The Smell of Death and Hope
Daryl didn't hear from Merle for several months. Though he saw him around town every now and then. Only in passing, though. Usually on his bike, or hanging out with some skinny kid named Jesse who sold meth. Every once in a while, he could hear the unmistakable sound of Merle's motorcycle driving past the trailer. But they didn't speak. Merle didn't even drunk dial him anymore.
Winter receded, turning into spring. Then spring faded and made way for summer. The humidity grew thicker, heavier. The sun burned brighter and hotter. And Daryl assumed that his brother's pride had outlasted the both of them.
He kept expecting to hear about a new arrest, or a decision in the court hearing that led to a sentencing. But the most troublesome Dixon seemed to be keeping a low profile this year. Not even Rick had caught a whiff of any new wrongdoings. Or any news in general. The sheriff said he'd been keeping in touch with other counties, yet no one had encountered Merle Dixon for months.
Daryl supposed the old saying was accurate: no news is good news. Maybe their dad's cabin had turned out to be a sort of blessing. It gave Merle a stable homebase for all his activities, criminal or otherwise, and it was so far out of city limits that no one would go stumbling across it or causing trouble without plenty of effort.
Maybe, Daryl thought, that's what Merle needed all along: to be away from the general public. Like… far away. Tucked away somewhere safe, where he could do all the stupid shit he wanted to do without the risk of harming anyone else.
In a way, it gave Daryl a sense of security. Finally, he could relax. Finally, he could find some peace. His routine had become the norm, and the little things he loved about living with Carol and Sophia didn't change, they just got better. More constant. More reliable. Even when he had bad days, he knew he could come home and be greeted by two people and a dog, and he knew they genuinely wanted him around. He could also spend weekend nights at the bar with Dwight or Rick, and ever since the winter weather had receded, he'd been making trips out into the woods to hunt.
Turns out, Rick liked hunting. He wanted his young son, Carl, to know how to shoot a gun. Daryl helped with that. By the time August rolled around, they'd taken at least three different trips together—"a boys' weekend," Rick had called them, though Daryl saw it as a sort of therapy for Grimes since he was going through a pretty difficult divorce—and camped in the northern woods of Georgia, spending their days hunting and fishing and teaching Carl how to track. Rick was impressed with the skills Daryl possessed. Daryl had never even realized they were "skills" until the sheriff told him so; he'd always thought they were just the basics of survival. But then again, he had to remember that he'd been raised differently than most folks.
In those moments, he would miss his brother.
Yeah, he'd never admit it to anyone… that he missed Merle. But he did. No matter how terrible the guy was, he was still Daryl's brother. His only brother. The last of his blood relations. The only other person alive who knew what it was like to survive Will Dixon.
Nonetheless, his life was better without Merle in it. A part of him hated acknowledging the fact. But a much larger part was eager to explore it, to revel in it.
He'd meant it, after all. That life… the life Merle had always led and continued to lead… that wasn't who Daryl was anymore. Maybe it never had been. Either way, it took him nearly thirty fucking years to realize it, and he wasn't going to revert back now. He'd come so far. He'd tasted hope. Real hope. And he liked the taste. He wanted to see how far it would take him.
Maybe it would crash and burn, like Merle predicted. Daryl couldn't say he cared. What was the point of living if he couldn't live in the moment? That's what he was doing. Living in the moment.
Merle would come around eventually. Surely. He'd want more. Maybe in five months. Maybe not for another five years. But eventually… he'd see the light. He'd swallow his pride and admit that he missed having his brother around. Or he'd end up in prison with no money to buy instant noodles and no one on his visitor's list. Daryl was naively counting on it.
And then, on a warm day in September, Daryl got a call on his cell phone. He was working and couldn't answer it—didn't even know it rang until he checked a few hours later. From Merle. No voicemail, though.
Daryl hesitated, his thumb over the Call button, debating whether he should try to call Merle back or not. But then he shoved the phone into his pocket and went back to work.
Whatever his brother had to say could wait. He'd certainly waited long enough to call. He probably just wanted Daryl to bail him out of something again, anyhow.
Yet as the hours passed, an unsettling feeling settled inside Daryl's stomach. He was worried. He didn't know why. He just was. He had a bad feeling, and he couldn't explain it.
That night, he called Merle back. It went straight to voicemail. Daryl waited a couple hours before trying again, but all he got was the voicemail greeting. So he called Rick. Still no news about Merle, according to the sheriff. The next day, Daryl dropped by some of Merle's favorite hangouts. No sign of his brother anywhere. And he hadn't seen Merle's bike anywhere in… how long? Weeks? Months? He couldn't recall. It was a small town, but Merle also had a habit of disappearing for indeterminable amounts of time. So maybe Daryl was just being paranoid.
Still, he couldn't shake the feeling. And as much as he didn't want to go back out to that cabin and step foot inside his personal Hell yet again, he knew he had to, or else he'd just keep expecting to get a call.
Was Merle in jail somewhere out-of-state? Or was he passed out on Jesse's couch, sleeping off a meth binge? Was he lying in a ditch somewhere out in the holler, trapped under his big heavy bike and slowly bleeding to death? Or was he sitting inside the cabin with some big-tittied stripper, drinking himself blind and getting lost between a pair of female thighs? Maybe it was as simple as he'd lost his cell phone and someone had found it and dialed one of the only saved contacts to try and find the owner.
Or maybe someone had come to the cabin with hopes of digging up some hidden stash of drugs and found Merle instead? Maybe they'd decided to give him the same treatment they'd given Will?
There were too many possibilities floating around inside Daryl's head. He could hardly sleep, couldn't eat, struggled to focus on his work. He kept checking his phone, expecting a call or text. Even Carol had noticed the change in him.
She was the one who suggested he make a trip out to the cabin—just to make sure Merle wasn't dead or something. She laughed off the possibility like it was a joke, assuring him that he'd go out there and find his brother high off his ass, or passed out in bed after a very long weekend. But, she insisted, it was worth the hassle for the sake of putting Daryl's mind at ease.
"Besides," Carol had said, smirking playfully. "If you do find him in some kinda life-threatening situation, then he'll really have no reason to be pissed at you anymore. Once again, you'd be savin' his ass, and he couldn't deny it this time." She'd shrugged. "Hell, maybe this could be the thing that brings y'all back together. Maybe he needs to see for himself that you've always been the only person he can truly rely on."
Yeah, Daryl reckoned. She had a point. He still didn't understand why she encouraged him to have a relationship with Merle. Then again, she'd seen the good in Daryl when he didn't think there was any good to be seen. Maybe it was the same with Merle. She seemed to have a knack for spotting the potential in people, whether it be for better or for worse. And Daryl knew she wouldn't condone his relationship with his brother if she thought it would somehow harm him.
So he took Carol's advice and borrowed her hatchback to drive out to Merle's cabin.
It was a dreary day in late September—a stormfront had moved in overnight and it felt like summer had been shoved out of the way rather abruptly. Autumn seemed to be rushing in and taking over, bringing with it strong gusts of cold wind and the smell of approaching rain. The sun shone through breaks in clouds, but Daryl kept his windows up and turned on the radio while he drove. He wasn't listening to the music, though. He was still going over a thousand different things he might find once he reached the cabin.
Merle's motorcycle was sitting out in the yard. Daryl slowed and parked the car at the side of the road, pulling his smokes from his vest pocket before he climbed out and shut the driver's side door behind him. He approached the bike tentatively, lighting up a cigarette as he stepped through overgrown grass and weeds.
It looked like it hadn't been touched in days. And Merle wasn't the type to leave it sitting out in the open when he knew a storm was coming. But maybe he'd been passed out so long, he hadn't noticed the change of weather yet.
Daryl paused in the middle of the yard, looking back and forth from the neglected motorcycle to the silent cabin while he smoked. There was an old bench and a rocking chair sitting on the front porch—new additions. Merle probably dug them out from the shed out back, Daryl guessed. The front door was shut. All-in-all, there didn't seem to be anything unusual about the place.
But he was hesitant to go inside. He didn't know why. He was suddenly tense and uncomfortable, and the nicotine was doing nothing to calm his nerves.
Nonetheless, he snubbed out his smoke and forced himself to walk forward and climb the porch steps. He half-expected the door to be locked, but it wasn't. He opened it with ease and stepped inside.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, he was assaulted by a rancid stench. It was like rotting meat. He reflexively covered his nose with one hand and shoved the door all the way open, searching around for the source of the smell. But the living room/dining room/kitchen of the cabin was completely normal. Well—despite the accumulated garbage and paraphernalia. It looked damn near ransacked, but it was certainly a lot cleaner than Will had ever kept it. No different than any of the other places Merle had ever lived.
Daryl figured there must've been some bad food lying around somewhere, or even a dead raccoon or some other kind of animal corpse that Merle had forgotten about. He was starting to assume Merle wasn't even here, but when had he ever gone anywhere without his precious bike?
"Merle?" Daryl called out into the empty cabin. His own voice echoed back at him. "Merle! You in here?!"
He took a few precarious steps through the living room, glancing around for signs of his brother's presence. But he quickly decided the bedroom was his best bet, and walked a little faster towards the open doorway. As he approached, he realized the smell was growing stronger.
Jesus Christ, what kind of horror show did his brother have stored in the bedroom, of all places? Was Merle actually sleeping amongst this stench?
Daryl strode confidently into the bedroom, hand still covering his nose and eyes on the ground as he tried to avoid stepping on trash. When he stopped a couple steps inside the doorway and finally raised his head, his hand fell away to hang listlessly at his side.
He took in a deep breath, but the smell of death no longer affected him; it was the sight hanging before him that made his stomach turn over.
There was Merle, his bare feet suspended mere inches off the wood floor. Like he was levitating. His skin was gray, tinted in shades of purple and blue. His eyes were huge and bulging out of his skull unnaturally, staring up at the ceiling from which his noose hung.
Daryl wanted to look away. He felt the acid rising in his throat, sizzling on the back of his tongue, threatening to expel from his mouth. But he couldn't tear his eyes away.
Merle looked… so strange. So… weak.
Daryl couldn't stop looking at his glazed, lifeless eyes. How they bulged out from his skull so disturbingly. How his mouth hung open, like he was still trying to take that final breath.
"You stupid son of a bitch," Daryl's voice escaped of its own free will. He let out a laugh, cold and humorless.
What else could he do but laugh?
"Can't nobody kill Merle Dixon 'cept Merle Dixon." That's what he'd said with so much certainty, wasn't it?
That stupid motherfucker. That arrogant asshole.
No. No no no no. There was a reason for this. There was a—
Daryl turned and began searching through the bedroom. He tossed things aside, slammed drawers open and shut, ripped away blankets and chucked trash every which way. He moved on to the rest of the cabin, ripping it apart in his frantic search. Hot tears poured down his face, but he hadn't even realized he was crying. He was too busy looking, rifling around, searching searching searching. He returned to the bedroom and looked through the closet, around every part of the small room. All the while Merle hung lifelessly from the ceiling, decaying a little more with every second that passed.
—a note? No note? Nothing? Not even a pen or pencil or a scrap of fucking paper anywhere in sight?!
"FUU-UUUCK!" Daryl screamed, tears still streaming down his face uncontrollably. "You fucking selfish bastard!"
The acid was no longer just in his mouth—it was everywhere. In his blood, his eyes, on his skin. He felt like he was about to burst open and splatter a corrosive substance across every surface of the cabin.
He gave Merle's face one last glance, a sob escaping his throat. Then he dashed out of the bedroom and out the front door. He wound up in the grass at the bottom of the porch steps, collapsed on his hands and knees, retching violently.
Sobs racked through Daryl's body and he vomited up the entire contents of his stomach. His tears dried in the cool breeze that blew across his face, but he kept heaving over the grass until nothing else came out. His vision was speckled with stars and black dots, his head light. He didn't even realize he had his phone in his hand until he heard the ringing in his ear. He swiped a hand across his mouth and cleared his throat, pressing the phone a little tighter against his ear. Whose number had he dialed?
"Hello?"
Carol. He'd called Carol. Of course.
He spoke without meaning to, his voice coming out hoarse and half-choked. He still couldn't process why he'd called her.
"He's dead."
"What?" Carol's voice rose with fright. "Daryl—who's dead? You're not talking about—"
"Merle." He spoke in a flat tone, nearly emotionless. "He's here. He's dead. In his room. He hung himself."
There was a sharp gasp on the other end of the phone. A stutter of shock. Then Carol asked, "Did you call nine-one-one? Daryl, did you take him down? Did you check his pulse? Are you sure he's dead?"
Daryl swallowed. He couldn't even feel his hand wrapped around the phone. The rest of his body was tingling, much like his head. As though he might float away entirely. He tried to process her questions, tried to form comprehensible responses.
"I couldn't take him down. I—I don't think I wanna touch him. He's been dead for days. He stinks. I didn't… I called you. I dunno why. I didn't think…" His voice kept trailing off. He couldn't maintain a single train of thought.
Carol's voice came through the phone even more strained than before, like she was holding back a sob or a scream. "Daryl, listen to me, okay? You need to hang up and call nine-one-one. Or—or Rick. Yeah, call Rick. Okay? He can help, he can come out there—"
"Yeah," Daryl said flatly. "Rick. That's a good idea. Think I'll give him a call."
Carol exhaled. "Jesus, Daryl—listen, I can borrow the neighbor's car and be out there in thirty minutes, if you—"
"Nah, it's okay. I'll be home in a little while."
He didn't wait for her response before ending the call. He stared down at the phone for a long moment, dumbfounded. What was he supposed to say to Rick? What if the sheriff was busy with other things? What if—
His body seemed to make the decision for him, because the next thing Daryl knew, he was holding the phone to his ear once again and listening to it ring.
"Hey, Daryl," Rick picked up on the second ring. "What's up?"
"Rick," Daryl said plainly. "You busy?"
"Not really," Rick replied casually. "Just finishin' up some things at the office."
"Cool. I was wonderin' if you could help me out."
"Sure, what'cha need?"
"Merle's dead. I just found him—uh, hangin' from his bedroom ceiling. You think you can bring some guys out—"
"Wait, what?!" Rick's voice rose with alarm. "Daryl, are you fuckin' serious right now? Did you call me before you called emergency services?"
Daryl paused. "I didn't think…"
"Christ," Rick cursed, and Daryl could hear him rustling about on the other end, hurrying around and gathering his things. "Alright listen, Daryl—yer probably in shock right now. Did you just walk in and find Merle? Are you out at the cabin?"
"Yeah."
"Okay—alright, it's okay, man. Listen to me, okay? I need you ta just stay there. Don't do anything, don't touch nothin', don't go nowhere. I'm gonna call this in to dispatch, but I'm on my way right now. I'll be there in less'an twenty minutes. Got it?"
Daryl didn't respond, struggling to process everything Rick was telling him.
"Daryl? You there? It's gonna be okay, man. You hear me?"
He snapped out of his daze and replied, "Yeah. Yeah, I got it. I'll see ya when ya get here."
Before the sheriff could say another word, Daryl ended the call and shoved his phone into his pocket. He stumbled over to the porch stairs and plopped himself down on the top step. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one up, moving completely on autopilot while his brain clipped and lagged like a malfunctioning computer.
He was caught in a numb fog. He went through the motions of smoking a cigarette, all the while lost in his own thoughts, staring out at the yard and the motorcycle and the hatchback parked by the road. He kept replaying the last words he'd spoken to his brother, mumbling them aloud as though the wind might pick them up and carry them far away from his memory.
"Don't expect me to answer the phone when you got a knife to yer throat."
In his state of incredulity, he wondered if he should've been more specific.
When Rick finally arrived, he approached Daryl with caution. But Daryl could do nothing more than stare blankly ahead and either nod or shake his head to the questions the sheriff had. He was still chain-smoking. Still ruminating over the last time he'd seen Merle alive. Wondering if he should bother with a burial or if he should take the easy route and cremate the body.
'How hot do those corpse ovens get?' He briefly wondered. 'Was Mama anything more than ashes by the time the firefighters got there?'
Then the ambulance arrived, closely followed by two more police cars and a coroner's van. Daryl didn't budge from where he sat. He just kept chain-smoking, watching everyone rush past him. He couldn't even remember Carol showing up, but suddenly she was there. She coaxed him away from the cabin and into the car.
He sat in the passenger seat of the hatchback and watched two men in black jackets wheel a stretcher out of the cabin. He couldn't see Merle, but he knew his brother was lying inside that black zip-up bag.
It was the oddest thing, though… because even though he knew Merle was dead, he could practically hear him. As though his recently deceased brother was sitting right behind him, talking into his ear.
"I fuckin' knew you'd miss me. You pansy-ass little bitch. Ya only wanna give a shit once I'm dead, huh? Guess it's jus' like you said, baby brother… Too little, too late."
Daryl didn't sleep for two days. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Merle hanging from a noose. And every time he drifted off, he heard his mother's distant screams as flames consumed her body.
But what could he do? There was no bringing his brother back. Daryl was officially the last of the Dixon bloodline.
He would just have to get over it and move on. That's what Merle would want, after all.
Beth was thrown out of Daryl's head, stumbling back and collapsing onto her back in the dirt. She lifted herself up and found the same cliff's edge as before, the same vast ocean rippling in the distance. She pushed up to her feet and tried to remember where she was, why she was there, and what she'd just seen.
It was like her mind was not her own whenever she was taken to these places; like she had to orientate herself every single time, because her brain was all foggy and discombobulated.
She could feel the tentacle-vines writhing within her core, but they didn't make an appearance.
Then she took a step towards the edge and remembered. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a warped forest, dark and dreary, echoing with static and pulsating an ominous glow. She turned and faced the cliff's edge. Waves crashed noisily against the jagged rocks below.
Was there no other way out? Would she literally have to take a leap of faith in order to escape Daryl's mind and get back to the present, where she'd been hugging him beneath a stormy sky?
She remembered, she remembered, she remembered. Intent. Purpose. Control.
Icarus.
But a distant voice echoed out from behind her. It was familiar—it was her own. She turned and saw the glow becoming brighter. She couldn't help herself. She began to walk towards the warped forest.
She could smell dying grass and fresh wildflowers; strawberry shampoo and sweat and the scent of leather. She could hear birds chirping and tallgrass rustling in the wind.
She could hear Daryl's soft grunts, and her own meek voice.
How could she possibly resist?
She stepped forward. This time, she willingly entered Daryl's mind, and she experienced his memories with an eager curiosity.
There was a bright flash. A strong tug at her core, jerking her forward, demanding control. Then…
"When you tried to take your own life," Morgan said. "You unknowingly created another split in your life line; you took an entire step out of the mortal plane, practically a leap. And your Gift came back with full force. You've been tethered to The Other Side for years. I reckon you just didn't know it."
Daryl blinked, gaping at the Swamp Witch, completely enthralled. He took in every word, tried to make sense of it. He pieced it all together, and intermittently stole glances at Beth to gauge her reaction. She was getting paler by the second, and she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from Morgan's.
Which told Daryl that this was serious. This was real. So much more real than he'd ever thought possible.
But that wasn't the part Daryl was stuck on. That wasn't the detail that had him reeling and looking over at the innocent little farm girl sitting beside him with utter confusion.
Beth Greene… had wanted to die?
The words escaped his parted lips before he could stop them, shattering the silence that had settled over the entire cabin.
"You tried ta kill yerself…?"
He saw her mouth snap shut, her cheeks blooming red. When she turned her head and met his eyes, he could see something familiar on her face. Yet it didn't belong. It wasn't an expression that a girl like her should be wearing: shame.
She frowned and muttered, "When I was seventeen. I was in a bad place. It was stupid—I didn't really wanna die." As though she owed him, of all people, any kind of explanation.
Morgan was saying something else, but Daryl could no longer focus. He couldn't stop staring at Beth, studying her, trying to imagine a version of her that was so hopeless, so helpless, that she would've thought slicing her wrist open was the final cure for her suffering.
In all his years, and throughout all his misery, Daryl had contemplated suicide many times. So he could relate in that aspect. But it had never been more than that—contemplation. At the end of the day, he'd always found some sort of excuse to keep him from actually trying. He'd always scraped up some pathetic reason to keep going, even when he was at his lowest. For a long time, he'd wondered if it was just because he was too much of a coward to take himself out. And that thought came back stronger than ever after he saw Merle with a rope around his neck.
Because what if his brother had always been the stronger one? The braver one? What if Merle knew that death was better than living in the shadow of their father? What if Merle had finally realized that all the drugs, all the drink, and all the adrenaline rushes in the world would never stifle that cruel voice inside his head?
And what if Daryl was just too much of a pussy to do what was necessary? What if he was still a step behind his brother, as he'd always been? A step behind accepting reality. Too hesitant to take that final leap off the edge.
But… no. Daryl cleared his head of those thoughts and took another long look at Beth.
She was still here. She kept finding reasons to keep going, even after knocking on Death's door. And she claimed Merle hadn't killed himself. She claimed to give a shit about both the Dixon brothers, no matter how shitty they might be or how many mistakes they'd made.
She claimed to have hope. And faith.
Hell, she had an entirely new perspective. A perspective that the Dixons would've never even considered if it weren't for their current circumstances.
What if that was what Daryl needed?
What if this strange little farm girl who could talk to ghosts was offering exactly the kind of new perspective that could change his life?
They'd already come this far, hadn't they? So what could it hurt to try?
It was in that moment when Daryl decided… no matter where it took them, he was ready to follow this woman to Hell and back.
There was a flash.
Beth let out a yelp of surprise as she was thrust from one memory to another without warning. She could hear the crashing waves behind her. She could smell the salty sea in the distance. But she had no control over whether she stayed or left.
Her own voice drifted into her ears once more, and she found herself back inside Daryl's head.
But only briefly. And briefly again. And again…
Daryl took three full steps into the bedroom before he heard—and felt—Beth following behind him. He didn't turn and look at her, though. He couldn't.
It was like reliving that day over and over again. He stared at the spot where Merle had been, and the images flashed through his mind. His stomach turned and his throat grew tight, and he could've swore he felt his lungs shrivelling behind his ribcage. Every muscle in his body went tense. He shut his eyes for a long moment, focusing on the deep breath he was struggling to inhale.
But the smell… Jesus Christ, the smell. It was still there. Like it was just yesterday. Had it ever really gone away? He'd thought he cleaned the place up well enough, but maybe it had permeated the walls. Or maybe Death was just something that left a trail in its wake—the kind that couldn't be erased with peroxide or bleach.
Maybe he was the only one who could smell it. Because even though he was mostly numb, he could still sense Beth standing behind him. He could still feel how relaxed she was, how calm she was remaining. She was solid in a way that he only wished he could be.
Then, very suddenly and to his surprise, he felt a soft warmth wrapping around one of his hands. He'd balled them into fists without realizing it, but as soon as he felt Beth's small hand grasping at his, he relaxed it.
And when was the last time that had happened? If ever? When was the last time he didn't wince from another person's touch, or stiffen up at the sensation of skin contact? When was the last time he'd let someone hold his fucking hand?
Yet she'd been reaching out for reassuring touches like this since he'd met her. And he hadn't really thought twice about it. Hadn't shied away, or rejected her offer of solidarity.
It was the weirdest goddamn thing. How it felt so… natural. So needed. Like she was some sort of anchor pulling him back down to earth right as he was about to drift up towards the sun.
He chanced a glimpse over at her and found a sad but hopeful smile on her face, tears pooling in her eyes. His heart thrummed and he opened his hand fully, taking hers in his palm and squeezing it.
Did she understand? Really? Even with all factors considered… did she get it? Was she relying on him?
Because he was kinda relying on her.
Shit. This girl was…
He stood before the grave of Annette Greene, mere inches away from Beth. He saw the obvious slump in the blonde's shoulders, heard the sadness in her tone. But he listened, taking it all in. Imagining the longsuffering tragedy that she and her family had endured.
For a second, he wondered if it was worse to watch your mother die slowly over the course of several months, or to hear her dying rather quickly from another room. But then he decided that they weren't comparable.
Pain was a spectrum, he reckoned.
He and Beth had experienced the same pain. The same sorrow and grief and utter hopelessness. But in different forms. They'd both come out the other end, stronger for it.
At what cost, though?
Daryl stared down at the headstone, reading the words over and over. 'Death is swallowed up in Victory.'
What victory was there that was worth dying for? Greed? Pride? Love?
He turned his head and gazed down at Beth, a thoughtful frown on his face. She looked up and met his eyes with watery blue orbs. Then she swiped a hand across her cheeks to wipe away the stray tears before cracking a smile.
He'd already decided he was going to reach out and grab her hand when she muttered, "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get all emotional an' start crying, or—"
The sudden contact seemed to make the rest of her words catch in her throat. Daryl squeezed her hand, intertwining their fingers as he let their arms hang loosely between them. The scent of her perfume wafted in the breeze and reached his nose, sending an odd sensation through his limbs, both calming him and making him jittery at the same time. Like strawberry shampoo and hay and wildflower bouquets.
Every time they'd been together—been close like this—he'd noticed she smelled like flowers. Somehow, she always smelled like flowers.
But to him, she smelled more like… hope. Or what he might associate it with. Because he hadn't really felt much hope since he'd found his brother hanging from the ceiling. Yet the sensation had been coming back over the last couple of days. Mostly when Beth was around.
He swallowed thickly and debated saying something. But what the fuck would he say?
'Hey, I get it—' No. 'Hey, I think you might be the nicest person I ever met, and I think we could—' No, no, no. 'Hey Beth, I know you miss your mom, and I miss mine too, and I really appreciate how much you've helped me figure out about my brother, but I—'
He decided against all of those and just nodded his head. 'I get it,' he said wordlessly.
She smiled in return, and it made his heart swell up and his throat tighten. 'Cause she got it, too.
He grasped her hand a little harder, pressing his palm against hers.
He took in a deep breath and tried to commit the smell to memory. Tried to tell himself he'd remember this feeling for as long as he lived. But Beth—
—was her own person. Her own woman. More than that, though, she was the youngest daughter of Hershel Greene.
Daryl should've known what to expect. Yet he still found himself surprised when Beth's footsteps ascended the stairs and faded away, and Hershel took advantage of their little moment alone.
The old man's face turned very serious, and he lowered his voice, speaking quickly and seriously.
"Now you listen here, Daryl Dixon," Hershel said, completely calm yet terrifyingly stern. "I've got no interest in what you an' my daughter are doing, so long as y'all aren't breaking any laws. She's an adult, she can make her own decisions. If I were a few years younger, I might be a little more upset about the two of you. But I—"
Daryl cut in, "We're not doin' anything, sir. I swear. We're just friends."
But Hershel waved his words away, nodding. "Yes, I'm aware. Bethy's told me all about it."
'Has she?' Daryl wondered. 'Or has she made up some kinda story to cover up the fact that she's Gifted and we're trying to use that Gift to find my brother's murderer?'
"Regardless, it's not about my approval," Hershel continued, raising his eyebrows. "Or my disapproval. She's gonna like who she's gonna like, and she clearly likes you. I'm tryin' to be supportive, but that support will only go so far. Do you understand what I'm tellin' you, son?"
Daryl nodded stiffly. He respected this man. Genuinely respected him. He wasn't about to do anything to risk their current standing.
Hershel lowered his voice even more, leaning in a bit to emphasize his point. "If you hurt my little girl, there will be hell to pay. And it won't be pleasant. I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt, because I truly believe you're a good person with a bad reputation. I have faith that you are an honest man. But I'm asking you, Daryl, from one honest man to another… Are your intentions pure?"
Daryl froze. He swallowed hard and refused to look away from the older man's intense gaze. Then he gave a clipped nod. "Without question. I'd do anythin' to make sure no harm comes to yer daughter."
Hershel barely had a chance to smile in satisfaction before the sound of Beth's footsteps were racing down the stairs again.
"I knew you were a good man, Mr. Dixon," Hershel muttered quietly, right before Beth rounded the corner and joined them.
Daryl was still shaking in his boots as Beth handed him a crisp new book.
What the fuck was he doing here? He didn't belong with these people. He would never, ever be able to live up to Hershel's expectations. He would never be anything close to the kind of man Beth deserved.
He had no right to be getting so close to this woman, or feeling… feeling…
Beth jolted back and nearly fell on her ass again. But she retained her balance, blinking and gazing around in surprise.
Enough. She had to go. She'd already seen too much. She'd let herself get sucked in too far. And there was no taking it back.
She hurried toward the cliff's edge. Could she jump off and find her way back to the present?
Only one way to find out.
Beth took a running leap off the edge of the cliff. She plummeted through the salty sea air, arms spread wide, and watched the dark water looming closer and closer.
I didn't mean to come here, she thought. I didn't mean to get so close.
She hit the water and plunged beneath its depths. The blackness swallowed her up.
to be continued…
