A/N: Hey, guys! This is my first fic (ever) and it's going to really focus on Beth and Daryl's development together. They'll both contribute to each other's growth, and in between all of it, we'll see some romance, and, who knows? Maybe even a bit more ;)

If you could take the time to favorite or even write a review, it'd mean a lot. It'll help me get these chapters up a lot quicker if I know people are enjoying them. Anyway, there might be some triggering content ahead, but I hope you all enjoy! I wrote this listening to Wicked Games by James Vincent McMorrow, and that's where the title of the fic comes from.

What changed your mind?

Beth's words echoed at the back of Daryl's dark mind, watching as she was taken, wondering if that perfect moment would be his last memory of her.

Daryl didn't believe in God. Didn't believe in luck. Didn't believe in much. But somehow, against all his fucked up logic, against the shitty hand he'd been dealt his entire life, he'd come to believe in Beth.

"Beth!" Daryl cried out, wasting no time in sprinting after her. He pushed his tired feet against the pavement, hard, willing his own damn, tired body to run faster. To run harder. For her. For Beth.
The car began to swerve around on the road as it appeared to lose control, and at that particular moment, a glimmer of hope.

The back door opened, and he saw a body roll out while the car was still moving. Greedy, prying hands could be seen reaching towards her fragile, injured body as she rolled on the pavement before coming to a harsh stop by the grass. The car slammed on its brakes, but after some deliberation, they sped off.

"Beth?" Daryl called out again, pushing with all of his might until he reached Beth. She was sprawled out on the road. It was too dark and the walkers were too close for Daryl to risk the time to examine her wounds. So instead, he draped his bow across his back and knelt over, picking her up.

"Got ya," he said, as she squirmed around in his arms. "Shh, it's me. I got ya," he repeated, causing Beth's big and widened eyes to relax at the sound of his voice. "Gonna find us a place," he promised her. "Gonna find us a place," he repeated, the second time almost for himself.

"It took Beth a moment, like a child that had just been struck and there was that inexplicably long moment of waiting. Waiting to see if they'd cry, waiting to see if they'd yell. Waiting.

Beth gasped, and soon after, she was overcome with tears. Her hysterical state was not exactly convenient at that particular time, especially since he was sure the walkers were not far off. But he remained silent, much like he always did with her.

"Oh, Daryl…" Beth whimpered meekly, shaking her head out of sheer frustration and anger and maybe hurt, too. "The things they said… they were gonna ra–…" She cut herself off before she could finish saying the word, and that's when she broke down entirely.

Beth, who was beautiful and kind and loving, wailed with desperation in his arms.

Beth, who was strong and fierce and composed, wrapped an arm around his neck, tight, afraid to let go.

Beth, who was terrified and hurt and tired, pressed her mouth against his neck as she cried.

It wasn't a kiss. But she pressed herself so close to Daryl, it could've easily been mistaken for one. It might've seemed like her hot breath against his skin was what evoked a reaction out of him, but truthfully, he hadn't been paying much attention to that.

Daryl froze in his tracks, clenching his fists beneath her body. He was shaking, and he was sure that she could feel it, too. Daryl couldn't even relish in the sensation of her dampened lips being pressed against his neck as she continued to speak.

"Th-they said they'd take r-real g-…good care of me…"

All his mind could think about was that word – the one that she was on the verge of shouting out. If she said it, that made it real, and he didn't want that.

"They touch you?" He asked. Daryl's voice was typically strong and composed and gruff, but it came out high pitched and weak. He could hear the snarls of the walkers getting closer, but he couldn't move. Not until she answered.

Beth blinked once, but then her face was overcome with shame as she looked down at the floor.

A wave of anger that began in his chest flared through him like a wildfire that was dangerous and needed putting out. The same anger he felt as a kid, watching his Pa beat on his Ma with a belt until she was bruised and bleeding, resurfaced for the first time in years.

Daryl thought to himself. No one deserved this, but especially not Beth. Sweet, kind, loving Beth…

The sound of the walkers is what eventually pulled him back into the present. A small group of walkers were on their tail, and gaining on them fast. He began to walk quickly with Beth in his arms, before eventually, she wiggled out, insisting that they'd be quicker if they were both on their feet. He couldn't argue, but after what had happened, Daryl wanted nothing more than to hold her close against his chest, drape his arms around her tiny frame and shield her from the horrors of this new world.

[ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ]

They managed to outrun the walkers by going back into the wooded area of Georgia, where Daryl felt the most comfortable. The silence between them was heavy. No absentminded hums from Beth that normally filled the void between the two. He had thought things would be different after the funeral home, but maybe not. Maybe this was it for Beth. He knew that she was strong. Hell, she knew it way before he did. But maybe this was her breaking point – almost being kidnapped, raped by strange men who felt like they were owed something at the end of the world.

Daryl's blood was still boiling when they found a rundown house, right smack in the middle of the woods. It looked exactly like the one Daryl had grown up in, only in a more rural area. The front porch was falling apart, the screen door out front barely hanging on by a thread. He wasn't sure it'd be a safe place to stay that night – especially not when the demons of his own upbringing were dangerously close to resurfacing in a place like that, but he knew that Beth needed shelter, a place to rest, a place to get her mind together.

Daryl gave her one nod, and she blinked in response. They understood each other without saying a single word. Daryl unslung his crossbow and stuck his old flashlight in his mouth. They knew the routine – knock on the walls a couple of times, see if they could draw any of them out.

But something in Beth didn't care for routine that particular night, because she stomped into the house without warning.

"Beth!" Daryl hissed, following up the tattered front steps behind her.

"Hey!" Beth yelled out loudly, banging on the walls of the house. "Come get it, assholes," she cried out, her voice unlike he'd ever heard it before. Desperate, sad, and most of all, angry.

"The hell you doin', girl? Got a death wish?" He growled, speaking before he could even think. Instinctively, Daryl grabbed her by the arm and roughly snatched her away from the hallway. He could hear the snarls of the dead making their way towards the two of them. By this point, Beth had fallen to the floor, crying.

Daryl fought off a pair of walkers, alone, before leaving Beth on the ground to cry while he cleared the rest of the house and dragged the bodies outside. He secured it while she just sat there, crying. Daryl knew that securing the house was the most important thing, so he covered all the windows and essentially barricaded themselves into the tiny house. He knew, from the looks of Beth, that they weren't going anywhere anytime soon.

Not wanting to waste what little battery was left on his flashlight, Daryl made use of a few oil lamps that he'd found stowed away in some boxes. These people were prepared. Like his own Ma. Always walking around with a bible in her hand, sayin' that it'd be any day now that the Lord would come an' take them to paradise.

He let Beth have her space while he rummaged through the house, wishing, praying that the crying would stop. Not because he couldn't handle it, but because it damn nearly ripped his heart in two, and he didn't know what to do about it.

Hold her, a voice told him. Comfort her, do somethin'.

I can't, he replied back.

Suddenly, he saw his father, sitting on that stupid, ripped up couch. An eight-year-old Daryl was crawling behind it, trying to find a stray playin' card that he'd lost. As Daryl was crawling back out, he'd accidentally knocked over a lamp, which apparently really pissed his father off, despite that it didn't even work.

"The hell you thinking, boy?!" His father's voice boomed, and it shook Daryl to the core. His Ma was passed out, drunk, in the bedroom. "Can't touch anything without destroyin' it!" Daryl's lip began to tremble, and before he could stop himself, a tear rolled down his cheek, and that was all the motivation his father needed to grab him by the collar of his shirt and kick him in the stomach until he fell.

"Didn't raise no fuckin' faggot, boy. You go on and get the belt so I can make a man outta you," he demanded. Daryl wanted to protest, to shake his head, to run away.

But instead:

"Y-yessir," Daryl replied as he ran to search for his daddy's belt.

Daryl glanced back at Beth, who was slightly less hysterical at this point. He walked over to where she sat on the ground, lighting the oil lamp and setting it a few feet away from her.

"Lemme look at ya," Daryl suggested. He waited until she turned her body towards him completely before kneeling down in front of her. There were tiny pieces of gravel still stuck in her arm from when she'd rolled out of the car. His rough hands pulled them out, gentle as he could. They hadn't dug into her skin as much as just really made some pretty deep indentions.

"It hurt?" He asked gruffly, running the pads of his fingers over the road burn on her arm. She flinched. He never meant to be so rough.

She looked up at him, and he kicked himself for asking such a stupid question. "Ain't my arm that's hurtin', Daryl Dixon…" she whimpered in the darkness, soft blue eyes falling down at the stained carpet.

"Nothin' to be scared of no more."

"How do you know?"

"Just do."

"…Ok."

It was the best that Daryl could do in terms of comfort. He figured that he could scope out the rest of the house, hoping there'd be something useful to salvage. Maybe food, if they were lucky. But Beth had other plans.

She inched closer to him, tear stained face so exhausted that he couldn't bring it in himself to tell her that there was still so much left to do. She rested one of her hands on his chest, her fingers grasping onto the fabric of his shirt, while the other snaked around his back. She buried her face in his chest, next to her hand.

Daryl's breath hitched, and he remained absolutely still, both of his hands down at his side.

"Hold me," Beth requested, her voice soft and sad and barely even a whisper.

He remembered his father's words. "Can't touch anything without destroyin' it!"

"Ok."

It was a foreign concept, holding someone, but especially Beth. So fragile and innocent, and even after her experience that night, she still trusted him – a man – to hold her and keep her safe. Daryl reluctantly wrapped an arm around her tiny frame, his rough, calloused hands tracing a small zig zag shaped pattern on her back. In response, Beth squeezed onto him tighter and sighed shakily. She was crying again. He rested his back against the wall in the hallway and let out a deep breath.

"Nothin' to be scared of no more, girl. I got ya. An' I'ma make them pay for this."

Beth didn't respond, she just shuddered and held onto him for dear life.