A/N: I'm sad that it took me this long to get this chapter out but hopefully the next chapter will not take as long since I have a clear idea of where I'm heading now. Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows I got for the first chapter! It means a lot to me. :)

It'd seemed like a good idea at the time. Actually, it wasn't even an idea so much as an urgent, fleeting emotion that had risen in his gut the moment his eyes flashed over the untouched bottle sitting atop the dusty shelf. That need he hadn't felt in so long flooded his chest, clouded his mind, and then he was reaching for it. He only glanced momentarily at the label as the caramel-colored liquid sloshed within its container before stuffing it in his small rucksack. Did it really matter what it was?

As long as it gets me drunk, it'll do.

The bottle had been stuck in his thoughts all day. He'd kept it tucked within the bag secured to his bike so that he could retrieve it later that night, after taking care of all of his other daily duties. He couldn't very well keep it with his things in the tower since he'd be too tempted to break into it while on watch, and he was not willing to allow anyone to stumble upon it within his prison cell, though he didn't keep much there anyway. His bike was the only logical choice.

It felt as though dusk should be nearing quickly as Daryl emerged from the prison, but winter had snuck up on them and cast a stale, gray pall over everything, warping everyone's sense of time. The sky had been in a perpetual state of looking as though it would let snow fall at any moment, but only gave way to a few flakes here and there. It was beginning to get frustrating, especially since the scent of winter, of ice and ash, lingered in the air, taunting Daryl who longed to finally see the rotting land covered in pure, untouched white. He sighed, gazing across the courtyard through the fences, eyes skimming the now yellow and brown grass as he walked towards his bike.

A feeling had been overtaking him the closer night got with the knowledge that he'd soon be able to temporarily escape, if not just shut off his mind for a bit. He'd been imagining the first bitter gulps and the burning of his throat all day, the way the endless thoughts of moans and gnashing teeth would start to drift away the closer he got to the bottom of the bottle. Each step nearer to his bike sent waves through his chest and stomach, radiating through his whole body… excitement? Whatever it was, he didn't appreciate it.

Least I can drink till I stop being so jittery.

Finally reaching the bike, Daryl crouched down to unfasten the buckles of the rucksack and lifted the flap. His stomach dropped.

"Fuck!" he hissed, hands shaking slightly as he rummaged through the relatively empty bag. It was pointless rooting though it because he would've seen the bottle immediately had it been there. "What the FUCK!"

Daryl jolted upright, breathing quickly as he spun around, feeling as though someone must be watching him. Someone must've taken it and that someone must be near. His eyes swept over the darkened courtyard but there was nothing, no one. What did he really expect to see? Someone leaning against the wall with a smirk on their face as they watched him panicking over the alcohol they'd just finished? Laughing at him for stealing his prize? Seeing no one only made him angrier, so he turned back to the bike and gave a forceful kick to the black bag, but it stayed safely secured. Daryl growled, his heart pounding as he brought his clenched fists up to spread over his face.

"Take a fuckin' breath, man, Jesus Christ," he whispered.

He shook his head picturing how ridiculous he must look, standing in the pitch black by his motorcycle covering his face, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as his mind raced. He knew he wasn't an alcoholic, but the sight of that abandoned bottle of whiskey had filled him with the memories of when he and his brother had occasionally slipped into the local dive and gotten shitfaced and he was furious - - that bottle had sparked the need to feel something he hadn't in a long time and now that prospect was being ripped away from him.

Where the hell is it?

He shook his head, bringing his hands to rest on his hips as he stared back at the bike's open, empty bag. "Where the fuck IS it?"

Was he really losing his mind? Over alcohol? He was always so careful with his belongings, making sure never to leave anything important in plain sight. Hell, he barely had any belongings as it was. And now that he'd finally gotten something solely for himself, something for enjoyment... it'd gone missing.

"This is fuckin' bullshit," he grumbled, turning to face the fences once more. They'd since begun rattling, his short outburst alerting a few stray walkers to the life residing within the gates, but it wasn't anything the group couldn't handle in the morning. Daryl was far too concerned with something so petty as a bottle of liquor to care about a miniscule threat that he could take care of at the drop of a hat if need be. His eyes flitted halfheartedly across the courtyard, finally making their way to the base of the guard tower.

"The fuckin' tower!"

Daryl took off at almost a jog but slowed himself, feeling foolish for rushing over what was, at this point, a stupid lost cause. The thought lingered in the back of his mind, though, that he might have hidden the bottle with his things in the tower after all. He hadn't gotten much sleep over the last few months; maybe it was finally catching up to him. What a nice way for his body to tell him to go to sleep - - to fuck with his head and spoil the only semblance of pleasure he might have had in a long time. Daryl glared to himself as he entered the tower and made the quick trek up the stairwell.

He immediately saw the whiskey upon entering the tower's room, or what was left of it. The liquor was nearly gone, not even a full sip's worth remaining at the bottom of the glass container. He clenched his fists together seeing some of it splashed across the tabletop. He'd built up the idea of how his night would go so much that the sight of the alcohol spilled across the table infuriated him even more. Someone had taken it from him and they'd even gone so far as to waste part of it. He was going to kill the fucker, whoever it may be, that took this away from him.

"Motherfucker," he growled, traveling the short distance to the table and grasping the bottle tightly within his hand. He had half a mind to shatter it, but those thoughts were cut short.

"You're the motherfucker."

Daryl jumped, spinning around at the hushed, raspy voice that had startled him. His eyebrows shot up in disbelief before his anger took back hold of him. "Carl… what the fuck are you doin'?!"

The boy sat slumped in the corner of the room, legs splayed in front of him, head laying on the seat of the chair beside him with his arms wrapped around it tightly in order to keep himself propped up. "Guess tha'd be Shane, though, huh..."

Daryl cringed slightly, taken aback by what Carl had said. Deciding immediately that it wasn't a conversation he even wanted to consider, he stepped towards the drunk boy quickly and grabbed him by the shoulders to yank him up and sit him forcefully on the chair.

"Hey, wha' the hell are you doin'?!" Carl demanded, trying weakly to push Daryl away from him.

"Me?! What are YOU doin'?!" Daryl yelled back at the glaring boy. "Gettin' drunk, what the fuck! You're 13 years old for Christ's sake!"

"14," Carl corrected indignantly, turning his head away from the man in front of him.

"Whatever! You shouldn't be drinkin' in the first place!" Daryl hissed, putting his hands on his hips. The look of disgust upon Carl's flushed face was so goddamn infuriating. "Where the hell is your old man?"

"How shoul' I know? Who cares…"

Daryl's breathing had increasingly become heavier as he seethed. "Well... what the fuck, Carl." He glanced around the room, running his hands through his hair. "And you fuckin' stole that, too, you little bastard."

"So what?"

"So what?!" Unbelievable. What the hell was he supposed to say to this kid? He definitely wasn't any sort of parental figure, but even so... he knew there was no sense in arguing with someone who was drunk but if the little punk was going to treat him like shit, he wasn't going to let it slide. Daryl was grinding his teeth together as Carl stared back at him, awaiting a response. "You're s'posed to be responsible. This is bullshit."

"Yeah, well why'd you even hav'it Daryl? You were gon' drink it, huh?" Carl slurred accusingly, a hateful look in his eyes. "Respons'bl'… fuck you."

"Carl, get the hell up, man, and go the fuck back down to your goddamn cell!" Daryl shouted, having had enough. He'd never heard Carl speak this way to anyone before and there was absolutely no reason for him to be acting that way towards Daryl. Clenching his teeth together he turned to look at the prison through the tower glass and took a breath. "Your dad's gonna flip and it's gonna get turned around on me, so just get up and go the hell to sleep."

Rolling his eyes as the lack of a response, Daryl turned to look at the boy and saw that his head had drooped and his body appeared limp in the chair. Panic swept over Daryl as he just stood there. "CARL!"

His shout had elicited a response from Carl, thank God, albeit it was only a drunken murmur. Daryl scowled at the boy who'd had the nerve to fall asleep and threw the door leading to the balcony open.

Why the fuck is this happening? Why do I gotta deal with this shit? Why can't I just ever have one night where somethin's not going wrong?

Daryl paced back and forth upon the balcony, biting his thumbnail as he tried to think of something to do. Someone was bound to see him if he tried to carry Carl back to his cell. But he couldn't leave Carl up in the tower, mainly because he didn't want to play babysitter to a drunk. Daryl glowered at the thought as he leaned against the cold railing.

"Fuck…"