering wheel, at the way his hair hangs in his eyes. At the way his biceps bulge and his forearms tense and every single part of him is on edge.

So she does, softly, cautiously, because this is different from singing along to the radio. This is her, baring her soul, sharing with him words that had never left her childhood farm. This is her, in her entirety – her fears and her triumphs, her loves and her losses, her past and her future and her present, right here with him.

"My dad was a no-good son of a bitch," he mutters, "Merle seems hell bent on following in his footsteps. Probably only a matter of time before I end up like them."

"That ain't true," she whispers, "you got out. You got away. You ain't your father or your brother. You're a good man, Daryl Dixon."

"Yeah, well," he clears his throat, "might need you to remind me of that sometimes."

She thinks of Nashville, and for the first time, it doesn't make her heart soar.

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He gets them a motel room that night.

Can't have you sleeping in your seat again, he murmurs awkwardly, when she tries to protest, ain't good for ya' back.

Reluctantly, she agrees, remembering the way her neck ached something terrible, and his knees cracked from the night spent in his cramped cot.

"You can take the bed," he offers, dumping her duffle and his in the corner, while she gently places her guitar on the small dining table.

"No," she argues, "I can't."

"You can," she throws back, "cause' I said so."

"No."

His eyes narrow, glaring at her heatedly. Still, she doesn't back down.

"We can share," she says softly, "ain't any real difference from the cab, really."

She lies. It's a whole world of difference. It's him, inches away from her, so close she can hear him breathing.

It's his turn to reluctantly agree, and she calls dibs for the bathroom, grateful to take a shower, to wash away the dust and dirt and grease from her hair. It's almost comical how he makes for the bathroom after she's finished, avoids her eyes and refuses to look at her towel-clad body. She slips on a pair of cotton shirts and one of Shawn's old baseball jerseys, towel drying her hair. He doesn't take long, and when he steps out, in boxers and a tee, she's still tying up her braid.

Sitting beside her on the bed, she offers him a shy smile, before padding barefoot to the bathroom to return her towel. He's got the one bedside lamp on, thumbing through her book, careful to sit above the covers. Flicking off the main light, she makes her way back to the bed, slipping in beside him, careful to give him enough space.

"Night, Daryl," she whispers and he grunts in return. She closes her eyes and she hears the thump of the book hitting the floor, and the click of the lamp being switched off. Her eyes flick open, slowly adjusting to the dark. The light from outside seeps through the edges of the curtain and a truck rumbles past in the distance. She can make out the table in the corner, her duffle bag besides his. Her denim jacket hanging of the chair, his leather vest on top.

She lays still, eyes turned towards the ceiling. This is ridiculous, crazy, not her. Slowly, she inches her hand towards his, until her pinkie brushes his hand. He flinches, and she pulls her hand back.

"Sorry," she murmurs, and he hums in the darkness. Moments later, she feels his fingers graze hers, but she doesn't pull away. She leaves her hand there. Lets him make the first move, lets him be the one to reach out for her.

Softly, his hand covers hers, thumb ghosting over her scar. She spreads her fingers and he intertwines them with her own.

In the morning they wake up the same way, wrapped up in each other.

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This thing between them? It's equal parts confusing and exciting.

Confusing because she doesn't know what she's doing with this man. And he is a man; all hard lines and weary eyes, a history he carries on his shoulders, a life lived before she was even born. Exciting in a way that Nashville never was, in that uncertain, unpredictable way. In the way that the only future she knows is their next job, their next destination. In the way that it's shifted from his to theirs.

He doesn't shy away from her, come morning. She wakes up with his eyes tracing the contours of her face, his fingers running gently through her hair. When she smiles at him sleepily her offers her a crooked grin in return, his fingers trailing down her cheek to brush against her bottom lip.

"Gotta get to Memphis by lunchtime," he murmurs, "big client meetin' with the boss."

"You're so important, Mister Dixon," she teases and he smirks, pressing his weight further into her.

"Yeah, that's me," he smiles wryly, "Mister Big Shot."

At the truck stop across the road, she sits beside him, not across from him. She steals bacon from his plate and makes him try her milkshake and every time their feet brush, she feels the spark inside her threatening to ignite.

He could set her alight, if he wanted to. And sometimes she wishes he would.

In Memphis, they meet his boss, a man who introduces himself as Dale, and doesn't seem to mind a bit that she's accompanying him on the road. Doesn't ask any questions, doesn't look at her with assuming eyes. Laughs even when she starts to help Daryl with the straps of the tautliner, calls her a 'natural'. And the meeting goes well, the client happy with the service, promises them more of his business and that's that.

She lingers by the cab, backpack slung over her shoulder. After a while she seeks him out, and immediately wishes she hadn't.

"She's gettin' off when we reach Nashville," she overhears Daryl telling Dale, "is what it is."

"I'm sorry, son."

She doesn't stick around to hear the rest. In less than four hours they'll be in Nashville.

And maybe Daryl's right. It is what it is.

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"Can we stop?"

"You hungry, girl?"

"No," she feels anxious, and suddenly the truck is too small and the air is too thin and the closer they get to their destination, the more she feels as if she is suffocating. She contributes it to nerves; she is so very close to the reality of her dream, and it's overwhelming.

She doesn't know if she can do it. She doesn't know if she wants to do it.

She doesn't know what that girl was thinking, Nashville or bust. Maybe the sign should have read get me out of here.

She just doesn't know.

He pulls up to a truck stop and she's starting to understand his frustration with these establishments, the same menu variety, same sticky tabletops, same grouchy waitresses. Not that there isn't something comforting that comes with walking into a place and knowing it already, but it gets old real fast. This is a life where the days start to blur together, then the months, and then the years until you wake up and realise how lonely you really are.

Sometimes she wonders about Daryl before he picked her up from the side of the road. Was he sad? Was he lonely? Did he even notice at all?

Beth notices. Beth notices and it threatens to tear her up inside.

Jumping out the cab, she walks for a bit, stopping besides a long abandoned railroad track. Her lungs scream for air and she takes several gulping breaths, trying to ease the panic she feels bubbling below the surface.

"You alright?"

"No," her nervous laughter rings out, "I mean, who am I kidding? I can't do this. I'm going to end up back at the farm within the week."

"Nah," he shakes his head, "you're made of tougher stuff that that, Greene. And ya got talent."

"I'm a dime a dozen," she sighs, "just another blonde girl with a guitar."

"You're more than that, girl," Daryl murmurs gently, "They'd be a fool not to love you."

This man. This here is a sweet, good man and maybe she's more like her mama than she thought, with a propensity to want to fix broken things. But that's almost a disservice to Daryl Dixon, to call him broken. Damaged, yes. Scarred, yes. Broken, never.

She likes him just as he is.

So it's no surprise to herself when she pushes up to her tiptoes, and presses her lips against his. Flings her arms around his neck and shifts her weight into him, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip, as his body works to catch up. One hand grips her waist, the other tangles in her hair as he takes control of the moment, turning it from something tentative and cautious into a clash of teeth and a dual of tongues and her whimpers mixing with his guttural moans. His hands grasp her so tight, she'll have a bruise come morning, but that's alright, it's fine, because she'll carry any reminder of this man for as long as she can.

Because in two hours, he'll be gone.

And she'll just be a memory.

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They make good time.

She's not surprised. She's travelled with him for the past three days and he's always arrives at the delivery point on time.

He pulls up outside a hotel, his rig looking out of place in the busy street. But he hops out of the cab, and with a heavy heart, she follows suit.

"Here," he thrust an envelope into her hands, "so you'll last longer than a week."

She doesn't have to count it to know it's too much.

"I can't take this, Daryl," she replies softly, tears pooling in her eyes.

"It's nothing," he shrugs and she quickly wipes away her tears.

"It's everything."

"I, um, my number's on the back there," he clears his throat awkwardly, "and my place in Georgia. But I'm on the road a lot, so…"

"Thanks, Daryl," she cuts him off, "thank you so much."

"And if you can't reach me, call Dale, he'll know where I am," Daryl adds, "Horvath Haulage. You can internet it, I guess."

She giggles, wraps her arms around his waist, burrowing her face into his cut-off flannel shirt.

"I'm gonna miss you, Daryl Dixon," she breathes, "gonna miss you so much."

"Miss you too, girl," he murmurs, grasping her elbows tentatively, "expect some tickets to ya headlinin' shows real soon."

"Yeah," she grins, "back stage passes and everything."

The kiss he gives her is gentle, sweet, and so different to the one in Jackson, less desperate, less filled with longing. Still, it doesn't feel like a goodbye.

It feels like a we'll see each other again real soon.

"Bye Greene," he presses a kiss to her forehead. She leans into him and breathes deeply, trying to memorise his unique scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke and pine. Another kiss, and he gently lets go.

"Bye Mister Dixon," she smiles softly, "thanks for the ride."

With a nod, he climbs back into his truck. It roars to life, and several people stop and stare.

Were this a romance novel, this would be the moment she runs after the truck, yelling for him to stop. But this is her own story and she needs to make her own mark.

So she lets him go.

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She lasts six months in Nashville before she begins to yearn for more.

Doesn't think it's homesickness, but it's a sickness of some kind. Misses the open road and the big sky country. Misses the miles and miles of highway. Even misses truck stop diners and dingy bathrooms and croaky voiced waitresses calling her 'hon'.

Misses him, most of all.

She fell into song writing rather than performing. Did that to begin with, but she doesn't think she was made for the stage, for the bright lights and people knowing her name. Prefers being a liner note on someone else's album, prefers someone else telling her stories.

She's good at it too. One of her songs becomes an overnight hit and suddenly she hears it everywhere. There are the royalties and a CMA nomination, and when she sits in that auditorium, her daddy by her side, she feels like this is everything she ever dreamed of, that summer she left the farm.

It's not what she dreams of now.

Go, her bosses tell her, so long as you hit your quota, you can do this anywhere. Just go.

When she makes the call, he gives her a time and a place. It doesn't take long to box up her life, to sublet her apartment. To pack up a guitar and her duffle, and dust off her old back pack and thrifted denim jacket. Feels familiar, in all the best ways.

Feels like going home.

She meets him outside a truck stop on the outskirts of the city. He's just as she remembers, from his too long hair, and down to his leather vest with the stitched angel wings.

Her feet propel her forward, launching herself into his arms. He falls back against his rig, arms gripping her legs that snake around his waist. She presses her forehead to his and smiles.

"Hi," she breathes.

"Hey," he murmurs, one hand trailing upwards, resting on the small of her back. She giggles, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his nose, his jaw, before he cuts her teasing short and captures her lips in something more intense, something more defined. Something more tangible as he nips sharply at her bottom lip and her tongue traces the edges of his teeth.

"Missed you, girl," he whispers, "missed you so much."

"Missed you too, Daryl Dixon," her smile widens. He places her on the ground, grabs her duffle while she carries her guitar.

"Come on," he tosses her bag onto his cot, takes her guitar, but handles it more carefully, "gotta be in St Louis in the morning."

"Yes, sir, Mister Dixon," she teases and he smirks back, holding the door open as she climbs into the cab. It's the same as before, and, as she fiddles with the buttons on his radio, she's struck with how being here, with him, just feels right.

In a few hours they'll need to find a place to stay for the night, and a shiver of anticipation courses through her, she can only imagine what six months of longing will result in. For now though she's content to curl into his side, singing softly along with the radio as they drive away from the city and towards the sinking sun.