Walking Dead let sleeping dogs lie

**notes **crossposted from ao3

**music **Attaboy - Yo-Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer, Chris Thile And Stuart Duncan (from _The Goat Rodeo Sessions_)

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**let sleeping dogs lie**

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The house was solemn in its silence. He leaned back on his heels to peer at her face carefully with only the moon and a single tea candle burning to light her up, breaths narrowly slipping from between his lips. Her head lolled back on the pillow as a tiny whimper escaped from her mouth with a line appearing in the middle of her brow, and Daryl wondered for a fleeting moment if he should smooth the wrinkle out. His thumb brushed his other fingertips in contemplation and felt the rough calluses catch. That wouldn't do. Wouldn't uncrease a thing. He'd just wake her up and probably scare her, leaning so close and touching her face without permission, looming like a fucking pervert.

Daryl heaved a sigh. He took a look outside the window, glancing at a pair of walkers shuffling between the gravestones. They were no trouble. Only a simple threat by the amount of decay he could observe in the moonlight. The dog whined at the foot of the bed and Daryl backed away from the curtains.

Moving with silent steps, the bed groaned beneath his weight as he settled against the cream cotton comforter, pillows resting half a foot above his head, knees bent off the edge, and his boots firmly planted on the hardwood floor. His crossbow leaned within arms reach against the bedside table and his on his other side, Beth's shoulder rested in line with his eyes. Turning his head and flicking his eyes upwards, he watched for the faint pulse throbbing beneath the thin, vulnerable skin of her neck. In the dimness, he was unable to spot it, but he could hear the steady rhythm of her breathing. His gaze wandered south, trailing the grimy leather cord of her necklace, watching the movement of her chest's rise and fall. Daryl watched until his own breathing matched hers, watched until the dog snorted noisily in its sleep.

Daryl felt the ghost of a wry grin pass his lips. It grew from the calm of the day.

The dog had come to them at breakfast, a mangy flea bag with one eye and a chewed up tail. He'd brought it in, helped lure it into the kitchen with finger's smelling of jelly, and almost immediately the dog set its sights on Beth. Dog had scrambled across the linoleum floors to nosey on up to her lap, licking at her open palms as she laughingly greeted their new friend. Daryl couldn't say he blamed the mutt. The vision of sweet Beth Greene in the apocalypse certainly held an appeal. Dog probably sensed her good soul miles out and that's what led it to them.

Daryl joined into the love-fest, grabbed onto the animal's neck and gave it a good rub before getting smacked in the face _hard_ by its whipping tail. Beth had giggled at that. Giggled until he had glared and then she full on hooted, but his embarrassment couldn't last long when he saw the tiny pricks of tears in her eyes, her smiles so wide it hurt his own lips.

"Daryl—"she began, but her own bubbling joyous laughter swallowed it up, and he cautiously took the liberty to fill the space behind his name with: -_I'm so happy_.

At least, that's what he hoped she was about to say because, fuck, if that wasn't the strange sort of emotion he was maybe feeling at that moment. A happiness, imperfect, but present and alive.

So Daryl had said, "Gonna get us full of fleas is what he is."

His words had no effect on the Beth's lightness. She'd instead pursed her lips and took a look around the whitewashed kitchen. "I could probably whip up a homemade flea bath for him. Two of us could probably use it too, you know. It's been weeks since I've had a good bath," she finished wistfully.

The dog's attention was finally focused on him as Beth limped out of her chair and started searching through cabinets once more. Its cold wet nose pressed on the underside of Daryl's jaw as its tongue darted out to lick up the sweat stained on his skin. Daryl reached up and gently pressed its muzzle shut and drew the dog's head up where he could lay a slight kiss on its brow above the missing eye. He could hear the steady thump of its tail on the floor. "Unstuck the old well pump in the back before you woke. Could probably draw you up a small bath, no trouble."

"That'd be wonderful. When I checked out the bathroom yesterday I saw that the owner used horse shampoo. Probably had to take whatever he or she could when they went on a run, but it'll work well enough for us and the dog. And lookit here! Exactly what we need!" Beth smiled holding up a large bottle of apple cider vinegar from beneath the sink.

"Y'didn't ask if we were gonna keep it."

She huffed at that whilst rolling her eyes at him. "Don't need to ask. We are."

A small warmth lit its way through his chest at her decisiveness and he wondered for umpteenth time how in the world this girl had gone so long beneath everyone's radar, beneath his own with barely even a blip.

"Alright," he told her and that was that.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that they had the leisure time to fill a bath. There'd been a minute fear at the beginning that the dog would wander off once the novelty of kind human contact and a little meal of pigs feet wore off, but it'd taken to Beth and Daryl something fierce. Especially Beth. With her bum ankle she frequently took rests and there'd the dog settle, right at her feet, eye alert and on watch. Daryl felt a bit of relief with that dog hanging around Beth, but flushed hard when he'd seen the two of them laying out on the porch when he'd come back from setting traps.

There was a scrap of familiarity in the picture the two made: Beth with her halo of yellow hair, framing her face like frizzed sunshine, blue eyes large and growing even more composed as the days stretched on. Then the dog, an ugly sonuvabitch, a funny looking hound that growled when the leaves in the tree tops at the back of the house whispered in the wind and gnawed at his paw when they were quiet.

Might have wondered if that's the odd image he and Beth made together, yeah, Daryl did, and his face turned hot when he caught himself chewing on the idea.

Ignoring the thoughts, he hauled in chilly ground water into the first floor bathroom as instructed. When they'd first arrived they had expected the plumbing to work because of the well source on the property, much like the Greene's farm, but the old pipes in the wall just made a lot of noise and heaved, and Daryl put fixing it up on his 'to do' list before scoffing—wasn't like they were going to stay in this one place long enough. Mildew grew on the curtain and beneath the faucets, but other than that the space was clean. Once half filled, Beth had dragged the dog over by the front longs, tail wagging all along like it was a game.

"Come on, honey, let's just get you cleaned up," Beth gritted out between clenched teeth. She worked up a sweat and he watched from the doorway with a slim smile. "You're just gonna watch me struggle, aren't you?" she glared.

"Yup," he drawled and gave her wave, making to leave, "it's your idea, your damn problem. I'mma make sure this house is boarded up as good as can be."

"Fine!" she huffed. Her breath blew flyways from her forehead and the dog rolled over on its back with a yip. "But I'm blaming you when this ankle is worse then before."

He rolled his eyes then over her the damn drama in voice, secretly pleased to be an annoyance all the same. He told her, "Fine! Quit yer nagging," and towed the dog into the claw-foot tub. Turned to her and gave her look like, _See, wasn't so hard!_, but then she'd got a smile like a quarter moon on her face, bright and secretive. Daryl chuffed at her, trying to ignore the twisting of his insides, and dipped out.

Beth yelled after him, "Thank you, Mr. Dixon!"

Her words landed on his shoulders and smarted like sunburn.

Outside the air was clear. Humidity stayed off the land signaling the change in season. This was the way the world works now. Time belonged not to man, but to the earth and Nature. The way She changed and the rest of the living—and now the dead—just follow along like fish hooked on line, trailing after the sun as it sets and rises, sets and rises, sets and hope to God the rock keeps spinning long enough to see another tomorrow. Daryl appreciated this part of the apocalypse. He was ashamed there was even something to like about the fucked up way they live, but if he spoke honest with himself he understood that there's so much more for him _now_ than there ever _was_.

The frank words the prison folk used to spare for him always spoke of his strength, his skill, his brain, and the way he folded into the woods like an animal himself.

Yeah, the silence of the after made sense to Daryl, made sense that they're all ensnared by same science and religion that moves the ants and tells the trees when to turn the moody colors and shake it all off.

Daryl surveyed the property, eyes skimmed over gravestones, caught his breath before beginning to nail boards he'd torn from the old shed onto the weak spots he'd found at the windows, ripping out old planks and putting up new the way he liked it.

It isn't before long that he'd stood at the glass that looked into the bath. It was high up, probably out of reach for walkers, but Daryl climbed onto a rickety old ladder anyway. Better to be safe then sorry when something other than geeks comes along, especially when Beth's singing the way she does. He heard the soft crooning coming down from the window sill and washed the _tense_, vertebrae by vertebrae, from his spine.

At the top he could peer in. He saw the yellow of her, hair and bloody polo, hunched over the dog's back as the fingers he couldn't see raked through the tangled wet fur and rubbed ribs and belly; dog's face turned up with eyes closed like a damn lamb or something. Daryl felt mirth, felt like once again he could relate to the mutt, and then set about his task as if he hadn't seen a thing.

The hours passed quickly. By early evening, sunset still casting colors across the sky, the funeral home was fortified best it could be done. Despite the cool air, Daryl found himself soaked with sweat and streaked, as always, with dirt. He wondered for a minute whether he should just toss his head beneath the spout and be done with it, but naturally thought about Beth and how she might enjoy more than an outdoor splash of water to clean up.

"Whatcha doin'?" Beth called to him.

He looked up, heavy water bucket in hand, and saw her form against the front door. "Gettin' ya clean."

There was a moment where he thought he might have seen something unfamiliar pass her eyes as her cheeks tinged pink. When she glanced back up at him whatever it was was gone. "Never thought I'd be filthy enough that Daryl Dixon would have to tell me to take a bath."

"You were the one talkin' 'bout us washing up. _Good baths_," he quoted before pausing. Eyebrow quirked, he said, "You saying I'm dirty?"

Grinning, Beth gave him a slow once over that made him uneasy and eager all at once. "You really want me to answer that? I've never lied to you before."

"I think I've been workin' too damn hard all day long to hear this shit," he growled with no malice behind it and knew Beth could sense that.

Her eyelashes fluttered like dark butterfly wings as she clutched at her heart, murmuring mockingly, "My hero."

"What you say to me?" Daryl took a heavy step forward, water sloshing out onto the floor, and she pressed herself tighter against the door, a heavier flush running down her neck. It was like a game Daryl didn't even know he started playing, couldn't even remember the rules of, the way her eyes lifted towards his with a mischievous glint, the way her mouth never ceased its stretch upwards, the way his fingers and a patch of his chest itched and thrummed. Daryl didn't know what he was doing, only that it was making her pleased and him glad and he liked this way they fell into one another here at peace.

"My _hero_," and her tease sort of fell away as her lips formed the _o_ sound.

They stared at each for an uncomfortable moment before she made to grab the handle from his hand. He stopped her and gently pushed her to the side, "Stop. I got this."

"I wanna help." There was a slight plead in her voice, something he's come to recognize as her really, really _wanting,_ like from a place deep inside and honest.

"You're hurtin'," he muttered because it was true, "can't ask a cripple to do this shit."

Beth made a furious noise at the back of her throat that sounds so girlishly petulant it almost makes him smile. "Is that how you used to speak to my daddy?"

It felt like his skin turned to ice. Daryl recalled Hershel. He could remember the way the man never wanted to sit for long, complaining about how his foot fell asleep, the one that was not even there, just a ghost of a limb that used to never rest when there was good hard work to be done.

"Daryl, I—I just don't wanna be weak. And I don't want you to see me as _weak_," Beth said unable to look him in the eye. Her head lolled back and up against the door, baring her filthy, lily white throat to him. "I gotta…do more for you, be more for you."

Her voice dropped down to a whisper and he unconsciously craned his head forward to listen, "_I have to keep you living, Daryl Dixon_."

The words slammed into his chest and he felt an acute pain _there_, right there where Beth said they had to keep themselves safe. Daryl didn't feel safe at all. He felt hunted and lost and yearning like one mutated emotion scraping at the inside of his skin. His heartbeat picked up and he became deafeningly aware of her ragged breathing, her chest heaving off-rhythm, and saw the tiny clean slices her tears made across the tops of her ruddy cheeks into her hair. Her small body, tethered together by lean muscle and hope, felt so keenly alive next to his, so powerful and strong.

It wasn't until her eyes caught with his that everything, in a sudden moment, felt calm. Beth Greene wanted to keep him_ living_—not just simply alive or safe—but goddamn _living_. Muscles relaxing, fingers unclenching, heart still beating like a rabbit's, Daryl kept her stare glued to his, feeling the anxiousness drain out of him.

Opening his chalky lips, he hoped more than a husky breath would pass through, "Y' dad would be proud of you. Now. I reckon always was. But, Beth…you _now_."

Her eyes watering and bottom lip tucked into her teeth, Daryl wished to tell her more than what his meager words could, about how the world was now, about how she too was made for it—Nature, still holding control—because he saw the way she moved through the woods, among the animals, against the dead, and with him. Her gentleness, her fucking _good_, was not weakness. Could never be. Would never let it be. He wanted Beth _to keep living_ as well, let her have all the little joys she continued to find and tuck into her heart like moonshine to a fire.

Gaze still unbroken, Beth nodded her head as if his uncouth answer was enough to send her speechless and choked up, like she understood the unspoken more. Her hands rose up to his face and he felt just her fingertips against his jaw, one single digit running down across his scruff to his chin and swinging up to press across his brow before unhanding him. Using his vest as an anchor, she grabbed hold and yanked herself straight, sniffing and breaking into a small smile. Daryl didn't mean to, but he slid his thumb against the stain of her tears.

The sun was gone, and the dog whined from the foyer, and Beth slipped away from him.

"Baths tomorrow?" she suggested quietly.

He nodded and tossed the water over the porch rail while Beth strung up the defense line, cans and metal scrap clanking.

"What's for dinner?" he asked feeling clean anyway, on the inside, just like he did after the shack full of booze.

Turning towards him, Beth answered sassy-like, but voice still slightly breaking, "Whatever the hell I make you."

"So you're makin' me dinner now?"

"Mhm," she grinned. "Lemme just find my apron."

"Really know how to treat a man, Greene. Never had no woman cook me a meal in a fuckin' apron before."

"Outside a diner, you mean."

Daryl huffed a laugh and motioned to the door. She led them inside and let him lock it up tight. He said, "Yep."

They both fumbled for a few moments, trying to find their matches and lighting candles in the dark, but it was instinctual by now, getting light and keeping it alive.

"Daryl," she said while limping into the kitchen. He grunted in response and watched to make sure the dog didn't trip her up in his full-body wagging joy Beth was back inside. "I'm glad we found this place."

He felt the same, down, down deep in his belly. There was something about the house, something about their time there, something that made him want to stay just a little longer. He didn't say anything, but glanced her way. She saw him, maybe spotted his agreement in his face, hopefully.

"Now how 'bout pig's feet and jelly?" Beth said undeterred by his silence.

Shrugging, Daryl replied, "Sounds good," and Beth beamed. Sounded real good.

It was early in the morning, black and still dangerous outside, when he woke up on the floor beside the bed in the master bedroom. Beth's hand hung off the side, blending against the pale pinks and creams of the comforter.

He rose and looked out the window, then looked over at her, looked out the window at the walkers he could wait to kill until tomorrow, and then looked back at Beth.

They were taking baths tomorrow. They were getting clean. They were going to keep on fuckin' living.

He'd tell her to name the mutt tomorrow.

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**end notes **hmm

i know my tenses are all sorts of fucked up but i'm just sort of throwing this out there because thinking about the house and the dog and what coulda been makes me so sad :'(

thank you for reading!


End file.

Walking Dead, Romance