(notes) stay strong, beth greene fans. stay strong.

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i.

Beth knows she kept the scissors for a reason.

Its presence is a cool touch against the skin of her arm. The point digs into her skin a little but she likes it; it keeps her alert, reminds her not to get comfortable. It's what she needs, given the situation.

When Dawn comes into Carol's room, Beth is sitting on the edge of the bed with Carol's hand in hers. Beth notices the urgency. Dawn says something about Rick Grimes, but her voice is hard again, nothing like the softness which she speaks about Hanson or her personal life with. Beth recognizes it; it's a challenge of authority, it's Dawn's self-confidence crumbling. It's more alarming than Rick's name in itself, and it has Beth on edge.

It's a bad sign, so Beth keeps her guard up.

Her grip on Carol's wheelchair is a formality at most—the woman seems mostly functional, the miracle that is. Carol shoots her a worrisome glance, and Beth smiles out of assurance, following Dawn's orders step by step.

And God—when she sees her family, it takes every bone in her body not to react. Dawn's grip on her arm is tight and bruising, but she does not resist, because this is the time to follow rules.

Or at least it should be, until Dawn ruins it all with Noah's name.

In that moment, Beth sees red. She's never been so angry before, never felt such contempt and rage seep through her bones. It's ungodly, and it's sinful, but Beth is beyond societal and religious correctness now. Beth is done with the rules, done with this blind faith and trust. Beth makes a decision.

Beth slides the scissors out of her cast. "I get it now," she says. Beth stabs Dawn, and for a split second, she expects death.

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ii.

Except it doesn't come, because Beth is smart, and she knows Dawn better than Dawn knows her. Her free hand pins Dawn's gun down against her hip, and the reflexive gunfire skims Beth's leg through her jeans, but she doesn't focus on the pain. The scissors embed into Dawn's skin, right in the hollow of her throat, and Dawn looks betrayed. Surprised. Horrified. There is blood in her mouth and her teeth are tainted red and the hand Beth is clasping goes loose and Dawn falls to her knees, bleeding out in the floor of a place that is supposed to prevent death, not cause it.

And again, she expects death because of the click of guns around her, but the cops prove her wrong. "We just wanted her gone," the woman gasps frantically. "You can stay, you can go—"

"We'll go," Beth says, blooding spattering her face and her hair and her sweater. She is a warrior and survivor in that moment, battle wounds and all. "We're going."

Beth leaves and her family follows behind her, Daryl's hand warm on her back.

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iii.

Beth also does not expect her sister to be in the courtyard, waiting for her.

It's almost like a scene from those old movies that her and her momma used to curl up on the couch and watch on Friday nights, hot tea and fresh-baked sweets on a platter between them. Maggie runs, pumps her legs with tears on her face and a grin that would put the sun to shame. She screams her name loud and fierce like the lion she is, stumbling and shaking, and Beth catches her, sinking to the ground. They are surrounded by dead walkers and there's a wound on Beth's leg, but everything about this reunion is idyllic, and Beth wouldn't trade it for the world.

"Oh, Beth," Maggie cries. The blood on Beth's face smears under Maggie's loving touch, her fingers brushing across her scars, through her baby hair, around her jaw and her lips. Beth is rigid with shock and glee, and her fingers put slight pressure on Maggie's forearms as her sister checks her, looking across her body towards the bloody stain on Beth's pants.

Maggie breathes, "You're hurt." The wound was slight, the bullet skimming her skin and hitting the floor. Beth is proud of it.

"It's nothing," Beth whispers. "I'll be okay."

Her sister laughs and kisses her forehead. "Damn right," her voice is shaky but earnest. "Us Greene girls always come out okay."

And Beth swears, if her daddy was listening, he'd echo Maggie's words.

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iv.

Beth sits in the back of the van, Maggie to her left, and Daryl to her right.

There's something about this moment that makes Beth wish Glenn still had his polaroid camera. She wants to remember this occasion, wants to see what it looks like—a glowing, strong woman, a dirty and gruff man, and a slight blonde girl with scars, blood, and bruises all over her body in between. She's sure it's a beautiful sight.

Maggie's head is tucked into the crook of Beth's neck. Beth understands that this is what Maggie needs right now. It's never been like this—where Beth is giving the comfort, where Maggie is the one curled up in to Beth's body instead of the opposite. Maggie clutches Beth's left arm and holds her close, content with her half of Beth's body.

Beth turns her head towards Daryl, not quite looking up at him, but she can see the whiskers on his chin in her peripheral. Sees him turn his head a little towards her, his lips thin and curved at the edges. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what's appropriate for this moment. She can't think about anything other than Maggie on her shoulder, Daryl's knees touching hers, Daryl looking at her in the dim candlelight with this look on his face.

Beth opens her mouth to speak, but Daryl interrupts her. "I'm sorry," he says, voice quiet and rumbling in the racket of the van. He sounds so sad, so defeated and guilty that it strikes Beth's heartstrings, makes her body hurt for this man who has the world on his shoulders because of his own individual conception of duty and responsibility. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and he breaks on the last syllable, recovering with a small gasp and a deep, solid breath.

She looks at him then, and their eyes meet. Daryl is vulnerable and Beth notices it. His eyes flicker to her cheek, and he hesitantly brings his hand up, tracing the scar on her cheek first, then focusing his gaze on the one across her forehead. The bruising is still there, so Beth's sure she's a pretty sight, yellow and blue and bloody, little Beth Greene stitched back up.

"Nothin' to apologize for," Beth replies. She knows he won't accept it.

"Nah." His eyes drop to her shoulder, as if to escape her own gaze. "There's somethin'."

Beth quirks her lips and brings her hand up to rest on top of the one across his knee. His palm twitches beneath her hand, warm and calloused but familiar nonetheless. He spreads his fingers apart so hers can slip through his, and it's like the funeral home all over again.

"Nothin' to forgive, then." Her voice is soft, insistent.

Daryl hums, squeezing her fingers tighter between his. His voice is weak but sincere when he says, "Yer somethin' else, Greene."

Beth supposes she is.

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v.

It's Judith that makes her cry.

The group stops at Father Gabriel's church to gather their belongings and settle for a moment, all but rushing out of Atlanta while they had the chance. Beth's heart finally returns to a normal pace when she climbs out of the van, trees around her and fresh forest air attacking her senses. Maggie Is latched to her side and Daryl is ever-present behind her, but her eyes are on Michonne and the baby in her arms.

Michonne notices, and her wide smile grows as Beth cautiously approaches. "I think she missed ya."

Beth smiles a little, her hands coming up to reach for the baby—but, she stops. Michonne is halfway handing Judith to her when her brows furrow in confusion, Judy lingering between them, reaching for Beth's ponytail.

Beth's hands are bloody. It's under her nails, dried into the creases on her knuckles and her palm. It's Dawn, who haunts her even in her death, a lingering and persistent presence in Beth's conscious. And suddenly, Beth is horrified, because her hands are tainted and covered in death and murder, and she almost touched Judith. She looks at her hands in front of her, Michonne and Maggie and Daryl watching, and she feels her spine stiffen.

Daryl moves first, stepping forward and un-shouldering his pack. There's water and a rag inside, and he quietly soaks it before taking her hands in his and cleaning them. It's intimate, and it's personal, and Beth feels this invisible thread between them tighten as he scrubs at the grooves of her skin. He cleans up her sin and replaces it with his affection, and Beth thinks she feels a movement beneath her flesh—in her bones—from the way he holds her, and she knows that this man has feelings for her deeper and more rooted than the earth itself, and maybe she feels the same. Her eyes are locked onto his bigger and tanner hands wrapping around and through hers, weaving in and out of the spaces between her fingers, repairing what is broken, what is tarnished.

When she is clean and Daryl looks at her with finality, Beth holds Judith. The child is a familiar and comfortable weight against her hip, and the emotion of it all is too much. Even little Beth Greene has been exposed to the horror that this world brings, but Judith is pure and clean and protected. Beth is shaken by the juxtaposition of this moment, of the difference between the Beth Greene that last held Judith and the one that holds her now.

The tears come with a strangled sob, and she holds Judith to her chest. Maggie touches her arm, holds her close. She is halfway conscious of the way Daryl's fingers brush against her shoulder blade, as if he wanted to touch her but he wasn't quite committed to the action yet.

In this moment, Beth knows it'll be okay. She's made it; she's survived.

There's nothing left to do now but live.

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