Helplessness Blues

Bethyl AU. Following the death of his beloved wife, Hershel falls apart. His youngest daughter finds herself responsible for putting him back together. Perhaps with some unexpected help.

Prologue

Hershel Greene could still remember his first day at Alcoholics Anonymous. His suit fit looser then. His hair had been the color of spun straw. A pregnant wife at home, all fine bones and floral shifts. Her skin glowed as her belly rounded. Their modest homestead, a few inherited tracks of land, muddled ground with chickens and sheep. But they made more than enough to get by. Enough to spend their evenings together, sat on the porch. Sweet tea in her glass, something stronger in his.

That something stronger that always made her smile sadly at him, nothing but love and patience in her eyes. Nothing but love and patience when she'd help his stumbling frame to bed. When she'd rise early, leaving water and aspirin on the bedside table. When she'd phone his local haunts at three o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday, just making sure he was alright.

Until the morning she woke him with knowing eyes, silently pressed his hand to her abdomen.

"It's not going to be just us anymore. I don't know if things can stay the same."

And off he went to church in his Sunday best. Past the pews and pulpit. Past the likeness of Christ himself. Down the creaky steps into the basement, where into his hand they pressed a small silver coin. Likely lead or copper scraps left over from an auto plant, moulded into a chip, painted to shine dully against the palm of his hand. A 'sobriety token', they called it. Meant to inspire him. A man with too-white teeth had smiled at him, congratulated him on 24-hours without booze.

Hershel had thought the tokens silly, unnecessary. The others displayed them proudly. Kept them on their mantles, in their wallets – the way unbroken people showed off photos of their children.

But he kept attending the meetings. Kept attending to his pregnant love at home, marveled as her body grew and changed – a part of him inside of her. Their liquor cabinet remained unstocked, his bar tab unused. And the tokens kept coming. Red for one month sober. Green for 90 days. Blue for six months. Tossed in the empty liquor cabinet, collecting dust.

Nine months of sobriety was meant to be the purple coin. But Hershel missed that meeting. Instead, he found himself holding a much more important token. One that smelled like soft cotton and hollered like Hell itself was burning in her throat. One that would one day give him half a heart attack with her antics and would always be Maggie, never Margaret. Looking at her soft downy hair and wide eyes, he couldn't imagine ever tasting another drop of liquor. Ever wanting to.

But God himself must not have meant for it to last.

Because before long his bride was lost. And Hershel was alone with a farm and a toddler. And old demons calling. First just a splash of whiskey in his evening coffee. He'd need the coffee to keep him up with Maggie. He'd need the whiskey to help him drift listlessly to sleep in an empty bed. Then a weekly trip to the local pub. He worked so hard, he deserved it. He needed it. Then more often than not, a crying Maggie passed off to Patricia and Otis. A shame-faced Hershel Greene, passed out at the bar.

Then Annette.

She simply entered his life as though she had always been there. With warm eyes and an easy smile, she managed to sort through the mess of him and find the parts that fit. More importantly she fit with Maggie, gave the child the mother that she desperately needed. The partner that Hershel desperately needed. The wedding was small and sufficient. Not a first for either of them. But it was theirs.

Where his first bride had indulged his bad habits with patience and understanding, Annette stood firm. He'd come home to the farm and find her with Maggie at her hip, pouring bottles of Southern Comfort down the drain. She knew all his hiding spots. She'd storm to the bar herself, find him at the bottom of a bottle. With her hands on her slim hips, her mouth a tight line.

"We all have jobs to do Hershel Greene. Are you sure this is yours?"

He experienced a sense of deja vu the day he came in from the fields and found Annette at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and singing to herself. Maggie at her feet banging pots and pans. Her back to him, she spoke matter-of-factly. "I'm pregnant Hersh."

At his silence, she turned to face him. Her eyes unreadable. "I love you as much as any woman can a man. But I'll take this baby and Maggie if you don't shape up. You hear?"

Wordlessly, he took her and Maggie in his arms. His girls. Every oath and promise that a man can make a woman trapped on his tongue. But in that moment, it was enough. He had heard her.

Back to his Sunday best. Back to church basements. Back to gathering stacks of chips and tokens. And one purple token later, back to the hospital.

This time when the nurses handed him his new daughter, the child was so quiet he could scarce believe it was his. Eyes so blue and clear it almost frightened him. As though the baby girl in his arms could see every mistake he had ever made written clear on his face. He held her to his chest and facing the window silently wept. Pure joy and sheer terror that he wasn't good enough, strong enough. That he would do wrong by this bundle of nerves and innocence and God's grace himself.

This little bundle they named Beth.

Returning the baby to Annette to nurse, he excused himself and paced the hallways of the hospital. Felt his hands shake for a drink. Felt the urge to flee. The weight of his own father's mistakes bearing down hard on his shoulders. Had never hated himself so much in that moment.

It wasn't until he calmed down, returned to his wife's room that he found his resolve. Found his wife and two daughters, propped up in the bed. Annette patiently helping Maggie in counting her new sister's ten little fingers. Ten little toes. The idyllic little picture. The family that Hershel had always wanted. The family that he could have, if he only let himself. And by the tenth toe, he felt his fears melt away. Felt his thirst dissipate.

He had stopped attending the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings years ago. Hadn't needed them. Not when there were three smart, vivacious, and beautiful women at home to keep him on track.

They'd had a good run. Had many, many happy years.

As he sat at the bar now, tossing back his fourth (or was it fifth?) bourbon, he couldn't stop himself from wryly wondering what color token they would have given for eighteen years sober.

Couldn't stop himself from thinking that they should have tokens for other things. A token for when the love of your life is ripped from you by illness. A token for when your eldest daughter leaves home, the tug at your heart when you feel her slipping away from your fatherly grasp. A token for when your life's work begins to crumble around you. A token for when your youngest daughter has to put her own dreams and life on hold because her old man is too sad and sick to carry on himself.

Hershel Greene looked up from the amber liquid in front of him. On the television above the bar was a broadcast of the day's horse races. His mind was hazy from the drink, but he knew he should pay attention. He had money on the results. Seemed like he had money on everything these days. Annette's medical bills, the rising cost of the farm, Maggie's tuition. Any money set aside for Beth's education had long been spent. She never complained, but Hershel could see the longing in her eyes whenever Maggie called. Beth had never been too adept at hiding her true feelings.

So he kept betting. Some pathetic attempt to try and give her back what she deserved. Her future, her freedom. If he could just win enough, he could cover their debts. Beth could stop working so much. Could study music. Could get as far away from that farm and her father as she wanted.

But he had never been much of a betting man before. And it showed through in his losses. And as the losses grew, so did his despair, so did his bar tab. Until he was in a vicious and self-destructive cycle. Taking his sweet Beth down with him.

He watched through bleary eyes as the racing results of the day flashed across the screen. Swearing into his drink, he shook his head. He had been stupid to try. He didn't even turn to look when he felt the presence of someone casually slump into the stool beside him. Felt an arm roughly drape across his shoulders in a caricature of amiability.

He could smell the alcohol on the man's breath as his speech slurred and distraughtly realized that it matched his own.

"Well, well, well Greene. For a farmer, you sure can't seem to pick a damn winning horse. Lemme buy you another round because it looks like you're gonna need it. You owe old Merle Dixon a fair bit of money now."

He accepted the drink with shame. Merle Dixon was right, he needed it. But in the deep recesses of his mind, where he was still a good man, still sober and contrite - he heard himself apologize to Beth and to God himself for having grown into such a weak man.

And God, he was weak.

Author's Note: Hi guys! I haven't written fan fiction in AGES so please, be gentle with me as I get re-accustomed to fiction writing. Really just something to help get me through the long hiatus. Intending this to be a long piece with a slowwwww burn Bethyl. Taking a few obvious artistic liberties as this is an AU. The prologue was obviously from Hershel's POV and I believe the story itself is going to switch view from chapter to chapter. But hopefully in a way that's seamless enough for the reader. My writing always tends to be more about the character's stream of consciousness so I hope that's not offputting. Reviews, opinions, comments are so welcome! And you can always find me over on Tumblr at BETHGREENEPEACE, where I'm always eager to discuss Bethyl.