Chapter Text
Beth pushes her way outside of the Waffle House and strides slowly down the slanted sidewalk towards Daryl's truck, while he stands inside at the front counter with his wallet in hand, waiting to pay for both of their meals.
The air is crisp against her skin as a gust a wind blows past, while she sniffles through the distance it takes for her to reach the passenger's side door. It's locked and she's got no way inside without him, so she turns to press her butt flat against the metal and leans her back on the window. The stars in the sky shine high and bright above her, painting their black canvas alongside the swell of the moon, and it's pretty - especially now that her stomach isn't pinching at her in a desperation of it's own. It reminds her of home. Her real home back on the farm, where you can constantly see such things, instead of the foggy and lighted filter of New York, where she has to imagine what she used to be so familiar with.
She watches through the windows, as Daryl pulls out the appropriate bills that he needs and hands it over to their waitress, and frowns into her sweater, where she's tucked her face to hide from the cold. It's kind - a real act of generosity - that Daryl made sure that Beth ate something that would file away the pain in her stomach, but she can't help but feel bad that he feels like he has to. There's probably something incredibly annoying about supporting her, like this, when he doesn't even know her last name or anything else important about her or her life. But, he's the one that forced her to order something else, after she'd settled on the cheapest possible thing she could get. So, she supposes he isn't too upset about it.
Still, Beth makes sure to add her total to her mental checklist, so that she won't forget to pay him back for the best waffles she's had in a long time - too used to boxed Eggos, these days, than anything made from fresh batter.
She rolls in her place, stumbling closer to the bed and the motorcycle that Daryl's strapped tightly into place. Beth would be lying to herself if she said that she wasn't curious as to how Daryl's brother, Merle, ended up in a prison in Virginia. She wonders if it was something simply foolish that had gathered the attention of law enforcement, or if it was the kind-of dangerous thing that always ended up on the nightly news. Looking at the motorcycle, she imagines that this Merle man must be somethin' like the guy getting back his change in the diner next to her. He probably wears leather, like Daryl does, and he probably has a presence about him and he probably causes quite a stir, if his being incarcerated says anything. But, she clearly doesn't know the man, so she supposes she can't even begin to figure out what he's like. Or what he's done to be where he is.
Beth reaches her hands up to grip the side of the truck and she leans in to peak around the vehicle. There ain't much inside the bed other than Merle's bike, though. From what she can see in the dark of the night with nothing but the light of the Waffle House's yellow sign and the moon, there's two or three crunched cigarette packs, a few loose pieces of paper, and a dark and heavy fabric bag sitting tucked into the corner, near the driver's side door.
"Don't got much," Daryl's voice comes to her quietly, from where he's walking through the door and down the same steps she just took.
"Not a heavy packer?"
"Nah," he rounds the front of the truck to step off the sidewalk to his side, where he tugs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door, before reaching in and clicking a button that unlocks her side. "Don't need much, wasn't attending a ball or some shit like that."
Beth laughs quietly, as she pulls her door open and first reaches inside to drag her backpack to her and unzips the top to throw her change purse and her phone inside, "Don't like to dance, I take it?" The look he shoots her - all raised brow and pointed tilt of the head - says everything she needs to know about that. She pulls herself up and in and pulls the door shut against the cold.
Daryl shoves the key in the ignition and starts the engine. He doesn't pull away from the curb, though. Instead he glances at Beth's red nose (blessingly red from the air, instead of tears, now) and tinkers with the heat for a moment. The green glow of the clock on the dash reads that it's just past nine at night and Beth's surprised it isn't much later. It feels like this day has lasted longer than a day ever should. Standing in her cramped and chaotic apartment, savagely searching for her sweater, while Haley and the rest of the girls chatter away in the kitchen, feels like it happened the week prior. Sitting on the bus, listening to those high school students go on about their problems at unbelievable levels of volume feels like a sort-of strange dream. Sitting outside the gas station, trying not to cry, feels...fresh. Fresh, but fizzled in terms of the crisis she'd been feeling at the time.
And now?
Now, she's just tired from this emotional marathon she's unintentionally found herself running.
Beth places a hand in front of her mouth and blocks her sudden responding yawn from sounding out too loudly and then pulls at the hem of her sleeves to cover her fingers, as she waits for the heat to wash over her. There's a small clicking noise from the vents, rhythmic and quiet, but Daryl doesn't even seem to notice that it's there, as he finally sets the truck in motion and pulls them out and away from the yellow glow. So, she assumes it's been making that noise for awhile.
When he reaches the edge of the parking lot, Daryl doesn't pull out to the highway. Instead, he sits the car there and stares off into the empty streets of the town and plucks at his bottom lip with his thumb and his index finger. The nail of his thumb is bitten down to the nub and he scans his surroundings.
"I wasn't," he starts - his voice calling out softly over the clicking of the heat. But, he pauses in his sentence and starts driving again. It's only a few minutes later, Beth's mind focusing on the passing of the trees and the click click click of the heat, more than Daryl's lost sentence, until he's pulling the car to the right and into another parking lot; this one is far more empty than the one of the Waffle House had been - only a two or three cars making an appearance under the white glow of the stationary lights attached to the low buildings. Beth glances around where they've pulled into, her eyes finding the short white sign sitting in a bed of red wood chips, surrounding by carefully stacked red brick.
Royal Inn Motel
"I," Daryl starts speaking again, refusing to look over at where she sits reading the sign and looking even more uncertain then she's seen him during their short time, together. "I wasn't planning on driving through the night, before you asked for a ride," he continues grumbling, looking over at the sign, himself, and clearing his throat. "Thought I'd just pull over somewhere safe and sleep in the truck. But, I ain't gonna do that with you here, so..."
Beth just nods.
Slow.
Slow and hesitant.
And he's smart, so he sees that.
"Could get yourself a chance to sleep somewhere that ain't this bench...Fresh for the drive into Georgia, tomorrow."
Beth looks through the windshield and feels him secure his eyes on her, while she's not able to watch him look. She reminds herself that she's already decided that she's completely safe with this man - that Daryl has done nothing to give her the impression she's going to end up as a cautionary tale to other unsuspecting girls. In fact, he's done the exact opposite. Nothing but good deed after good deed and good deed. But, despite all of that kindness out of this rough packaged man, that still doesn't make it any less strange to imagine herself piling out of this truck and into a motel room with a man she met on the very same day.
That's what she finds herself doing, however, as she grabs her backpack out from between her legs and shoves her door open to hobble out of the truck and onto the asphalt below. This will just have to be another situation she eliminates from her story, when she finally manages to get one of them on the phone. Although, there ain't many ways she can trick her family into thinking she didn't spend the night somewhere, so she's not so sure what she'll say. A carefully constructed version of the truth, she figures. Daryl stays behind for a moment and watches her start across the lot, before shutting off the engine (another good sign - that'd he'd been waiting to see if she was okay with staying) and hopping out, himself. He grabs behind the cab for the bag she saw earlier, swings it over his shoulder, and starts after her towards the main building.
A middle aged women is sat behind the front desk, dark hair falling in ringlets around her face which is staring up at a television secured in the corner of the walls, playing an old episode of Family Feud. She tilts her head down from where she's guessing answers under her breath to smile at them, "Hey there! Come on in, come on in."
"Hello," Beth greets back, as the pair of them pile through the front door, and steps out of the way for Daryl to walk up to the front. He already knows that she barely has enough money for bacon, so she doubts he expects much of her, here. They passed a Pepsi machine out front, though, so maybe she can buy them both something to drink for the road, tomorrow.
"Need a room," Daryl huffs. "Just the night."
"Not a problem," the women informs with a click of her fingers. From what Beth can see, she's operating on a simple form. "Need a name," she asks, clicking into her computer and opening up a chart.
"Daryl Dixon."
Daryl Dixon. It rolls through Beth's head a few times over, while he receives their room key and directions on how to get there. Daryl Dixon. She appreciates the alliteration of it all. It sounds really...right. It sounds right, just like Daryl's first name had sounded right and seems to match him so well - to suit him so much.
"Have a great night, you two," the woman says, while Daryl takes the keys and turns on his heel without another word. Beth, though, looks back at dark ringlet curls and feels the heat of her cheeks flame, just a little, as she takes in the face of the lady before her - takes in the way her eyes drift over Daryl's form and back to Beth, expectantly. The woman's smiling the kind-of smile that Haley smiles when she sees a guy talking to Beth at the counter at a bar, and tilting her head towards Beth in well wishes. She's not sure what the woman thinks this is or thinks is going to happen once the pair of them get into that room, but she can venture a guess. She can completely venture a guess. Even though Beth knows that that's not somethin' that's an option (or something either of them are even thinkin' about), it still shocks her a little to hear someone she doesn't know speak about them - two complete strangers - in such a tone.
Especially considering the fact that their waitress at the diner was looking at them like Daryl had stolen Beth from her home out of her bed in the middle of the night and was currently on the run from the law for his dirty deed.
Daryl doesn't seem to notice the tilt in her tone, at all, though. So, Beth does the same that he's doing: ignores her and just shuffles out of the front check in and back out into the short rush of the wind. He strides past the first low slung brick building and over to the second, filing down the open walk until he lands outside of B3. He unlocks the door with a sure hand and steps inside. Beth follows after him, just as he'd followed after her, before. She walks past where he stands to the tan switch on the wall and flicks the lights on to take in the situation.
It's relatively clean, for what she and the rest of the world tends to picture when they think of the state of motels; broken and stained and odorous. But, it's not the Plaza, either. There's two full beds sat with less than a foot of space between them. They're both covered with ugly flowered comforters, lumpy and long used, and framed by two fairly dinky end tables with cheap lamps settled on top. But, there's a television in front of them, that looks like it wasn't bought too long ago and there's pillows and everything looks sanitary enough, so Beth's feeling alright. She can stay here for a night and not get too skeeved.
When she hears the shutter of Daryl pushing the door closed, though, she feels a sudden awkwardness seep over her. The lock clicking into place rings like a gunshot in her ears and she can picture Haley laughing at her to relax it's just a boy, Beth honey. It's not like Beth hasn't been alone with boy, before. She has. Obviously. There was Zach, after all. And she'd been alone with Jimmy way back when, even though her Daddy hadn't needed to worry quite as much as he thought he should've done.
But, Daryl feels very un-boy-like.
He feels very present.
And this is weird.
When she looks over at him, from where she's been hovering embarrassingly in self evaluation, he seems to of been doing the same. The fact that he appears just as put out by their sudden situation, however, eases her some. So, she breaks herself out of her trance, moves away from where they're standing near the entrance, and places her backpack on the bed closest to the furthest wall. "Home sweet home," Beth shrugs one slight shoulder and turns to look behind her for a moment, before finally finding a plug, and unzips her bag to find her phone and her charger.
Her movement shocks him into doing the same, so he follows her lead and tosses his duffel bag onto the bed she's essentially assigned to him, with a pretty decent thump. He's rifling through his things, in the next second, just as she is. But, when she comes up with her charger in hand, he comes up with two dark clumps of fabric, clutching them tightly between his fingers.
"I'mma...change," he says, looking her over and holding still where he stands for a moment in silence, before finally starting his was across the floor and walking through the bathroom door, without another sound.
"Okay..." Beth watches the souls of Daryl's boots pad their way across the shift of the carpet, making large and fading imprints as he goes, and waits until the door clicks shut, before leaning down to shove the charger into the socket and connecting it where it's most needed and dialing as quickly as her fingers will allow.
She settles herself on the end of the lumpy bed that she's claimed while she settles her cell against the flat of her ear, as the repetitive trill of the ring sounds out through her phone and into the dead quiet space of the room. Beth doesn't have to wait long, before the sound cuts off, suddenly, and her mom's voice is humming through the line.
"Hello?" she greets, her voice far enough away from the device to be noticeable. Beth can hear the familiar scratch of the cord against the metal legs of the stool, telling her that she's sat in the kitchen next to the mounted white line. The sound, alone, of her mom greeting her is always enough to spark the painful clench of Beth's heart. So much so that, while she's been away, she's found herself calling less and less; not sure if she can handle the homesickness that comes with her mom's controlled concerns and doting.
"Mom, it's Beth," she manages, despite the pull in her chest, to make herself sound as positive as she can. Although, she doesn't attempt to hide the tiredness in the tone of her voice, from her long and wary day. Her parents could tell she was tired even if she tried to stuff it away, so she's sees no point in bothering.
"Bethy, sweetheart? Oh, thank the lord!" she listens as Annette stands from the stool and practically pictures her mom sticking her head out and around the kitchen archway to yell into the front room, where Daddy's probably reading some book for the millionth time. "Hershel! Beth's on the phone!" her voice is faraway, again, as if she's pulled the phone away from her face, to spare her daughter from the full impact. Beth can't hear the following distinct words, but she can hear the faded formed sounds of her Daddy calmly answering back in the background, like the teacher in Charlie Brown used to do in all of the Saturday morning cartoons she used to watch while she was growing up. "I don't rightly care if you knew she'd be fine, Hershel Franklin Greene." Beth chuckles under her breath, as her Daddy's name rings out. "Put down that book and pick up the other line."
"What's he reading, now?"
"Do we ever know?" her voice settles back against the speaker. "Oh sweetheart, we got your messages! I was so worried once I realized that we'd missed you."
"It's fine..." A loud clunking sound inside the motel bathroom has Beth cutting her eyes to the doorway where Daryl is changing on the other side. There's something drilling at the back of her head at the thought of this man - Daryl Dixon - undressing just a few feet away from her. It's a silly thought, though, she knows. She beyond knows. Especially seein' as he's not in the room with her and she's not seeing anything of him. But, it lingers there in that spot nonetheless that this day is full of things she's never thought she'd be one to experience. She never thought she'd get left behind in a state she barely knows anything about. She never thought she'd fix that situation by hitching a ride with the first person to show her any sort-of kindness. She never thought she'd meet a man, one day, and he'd be naked in her presence, however hidden away, later that same night.
Fortunately, (or maybe unfortunately, she thinks) she's never really been that girl.
Beth takes a moment and reminds herself that this isn't the same thing as that, at all. That the women at the reception desk in the main building of this motel doesn't know what she's talking about. That Daryl's first thought of her was that she was a sloppy teenager having a fit and running away from home. That it is not abnormal that he's back there, taking off articles of clothing, while she sits her with her butt placed on an unfortunate bump of duvet. She doesn't expect him to sleep in his leather, after all. It's only natural.
"It's not fine, Beth," her mom brings her back, though her eyes stay locked on the faux wood of the door. "We've all been so busy, here. But, that's not anything of an excuse-"
"I get it."
"-and Maggie's been clutching her phone waiting for you to text back."
"I don't get why she didn't just call," Hershel cuts in over Annette, with a soft sigh. "Hello, little girl."
"Hi, Daddy," Beth smiles where she sits. "My phone was dying, it's why I didn't call the house again, earlier."
"Maggie told us that once you got back to her. But, you're alright, right?" her mom asks - the worry dripping from every syllable.
"Yeah, I am," Beth nods, turns her attention down, and runs her free hand over a small tear in the bedding. "Took me awhile to find a plug, 'course. But, I am alive and I didn't want you to worry any longer than you had to."
Hershel hums knowingly, "I told you, Annette. Our Bethy is a smart girl."
"Her being a smart girl doesn't change the situation. I tell you, Beth, this wedding is messing with your father's brain." Beth nods silently along and plucks a piece of thread between two fingers, pulling gently and raising a small tent up and down.
"Anyway, Beth," her Daddy groans quietly; she figures he's settling next to her mom next to the wall. "Where are you right now? Margaret said that you told her you've figured out a plan? You know how I feel: I don't like the idea of you traveling completely on your own."
"A cab, maybe? We'll pay for it when you get here."
Beth shakes her head before she speaks, "I'm not in a cab, right now. No." The thread tears roughly away from the fabric for a few stitches and the bathroom door pulls open, in front of her. "I'm staying in Virginia over night. Barely a drive tomorrow."
Daryl's soft snort drags her eyes back up. "'Round eight hours," his tone is quiet enough to not be heard over the phone, as she scans her eyes from the head down. There's a small chunk of rogue hair stuck up and disturbed into a tiny loop, from where he's pulled a new shirt over his head. This shirt, not a ripped apart button down, but a simple loose black t-shirt with a hole in the collar, has sleeves. Short, but there. She hurriedly passes by the small sliver of flesh of his stomach where his shirt isn't tugged right at the corner, before noting his old grey sweats. When she hits the bare of his toes, she darts her focus back to his face, where he's looking into his duffle bag, shoving his clothes away into a corner.
"Eight hours left, apparently. I'm just staying in a motel until morning," Beth shrugs a shoulder, even though she knows they can't see her. She doesn't need to see them, however, to know that they're looking at each other and frowning. "Stop worrying, you guys, it's fine. I promise...It's even clean."
"Now, Beth, I don't know how safe that sounds," her Daddy ponders and in Beth's tired state she only just suppresses the urge to mention that if they'd stuck her on a plane, like she'd asked, she would of been home already - she would of had dinner with them earlier that night. Hell, she would've been sat in the living room right this very minute with a wedding obsessed Maggie, an eager to please Glenn, and anyone else staying at the house who can still stand to be around the pair of them, watching Deal Or No Deal reruns or Password.
Man, she feels so gross, now that she thinks about it. She's gross and exhausted and her legs ache and she feels nasty all over. A day's worth of grime covers every inch of her skin - it's like she can feel it sliding against her. She wonders what the state of the shower is - if it's safe to step inside of it, bacteria wise. "I'm not alone, Daddy," Beth looks over at the arms she'd noted earlier when she was thinking about how Daryl could hurt her if he was someone she had to worry about. He could probably hurt other people, too, she knows. And, if this man cared enough to not leave her on the curb of a gas station with no one but the creepy clerk, she suspects he wouldn't just allow an axe murderer to come in the room and rip her apart, limb from limb. That he just might not be thrilled by that. "Probably ain't going to die, tonight."
Annette is quick to jump in, "Not alone? Who are you with?"
"Well," she starts, hesitating just slightly, as she looks over to her new companion. Unsure of how close to the truth she should be sticking, she rolls her head on she shoulders. "When I tried to get you all on the phone and didn't get an answer, I...just scrolled through my phone, thinking about my options." Daryl pushes his bag to the side and lowers himself on the edge of his own bed - sweats bunching limply at his ankles and fingers drifting out gently to knock at a stray pen on one of the night stands. He raises a brow where he's watching the pen spin in place, at the start of her lie. "And I eventually called...a friend," she stutters and looks away from Daryl, once more, pretending not to be interested in what his response to her calling him that for this purpose, might be. "And here I am."
"Haley?" Annette's voice has calmed considerably, since the beginning of the call. "She always was such a nice girl. If she's not busy this week, you're welcome to tell her she can stay for the wedding, of course."
"It's not crowded in here, at all." Beth doesn't fail to note her Daddy's sarcasm.
"No, no..." her grip tightens on her cell and she reaches thin fingers back out to play with the thread. "Not Haley - she's got things to do and I got left around two hours out. Didn't think she would be able to find the time, even if she'd want to. Anyway, it's a friend and he came out to get me after my desperate plea and he didn't want to drive through the night, when he was tired. See?" Beth ignores her mother's questioning and interested hum. The more details she gives, the harder the lie. "Being so responsible."
Her Daddy puts on his strongest voice of interrogation, "So you're safe?"
"Absolutely safe," Beth hears Daryl shift behind her. "I'll be home, tomorrow."
"Middle of the afternoon," Daryl mumbles and slides the remote off of the wall. "Eight hour drive. Start in the morning. Probably 'round...three - three thirty - to get into Atlanta. "
"We honestly can't wait for you to get here, Beth," Annette says. "Maybe finally having you around will be good for Maggie's nerves."
Daryl clicks at the power button on the remote and the unexpected sound blares out around them - an ad for super powered dish detergent screaming out about how soft it will make the users hands, after they're done scrubbing away crusted meat loaf and slimy Alfredo sauce. "She's nervous?" Beth jumps from the shock of the noise - her voice hitching during her question in sudden alarm - while Daryl hastens to turn the volume down, a curse slipping from his throat.
Hershel is swift to answer, "Not quite. Everything okay over there?"
"Oh right, she's crazy." Daryl glances at her out of the corner of his eye and back, before he thinks she has a chance to notice his interest. "I've seen the Facebook wall. I've figured, as much. Not sure if you're allowed to say that, though, Daddy. And it's fine, my friend just turned on the TV and whoever was here before us was deaf."
Daryl snorts a laugh.
"No, she is not crazy. She's excited," her mom chastises, but there's a hint of a smile in her voice, despite the fact that Beth knows that she's being serious about them leaving her older sister alone. Annette might not be Maggie's biological mother, and there may of been a point in her life where she was worried that she wasn't enough for her adopted daughter, but she is Maggie's mom in every single way that Maggie's mother had been and she's game to stand up for her. And Annette has gotten married before, as well. Both to Shawn's biological father and Hershel. So, she probably understands the obsession with making sure everything is perfect for the big day, way better than Beth does - way better than her Daddy does, seeing as he's not loving the overpopulation that comes with this one. "Stop it, you two."
Beth nods to herself and looks up to the television, where an infomercial is selling a collection of knives, "Sorry, mom."
"Listen," Hershel says at the same time, while a tall pale woman with a blinding white smile and a fountain of hair demonstrates how well one of her long knives cuts through a slab of pork. "You sound tired, so I want you to get some sleep."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Bethy," he continues on - his voice firm and without room for any misunderstanding. "We don't want you tiring yourself out anymore for the day. Get some sleep and get home."
"I second that, sweetheart. We've got dresses to try on and we've got future in-laws and bridesmaids walking around and you should head on to bed, so that you can be part of it, as soon as possible."
Beth drops her gaze away from the television and back down to the tear, "I'll see you both tomorrow."
"And your friend, of course? I'd love to thank him for helping you?" Annette hums again and, this time, Beth doesn't quite ignore the interest seeping into the question. She looks out of the corner of her eye to Daryl who's still sat at the edge of the bed - his back straight and his fingers clasped tightly together around the width of the remote, where he gazes unseeingly at the images on the screen. His face is settled, as it's been the majority of the time she's known him and she has more than a feeling that, even if he's not been openly showing it, he's calculatin' the entire conversation from her end.
"Um...," Beth struggles with what to say, even though she already knows that the answer to her mother's question is a resounding: no. Daryl will be taking her to Atlanta and no further, Beth will pay him for his troubles, and they'll part ways. Her mom won't ever get to see the red cape she's imagining, and that's just the way that it is. "We'll see. Alright, then," she rushes past the words. "I love you both, okay? Goodnight."
"We both love you, too. Goodnight, sweetheart," her mom utters her last words, for the night, before Beth hears her Daddy bid her farewell and then nothing but the low dial tone meeting her ears. Beth pulls the phone away from her ears and shuts it down, before leaning towards the end table to set it on the surface for a night charge. When she faces forward, once more, the woman from before is demonstrating how easily the knives sharpen. She takes a queue from the man on the bed next to her and watches for a little while. It's actually quite impressive.
"Everythin' good?" Daryl surprises her, after a little while, by asking and glancing over.
"Yeah," she responds and tiredly grins. "It's all good...Thank you so much for doing all of this for me. I can't even tell you how much I appreciate it."
"Hmm..." Daryl nods, slowly and heavily. He turns the remote over a few times in his hands, while a smirk glides across his lips and his voice drips in dry humor, "That's what best friends are for." She watches Daryl's face as Daryl watches her, as she giggles gently at his remark. He's not bothered by her statement to her parents and that's all that matters. She wouldn't want to make him uncomfortable and be left behind on the side of the road (even though she knows that he would never) twice in one week.
After another few minutes of serrated edges and waterproof handles, Beth sighs to herself and pulls her body up off of the bed, "You were in the bathroom...is the shower completely disgusting?"
He's quiet for a moment, looking over at her and then in the direction of the door he'd gone through, earlier, "Nah. Nothin' too bad. Definitely seen worse."
It honestly doesn't sound very promising, to her. But, in her situation, she doesn't really have much of a choice. "Great, well...I'm gonna take a shower, then. I feel like I've been runnin' a marathon this whole day or something," she shucks her shoes off of her feet, places them down next to her bed, and starts heading towards the the door.
"Wait a sec," Beth halts her steps when Daryl speaks out, from his spot on the bed. He sounds as if he hadn't meant to speak and when she turns around and sees his thumb pressed against his mouth, she knows that it's true - that he's berating himself for opening his mouth. She watches him nervously bite at the digit for a moment, before he finally stands and drags his duffle bag out towards him. The zipper pulls open and his hands bury in, digging in to the side he hadn't stuffed the old clothes he had put in, earlier. He pulls out a button down out from the buttom of the bag and a small bottle of shampoo. The shirt's plaid pattern is brown in color and, like the one he'd been wearing all night before he changed, the sleeves are torn off of the sides. "It's...clean," he grunts and thrusts his arm out, with the shirt clutched tightly between red fingers. "Ain't worn it since I washed it before I left," his arm shakes subtly, as if he's determined that she takes it. "You've got no bags, so...thought you might want somethin' to sleep in other than jeans. And..." he looks at the bottle in his other hand, "there isn't anything in there."
Beth doesn't move.
"I know it ain't comfortable."
She just stares at his shirt and his face, which is turned to the side, so that he doesn't have to look at her. She smiles to herself as she looks him over, "You're familiar with that, are you?"
Daryl snorts and uncomfortable laugh, like he's thinking over a few nights that he's not so thrilled happened, and shrugs a wide shoulder - his hand still extended out towards her. Beth knows better, by now, than to push. She feels like she gets that much about him, at this point in their journy. So, she just lets her smile grow and walks over to him. She tries not to touch him any while she puts out a hand to grab the brown fabric, but she'd be dumb not to notice the brush of his fingers - rough and dry and red and desperate for her to take the article and walk away from him.
His eyes glance down to where her fingers brush his as they move away.
He looks uncomfortable with the contact.
"Doin' so much for me," Beth looks up to his face and smiles, her voice quiet and completely grateful. He's doing more for her than she knew other people were capable off. Beth's always been so adamant that the majority of people are inherently good, deep in their core, even when her family wasn't so sure. But, being a good person and going so far out of your way to do extraordinarily good deeds aren't necessarily the same thing. Most people will apologize if they bump into you, slightly, on the sidewalk. Not everyone will help you up off of the ground and start collecting the things that have scattered out of your purse, before you've even thanked them for the first act of kindness. Daryl is the second good person, even though most people wouldn't look at him and think it was so. Daryl is the person who would help Beth pick up her things off of the sidewalk, while everyone else complained that they're in the way. "And you don't even have to."
He shakes his head once and turns her his eyes away from hers, "Told you. Don't mind, none."
Beth watches him look away. Daryl Dixon does not like to be praised.
She grins, anyway, and turns around to head into the bathroom with his shirt tucked underneath her arm.
xxx
"Fuck!"
Annette hears the voice - deep and harsh and unexpected - curse out underneath the alarmingly loud song suddenly thrashing into her ear, and her interest peaks, even more so than it already was. She doesn't hear her daughter asking about Maggie's nerves or her husband asking about what's happening - to focused on the sound of the television in the background lowering in volume.
And that's how she spends the rest of the phone call.
Annette hadn't missed the soft rumble in the background and her daughter's distraction, as whoever was there went on about the plans for the next morning. She'd only caught a few words, but she hadn't missed the voice. Just as she doesn't miss the low hummed laugh, after Beth comments on the deaf person that previously stayed in the motel room.
She's not been off of the phone for three seconds, before Hershel disappears back into the hallway and she's rushing to follow behind.
"Did you catch what she said?" she asks, while he weaves into the front room, passed Glenn and his father who are both thundering up the stairs. "Hmm?"
"Yes, I did," Hershel grabs his book off of the end table and moves back towards his chair to settle back in. "She said that she's staying overnight in Virginia and she'll be here before dinner, tomorrow." He tugs the front cover open.
"No," Annette swishes a hand dismissively and her eyes widen excitedly. "She said she's bringing a boyfriend to the wedding."
Hershel pauses where he's flipping through to find his page and looks up to his wife - his expression stern and adamant, "That's not what she said, Anne. She said a friend is bringing her."
Annette frowns stubbornly and playfully, "She said 'he' and she said 'him'. That's a boyfriend."
"You are aware that her using male pronouns to describe the person driving her isn't synonymous with her being in a relationship, right?" Hershel turns back to the book in his lap. "If she was with someone...one of us would've known about it. She wouldn't hide those things."
She taps his should and sits on the armrest of his chair, "That's not necessarily true! We didn't know that she split with that one boy, until Maggie heard it from someone on Facebook. And, way back when she was still here with us all of the time, we didn't know, right away, that she'd begun to date Jimmy."
"Of course we did," Hershel counters. "We'd known they were together since kindergarten."
"That's a rotten joke - don't say that when she gets here," she orders. They had all learned the hard way that, once upon a time, their family was looking at Jimmy just a bit more seriously than Beth had been. "Anyway, she's nineteen. She should be dating if she wants to be. I wonder what he's like, don't you? His voice was deep, so maybe she's dating an older man."
"Taking after you, huh?"
"She's out there on her own and with Haley as influence," she continues on, simply ignoring his comment. "-he's probably around twenty-one or twenty-two. It was only natural she'd want to drink, one day."
Hershel finds his page and looks for the line he was on. "Dear, you shouldn't be getting ahead of yourself," he sighs.
"You just don't want her to be with anyone, that's why you're not excited."
Hershel chuckles underneath his breath and glances up to where his wife sits above him, "If you're so thrilled about this development, maybe you should go tell Maggie? I'm sure she'd love to know." He smiles as her frown turns real. Margaret wouldn't take kindly to having to add someone else to the seating chart - she spent so much time thinking over who'd sit best with who. He had watched her and Glenn and his parents and Annette hovering over in discussion, while he and Shawn and Otis disappeared to the animals and the work of the farm. He knows the effort that went into that chart. "You know as well as I do that Bethy is...a romantic," he carries on. "If she was with someone, she'd be writing about it and singing about it. But, from what we know, she's not."
Annette's shaking her head, "I feel pretty certain."
"How about we wait? What's most important is that she's blessed with a smooth journey. If she's with someone, than she's with someone. But, for now?" he cranes his head up and brushes a kiss across her cheek. "He's a friend, that we're all grateful for, who's kind enough to drive over fourteen hours to bring her home."
xxx
He's found some sort-of talk show playin' on the television. He recognizes the host, as most people would, even if he can't remember the man's name. He's been drunk enough, enough times in his life, to find himself thrown down against the length of a ratty couch with this useless blabber fumbling on in front of him. He doesn't recognize any of the guests, though, and the jokes are so scripted that he can't find it in himself to think they're funny. He's not really paying attention to what anyone on the screen is talking about, anyway.
For twelve long minutes, Daryl's been listening to the muffled sound of the spray of water, hitting weakly against the tiles of the shower's walls. And, more importantly, for twelve long minutes he's been listening to the quiet hum of a soft voice singing out a thoughtless tune. He figures she's no more than mumblin' out the song, because of how his ears have to strain to pick up the sound - her song (whatever the fuck it may be) echoing off of the walls.
He doesn't know what he's supposed to be doing with this situation.
Daryl can't remember the last time he was in a room with a naked female (even if she is on the other side of the bathroom door) or the last time he was sleeping in the same room as a female, when he was sober. It's happened, before, of course. And it's been painfully awkward the two times it's happened. But, it's been a long while. And this isn't that circumstance. Not even remotely close. He has no plans to push this girl down to the bed and settle himself between her thighs and handle any business of his. He knows that she doesn't have those plans, either. She might not be a girl, but...she is just a girl - a girl who needed someone's help and a girl he's helping. If either of them wanted to do what the lady at check in insinuated, they could, because she ain't that young. Legal and all that shit. But, that ain't why they're here. It ain't why she's here. It ain't why he is.
But, that don't make it any less uncomfortable. He can only imagine the jokes Merle'd be cracking on about if he so much as caught a whiff of his predicament. The names he'd get called. Not that the asshole has any chance of learning about any of this, seeing as Daryl just got back from visiting his dumb ass in jail.
Fucking Merle.
His first time leaving the state and it's to visit his brother in The Big House, wearing some ugly ass tan jumpsuit - the joke and the irony that something he'd thought so long about doing ended up happening because his brother's a moron, is not lost on him.
And now, Daryl is plus one dusty as shit motorcycle.
Plus one questionable bag of money, that he made it absolutely clear during his visit he didn't want to know nothing about how Merle got it; Daryl doesn't deal in drugs, he deals in wood and nails and yellow construction hats - no matter what his older brother wants to bring him in on.
And plus one girl.
Shit.
He listens to the water turn off and the metal rings of the curtain sliding along the pole, as Beth steps out.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.
He wants to complain that he doesn't know how the fuck he got rooked into this mess. But, he does. He knows that he does. Daryl's laying back on the bed, where he's kicked his own muddy boots off and crossed his legs at his ankles and he knows he does. Seeing that girl hunched on over on the curb of that gas station parking lot looking a lot like a girl looking like she was tryin' to look like she was okay...all too clear that she wasn't...Daryl doesn't do well with crying woman - young, old, or anywhere in between. He doesn't do well with just leaving them there. He's seen enough of crying woman to know that it always means somethin'. Even when he walks away from them and forces himself not to deal and shove himself into a situation he doesn't need or want to be involved with, there's always that annoying as hell pull that makes him feel like a wad of shit, if he does.
He couldn't leave her.
She was crying and alone and she said the guy inside had made a comment and...
He couldn't just leave her.
And now here he is.
Full on up with some generic chili and hunkered down with a naked girl who keeps thanking him like he's doin' something important. Like, he's doing something everyone who isn't a complete asshole wouldn't do.
He knows that's not true, too.
The good news is that eight hours isn't that long of a ride and she's not too much of a talker and she's paying him when they get into Atlanta. The good news is that it's not really out of his way and she's not a psycho and she seems nice enough. She seems too nice. What is wrong with this chick? Don't she know you don't just get into old pick up trucks with filthy rednecks? The world is fucking dangerous and she's asking complete strangers to let her in their cars. He knows she's safe with him. He knows he ain't never gonna hit or hurt a woman; he's going to his grave with his hands as clean as they can be. He's done some lift jobs with Merle and Merle's normal crew and he's punched in some bad men in crews that don't quite get along with his brother's friends. But, he ain't gonna be his Pa in this regard.
Beth's safe with him, he's got no doubt 'bout that. But, she probably should.
When the bathroom door pulls open, slowly and full of uncertainty - a burst of the smell of steam pouring out, Daryl's train of thought is completely severed. He sees leg before he sees anything else; long and white and cut off mid-thigh where his shirt rests. It's too big on her, obviously. The shoulder seam is hunched so far over her arm that it looks like he hadn't ripped it apart too bad that one day on a hunting trip where he got caught up in some barbed wire he'd tried to climb through. She's completely covered up and, yet, his eyes see so much leg and he whips his gaze away and back to the show.
The old man is asking some dumb question to some ditz actress who barely seems to know what happens in her own movie.
And his face is red.
Daryl listens as Beth's feet pad their way across the carpet and he listens as she pulls back on the blankets. He doesn't have to turn to her to know the way she tugs at the hem of the shirt willing it to be longer, while she quickly slips underneath the covers. He only briefly glances over when he's sure that it's safe and it's only to find that the white flush of her skin is turning pink and she's chewing on her bottom lip.
Her hair is wet and long - much longer than it looks when it's swept up - and she combs at it nervously with her fingers. She looks like a completely different person than she looked on that curb.
She looks fineee, as hell, Darylina. He hears Merle crow. Or, what is it that your delicate sensibilities would say? Pretty. She looks reaaal pretty, don't she? Bet you weren't expecting that, huh, baby brother? Nah, you thought she was a little girl couple'a hours ago. Ha, I knew you liked'em young.
"Long day," Beth coughs and pulls at a knotted snag.
"Hmm."
Put her in your shirt, too. That was real smart, baby brother. Real smart. Lookin' real nice, that one is. Smooth legs. Save her for me, why don't you, Darylina? I'mma get outta here, eventually. Be nice to have some fuzz waitin'.
"The shower was pretty gross. Thought you said it wasn't too bad?"
"Hmm, it wasn't, really...Seen much worse in my time."
He knows that she's fillin' the silence that's formed from the sudden sight of her skin. He knows she's covering her nerves at being so exposed 'round someone that she just met. It's not irritating, in the way that it is with Merle and with...most people. He almost thinks that it's a good thing. She wasn't scared none getting into a car with him - she wasn't nervous 'bout that - but she recognizes that this ain't normal, unless you're coming home from the bar trashed and thinkin' about other things. He feels better knowing she's in her right head.
But, despite the pride he feels that she's got her wits about her, he doesn't really want to be in this room and he feels ridiculous that he can feel the way his face has flamed. He doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable being here with him, 'cause he's the one who pulled the truck over. He doesn't want her to lay in her bed and suffer, thinking she's gone and embarrassed herself or something stupid like that. But, he's got nothing to say to to her or to himself to get ease the strangeness of this whole situation out of the very fibers of their bones.
And it's been a very long time since he slept in the same room as a female, when he was sober.
And she continues to comb out her hair with her fingers, wet droplets falling and soaking away into the plaid of his shirt.
And the light of the television dances shadows across their faces.
And it's just an eight hour drive, in the morning, is all.
And he can say nothing for a very long time.
And the show plays on.