The Walking Dead Fanfic: "Then and Now"
Title: Then and Now
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl/Beth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1744 words
Summary: Then, they had a tarp, a rickety tin can barricade, and sullen silence. Now.. things are different between them. (The mud snake is the same, though.)
Notes: Post Grady, Beth never died la la la. Written for getyourwordsout for this
Then and Now
by Severina
This time instead of a tarp that smells like rotten eggs they have a roof over their heads; just an old hunter's shack with spidery cracks in the window that let in a draft and the bones of a tiny animal in the corner, but the walls block the worst of the wind. And the door shuts and locks with a thick bolt, so that's a bonus.
This time they have a moth-eaten cot to sleep on, though Daryl insists she take it all for herself instead of sharing. He shoves at the dirt and dust on the plank floor with the toe of his boot, shrugs his shoulders. Slept in worse places, he says.
So has she, because there's no joy in a soft mattress or a snug room on an upper floor when you have to sleep with one eye open. When there are men like Gorman stalking the halls. But she just nods at him and keeps her mouth shut.
This time instead of leaves that crunch under their boots there is a fine, rare snowfall covering the ground and a pond with fresh water to fill their bottles. Beth's breath mists the air when she returns from doing just that, and she stops at the door and turns to look back at her footprints in the light dusting. Might as well put up a neon sign announcing where they are, but there's no use fretting about it.
She makes her way inside and shoves the door shut carefully with her ass, dumps the water bottles on the table. Daryl is already back too, she sees, bent over the dirty fireplace and working with his knife to get some twigs to light. He'd been out hunting, and at least this time-
Beth grimaces when she sees Daryl's catch of the day lying on the floor of the cabin. She blurts out a guttural noise of disgust before she can stop herself.
Daryl glances up from his maneuverings with knife and rock, follows her gaze. "You got a problem with mud snake?"
Beth shudders, points a finger at the lank coils of the snake. "That," she says slowly, "is the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. And I've eaten rat."
"Ain't nothin' wrong with rat," Daryl sniffs. "Tastes like chicken."
Beth has eaten chicken in all of its forms - fried, baked, roasted, fricasseed, barbequed, boiled… hell, she even had it dipped in chocolate at the state fair once - and she can attest most wholeheartedly that rat does not taste like chicken. But she doesn't debate the point. Because snake. She wrinkles her nose, nudges the dead body with her foot. "It tastes like shoe leather," she says.
"What, rat?"
"Mud snake!" Beth says.
Daryl shrugs. "Yup," he agrees. He turns back to the gathered twigs, his shoulders hunching as he strikes out again with his knife. He doesn't speak again until the spark has caught and he's carefully nurtured the flame, then sits back on his heels and regards her carefully. "You rather not eat, I'll take a double portion. Don't matter to me."
"I'm considering it," Beth says. They're no more than a day outside of base camp, a big ol' country farmhouse with high wooden fences. Not anywhere they can stay - not anywhere they can live for good - but secluded enough to hole up for a week or two and wait out this cold snap that's brought icy winds and more than a couple of inches of snow to their little corner of Georgia. If they get an early start and move quickly and don't run into any walkers - a lot of if's, she realizes - they'll make it back with their supplies to the big wooden house before sundown tomorrow.
"You pass out on the way back to camp 'cause you ain't eaten-"
"I wouldn't pass out!"
"-I ain't carryin' your sorry ass."
"Daryl," Beth says, grinning suddenly, "you carried me everywhere when all I had was a twisted ankle."
Daryl ducks his head. "Wasn't gonna do me no good if you took a header down the damn stairs," he says.
"Uh huh." She can still remember the strength of his arms around her, the steady beat of his heart against her ear when she laid her head against his chest. That memory kept her going during some of the dark times at Grady. "Come on," she says, shaking away the memory and jutting her chin toward the snake. "Skin that thing, and I'll help ya cook it. Last time you burned it. Maybe that's why it tasted like old shoes."
"Didn't burn nothin'," Daryl mutters, but he rises to get to work. "Nothin' wrong with plain ol' mud snake."
He's shed his jacket in the warmth of the cabin, just as she's dumped her sweater onto the lone, rickety chair. The muscles of his arms tense and flex as he works the skin loose from the snake, and it's only when he hesitates, looking over at her quizzically through the fall of his hair, that she jerks and realizes that she's been staring. She blinks and starts toward their stockpile of supplies. By the time he's done she's dug a pan out of their bag, and rummaged around in the supplies they spent the last two days foraging for. She comes up with a tiny container of garlic salt, and holds it aloft with a grin. When he merely stares at her, she grins. "Can't hurt."
In the end she slices the snake up into thin strips and garnishes it heavily with the salt, turning it regularly in the pan. Daryl sets back on his heels and lets her work, only shifting to adjust the pan or feed more sticks into the flames. Beth's feeling quite confident when she's done, and divvies it out onto their tin plates with a flourish.
She takes a delicate bite, and nearly gags.
Daryl smirks at her over his own mouthful. "Garlic flavoured shoe leather," he says. "My favourite."
She'd stick her tongue out at him, but she's too busy gulping down half a bottle of water. She settles for flipping him the bird.
Daryl huffs out a laugh. "Can't blame me for this one, Greene," he says.
She shudders, pushing away her plate with a grimace. "Who would have thought that garlic would make mud snake even more repulsive?" she asks.
He nudges the plate back toward her, gestures to it with his fork. "Best eat up anyway," he tells her. "Maybe I would carry your sorry ass if you passed out, but I sure as hell wouldn't like it."
Beth takes the plate back reluctantly, watches him over the fire. Apparently Daryl Dixon has no idea that the threat of being carried around by him is not exactly a deterrent to bad behaviour. She chews a piece of snake thoughtfully, and comes to a decision. "I liked it," she says.
"Huh?"
"Bein' carried around by you," she says softly.
She studies the worn floorboards, suddenly nervous. They haven't talked about what happened at the funeral home, not exactly. She'd told him about tripping and falling outside and hitting her head - and about how she'd come to the conclusion that the whole escapade was aided by the cops from Grady and the bump on her head wasn't from a rock after all, but from a well- placed whack with a billy club. He'd told her about searching for her for hours and hours, guilt dripping from his pores like sweat as he apologized for losing her, for failing.
But as for what went on in the funeral home before the walkers and the cops, before he was trapped with the bikers and she with Dawn and her cronies? She wanted to talk about it. She just didn't know where to start.
She raises her head to see Daryl watching her closely, and lifts a shoulder. "It's not exactly a hardship, you know," she says, "being taken care of by an attractive man. Knowing he has your back, no matter what."
He opens his mouth and Beth braces herself for his protest. She can almost see the words forming in his mouth - that he didn't take care of her, that he let her down, that he left her alone - but then he closes his mouth again and swallows the words down. He takes another bite of snake instead, and lifts his head to look toward the window. She follows his gaze to see that the snow has crystallized in the tiny cracks, turning the pane into a frosted rorschach test. She wonders what he sees in the blots and swirls.
She wants to say more - hopes he'll say anything at all - but he seems content just watching what little of the snow he can see past the frost. So she turns her attention back to her own rubbery snake, and is trying to decide whether her stomach will be able to handle another bite when he speaks.
"I liked your singing," he says.
Beth arches a brow, and can't help grinning over at him. "I know."
"Smug bitch," he says, laughing to take the sting out.
She laughs along with him, then makes a decision and shoves her plate away. "Another bite and you'll be carryin' me 'cause I can't walk for puking," she announces.
"Wuss," Daryl says, but she notices that he pushes his own plate aside as well. And when he notices her noticing, he grins sheepishly. "Does taste pretty shitty," he admits.
The remains of the snake get tossed in the fire, making the flames shimmer and pop. When Daryl retakes his seat on the floorboards he sits down next to her, holds his big hands out to the blaze. There is no sound other than the occasional snap of a branch in the fire. The snow outside seems to muffle the world, and Beth thinks that she might be content to spend her life here. With a warm fire and a good man.
"Maybe later, you could sing somethin'," Daryl says into the silence.
"Hmm, maybe. Maybe if you'll carry me to bed," Beth says flippantly back. Then she registers what she just said, and her eyes widen. She waves a hand frantically. "I didn't mean it like that!"
Daryl tips his head toward her, his eyes dark. "Oh?"
Oh. Maybe she did.
Kisses that taste like garlic shoe leather just might be her new favourite thing.
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl/Beth
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1744 words
Summary: Then, they had a tarp, a rickety tin can barricade, and sullen silence. Now.. things are different between them. (The mud snake is the same, though.)
Notes: Post Grady, Beth never died la la la. Written for getyourwordsout for this
Then and Now
by Severina
This time instead of a tarp that smells like rotten eggs they have a roof over their heads; just an old hunter's shack with spidery cracks in the window that let in a draft and the bones of a tiny animal in the corner, but the walls block the worst of the wind. And the door shuts and locks with a thick bolt, so that's a bonus.
This time they have a moth-eaten cot to sleep on, though Daryl insists she take it all for herself instead of sharing. He shoves at the dirt and dust on the plank floor with the toe of his boot, shrugs his shoulders. Slept in worse places, he says.
So has she, because there's no joy in a soft mattress or a snug room on an upper floor when you have to sleep with one eye open. When there are men like Gorman stalking the halls. But she just nods at him and keeps her mouth shut.
This time instead of leaves that crunch under their boots there is a fine, rare snowfall covering the ground and a pond with fresh water to fill their bottles. Beth's breath mists the air when she returns from doing just that, and she stops at the door and turns to look back at her footprints in the light dusting. Might as well put up a neon sign announcing where they are, but there's no use fretting about it.
She makes her way inside and shoves the door shut carefully with her ass, dumps the water bottles on the table. Daryl is already back too, she sees, bent over the dirty fireplace and working with his knife to get some twigs to light. He'd been out hunting, and at least this time-
Beth grimaces when she sees Daryl's catch of the day lying on the floor of the cabin. She blurts out a guttural noise of disgust before she can stop herself.
Daryl glances up from his maneuverings with knife and rock, follows her gaze. "You got a problem with mud snake?"
Beth shudders, points a finger at the lank coils of the snake. "That," she says slowly, "is the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. And I've eaten rat."
"Ain't nothin' wrong with rat," Daryl sniffs. "Tastes like chicken."
Beth has eaten chicken in all of its forms - fried, baked, roasted, fricasseed, barbequed, boiled… hell, she even had it dipped in chocolate at the state fair once - and she can attest most wholeheartedly that rat does not taste like chicken. But she doesn't debate the point. Because snake. She wrinkles her nose, nudges the dead body with her foot. "It tastes like shoe leather," she says.
"What, rat?"
"Mud snake!" Beth says.
Daryl shrugs. "Yup," he agrees. He turns back to the gathered twigs, his shoulders hunching as he strikes out again with his knife. He doesn't speak again until the spark has caught and he's carefully nurtured the flame, then sits back on his heels and regards her carefully. "You rather not eat, I'll take a double portion. Don't matter to me."
"I'm considering it," Beth says. They're no more than a day outside of base camp, a big ol' country farmhouse with high wooden fences. Not anywhere they can stay - not anywhere they can live for good - but secluded enough to hole up for a week or two and wait out this cold snap that's brought icy winds and more than a couple of inches of snow to their little corner of Georgia. If they get an early start and move quickly and don't run into any walkers - a lot of if's, she realizes - they'll make it back with their supplies to the big wooden house before sundown tomorrow.
"You pass out on the way back to camp 'cause you ain't eaten-"
"I wouldn't pass out!"
"-I ain't carryin' your sorry ass."
"Daryl," Beth says, grinning suddenly, "you carried me everywhere when all I had was a twisted ankle."
Daryl ducks his head. "Wasn't gonna do me no good if you took a header down the damn stairs," he says.
"Uh huh." She can still remember the strength of his arms around her, the steady beat of his heart against her ear when she laid her head against his chest. That memory kept her going during some of the dark times at Grady. "Come on," she says, shaking away the memory and jutting her chin toward the snake. "Skin that thing, and I'll help ya cook it. Last time you burned it. Maybe that's why it tasted like old shoes."
"Didn't burn nothin'," Daryl mutters, but he rises to get to work. "Nothin' wrong with plain ol' mud snake."
He's shed his jacket in the warmth of the cabin, just as she's dumped her sweater onto the lone, rickety chair. The muscles of his arms tense and flex as he works the skin loose from the snake, and it's only when he hesitates, looking over at her quizzically through the fall of his hair, that she jerks and realizes that she's been staring. She blinks and starts toward their stockpile of supplies. By the time he's done she's dug a pan out of their bag, and rummaged around in the supplies they spent the last two days foraging for. She comes up with a tiny container of garlic salt, and holds it aloft with a grin. When he merely stares at her, she grins. "Can't hurt."
In the end she slices the snake up into thin strips and garnishes it heavily with the salt, turning it regularly in the pan. Daryl sets back on his heels and lets her work, only shifting to adjust the pan or feed more sticks into the flames. Beth's feeling quite confident when she's done, and divvies it out onto their tin plates with a flourish.
She takes a delicate bite, and nearly gags.
Daryl smirks at her over his own mouthful. "Garlic flavoured shoe leather," he says. "My favourite."
She'd stick her tongue out at him, but she's too busy gulping down half a bottle of water. She settles for flipping him the bird.
Daryl huffs out a laugh. "Can't blame me for this one, Greene," he says.
She shudders, pushing away her plate with a grimace. "Who would have thought that garlic would make mud snake even more repulsive?" she asks.
He nudges the plate back toward her, gestures to it with his fork. "Best eat up anyway," he tells her. "Maybe I would carry your sorry ass if you passed out, but I sure as hell wouldn't like it."
Beth takes the plate back reluctantly, watches him over the fire. Apparently Daryl Dixon has no idea that the threat of being carried around by him is not exactly a deterrent to bad behaviour. She chews a piece of snake thoughtfully, and comes to a decision. "I liked it," she says.
"Huh?"
"Bein' carried around by you," she says softly.
She studies the worn floorboards, suddenly nervous. They haven't talked about what happened at the funeral home, not exactly. She'd told him about tripping and falling outside and hitting her head - and about how she'd come to the conclusion that the whole escapade was aided by the cops from Grady and the bump on her head wasn't from a rock after all, but from a well- placed whack with a billy club. He'd told her about searching for her for hours and hours, guilt dripping from his pores like sweat as he apologized for losing her, for failing.
But as for what went on in the funeral home before the walkers and the cops, before he was trapped with the bikers and she with Dawn and her cronies? She wanted to talk about it. She just didn't know where to start.
She raises her head to see Daryl watching her closely, and lifts a shoulder. "It's not exactly a hardship, you know," she says, "being taken care of by an attractive man. Knowing he has your back, no matter what."
He opens his mouth and Beth braces herself for his protest. She can almost see the words forming in his mouth - that he didn't take care of her, that he let her down, that he left her alone - but then he closes his mouth again and swallows the words down. He takes another bite of snake instead, and lifts his head to look toward the window. She follows his gaze to see that the snow has crystallized in the tiny cracks, turning the pane into a frosted rorschach test. She wonders what he sees in the blots and swirls.
She wants to say more - hopes he'll say anything at all - but he seems content just watching what little of the snow he can see past the frost. So she turns her attention back to her own rubbery snake, and is trying to decide whether her stomach will be able to handle another bite when he speaks.
"I liked your singing," he says.
Beth arches a brow, and can't help grinning over at him. "I know."
"Smug bitch," he says, laughing to take the sting out.
She laughs along with him, then makes a decision and shoves her plate away. "Another bite and you'll be carryin' me 'cause I can't walk for puking," she announces.
"Wuss," Daryl says, but she notices that he pushes his own plate aside as well. And when he notices her noticing, he grins sheepishly. "Does taste pretty shitty," he admits.
The remains of the snake get tossed in the fire, making the flames shimmer and pop. When Daryl retakes his seat on the floorboards he sits down next to her, holds his big hands out to the blaze. There is no sound other than the occasional snap of a branch in the fire. The snow outside seems to muffle the world, and Beth thinks that she might be content to spend her life here. With a warm fire and a good man.
"Maybe later, you could sing somethin'," Daryl says into the silence.
"Hmm, maybe. Maybe if you'll carry me to bed," Beth says flippantly back. Then she registers what she just said, and her eyes widen. She waves a hand frantically. "I didn't mean it like that!"
Daryl tips his head toward her, his eyes dark. "Oh?"
Oh. Maybe she did.
Kisses that taste like garlic shoe leather just might be her new favourite thing.
.