A/N: ZA AU - tales from Alexandria. Title taken from the song Medicine by Daughter. They'll be a few parts to this. As always, thank you for reading.

.

.

He's not really sure how to react.

Perhaps that, above all else, is the problem here.

.

.

.

For the first time in his thirty-eight years, Daryl Dixon is faced with feelings of jealousy.

Sure, when he was younger, he wanted things, wanted what others had; happy childhoods and loving dads and visits from Santa Claus. As the years went by, he learnt that wanting never made it so – you had to fight for the things you wanted, tooth and nail, blood and bone. But even then, there was nothing that he wanted that much.

Until Beth Greene. Then he fought. Then he bled. And in the end, he got her.

He was hers and she was his and nothing, nothing would take her away from him.

That was before Alexandria. They'd spent so long living their own version of 'normal', that they'd forgotten what society was. What it used to be. What this town, surrounded by walls, maintains to a tee.

Scratch that. Maybe this place is the problem.

.

.

.

"You're quiet," Rick notes, walking the perimeter, hand forever resting on the handle of his colt, itching for the trigger. Daryl gets it, he really does, when his own crossbow is always in reach and his ears still ring from gunshots of the past.

"Always quiet," he mutters, shrugging off Rick's concern.

"Quieter than usual," Rick presses.

"Aren't we all?"

It's not like him to get philosophical – his belief has always been 'life's a bitch and then you die'. He's never been much for the needs of the greater good outweighing the needs of the few, not when the greater good, in his eyes, is one girl and one girl alone and he would set the world alight if it meant her safety and her happiness and her life.

"Beth's working in the nursery now," Rick changes the topic, gaze shifting from the wall to Daryl, watching his expression carefully.

"Didn't want to be working as a nurse," Daryl says quietly, "Grady, you know."

Of course Rick knows. How could Rick not know, not when her nightmares would wake them all at night, in their tin can camp site. Not when the smallest things would trigger her to curl into herself, into her mind. Not when after their initial reunion, it took weeks to see her laugh, months to hear her sing and even those that don't know her, know that some days, she's just barely keeping it together.

He's trying, Daryl Dixon. Lord knows he's fucking trying.

"She's seems happier," Rick comments, "I know I feel better, knowing that Judy is with her all day. Hell, I'm half expecting Judith's first word to be 'Beth'-"

"Some kid asked her out," Daryl snaps, struggling to reel in his anger, "some kid who knows that she's with me, still thought it was a good idea to seek her out and ask her on a goddamn date."

Daryl sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. "I mean, fuck, man. What am I supposed to do?"

Rick's blank expression is answer enough.

.

.

.

The kid's name is Matt.

Okay, so he's not a kid. He's probably twenty-three, twenty-four. But he's got that young guy swagger, the type of swagger that comes with a certain amount of survival, but not the life or death kind. He's got a couple of good stories, a battle scar or two, but that's it. No ghosts, no nightmares. No loss.

It would be comical, were he not him and she not her and his insecurities not quite so overwhelming at times, to watch the younger man stride up to the two of them, where she sits with baby Judith on the grass and him a few feet away, crossbow over one shoulder, backpack of food over the other. And even though the distance isn't great, even though her body language is screaming at the guy to leave, and leave quickly, he's all smirks and hooded eyes and artificial James Dean posturing.

"Beth right?"

He's standing in the light and she has to squint to see him. Another thing that makes his blood boil and teeth clench.

"Yeah?"

"I'm Matt," he grins, "but you probably know that already."

"I don't…"

It doesn't faze him, hell, the kid doesn't even pause.

"There's not much to do around here, but I know ways we can make our own fun-"

It's suggestive and leery and Daryl wants to throw him over the wall and leave him for the walkers.

"-So what do you say, Beth. Want to hang out sometime?"

And his world stops.

"No."

Making his way over, Daryl dumps the bag on the grass, leaning his crossbow next to it. He gives the kid the once over, dropping down next to Beth, his arm setting around her waist.

"Want to move, kid, you're blocking her light."

He expects fear; he expects back tracking and apologies. But the kid grins again, mock bowing and stepping to the side.

"I'll see you round, Beth."

And Daryl is seeing red.

.

.

.

"Oh my god, Daryl…"

He wonders what he's trying to achieve sometimes. Apart from the obvious. Is he trying to fuck the demons out of her, trying to get as close as possible because anything else is too far away? Is he trying to replace the scars from his father with the scars from her nails, clawing for friction? Is he trying to convince himself, convince her, that they're alive, that they're breathing, that they're not simply surviving, but living?

His mind is always hazy just after the act, when the way she sobs his name is still fresh in his mind and he can still taste her, salty-sweet and lingering on his tongue.

He presses kisses to her scars - her wrist, her cheek, her forehead, before rolling off, flinging an arm over his eyes. She curls into him, her fingers drawing patterns in his chest. Swirls and hearts and letters – the same three words, repeated.

IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.

"Don't."

Her voice is soft, but commanding. He removes his arm, staring at her intently.

"Don't what?"

"Don't let it bother you. Don't let him bother you."

He grunts in response. She sighs, pressing a trail of kisses from his chest to his neck and back again, stopping at his heart.

"Does it bother you?"

"Why should it?" Beth murmurs, "Why should something as meaningless as some jerk hitting on me bother me, when we've survived all that we have? If he's the worst of our problems, then I'm grateful."

Grateful. Sometimes her way of looking at the world really has away of knocking him askew, and then righting him to the point where he's looking in the same direction.

But still, it bothers him. So much.

.

.

.

Daryl Dixon has faced the dead and won. Has stood head to head with murderers and rapists and all kinds of evil in this world, and never once backed down.

Why is it, then, so hard for him to approach this kid?

Without a doubt there's Beth's words on his mind. Don't start something, she murmured sleepily. It's not worth it.

But she is. God, if there's anything of value in his life, it's her, and he'll be a dead man before some dumb kid thinks he can take her away from him.

So he finds out where this Matt kid works (stock control), seeks him out with the intention of delivering a swift, clear warning.

"Shit, dude," the kid chuckles, "I thought you were her father."

He should have expected this. Because there are laws and this fucker knows it. Like he knows that Daryl can't do shit, not without consequences, not without the threat of exclusion so heavy on his head. The rules are simple – follow them or leave. Their family breaks enough of them as it is and he doesn't want to provoke any unwanted attention.

"Ain't no one's father," Daryl snaps, "'specially not hers."

"Yeah," he sneers, "just an old man that fucks young girls."

Daryl crowds him against the shelf, and for a moment, a wave of fear flashes across his face. It doesn't last long until it's replaced by what seems to be his trademark self-satisfied smirk.

"You watch you tongue or I'll feed it to the walkers," Daryl mutters darkly, before stepping back. Their confrontation is drawing a couple of curious glances. He leaves it there, walking away.

Of course the kid wants the last word.

"They all move on eventually," Matt calls, voice void of callousness, but eager truth. "The young ones, they get with a guy for protection and they try to keep it going for a while, try to convince themselves they ain't some kind of new world whore. But then they drop the poor sucker - just like that. You dirty up a diamond, but you can still see it glinting in the light."

He refuses to let the words get to him.

.

.

.

He fails.

But this was to be expected.

.

.

.

Sometimes, his memories linger too long on Maggie and the way she screamed herself hoarse when Beth and Daryl became Beth and Daryl. After the hospital, when they found her on the road, with Morgan, and her memories in pieces. It took her weeks to fill in the spaces, muscle memory kicking in when the cracks were too hard to realign. Judith was the catalyst, the baby fitting so easily in Beth's arms, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she rained kisses into her soft, downy hair.

(It was her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his hips, a 'serious piggyback' because she was still too weak and he was more than eager to carry her to the ends of the world. It was her quiet oh, the gleam in her eyes and, wordlessly, she remembered and took that last, glorious moment, and built from it a life worth living.)

Maggie screamed and shouted and were they on the open road, he would have let her be, walked away quietly. But they were in the safe zone, in his house, the very house that he had asked Beth to share with him. She had been excited, overjoyed, in fact, and all it took was a moment for that happiness to fade and be replaced with guilt and anger.

His guilt. Her anger.

She was quick to set her sister straight, quick to assure her that she was a woman who knew her own heart. Quick to dump her meagre belongings in the small entrance way, kick off her boots, and shuck off her tattered cardigan. Quick to settle on his – their couch like she belonged there. And, god, she did. Belong there, in that living room, in their living room, with him. He couldn't imagine her anywhere else.

Maggie had come around. Like most things, Beth was sure of it, and it took a few awkward dinners for her to accept that this is what Beth wanted, and in quiet confidence she told him that no man is good enough for my little sister, until one is, and that was her blessing, lifted straight out of Hershel's book.

It took him a long time to accept that he was good enough. Even with Maggie's blessing. Even with Beth's constant reassurance. It shouldn't take one dumbass kid with a smart mouth to spark that flame of doubt, but it does.

.

.

.

"Where are you, Daryl Dixon?"

Her voice is soft, her smile gentle and when Beth looks at him, in that pretty way that she does, it takes everything to not tell her.

Even though he knows he really should.

"Just thinking about maybe going huntin' tomorrow," he lies, "maybe catch a few rabbits, trade them for a proper bed frame."

Beth smiles grows, and she presses a kiss to his neck. "Don't need one," she whispers against his skin, "the pallets do fine."

"You deserve better," he mumbles and she giggles.

"I'll have you know, Mister Dixon, that back before the turn, pallet bed frames were very in. I dreamed of living in a loft apartment in Atlanta, after college, furniture all refurbished or salvaged," she rolls on top of him, looking into his eyes, "I would have been so indie."

"Don't understand you at all sometimes, girl," he smirks, "startin' to think you ain't normal."

"Don't think you'd like me as much if I were."

"You know that ain't true."

And it isn't. Because he doesn't just like her. He loves her and he'll love her in any way he can, for as long as he's breathing.

(And long after, too.)

.

.

.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

No. Never.

"Nothin' to talk about," he mutters, and she grabs his hand, fingers tracing gently over his bruised knuckles.

"Not even how you beat up Matt today?"

"Nope," he snatches his hand away, "not proud of it, Greene. Not sorry, though."

Beth sighs, fiddling with her bracelets. He swallows. She doesn't wear them usually, unless she's having a bad day. And from the moment he got up and saw her staring at herself in the mirror, he knew it wasn't going to be good.

"You know I can fight my own battles, right?"

"Yeah," he murmurs sheepishly, "don't need nobody for nothin'."

"You know I survived getting shot in the head, right?"

"Yeah," he fights a smirk, "biggest badass I know. 'Cept maybe Merle."

"Except for Merle," she concedes. She reaches for his hand and this time he lets her. She presses a kiss to each knuckle, smiling up at him gently.

"What you did was very chivalrous, but very unnecessary."

"Spreading shit like that, placing bets on when he was going to fuck you," he snarls, "no one says shit like that about my woman."

"Neanderthal," Beth smirks, "but a well-meaning one, I suppose. Matt's not going to take it to the council. When they present both sides, neither one of you are going to look very good. Anyway, his face will heal. His reputation though…"

"Don't give a shit about his reputation," Daryl grumbles. Beth laughs.

"Not even how I told all the girls under twenty-five that he's got an STD?"

Daryl looks at her, dumbfounded.

"They believed you?"

"Of course," she giggles, "I worked in the doctors office briefly, remember? Had all kinds of access to personal information. And I have a trustworthy face."

"You are a badass, Greene," he chuckles, pulling her into him, her hands coming up to curl around his vest.

"Don't listen to guys like Matt, okay?" Beth whispers, resting her head on his shoulder, "they're all the same, trying to do anything to get what they want."

"Can't have you," Daryl murmurs, and Beth lifts her head, giving him a blinding smile.

"No," she agrees, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, "they most certainly can't."

Daryl's hand grasps her ponytail, moving to deepen the kiss, before she pulls back, eyes glinting dangerously.

"And Daryl? You better not forget that."

"Might need you to remind me sometimes, girl."

And she does. Three times that night, for that matter.

Not bad for an old guy.

.

.