AN: This isn't a typical Bethyl. I'm trigger warning up front for the impending language, rape, abuse, etc. It's not the nicest take on the dynamic or the most Daryl-friendly. Don't burn me at a stake, I love him like the rest of you, I just wanted to go down a path of exploring what Daryl darkness could look like. If you can take it with a grain of salt and accept the idea of him as more of an antihero, then here you go. Hope you enjoy.

Now, if you're still here, I'll frame the backdrop a little. Some dialogue is loosely based on the show, and the setting is more solidly based on the show, except there will be more time together before Beth is kidnapped (mostly, a week or so at the funeral home). Also, none of that "yer" nonsense. Daryl enunciates decently enough, y'all. We Southerners just have a twang. ;)

Chasing My Damage

Part One, Night:

He'd hung on to a few bottles of the moonshine. It wasn't smart, and he knew better, but he had. Beth hadn't seen him do it. But he felt her suspicion when she'd excuse herself at night from the parlor of the funeral home after a few of his visits outside to 'check the perimeter'. It was a lousy excuse, moonshine stunk on the drinker even if they did quickly swig it from contraband bottles hidden under porches.

So as he wandered outside for a sixth time this particular night, he didn't bother to grab the bottle covertly and hide around the corner of the house to drink it. She'd meekly hidden herself up in her makeshift bedroom an hour ago. He sat down hard on the porch steps and loudly uncorked it. His fingers and the edges of his vision buzzed as he threw the bottle back and let the acidic-tasting drink slosh down his throat. It felt like liquid anger coursing out from his gut to his veins to his head.

"About a fifth?" he spoke to the empty graveyard and the loud cicadas.

Yeah, that sounded right. That was about how much he was in tonight. And what was his limit? He pseudo-ran numbers in his head, recalling his years of following Merle around and getting fucked up and doing fuck all. What was the area between numb and thoughtless? He'd spent years trying to perfect the art of getting fucked up just to a forgetful oblivion, and not letting himself get to the angry, belligerent, violent place his father and brother called their vacation home.

Daryl took another long swig. His thinking fanned out even more. He felt less inhibited by the limits of his body and all the walker, end-of-world bullshit. He'd inherited a lot from his family, other than just their alcoholic rage. He also wasn't much of a homebody. He already felt caged by Beth's quiet judgment and the four walls of the funeral home. His brother and father were right, animals were animals. He was a born Dixon, a hell-raiser.

He grinned at this and stood. Nearby an axe sat knocked in an old stump. Daryl walked over to it and hefted it up. Experimentally, he brought it back down on the stump. The crack of metal to wood was satisfying. But, he wanted more. Daryl picked his moonshine bottle up from beside himself and chugged it for a good ten seconds. He cast his eyes around the yard until he spotted an unexplained stack of windows. Maybe the owner changed them out. Who knew? Who gave a shit?

Recorking and dropping the bottle to the ground, Daryl ambled over to the stack. He raised the axe and brought it down hard on the pile of windows. A few shattered, sending shards up at him in the process. He smiled at the sting on his arms and face. He picked up one of the windows and kicked through it with all his might.

"Daryl!...stop!," a voice hissed from above. Daryl wheeled around to look and saw a wide-eyed, terrified, and angry Beth sticking her head from her second story room. He narrowed his eyes and smirked.

She blinked and tested the waters again, using a soft and pleading voice, "Walkers will hear. Please come in. You're hurt".

Instead of speaking he lifted the axe again and brought it down loudly on another window. Beth sighed and looked away.

"Oh fuck off, you spoiled cunt. If something came, I'd deal with it. I always do. Fuck off and go to bed" he spat up at her.

Beth opened her mouth, but rethought. She instead slammed the window shut and disappeared.

He stood there in the yard a good ten minutes with nothing but the moonlight and the cicadas to keep him company. So, it'd came to a head. He'd yelled at her. No secrets here. He was a scary, angry redneck she was stuck hiding out with in the middle of nowhere. He imagined her scurrying over to her bedroom door and locking it. She'd lay down in her bed and shut her eyes tight, maybe pray to a god for a way out or wonder where her sister was.

A drunken, angry Daryl laughed at this. He stalked across the yard and threw the bottle back under the steps. He charged into the house and made his way towards the corpse preparation room. Something was stinging at the back of his throat. He unsheathed his knife and slammed the door behind himself. He looked at the stupid, dead corpse she had called beautiful. He didn't see anything worth value in a dead person turned into a doll. For what reason? So family could come see the body and remember the man? Make him up as a lie to help them grieve easier? What selfish bullshit was that?

Daryl posed his knife over the body. He could let the truth out. Shred her stupid doll. If she came back down here, she'd be forced to see the truth through all of her rose-colored, blonde airhead bullshit. He could be what she saw. Some feral dog that ended up surviving long enough to take up on the outskirts of an established group of 'decent' folks. Suddenly, Daryl felt pain. A lot of physical pain.

He dropped to his knees and slid back until his back was against the door. Staring up at the body, old cigarette burn scars itched and nipped at him. Long gone needle trackmarks from drugs his brother talked him into stung and rang on his forearms. He felt the scar on the back of his head where his father had busted it open when he'd knocked a pack of his old man's cigarettes in the dish water, destroying them.

No, that was dumb, it was just the pain from the glass cuts settling in on his drunk brain. His vision got watery and he felt himself directing his anger inward. He was going to cry like the little bitch he was.

"Oh, come on, the fuck are you doing?" he heard Merle say. His brother was standing over him, watching him with mirth on his lips.

Daryl didn't answer. He didn't answer ghosts.

"What you need is to bring it up now. You always were the worst at getting girly on the hooch. Light up your blood with something a little fast, baby brother" he said.

What he wouldn't give for a syringe or two of heroin. Hell, even a bowl of crystal or some melted Oxys would do the body good. Ghost or not, Merle was right. He needed to come up. Not be grounded down. Daryl let himself cry for what felt like half the night.

After a while, Daryl picked himself up and unlocked the door. He felt numb and hollowed out. He trudged his way to the viewing room and crawled inside the empty casket. He laid himself down and closed his eyes, falling asleep and trying to distance himself from everything the night had brought.

Part One, Day:

He woke up to something gently stroking his cheek, followed by a faint sting. He blinked his eyes open and squinted at the bright light filling the parlor. Beth stood over him, a rag with something aseptic-smelling on it in hand. She hesitantly withdrew her hand as his eyes opened.

"Hi…," she started, "I just wanted to clean the cuts. They look worse than they are when the blood's wiped away"

"Yea, uh, thanks, it's okay though" he answered, sitting up to face her. Beth moved back and turned away. Daryl felt a twinge of guilt and pain unrelated to his wounds and his hangover. It was as if she was afraid of him being to close to her while conscious. Daryl crawled out of the coffin and moved himself further way from her.

Beth turned back to face him, a new fake smile on her lips as she dove into pleasantries, "So are you hungry? There's not much but we could have oatmeal with water. We'll have to make a fire out back to warm it, but it could be decent. I've seen some berries nearby"

He paused before answering and looked at her, trying to meet her eye. Beth's expression dimmed a bit and she averted her eyes from his. Daryl sighed and played along, "Sure, yeah. That'll do. You start the mixing and grab the berries. I'll get things together and get the fire going".

Nodding, she almost ran from the room. Alone again, Daryl looked down at his arms. She was right, with the blood gone, the glass cuts weren't so bad. They'd scar interestingly. A story to get a girl or two in bed, Merle would say. Daryl went into the kitchen for an empty bottle to fill with rainwater from out back. At him entering the room, he felt a slight shift in Beth's demeanor. Her humming lessened. Her back seemed stiffer. He ignored this and left out the back door. He'd collected some wood and kindling on the first day to lessen the necessity of venturing to far from the house. Even though he was beginning to think Beth could hold her own, he wasn't sure what he'd do if something happened to her because he was too far away.

Absentmindedly and through a dull headache, Daryl went through the motions of starting and maintaining a fire. It was a pretty enough day out and all things considered it was a pretty location. Not long after, Beth came out with a giant pot. He moved away and allowed her to use the fire to warm the oatmeal. Daryl quietly smoked a cigarette and watched her from behind as she cooked. When it was done she took the pot and turned away, gesturing for him to follow her inside.

The two sat down at the table for breakfast. Each ate in relative silence with only trivial small talk in between. Beth commented on how she'd found a loom upstairs and how she'd always wanted to learn the basics of weaving. Daryl entertained the idea of looking in the woods later for some kind of protein for dinner.

After a while, the elephant got the best of him and Daryl spoke, "Beth, can we talk about last night?"

"I don't think we need to, nothing happened" she said quickly.

"Something did happen. I was a dick. You and I know I had no business doing what I did" he said.

Beth paused and seemed to consider her next words, "It's just. It's just, what the hell, Daryl? What were you thinking out there making so much noise?

"I was..," he started, almost saying drunk, "angry. A lot has happened. I guess I was trying to let off steam. I'm sorry. I really am, Beth"

"It's fine I suppose. Just, you can talk to me instead, you know? Instead of … doing other things" Beth finished testily. It was obvious she wanted to bring up him being drunk. But, once again, in the life of Daryl Dixon words were minced because he was a feral dog. You can't reason with a dog. You can't tell it not to be dangerous. You can only try to placate it.

He only grunted back in reply. Beth shrugged softly. She finished eating and went to get up. Daryl felt a twinge of guilt. He was making up for being a dick by being a dick.

"Beth, I-" he started. She paused, standing across from him at the table. She raised an eyebrow encouragingly, "I grew up hard. I wasn't around the best people and I've had to do things just to survive. I'm rough around the edges. Just in my blood"

Daryl glanced around the kitchen, looking for something to change the subject. He found nothing and resigned himself to looking down at the kitchen table.

"You know, when I tried to kill myself if was for a different reason than what it looked like. Yeah, teenage angst and all that, whatever. I know I'm spoiled and sheltered. But that isn't all I am, or it's not all I can be. I always sort of thought I'd come out of my shell when I left for college. I knew I'd never be able to measure up to Maggie and what she got into but I still knew I'd find my own quiet kind of liberation. Then everything with the walkers happened. I realized once the walkers became the norm that I thought I'd be what I've always been and nothing more" Beth said.

Daryl looked up at her, slightly puzzled by her sudden admission. "I don't know if I understand" he replied.

"What I'm trying to say Daryl is that you are never stuck with being one sort of way or one sort of thing. The only personthat pigeon-holds you is you. Maybe people will keep seeing you how they think you are or were or whatever but you're the only person you have to answer to at the end of the day" Beth stated.

He fought to stifle a smile. He didn't want to make her feel that he found her perspective cute and naïve, but it was almost comical that this girl half his age was attempting to give a grown man a 'pull yourself up by your boot straps' pep talk.

"Folks is folks, Beth. Some things are changeable and some are just how you are" Daryl answered.

"Sure, if that's what they want. You gotta want to change" Beth said, "I think you don't need to, you just have to see yourself better" she finished softly.

"I just had a bad night. I'm fine. Just my convict ways showing through" he said sardonically with a smirk. Beth sucked her teeth and threw a dish towel at him.

"Oh whatever" she laughed. And the conversation tapered off. The two went about their days. Daryl shelved the issue. He considered pouring out the rest of the moonshine as he gathered things for dinner, he doubted he'd follow through.