Beth shrugged her guitar over her shoulder and turned for campus as her scuffed converse sneakers hit the pavement at equal intervals. It was damn cold already; late September in Boston had a chill when it wanted to. Today was supposed to be one of the special classes; she was a dual major at Berklee College of Music (Contemporary Writing/Production and Song Writing) and today they were working with a group of the master's program, specifically the Music in Performance candidates. This was a guinea-pig group as such a collaboration hadn't be done attempted in the history of the College. They were the test subjects. She checked her watch, picked up the pace and managed to slide into the only empty seat just before the clocked ticked its way into nine. Up at the front were two professors; one was the familiar face who was her own teacher and Beth tuned herself in as she unbundled herself as quietly as she could. Today found her in a casual gray chambray shirt that rolled up the sleeves with a small, military style collar and a deep v-neck. Some of the girls were still wearing shorts or skirts but compared to Georgia Boston was freezing; which is why she was also in skinny jeans, a black coat and a bright blue scarf. Then something her professor said caught her ear.

"For the rest of the year you will work with the person we pair you with. At the end of second term we expect a full, twelve-track album of your collaborative work. Any style, any genre, but you must write and perform every aspect of it yourself. You will not have any classes left for this course until the very last of the term, where you will hand in sixty copies of your CD with cover art to be sold as we see fit." The room had dropped into silence. "Doing the minimum will get you a C. If you sell copies on your own, or perform live, send us receipts and videos. The goal here is to learn to market yourselves. Master's candidates, you may consider this a source in your thesis. It has been cleared from the Dean." There was a quiet murmur from the left side of the room as the fifteen students going for a master's discussed this amongst themselves. They were the ones who had the least to gain with this project and there had been some dissent at the mention of this concept a few weeks ago. The professors seemed inclined to let them talk it out and Beth crossed one leg over the other as she looked at the mix of adults across the was a fairly even mix of men and women but there was one student who was sitting in the back corner and not getting involved in the talk of his peers. He seemed content to sit back and let them argue it out instead. He looked to be around late twenties with shaggy hair, bright blue eyes, and a black leather vest over an equally black t-shirt. She idly wondered what instrument he played. He didn't have one with him (that she could see) but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The group quieted and the professors at the front started to talk again. "Right then. We'll be listing pairs. Raise your hands so you can find each other and get to work, we'll see you at the end of the term." The list went on and on as people got up and left, and then... "Greene and Dixon!"

The man in the leather vest cocked his fingers up in the air before getting to his feet and locked eyes with her for a moment as he gathered his things and headed for the door. It took her a moment to get everything together and sling her guitar across her back before she could turn down towards the door where her new partner was waiting. On her way she noticed a glint in the corner where her partner had been sitting and she rerouted to go and find out what it was.

–

He would get stuck with the chippy little blonde girl. Daryl wasn't surprised she was nearly late. He was more surprised about the lack of a coffee cup in her hand since the phrase '15 minutes late with Starbucks' was at the forefront of his brain. He wasn't exactly against the collaborative initiative and he wasn't overly concerned about it either. He figured his classmates were making a whole big deal out of nothing, saying that the second years had no idea what they were doing. They'd gotten into Berklee which meant they had to be half-way decent; he just didn't want to be the only one doing the work. The tiny figure ambled over to him with a smile on her face and put out her hand, which he shook. It was her voice that surprised him. Less the voice than the accent. It was delicately southern and it reminded him of home with a sharp pang that ricocheted off the walls of his chest. Daryl forgot sometimes how much he missed Georgia until something pointed it out.

"Hey, I'm Greene. Beth Greene." Pale blonde hair, tiny with blue eyes that were forced to look up at him because he was towering over her.

"Daryl." He could see her face light up as she heard the twang in his own voice, softened by many, many years living as a yankee. Living far away smoothed his accent the way a river does a pebble. If she stayed here it would happen to her too.

"Where are you from, Daryl?" The handshake had been brief but strong and she turned towards the practice rooms. "C'mon, let's go sit down and talk." The rooms were empty this time of day and they managed to snag a particularly well equipped one, containing two lush-looking chairs and a piano. Daryl answered her a little reluctantly. "Georgia. Been here for a while, though. Noticed you got the twang yourself." The practice room was spacious enough for them to relax, roomy for one and comfortable for two. "What do you mostly play?" He watched, slightly amused, as the girl dumped both of her bags and the pile of excess clothing into the corner of the room and took her guitar out of the case. It was a beautiful piece but nothing special; he would have been amazed to find her with anything more than mid-range; you didn't get good stuff until you got...well, good. Daryl also watched her fingers pick at the strings of her guitar as she tuned it effortlessly by ear. If nothing else, that was a promising hint of what she could do. She had a delicate touch and it seemed as though her fingers were ghosting down across the strings and he was suddenly and violently assaulted by an image of what else those fingers were capable of. Down boy.

"Georgia myself." Of course, they would be from the same place, wouldn't they? "Daddy was a farmer but I've been in love with music since I could hear it, you know?" Beth's blue eyes were focused on the head of her guitar and not on him, giving him a chance to study her in depth for a moment or two. "He told me to give Berklee and Julliard a shot, Hopkins too. Deal was that if I could get in, he would pay for it. Julliard was in New York and I didn't really like it as much and Hopkins just didn't fit. Little too classical for me, really." Her fingertips had shifted from tuning to picking out a soft, idle sound. "It's different here, other side of the line and all. I do a little of everything, mostly guitar and piano." Daryl had to admit that even though she had only applied to three schools, they were some of the top conservatories in the country.

"You sing?" Daryl settled into the chair with his notebook and one ankle crossed over his knee as he started pressing pencil to paper in the beginning of a sketch. It was time to get an idea of where they stood in terms of skills. Beth gave him a glance; the first since she had sat down with her guitar. Had assumed that was a given about her? Usually singing and guitar went hand in hand.

"Yeah, I do. What about you?" She had always been quiet (some might argue mousey) but music was her calling and it filled her from the bottom of her soul. "I do a lot of country type stuff, surprise surprise, but sometimes I branch out and go a little more mainstream."

"About the same." Daryl's voice had a hint of a rasp to it but was pleasant to listen to. "Guitar, bass, singing. Decent 'nuff with a sax and I'm trying my hand at the cello." He mostly wrote a little of everything but the focus of his program was technically jazz. Going into Berklee he'd had only his guitar. But that was the beautiful thing about college; it broadened your abilities. He had proven a fairly quick learner and had rapidly expanded his repertoire. "Any idea of what you wanna do for this project?" He was surprised when her fingers went quiet and her head tilted a little. Daryl was alarmed to find his heart beat a little bit faster as a sly grin crossed her face as she held up his phone. "What? How the hell did you get that? Didn't nobody teach you to respect people's property?" The perky (pesky?) little blonde was scrolling through his phone. His music. And not only that, she picked the song, letting it play as she tossed it to him, ignoring his sound of indignation. He felt his fingers wrap around the solidity of his phone out of reflex. That would teach him to leave his phone without a passcode.

"Are you CRAZY, kid? You can't just throw shit around and expect people to catch it!" But then...he was distracted by what she had chosen. The Civil Wars, "To Whom It May Concern". Her fingers were somehow creating that damnably soft sound over the strings of the guitar, wrapping his head and soul in the fuzzy little chords that floated through the room. His ears and his brain made a connection with his heart and his lungs and he was singing because he knew the words by heart. Those fingers were wasted on a spruce guitar, he realized. They were meant for cedar; something soft and delicate that would amplify the quieter tones she seemed to favor. And then...he was lost in the music.

Singing with Beth was very nearly a transformative experience. Daryl's blue eyes were closed but if he had taken the time to open them he would have seen that her eyes were closed as well. She was playing by touch and feel and the subtle knowledge that only comes from years and years of practice. For her part Beth was terrified. She'd always had an innate ability to suppress the fear and sing and play with no hesitation and it was that which saved her now, from the first note to the last that lingered into silence. Both sets of blues locked onto each other at the same time; Beth's wide and anxious expression a sharp contrast to Daryl's hyper focus and intensity. Beth was caught. "I didn't take your phone, Daryl." She practically blurted it out before breaking their contact and dropping her eyes to stare at her sneakers. "You left it on your chair." Daryl's hand went immediately to his pocket. It must have fallen out when he stood up to leave the room. He reached out to brush fingers over her knee, to catch her attention again and ignored the urge to leave his hand resting on her knee. She was trying to ignore the tingling zing that had shot through her leg at his touch.

"Hey." Daryl's voice was quieter now and his hand was hovering above her knee. "Just give it to me next time, alright? I get a little weird about people touchin' my shit." Merle had had no respect of his boundaries and it made him paranoid as an adult. He'd never had a space where his brother wasn't and it had left him with a deep, fiercely burning anger and resentment for all that he loved his brother. His fingers dropped.

"Is that why you don't bring your guitar into class?" The touch of fingers against denim (and the damn tingle that came with them) brought her eyes back up to his. He nodded carefully as he settled back into the chair with her guitar, their positions reversed. Now he was the one strumming aimlessly as he tried to think of something that wasn't associated with Merle. A heavy silence feel between them and the difference between their musical styles became apparent. He preferred bold chords and and heavier sound.

"Part of it. It's a lot of theory at our level, a lot of writing. A little less practical. I live close 'nuff that I just leave my shit at home. Don't have to worry about booking a practice room, neither." Broad shoulders shrugged under leather as his fingers moved down the strings. "Roommate's never home; he's a cop. Neighbors don't seem to mind yet." He could see her swinging her sneakered feet under the piano bench; you can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of the girl. "You could say my brother had issues with the concept of ownership. Ended up hiding the damn guitar behind my rifle case, under my bed."

She cocked her head at him as she tried not to smile. "Not something I ever thought I'd hear again in casual conversation. Guns, I mean." She had to clarify at the vaguely confused expression on his face. "People here have a different attitude towards them, you know? Daddy had a few but I never learned to shoot. Mom always said it would be when I 'got older' and I just stopped askin'. I never needed to know."

Daryl glanced at her briefly before putting his focus back on the way the strings were being plucked from under his fingers, the way the vibrations moved up his hand and the motion of his fingertips that felt deep in his bones as they moved from chord to chord. "I can teach you. It's something every self-respecting southern woman should know how to do. Rick brings me by the range all the time." He cleared his throat a little. "If you want. I figure we need to start spending some time together outside of music, get a feel for each other." His fingers missed the strings for the first time in years and the harsh, wrong-sounding note lashed out between them. "I didn't...I don't..." Daryl was flaming up to his ears. Jesus Christ! She was a kid. "I think this whole project'll work better if we're...friends." She was a practically a child...but Beth didn't sound like a kid or act like a kid. Maybe she was a little immature but she was a raised in a small town and she was young; some of that just couldn't be helped. But man, would he like to get a feel of that. He realized he was staring at the spot of skin shown on her chest; not quite cleavage but low enough to supply his brain with the missing information. Daryl tore his eyes away and let his fingers pick the rhythm back up. "How old are you anyway?"

"Nineteen." A young nineteen at that, but she would leave that out of conversation for now considering how his fingers slipped and the guitar cut off short with a harsh jangle for the second time in the span of a few minutes. "Do I even wanna know how old you are?"

"Twenty-seven."

Well, shit. So much for that; as if any man of his caliber would ever be interested in a teenage girl like her. He was, however, also right. The closer they were the better their music would be. It was with that in mind that she chose to accept his invitation to the shooting range with his roommate. "Teach me." She paused and once again their positions were reversed. He was caught in those big blue eyes that were framed by thick lashes and pale honey-wheat tendrils that had escaped from the hold of the ponytail. "How to shoot, I mean. I'd like to know." Daryl cleared his throat again before speaking and breaking their stare.

"Sure. You free this weekend?"

"Maggie!" Beth's shriek was cut off by a pillow as she buried her face in it. "C'mon, Mags. He's like...old. Daddy would kill me." Her sister grinned at her from the end of the bed, lighting up the room with the screen. "Besides, we have to work together for a whole year."

"But he's cute, right?" Maggie was looking at her pixelated little sister over a cup of coffee and a bagel. "You really don't have much to lose. I'm not sayin' you should chase after him, mind. Not obviously. Not yet. That's the last thing you should do. Trust me on this. He's thinkin' about it even if he don't want you to know. You gotta be smooth. This is a long-range game, Beth. Just hang out. Get him to open up. Get yourself a solid workin' relationship and go from there. I think he might be good for you. Smart, musical, southern." She sighed as she heard a call from the porch. "Listen, Beth, I gotta go. Just go hang out with him. Don't get all spiffy. Cute but super casual, kay? Call me tonight if you want. Just go for it."

"Alright, Maggie. Love you." Beth touched the screen closed with a heavy sigh. She missed her sister.

The next time Daryl saw Beth was outside of her dorm where he'd come to get her. She was dressed practically for the weather and the activity. Black skinny jeans and sturdy brown boots led up to a very over-sized sweatshirt with East Coweta written across the chest in purple with a screen print of a profile of a Native American. She also worse floppy, ivory-colored knit hat that contained her mess of blonde hair and a bright purple scarf. Beth waved enthusiastically at him as she spied him from down the block and practically skipped towards him. Daryl grumpily thrust out a cup of coffee at her and looked at her from under his bangs. "See you're a morning person." It was bright and early at eight in the morning on a Saturday; Daryl was still hungover from the night before. At least he didn't smell like a bar anymore; he'd gotten first shower since he had to get the girl. Rick was in the water now and Daryl had started the coffee for him before he'd left. There was no such thing as too much coffee. Her chipper response was already grating on him; he'd only had one cup so far this morning which was far less than the three cups he usually required to be functional.

"I see you aren't. Maggie, my sister, still works on the farm with Daddy so we Skype before she needs to go do most of her chores." Beth missed Maggie with every fiber of her being. They were sisters; they bickered and warred with each other but Maggie had also gotten her through her first heart-break, her first hang-over, and the consequences the first time she ever snuck out and gotten caught. Maggie had gotten her drunk the first time so she knew what would make her sick and how much she could take. Maggie had held her hair as she thrown up and also given her her first pull of a joint. Maggie had taught her about sex and being smart about it, had given her a box of condoms to take to school. Maggie and Beth were a team, sisters, and friends, always and forever. Of course they'd talked about Daryl and Maggie had told her to "go for it" before hanging up. She took the cup with a brief touch of sadness before it vanished back into her chipper exterior . "So where exactly are we going?"

He hadn't missed the shadow across her face and it made him a little uncomfortable to think she might be hiding something. For some reason he didn't want her to be sad. Daryl scrubbed the back of his hand across his wet hair as he turned on his heel and pointed back the way he came. "Back to my apartment to pick up Rick and the truck. We're going to the bay, a place called Moon Island. S'where the range is." It was a little chilly to be walking around with wet hair and a t-shirt but somehow the man was comfortable in just that. A grey t-shirt and a flannel shirt under his vest, and a pair of jeans and a pair of boots. "Ain't far, a few blocks maybe." He caught a hint of a blush creeping up her face, which she tried to hide with small little sips of the dark caffeinated beverage in her hands. Daryl hid a twitch of a smile. He was making her uncomfortable. Good. Last night, during a very drunken heart-to-heart with Rick he'd gotten some shit sorted out.

Rick and Daryl were drunk again and hanging out just the two of them. Rick had had a hard shift and really just needed to focus on somebody else's problems for a change and Daryl had been more than willing to oblige him. It had been weird; the two of them had been loners from the start, introduced by a mutual acquaintance. Rick had been trying to get over the death of his partner who had been shot in the line of duty and he needed a roommate to make rent. Daryl had been struggling out of his truck for two months just shy of his nineteenth birthday. They'd be living together for eight years and had eventually become friends. Rick's nightmares were bad enough to rival Daryl's. Their friendship had grown and Rick was the only person Daryl ever confided in. "It's rough, man. You'll see what I mean. She's cute, in a pixie kinda way. But she's a kid. She's still technically a teenager." He passed over the bottle of whiskey with a shrug and a headshake, raising his voice over the music in the background. "But God can she sing. I need to hear her on the right guitar. That piece of crap she's playin' ain't doin' her any favors."

His roommate took the bottle and shifted slightly on the armchair. "C'mon, Daryl. You like her. At a least a little bit. You practically smiled. She's also not that much of a kid. Old enough to be here, sure enough." Rick's face was covered in rough, dark stubble that caught the shadows as he took another few swigs from the bottle and passed it back.

Daryl shrugged again. "I think I could. She's not really my type, but she's got..." He flicked his fingers in the air briefly. "Spark, I guess. Somethin'. Makes me wonder what she's hidin', what she's really like."

"Look." Rick waved the bottle, pointing at his friend with the bottom of it. Daryl took the opportunity to grab it for himself; they'd given up on glasses a long time ago. "If she got you this twisted up after a day you got a long year ahead of you. Just take it one day at a time. Friendzone her if you gotta but this your future. You need her."

It was a bitter pill to swallow. He did need her.

Beth took the stairs to the walk-up a second behind her guide and tried to ignore the little hitch in her breath. She clearly needed to start running again. A third floor walk-up shouldn't be giving her this kind of trouble. "RICK!" Daryl bellowed his friend's name and thumped loudly on the door to their apartment to give him time to get decent before he let himself and Beth in. Their apartment was a third floor, north facing, two bedroom place with a living room and a very small kitchen and what looked like an even smaller bathroom. It was mostly clean and organized with the exception of a stack of magazines on the coffee table and a few beer bottles along with an empty bottle of whiskey. The room itself had movie posters on the walls and windows that let in the sun right over a table and chairs. There was a dark brown couch and an armchair that didn't match. Then a man walked out of the bathroom. A tall, muscled, very naked man. Beth turned scarlet and whirled around, too shocked to even say a word. Daryl reached for one of the bottles and threw it at him with a snarl that didn't mask the tocking sound the glass made as it bounced off the wall. "You did that on purpose you sonofabitch. Go put some fucking clothes on." Rick threw him a laugh before vanishing into his room. A brief moment of foresight had him digging through his phone to hit the silence button half a second before the buzz was felt against his leg.

Well, we know she isn't gay.

"I'm...really sorry about him. He's not usually that naked. Or obnoxious." He clicked the screen to darkness as there was a muffled shout from the bedroom that sounded suspiciously like "it's my badge getting you in today!" Daryl rolled his eyes and sprawled out on the couch, coffee cup in hand, gesturing for the girl to have a seat. "Pick a place, Beth. We're at his mercy now. I still can't believe your pa didn't teach you to shoot."

Beth, for her part, had taken a seat on the very edge of the armchair with her elbows perched on her knees. Sitting fully back in the chair would have felt like an invasion; she wasn't that comfortable here. "Maggie promised to teach me to make up for it but it's just so busy when I go back. So much to do, y'know? Part of it is that I'm the youngest, I think . Dad was always pretty insistent on what he considered 'age appropriate' stuff." She rolled her eyes before the door cracked open and Rick was there in the door fully dressed. He crossed the room and held his hand out to the little blonde.

"I'm Rick. Nice to meet you. Beth, was it?" Her shake was firm and solid for coming from such a tiny hand. "C'mon, let's get going. The range might not be crowded, it's looking overcast." They weren't technically allowed in but the legacy of Shane Walsh, Rick's former partner, lived deep in the heart of the Boston police. Rick could do no wrong. He went for the door and Daryl was on his feet and following him out into the hall and held the door for Beth as she went by him. It was time to head to the range.