A/N: Sooo, I'm just going to throw out there that I was really, really stuck while writing this chapter. I had an idea of how I wanted it to go, but I didn't want it to be too bleak because I feel like the last few chapters have been lots of doom and gloom. I'm warning you that I have a couple of plot points planned out, but for the most part, I have no idea where I'm headed with this thing... so if there's anything you guys have really felt has been lacking from this story, or even something you've been dying to catch in other Bethyl fics that just haven't panned out to your liking, then let me know! We'll see what we can do with this story.

Once I worked through what I wanted to happen though, this damn chapter just poured out, and I'll admit that it's really one of my favorites so far, so I hope you guys enjoy it as well. I own NOTHING of The Walking Dead (sadly,) nor do I claim any rights to the lyrics of the song contained in this chapter. Also, I just spent like four hours writing this chapter of fan fiction, so I'm obviously not rich- good luck suing me ;) But I'm putting the disclaimer in there because I love alluding to the show that Daryl and Beth originally came from, so I did disperse some of their great lines throughout this chapter to use at my beck and call.

I want to thank all of my reviewers/followers/favoriters. I love, love, love what a lot of you had to say after the last chapter. It really helped me do my best on this one, so you have yourselves to thank for that. Especially the repeat reviewers I keep seeing. I love you guys. I even had an anonymous guest read all 7 chapters in like two hours today and leave a little comment on every one. I LOVE that this story turned into an addictive little page turner for so many, and I'm glad you're all sharing the ride with me.

Anyway, love it? Hate it? Drop me a review. I hope you guys enjoy this one.

Chapter 9

There were plenty of good reasons that Daryl had put off cleaning out his da's trailer for as long as he had. For one, the place was riddled with terrible memories of a rotten childhood. Everywhere he looked, there was the echo of a skeleton just begging to be let out of the closet. Another reason was that the place was just plain dirty. If his da had ever vacuumed the carpet or mopped the kitchen floor just once in the entire 22 years the man had lived there, Daryl would've been shocked. He'd wondered more than once if he should've looked into a hazmat suit, or at least a really large supply of gloves and masks, before beginning the massive undertaking.

One of the other reasons not to clean the trailer was one that Daryl hadn't really counted on, but should have. As it turned out, he was woefully unprepared the repressed memories that the contents of the trailer might, and did, dredge up.

Daryl had pulled out all of the clothes hanging in his da's bedroom closet, which wasn't many, and began stuffing everything that could be given away to a thrift store into boxes. There had been a giant hole on the inside of the closet that Daryl hadn't paid any attention at first. After all, his da's trailer had plenty of holes sprinkling the walls, put there by fists, boots, lamps, chairs- you name it, and the Dixons had used it as a weapon. One hole in a closet wasn't much concern to Daryl, until he realized that there was a shirt sleeve sticking out of it; a woman's shirt sleeve.

Slightly worried his da' had murdered a date-gone-bad and stuffed her in the walls, Daryl ran to grab a flashlight to investigate. Upon leaning into the hole, though, he was surprised to find that the shirt was sticking out of a box labeled "Tabbie." For a moment, Daryl was struck dumb. He didn't put two-and-two together right away because the thought of his da having any sentiment at all was beyond him; but then he read the name again, and the light bulb registered in his head. His mother's name had been Tabitha.

He pulled the box out of the hole carefully, although it was a bomb ready to go off rather than just an assortment of his mother's things. He carried it into the living room, where he sat it down on one end of the couch. He stared at it, debating, willing himself to be brave and just open the damned thing. But for the life of him, Daryl couldn't imagine what could possibly be in that box.

His mother had gotten drunk and fallen asleep with a cigarette in her mouth when he was 6. He'd been off playing with the neighborhood kids when they heard sirens, and then fire trucks went screaming passed them. He didn't have a bike, so when all of the other kids rode off to go see what was going on, he fell behind a ways. By the time he turned onto the street, he'd realized it was his house up in flames. He'd never forget the look on everyone's faces as they stared at him in shock. The whispers had followed him through the halls of school for months; there went that Dixon boy whose mom burned herself to death in their house.

Daryl had always assumed that everything she'd owned had gone up in flames with her and the rest of their possessions; he'd certainly never seen even a picture of her in his da's trailer for the rest of the years he'd lived there. Daryl wasn't even entirely sure if the vision he had of his mom in his head was actually what she'd looked like, or if he'd made her up as the years went on.

He paced around awhile, glancing at the box every so often to make sure it was actually still there, and he hadn't hallucinated finding it. He couldn't think of why his dad had bothered holding onto it all those years, or why it was tucked away in a hole in the back of his closet. The handwriting on the box wasn't even his da's; it was bubbly and feminine. Had his mom written it before she died? But no, that wouldn't make sense. She wouldn't have labeled her own box 'Tabbie.' He wondered if it had been a pet name that his da' had called her; but he'd never heard his da' ever say her name. He'd only ever called her "that mother of yours," or something equivalent.

Finally, unable to muster up the bravado to open the box on his own, Daryl stalked into the kitchen and pulled out a clear jar of liquid courage. The cupboards were still pretty stocked full of the moonshine that his dad had been hoarding from the distiller he'd built himself in the shed out back. He downed half a jar before grabbing a second and third one and heading over to the couch, where he dropped himself down onto the cushion next to the box.

Reaching over, he gently tore the remainder of the duct tape off, completely freeing the cardboard flaps. He took a deep breath and opened the box.

The first thing to hit him was the smell; her smell. He was suddenly 5 again, running through the kitchen after Merle. His mother had been at the table with curlers in her hair and a cigarette between her fingers. "You boys better not get mud all over my nice clean floors, y'hear me?"

He pulled out the shirt that had been the catalyst for finding the box to begin with, and her perfume faintly wafted through the air. He set it aside and reached in for more. His fingers found a smaller box inside, the type that children's shoes had come in. He pulled it out, wiping the dust off the top of the lid. When he opened it, a white envelope stared up at him with the name "Lonnie" written on it in the same feminine handwriting.

With shaking hands, Daryl pulled the letter out and unfolded it.

Lonnie,

In this box, you'll find everything I have left of Tabbie. This box is not meant for you, as I'm sure none of it will mean anything to you. It is for the boys, because while we could never figure out what Tabbie saw in you, those boys are still a part of her, and part of us. They should have their mom's things to help them remember her and cherish her, as I do.

My sister was not without her faults or her mistakes and she never took life serious enough; but marrying you was the beginning of the end for her, and I pray that you don't poison my nephews the way you poisoned my sister. My offer after the funeral still stands; it would take only one phone call to have me take them off of your hands. Until that day, I hope this box can shed some light onto the amazing woman their mom was, before her ruin.

Sincerely,

Darlene

Daryl read and re-read the letter multiple times, his chest tightening painfully as the words began to blur on the page.

Against his aunt's wishes, his dad had never shown the box to Daryl, and he doubted Merle had laid eyes on it, either. It was a miracle his da' had even kept the box all those years; he was surprised his aunt had entrusted it to his dad to begin with. He didn't remember his aunt Darlene; he just knew she'd passed away about a year or two after his mom. The letter with her death announcement had come in the mail addressed to Daryl and Merle, not Lonnie.

He laid the letter aside and realized that the box was full of random shit; Christmas ornaments with handprints and his mom's name, a couple of drawings, some concert tickets and movie ticket stubs, a keychain, two necklaces and a couple of rings. None of the jewelry was probably real; if they'd been worth anything, Daryl knew his da' would've hocked it long ago. Scattered at the bottom of the box were a handful of pictures, mostly Polaroid's, all sepia-toned and blurry.

He looked through them anyway, absorbing the features of the young, laughing woman in the photos. He at least had confirmation that the memories of what his mother looked like had been skewed. Either that, or she'd looked a lot different by the time he was old enough to retain memories of her. There were pictures of her in her teens, holding up a small fish on a line, grinning from ear to ear, her dark brown curly hair tangled in the wind. There were a couple of her blowing out various birthday candles, another of her in shorts near a pond, holding a little dog. She had a brilliant smile in every photo, and he could even see that she's where he and Merle had gotten their light blue eyes; despite how time had aged the photos, her blue eyes remained vivid as they stared up at him from the pictures. He'd always imagined her with brown eyes, for some reason.

In the last few photos, she was heavier, and her face was drawn. The last picture in the stack was of her holding a toddler on one hip with a cigarette in her other hand, belly swollen with her second child. Little Merle was wailing, wearing a pointy birthday hat, hands outstretched for the cake in the foreground; and Daryl could see his father in the background, lounging on that damned green recliner, watching the T.V. with a drink in one hand.

The rest of the contents in the large box were just odds and ends that had apparently meant something to his mom, but he'd never know what. There were a couple of books, more articles of clothing, and a vinyl record of a female artist he'd never heard of.

He walked over and tucked the smaller shoe box into his duffel bag among his own effects, and then dumped the rest of his mom's possessions in the box with his da's things. The pictures were special to him, but the significance of everything else was lost on him.

Daryl downed the third jar of moonshine as he turned in circles, taking in the entire living room. All he could concentrate on were the pictures of his mom and how vastly different she'd looked in only a matter of years. It was possible that she'd just been having a bad day in the last photo; he imagined Merle wasn't easy to deal with even as a baby. But it was more likely that her problem was becoming a Dixon. His da' had been damned good at sucking the fun and happiness out of anything, and it appeared that the same could have been said for Daryl's own mother.

His dad wasn't around anymore, so Daryl would never get off just one punch to the face of that man. Merle and da' had gotten into fist fights plenty of times, but Daryl had always been too much of a coward to retaliate against their dad the way Merle had. For a long while, Merle had been the only thing standing between Daryl and their dad's raging temper, but after Merle took his shit and split, there had been no one left to take the fall for things except Daryl.

None of the beatings Lonnie Dixon had dealt out really quite compared to hiding that box of belongings away from his only sons, though, and the audacity of it pissed Daryl off. Without his da's face around, Daryl took to his things instead, grabbing a baseball bat out from behind his dad's bedroom door and turning on the furniture.

Daryl's phone began to ring, and he snapped out of his rage long enough to register the sound. He trudged through the piles of stuffing, broken wood, and shattered glass to get to the kitchen, where he plucked his phone off of the table.

He answered it without checking the caller ID.

"Hey, man, what're you doing tonight?" Oscar's voice asked from the other end of the phone.

Daryl's chest was still heaving as he raked his eyes across the demolition of his da's trailer. Nothing had survived. "Not much," he said simply. "Housework."

"Housework?!" He could hear Oscar laugh with a couple of other guys in the background. "Man, fuck that shit. Come out with us tonight, Holmes. It's Halloween. We're hittin' up bars and checkin' out all the slutty costumes."

There was a first time for everything, and this one hadn't come a moment too soon. It was a good a night as any to get the hell out of the trailer before he lost his mind to it. "Yeah, man. Where am I meetin' you?"

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Oscar shouted into the phone. "Just meet us at my old lady's place. We're havin' a pre-party."

"See you there," Daryl said, hanging up the phone.

He looked over at the wake of destruction, sneering at it aggressively. "Good thing you never gave a shit 'bout nothin', pop."

He threw on his jacket, grabbed his wallet and his keys, and headed out into the crisp night air.

The guys from the shop had invited him out with them on plenty of occasions. Daryl had always given them some excuse or another as to why he couldn't be bothered to join them, but most of the time it was just because he never really wanted to. They seemed like alright guys, but he'd had his fill of derelict jackasses while following Merle around the state. With Merle in the pen and his pals off of Daryl's radar, he rather enjoyed his solitude. He liked the silence, and being alone with his thoughts. It was relaxing to just be in the garage for a few hours, tinkering with Merle's bike, not being shouted at or complained to about dinner or the dwindling supply of booze.

Going out with large groups always wore Daryl out, and he felt like it took him days to recharge after the drain on his energy. His teachers always accused him of being antisocial, or introverted, whatever the hell that meant. Part of it could have been blamed on the way he was raised; their dad sure as shit never taught them how to properly socialize with other people. But it couldn't all be blamed on his da' because even Merle, as despised as he often was, didn't have the same enormous problem as Daryl when it came to hanging out with groups of guys or even conversing with women. Sure, Merle said some awful shit and ran his mouth until he pissed people off, so he was never real popular with people, but he never let up talking and hanging out, and he never seemed to enjoy the solitude that being alone provided. So it was definitely something in the way Daryl was wired. His dad had always commented on how he was weird.

Tonight, though, was an exception to his recluse clause. He had to get away from that damned trailer and all of its nightmares; away from his dead mother's things, and the undeniable proof that the Dixon men ruined everything they laid their hands on.

Once Daryl got to Oscar's house, he drank until he was dizzy. Then they all stumbled out of the front door and piled into Oscar's truck, with scrawny, sober Mark climbing into the driver's seat.

"Don't you let these boys drive home, blue eyes, you hear me?" Oscar's woman said as she followed them out of the house. "Do you hear me?" she asked, turning her gaze onto Oscar. "If I find out you were driving or looking at other women, I'll kill you, understand mi chanchito?"

"Si, mamacita. Cross my heart," he replied affectionately.

After Mark had pulled out of the driveway, the guys began ragging on Oscar about how his woman had him whipped. He animatedly denied such claims, offering to show them who wore the pants at his house. The razzing continued most of the ride, and Daryl smiled contentedly as the wind from the open windows blew through his hair.

As they pulled into the parking lot of the first bar, they realized that this had been everyone else's bright idea of Halloween night, as well. The place was standing room only, so after only one beer each, they closed out their tabs and left, choosing to walk the two blocks to the next drinking establishment. This one was just as packed, they noticed, but because it was a bar that also supplied karaoke, it had a lot more broads to look at, so they stuck around. After only a few minutes, a table of people began dispersing, and Oscar and Ian rushed forward to secure it.

Daryl pulled himself up into one of the tall chairs right next to Ian, who looked uncomfortable by being in such a close proximity to Daryl. Ever since the afternoon tiff over Beth, Ian had kept his distance, but Daryl was so used to people avoiding him that he hardly noticed the difference or cared. A couple of the other mechanics from the shop showed up a few minutes later, throwing around high-fives and customary greetings. Most of them were a few years younger than Daryl or Oscar, and they all showed up wearing costumes that they thought were funny, witty, or enticing in some way. Daryl just thought they looked like idiots.

Just then, the song they'd come in on died out, followed by clapping and cheering. The place was rowdy and loud, but comfortably so. He wasn't expected to help fill awkward silences, and that made him content.

The next song was introduced, and when it filled the establishment, there was more clapping and cheering. It sounded more country than the last one had, and when the lyrics started up, he recognized it off of the radio they had at work.

Right now, he's probably slow dancing with a bleached-blonde tramp,

And she's probably gettin' frisky…

Right now, he's probably buying her some fruity little drink,

'Cause she can't shoot whiskey…

Right now, he's probably up behind her with a pool stick,

Showing her how to shoot a combo…

He sat quietly, listening to the partially-shouted conversation of his table mates, content to just people-watch and relax. He'd had so many beers that he was comfortably floating in the moment and numb to the past or present, which had pretty much been the whole point of the evening. Normally, his dead body couldn't even have been dragged into a karaoke bar on such a busy night, but he found that the girl singing that particular song had some pipes on her, and it sounded nearly identical to the original song that came on the radio.

And he don't know…

Here, the beat took on a bit of a lull, then built up until it blasted into the chorus. The girl on stage was right there with the song, and as she belted out the chorus with all of her heart, the drunken patrons of the bar erupted into cheering and shouting.

That I dug my key into the side

Of his pretty little souped up 4-wheel-drive,

Carved my name into his leather seats…

Daryl's table, to his dismay, was no exception. He picked at the label on his beer bottle, content to ignore their exuberance, until Oscar got really wound up…

He slapped Daryl on the back of the shoulder, jostling his drink, as he shouted, "It's Jeep girl, man!"

"What?" he shouted back.

At the top of his lungs, Oscar grabbed Daryl and shook him, screaming "JEEP GIRL!" He then leapt onto one of the chairs, hooting and hollering about Jeeps toward the stage.

Then, Daryl's drink-addled brain caught up with Oscar's findings, and he realized who Jeep girl was. Before he could react more smoothly, he too leapt up to see over heads crowding the stage.

Sure as fucking shit, there was a girl with golden blonde hair curled into loose ringlets, dressed in all black except for a yellow belt and some cat ears. Even from across the bar with a black nose and whiskers painted on her face, Daryl could tell that it was none other than Beth Greene.

And damn if she didn't look like she was having the time of her life up there. The louder the crowd got, the louder she got, leaning all the way back as she sang her pretty little heart out into the microphone, seemingly energized by the noise of the audience.

I DUG MY KEY INTO THE SIDE

OF HIS PRETTY LITTLE SOUPED-UP FOUR WHEEL DRIVE,

CARVED MY NAME INTO HIS LEATHER SEEEAAAAATS…!

I TOOK A LOUISVILLE SLUGGER TO BOTH HEADLIGHTS,

SLASHED A HOLE IN ALL FOUR TIRES…!

Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats…

Even without the microphone's help, Daryl wondered if she could have extended her voice the entire reach of the room. He had no idea that such a little thing could sing so loud. He stared as she finished the song up, grinning and cocking her head to the side on the last verse, receiving screams, shouts, and whistles from men and women alike. As the song ended, the bar erupted into more noise, and she laughed at the admiration, stumbling before taking a bow. She was absolutely drunk.

"JEEP GIRL!" Oscar screamed, practically standing on his chair. To Daryl's horror, she squinted in their direction as she hopped off the stage. Daryl sat back down quickly, willing her not to come over. He reached across the table and pulled on Oscar's belt, jerking him off of the chair.

"Man, what the hell!" he exclaimed, stumbling backward.

"Sit down 'fore you make an ass o' yourself," Daryl hissed.

Oscar grinned a huge shit-eating grin at him before replying, "Before I make an ass out of me, or an ass out of you, Holmes?!"

Upon the other guy's bewildered expressions, Oscar happily announced that 'Jeep girl' was the cute blonde that Daryl had almost kicked Ian's ass over.

"I didn' almost kick his ass, Oscar. If you're gonna tell the story, at least do it righ'," Daryl said, grumpy that he was now the topic of conversation.

"Oh fuck," Steven said, "I hafta get an eyeful of this chick. I hadn't seen you bat an eye at any damn girl walking into the shop. I'd kinda started to wonder if you was… well, you know."

"Shut the fuck up," Daryl said, pointing his beer bottle at Steven. "Or I ain't gonna almost kick yer ass."

Bob, one of the newer mechanics they'd hired right after Mark, just sipped his Jack and Coke, chuckling at the lot of them.

Ignoring Daryl now that he wasn't the only one in danger of pissing him off, Ian chimed in to Steven, "Dude, seriously. She's so fuckin' hot. Like a church girl gone bad."

Daryl gripped his bottle with both hands, willing himself not to hit Ian in the face. Ron would fire him for that for sure.

"Nice," Steven said appreciatively, looking upward like he was picturing it.

Ron would fire him for punching Steven, too, he told himself.

"Well, Daryl, is that what it's like?" Oscar asked. As Daryl glared at him, he exclaimed, "Come on, man, I'm spoken for; I hafta live vicariously through you! You heard Bertha; if I so much as look at Jeep girl, I'm a dead man. Give me somethin'!"

Then, a throaty laugh from behind froze all of Daryl's blood and he felt his heart stop. "Is that what you were calling me? Jeep girl?!"

"Jeep girl!" Oscar drunkenly shouted in greeting, throwing his hands up in the air.

The other jackasses echoed his chorus, clapping and laughing, looking Beth over appreciatively. As he turned and fully took her in, Daryl suddenly got the feeling he wasn't going to make it home in one piece tonight.

Before long, Beth's crowd had come over, and the guys all gave up seats and packed around the table, happy for the intrusion of the women. They talked, joked, laughed, flirted and teased. Daryl was still on edge with Beth having perched right next to him. She didn't smell like coconut tonight, either. She was wearing some expensive perfume that made her smell amazing. He was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation being had around him, until Steven's voice broke through the din as he asked, "So, Jeep girl, are you seeing anybody currently?"

"Oh damn," Oscar said in mock astonishment. "Do you really wanna go there? Don't you remember what I told you? Ian almost died over that shit, man!"

Daryl clenched his jaw in frustration at the turn of events. It's not like he could just threaten everyone at the table; Beth would think he was interested. He was; but she could never find out just how much.

"Aw, come on, Daryl was joking around, weren't you, Daryl?" Steven asked, smiling politely at Daryl. His face was kind, but there was an unspoken challenge in his eyes. He was really doing this, ready to go toe to toe.

"And, I mean, if being a customer means I can't date you, then maybe we could work something else out with the Jeep," he said, turning his charming smile on Beth.

Daryl wanted to lash out at him, but wasn't sure what to say that wouldn't give him away. Ian was an idiot for sure, and Daryl knew Beth would have just gone on a bad date and found that out if he'd left her alone to say yes. But Steven wasn't an idiot at all, he was very intelligent. Not just that, but calculating and manipulative, even. Daryl couldn't ever put his finger on why, but something about Steven had always made his gut tingle in a bad way.

When he glanced at Beth, he was surprised to see that her expression was closed off as she stared back at Steven. All hint of her previous humor was gone, and he wasn't sure if she even noticed it when she pressed her thigh up against his.

"Isn't that some kind of prostitution?" one of the brunette girls blurted out after a beat, wrinkling her nose in distaste at Steven's suggestion.

Sasha threw her head back and laughed, affectionately slapping the other girl on the arm. "Tara, you're killing me tonight!"

Beth laughed along with them, much to Steven's dismay, and like that, the spell was broken. Satisfied, Daryl smirked as he took another pull off of his beer.

"So, are you girls enjoying the holiday festivities?" Bob asked, his eyes locked on the waitress dressed like a flapper.

"We are actually having a girl's night out on account of Beth," Lori supplied, slinging her arm around the petite blonde from her other side.

"I got fired from my job," Beth said, putting on a pout that was more for show than heartfelt. Daryl sensed that she'd already seemed to have bounced back from that particular set-back and he admired her resilience.

"Fuck those pendejos!" Oscar supplied as he ordered a round of shots from a passing waitress. Once she dropped their shots off, Beth held up her shot of whiskey and proclaimed, "To freedom!"

Daryl watched her in fascination as he mumbled, "T'freedom."

Everyone else echoed her sentiments, and she finished, "at least, freedom from my finances for the foreseeable future." Laughing, everyone did their shots and slammed the glasses down, rallying for more.

Holding her new shot glass high in the air, Beth raised her voice and placed her free hand on Daryl's shoulder, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles on his collar bone. "This one is to Daryl, my grumpy, angry, huntsman-of-a-neighbor who terrorizes me in the middle of the night, runs me over with shopping carts, tries to shoot arrows at my head, gravels my driveway in secret, and buys me free slices of pie so that I can make stuff look good…"

Everyone else at the table glanced at each other in confusion, not one following the weirdness of Beth's toast, save Daryl, who could feel his face burning. "He is selfless and loyal and brave, and mark my words, if there was a zombie apocalypse tomorrow, Daryl Dixon would be the last man standing." She smiled down at him with all of the affection due to someone who was all of those things; but Daryl was not. "To Daryl," she finished staring him in the eye, while every drunken asshole at their table echoed her loudly. Daryl left his shot glass untouched, positive that at this point, if she'd toasted a squirrel, they'd have been more than happy to oblige her.

She smiled warmly at him, a smile that looked like it belonged behind closed doors where other people couldn't witness everything it stood for. Suddenly, Daryl thought about the photograph of his mother that he'd looked at earlier; her smile nearly identical to Beth's, full of passion and honesty and hope; full of life.

Then he skipped forward to the last picture, the one of his mother as she looked holding onto baby Merle, her face drawn and pinched, her expression vacant, her eyes no longer filled with adventure or amusement. She'd looked like the empty shell of the vibrant person she'd been beforehand, and Daryl's original assessment echoed through his skull:

Undeniable proof that the Dixon men ruined everything they laid their hands on.

Suddenly, it was Beth in that photo; pounds heavier, holding a screaming baby on one hip, with another on the way; all of the life drained out of her beautiful face. In the background sat Daryl, staring blankly at the T.V. with a beer in his hand.

He bolted out of there before anyone knew what had happened.

"Hey!" Beth shouted, exiting the bar behind him. He didn't slow down or stop to look at her.

"Daryl!" she ran forward and grabbed his arm. "Stop for a second, will you?"

He did, finally, stop. He didn't want to have this conversation with her. Not now, not ever. But then, Dixons didn't usually get what they wanted.

"What is your deal?" she asked, staring at him. Her face was devoid of any anger or accusation, only concern for him. He'd walked out on her, time and time again, and she only seemed to worry about what was wrong with him. If only she could open her big blue eyes a little wider and see that everything that's wrong was him, then they'd finally get somewhere.

He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling defensive. He had to be, or else she'd weasel her way passed his armor, like she had already managed to do on a regular basis. Even if he was Fort Knox, he was sure that it still wouldn't matter because somehow, the little blond could melt her way right through his walls.

"Why are you leaving again, Daryl?" she asked.

"Does it matter?" he bit back.

"You didn't even bring your truck! You rode here with Oscar, who is still in the bar, in case you hadn't noticed."

"And?" he countered, feeling his temper rising.

"What're you going to do? Hail a small town taxi? Steal some kid's bike? Walk 30 miles back home?" she scoffed at him as his face turned red. He hadn't had a plan when he left; he just had to get out of the bar and away from her.

"Didja ever stop an' think tha' maybe it ain't your damn business?"

"Don't do this again," she said sadly, shaking her head at him. "You're better than this. I know you are."

"That's the biggest problem between us, innit? You think you know everythin' there is ta know about me, an' you fuckin' don't!"

Beth glared at him then, but stood her ground. "I thought we were passed all of this! You're fine most days; hell, sometimes you even act like you might like me a little bit, and then all of a sudden, your mood shifts and you're shutting me out again!"

"Well maybe tha's where you belong!" he shouted back.

"No," she said sternly, "it isn't."

They stood and glowered at each other, people passing by on the street barely giving them any heed.

Daryl should have expected such a fight from her; the girl was stubborn as hell. But he felt angrier and more conflicted than he had in a long time, and for the first time in his adult years, he didn't feel like fighting or resisting; he felt like bolting. He wanted to just run from her and never look back. He needed to just get rid of his da's trailer, or leave it to rot, and get the hell out of town.

"Yes it is!" He yelled, stepping forward into her space and looming over her. The alcohol was coursing through him, and all he could feel was rage. He wanted to grab her and shake her until she understood that he wasn't any damn good.

As she stood there with her sky blue eyes boring into his, trusting, pitying, trying to pry out all of his truths; he snapped. She looked like a damned angel, as corporeal as tissue paper, reflecting everything that was good and hopeful in the world; all of the things he wasn't, and never deserved to have. He wanted to shred her into pieces and destroy it all. Then she'd see.

"You don' fuckin' get it!" he shouted, causing people to turn. "I ain't some nice guy to pal aroun' with and take to fuckin' movies! I ain' the kinda guy who's gonna bring you some goddamn soup when you're sick! I don' sit around eatin' cherry fuckin' pie in diners; I ain't ever even had frozen yogurt, or sang out in fron' of a big crowda people like everythin' was fun!"

He was pacing around in front of her, panting, yelling; livid. She stared at him with a broken look on her face that was making it all worse.

"I ain't never got gifts from no Santa Claus! I never had my own fuckin' bike; hell! I ain't never had my own fuckin' room before! My daddy sure as shit didn' pay for no fancy college degree; I barely fuckin' made it outta high school! The only reason I'm here is because I ain't got no other fuckin' place to be! I'm nothin'! Nobody! You get that, yet, girl?! Does tha' penetrate through that thick fuckin' college-educated skull o' yours?!"

Tears streamed down her face as she stood there and listened to him unload, unmoving, but eyes locked with his as he paced and shouted. He couldn't figure out why she was still there, why she was just taking it. He turned away from her, tears burning the back of his throat. He felt like he was crumbling from the inside. Finally, he turned back to her, settling into an eerie calm.

"Look," he said, his voice dangerously low, "I don' know what your hang-up is with me, but ya needta let it go. I don' know if you're pissed at your daddy an' tryin' ta slum it to get back at 'im, or if you're part of a loser rehabilitation program, or whatever tha fuck it is; but you're done, ya hear me? We're done."

"You don't mean that," she whispered to him, face hardened in determination, despite her tears. "You can't mean any of that."

"The fuck I don't," he growled, and then pointed at the bar. "Go back to your friends, Beth. Find someone else t'waste your time on." He turned and began to walk away.

"Why the hell are you so afraid?!" she shouted, ignoring his command.

He whipped around, coming at her again. "I ain't afraid o' nothin'!"

"The hell you aren't!" she said, shoving his chest in frustration. "That's exactly what all this is about! You act like nothing bothers you, ever! But obviously, shit does! You're so scared of being hurt or not being good enough; so scared of what other people think of you, that you'd rather destroy anything we have than take your hands off the wheel and just see where the hell it goes!"

"Haven' you been listenin'?! It ain't goin' nowhere! It doesn' have anythin' to do with bein' scared, either! Tha's just tha way it is!"

"So that's it, then? You're just givin' up? Throwing in the towel on us?"

"Damnit, there ain't no us to give up on! There never was," he said, rubbing both hands down his face, "Jesus, wha' d'you want from me, girl?"

Throwing her hands in the air, she shouted, "I want you to stop acting like you don't give a crap about anything!"

"Well I don't!" He yelled back.

"Yeah," she laughed, humorlessly. "You keep telling yourself that."

They glared at each other for a space of time before Beth's face finally smoothed out. She looked worn down; defeated, even. She released a lungful of air and broke eye contact with him, looking to the sky for answers she wouldn't find.

Finally, he thought. Finally, she gets it.

Tears were still coursing down her cheeks, just beginning to streak her make-up. But then she lowered her eyes and smiled at him; a sad, beautiful smile. She reached out and wound her small, cold hand around his wrist, squeezing it affectionately.

"You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon," she whispered. Then she stepped back, loosely dropping her hand, his fingers tingling as they slid through hers. With one last appraisal of him by way of her shining blue eyes, she finally turned and walked back towards the bar, her bright blond head disappearing among the crowd of people.

Daryl had finally managed to snuff out the last light in his dismal world, leaving him alone in the dark with nothing but his demons.