This fic was for fun, and to get me through the first few soul-crushing weeks of the Summer hiatus. That having been said, it does get dark. If you're not into that, best stop now. In fact I'll go so far as to do this…

Warning – Violence. I don't usually do a warning for violence, especially not for Walking Dead—I mean, come on, what show are you guys watching?! But I think in this case… it might be a good idea, so, this is your warning that this story is violent. Bad things happen to characters you love.

I cobbled the plot and themes together using theories and speculations about season five that I deemed 'interesting, but not likely'. Since I don't think we'd see them on the show in October, I put them together in a way that I thought they could be pulled off, if so desired by the excellent TWD writers. I'm most definitely not one of them, but I did have a lot of fun playing with their characters.

Also, I'm a hard-core Bethyl fangirl, so this is Bethyl and is in fact mostly Beth's POV. Enjoy:)

"Oh."

In the kitchen of an old funeral home on the edge of a cemetery, Beth and Daryl shared a stolen meal. They were just beginning their conversation; an important one.

At first glance, it would look like Daryl was hiding behind his hair. But Beth was in the perfect position to see precisely the way his blue eyes found her through his long, unruly fringe. What would he do if she reached out to push his hair back to see him better?

He'd probably let her. She realized and it made her throat tighten.

Then again, she wasn't sure she needed a better look at him, even folded in three layers of clothing, smudges of dirt and greasy hair she could read him like a billboard.

The cans they'd set up to warn them of approaching threats rattled. The sound of dog barking and whining came from the front door.

"I'm gonna give that mutt one more chance," Daryl stood up from the table, and took a hold of the jar of pig's feet. He unscrewed the top to fish out a few soggy pieces.

On the back of his leather vest he had a pair of stitched angel's wings that her eye followed until he disappeared into the front room of the mortuary. They were both wearing their boots, had their gear close. Daryl wore his jacket and vest while Beth had a warm sweater on. They were always ready to bolt at a moment's notice; they had to be ready.

The stray dog had come to their borrowed porch earlier. Daryl tried to coax it inside, but it ran off.

Two things struck her as she was left alone in the kitchen, staring at the space where his angel-wings had hovered for a split second. The first was that it seemed like Daryl was relieved that they'd been interrupted before she made him answer the question she had asked him, and the second was that this was exactly how she'd come to know what sort of a man he was; she'd learned to read him.

He didn't talk about his thoughts or feelings much; in fact he shared basically nothing unless she pried like the jaws-of-life… or there was that time she got him drunk.

But, she knew him.

In this apocalyptic mess, Daryl was a survivor, and in a lot of ways he was more comfortable with the new world disorder than anyone else she'd ever known. He understood kill or be killed, he knew how to take care of himself without modern convenience, and he had exactly zero qualms about invading or stealing other people's property, and did so frequently, without apology.

At the same time, he was still the kind of man who shared his precious, limited food-supply with animals (at least with the ones he wasn't hunting), if that didn't give Beth the right sort of picture of his character, nothing would.

"BETH! Beth!" With his shouts, she heard snarling and a sudden chorus of familiar, bone-chilling moans. The dog had been followed.

Shit. Shit! Immediately, she heaved Daryl's crossbow up and ran to the front room.

Sure enough when she hobbled as quickly as she could into the front room it was to find Daryl struggling to barricade the door with his whole body; rotting hands jutted out from the frame. The dead had found them. She tossed him his crossbow.

Catching it deftly, he whirled around and let the door give, "Run!" he drew back and fired a bolt, "Run!"

Already, she was scrambling away from the fight, ignoring her twisted ankle for the moment. If she didn't do as he said, she'd be walker food.

She could hear him running through the house, drawing the walkers off, "Beth, pry open a window! Get your shit!" he ordered.

A sinking feeling was born in the space between her heartbeats. "I'm not gonna leave you!" she called back to him. No. No. No. This felt wrong. She wanted to do something, anything else. She wanted to help him, not leave him.

"Go out. Go up the road! I'll meet you there." Over a dozen walkers had barreled into the house after him.

Screaming inside, she took the opportunity to bolt. Her heart thudded and seemed to repeat 'no, no, no' to the steady beat.

It was the only way they would both survive. It made good logical sense. Beth was hurt and wasn't a strong fighter like Daryl, especially not against so many walkers at once. If she stuck around for the melee, then Daryl would have to waste all his energy protecting her. If she ran for it, he could concentrate on saving himself. He'd given her an opening; he'd ordered her to take it. She did as he said, even though she had a bad feeling about it.

I'll see you up the road.

"Go!"

A walker appeared on the lawn, reeling towards her. "This way!" it shouted and suddenly time came to an abrupt, unnerving halt. Walkers didn't speak. He wasn't dead. His flesh wasn't falling off of him; in fact the man looked young and healthy. He was trying to usher her to a car.

In the space of two heavy, stumbling footsteps she determined that this man wasn't dead, but all the same, she didn't like the way he'd appeared so suddenly or the way he looked at her like he was ready to pounce if she didn't do what he said.

She turned to run from him, just the way she would have run from any other threat. Her injured ankle made her too slow. He grabbed her from behind and hit her hard in the head.

Her bag spilled into the grass behind them. Discombobulated and still panicked she thought she heard a car door slam and Daryl calling her name. An engine came to life and tires squealed as her body was rocked forward. She realized that she was lying in the back seat of a car, though she wasn't sure how she got there.

"Beth! BETH!" Daryl's voice was getting further away, "BETH!"

I always like to end with a song from my Bethyl playlist.

Hold On - Tom Waits