AN: I'm new to writing for TWD and I know this story isn't where it could be, and amounts to a lot of telling rather than showing, but, it doesn't get better if it doesn't get written :)

During S3 I came here looking for Beth/Daryl stories but there was only 1 (boy has that changed!) Beth was predominantly paired with Merle at that time, so I started writing this for myself. I started writing it before the end of S3, so it's not in sync with what happens in S4 (i.e. they haven't taken in people from the road, at least not as many — the prison population is pretty much Rick's survivors and the elderly and children taken in from Woodbury (Beth is alone in her age group — no Zach), and Rick and and Carl haven't taken such a time out.) Okay, enough preamble, hope you can find something in this to enjoy.

"Hey!" Daryl calls, "Michonne, Maggie! Le's go!" Daryl straddles his bike and waits for the others to get it together. They're making a run, through a couple houses back on some small farms up the highway some ways. For the third time Daryl checks his fuel tank and his arrow supply, then impatiently drums his fingers on his handlebar grips. Carl and Rick are already in the car, also waiting. Michonne appears with her katana in hand, and Maggie emerges from the cell blocks with Beth. Maggie kisses her sister's cheek and straps on her backpack.

"Be safe," Beth smiles at her. As Maggie nods and moves towards the vehicle, Beth's eyes trail over to Daryl. His eyes meet hers, and biting his lower lip he tugs at a string round his neck, on it's a stone guitar pick. He touches it, then looks away, letting it drop down, disappearing again beneath the collar of his shirt.

Behind the wheel Rick starts the car, and Daryl revs his engine. Glenn, Tyreese and Carol open the gate, and the group of runners head out.

Maggie follows directly beside him as Daryl takes the lead into the farmhouse. His bow is raised and at the ready, her gun is poised, and they walk steadily onward, taking slow deliberate, light footed steps into the house. Daryl signals her, she nods, and he kicks open the swinging door to the kitchen. When there's no telltale snarling or clamoring Maggie heads through, backed by Daryl.

"Clear!" Carl shouts from upstairs.

"Clear!" Michonne calls from the back of the house.

Maggie looks to Daryl, he nods and lowers his bow, swinging the strap onto his back as she yells their check-in, "Clear!"

The words said, their stances immediately relax, and Maggie brushes the hair back off her face while Daryl hitches up his pants. He points her to the overhead cabinets while he takes the walk-in pantry. "Pretty picked clean alre'dy," he observes, sticking is head into an almost empty coffee canister.

"Got some canned peas," Maggie says. "Only expired by..." she inspects the label, "by ten months."

"Take 'em." Daryl pulls down a pot and stands on it to swipe the upper shelves. "Booyah," he exclaims, "got us some Charlie Tuna!"

She turns back to him, "Really?"

"Six cans. Industrial. Dumb asses came b'fore us didn't know how to search. Got some corn meal too," he says with satisfaction. But when he looks inside the sack, his face crinkles in disappointment, "Worms've gotten to it."

"Take it," she says, "we'll figure it out later."

"Ain't bringin' no bugs back to the prison," he counters offhandedly. "Got e'nough already." Daryl isn't precious, he'll go months without showering, he'll eat grasshoppers or worse — and has — in the times when hunger really strikes hard, but as ill at ease he is with middle class mores, and as rugged a life he chooses to lead off of everyones else's beaten path, he is a creature who likes his comforts. Not one to be caged in he still knows the value of a good bed. Not above eating muskrats or mud snakes, he isn't keen on biscuits with worms. On some things he'd rather go without than compromise.

"Winter's comin'," Maggie's face scrunches in that farmer's-daughter's way it does when she makes a reasonable case for something. "We gotta take what we can."

"Whatever," he grunts an easy and dismissive concession. "It's goin' in your bag."

Maggie shakes her head in quiet amusement; the woodsman will stink of sweat and gore all day and never flinch, but sometimes he'll balk on principal. He'd make a meal of worms for the group if that's all there was between them and ruthless biting hunger, but he won't invite them in his pack if he doesn't feel like it. Recusant. The man is recusant, she thinks. And contrary, and unruly, and unpeggable. Impenetrable is what he is, even considering all the moments of genuine feeling, the openness he sometimes betrays; more so, a little, every coming week.

As they move on, through more cabinets, and more closets, Maggie can't keep her glance from moving sideways and landing on him. In her head she's working something out and she looks at him as he raids a junk drawer and then two remote controls for batteries. Daryl glances back over his shoulder at her, "Whut?" he barks. But Maggie only shakes her head and he turns back to the drawer, palming chewing gum, matches, and an ice pick. "Might as'well say it, you been looking at me funny all day. Gettin' sick of it." He looks back at her again, "Go on, say it."

Maggie looks at him, eyeing the archer over before she speaks, "That pick—" she says, and looks at where his shirt would be concealing it. Daryl looks at her and then down to his chest, though he can't see the thing she means. "That's Beth's. Her friend Christian gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday; he was teaching her to play."

Daryl blinks. Letting her do the talking, his countenance remains guarded. "So?" The look Maggie gives him tells him she's not going to explain herself any further — the implication is clear enough. If Beth had gifted it to him, there must be a reason, but Maggie can't recall ever seeing them especially spending time together; it is not like Beth to be secretive. In answer Daryl looks at her from beneath furrowed brows with goaded bravado, "Whutch'ya gettin' at?" Maggie says nothing more, and when she doesn't answer Daryl turns away from her, shrugging apathetically, "Ask her y'rself." He kicks open the door and passes through to the hall, shooting off for good measure, "Lotta chawin' 'bout a guitar pick." He walks off headed for the stairs, briskly passing by Carl as he does.

Carl, who'd been in the hallway just beyond the kitchen, overhearing what — though sparse — he wished had never been spoken, stands there, his eyes narrowing, silently watching Daryl's back descend down the hall.

Thank you for taking the time to read, I hope you stay with me; I definitely welcome concrit. Speaking of, is the writing dialogue in vernacular working or confusing? Can you already hear the twang in their voices? Is it unnecessary? Thank you!