Walking Dead Fanfic: "Saviours"
Title: Saviours
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl/Beth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1207
Summary: He's so caught up in his own little mental gymnastics that he almost misses her when she slips.
Notes: Post "Alone", Beth was never kidnapped la la la. Written for 10_fics for the prompt "river" (table 3)
Saviours
by Severina
Daryl scrubs at his beard. "Huh."
He turns at the rustle of leaves behind him, reaches out a hand to snag Beth's arm before she can tumble right off the bank and into the stream. She stumbles as she's caught up short at his side, big blue eyes blinking for a moment at the fast-moving water before she turns toward him. "Thought you said it was straight on through for another five miles or so?"
"Yeah," he says. He looks over her shoulder, narrows his eyes and chews on his lip as he studies the landscape. But one tree pretty much looks the same as the next, and the sun's buried beneath an overcast sky. "Musta got turned around somehow."
Beth hooks her thumbs into the straps of her pack. "Simple enough to get lost out here," she says easily.
Tension he doesn't know he's carrying drops from his shoulders. Isn't easy, this whole 'being who you are now' thing. He can still hear Merle and the old man in his head, riding him, telling him he's nothing but a useless piece of shit for getting lost, reminding him he wouldn't know his asshole from a hole in the ground 'less they were there to point it out. At least the voices are weaker now, more like a couple of stubborn mosquitos than the usual hornet's nest buzzing around his skull.
He looks up when Beth nudges his shoulder. "It's no big deal, Daryl," she says. "We could follow the river 'til it bends?"
Daryl squints up at the sky, tries to get his bearings. "Nah," he finally answers. "If we're anywhere near where I think, river goes on straight as a damn ruler at least a couple of miles."
"And we need to put some distance between us and that herd," Beth says. "Okay, so we cross it."
He puts his back to the river and shades his eyes, even though he knows it's useless. They'd come too far ahead for him to see even the leaders of the herd, but he almost imagines he can hear them back there, staggering their way through the brush. Only about twenty or so, but one thing they've learned since the end of the world is that the damn things just don't give up.
By the time he turns back Beth is already on her butt in the mud, in the midst of tucking her socks into the toes of her boots. She rises and brushes the dirty palms of her hands on her equally dirty jeans before wrinkling her nose. "Can't tie 'em onto my pack," she says, turning around and looking at him over her shoulder. "Think you can just sorta stick them inside?"
He slips the backpack from her shoulders, tucks her boots inside and then strips off his own boots and socks to tie onto the outside before lengthening the straps for his shoulders. Then he eases from the slippery bank into the current, takes Beth's hand to help her down.
He bites at his lip when she releases her grip as soon as she's got her footing. Ain't like he needs an excuse to hold her damn hand anyway, so it's just plain dumb to feel bad that she let him go. Hell, he can take her hand again when they get to the other side, hold onto it until they make camp for the night if he feels like it. If she lets him. He scowls across at the far bank, his thoughts tumbling around as fast as the current tugging at his waist. There's no reason she won't let him. She's not mad at him or nothing, not even for getting them lost and making them end up in this damn river at the tail end of the day when they should be finding someplace to hunker down for the night.
He's so caught up in his own little mental gymnastics that he almost misses her when she slips.
One moment she is wading carefully ahead and to his left, just barely visible in his peripheral vision. The next moment her arm flails. She doesn't even have time to cry out before her head is beneath the water.
Daryl dives to the side without thinking, his own footing lost on the slippery rocks. His reaching hand grasps only empty air for endless long moments before he finally snags something, and it's only when he hauls himself up to the surface that he realizes his fingers are tangled in Beth's long hair. She stumbles against his chest, gasping and choking, and he wraps his hands around her waist, plants his feet and struggles to keep them steady against the undertow while she clutches at his shoulders and coughs dirty river water onto his shirt.
"You saved me," she says when the coughing fit has passed and she has caught her breath. She raises a shaking hand to swipe the tangled hair out of her face, shivers in his grip.
"Figured I'd return the favour," he doesn't mean to say, but after a moment she blinks and understands and then she is lifting herself on tiptoe to press her cold lips to his. And it's not the time or the place, not with a herd at their back and the rapidly eddying water still swirling around their waists, but he tightens his grasp and tugs her closer, trusts in the strength of his body and maybe in some higher power to keep them safe - just for a little while - when he meets her and kisses her breath away.
Daryl takes her hand as they struggle the rest of the way to the bank, takes it again once they've squirmed into soaking wet boots, and only releases her when they've reached a lee between some sheltering trees that will make a good temporary campsite and she giggles and reminds him that it'll be difficult for her to make a fire with his fingers in the way. But he doesn't take his eyes off her as he's stringing the warning cans, and once the chili is heating over the fire she immediately comes to his side and twines her fingers with his.
He lets her fidget until she is comfortable leaning against his chest, lets the fingertips of his free hand play against the smooth skin of her arm until he raises goose bumps and she wriggles around to kiss him again.
"Cold," he says against her lips. She pulls back to frown confusedly at him, and he plucks a finger at her shirt, still damp despite the warmth from the fire. "Get sick wearin' wet clothes like this," he explains.
"Oh," Beth says. She smiles up at him, hands moving purposefully to the hem of her polo. "Guess we'd better take 'em off, then."
Daryl catches at her hands before she can lift her hem, pushes her down into the bed of leaves and retakes her lips as she giggles. If there's going to be any undressing being done, he plans on them taking their good sweet time about it.
The chili is burnt to nothing and they've ruined their only pot by the time they're through.
They both agree that it was worth it.
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl/Beth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1207
Summary: He's so caught up in his own little mental gymnastics that he almost misses her when she slips.
Notes: Post "Alone", Beth was never kidnapped la la la. Written for 10_fics for the prompt "river" (table 3)
Saviours
by Severina
Daryl scrubs at his beard. "Huh."
He turns at the rustle of leaves behind him, reaches out a hand to snag Beth's arm before she can tumble right off the bank and into the stream. She stumbles as she's caught up short at his side, big blue eyes blinking for a moment at the fast-moving water before she turns toward him. "Thought you said it was straight on through for another five miles or so?"
"Yeah," he says. He looks over her shoulder, narrows his eyes and chews on his lip as he studies the landscape. But one tree pretty much looks the same as the next, and the sun's buried beneath an overcast sky. "Musta got turned around somehow."
Beth hooks her thumbs into the straps of her pack. "Simple enough to get lost out here," she says easily.
Tension he doesn't know he's carrying drops from his shoulders. Isn't easy, this whole 'being who you are now' thing. He can still hear Merle and the old man in his head, riding him, telling him he's nothing but a useless piece of shit for getting lost, reminding him he wouldn't know his asshole from a hole in the ground 'less they were there to point it out. At least the voices are weaker now, more like a couple of stubborn mosquitos than the usual hornet's nest buzzing around his skull.
He looks up when Beth nudges his shoulder. "It's no big deal, Daryl," she says. "We could follow the river 'til it bends?"
Daryl squints up at the sky, tries to get his bearings. "Nah," he finally answers. "If we're anywhere near where I think, river goes on straight as a damn ruler at least a couple of miles."
"And we need to put some distance between us and that herd," Beth says. "Okay, so we cross it."
He puts his back to the river and shades his eyes, even though he knows it's useless. They'd come too far ahead for him to see even the leaders of the herd, but he almost imagines he can hear them back there, staggering their way through the brush. Only about twenty or so, but one thing they've learned since the end of the world is that the damn things just don't give up.
By the time he turns back Beth is already on her butt in the mud, in the midst of tucking her socks into the toes of her boots. She rises and brushes the dirty palms of her hands on her equally dirty jeans before wrinkling her nose. "Can't tie 'em onto my pack," she says, turning around and looking at him over her shoulder. "Think you can just sorta stick them inside?"
He slips the backpack from her shoulders, tucks her boots inside and then strips off his own boots and socks to tie onto the outside before lengthening the straps for his shoulders. Then he eases from the slippery bank into the current, takes Beth's hand to help her down.
He bites at his lip when she releases her grip as soon as she's got her footing. Ain't like he needs an excuse to hold her damn hand anyway, so it's just plain dumb to feel bad that she let him go. Hell, he can take her hand again when they get to the other side, hold onto it until they make camp for the night if he feels like it. If she lets him. He scowls across at the far bank, his thoughts tumbling around as fast as the current tugging at his waist. There's no reason she won't let him. She's not mad at him or nothing, not even for getting them lost and making them end up in this damn river at the tail end of the day when they should be finding someplace to hunker down for the night.
He's so caught up in his own little mental gymnastics that he almost misses her when she slips.
One moment she is wading carefully ahead and to his left, just barely visible in his peripheral vision. The next moment her arm flails. She doesn't even have time to cry out before her head is beneath the water.
Daryl dives to the side without thinking, his own footing lost on the slippery rocks. His reaching hand grasps only empty air for endless long moments before he finally snags something, and it's only when he hauls himself up to the surface that he realizes his fingers are tangled in Beth's long hair. She stumbles against his chest, gasping and choking, and he wraps his hands around her waist, plants his feet and struggles to keep them steady against the undertow while she clutches at his shoulders and coughs dirty river water onto his shirt.
"You saved me," she says when the coughing fit has passed and she has caught her breath. She raises a shaking hand to swipe the tangled hair out of her face, shivers in his grip.
"Figured I'd return the favour," he doesn't mean to say, but after a moment she blinks and understands and then she is lifting herself on tiptoe to press her cold lips to his. And it's not the time or the place, not with a herd at their back and the rapidly eddying water still swirling around their waists, but he tightens his grasp and tugs her closer, trusts in the strength of his body and maybe in some higher power to keep them safe - just for a little while - when he meets her and kisses her breath away.
Daryl takes her hand as they struggle the rest of the way to the bank, takes it again once they've squirmed into soaking wet boots, and only releases her when they've reached a lee between some sheltering trees that will make a good temporary campsite and she giggles and reminds him that it'll be difficult for her to make a fire with his fingers in the way. But he doesn't take his eyes off her as he's stringing the warning cans, and once the chili is heating over the fire she immediately comes to his side and twines her fingers with his.
He lets her fidget until she is comfortable leaning against his chest, lets the fingertips of his free hand play against the smooth skin of her arm until he raises goose bumps and she wriggles around to kiss him again.
"Cold," he says against her lips. She pulls back to frown confusedly at him, and he plucks a finger at her shirt, still damp despite the warmth from the fire. "Get sick wearin' wet clothes like this," he explains.
"Oh," Beth says. She smiles up at him, hands moving purposefully to the hem of her polo. "Guess we'd better take 'em off, then."
Daryl catches at her hands before she can lift her hem, pushes her down into the bed of leaves and retakes her lips as she giggles. If there's going to be any undressing being done, he plans on them taking their good sweet time about it.
The chili is burnt to nothing and they've ruined their only pot by the time they're through.
They both agree that it was worth it.
.