a_littlefaith | (no subject)

The apartment looks amazing, so at least there's that.

Beth has put a lot of work into the decorations, the lights and the tree. There are wrapped gifts under the tree, most of them for Judith and Carl, and there are cookies and candies and chocolates on the table. The rest of the apartment is more or less the same, she doesn't have a lot of extra money to be buying Christmas place settings or anything like that, but she thinks she's done a good job regardless.

And it's a good thing, too, because she's not sure dinner is going to turn out the way it's supposed to.

It's not bad, not from what she can tell, but it's just not very good either. Nothing is burned or overflowing, nothing is undercooked and nothing looks like it might possibly poison someone accidentally. But she's tasted everything and it's all just kind of bland.

The only thing this dinner has going for it is dessert, which is apple crumble and the one thing Beth did learn how to bake from her mother. It's still in the oven and it smells delicious and she's sort of hoping no one will notice that cinnamon and apple is the only smell in the apartment when they arrive for dinner.

She doesn't say anything about it, not to Daryl, but she sits down at the piano and plays a soft, melancholy song, something that's got no place at a bright, cheery Christmas dinner.

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"At least I didn't do that," she says with laugh, then shakes her head. "It's okay. I'm not really... I'm not upset. I just really wanted to be able to duplicate the kinda thing my mom would've done." But she's not her mother, even though Hershel told her often enough how much she was like her, how much she acted like her, how much she looked like her. They're alike in a lot of ways, but she's not her mother.

And that's not a bad thing. Not at all.

"Dessert's gonna be good, though," she says, tilting her head to look up at him. "Real good. No one except the cat is even gonna remember the turkey exists when they're done with it."

"Ain't like it's a rule you can't start with that next time." Just for a moment, he tips his forehead against hers, more of a gentle nudge than anything else. No, he's still not sure about a lot of this, but he also increasingly doesn't seem able to keep himself from touching her. Just little things. Nothing that anyone would notice if they weren't paying attention.

It's not even like it's that new.

"Ain't sayin' nothin' 'bout the turkey, I'm just sayin'."

"I think there actually might be a rule about that," she says, but she's smiling as she leans against him. "There's probably a book somewhere with rules on what order you're supposed to eat dinner in and I'm pretty sure it says dessert comes last."

But maybe he's got a good idea. Maybe next time she'll just bake a bunch of different things for all of them to share. That way she won't feel that vague sense of disappointment that the meal wasn't better and it'll be something different. Something just for them.

"It's okay," she tells him. "I'm not really upset or nothin'. It's a nice night and everyone is here and happy and I kinda figure that's the important part."

"Yeah, 'cause it is."

He glances back toward the tree. What she says bring something back to him, something he's not sure of, except really he is. He might second-guess himself a little, but he counted. More than once. And maybe he miscounted or maybe he's assuming too much... But he doesn't think he is.

Because he knows her.

"Thanks," he says, quieter. "The... snowflake thing. Y'know. Thanks for that."

"Oh," she says, brightening further at that. She's not surprised he noticed; Daryl notices a lot of things most people don't realize, it's why he's so good at tracking, but it also makes him pretty good at reading her. So she's not surprised, but it's nice all the same and she smiles, looking toward the tree.

"I got one for everyone." There are far more snowflakes on that tree than there should be. "Everyone I knew anyway." There are all sorts of people she knows they lost before they even came to the farm and so many of the people who died at the prison she'd barely even spoken to. She pauses, then says, "Got one for Merle."

It startles him into silence. He's not sure what to say to that. He's never been sure what to make of how she seems to think of Merle, when he knows full well that no one ever liked Merle, no one ever trusted him, and more than one person went out of their way to say he was well rid of him. That he had shed someone who had hurt him, who was pulling him down. Holding him back.

And maybe that was all true. But Beth has never said that. Never. She's never made him feel like he was wrong for having wanted more, for having wanted his brother back. She's never judged him.

He looks at her and then looks away again, not saying anything but instead biting at his bottom lip. Because he doesn't want to cry in the middle of this. And he thinks if he tries to say something he might.

She smiles and tucks her hand into his, threading their fingers as she looks at the tree. The little snowflakes sparkle in the light and she looks at the two she hung close together for Maggie and Glenn, the other three for her parents and Shawn. They're all over the tree, really, but she remembers where she put most of them and who they're supposed to be for. It's not much, but it's really the only thing she can think to do to include the people who aren't here. They all deserve this Christmas, too, and for whatever reason they won't get it.

"I just wanted them to be here," she says after a moment. "In some little way."

And she knows the decorations don't make up for their absence, not really, but she had to do it. She had to do something.

"Yeah," he says, because it seems like a safe enough thing to say, like something he can manage. The tightness in his throat is passing, and what's left is low and warm, though it aches. The things she thinks of. The kind of world she wants to make, no matter what's in her way.

He told her once that he didn't think the good people survived. Now he thinks maybe they're the only ones who really do.

Anthony snaps him out of it, because suddenly she's scrambling down him and toward the tree, maybe after something sparkling that's caught her eye. He starts forward. "Shit, she's gonna climb it again."

"Again?" she asks, then laughs. "I feel like I oughta be glad I was cooking all day if there's an again." She can just imagine the kitten in the tree, Daryl trying to extricate her from the branches and needles without disturbing the decorations or without letting Beth know what's going on.

"You better get her," she says, rising up onto her toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "You're already her favourite."

Which is exactly how it's supposed to be. As much as she knows she's going to like having the cat around, she's really for Daryl. She's meant to be the one thing he'd never been allowed to have and Beth knows she can't fix what happened to him, she wouldn't ever dare to try, but she doesn't think it's ever too late to get something you really, really want.