a/n: I was reminiscing about the movies of my youth recently, when someone brought up Empire Records. From that, this fic was born. Shout out to Naterica, who always reviews in Portuguese, which I don't speak, but translating it is half the fun. And your comments are always so lovely. The accompanying article (it exists!) can be found on my tumblr - wellthatdepends. Enjoy, I haven't done anything quite like this. xx

.

.

He meets her on a Tuesday.

Semantics, really, when it comes down to it. Doesn't matter that it was a Tuesday, doesn't matter that that it was raining until the moment she stepped into the street and the clouds parted to make way for the sun.

Doesn't matter when she found his gaze she gave him the most blinding of smiles.

Only matters that he met her.

.

.

.

.

There's a version of this story where he follows Merle around until he's nothing but his shadow. He can imagine it well, some nights, the version where social services don't take him away, where he's left with a back full of scars and not just the three that intertwine like branches. The ones that he can brush off as a building accident, a knife fight, an animal attack.

Hasn't seen his father since the funeral. He was eight years old, burying his mother in a cheap pine box, Merle in his dress uniform trying to keep it together. Will Dixon disappeared that night and Daryl was driven away by the state.

There's a version of this story too, where he isn't taken in by the Grimes', where he doesn't finish high school, where he doesn't go to college. Where he doesn't go back to the town where his life changed and open his record store. Where she doesn't walk through his doors and ask for a job.

Where they don't…

Wait. We're jumping ahead here.

There are no other versions. Just this one.

.

.

.

.

"Her father is old Hershel Greene," Rick flips the burgers, taking a swig of his beer. Daryl exhales away from the food, smoke drifting and mingling with that from the grill.

"The farmer?" Daryl raises his eyebrows, "Didn't you work there one summer?"

"And hated it," Rick chuckles, "thought you were the luckiest son of a bitch to be sitting in the air conditioning all day."

"Wasn't fun," Daryl rolls his eyes, "it was summer school."

"Yeah, well, you weren't cleaning horse shit," Rick retorts, "what is she now, sixteen, seventeen?"

"Nineteen," Daryl replies, "taking classes at the community college a town over. Music education or something."

"Christ, we're old," Rick shakes his head, "are you gonna hire her?"

Daryl shrugs. It's that or he gives Zach more hours, and he doesn't think he can handle that kid more than he already does.

"Guess so."

.

.

.

.

Here are some things he doesn't mention to Rick, about Beth Greene:

In her interview she informs him, albeit politely and with all the grace Annette Greene had bestowed upon her, that his record categorisation system is completely wrong and would take at least three days to fix.

She then volunteers to do so, as sort of a 'trial period', because, even if she fails to get the job, at the very least when she visits in the future, shopping for records won't make her want to pull her hair out.

And finally, aside from being young, and beautiful, and precocious, and nice, she smells like vanilla and strawberries.

He's pretty sure she'd taste like them too.

.

.

.

.

Daryl promises Carl a summer job when he turns fourteen. So here he is, running a record store with the help of a teenager, a college kid, and Beth Greene. Who is quickly becoming the biggest distraction in his life to date.

Sure, her new cataloguing system was bitch to set up, but even he'll admit it's more efficient. And she's a good worker, the customers genuinely like her, and not just because she's pure sunshine, but because she knows music. He'll lean towards outlaw country, or the metal classics, whereas Zach is usually tries to kill his ears with Dubstep. Beth's rotation is always changing; from 70's songstresses to teenybopper country pop to indie folk that she's ordered in direct from the artist's Band Camp page.

He asks her late the third night, when she's debating with herself whether it's 'gimmicky' to give Beyonce a section entirely of her own (she transcends pop music, Daryl, like, seriously…) how she knows so much about music, because some days he thinks he's got this sorted, and then some new artist hits the scene and he's left shaking his head.

"Wasn't much to do on the farm," she shrugs, "aside from chores and the like. My mama loved music, taught me to sing and play the piano. I taught myself how to play the guitar. I'd beg my daddy or Shawn to take me here and I'd spend hours trying to pick what records to spend my allowance on."

"Hours," Daryl scoffs, "then how come I ain't never seen you here before now, girl?"

Beth shrugs, her ponytail bouncing with the movement, and offers him a small smile.

"You probably weren't looking, Daryl Dixon."

Hell, she's got him there. No way in the world he ever knew girl's like Beth Greene existed. And you can't look for something you don't know exists.

.

.

.

.

Dinner at Rick's is a weekly affair. Not that he minds, has never minded spending time with his brother's family. He likes Lori, likes how she keeps him in line in her own, gentle way. He likes Carl, who only sees him as 'cool Uncle Daryl', so never gives him any cheek. Loves Lil' Ass Kicker, and doesn't even deny that she has him wrapped around her little finger.

"How's the shop going?" Lori asks, passing him the ketchup, "Carl can't stop talking about it."

"M-om," Carl groans, "please don't."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Lori apologises, eyes twinkling with humour, "I forgot how cool it is for kids to be apathetic about everything."

"Lori, leave him alone," Rick laughs, "he's probably just worried that you'll mention the crush he has on Beth."

"Ugh," Carl whines, "why can't I be adopted like Uncle Daryl?"

"Just unlucky, I guess," Daryl smirks, and Carl, unamused with the adults ganging up on him, huffs a sigh.

"She is such a sweet girl," Lori smiles, "ran into her in the grocery store the other day and Judy took such a shine to her. I think I'm going to have to ask her if she babysits, Judy keeps asking when she'll see 'Bef' again."

"Sure Carl wouldn't mind if Beth babysits him as well," Rick teases.

"God, Dad, you're so embarrassing!" Carl moans, grabbing his plate, "I'm going to go eat outside."

Daryl laughs as his nephew leaves the dining room, face a deep red.

This is his family. Twelve year old him would never have thought this was ever possible.

.

.

.

.

Summer in Georgia is hot, that much he can depend on. From sunrise to sun down, the heat lingers, seeping into the pavement, into the brick, into the skin. Beth arrives ten minutes early, and breathless, a duffle bag over one shoulder, clad in a pair of flip-flops, booty shorts, and a crop top.

Zach lets out a loud whistle, cutting into whatever electronic monstrosity he's got currently playing. Beth flips him the bird, sauntering through to the back room, coming out five minutes later, looking fresh faced, and, thankfully, showing less skin.

"Sorry," she murmurs, slipping on her staff lanyard and flipping out her hair, "the air-conditioning in my truck is broken. Anything I'd have worn would have been drenched with sweat."

Fuck. Do not think about a wet Beth Greene. Do not think about those damn shorts or her legs in those damn shorts. Fuck.

Do not think about that, either.

"No worries," he mutters gruffly, "I, uh, can fix it. If ya' want."

"Really?" she perks up, excited, "You can?"

"Worked as a mechanic in college," he shrugs, because it's no big deal, really. Just something he always sort of knew how to do. But the way she's looking at him, it's like he's told her he's a mechanical engineer, or moonlights as a doctor, or climbed Mount Everest. Pure fucking awe.

"Gimme your keys," he holds out his hand and she swiftly passes them over, "I'll take a look at it this afternoon."

There's an extra spring in her step for the rest of her shift. She sings and dances and Zach lets her pick the music because there isn't a damn male who works here that doesn't want to give her everything she wants, him included. An hour before close, he takes her keys and heads to the car park, grabbing the tools he keeps in his truck. Popping the hood, he pokes around for twenty minutes before finding the issue. It takes him another ten fix it, well, temporarily fix it, anyway. When he starts the truck, the air comes on, full blast, cooling the cab quickly.

"You fixed it!"

He nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise.

"Uh, yeah," he turns off the engine, slipping out of the truck to slam down the bonnet, "wasn't much, just a hose that came loose. Fixed it with a bit of duct tape, but you'll need a new one."

He hesitates, but only briefly.

"Probably got one lying around somewhere at home…"

"It's okay," Beth smiles sweetly, "it's not the first time this has happened. I'll just get Shawn to replace it tonight."

Sometimes he forgets that she's got a daddy and a brother and probably a string of other guys to do things like this for her. But still, she's Beth, forever sweet and grateful, and when she wraps her small arms around his neck, he has to tell himself that this is how she is. Likes to let people know how much she appreciates them.

The lingering kiss she presses to his cheek, well, that's something new.

.

.

.

.

She takes to sorting his mail.

In the past, he just sorts through them quickly, dumping what doesn't require a cheque in the trash. She takes her time, opening each letter, flipping through every magazine. After five days of doing this, she knocks on his office door while he's processing paperwork, a pile of envelopes in hand, separated by bulldog clips.

"Okay, so you know your old system was terrible, right?"

Daryl snorts. "Pretty sure all my systems are terrible, according to you, Greene."

"Yeah, well, this one is really bad," Beth rolls her eyes, "for starters, here are the bills. Boring as usual. This pile is from local artists who would like you to stock their record. Apparently they sent you a letter since you don't have an email?"

"Don't like sorting my physical mail, why would I like going through it digitally?"

"Mail snob," Beth teases, "this pile is from magazines and websites that would like to interview you or do a feature on the store. Seriously, Daryl, you have no idea how much business this could drum up. Independent record stores have, like, a cult following these days."

"Not interested," Daryl brushes her off, "what else ya got?"

"Just one, jeez," Beth huffs, "a letter from someone called Merle Dixon."

Merle.

His brother.

.

.

.

.

Truth be told, he kind of always assumed Merle was in jail. Was in and out of juvie for the most part when he was a kid, and last he heard, he'd been booted out of the Army.

When he finally opens Merle's letter, with a bottle of Jack Daniels (just in case), he's honestly surprised.

He's living about forty minutes away, working in a garage. Been clean for five years, out of jail too. Married, even, with a step-kid and a house and hell, he was happy.

And proud. Of Daryl, of everything he's accomplished.

This is the new breed of Dixon. This is their generation, crawling out from the dirt and the violence and carving a new life out of an old name.

Merle gives him a date and a time, the place a bar about halfway between the two towns. He thinks about it, talks to Rick about it, and changes his mind at least six times and finally, half an hour before he's supposed to meet his brother, he grabs his keys and jumps in his truck.

And he's nervous as fuck.

When he arrives, he idles in his truck for a few minutes. It's not too late to turn around, to head back home and pretend he never got the letter. But Merle knows where he works. And knowing Merle, they'll be more letters, until he shows up one day on his doorstep.

This is the better option.

The bar is like any bar he's been in, dingy with various neon signs, a jukebox playing generic country rock. It's been years, but he'd recognise Merle anywhere. Same cropped hair cut, same crooked nose. Sitting in a booth in the corner, two beers in front of him, flipping his phone open and closed.

He spots him quickly.

"Hey, baby brother," he stands, giving him a quick, back slapping embrace, "you got big."

"Hey Merle," he replies, slipping in opposite him, "you got old."

In true Merle fashion, he falls into easy laughter, hooting like it's only been a week since they last saw each other, and not thirty years.

It's amazing how everything can change, yet stay exactly the same.

.

.

.

.

Zach is well meaning, but, Jesus Christ, he annoys the shit out of him most of the time.

Some days, he's not quite sure why he hired the kid. How he went from being some annoying customer, making him order in all these obscure records, to working for him.

Though, he's got to give him credit. Kid knows his genre, knows all the latest bands, goes to the gigs in Atlanta. Seems to actually like being there, even when Daryl calls him a dumbass at least once a day. Isn't bad for business, as he's charming as all hell.

And it's great. Until he's turning that charm onto Beth Greene.

"What do you say? Don't make me beg, Beth, please."

She giggles sweetly, flashing him a smile.

"I don't know if it's my scene, Zach," she tells him, "I'm sorry."

"You're missing out, babe," Zach smirks, not seeming overly bothered, "all those killer beats, then the after parties. Got a deal on Groupon for room at this flash hotel too."

"I'm not twenty-one, remember?" she rolls her eyes, shaking her head, smiling.

"I know people," he boasts, "I can get you in anywhere."

Still, she politely declines his invitation, sidling up to Daryl, who's quietly taking inventory of their heavy metal section.

"A whole festival of Brostep?" Beth whispers, "I mean, seriously, can you imagine all the strobe?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. When she brushes past him, fingers grazing his, he feels an electric current running through him, ready to spark and set the whole building alight.

.

.

.

.

Rick gets shot and, thankfully, it's not too serious, but serious enough to warrant a couple of days in the hospital. Something about a concussion and possible swelling and when Lori calls him from the hospital, breathless and teary, he breathes a sigh of relief.

"How you holdin' up, brother?" Daryl asks, lowering himself into the chair beside the bed.

"Well enough," Rick sighs, "Doc says I've got to rest up for a couple of weeks, so Lori's going to be driving me crazy."

"Husband problems," Daryl smirks and Rick rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, I know, I know," Rick sighs, "just glad to be alive."

"Me too, man," Daryl murmurs, "me too."

"I've been thinking," Rick meets his eyes, "about life, you know. How it's too short and we gotta make the most of it."

Daryl is silent.

"Just ask her out. What's the worst that can happen?"

His mind runs through a whole bunch of worst case scenarios, but none of them include death, so Rick sort of has a point.

Doesn't make it a good one, though.

.

.

.

.

"More bills. More magazines wanting to interview you."

She's cutest when she's frustrated with him, he decides in this moment, when she's glaring at him, hands on her hips. Cuter too, when she's wearing a long skirt and a crop top and sure, he doesn't get fashion, but that doesn't mean he's not grateful.

"Ain't interested, girl, we talked about this."

"Daryl," she stamps her foot, "remember the group of hipsters we got last week, the ones that came all the way from Atlanta and took heaps of photos on their cell phones?"

"Remember they spent a lot," Daryl shrugs, "ain't nothing wrong with that."

"Nope," Beth agrees, "but then a few days later we got more? Well, one of them blogged about it, and people are really interested in it. Our Instagram has a thousand followers-"

"What Instagram?" Daryl asks, eyes narrowing."

"It's just a little thing Zach and I have been doing, we take photos of what we're currently playing," Beth replies, a bit sheepish, "it's not a promotion thing, except we have the store's contact information in the bio…"

"Damn it, Beth!"

His paperwork goes flying off his desk and she steps back quickly, hitting a bookshelf.

"I don't need this, girl," he snaps, "I don't want this. So just do what I pay you to do, alright?"

"Yeah," she mutters, frowning, "sure thing, Mister Dixon."

When she slams the door to his office, he suddenly remembers Rick's advice and how it probably isn't worth a damn now. Not when he's shouted at her and belittled her help.

Not that he would have asked her out anyway. No fucking way.

.

.

.

.

It's downright chilly, the days that follow. Carl picks up on the tension, eyeing both Daryl and Beth nervously. Zach, not so much, and he's his usual overly charming, annoying self.

Day three of the Beth Greene silent treatment, he gets a call at one in the morning.

"Yeah?"

"Daryl Dixon?"

"Who's this?"

"Uh, hi, I'm Glenn, Maggie's boyfriend-"

"Who the fuck is Maggie?"

"Maggie Greene," Glenn says, sounding uncertain, "Beth's sister."

"Is she alright?" Daryl blurts out, heart pounding.

"She's fine," Glenn replies, "just super drunk."

"Drunk?"

"Can you pick her up?" Glenn asks, "Maggie's out of town and I don't have a car at the moment-"

"What's the address?" Daryl demands. He hangs up as soon as Glenn gives it to him, jumping in his truck and speeding down the drive.

Hell, he speeds all the way to Atlanta too.

It's late, when he arrives outside the pizza parlour, and bangs on the locked door. A guy he assumes is Glenn runs over, glancing at him curiously.

"I'm Daryl," he says loudly, and Glenn, looking very relieved, unlocks the door and ushers him in.

"Hey, man, thank you so much," Glenn sighs, "Maggie would have killed me if I called their dad, and Beth's always talking about you, so I figured you were her boyfriend or something-"

"Her boss," he corrects, "where is she?"

"Daryl?"

It's then he spots her; slumped over a chair, head on the table. He swallows quickly, her dress is too red and too short and too tight and were her heels not strewn carelessly on the heels, he'd probably describe her whole appearance as one that shouts fuck me.

"What the hell, Beth?"

"I just wanted to listen to some music and have a couple of drinks," she slurs, "Zach said he'd organised a ride home for us, but it was his friend's creepy brother Len and by the time he was leaving, no one else was gonna go, and I didn't want to be in his car by myself, so I caught a cab here."

"Jesus, Beth," Daryl shakes his head, "why you gotta go and do stupid shit like that?"

"What do you expect?" she snaps, "I'm just a stupid, nineteen year old girl that works for you, right?"

Glenn looks uncomfortable, watching the exchange. Judging by the empty cup of coffee and grease stained plate in front of her, he must have attempted to sober her up some, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Come on," he sighs, "I'm taking you home."

Grabbing her shoes and clutch, she stands, stumbling slightly. Exasperated, he throws an arm around her waist, steadying her, throwing a g'night behind him as he leaves the small restaurant and eases her into the truck.

It's late, or early, depending on how you look at it, and once he leaves Atlanta, the roads are near deserted. She fiddles with his radio, finding a station she likes and humming quietly, hand hanging out the window.

"You can keep the Insta-whatever," he breaks the silence, staring straight ahead, "and pick your favourite magazine or website. I'll do one interview. Ain't gonna be some kind of fucking sell-out, alright?"

"Yeah?"

She's looking at him now, this little hopeful smile spreading across her face that makes his stomach tighten.

"Yeah," he nods, "can't hurt, can it?"

It's almost worth nearly driving off the road when she throws her arms around him. It's definitely worth it when she scoots closer and leans against his shoulder for the remainder of the drive home.

.

.

.

.

Merle's wife isn't what he pictured. Then again, nothing about his brother is what he pictured.

He remembers the girls his brother used to go for, back when he was a teenager and itching to get out of their town. Long hair, slim waists, huge breasts. Gum snapping, chain smoking, cussing up a storm.

Carol Dixon, is a slender woman, with short grey hair, and intense green eyes. She eyes him curiously when they first meet, and he immediately recognises in her the same kind of haunted look his mother used to carry around.

Ex was a piece of shit, Merle tells him one evening, in the bar they've come to frequent, would have killed her had he not been a drunken idiot who got himself killed first.

The kid is something else, quiet, but bright. Cautious in that way all kids that grow up in her situation are, but she's relaxing. Letting down some of her walls. He remembers it took him about eight years to feel fully comfortable in the Grimes household, and he imagines maybe that's a thing. For each year of shit you live through, it takes a year to put it away.

By the time he leaves his brother's place, Carol has taken to playfully teasing him and Sophia is calling him Uncle Daryl. Calls Merle 'Dad', but that's a conversation for another day, maybe with a few beers to chase away the memories.

"You did good, Merle," Daryl tells him, looking back at the lit up porch, the faint laughter of Carol and Sophia drifting across the lawn.

"Never thought it possible," he admits, "cleaned up my act about five years ago, but I didn't think it would stick. Didn't the first time."

"The first time?" Daryl asks.

"Right after I got booted from the army," Merle shrugs, "went to rehab, got a job. Met with your social worker to see about getting' ya back. She showed me your report cards and some photos and home visit evaluations. You were doin' alright, baby brother. Didn't need me at all."

"I would have gone with you," Daryl murmurs softly.

"Yeah, I know," Merle nods, "that's why I had to stay away."

It's these truths that are the hardest, these self-sacrificing decisions that linger long after the fact. He can't remember how many nights he prayed that Merle would come for him, that it would be once again the Dixon brothers against the world.

This is their reality. And both brothers know that they wouldn't trade the decades spent apart for a fantasy.

.

.

.

.

It's late on a Friday night, well after close, when he hears a slight tap on the front door. Sighing, he pushes back his chair, ready to tell whoever is there that they're closed and to learn to read.

It's not a late customer, though. It's Beth.

"Greene?" he unlocks the door, "You forget something?"

She slips past him as he closes relocks the door. She's wearing those damn shorts again, and that damn crop top, only this time her hair is loose around her shoulders, and not in her signature ponytail and braid.

"Yeah," she murmurs, sounding slightly breathless, "I think I left it in your office."

What the hell?

He trails after her, confused as anything, because she's working tomorrow morning, opening in fact, and it must be fucking important for her to drive all the way from her daddy's farm back here.

"Okay," Daryl folds his arms over his chest, "what's so urgent-"

She cuts him off, like she always does, but this time it's not her words but her mouth, pressed against his, the weight of her small frame crowding him against the door.

What the hell?

"Beth," he pushes her back, "what-"

"I had to," she whispers urgently, "I needed to. Sometimes I feel that I'll die if I don't."

"Fuck," he breathes, "Beth."

"Please," she whispers, the sound going straight to his cock, "please."

He isn't about to say no.

When she kisses him again, he's an active participant, hands grasping the bare skin of her thighs, lifting her until her legs go around his waist. He's licking into her mouth and she's fucking whimpering, hands tangling in his hair, legs tightening around him.

In a move, she grinds against him hard, and, fuck, he can see her wetness seeping through those damn shorts.

"Gotta have you," he growls and she steals his words from his mouth, moaning wantonly, before unhooking her legs and sinking to her knees.

"Not before I have you," and she's so swift, the way she has his belt unbuckled and pants around his ankles, her small hand curling around the hem of his boxers until…

Fuck.

He's hard as a rock and it takes every ounce of willpower not to blow his load right there and then, when she licks a trail from his tip to his base in a single movement, and back again. When her tongue swirls around his tip, gathering up the liquid that gathers there, before engulfing him, all of him, and he feels so fucking big in her small, hot mouth.

"Beth," he grunts, "Jesus fucking Christ, girl, what are you doing to me?"

She doesn't make a sound, save for her soft, sweet moans. Doesn't make a sound, not even when his hands find purchase in her hair and his grip is just a bit too tight. She bobs up and down on his cock, tongue grazing the underside, using just the right amount of teeth to make him nearly come undone.

It's the best fucking blowjob of his life from a girl that is the epitome of a teenage dream.

"Beth," he groans, feeling that familiar build, "oh god, Beth…"

And then he wakes up.

.

.

.

.

"We all have dreams like that," Rick shrugs, "don't worry about it."

"Couldn't look at her the next day," Daryl rubs his face, "girl was so excited about the magazine thing and I couldn't get away from her fast enough. Probably thinks I'm gonna bail."

"You gonna tell her the truth?" Rick asks, pointedly. Daryl gives him a look as if he's insane. "That's what I thought."

"I'm fucked," Daryl groans, "think you can frame the girl for stealin' or something?"

"Man up, brother," Rick chuckles, "besides, Lori likes her too much. She's already planned your wedding. Thinks you should get married at her daddy's farm."

"Fuck you both," Daryl sighs, "and this interview."

"Ain't gonna kill you," Rick rolls his eyes, "who knows? You might enjoy it."

Daryl seriously doubts that.

.

.

.

.

Beth Greene is going to kill him one day. This he is certain of. The interview was fine, for the most part. Some freelance writer trying to make a few bucks, he can't fault her for that, but perhaps he could have been a bit less difficult.

Could have been a lot of things, but he is who he is. Can't paint stripes on a horse and call it a zebra.

Which brings him to Beth Greene. Beth Greene, who graciously agreed to be the subject of the accompanying photograph, who showed up with smoky eyes and her hair in curls and looking straight off a runway, not her daddy's farm.

Doesn't look in the slightest like a girl who had been at his store until midnight, tidying and arranging and getting everything photo ready.

"Is that your mastermind?" the writer asks him jokingly, quoting him from the article, watching as the photographer lines up his shot.

He forgets himself, for a moment, allows himself a few extra seconds to take her in, her petite frame, her big blue eyes, her hair like spun gold. And he feels like a sucker, making these comparisons, for putting her on a pedestal, up high, out of the way so he can't reach her.

If he can't touch her, he can't break her.

"Yeah," he swallows thickly, "that's her."

He feels like a goddamn fool.

.

.

.

.

She turns twenty on a Friday and Maggie throws her a surprise party. She works that day, even though he tells her she doesn't have to. But, unbeknownst to him, she likes being there.

That's the kicker, really.

The plan was for him to take her home to the farm. Maggie had called him earlier in the week, and when he had told her he wasn't planning on going, she merely barked down the line tough. He's never met the woman, but something tells him that it's a Greene girl thing. These girls get what they want.

"Maggie's stuck in Atlanta," she sighs, staring at her phone, "she can't pick me up until late. I knew I shouldn't have lent Shawn my car."

"I can give you a lift," Daryl mutters, awkwardly, "if you like?"

"Yeah?" Beth smiles shyly, "I'd really like that."

It's probably a half hour drive, at most, but it feels longer. There's a shift in the air, a current that's always been there, but is now crackling with electricity. Yesterday she was nineteen and today she is twenty and that shouldn't make a difference, but it does. So much.

"I'll, uh, walk you up," he offers, opening his door. She jumps out before he can reach her side, slamming it behind her. Apologetically, she smiles, slipping her hand into his.

His heart stops, but she holds tight, leading the way up to the porch.

"This has been a good birthday," she says softly, squeezing his hand. He scoffs.

"You got low expectations, girl."

Grinning, she shrugs. "You made it a good day, Daryl Dixon."

Clearing his throat, he studies her small hand in his, his ears going red.

"Listen, Beth," he starts, "there something I wanna ask you-"

It's his luck really, when the front door swings open and everyone inside yells surprise! It's his luck, when she gets swept up by her family and friends and throws and hopeful, apologetic smile behind her.

Yeah, he rests his forehead on the door jam. It's just his luck.

.

.

.

.

He meets the entire Greene clan that evening. Shawn and Maggie, although only related by marriage, are cut from the same cloth; both loud and domineering and overly protective of their little sister. Gets something resembling warning speeches from both, though Shawn's seems more in jest and Maggie's more serious, as if the elder sister knows something he doesn't.

Hershel Greene, her father, is something else entirely.

"Appreciate you taking her on, son," he tells him kindly, offering him a soda.

"Didn't have a lot of choice in the matter," Daryl shrugs, taking a swig of the drink.

Hershel chuckles. "She's a force to be reckoned with. Always has been. Got that from her mama."

"Is her mama…" Daryl trails off, not exactly knowing what to ask. Beth doesn't talk about her, not in the way she talks about her siblings and her daddy.

"She passed when Beth was sixteen."

"Sorry," Daryl murmurs roughly. Hershel pats him on the shoulder.

"This job has done her good," he confides, "haven't seen her this happy in a long time."

It's a bit to take in, this revelation, this suggestion that he, or at the very least, his store, is the sole cause of her mood change. Thinks that maybe the old man has a couple of screws loose, to believe there's some kind of correlation between the two.

That's what's running through his mind when he wanders outside, lighting up a cigarette by the barn and watching the house from the distance. This is Beth Greene's world, all light and laughter and warmth, but still, there are shadows. Still, there is pain. And this sunshine girl, she hides it so well.

"Can I join you?"

Glancing to his right, he finds her standing there, smiling at him hesitantly.

"Sure," he clears his throat, "your barn."

"I guess you're right," she nudges him with her shoulder. Even in the dark, her eyes are like starlight.

He takes a long drag, exhaling slowly, away from her. She shuffles closer, resting her arm against his.

"You were going to ask me something, earlier?"

"Don't matter," he brushes her off.

"You sure?" Beth examines him carefully, head tilted slightly.

"Yeah."

"Okay," she nods, "well then, I have something to ask you."

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.

"Go out with me, Daryl Dixon."

"That ain't a question, girl," he can't help but smirk, even with his heart feeling like it's about to explode.

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind," she shrugs, "decided not to give you a choice in the matter."

Like he ever really had a choice when it came to Beth Greene.

.

.

.

.

It's weird, the way in which everything changes yet at the same time, everything stays the same.

Sure, he's not big on PDA, and she insists on keeping things strictly professional at work. But there are gigs in Atlanta, and dinners at Rick's. She officially introduces him to her family and he takes her hunting one long weekend.

Sometimes, the age gap feels nonexistent. Sometimes it's startlingly obvious.

Somehow, she doesn't care.

"My daddy was older than my mama," she tells him quietly, curled around him, as he explores her body. His fingers come to rest on a small scar on her wrist. She flinches at his touch.

"She died?"

"When I was sixteen," she breathes, "I was so sad. I thought it was the only way to make the pain stop."

He presses a kiss to the scar, and she draws and ragged breath.

"I was a coward."

"No," he tells her, "you were hurtin'. Lost my mama too, when I was eight."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, "you were so young."

"I was placed in foster care after that," he tells her, "my father, he took off. Probably a blessin' in disguise, really. Liked his belt too much."

"Your back…"

"Yeah," Daryl presses a kiss to her jaw, "his idea of parenting. Rick's family took me in. Gave me a home, an education. First time anyone told me I could make something of my life. First time anyone expected me to."

"And you have," Beth's hand finds his, fingers intertwining, "you've achieved so much."

"You make me want to do more," he admits. And it's safe to do so, in the dark, beneath the covers. It's safe for him to reveal to her his past and his future, every single secret he's ever locked away from the world. He all but hands her the key.

.

.

.

.

"She's young," Merle comments, never taking his eyes from the game on the screen. At their feet, Sophia watches intently, passing back food when Merle asks.

"Why's she so invested?" Daryl motions to the girl, changing the topic.

"Soph's got money riding on this outcome, don't ya girl?"

"Yup," she nods, turning back, fixing Daryl with a glare not unlike one of Merle's, "don't tell mom."

"Yeah, Uncle Daryl," Merle grins, "don't tell mom. Also, don't change the subject."

"Don't know what to tell you," Daryl shrugs, "just works. Keeps me in line."

"She a gold digger or something?" Merle fishes.

"What's a gold digger?" Sophia turns around, blinking up at them innocently.

"Uh," Daryl stutters, "it's someone who really likes those gold mining shows-"

"She's messin' with you, baby brother," Merle laughs, "girl knows what a gold digger is."

"It's too easy," Sophia smirks, turning back to the game.

"She's seen my books," Daryl tells them both, "she knows I don't have shit."

"Sometimes it doesn't have to make sense," Sophia interrupts, giving them an exasperated look, "I mean, look at my mom and dad. Sometimes it just works."

Life lessons from a pre-teen.

"Now, enough with the chit chat," she scolds them gently, "I'm trying to watch the game."

Daryl raises an eyebrow at his brother. "You sure she's not actually yours?"

.

.

.

.

A frustrated Beth is an adorable Beth, and if he could, he'd rile her up on purpose.

"Why is your phone so out of date?"

"Told ya', Greene," he sighs, "it's a satellite phone. For when I go huntin'."

"I can't even be mad about that!" she exclaims, "'I'm Daryl Dixon and I have a man's phone for when I do manly things, like shooting a crossbow and skinning my own dinner'."

"It's a turn on, isn't it?"

"Shush," she scolds him, "here, use my phone."

"Why does your phone have cupcakes and french fries on it?" he flips it over in his hand, "this is bulkier than mine."

"It's kawaii," she flips it back over, "so just line up the record cover, and once you have the shot, press the camera button."

He presses it quickly and she peers over his shoulder at the screen, smiling.

"Nice! Now pick a filter-"

"A what?"

"It's like an effect," she explains, "changes the look of the photo."

"Do I need to have a filter?" he asks, confused.

"Sure," Beth nods, "but just hashtag it 'no filter'."

"Hashtag?"

"Just give it here," she takes the phone back, typing quickly, before handing it back, "There you go."

"'Number sign now playing Willie Nelson Band of Brothers. DD. Number sign Dixon Records. Number sign no filter.'"

"It's not a 'number sign'," she sighs, "it's a hashtag."

"'DD'?" he asks.

"Daryl Dixon," she smirks, "makes you sound all mysterious, just using the initials."

"Makes me sound like a dick."

"Ugh!" she throws up her hands, "you drive me crazy, you know that?"

"Sure do, girl," he grins, "how about you show me how crazy you can get later tonight?"

And she does go crazy. Three times, for that matter. He's got the scratches to prove it.

.

.

.

.

Beth plays her first gig in August.

An open mic night in a club in Atlanta, she panics for the full hour before she goes on stage.

But her family's there. Her friends. Merle and Carol, Rick and Lori. Hell, even Zach's there, with a group of his loud, equally annoying friends.

"Don't worry," he tries to calm her, "you've played this song a hundred times. You've got this."

She gives him a nod and a tight smile, before she takes the stage, guitar slung over her shoulder.

"Hi, I'm Beth Greene-"

"GET IT BETH!"

He could kill Zach. But not in this instance. In this instance, his outburst makes her giggle. He sees her relaxing slightly, smiling brightly into the crowd.

"- and I'll be playing a couple of songs for you tonight. Thank you."

"It's unclear now what we intend, we're alone now in our own world…"

And she's perfect. Her song, everything. Just perfect.

And he thinks, if she ever releases her own music, he'd make her her own section. Because she transcends everything.

.

.

.

.

"Daryl!"

She barges into his office, positively beaming. She tosses the pile of mail on his already messy desk, save for a magazine, which she places in front of him.

"It's arrived."

He arches an eyebrow and she gestures wildly at the magazine.

"Page 34!"

"You read it?" he asks, flipping through the pages at a normal pace, but the way she's glaring at him impatiently, you'd think he was going through it page by page.

"I was waiting for you," she bounces to his side, sliding into his lap. He presses a kiss to the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder and she giggles, pushing him away, "the article, Daryl."

It's a one-page feature, just as the writer told him it would be. Beth takes up half of it, and if it's not the best article he's ever seen, he doesn't know what is.

"You look stunning, Greene," he murmurs, and she blushes.

"Didn't know they'd use that photo."

"It's a good photo," he kisses her again and she lets him, curling in closer.

She skims the article. "Is that all they asked?"

"All I gave them," he shrugs, "think they got enough."

"You're so surly," she teases, "and I'm the 'mastermind'?"

"Yeah," his lips find his jaw, "beauty and brains."

"Hmm," she turns his head, capturing his lips with his own, "guess I can live with that."

When she kisses him, the graze of her teeth on his lip, the curl of her tongue in his mouth, she steals every last breath from his lungs and replaces it with hers. She breathes life into him, breathes purpose and meaning. And he forgets the interview, because knowing his luck they'll be more.

As if he wasn't already a fool for this girl. As if he wouldn't do anything she asks.

.

.

.

.

Summer ends with fireworks on the farm.

"Classes start back up in the fall," she murmurs in his arms, as they watch the lights above, "won't be able to do as many hours."

"Guess I'll have to hire some extra people," he groans, "why did I hire a bunch of college kids and a high schooler?"

"Because you're cheap," she giggles, snuggling into his chest, "but I might have a solution for you."

"You always do," he kisses her neck, "go on, then."

"Friend of Glenn's," she wriggles in his grasp, "Tara. She's going backpacking around Europe next summer, and she's looking for a job."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Beth confirms, "she's super cool. And she's really into the Atlanta rap scene-"

"What's with you kids tryin' to kill my ear drums?" Daryl complains, "I just want some peace and quiet."

"Should have opened a book store," Beth teases.

"Don't you know, girl? Rednecks can't read."

"Shush," Beth laughs, "you're an idiot."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Love you too, girl."

It comes out by accident, but still, it starts a domino chain that he can't stop. Daryl forgets to breathe. Forgets a lot of things, like his name, and the day of the week and every semblance of sense me must have possessed once upon a time, before he decided to tell her that he loved her.

"Hey," she smiles gently, "I love you, Daryl Dixon."

He breathes and it all comes flooding back.

He's Daryl Dixon. And it's a Tuesday.

And this amazing, annoying, mastermind of a girl loves him.

.

.