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Beth had been so proud of herself. She knows better, now.
She thought it would be easy, or at least that she’d be a quick study—after all, how hard could knitting be? Back in Senoia, her church had a knitting club largely attended by the retirees of the community, and they made it look as easy as breathing. Scarves, shawls, hats, mittens—all pumped out year after year with military precision and efficiency, and either given to the congregation as gifts or donated to local charities. Surely, given a bit of time to practice, Beth could manage at least one hat, right?
Wrong. And at this rate she might be the one needing to cover her head, given all the hair she’s been yanking out.
Glenn and Aaron found a craft store about a month ago, largely untouched and tucked into the corner of an abandoned, walker-riddled strip mall. It was and still is an amazing find—the yarn could be made into clothes and blankets, the thread and fabric could be turned into bandages and sterilized for use in the clinic, and there were enough small crafts for the little kids to keep them happy for a long, long while. They even found a few sewing machines in the back, and there was already talk of making new clothes when things warm up—truly, it was as good of a Christmas present as any of them could have hoped for.
Beth has something specific in mind for the holiday.
Daryl Dixon is a very practical man, almost to a fault. He’ll wear boots long past the point anyone else would have discarded them, and the same goes for the rest of his clothes. His hat in particular is a travesty—more holes than fabric at this point. Whenever he comes home she can see the very tips of his ears poking through it, and it bothers Beth to see him deny himself such a simple comfort. So, when word trickled down to her about the literal piles of yarn up for grabs, she knew exactly what she wanted to do with it.
That was two and a half days ago, and Daryl is due home any minute.
Beth had counted on knitting being easy, dammit—Daryl has been all but glued to her side ever since they found out she’s expecting, and the only reason he left this time was because Rick asked him to help escort a caravan to Hilltop. This is the only time it’s guaranteed that he’ll be out of the house, and all Beth has to show for it is an ugly pile of misshapen knots that could charitably be called clothing and more than a few frustrated tears.
Beth scowls at the mess of yarn on her lap and despairs. She’s barely showing—something that Maggie tells her to be grateful for while it lasts—and thus has an unobstructed view of her creation. It looks more like a beached jellyfish than a hat, with a sagging, lopsided brim and an uneven, actively unraveling top. It’s hideous, and there’s no way she can even show this to Daryl, let alone give it to him.
She’s been camped out on the couch for so long that she’s created her own divot and is so focused on deciding if she should just shove the supplies under the cushion and figure it out later when a floorboard creaks behind her.
Beth is up like a shot, her hand going to the knife at her hip before she can even formulate a thought, but it’s just Daryl. He looks exhausted—his clothes are travel worn and dirty, and the crossbow he has slung over his broad shoulder looks like it saw some use while he was gone. But his eyes are kind and there’s a small smile dancing around the corners of his thin, slanted mouth.
“Kinda jumpy there, Greene,” he says, and Beth lets herself finally relax at the sound of his low, warm voice.
“Got good reason to be, Mr. Dixon,” she jokes right back, watching his smile jerk and spread. Even after a year together it’s still enough to make her heart do summersaults behind her ribs. She’s about to round the couch and give him a welcome home kiss when she realizes that, in her haste to stand up, she’d knocked the hat to the ground.
In plain view of the man she’d wanted to hide it from.
Reluctantly, Beth bends to pick up the hat and dusts it off, as if a few seconds spent on the living room carpet could ruin it further.
Daryl pulls off his crossbow and sets it delicately against the wall. “What’s that?” he asks, moving on to shrug out of his jacket. His tone is carefully neutral, and Beth can bet he’s already taken a guess.
Well, she thinks, no use in lying—not that she was particularly good at it, anyway. “It’s your Christmas present,” she admits, and glares at the messy knot of yarn in her hand. “It was supposed to be a hat.”
Daryl is silent for a minute, then comes over and pulls it from her hold. Beth lets him, and is only a little surprised when he tugs it on. He struggles, but doesn’t say anything about how it snags in his hair or pinches one of his ears on the way down. Once he’s finally worked it into place, he comes out looking like a Cabbage Patch Kid wearing a bonnet.
“How’s it look?”
Beth snorts. “Ridiculous. You’re lucky that you’re handsome enough to pull it off.”
He blushes, the same way he always does when she compliments him, and she pulls him in for a sweet, chaste kiss.
“Welcome home, Daryl,” she murmurs against his lips, and feels him smile once more.