I'm back! I actually had to replace my entire computer; the wonderful man I bought the original PC from had just, like, taken a random copy of Windows off of the internet and didn't bother to check if it was actually Windows and not just a giant bundle of spyware. :D
WARNING. This chapter contains descriptions of a radically abusive environment, there are several possible triggers, so be warned.
I would like this opportunity to discuss partner abuse for a few moments, feel free to skip on over this, but if you can spare the few moments, please read. Abuse is all around us. When I originally started writing and reading fanfiction in 2003, I never thought that I would ever be in a situation of abuse, the type of abuse that authors - like me - occasionally use as plot points. I want to use this as a standing ground; most abuse a person, male or female, will encounter, will never look like the abuse you will read about. Most abusers will never beat their victims into submission, hell, some of the worst abusers will never even hit you.
If your partner ever makes you feel frightened, threatens you - if you leave, I'll kill myself; if you do that, I'll cheat on you; etc - uses love as a weapon and attention like a bartering tool, tries to push your family or friends away, if you FEEL abused, or 1-800-799-7233is the National Domestic Violence Hotline, or if you feel the need to talk to someone, message me personally. There are always resources for those in need.
Anyway, back to Bethyl!
Daryl was the first to wake, the sun peaking through bronze and purple curtains, already pretty high in the sky. Beth had shifted while they slept, tucking her arms underneath her body and face pressed right into the pillow, dark circles underneath those long, light lashes. They needed time to rest, just for a day or so, before continuing on. They hadn't had proper sleep since the attack on the prison, and he knew that Beth would probably end up sick after yesterday. No small body could handle that much liquor and not be hungover the next day.
He moved quietly off the bed and padded into the kitchen, taking a deeper look at what the home was stocked with. He opened the first cabinet, completely full of nothing but beans. He turned cans around, convinced that no single household could collect so many beans. Kidney, pinto, small red, butter beans – they were all there and staring mockingly at him. The next cabinet had more variety, canned meat, fish, veggies, and fruit.
He grabbed a jar of pineapple and some water from the floor before returning to the bedroom where Beth had stretched out all of her limbs over the bed like a starfish, and was groaning softly into the pillow. Daryl bit his lip against the rush of feelings in the pit of his stomach at the sound, especially since he knew that the sound wasn't from pleasure – far from it. She turned her head to squint at him against the low light in the room.
"Daryl," she rasped, raising one hand towards him, or rather, the water in his hand. He opened it and passed it over, warning her to sip. She propped herself up slowly to bring the bottle to her lips, grimacing as it went down. "Daryl," she repeated, causing the redneck to look at her, a serious look on her face, and he felt panicked that she was going to ask what had happened last night, or that she was ashamed that he took advantage of her. The man waited for her to continue with bated breath. "Wh…why did you let someone shit in my mouth?"
He barked out a relieved laugh. "I..I should go downstairs, see if there's any aspirin, maybe some toothbrushes."
The girl buried her head back into the pillows and nodded stiffly. On his way to the door, Daryl heard her tortured, "Please?"
Beth felt like she was dying. Her head hurt, her throat hurt, her legs hurt… she groaned again, trying to catalog her pains. The headache was obvious, and her throat burned from inhaling smoke. Her hands hurt from the rope biting into her hands as she struggled to keep Daryl from falling last night, and her legs… there was a tender spot on her right leg, the inside of her knee. Her fingers danced down to press on the sensitive skin through her jeans, feeling the five points of radiating pain, and groaned for an entirely different reason.
The evidence of Daryl's desire, even if it had been merely fueled by moonshine, made Beth's belly clench in excitement. In those moments in that tiny shack, Beth was completely certain that Daryl had wanted her as much as she wanted him, hand trembling against her skin and teeth biting into his lip. She knew that she would be recalling that night in her fantasies for a good long time, and gave another groan. Daryl heard it as he was reentering the room, noticing the different pitch and little sigh as it trailed off, but just flicked his eyes over to the window and cleared his throat, handing over a toothbrush, trying to look unfazed.
Beth disentangled herself from the pillows to grab the offered brush, then trudged slowly out into the bathroom with her bottle of water to scrub the taste of moonshine out of her mouth, the larger man following like a puppy close behind. He didn't want her out of his sight, not recognizing the suddenly possessive feelings he had been having.
Beth found gallons of water underneath the sink in the bathroom, and a clever grey water system, and the same sadness from last night came rushing back. This little family had been so prepared that it was almost shocking; they hadn't been driven from their home out of necessity, up in their little tower, they should have been safe. Instead, the hell outside of their door couldn't wait for them and barged in unannounced, and it wasn't fair.
The girl tried to focus on brushing her teeth, staring into the sink, when a rough hand slid the tube of toothpaste out of her hand and she met Daryl's eyes in the mirror, the man standing just slightly behind her, shoulders hunched a little against her stare. Since their little encounter in the woods, he had been seesawing between acting like a frightened animal, eyes constantly seeking for possible escape routes, body tense and ready to scurry away from her at any moment, or like a little boy, totally unsure of himself. She wondered if he had always been like this, and she had just been too thick to notice. Thinking back to the prison, when he brought back food, or supplies, when people would try to draw him into conversation and he would scuttle away, excuses or sarcasm on his tongue, to one of his little sanctuaries around the prison.
Beth stopped brushing at the sudden realization, feeling so stupid. Daryl Dixon was shy.
"What?" he groused around his full mouth. His petite companion's delicate eyebrows shot up and she pulled an innocent face that was entirely full of shit as she shook her head and ducked her head down to finish what she was doing, a hidden little smile on her face.
They had a breakfast of pineapple and painkillers, Beth shutting her eyes against any light that came in through the windows while Daryl sat watching, bemused smile plastered on his face. He eventually took pity on her and closed most of the gauzy curtains, offering her the couch where she plopped down and covered her eyes with her arm.
"I'm thinkin' we take stock of what we got here. Can't stay long, place is too small, and if we get surrounded by walkers, we're stuck," Daryl started to explain. "I say we start off tomorrow mornin', I'm thinkin' you deserve a day to be useless, after yer first real drink."
She glanced at Daryl from underneath her wrist, frowning deeply. "I'm always useless, Daryl, bein' hungover ain't gunna make much of a difference. "
The silence hung heavy over the foyer for a few painfully long seconds before Daryl spoke, voice tight with what sounded like anger, "You shut yer damn trap, girl," as he stomped off towards the kitchen, and Beth could hear him opening cabinets and slamming things onto the counter. She sat, completely unsure as to why her words had elicited such a reaction, and then followed.
When the blonde appeared in the doorway, Daryl slammed one last can down, making Beth jump, and sighed, closing the cabinet gently and glancing over at her. "You… You don't say that shit 'bout yerself, girl. You, you coulda just lied down and died, after everythin', took the easy way out. After everythin', I…" He scrubbed his hand over his mouth like he was trying to keep some words from escaping. "If I hadn't had you 'round, I woulda just tried to lie down and die, myself."
Beth sucked in a breath, just as unsure of herself as Daryl. She didn't know what to do with this sporadically open and honest man, so different from the man she had grown to know in the prison while surrounded by their family. "What's gunna happen when I'm gone, then?" she asked in a small voice.
The redneck pinned her in place with a hard stare. "You ain't goin' no where," he grumbled, turning back to the cabinets near his head. "Now help me empty out these cupboards."
By the time they were done, the small round kitchen table was stacked high with canned goods and packages of non-perishables, and they had found a small stash of mason jars, capped with little squares of fabric and hand written labels, which Beth squirreled away, labeling them high-priority, picking up each one and setting it down almost reverently, running her fingers over the labels with a little smile on her pretty face.
"My momma, I remember her every fall, makin' up a giant pot of pickling juice while Maggie 'n' I packed up mason jars for her. She'd make preserves and the best spiced peaches you've ever had," she remembered fondly, offering up a bit of herself as an apology to her partner for her surly mood. "I remember all the recipes that she taught us, made me feel like Laura Ingles on the frontier."
"Made you feel like who now?" Daryl asked, wracking his brain. Should he know who Laura Ingles was?
"The lady who wrote the Lil' House on the Prairie, lived out on the frontier with her family, braved harsh winters and early frost and managed to not die long enough to write some books," she said with a laugh. "I really loved 'em when I was in grade school. My momma gave 'em to me."
"My mom," Daryl cleared his throat, "she, uh, she was a great cook, too, made sum' the best soul food a man could get 'is hands on, and I always came home on time when my momma made cornbread. She said that my pa married her 'cause he loved her cornbread." Beth sucked in a sharp breath at his little confession. The man never talked about his mother or father, though the scars she had seen when Hershel had been patching him on the farm told of a rather unhappy life before the turn, and he stepped around his words in a way that he hadn't bothered to do when talking about Merle. "She knew how ta prep a buck like nobody else, taught me how when I was still a kid 'n taught me how to cook when Merle or my pa weren't around."
The blond farm girl shuffled a little closer to Daryl, who was too wrapped up In fond memories to notice her proximity. "What else was she like?" Beth queried softly as to not break the little spell the man had woven around them with his words.
A smile appeared on his thin lips when he answered. "She was a good woman, always tryin' to do best for Pa, Merle, and I. Always kinda frazzled, though. Whenever…whenever she'd yell at me or my brother, send us to our room, which was kinda often, we wasn't easy on her, she'd come by, find us maybe ten minutes later, always sayin' sorry for yellin' then tryin' to talk about what she had been yellin' bout." Daryl chuckled, bringing his thumb up to his mouth' gnawing at the nail, " An'… an' she was the prettiest lady you'd ever seen. Real little, Merle was taller 'n her when he was twelve, had brown hair, kinda like yer sister's, with jus' a little bit o' red. Her eyes were always happy, til… well."
Daryl paused a looked away for a moment, and Beth didn't press for him to continue. They stood in silence for a minute or two, redneck leaning against the counter, farmer's daughter standing near his hip, twisting her messy hair around one finger. "My pa, he weren't no kinda man, always puttin' his hands on my momma, an' I guess she got real fed up one day. Had me 'n Merle pack some bags, like we was goin' away for a good long time, was on the phone all day. My pa came home when she was lockin' up the house, real fired up 'bout somethin', started beatin' up on my momma right in the front yard." The man scrubbed his hand over the lower part of his face, a move that his companion was beginning to recognize as uncertainty, and his gaze flickered over to her for a moment before he cast his gaze back to the ground.
"Beat her real bad, worst I ever saw, till she just stopped movin' for a bit, 'n came after Merle an' me. Took off after, an' one of the neighbors helped us get my momma back in the house. She weren't never the same after that, forgot stuff. Messed up one side a' her face, lost her sight in that eye after a bit… Passed away a year later in spring," Daryl finished quietly.
Beth wanted, desperately, to wrap her arms around him in comfort, but she faltered, hesitant. Before the moonshine still in the woods, she would have offered up physical comfort readily, but the change between them was palpable, and in truth, Beth wanted Daryl to break their unspoken rule about touch first, coward as she was. She settled for reaching forward and grazing the tips of her fingers against the back of his hand, soft and gentle in a wordless, 'I'm so sorry.' He turned his hand around to lightly catch the tips of her fingers, a shy, innocent gesture, then let go and looked away, picking up a can.
"I really, really hate canned beans," he grumbled, and Beth gave a giggle.
Later that day, as the sun began to hover just above the treeline, the duo began to plan. The little treasure trove they had discovered was much too valuable to simply leave behind without future plans to come retrieve what they couldn't carry easily, and so they began a long game of attempting to find keys, beginning in the storefront.
It was a quaint, historical looking building, antiques dotted along shelves and hanging on the walls, a sight which immediate grabbed Beth's attention as Daryl covertly watched her from the behind the counter. She looked like the type of girl to be right at home here, in a little Southern country market, a town with more gravel than asphalt and all the working folk knew each other's names, and it made the man smile a little, thinking of sweet, helpful Bethy Greene being a shop girl. She had paused in front of a display, little trinkets and kitschy nick knacks, touching her fingers to a pair of necklaces that glinted prettily in the low light, delicate silver script strung between tiny bits of leather that said, 'sisters.'
The girl grabbed the necklaces off the display and twisted them around her fingers before tucking them into the pocket of her jeans.
"Beth," Daryl spoke, concern making his voice tight. She shook her head quickly.
"Don't," she said, her voice slightly raspy with emotion. "She's out there. She's out there, with Glenn, an' they're survivin', just like us. Maggie, she's got this." A little laugh escaped Beth's lips. "She's got a fire in 'er that I don't got a lick of, it's from her own momma. Even if she was alone, she's got this."
The hunter knew that the girl was hanging onto hope just like he had with his brother, and felt the need to say something, anything, to quench the unspeakable hurt that he had felt when he had faced Merle for the last time, but he remained silent. Words were always an avenue Daryl took when he ached to get himself into trouble, and he had no desire to upset the relaxed atmosphere between himself and the young woman, so he just resumed his search for keys.
He had begun fiddling with the register, knowing that with just the right amount of attention, the cash drawer would pop out and hopefully contain what he was looking for, when he heard his name, a loud whisper, in the far corner. He paused before hearing it again then took off like a cat towards the sound.
Beth was flat on the floor, and Daryl's heart stopped until he realized that she was pressed too precisely against the ground for her there to be injury. She was squinting underneath a door which had been previously passed off as a supply closet. "I see 'em, Daryl. Set of keys, over in the corner. I- I think there's a walker-"
Her fears were confirmed as there was a heavy thud against the door and familiar moaning, two rotting feet appearing to block her view of their prize and she heaved a heavy sigh. When she stood, Daryl's hot breath hit the side of her neck as he whispered to her.
"I bet they came on in through right there, dropped their keys an' had to lock 'emselves in," he said, oh so close, enough so that they felt the heat of each other, and Beth could barely concentrate on what he was saying. She wanted to feel his hard body pressed up against her curves, wanted to feel something truly good again, like in that shitty little shack in the woods, but held still. "Only looks like one. 'Tween you an' me, it ain't go no chance," he chuckled.
Beth nodded, and stepped forward, hand on the knob. Daryl nodded at her and she gave a very anticlimactic heave as the door stayed shut. "Locked, fuck," she cussed, feeling slightly foolish. She looked at the knob closer, and smiled. She grabbed a screwdriver off of a nearby shelf and went to work on the door while whispering to Daryl. "Daddy installed this exact door knob on the snack pantry, damn thing was cheap and popped open like magic."
Daryl snorted, amazed. "Delinquent Beth, stealin' fuckin' snacks. I best be careful, yer gunna get me into a life of crime," he joked as he shifted his cross bow into shooting position. With Beth kneeling, he would have the perfect shot at the lurker behind the door, and he motioned for her to stay low.
She leaned heavily on the door then released it with a click as the lock sprung free, and immediately her body flew backwards as walkers slammed open the door and poured free.