This is the fifth piece in my Bethyl Week series. As I announced in the previous pieces, this scene is associated with my full-length work entitled Settling, Surviving, Thriving, Living. However, this, unlike some of the previous pieces, is meant to fill a bit of a gap left in the content of SSTL. It is, therefore, new content meant to add deeper meaning to other scenes from the story.
Please note that, while these pieces are part of a larger story, they are stand-alone one-shots; therefore, they do not follow the chronological order of the show. The selections will be posted to follow the schedule of the prompts for the event. Once Bethyl Week is over, I will create a separate story and re-post the one-shots in chronological order there.
In essence, this one-shot does stand independently and can, therefore, be enjoyed whether you have or have not read the original story :-)
He dreamt of all the things he could be doing to her; and not he as in Daryl—he didn't dare to think on those things, not while she wasn't at his side, not while he hadn't the slightest idea where she could be—he, as in the presumed male asshole that had taken her. Somehow he just knew it had to be a guy; the way she was now—the way he had trained her, he knew someone would need to physically overpower her to sweep her into that car. She wouldn't go down without a fight; she'd make another stand, it was just part of who she was now, when she was with him.
She'd been gone two whole nights; both nights, he hadn't managed to sleep for shit. He thought perhaps it might have to do with the fact that he now had to sleep without Beth within shouting distance. Daryl didn't know when it had happened, but he had become accustomed to being able to always at least talk to her, even if she wasn't within eyesight.
It made her thoughts harder to follow, the actions she'd want him to take harder to predict.
It also made his mind haunt him, as memories flashed before him of every moment they had spent together in the time since the prison had fallen. It had been at least a month—he knew that now, couldn't acknowledge it as any other way; they had grown too close, too connected for it to be any less time than that.
Sometime over that month, he had just grown used to her being by his side. And, now that she wasn't, his brain was blaming him, torturing him with visions of all the time they had managed to spend together, and of all the time they might never get now, due to his own failures.
When his eyes would actually fall, and his brain would concede to rest, he would manage to finally get to sleep. But his mind never completely submitted, as it haunted him with visions. Were they predictions or just his fears? Were these things really happening or was he just imagining the very worst case? He didn't know and, somehow, that actually managed to be worse.
As he felt himself drifting off once more, his conscious submitting to his subconscious, he knew this time would be no different…
…He was manhandling her, gripping her arm tight, tight as could be; she would have a bruise, come the next day. She was tugged forward, her murky yet distinct blonde hair coming into view as he heard her breathe deeply.
She didn't yell, though. She never did, he recalled, as he thought back on the Walker attacks that had been sprung upon her in the time since the fall of the prison.
Beth stumbled further into his vision and he could tell instantly it was her, even through the foggy sights of a dream; the hair and that matching pale skin would leave no other conclusion to be drawn. She crashed into the far wall ahead, her palms placed flat against the wood, her back to him.
It was then that he realized. He was playing the role of her captor in this scenario. And why shouldn't he, Daryl thought. He might as well be the asshole himself; after all, it had been him that had gotten her into this situation to begin with.
He heard a voice that was not his own issue an order that she turn around. Beth, strong as always, shook her head a few times, as she remained stone cold silent. Despite his disgust with himself—with his viewpoint as the captor in this sick scenario—he felt a bout of pride well up within him; always making stands, his new Little Ass Kicker.
The order was issued once more and almost instantly Beth's voice found him, with a firm no in return. That pride welled up once more, only to be beaten back a moment later, as he reminded himself that she wouldn't need to make this stand if he hadn't let her fall to this position to begin with.
Or, better yet, he thought, if he could be there at her side, to give her that final push she sometimes needed to really show the strength he knew she had inside her, knew that she just typically chose to hide, knew that she usually pushed aside in the interest of putting the needs of the others above her own.
The situation changed, as the voice that wasn't his erupted forth once more, this time clearly in an angry grumble and growl. Suddenly he was moving forward, fully in a charge. He reached for her arm, tugging her around to face forward. His eyes met hers—found those baby blues for the first time in what felt to be centuries—and she looked at him with the closest thing she probably had to hatred, a look he had never seen her give him, let alone anyone else.
A tug was issued; she was instantly brought closer. She fought him off—pushed, shoved, kicked out at his shins. It only strengthened the captor's resolve.
He heard Beth shriek in horror before he jolted awake. It haunted him, as he had never heard her make such a sound before, not even with a Walker in her face, teeth chomping at the bit.
Part of him was grateful for the hasty exit from the nightmare. Daryl secured his arm over his face, insuring that his own was still covered in the process. He didn't need to give these assholes anymore than they had already gotten from him.
The nightmare plagued him, made his gut clench to know where she was, what was happening to her. Was she being treated as she was in his dreams? Or was it even worse? The fate she was experiencing…was it one she would never be able to come back from?
No, he thought. This was Beth. She'd find a way—she was always full of hope and light; even if she lost that for a bit, she'd find her way back to it. And he'd help her, should she need him to. It was the least he could do, considering he would be the reason she would be there to begin with.
His travels with Joe and his men had worn on him far worse than he had thought. Attempting to appease this group—to follow their rules—was exhausting. Combine that with the absolute lack of sleep he'd gotten in the two nights without her and he was nearing the end of his rope.
Despite not wanting to, despite the flashes of that near hatred in her eyes that still haunted him, despite that shriek of pure fear that continued to echo in his ears, he found himself drifting off once more…
...Somehow he knew this wood cabin was the wood cabin—the very one he had occupied moments before, where he had threatened her, presumably tortured her after the fade back to reality.
Not him, he reminded himself. The other him. It did little to assuage his guilt—nothing, really, if he were to be honest with himself. If anything, it made it press upon his shoulders harder. Even in his dormant state, he felt his arm lower, felt his body curl into a fetal position.
He started towards the door and Daryl's gut began to churn once more. Would he threaten her again? Would he have to hear her scream yet again? How many times would he have to hear that scream issued in his nightmares before he could find her? He reckoned it would end up being more times than he could count; although he never really did think he was very smart—maybe even counting presented a problem for someone as stupid as him, he thought. Even in his sleeping state, he felt himself biting down viciously on his own cheek.
Before he could reach the cabin, the view changed, as she emerged from the front door to take the porch. He knew it was her immediately—the hair could never be denied. Daryl found that he was progressively growing more obsessed with that hair; it seemed to represent everything she was to him—lightness and hope and a shining ray all wrapped up in pale skin to match.
It was just too much. He felt his eyes squint in the sunlight, found himself wondering what he, as the captor, would do now.
But then something changed—something else he noted. She smiled—her usual smile, all joy and happiness.
As she started to approach him, Daryl stood still, rejoicing in that joy that was rolling off of her, as it had at the piano in their funeral home. In the dream, it was only a fraction of its true form, but it was more than sufficient to have him nearly salivating at the thought of drinking it in—drinking her in.
Daryl wondered idly, perhaps far too belatedly, why she would be smiling at him—as her captor. He did his best to control the movements of the body that wasn't his, did his best to keep the captor on the lawn, away from her, even as she sped up, approached him faster, breaking out into the surreal and slow motion jog that fit his dream state in a perfectly clichéd way.
She had bruises on that pale skin—that skin that wrapped around her hope and joy and bright hair like a big shiny bow, that skin that was so soft he had just known it would bruise easily. He had hoped to never find out, and certainly not first hand.
Those bruises were his doing, he realized—as both the dreamt version of her captor and as the man who was meant to protect her, keep her out of harm's way. He had failed, and he had never known it more than he did in this moment, his eyes glued to those bruises.
She was still running, approaching him very quickly now, even in the slowed state. Before he knew it, Beth was upon him, against him, her arms swooping around his neck, pulling him in closer.
Why would she hug the man who did this to her, he wondered. He could see the bruises up close and personal now; there was one on her arm, as it rested right by his check. Daryl shifted to get a better look and, in the process, a bit of his hair fell in his face.
He knew then, why she would hug him. He wasn't her captor this time. It was the same cabin, but he was not the same man.
This was a reunion, he realized. As soon as the clarification came to him, his arms were lowering, instinctively wrapping around her.
"Daryl," she whispered. It hurt to hear her say it, to know that when he woke up, he wouldn't be able to hear her whisper it again.
His arms tightened around her, just as he was dropped from the dream.
Daryl's attention stirred briefly, as the garage doors slid open behind him, letting in the shock of light afforded by dawn. He jolted to full alert, the presence of a sudden noise having the same affect it always did on him since the world had gone to shit. He realized this—the actions of Joe's men—must have been what forced him from the dream, one of the few happy and hopeful experiences his sleep had afforded him in the time since he'd lost her.
But it wasn't all hope and happiness. His attention wavered from the garage door, as he experienced something different entirely. There was a pressing pain in his heart; he felt it immediately, as he looked to the side and realized she was nowhere to be found.