Christmas Eve

Beth keeps calling it Christmas Eve. She's walking beside him with this bounce in her knees he's never seen before, her excitement like a drug, numbing any pain she has left in her ankle. With every new note, bloody scrawl from not just Maggie but Bob and Sasha, the light behind her eyes has grown. It's the way she used to stare down at Judith cuddled against her, as if she was holding the last proof that goodness had ever existed. Now Beth's been regarding everything with that wondrous hope, even him. She looks like the whole world has been reborn in the palm of her hands.

If Daryl's right, which he knows he is when it comes to things like this, they're only a half day's walk from Terminus; whatever Terminus is anyway. The place could be a hole in the ground for all he cares, if some of their people are there than that's where he and Beth need to be. By noon tomorrow the older Greene sister could be a stone's throw away.

"Doesn't it?" she pushes. Beth always pushes him, never lets him evade questions or mumble his way out of it like most people in his life have allowed him to get away with, "feel just like Christmas eve?"

"Dunno how that feels," he reminds her as they both duck their heads to cross under some lay lowing branches. Christmas didn't exist in the Dixon household, nothing even resembling it after they brought his ma's ashes in a cardboard box. Daryl imagines things were different across the county at the Greene farm; can picture twinkling lights and baby dolls and three shiny bicycles lined up in front of the tree, a ham baking in the oven while they praised the Savior's birth at church. That's how Christmas always looked in movies anyway. He can feel Beth's sigh beside him, doesn't have to look at her to know she's watching him while she calculates something to say. She nudges him though, jabbing her pointy elbow into his arm so he'll meet her gaze. He does of course, because he'd do just about anything she asked these days.

"This will be your first Christmas Even then, don't matter that it's not December, least I don't think it is."

They both know it's not, it's barely November yet. December will be colder than either one of them is ready for. He needs Terminus to be real.

"Yer crazy girl," he mutters simply and she smiles because she knows he means it in the most endearing way possible.

"What?" she gestures all around them with a wild grin, "not like there's a shortage of trees or anythin'."

She's all bundled up with her Carhart's hood up over her ears, wavy blonde tendrils spilling out of it and down her shoulders. Her last hairband snapped three days ago, and even though she keeps complaining that it's annoying and a safety hazard, Daryl likes the way it frames her face when she's humming across the fire. Shaman runs ahead a little bit, tugging Beth's shoulder forward where his makeshift leash is tied to her backpack. Daryl releases a low whistle and the canine halts, sits and looks back at them, waiting patiently.

"Looks like ya ain't the only one in a rush," he nudges her back.

"He's anxious to meet his Aunt Maggie," Beth says as if it's the most obvious thing and ignores the roll of his eyes. Then she falls back to what she was saying before.

"Christmas eve," she starts again, searching for words, "when you're a little kid anyway, it's like there's this thing you want more than nothin' in the whole world and you know you're gonna get it, even if daddy keeps remindin' you that if you get marks for talkin' at school then Santa won't come. It's just the waitin' makes you so crazy and excited and all tied up inside."

She laughs a little, goes somewhere else for just a second like she always does when her daddy comes into conversation. Like for one moment she blinks herself back to the farm and back to Herschel's side. He wishes he could go with her when she does. Then she opens her eyes and looks at him as if to say, get it?

He does get it. He knows what it's like walking around with the ball of knots in your stomach, unable to concentrate on anything except the burning desire for something. He's been living like that for a couple weeks now, long before they found Maggie's note. And it's certainly not a bicycle he's been pining away for.

Daryl just shrugs though, makes some grunt in the back of his throat which Beth hates. Sometimes she's like a school teacher, forcing him to speak up and speak out. At just the right moment Daryl recognizes his own marker on a tree up ahead. He'd walked ahead a few hours ago, after forcing Beth to stop and rest at a tree stand they stumbled upon, still secured up in a tall oak. She was putting too much stress on that ankle, he was sure of it. If she didn't take it easy she would only make things worse and then they'd really be up the creek without a paddle.

"Snare," he points out, "gonna check em' then we should make camp, getting' dark."

"I'm gonna go fill our canteens," she points in the direction of the creek which they'd realized runs parallel to the direction of the train tracks.

He thinks about arguing, asking her to wait for him because it's getting dark and the distance between the snares and the creek is almost half a mile. It would fruitless though because if there's one thing Beth hates more than his mumbling, it's being made to feel incapable.

Instead he retrieves the gun he found a few weeks earlier, the one they've been lucky enough not to have fired yet. He presses it into Beth's hand and leaves everything else unspoken. She reaches over and unclasps the water bottle he has dangling from his belt by a carabiner. Daryl pretends that her hand fumbling on his waistband doesn't make his breath catch in his throat.

"See you in ten," she promises, holding up ten fingers for emphasis and turns her back to him, lets Shaman pull her forward towards the creek.

The snare is empty and he doesn't pay much attention because they've got enough food in their bags to make it another night, although it would have been nice to have some real live protein over their regular course. Watching Beth suck peanut butter from her fingers has become more and more distracting as the days progress. Life with Beth in general has had his mind going places it's never been before. She makes him approach situations in ways he never had, changes his thought process. She makes him laugh, something he's never been known for. He makes her laugh and the swell of pride he gets every time she smiles because of him is like none he's ever felt in his life. Now they touch, more than holding one another through the night. Sometimes while they walk she slides her hand into his, sometimes Daryl is the one to press his palm against hers. She cut his hair the night before; Beth sitting on a log with a pair of sewing sheers they found in a burned-out house and Daryl on the ground between her knees while she trimmed the bangs from his face and the hairs starting to creep down the back of his neck. With every new way for their bodies to brush he's become painfully aware of how his body reacts to her presence.

Daryl's a few steps away from his handmade trap when he stops. The realization hits him that the snare isn't just empty, it's been emptied by someone. At that very moment Shaman's barks echo through the woods and he feels a cold chill run through his body. The dog had proved him wrong in every sense of the word, barely ever made any noise, moved so quietly that Daryl had found himself stumbling over it in the dark more than once. Other than the low warning growl he had been prone to before getting used to Daryl's growing habit of placing his hand on Beth's lower back or tugging on her braid, Shaman never makes a sound. Now he's growling between barks, feral and protective.

He wants to go barreling through the woods but if they're dealing with humans, he knows he has to approach with caution. He can't hear a struggle; the stench of rotten flesh is absent from the air. He lowers to a crouch as he runs.

There are seven men, surrounding Beth in a half moon while the backs of her heels teeter on the edge of the creek bed.

"Cute thing like you shouldn't be playing with guns," one man insists in a voice laced with sick, sarcastic charm. He's older, gray haired and kind of heavy, dressed in leather. He's the leader, Daryl can tell by the way his men fan around him, watching him more than watching Beth. He has the only gun, the rest brandishing an array of hunting and kitchen knives. Well, the only gun besides the one Beth has cocked and trained on his head.

"You should be movin' on about now," Beth informs, almost politely if you didn't know her well enough. Daryl knows, knows that she's absolutely terrified but also absolutely willing to use the killing tool in her hands if she has to. He balances his bow on his shoulder and trains the arrow on the back of the man's head; he keeps nodding and moving though, exposing Beth each time, directly parallel to him.

"Darlin," the man draws, hand dancing around the butt of his own gun still tucked in his holster, "why don't you slide that thing over here to old Joe. You and your lil pup seem mighty lonely out here. Me and my men don't mean you any harm, we would have a swell time keeping a little thing like you safe."

The way he speaks makes Daryl's skin crawl and boil with rage, him and the rest of the men bluntly eyeing Beth up and down, the kind of predators that existed long before the population started dropping off. The kind that sickly seemed to thrive so well in the after, the kind who flourished in a world dotted with easy victims.

"What makes you think we're alone?" Beth tilts her head, almost smiles, emulating Rick Grimes for just a second and he remembers that she is far from an easy victim. Daryl can see the slight tremble in her upper lip, can read the sweat beads dotting her brow but only because he's come to know her like the back of his own hand. The men don't, seem to tilt off their calm axis, eyes darting into the woods and slouching their shoulders defensively. "If I were you I'd move on, before the others came back."

Shaman snarls at her feet, showing his teeth and the hairs on his neck standing straight up.

"Girl," the forced friendly demeanor of Old Joe is wearing with his patience, "I don't care who you got out there, doubtful it's even anyone, but they ain't here now. And you just been claimed."

He takes a quick, menacing step closer to her and it all happens in an instant. Shaman pounces, Daryl's arrow enters the man's throat and Beth's bullet explodes through his skull all at the same second. She stumbles backwards into the shallow bed of the creek, up to her waist in water but still holding the weapon in position. Most of the men run, scattering like cockroaches at the gunfire but one pounces at Beth. She fires again, the bullet landing square in his chest. Blood spatters across Beth's face and neck, dotting her like an abstract painting. One of the men fleeing runs right past Daryl as he bounds down towards the creek bed and he buries his knife between his eyes, uncaring if he's in retreat or not.

Shaman is whimpering, nudging at Beth's stiff hand with his nose. Daryl splashes into the water beside her, drenching his jeans as he kneels and cradles her to him, gently taking the gun from her locked hand, "Beth yer alright, yer ok. Ya did good, did perfect."

She's not crying, which is hardly a surprise. Beth's tears are reserved for the brief and fleeting moments of joy they've had in their travels, other than the quick moment in the country club where she'd allowed herself to break if just for a second in grief. He's cried more than her, usually in the dark in the beginning in the days after they'd fled. Before he had the comfort of her warmth while she slept and he couldn't build a damn in the tears that came for his family.

"Sweetheart," the word would've surprised him tumbling from his own mouth but he's too concerned with the distance in her blinking orbs, "we gotta move, all that noise is gone' be bringing them down on us any minute."

She doesn't really respond until he takes a palm of cool creek water and splashes it gently on her face, using his fingers to smear the dead man's blood from her cheeks and throat. She nods her head, what he said suddenly registering and lets him help her to her feet. Both of their jeans cling and weigh them down, shoes squishing beneath their feet.

Still silent Beth seems to fast-forward herself in an instant and catch up, grabbing her pack and slinging it back on, tying Shaman's leash to her shoulder strap. When he insists she take the gun back because there are more of the men scattered in the woods she's hesitant but tucks it in her waistband. Daryl briefly bends over the dead man, pulls the handgun from his holster and slides it into his jeans.

"They all ran on this side of the creek, we should cross it and keep moving for a while fore' we make camp. Keep the creek between us."

Beth doesn't argue with his plan and they both slosh back into the water with no hesitation because they're already drenched, the dog at their heels. Just as she'd bluffed to the men, any outsider wouldn't see the fragility in her eyes, navigating the woods beside him and keeping perfect pace.

After ten minutes of walking she finally speaks.

"I just killed two men."

They keep moving, Daryl glancing sideways at her. If it had been a new light in her eyes when she woke that morning, now there was a heavy cloud blocking it and he wants to hunt down every last cockroach out there hiding in the woods and put their leaders gun in their mouths.

"They were gonna kill you," he reminds, "after they did a lot worse to ya first and for who knows how long. Ya did exactly what you had to do," he knows it's blunt but also necessary. "You were brave as hell, they were monsters who shoulda' been picked off this Earth a long time ago."

He can see her milling over his words and they both freeze at the sound of dragging in the woods, Shaman crouching into a defensive stance before both of them.

"Walker," Beth sighs in relief when what was left of an elderly woman, already down to half an arm and dragging an almost disconnected leg, slugs out at them, trying to snap the remains of her jaw. Beth plants her knife in its skull almost tenderly and when the body falls he watches her half cradle it to keep the fall from being too hard.

She's staring down at the corpse, what had probably been someone's sweet granny before the infection took her, with hunched shoulders. She finally lifts her head to him and Daryl opens his arms for her to fall into.

"I'm sorry that happened, sorry I left you down there," he whispers as her lean arms encircle his waist, "ain't what I wanted for ya to ever have to do."

"Not your fault," she whispers against his chest and then steps back to look up at him.

"Daryl," she starts as if what she's about to say is poison on her tongue, "what if those men, what if they found the others before we did?"

He thinks of Maggie or Sasha alone with any of those predators and the thought makes his skin crawl. He shakes the thought away though.

"Ain't no way that group of walking shit stains could've taken out our people, couldn't take us."

"Cause I had a gun," she argues feebly, "what if Maggie, what if she…"

"Listen," he takes her chin, forces her blue eyes to meet his, "Maggie's strong, capable, tough as hell. Jus' like your pops. Jus' like you. We're gonna find her, soon if we keep moving."

Beth sighs against his hand which has on its own accord moved to cradle her cheek, stroking little circles on her skin.

"I'm just scared you were right," she whispers, "about no good things surviving."

"I'm an asshole," he argues, "that ain't possible."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Cause yer standing right here in front of me."

And suddenly he's trying to muster the courage to tell her all crazy ideas about him and her that have been blooming in his mind. At the CDC Jenner had shown them how the synapses in the brains of the infected burnt out and died, taking with them all the memories and feelings someone had ever known. For Daryl, everything was happening like one of Jenner's videos of his dead wife playing in reverse. Things were glowing to life in him that he never knew existed, more and more each day he spent by her side.

Her bottom lip kind of juts out and her eyes soften; a deep, calm breath works all the way through her shoulders. Daryl can feel her body relax, become pliable against him.

"Oh."

He doesn't do anything more than hold her face, make her watch him talk so she really hears him. If he's gonna say this, lay it all out there, he's gotta make sure she really understands. She's watching him with those saucers for eyes; his calloused, dirty hands on her porcelain, too thin face.

"I ain't got any answers on what we're gonna do, and what's gonna happen. Just think maybe, me and you, together… we can make somethin' worthwhile outta still being alive. Whether we find the others or not. Maybe we can build something."

Build something, that's how Glenn always put it.

"We are…" she starts and he interrupts. There's still time for him to back out, leave what he said non-committal, maybe nothing more than something Rick would've said to them all as a group, a declaration of loyalty. It's more than that though and she's gotta know.

"Ya make me different, make me somethin' I ain't ever been before. And it's fuckin' scary but I like it. Yer too good for me, trust me I know that, but I like ya… I like what we are together."

And then she gets it because she smiles at him, a wide one that's a mixture of scared and excited and looks like she has a real big idea, like before they burnt down the shack.

"You know what I mean?" he prods anyway and she nods, places one of her hands over his on her face.

"I know," she says in a way that tells him she's known for a while, has just been waiting for him to figure it out, "I like us too. We fit."

And then she inches up on her tippy toes and places a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Their lips are both chapped and it's quick and nervous but those electrical impulses inside him all buzz at once. The first brick in the foundation.

Daryl doesn't relax that night in camp, too cautious about the men he knows lay in wait where he can't see them. Beth lays her head in his lap though, Daryl's hand that isn't clutching a gun playing in her hair.

"Gonna find your sister tomorrow," he promises into the dark.

"Merry Christmas Daryl," she whispers at him before letting sleep take her away.