They've got walls. Houses. Food, enough of it; more than enough. Showers and lights and all the goddamn perks of society he thought were done for. It's not even like the prison; it's better, maybe, than the prison ever could have been. Before they got here-- shit, before this they were on the very edge. Little food, no water. Providing for his family's the one thing Daryl has been good at since the beginning and even he couldn't manage.
Alexandria, it's a godsend. It's not that he's not thankful. He knows how close they came. Knows, too, that the people here need them if they're gonna keep surviving.
It's just he kind of fucking hates it here.
At first he sticks close to their group, but the more the rest of them branch out, the more he strikes off alone. Things here are different in a way he can't entirely put his finger on, and it makes his skin crawl. Put any of them in a room with people from here and they're different. Maybe not really, but pretending in a way he won't. Can't. Eric and Aaron give him an out sometimes, when everyone's socializing (and ain't that a goddamn riot, they're the only ones here who seem to trust the backwards redneck), but mostly he just avoids. He sleeps in corners of their houses or sometimes on the back porches when he can't stand the walls, he goes out to hunt as much as he can.
Today he's sitting out on one of the lawns butchering a few scrawny rabbits, pointedly ignoring the way passers-by veer across the street when they come down this way. Not a goddamn one's gonna complain when they're eating, he knows.
On the bright side, he doesn't have to bristle if anyone approaches him. The only people who might are people he can stand.
It doesn't really matter, Beth's decided, what she thinks of Alexandria. It's safer than living in the woods, dangling trash on a clothesline to keep the walkers from stumbling right into their camp. And after their first awkward conversation--videotaped, like that's not completely crazy at this point--Deanna hasn't had any reason to chat with her.
Well, there was the time at her house party, before Sasha freaked out, when she'd tried to ask Beth about lesson plans and supplies or something, but Beth had ducked out of the conversation. The less she sees of the woman running this place, the happier she's sure she's going to be. (The fact that Maggie's spending all that time with her is already kind of trying, though she's determined not to be weird about it. She knows why she doesn't like it, and she knows it's stupid. The last thing she wants to do is get into an argument about it with her sister.)
So really, it's okay, and if it isn't, it's not as bad as Grady. It's definitely better than dying of thirst out in the woods.
She's done with her classes for the afternoon, heading back to the house to see if there's anything in there she can use for supplies, when she sees Daryl slicing open some rabbits in the front yard. It's such a strange sight, it's kind of funny: him sitting there in the middle of suburbia, up to his wrists in blood, daring someone to complain. The lady who hates box pasta probably would.
"Hey." She sits down beside him, out of the way of the rabbit gore. "Is that dinner?"
They could be a lot worse off. It's what he tells himself when it's intolerable, when being here is most confining and for whatever reason he can't bolt. And he's trying. He really is. It's just there's little chance of the people here meeting him halfway, and he's not able to make up for that. Can't pretend to be something he isn't, just to make himself palatable to their soft, sheltered sensibilities.
Everyone here is living like none of it ever happened-- like inside these walls, the world is still intact, and that's bullshit. It's why even his people make his skin crawl right now; it's too much like they've gone back to what they used to be. Rick's a cop, Carol's making casseroles, and maybe in spite of himself he's doing the same thing, playing the role of the outsider. Half-civilized at best and untrustworthy, unfit for polite company.
Well, he thinks, tugging the hide off the rabbit like a bloody sleeve in one practiced motion, fuck polite company, anyway.
"Long as someone cooks it," he says mildly. At least Beth isn't being skittish; she's fitting in all right, he thinks, she cleans up as neat as any of them, but she's still ill-at-ease sometimes. They all are, he knows; some of them are just better at hiding it. What gets him is the distance they put on when they're out here, that veneer he can't match. Feeling like he's not one of them, that's what's gonna wear him down.
"Maybe we could have rabbit pasta," she says, biting down on a smile. Mrs. Niedermeyer brought up homemade pasta to her yesterday, and she'd been so dismayed to hear Beth had only ever eaten it out of boxes and cans. "Carol could probably cook it."
Carol, after all, can cook anything, and she actually seems to enjoy it--if not quite as much as she's pretending to lately. There's something unsettling about the way she can slide right back into being somebody else, someone Beth barely recognizes. It's who she was, or part of who she was, and Beth knows enough about her dead husband to see why, but it's like looking at a stranger when she moves sometimes.
But maybe that's a good thing, if they don't know how much Carol knows. If there's a catch to all this generosity, maybe it's good that they're stronger than they seem. Beth's borrowed the idea a little, sitting mouse-quiet through her interview with Deanna, wishing she could have had a shower before somebody decided to videotape her. She doesn't want to lie to them, make herself look weaker than she is--she's never going to pretend she isn't strong, not if she can help it--but she also doesn't want Deanna's attention to fall too heavily on her.
A moment or two after Daryl asks how she is, Beth shrugs, her attention on the rabbit carcass. "I guess so. Are you?"
She's not sure the answer's yeah, I'm good. She's also not sure Daryl plans on telling her if it isn't.
The huff that gets has less humor in it than usual. Rabbit pasta, rabbit casserole. Some goddamn too-normal, too fancy thing, it figures. He hasn't done more than provide and clean the game, and even so he's not sure most of the people here are comfortable handling it. They'll adjust. Maybe it's just how it seems to him.
"She can."
If he's honest, it's worst with her-- Carol always used to get him in a way no one else did; she was one of the first to treat him like he might be worth something, her and Rick both, and without that... Much as he'd like to think he flips the bird at authority and bucks expectations, he knows it's not that simple. When people thought he was nothing, well, he was, if only out of spite. Since the world ended he's grown out of that.
Now, it feels too much like it used to. Like who he is has nothing to do with him at all.
But the last thing he should do is lay all that on her. (Old habits die hard. Better to bottle it up than let your weakness show; he's not as stoic as he was, but he's doing what he can.)
Setting the hide aside, he stops to meet her eyes for a long moment before he shrugs.
Beth cocks her head, studying the way he shrugs off the joke. He seems unhappy--but of course he does. When has Daryl ever lived in a neighborhood like this one? She, at least, had friends whose houses had neat little yards and white-picked fences. Daryl probably sneered at the whole idea.
And now he's sitting here, covered in blood, on one of those perfect lawns, daring everyone else to complain. He wants everyone to know he's pissed that he's here.
Well, she knows--everyone probably does--but she doesn't know what to do about it. The worst part is, she feels like she should know, or at least have an idea or two. But knowing who Daryl is and where he comes from doesn't tell her how he can learn to be happy around here.
She watches him, and he watches her. The way he stares at her, it's like he's trying to say something he can't force out in words. Eventually, she realizes the only thing she can do is tell him something true and hope he'll do the same. Every time they've said things that have actually mattered, that's how it's been.
"It's better than the hospital," she says, her gaze dropping again. Better than the place he and the rest of them were, too--she knows that much from what little Maggie's said about it, and from how hollow her expression turned when it came up. There's no way in hell she's bringing it up if he doesn't, though. "But it still doesn't seem real. It's like Disney World."
Being happy here seems impossible. He wants it; this place, it could be good for them. They need it as much as Alexandria needs them. Maybe it's just a matter of time. It's not like there's any proof the strangers in their midst are trustworthy. But it's uneven, the way they've taken to some and not others. He's sick of proving himself.
Granted, he's probably not helping matters, sitting out here sulking and snarling and making a mess of the lawn.
Grunting his agreement, he glances away. He knows what she means by that, or thinks he does-- it's too pristine, it seems fake-- but she's not wrong. People like him don't belong in Disney World, either.
"It's better," he mutters, finally, more forcefully than necessary. Maybe he can make himself believe it.
Maggie's wrung out by the time they're putting Georgia behind them. She's hardly let go of Beth since Daryl led her out of the hospital, shaken-looking but whole. As soon as they met in the middle of the hospital's courtyard, she pulled her sister into a hug and cried all over the poor thing. The story of everything that happened inside came out over the next few minutes: stabbing the woman in charge, a bullet that nearly grazed Beth's ear, a deadly change of power that happened in a breath. Beth doesn't tell it, just hugs her tight, her face buried in Maggie's neck like she's five years old again.
No one explains what Beth was doing, trying to kill the woman, and Maggie doesn't ask. Some things take longer to tell. What matters now is that they have Beth back, squashed comfortably between her and Glenn on the long drive north.
A few days later, when she can think of more than we have Beth, Beth's safe, we're gonna be okay, she sidles over Daryl's way when they've stopped for the night.
"Wanna tell me how my baby sister ended up with a tattoo?" she asks, leaning back against the side of the fire truck.
It's hard to find any peace these days. He's pretty sure all that went as well as it possibly could go-- they're lucky as hell that there wasn't more bloodshed, that Beth and Carol made it through, that any of them did. But since the prison fell.. For a while, there were moments you could believe maybe you were safe, maybe safety was a thing you could aspire to, at least.
They've lost that. Probably for good, he thinks, but he doesn't know.
Still, they've got each other and that's plenty to be grateful for, and the further they get from Grady the brighter things look.
So he's in high enough spirits, at least, to give her a surprised huff of laughter.
And obviously, it must have been--Daryl's not the kind of person who forcibly tattoos a teenage girl--but it seems like it's out of nowhere. Maggie hasn't bothered grilling Beth about it yet; she just touched the wobbly letters and said it looked good, and Beth shrugged like it had always been there.
There are a lot of things she hasn't asked Beth yet. The whole time, Maggie's been thinking of her own return to the prison after the Governor had her and Glenn under his thumb--a time when Beth had hugged her, wordless, and never pressed. She owes that to her sister now, to let things come out when they will.
Daryl, though--she doesn't mind giving him the third degree. Not at a time like this, when he seems basically okay.
Well, she can't be all that mad. Beth made it through-- she even seems to like the damn thing, wobbly and amateur as it is, which gives Daryl an odd sense of pride. His own isn't nearly so noteworthy, but he's still pleased with it--the yellow dots still vibrant now that the bandages are off.
No one's asked about it, he doesn't think anyone's said much to Beth, either, except maybe Maggie.
"Found a town, a couple days out. Tattoo shop was the only place worth holin' up."
Maggie glances over toward her sister. She's sitting with Noah at the edge of the road, and whatever they're talking about, they're doing it heads together. For the moment, she seems relaxed--happy, even--and there's nothing left to worry about for the next five or ten minutes. Her attention shifts back to Daryl.
"And out of nowhere, she wanted a tattoo." At least she was out there with him; he's no stranger to ink and needles. Got her through the healing process pretty cleanly, as far as Maggie can tell. "Just like that."
Okay, okay, that's not the half of it. He huffs again in spite of-- well, everything. What's the use of any of it if they can't laugh. Shaking his head a little he follows her glance. It's good, seeing her in good spirits.
"She tell you the rest of it?"
He doesn't quite know how much he's ready to share. A lot of it leaves him vulnerable, truth told, and he's not sure he's quite ready to tell Maggie he got her little sister piss-drunk on moonshine. But she deserves some sort of explanation. To not have to worry, at least.
Maggie can nearly hear the way a completely different story lies under his answer, like words erased and written over. Whatever adventure they were having out there, it must've been something...and like it or not, she can't wring it out of Daryl. From the way he lit up at the mention of the tattoo, it's nothing worth worrying about.
And that's all that matters, right? As long as they were okay out there, Beth can keep all the secrets she wants.
"No," Maggie admits. "Not yet. I think she needs some time."
We all do. After a moment or two, she nods toward the thin-lined flower on his arm. "She do that?"
Something about the Alexandrian calendar makes him uneasy.
They'd started keeping track of time at the prison, but it'd been guesswork as much as anything-- tracking the time and noting the days lengthening, shortening, going from there. It helped to have a broad view of when it was but it never mattered so much-- not really. That worked for him. Marking time to make sure things got done, keeping track of how long they'd kept going. He's never been much for a regular schedule.
In Alexandria it's different; they swear up and down they've been keeping count since the beginning, and somehow that makes it stifling, frustrating. It's like this little pocket of the way things used to be, and he hates how fake that feels. He doesn't give a shit about Sundays or birthdays or shit that happened way back when. Long as they know when to plant what, long as people have fair shifts, it doesn't matter much what day it is to him.
As autumn comes, though, and people start fussing about holidays, his vague distaste turns into a creeping dread. They're thinking about parties, celebrations-- shit that's bound to leave him feeling even less like he's at home. He doesn't talk about it. Complaining would be a pussy thing to do anyway. It gets easier, as time goes on. The notion of having to pretend through Christmas is horrifying but at least come Thanksgiving everyone will shut up and eat.
It's Beth who asks about Halloween, though, and she's one of theirs, he's not gonna say no to her. Besides, he did see a costume shop, and it did look relatively intact. So they set a day, they plan, he takes her out on the bike. No reason they should need more than the two of them.
He wonders, as they pull up in front of the weather worn store front, if the clown in the window looked more or less creepy before the world ended around it.
Beth loved Halloween when she was little. Not the creepy parts, but getting dressed up, having her parents drive her out to neighborhoods with close-together houses so she could go trick-or-treating, trading candy with her brother with the same kind of seriousness investors used with the stock market... Her memories all seem softer now, more cozy and less flawed, now that almost everyone in them is dead. It makes it feel like a perfect time to revive the holiday, once she realizes it's October. And the first person she goes to with the idea is Daryl.
She dislikes the creepy parts of Halloween, that clown mannequin included, even more than she used to. But the good things, the cider-drinking and candy-eating and laughter and costumes, all seem like they should stay around. They could all use a little more laughter in their lives. And more cider and candy, but those are both tall orders. They'll probably have to settle for clean water and mildly sweet little snacks.
As she lets go of his waist and slides off the bike, she looks the street up and down. The sound of the bike will probably draw a few walkers, and there might be some in the shop already. Only one way to find out, and she really hopes it's not going to be hard to do. The last thing she wants is to run into a bunch of gross rubber masks and lose it.
"We need face paint," she tells Daryl in an undertone, patting her knife as though to reassure herself it's there. "And easy costumes. Stuff anybody can use if they want to, like witches' hats. Only fun things."
Which is code for nothing that looks dead. She's hoping he'll understand.
Fun things makes sense. He gets the idea, even if it's not the kind of Halloween he had much to do with it. Cute storebought costumes for kids to go around getting candy in, the kind of stuff appropriate for the littlest ones. Life's scary enough, they don't need to invite it. More witches and bats, less skeletons. The jury's out on vampires and ghosts, but maybe it's best to err on the side of caution there.
This is one of the things where he's got something closer to a normal experience; there were a couple years he managed to go trick-or-treating in shitty homemade costumes. It didn't matter, which was part of the magic of Halloween; long as you were there they'd give you something, probably, and the year he tagged along with a group of other kids-- well, shit, he ate himself sick enough times that November it's a wonder he's got any teeth left.
"Don't look like people been through," he murmurs. There'd be little reason for it-- but they'll keep their eyes open either way. You never know. He waits a long moment before heading for the door, but either they're in a clearer area or the dead around here are too rotten to get to them quick. Standing out in the open isn't going to get them anywhere.
The door's locked but the wooden frame is half-rotted, enough that it only takes a few good shoves to bust it open. Tossing a glance over his shoulder at Beth, he inches into the dark interior of the shop, bow at the ready, knife within easy reach.
Somewhere in the back of the building, there's a faint rustling, but otherwise everything is still.
In spite of the rough beginning, Alexandria grows on him.
Really, the trick to it is: things go terribly wrong, more than once. That's how it works these days. They end up in the shit, they fight on the same side, they get around to trusting each other. It's not like the prison-- he's pretty sure nothing's ever gonna be like that, nothing's gonna be that good again-- but it sort of becomes home. More or less.
Distance with the rest of the group waxes and wanes, and it still makes him more nervous than he wants to admit, but he's getting used to it. They're still family, though.
Family grows, and grows apart, sometimes.
But it grows closer, too. That's some comfort. As they settle in, as everyone finds some way to live, he's glad for the people he doesn't have to bullshit to. Back in the prison, he never would've imagined Beth would be an ally like that. Someone who's seen him at his worst and knows how to deal with it. Never would've guessed her strong enough to lean on, but after their time on the road-- well, he's glad she made it.
It means whenever she needs a favor, he doesn't think twice. When she wants to go out on a run? He clears his shifts and finds them a car. Easy choice. That's how family works, right?
It's hard, living in Alexandria, and the hardest part about it is that it ought to be easy. They have everything: it's safe, there are neighbors to chat with and care about, lives to imagine building...hell, they have air conditioning. Running water. Beth could start straightening her hair again if somebody picked up a straightener on a run.
And all that normalcy, it feels like a chain around her neck. Some part of her is waiting for the other shoe to drop, even as she starts teaching kids their ABCs and holding Noah's hand when they walk through their makeshift town. She learns to sleep alone in a bedroom again, instead of sleeping on rotation, waiting for her turn to keep watch, but she's still tensed for everything to fall apart.
When it happens, it's swift and ugly--rough, maybe, to stand there tearless and hear that Noah's dead, and to wonder dully how many more times this is going to happen to her. To see Reg's throat slit and start screaming, flinching back in anticipation of the inevitable moment when Pete saws his head off, a moment that never comes. There are days when she doesn't want to leave her room--but does--and days when she holes up in the unfinished attic of their house and spends hours alone.
But she's alive, right? As long as you're alive, you have something. In the best moments, she knows that the only way for things to get better is if she makes them that way herself, and she pushes through everything else as best she can. Which means, eventually, spending more and more time with Daryl, letting herself relax and be honest with him in a way she isn't with anyone else.
Eventually--eventually, as the days stretch out and Alexandria starts to feel like it really could be a home--it's not just spending time with him. And it's not just appreciating him the way she did back in that shack. Sometimes it's like he's the only person who understands her without any effort, and she wants to keep that feeling as close as she can.
Long story short, they end up on a run. And what she's about to do isn't really her best plan, but she's pretty sure confronting Daryl with any kind of feeling is doomed to be awkward from the start. The important thing is making sure it goes someplace after that point, and she's determined to make that happen.
"Pull over," she says quietly, once they're too far out from home to turn back. It's nearly a question, her stomach buzzing with nervousness as she says it. Now or never--you can't turn back from this. "Just for a sec. I wanna talk."
It hasn't been easy for her, here. He knows. That's part of what kept them close-- not just the shared history, the fire and the grief and the ink on their skin. But she fits in easier in Alexandria; she's young and she's still got a bright smile. The difference is he knows it's hard-won. Another way it's been good for him, being closer with her; she tempers his instinct to glower and brood a bit. Certainly it's softened him a little in the eyes of their neighbors, seeing them talk. He hates giving a shit what people think about him, but he does.
She's strong in a way he hadn't really understood, until it was just them. She kept him going-- not just having something to protect, but watching his back in turn. That's what he thinks, when they head out. Nothing unusual. It's not like they've never done this before.
And then she asks him to pull over, so he does-- flashing a quick, puzzled look her way. The hell does she have to talk about that can't wait? He puts the car in park, but doesn't kill the engine, glancing around quickly to make sure there's nothing obviously threatening here before turning his attention back to Beth with an inquisitive grunt.
Idling cars for long is a bad idea, and Beth knows it, but sometimes she still wants to. It's like wanting to go places alone or daydreaming about what pineapples used to taste like--one more relic of the world before the turn that's gone forever now. They'll just be a couple minutes, she promises herself, and then it'll be over.
"What do you think of me?" God, this felt less awkward last night, when she was settling on what she'd say and how. There hadn't been that uncertainty that creeps into her voice now, or the little note of hope as she watches him.
The question takes him by surprise-- which might not be saying much, because the whole business takes him by surprise. Usually they speak more practically-- kind of a necessity, when it comes to conversations with Daryl.
Even if he was following along, it'd be the kind of question he wouldn't know how to answer. Too vague, too much... Just too much. He's far better at showing feelings than putting them into words. Being asked... well, makes him just the slightest bit uneasy.
That's the thing with Daryl, what's different from everyone else she's ever flirted with. He never notices. There's never a moment when she smiles sidelong at him and can tell he gets it. The only option is being straightforward, and this is what she thought of for that. If he says something that's too you're a kid and that's it, then she leaves it at that. And if he doesn't...
She's thought through the if he doesn't possibility plenty already.
But trust Daryl to find a way to make this harder than she thought it'd be when she dove in.
"Just...what do you think of me?" How does she break it down further than that? Her brows draw together just a little.
It's true-- he doesn't notice. Partly because he's not the best at catching subtlety, partly because it never occurs to him there might be something to catch. What he thinks about her is-- well, he's still not doing any better at answering that, but it's not that. That's the danger of the easy camaraderie they've built since the still and the tattoo shop; it's been comfortable enough that he never noticed it changing at all. No reason to think she would flirt.
The insecurity implied by the question, that strikes him as peculiar, too. But, he reasons, everyone doubts now and then. For all his desire not to care what people think about him-- he just wouldn't ask. (Doesn't need to, he thinks, with most people, who wear reactions on their sleeves.) So he takes a moment, tries to settle the confusion, and come up with an answer that'll help. She's trying to make sense of who she is, somehow-- he gets that-- so he's gonna try to be honest, and figure out why the hell she's doing it after.
So he shrugs.
"You come pretty far since we met," he reasons, starting slow. It took him a long time to catch up to that; even at the prison he'd been thinking of her as the sad, sheltered girl she'd been at home, at least in the back of his mind. Not to say he didn't care-- Lord knows he cared-- but still, he hadn't known. "People here don't get it. You're smarter 'n braver than they know," he adds, because that's true. Because he admires that about her-- both that she's strong and that she doesn't have to show it. It takes a hell of a lot to stay gentle, in this world. (That would be a nice thing to say to her, probably, but he's got limits on how gentle he can get.)
It's about all he can think to put into words. Whether it'll satisfy her, that's another question entirely.
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Alexandria, it's a godsend. It's not that he's not thankful. He knows how close they came. Knows, too, that the people here need them if they're gonna keep surviving.
It's just he kind of fucking hates it here.
At first he sticks close to their group, but the more the rest of them branch out, the more he strikes off alone. Things here are different in a way he can't entirely put his finger on, and it makes his skin crawl. Put any of them in a room with people from here and they're different. Maybe not really, but pretending in a way he won't. Can't. Eric and Aaron give him an out sometimes, when everyone's socializing (and ain't that a goddamn riot, they're the only ones here who seem to trust the backwards redneck), but mostly he just avoids. He sleeps in corners of their houses or sometimes on the back porches when he can't stand the walls, he goes out to hunt as much as he can.
Today he's sitting out on one of the lawns butchering a few scrawny rabbits, pointedly ignoring the way passers-by veer across the street when they come down this way. Not a goddamn one's gonna complain when they're eating, he knows.
On the bright side, he doesn't have to bristle if anyone approaches him. The only people who might are people he can stand.
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Well, there was the time at her house party, before Sasha freaked out, when she'd tried to ask Beth about lesson plans and supplies or something, but Beth had ducked out of the conversation. The less she sees of the woman running this place, the happier she's sure she's going to be. (The fact that Maggie's spending all that time with her is already kind of trying, though she's determined not to be weird about it. She knows why she doesn't like it, and she knows it's stupid. The last thing she wants to do is get into an argument about it with her sister.)
So really, it's okay, and if it isn't, it's not as bad as Grady. It's definitely better than dying of thirst out in the woods.
She's done with her classes for the afternoon, heading back to the house to see if there's anything in there she can use for supplies, when she sees Daryl slicing open some rabbits in the front yard. It's such a strange sight, it's kind of funny: him sitting there in the middle of suburbia, up to his wrists in blood, daring someone to complain. The lady who hates box pasta probably would.
"Hey." She sits down beside him, out of the way of the rabbit gore. "Is that dinner?"
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Everyone here is living like none of it ever happened-- like inside these walls, the world is still intact, and that's bullshit. It's why even his people make his skin crawl right now; it's too much like they've gone back to what they used to be. Rick's a cop, Carol's making casseroles, and maybe in spite of himself he's doing the same thing, playing the role of the outsider. Half-civilized at best and untrustworthy, unfit for polite company.
Well, he thinks, tugging the hide off the rabbit like a bloody sleeve in one practiced motion, fuck polite company, anyway.
"Long as someone cooks it," he says mildly. At least Beth isn't being skittish; she's fitting in all right, he thinks, she cleans up as neat as any of them, but she's still ill-at-ease sometimes. They all are, he knows; some of them are just better at hiding it. What gets him is the distance they put on when they're out here, that veneer he can't match. Feeling like he's not one of them, that's what's gonna wear him down.
"You good?"
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Carol, after all, can cook anything, and she actually seems to enjoy it--if not quite as much as she's pretending to lately. There's something unsettling about the way she can slide right back into being somebody else, someone Beth barely recognizes. It's who she was, or part of who she was, and Beth knows enough about her dead husband to see why, but it's like looking at a stranger when she moves sometimes.
But maybe that's a good thing, if they don't know how much Carol knows. If there's a catch to all this generosity, maybe it's good that they're stronger than they seem. Beth's borrowed the idea a little, sitting mouse-quiet through her interview with Deanna, wishing she could have had a shower before somebody decided to videotape her. She doesn't want to lie to them, make herself look weaker than she is--she's never going to pretend she isn't strong, not if she can help it--but she also doesn't want Deanna's attention to fall too heavily on her.
A moment or two after Daryl asks how she is, Beth shrugs, her attention on the rabbit carcass. "I guess so. Are you?"
She's not sure the answer's yeah, I'm good. She's also not sure Daryl plans on telling her if it isn't.
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"She can."
If he's honest, it's worst with her-- Carol always used to get him in a way no one else did; she was one of the first to treat him like he might be worth something, her and Rick both, and without that... Much as he'd like to think he flips the bird at authority and bucks expectations, he knows it's not that simple. When people thought he was nothing, well, he was, if only out of spite. Since the world ended he's grown out of that.
Now, it feels too much like it used to. Like who he is has nothing to do with him at all.
But the last thing he should do is lay all that on her. (Old habits die hard. Better to bottle it up than let your weakness show; he's not as stoic as he was, but he's doing what he can.)
Setting the hide aside, he stops to meet her eyes for a long moment before he shrugs.
"I'll get by."
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And now he's sitting here, covered in blood, on one of those perfect lawns, daring everyone else to complain. He wants everyone to know he's pissed that he's here.
Well, she knows--everyone probably does--but she doesn't know what to do about it. The worst part is, she feels like she should know, or at least have an idea or two. But knowing who Daryl is and where he comes from doesn't tell her how he can learn to be happy around here.
She watches him, and he watches her. The way he stares at her, it's like he's trying to say something he can't force out in words. Eventually, she realizes the only thing she can do is tell him something true and hope he'll do the same. Every time they've said things that have actually mattered, that's how it's been.
"It's better than the hospital," she says, her gaze dropping again. Better than the place he and the rest of them were, too--she knows that much from what little Maggie's said about it, and from how hollow her expression turned when it came up. There's no way in hell she's bringing it up if he doesn't, though. "But it still doesn't seem real. It's like Disney World."
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Granted, he's probably not helping matters, sitting out here sulking and snarling and making a mess of the lawn.
Grunting his agreement, he glances away. He knows what she means by that, or thinks he does-- it's too pristine, it seems fake-- but she's not wrong. People like him don't belong in Disney World, either.
"It's better," he mutters, finally, more forcefully than necessary. Maybe he can make himself believe it.
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No one explains what Beth was doing, trying to kill the woman, and Maggie doesn't ask. Some things take longer to tell. What matters now is that they have Beth back, squashed comfortably between her and Glenn on the long drive north.
A few days later, when she can think of more than we have Beth, Beth's safe, we're gonna be okay, she sidles over Daryl's way when they've stopped for the night.
"Wanna tell me how my baby sister ended up with a tattoo?" she asks, leaning back against the side of the fire truck.
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They've lost that. Probably for good, he thinks, but he doesn't know.
Still, they've got each other and that's plenty to be grateful for, and the further they get from Grady the brighter things look.
So he's in high enough spirits, at least, to give her a surprised huff of laughter.
"Her idea."
Yeah, that's all the defense he's got.
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And obviously, it must have been--Daryl's not the kind of person who forcibly tattoos a teenage girl--but it seems like it's out of nowhere. Maggie hasn't bothered grilling Beth about it yet; she just touched the wobbly letters and said it looked good, and Beth shrugged like it had always been there.
There are a lot of things she hasn't asked Beth yet. The whole time, Maggie's been thinking of her own return to the prison after the Governor had her and Glenn under his thumb--a time when Beth had hugged her, wordless, and never pressed. She owes that to her sister now, to let things come out when they will.
Daryl, though--she doesn't mind giving him the third degree. Not at a time like this, when he seems basically okay.
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No one's asked about it, he doesn't think anyone's said much to Beth, either, except maybe Maggie.
"Found a town, a couple days out. Tattoo shop was the only place worth holin' up."
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"And out of nowhere, she wanted a tattoo." At least she was out there with him; he's no stranger to ink and needles. Got her through the healing process pretty cleanly, as far as Maggie can tell. "Just like that."
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Okay, okay, that's not the half of it. He huffs again in spite of-- well, everything. What's the use of any of it if they can't laugh. Shaking his head a little he follows her glance. It's good, seeing her in good spirits.
"She tell you the rest of it?"
He doesn't quite know how much he's ready to share. A lot of it leaves him vulnerable, truth told, and he's not sure he's quite ready to tell Maggie he got her little sister piss-drunk on moonshine. But she deserves some sort of explanation. To not have to worry, at least.
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And that's all that matters, right? As long as they were okay out there, Beth can keep all the secrets she wants.
"No," Maggie admits. "Not yet. I think she needs some time."
We all do. After a moment or two, she nods toward the thin-lined flower on his arm. "She do that?"
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They'd started keeping track of time at the prison, but it'd been guesswork as much as anything-- tracking the time and noting the days lengthening, shortening, going from there. It helped to have a broad view of when it was but it never mattered so much-- not really. That worked for him. Marking time to make sure things got done, keeping track of how long they'd kept going. He's never been much for a regular schedule.
In Alexandria it's different; they swear up and down they've been keeping count since the beginning, and somehow that makes it stifling, frustrating. It's like this little pocket of the way things used to be, and he hates how fake that feels. He doesn't give a shit about Sundays or birthdays or shit that happened way back when. Long as they know when to plant what, long as people have fair shifts, it doesn't matter much what day it is to him.
As autumn comes, though, and people start fussing about holidays, his vague distaste turns into a creeping dread. They're thinking about parties, celebrations-- shit that's bound to leave him feeling even less like he's at home. He doesn't talk about it. Complaining would be a pussy thing to do anyway. It gets easier, as time goes on. The notion of having to pretend through Christmas is horrifying but at least come Thanksgiving everyone will shut up and eat.
It's Beth who asks about Halloween, though, and she's one of theirs, he's not gonna say no to her. Besides, he did see a costume shop, and it did look relatively intact. So they set a day, they plan, he takes her out on the bike. No reason they should need more than the two of them.
He wonders, as they pull up in front of the weather worn store front, if the clown in the window looked more or less creepy before the world ended around it.
Hard to say.
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She dislikes the creepy parts of Halloween, that clown mannequin included, even more than she used to. But the good things, the cider-drinking and candy-eating and laughter and costumes, all seem like they should stay around. They could all use a little more laughter in their lives. And more cider and candy, but those are both tall orders. They'll probably have to settle for clean water and mildly sweet little snacks.
As she lets go of his waist and slides off the bike, she looks the street up and down. The sound of the bike will probably draw a few walkers, and there might be some in the shop already. Only one way to find out, and she really hopes it's not going to be hard to do. The last thing she wants is to run into a bunch of gross rubber masks and lose it.
"We need face paint," she tells Daryl in an undertone, patting her knife as though to reassure herself it's there. "And easy costumes. Stuff anybody can use if they want to, like witches' hats. Only fun things."
Which is code for nothing that looks dead. She's hoping he'll understand.
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This is one of the things where he's got something closer to a normal experience; there were a couple years he managed to go trick-or-treating in shitty homemade costumes. It didn't matter, which was part of the magic of Halloween; long as you were there they'd give you something, probably, and the year he tagged along with a group of other kids-- well, shit, he ate himself sick enough times that November it's a wonder he's got any teeth left.
"Don't look like people been through," he murmurs. There'd be little reason for it-- but they'll keep their eyes open either way. You never know. He waits a long moment before heading for the door, but either they're in a clearer area or the dead around here are too rotten to get to them quick. Standing out in the open isn't going to get them anywhere.
The door's locked but the wooden frame is half-rotted, enough that it only takes a few good shoves to bust it open. Tossing a glance over his shoulder at Beth, he inches into the dark interior of the shop, bow at the ready, knife within easy reach.
Somewhere in the back of the building, there's a faint rustling, but otherwise everything is still.
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Really, the trick to it is: things go terribly wrong, more than once. That's how it works these days. They end up in the shit, they fight on the same side, they get around to trusting each other. It's not like the prison-- he's pretty sure nothing's ever gonna be like that, nothing's gonna be that good again-- but it sort of becomes home. More or less.
Distance with the rest of the group waxes and wanes, and it still makes him more nervous than he wants to admit, but he's getting used to it. They're still family, though.
Family grows, and grows apart, sometimes.
But it grows closer, too. That's some comfort. As they settle in, as everyone finds some way to live, he's glad for the people he doesn't have to bullshit to. Back in the prison, he never would've imagined Beth would be an ally like that. Someone who's seen him at his worst and knows how to deal with it. Never would've guessed her strong enough to lean on, but after their time on the road-- well, he's glad she made it.
It means whenever she needs a favor, he doesn't think twice. When she wants to go out on a run? He clears his shifts and finds them a car. Easy choice. That's how family works, right?
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And all that normalcy, it feels like a chain around her neck. Some part of her is waiting for the other shoe to drop, even as she starts teaching kids their ABCs and holding Noah's hand when they walk through their makeshift town. She learns to sleep alone in a bedroom again, instead of sleeping on rotation, waiting for her turn to keep watch, but she's still tensed for everything to fall apart.
When it happens, it's swift and ugly--rough, maybe, to stand there tearless and hear that Noah's dead, and to wonder dully how many more times this is going to happen to her. To see Reg's throat slit and start screaming, flinching back in anticipation of the inevitable moment when Pete saws his head off, a moment that never comes. There are days when she doesn't want to leave her room--but does--and days when she holes up in the unfinished attic of their house and spends hours alone.
But she's alive, right? As long as you're alive, you have something. In the best moments, she knows that the only way for things to get better is if she makes them that way herself, and she pushes through everything else as best she can. Which means, eventually, spending more and more time with Daryl, letting herself relax and be honest with him in a way she isn't with anyone else.
Eventually--eventually, as the days stretch out and Alexandria starts to feel like it really could be a home--it's not just spending time with him. And it's not just appreciating him the way she did back in that shack. Sometimes it's like he's the only person who understands her without any effort, and she wants to keep that feeling as close as she can.
Long story short, they end up on a run. And what she's about to do isn't really her best plan, but she's pretty sure confronting Daryl with any kind of feeling is doomed to be awkward from the start. The important thing is making sure it goes someplace after that point, and she's determined to make that happen.
"Pull over," she says quietly, once they're too far out from home to turn back. It's nearly a question, her stomach buzzing with nervousness as she says it. Now or never--you can't turn back from this. "Just for a sec. I wanna talk."
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She's strong in a way he hadn't really understood, until it was just them. She kept him going-- not just having something to protect, but watching his back in turn. That's what he thinks, when they head out. Nothing unusual. It's not like they've never done this before.
And then she asks him to pull over, so he does-- flashing a quick, puzzled look her way. The hell does she have to talk about that can't wait? He puts the car in park, but doesn't kill the engine, glancing around quickly to make sure there's nothing obviously threatening here before turning his attention back to Beth with an inquisitive grunt.
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"What do you think of me?" God, this felt less awkward last night, when she was settling on what she'd say and how. There hadn't been that uncertainty that creeps into her voice now, or the little note of hope as she watches him.
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Even if he was following along, it'd be the kind of question he wouldn't know how to answer. Too vague, too much... Just too much. He's far better at showing feelings than putting them into words. Being asked... well, makes him just the slightest bit uneasy.
"What do you mean?"
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She's thought through the if he doesn't possibility plenty already.
But trust Daryl to find a way to make this harder than she thought it'd be when she dove in.
"Just...what do you think of me?" How does she break it down further than that? Her brows draw together just a little.
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The insecurity implied by the question, that strikes him as peculiar, too. But, he reasons, everyone doubts now and then. For all his desire not to care what people think about him-- he just wouldn't ask. (Doesn't need to, he thinks, with most people, who wear reactions on their sleeves.) So he takes a moment, tries to settle the confusion, and come up with an answer that'll help. She's trying to make sense of who she is, somehow-- he gets that-- so he's gonna try to be honest, and figure out why the hell she's doing it after.
So he shrugs.
"You come pretty far since we met," he reasons, starting slow. It took him a long time to catch up to that; even at the prison he'd been thinking of her as the sad, sheltered girl she'd been at home, at least in the back of his mind. Not to say he didn't care-- Lord knows he cared-- but still, he hadn't known. "People here don't get it. You're smarter 'n braver than they know," he adds, because that's true. Because he admires that about her-- both that she's strong and that she doesn't have to show it. It takes a hell of a lot to stay gentle, in this world. (That would be a nice thing to say to her, probably, but he's got limits on how gentle he can get.)
It's about all he can think to put into words. Whether it'll satisfy her, that's another question entirely.
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