damn, hurry up, goodness gracious / messin’ around with my patience
darylxbeth // modern - no zombies - au // one-shot
A steadily increasing panic attack might not be included in any of the Thanksgiving dinner dishes, but it’s always been part of the deal whenever Daryl finds himself alone with Beth. Ain’t exactly the season for Christmas miracles just yet, though, so what else did he expect?
moodboard by: @kitten1618x
for the @ultimatebethylficlist holidays event: thanksgiving: ‘dinner’ + ‘family’ + ‘bonfire’
Daryl’s survival instinct implores him to be on his best behavior — but all the same he’s got something like a self-destructive streak when Beth’s around.
He’s aware of it, at least.
It doesn’t help, though, that she’s sitting right next to him, curled up in one of Rick’s Adirondack chairs on the back patio, toasting her goddamn sixth roll over the bonfire. Daryl knows it’s her sixth, too; he counted.
“Ain’t gonna be hungry for dinner, rate you’re goin’.”
Beth whistles. Impressive, since she does it around a mouthful of bread. “Oooh, yes, I will.”
“Where you gonna put it?” Daryl snorts, elbows on his knees, takes another bracing swig of beer. “Skinny ass an’ five-foot-nothin’.”
“Five-foot-one,” she corrects him, and lifts her chin again, haughty this time, “and that ain’t no way to talk to a lady. Worry ‘bout your own ass, Mr. Dixon.”
“Says you.” She tosses what’s left of her roll at him, but it ain’t much and Daryl’s got good reflexes, so he catches it in his mouth. She laughs. “You coulda been in the circus.”
That only makes her laugh harder. She fuckin’ hiccups, covers her mouth and giggles through it ‘til the hiccups subside, which is all of thirty seconds and suddenly Daryl’s whole life is ruined.
