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Beth Greene had a good sense of need. Whenever someone needed a hug or comfort she would notice, even when others didn’t and she’d desperately want to comfort them, even if they’d rip her arm off for it.
But she was also easily crowded, as odd as it sounded she didn’t particularly like people touching her, even if she was fine with touching them. She preferred to reach out to others, rather than being sought out by them.
But with Daryl Dixon, she had a yearning for both. And ever since she’d killed Dawn and proved her strength, uncharacteristically Daryl was constantly touching her.
Whether it was a looped finger, a hand on her shoulder or a brush to her side, he was there, making sure she was real and okay.
And she loved it, how he’d let her trail her fingers through the rough, tanned skin of his forearm, tugging gently on the surprisingly blond hair dusting his arms. It was her favourite thing, a ritual she needed to complete before she went to bed each night in order to feel complete.
She never sat by Maggie when they camped out. If Maggie wanted to sit by her, than she had to seek her out, never the other way around. Beth wasn’t mad at her or anything, just didn’t want to feel that overbearing presence her sister always seemed to have. So she’d sit beside Daryl, who would stare at her over the fire, talking with his eyes if she didn’t. Telling her to come, without ever speaking.
She’d sit beside him on the ground, both arms looped around one of his large muscled and dirty arms, absentmindedly running her fingers over it. He seemed to like it, sometimes going as far as dropping his head to rest on hers. If no one was particularly watching (even though they all seemed too, entranced in the rare sight of a tamed Daryl), sometimes she’d turn her head, pressing a kiss to the scruff of his beard. He’d let out a sigh of contentment, sometimes rising to his feet and relieving someone on watch, or other times just burrowing in further as if she was a warm blanket. It would drive her crazy, sending bursts of happiness through her, and that was one of the ways she knew she was in love. A giddy yet slow love that made them both seem like desperate fools.
Then at night, if they were forced to sleep under the stars, they’d start off separate. Before, as if counting the beats to a well-planned dance, a thorough routine, they’d move in sync, reaching out and finding each other. Some nights they’d just huddle close, warm and solid beside each other. Those were the nights when they were exhausted and she’d drift into a heavy sleep, listening to his light snores like a lullaby.
Other nights if they weren’t as tired, or if there was just too much on their minds, she’d prop up against a tree and he’d let his head fall into her lap. Her fingers would run through his shaggy mane and he’d purr like a godforsaken cat. She’d scratch his beard, and he’d let out a little wheeze that filled her with glee. She’d giggle and he’d swat at her, a hint of a smile on his lips easily seen through the moonlight, fleeting to those who didn’t know him but meaningful to those who did. Eventually she’d slip down beside him and they’d share a passionate kiss. Slow and steady, yet full of pent up emotion, before they’d somehow, eventually, fall asleep.
And one day as Daryl was playing with her hair in an old warehouse where the group had decided to camp, Beth thought that even if the loss of the prison cost them security and of course, her dear old daddy, she’d got something irreplaceable and precious out of the rubble, something she wouldn’t trade for the world, despite all the loss that came with the discovery. No, she would never dream of changing the past, because how could she ever change it, when it had given her Daryl Dixon?