When she had sliced her own wrists. That was when Daryl Dixon first took notice of the blonde southern belle. The way her eyes, all too innocent in their entirety, trembled in her own embarrassment when the group found out. It was all Andrea's fault. She was the one who gave Beth that freedom. She was the one who corrupted her.
No. Daryl knew that was a bullshit lie. Beth did it to herself. She knew exactly what she was doing and from the start, she knew she wouldn't be able to finish it. She was much too innocent and pure. And fuck, did Daryl want to ruin her. He wanted to take anyway everything that made her such a pathetic, attention-seeking dumb girl and strip her down into a new person.
And a new person she became, but not with the help of the archer. It was the baby. Little Ass-Kicker.
It baffled Daryl how such a tiny little human could bring a group together so tightly. Even he became a victim to the smelly, screaming thing Beth often held in her arms. When she wasn't constantly holding a bottle to the pouting mouth or bouncing her around in tune with her songs, Daryl held her. He whispered stories to her – stories of the world before the end.
He had noticed Beth watching him with the infant, telling of green grass that itched if you sat on it too long, annoying traffic lights that always seemed to turn red when you're in a hurry to get somewhere, and holidays with a family that he never had. The young woman always took over then. Her perfect lips would dance around words to create a picture of a loving family surrounding a table piled with food. Her voice caused him a strange sort of yearning for a future like that.
Beth's hand was the first thing Daryl reached for when the prison became invaded. Through the gunshots, the explosions, and the screaming echoing around him, all he could hear in his own mind was, "Beth…Beth…Beth." An overwhelming urge to protect this person rose in his chest. He'd felt it before, but back then he had confused it with rage.
Before he knew it, she was alone with him deep in the woods. Beth's face, so much younger and untainted than his, was smeared with dried blood and dirt. Her eyes forced back threatening tears and every so often, she turned from him to wipe them away. Daryl hated that more than anything as much as he couldn't understand why. He hid absolutely nothing from her, from anyone, and yet she still insisted on turning her back on him when her true self began to show.
The trunk of the car provided only seven or eight hours worth of protection from the walkers. Daryl huddled with the girl in the compact space as he readied his crossbow to fire at any given moment. Beth's breathing became the rhythm at which his heart pounded forcefully against his chest. A reminder, he decided, to keep her alive, for his own sake.
"Okay," Beth started, standing from the ground. "Enjoy your snake jerky."
Daryl's eyes followed her as she strolled past him, grabbing for the knife that had been lodged in the fallen tree trunk next to him. His fingers twitched nervously as she disappeared from his sight. An uneasy twist formed in his gut until finally, he wiped his snake-covered hands on his pants and hurried after her.
Safe. Beth was safe. The painful churning inside the archer quelled as she gave him a soft, yet ashamed smile. It took so much of his willpower not to grab her face and force it into his. Over a year of calming himself, ridding the urges that more often than not sprang up trained him for moments like these. Instead of fulfilling his thoughts, his tongue slowly moistened his lower lip.
"I can take care of myself and I'm getting myself a damn drink."
Again, Daryl watched Beth walk from him. He often questioned himself as to why he pondered on his actions before actually doing them. Follow her, or let her take care of herself? Of course he would choose the former. Of course he would choose her.
Thunder rumbled once again as the duo found themselves at a damn county club of all places. Through the gift shop, the common room, and the bar, he followed the blonde. As she fondled shirts and necklaces, Daryl imagined giving her money for dumb trinkets like that. But now, with money having absolutely no value, that wasn't an option. Beth tried to hide her smile as she lifted a shirt that truly did her no justice. Even if he wasn't the reason for it, Daryl found himself grateful for her look of bliss.
The same look formed on her face in the piss-poor excuse for a house. Daryl knew there had to be moonshine somewhere in the shack. There was no way there couldn't be. Places like this he knew like the back of his hand.
"I've never..." Beth's soft eyes fluttered with a drunken haze as she lifted the mason jar of moonshine her to taut lips. To Daryl, there seemed to be two more of her than usual. He didn't mind. "I've never been in jail. I mean, as a prisoner."
Her words, goddamn her words, struck the man hard. So much harder than he could ever believe. Daryl watched her, waiting for her to admit to joking around and say something else she's never done. She only stared at him, her eyes prying for information.
"Is that what you think of me?" he finally demanded to know, his voice strained.
Beth searched frantically for words to cover up how much she knew she had hurt him. That was probably the worst part of it all: her knowingly causing him pain. God, he knew he shouldn't have tried to match pace with her drinking.
Before the both of them could realize what was happening, Daryl was thrown into a violent rage. He yelled, he threw shit, he made her feel smaller than she already was. He knew what he was doing and yet, he couldn't stop. No, she needed to be hurt as badly as he was.
"I sure as hell never cut my wrists for attention!"
Beth's face fell, as did his heart. However, he remained relentless. As he grabbed her fragile wrists and dragged her outside, forcing her to handle his crossbow, everything inside him screamed for him to stop. But no, he wouldn't. Not until he was okay again.
They pointed fingers in each other's faces, shouted profanities, and called each other names. And then, Daryl began to give up, just as he always did. Reality struck him. Before he knew it, he had turned his back on her, every single thing he had been carrying on his shoulders falling on top of him in a pile that he couldn't climb his way out of. It crushed him.
And instead of leaving him just as he expect her to, Beth's tiny frame pressed against his, her cheek resting on his back. Unable to form anymore words, Daryl simply hung his head and cried in front of the girl who wouldn't shed a tear in his presence.
"You're going to miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon."
Those words meant nothing to him. As long as Daryl was around, Beth would be safe and sound. He refused to let another person harm her, including himself. She was precious cargo, emphasis on the "precious."
When he was younger, Daryl wondered if the saying that there's a person out there for everyone was true. Of course, watching his parents argue and shove each other as he and Merle hid away in a closet proved that theory wrong. But her hand, her miniscule, petite hand, warmly nestled in his as she stared at the gravestone gave him some spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, if they were lucky, that theory would be right for them.
As Daryl lay in the empty coffin, his arm resting over his eyes, he couldn't help but peek out to watch her in all her entirety. She could be the last person he ever would ever see alive. Beth's voice, her voice, was what he found himself craving along with her lips against his skin and her laughter in his ears.
"We're all alone in our own world, and you don't wanna be my boyfriend," she sang. "And I don't wanna be your girl. And that…that's a relief. We'll drink up our grief and pine for summer. And we'll buy a beer to shotgun. And we'll lay in the lawn. And we'll be good."
Daryl wasn't sure what he wanted. He didn't know if he wanted to survive this world as it stood. He didn't know if he wanted to find the rest of the group. He didn't know if he wanted to ever get up from the coffin and stop listening to her voice. The one thing he did know for sure is that yes, he did want her to be his girl.
"Maybe we can stick around here for a while," Daryl suggested as night fell over the funeral home and the lonely graves standing underneath the sky. "They come back, we'll just make it work. They may be nuts, but maybe we'll be alright."
Beth always seemed to want to know everything. She fished and pried, tearing him open as if he were a jar filled with things she desperately needed to have. She broke him, shattered him, forced him to spill everything, but with her, it was natural. Almost as if she'd been there his whole life, experiencing and learning with him. If only that were the case.
"What changed your mind?" she repeated, an amused grin playing on her face.
Daryl knew the words. He knew the answer, but his mouth refused to form them. He could only stare at her, at her eyes that watched him when he wasn't looking.
"You," he whispered in his head. "Its you. Its always you, goddamn it. Beth Greene, its you."
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Exhaustion wears over him. Daryl had lost track of how long he had been running after the car that took her, took Beth, took his girl. He kneels in the middle of the street, sweat dripping from his hair and from his beard. His legs no longer work. They tremble with fury and fear.
She was the candle in his darkness. The closer he became, the warmer he felt. And now, someone had blown her out.
His right hand flexes, the ghost of her fingers wrapped around his. Her voice sounds off in his head, repeating the same words again and again, "You don't wanna be my boyfriend, and I don't wanna be your girl. And that…that's a relief."
"No," he mutters to himself, forcing his weight onto his feet again. "That's a bullshit lie and we both know it, Beth Greene. I'm coming."
Black car, white cross. Black car, white cross. Black car, white cross.
"I'm coming."