A/N: "On My Own" by The Used.

on my own

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

It didn't fucking matter.

(Except it did. It really mattered.)

He didn't care. He didn't care. He absolutely did not care.

He didn't give a single shit.

(Except he did. He cared so much that he thought his skin might begin ripping apart from the intensity of it. He thought the thousands of tiny knives penetrating his every nerve might finally slice through and tear him to shreds right then and there in the driver's seat of his pickup truck.)

His heart raced in his chest and he hadn't been able to slow it, hadn't been able to still the trembling in his hands, even as he left the Walmart and drove far away. Even as he put that side of town in his rearview mirror and headed back to his apartment. He couldn't shake Jimmy's words, couldn't stop replaying them in his head over and over, dissecting every sentence and analyzing every slight change in tone. He smoked cigarette after cigarette during his drive, and kept smoking as soon as he'd gotten home and stepped out onto the little balcony. It was the only thing that seemed to calm him.

He wanted to tell himself it was bullshit. He wanted to push it away and excuse it as an immature asshole trying to cause problems - out of spite, or jealousy, or whatever it was that drove assholes like Jimmy to lie about things like that.

But he couldn't.

His stomach was churning and flip-flopping, threatening to evacuate everything he'd eaten in the last few hours. His head was spinning and beginning to ache from way too many racing thoughts. And his legs were restless, muscles itching to move, to walk, to run, as though his body wanted to respond by fleeing rather than fighting.

Except there was no fleeing from this. He stood on the balcony and stared out at the city, watched the few people down on the sidewalks walking beneath the early afternoon sun and the heavy gray clouds, and he began to accept the fact that he really only had two choices in this situation.

He could either confront her and ask for the truth… or he could ignore it entirely - pretend it never happened, act like he'd never even run into Jimmy at all, like he hadn't ever wandered into that particular Walmart at that particular time of day in the first place.

If he did the former, it might result in a fight. There would definitely be an argument, and he didn't doubt that she would get defensive. It might even push her away and ruin all the progress they'd made in the last week. And if he did the latter, he'd have to be okay with telling himself that Jimmy was lying. He'd have to accept, in at least some way, that he trusted Beth implicitly, even after everything, and that he didn't care what Jimmy or anyone else said.

But that would also mean being willfully ignorant. And that had always been something that Daryl Dixon just couldn't do.

Beth didn't text him until halfway through her shift, explaining that work was insanely busy and she was struggling to keep up. By that time, he was sitting on the couch with his second glass of whiskey, and his fingers hesitated over the screen of his phone as he struggled to form a response. He was resisting the very strong urge to tell her about Jimmy, to ask for her side of the story. To ask why?

But he knew better.

Before he could manage a text back, she sent him another message.

Brittany and Lauren wanna go to that Space Bar tonight. I think I might go. Would you wanna come with me?

As soon as his eyes comprehended the words before him, his heart skipped. The aching that had been present in his gut all day throbbed with a lively pulse. He swallowed hard and forced his trembling hand to hold the phone steady.

Normally, he would be tapping out a quick and reflexive "yes," but it was mere hours after a troubling interaction with one of the many half-buried hatchets from their past, and all the questions and conflicts were still too fresh in his mind. He wasn't even sure if he could stop himself from bursting out with all of his concerns as soon as he saw her in person again. And that definitely wasn't the way he wanted to approach the situation at all.

Yet there was still that huge part of him that wanted so badly to see her again. He'd already planned his whole day around her, his whole weekend. She was all he had to look forward to. But… the thought of seeing her face right now, of feeling her warm hand in his and seeing her innocent smile…

That look - like everything was back to normal again. Like she was playing a fun game of "House" and he was just filling the role of 'the husband.' For now.

As soon as he texted her back, he put his phone on Silent and placed it face-down on the coffee table. Then he resumed his drinking and chain-smoking and TV watching, all the while struggling to ignore the constant aching in the pit of his stomach. And even more so, the constant nagging voice in the back of his head, reciting all his deepest doubts and fears. Questioning whether he was making a mistake - another mistake.

No, I'm not feeling too good. Think I'll stay home tonight. I'll text you tomorrow.

He wound up drinking until his head was spinning from more than just troubling thoughts, and by five, he'd fallen into a deep sleep on the couch with the TV playing at low volume and the sun setting outside. He didn't budge for a solid four hours, and when he did, he jolted awake and looked around in confusion. He was sober and his head was faintly throbbing, but after a long piss and a smoke, his head was right back to Beth and everything that had driven him straight through five glasses of whiskey in the first place.

It was too much. He didn't like feeling all this shit.

What was even worse was that, when he finally picked up his phone and turned it over, he found no new notifications. No new texts, no calls, no messages of any kind. The last text he'd sent was 'read' a couple of hours ago. And that was it.

So maybe she didn't give a shit if he was with her or not. And, most likely, she didn't plan her weekend around him, or even so much as a single day. As usual, he was putting way too fucking much into this thing. He was caring too goddamn much, forcing himself to try and be something that he could never be. And for what?

For a girl who didn't even want him nearly as much as she wanted another man?

Fuck. His stomach hurt worse the more he thought about it. He smoked another cigarette and scrolled through social media, searching for clues. But he found nothing. Then he struggled to eat a very bland sandwich before pouring himself another whiskey and settling into the couch.

But his foot wouldn't stop twitching, his leg wouldn't stop moving, and everything within him was screaming, go go go. He didn't know why. He just had to get out.

Maybe it was all the echoes and whispers trapped between the thin walls of his apartment, constantly reverberating out in ghostly recitation, reminding him that Beth had soiled every single inch of his home. And there was no way in hell he'd be able to stop thinking about her when every corner of his little apartment was laced in her presence.

He texted Dwight on his way out the door in a brief afterthought.

Heading to the bar if you wanna come down.

Of course, Dwight had better things to do. He had a wife who wanted to watch movies and cuddle on the couch and try for babies. He didn't have time to come down to the bar and watch Daryl cry tears in his beers over Beth for the twenty millionth time. And Daryl couldn't really blame him. Who would want to share a beer with a sad sack like him anyway?

It's a little late tonight, Sherry wants to stay in. Call you tomorrow?

He didn't text back. He just shoved his phone into his pocket and ordered a second beer.

It didn't take much to get him close to where he'd been before passing out on the couch earlier. He hadn't eaten since that bland sandwich - though, admittedly, he hadn't had anything close to an appetite - and there was still whiskey lingering in his bloodstream.

So when the jukebox got a little louder and the bar became a little more crowded with a rambunctious Saturday night rush, he was actually thankful for the distraction. It was one of those rare occasions where he was glad to have so many other humans around him, so much nonsense and noise, so much activity bustling around him. Something about it reminded him that life goes on - that it wasn't impossible to keep going.

Even if he felt horribly empty while doing so. Even if he felt completely alone amongst the dense crowd of nameless faces and unfamiliar bodies.

Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. His hand clenched the beer bottle he'd been sipping from tightly and he told himself it was Dwight again, or someone else. But he was already expecting it when he finally pulled the phone out and saw the text. From Beth.

Everybody's being lame tonight. I miss you.

His stomach knotted up tightly. Painfully. He clenched his jaw without realizing it and pushed away the rapidly forming images of Beth sitting at a bar, forlorn and lonely.

She didn't need him. So why was she still pretending like she did?

He couldn't bring himself to unlock the screen, to officially open the text and leave it as 'read.' He didn't want to respond, but he also didn't want her to think he was purposely ignoring her. Not really - not yet, at least. He was still trying to figure out how to deal with it, how to process all the new information and fit it into the jigsaw puzzle of their relationship. The past few weeks had been too wistful, falling together too well. He'd known there would be some kind of catch to it, that there would be some sort of downfall. But he hadn't predicted this. And he wasn't even sure if it was this.

Was this the thing that would be worth it? Was this the thing that he was willing to risk all of their fragile-as-glass progress for?

How important was his pride this time around?

He thought he might find the answer at the bottom of his beer, but every bottle proved just as clueless as the last. Until he was sick of beer and telling himself that - surely - the answer would be somewhere within that amber liquid that beckoned him forward so welcomingly. Yet two glasses in and he still had nothing but questions, questions, questions.

A woman had sat down beside him and started talking to him. He wasn't really listening for a while until he realized she wasn't going away, and then she was offering to buy their next round and asking him where he was from and what his name was. She wasn't all that good-looking and her voice was hoarse, like she'd smoked too many cigarettes. And the dress she was wearing looked ill-fitted, and he didn't like the way her hair clung to her neck and her too-big forehead, giving him the impression that she was greasy.

Then again, he was silently comparing her to Beth the whole time. So, naturally, she'd never measure up. He wasn't trying to - it just… happened. No matter how much he tried not to do it.

He was struggling to keep his eyes focused on this nameless woman while she told him all about her ex-husband and her son who wouldn't talk to her. And when she asked if he wanted to step outside for a cigarette, he thought that might be a good idea because the cigarette would help him focus and clear his head, and the fresh air would help, too. Because, in his mind, he kept thinking about Beth and what she would be saying about this drunk lady who was so freely pouring out her life story to him at the bar. And he wanted to stop thinking about Beth.

While he stood outside with this greasy-haired woman - whose name he hadn't caught and couldn't remember for the life of him - he chain-smoked three cigarettes and grunted his way through an entire conversation about 'toxic family members.' All the while, his eyes absent-mindedly scanned the flowing crowd around them, searching to no avail for a familiar face. One familiar face in particular that he knew better than to hope for.

His stomach churned and flipped and he wished he'd brought a drink out with him. He reached into his pocket to pull out a fourth cigarette and that's when she leaned in, suddenly invading his personal space without warning, and he found himself inches away from her face.

These weren't the lips he was used to, it wasn't the scent he recognized. This wasn't the mouth or the face that he took comfort in, and it was nothing close to the place he wanted to be when he allowed himself to be so vulnerable. This wasn't the warm body he'd wanted, nor was it anywhere close to capable of filling the constantly empty place beside him.

She was unfamiliar and uncomforting, but before he had a chance to push her away or step back, she was closing the distance and pressing her chapped lips to his. And it wasn't Beth, but it was someone wanting him.

God help him, but he lingered. For just the briefest of seconds. Then the whiskey haze rapidly receded and he regained his bearings, opening his eyes and stepping back, separating his mouth from hers as swiftly as he possibly could.

When he looked down, he found a thin-lipped smirk and watery brown eyes staring up at him. She'd tasted like cigarettes and White Russians and some kind of cheap perfume that made him queasy. He tried not to be visibly disgusted, but it was a challenge at this point of inebriation. He could already feel his mouth turning downward into a hard frown, and his brows were knitting together.

She moved to step forward again but he shoved his hand out and stopped her, fingertips barely grazing the rough fabric on the front of her blouse while he took another half-step back and put more distance between them.

"Not interested."

He turned away and went back inside before she could form a response, and a few minutes later, he was paying his tab and grabbing his coat. He rushed out the doors and kept his head low, shoving his way through the slowly dissipating crowd until he was standing by his truck in the parking lot. Alone.

Finally alone.

He sat in his truck, still parked beside the bar, and smoked four more cigarettes in the dim streetlights, listening to the muffled sounds of the drunk crowd inside and the scattered pedestrians passing by. Thinking. Constantly thinking. He couldn't stop, not even when he wanted to. Not even when he tried to drown all the thoughts in beer and whiskey, tried to smoke them out with nicotine and tar and city smog. Everything reminded him of her. From the twinkling stars above to the empty passenger seat beside him.

Her text sat on his phone, unopened and unanswered. He kept clicking his phone screen: locked and unlocked, locked and unlocked, locked and unlocked. Beth. Nothing. Beth. Nothing. Beth. Nothing. His fingers itched to respond. He'd already composed fifteen different messages in his head.

There was a voicemail saved on his phone that had been there for… ages. Too long. But it was like a security blanket for him. He couldn't bring himself to delete it. It was the only voicemail he had saved, always there for him to click on and play if he so desired. And every now and then, when he felt particularly weak and beaten-down and worthless, he'd give in to his pathetic little guilty pleasure and play it. He'd hold the phone close to his ear and sap every ounce of Beth that old voicemail had to give him. He'd relish in the sound of her voice, in the hopefulness and the optimism and the love, in the soft giggles and the light-hearted tilt.

And sometimes, he'd pretend they were back there again - in a simpler time. In a time when he could've so easily fixed everything, when he could've kept her and kept her forever. If he'd have just pulled his head out of his ass.

During those little moments of pretending, inside the deepest parts of his most secretive fantasy, he would imagine that he'd never fucked it all up. That she was still his, and vise versa. And that they were still happy, and that she'd be waiting on the couch for him as soon as he walked through the door of his apartment, wearing sweatpants and a ponytail and a smile. And that she'd been missing him just as much as she promised she always was.

But even at this level of intoxication, even on his highest of Cloud Nines, he could no longer pretend. He could no longer lie to himself. Deep down, he knew that he had to accept it.

The Beth in that voicemail was long gone. And he'd been the one to drive her away.

"Hey, baby. I know yer prob'ly sleeping and I didn't wanna blow up yer phone with too many texts. But… I miss you. Like - a lot. You have no idea! Well, you probably have some idea since I keep tagging you in stuff on Facebook. And… texting you... No, but seriously, I can't wait till yer home again. We have so many shows to catch up on - I've tried ta wait till yer back, but I might have watched a couple episodes without you… Anyways, I hope you're ready to be squeezed to death, 'cause this body pillow really isn't cutting it anymore, Dixon. I haven't had a good night's sleep since you left… So if you didn't already know, I miss you. I really, really, really miss you. And I love you. More than you could know. So, ya know… love you. Text me when you wake up. Oh, and don't forget: I love you, babe."

He'd gotten all the way back home, stripped down and lying in his bed alone. He'd finally managed to stop the spinning in his head and still his restless legs. The last time he'd looked, the clock had read 1:48. And then he heard his phone vibrating noisily on the nightstand from a call, and there wasn't even a tiny part of him that wanted to resist the urge to look - to assure himself that it was exactly the name he was expecting to see on the screen.

Sure enough: Beth Calling...

He couldn't have stopped his hand from reaching out if he wanted to, nor his thumb from sliding the green Answer button across the small screen. Suddenly, his heart was pounding and he felt too sober.

"'Ello?"

Her voice filled his ear and sent a surge of warmth down his spine, immediately followed by an icy chill. It was her, but she was drunk. Of course. And upset. She was slurring her words and mumbling through a tear-filled knot in her throat.

"What - what're you doin', babe? 'M sorry, I didn't mean ta wake you up," she sniffled audibly and he felt his stomach clench.

He swallowed and leaned back against the pillow, phone pressed tightly to his ear. "Nah, 's alright - what's wrong? Why're you cryin'?"

She stifled a sob and responded, "I'm just - bein' stupid. I shouldn't've called you, but I'm not…"

"What?"

"I just feel so alone. I don't - I don't have anybody. Everybody's sick of my shit. And I can't blame them, but… I dunno how ta change it."

Fuck, he couldn't stand it when she cried. It was the one surefire way to make him crumble into a heap of weakness. As if he didn't have a hard enough time saying no to her or retaining anything that might resemble a spine in her presence.

"What're you talkin' about? Where you at right now?" He asked, listening closely for background noise but hearing only silence and Beth's sniffling.

Her voice softened, becoming weaker and almost tentative. "I'm at home…"

It was at that moment that he realized he definitely couldn't say no to her again. Not tonight. Not when she sounded like this, her tone making his stomach twist into knots of guilt, making him picture fresh cuts on her thigh in his absence.

He could forget about that stupid run-in with Jimmy. He could ignore it and push it out of his head entirely. He could pretend it never even fucking happened.

He could.

She explained softly, "I got in a fight with Brittany and - and everybody took her side. Nobody wanted me there anymore. So I left."

Despite his concern, it was way too late for this shit, and he was still too foggy-headed to comprehend the drama she was crying about. He wasn't nearly sober or awake enough to play Therapist tonight. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, grunting and shoving the blanket off his body.

"Left where? That stupid Space Bar place?"

"Yeah."

"Ain't that up by where Brittany lives?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"What - you drove yerself home? Like this?"

"Please don't start with that, I didn't call you to - "

He sighed, cutting her off with a quick apology, "Nah, 's not what I meant."

He clenched his jaw for a second and swallowed back the words that had gathered on his tongue.

"You never cared," she added, an edge of resentment to the statement. "You still drive when you shouldn't be."

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Then he grumbled, "So'd ya call ta pick a fight, or - "

"No." Her tone flipped to apologetic and pitiful like it was on a switch. "I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone. I shouldn't've bothered you."

Fuck. Shut up, asshole. Swallow your fucking pride. Just this once - for a change.

"Stop. I ain't - I didn't mean none a that, alrigh'? You want me ta come over?"

"You don't have to. I wasn't tryin' ta call lookin' for yer pity or somethin', I just… needed somebody. And I really miss you."

He licked his dry lips and rubbed at his eyes again, trying to ignore the aching in his chest at her pain-stricken words. He mumbled back throatily, "Miss you, too."

He glanced at the clock: 2:21. Then he briefly thought about waking up in his bed in the morning, cold and alone, facing a long and uneventful day without anything - or anyone - to look forward to. The thought filled him with dread.

"You gonna be able ta stay awake till I get there? I gotta throw some clothes on first, might take me a li'l bit."

He could hear the small smile that was curling her lips upward on the other end of the phone, her tone instantly lightening.

"I couldn't fall asleep right now if I tried, Dixon."

The sky was clear of clouds or rain for the first time all week. The Walmart bag full of spare toiletries was still sitting on the floorboard of the passenger seat in his truck. For the first few blocks, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the wind and the city sounds and the crinkle of plastic on the floor as his purchases rolled around whenever he'd stop at a red light. But then his mind was sitting on idle too long, focused too heavily on Beth and the building tightness in his belly as he drove toward her apartment.

Once again, replaying that bullshit conversation from earlier, mulling over every single word that had drawled from Jimmy's mouth, examining every clue and every new piece of information. Yet still coming to the same conclusion:

He had to forget about it. He had to let it go this time.

He turned on the radio and cranked it up until George Strait's voice was filling his ears and pushing everything else to the far back of his mind. He chain smoked during the whole drive, letting the nicotine and the cool night air wake him up completely and clear the remaining haziness from his senses. By the time he reached her place, it was past three and his left hand was mostly numb from hanging out the open window for the last half-hour.

After parking in the small lot and walking to her door - passing a couple of particularly sketchy-looking guys on the way and remembering what part of town he was in - he knocked on her door and waited. He could hear music playing from inside and it sounded like more of that obnoxious shit all her friends listened to.

He wondered what else had changed about her that he hadn't quite noticed yet. Months ago, she'd still been listening to indie and alternative and classic rock, with the occasional pop or rap hit slipped in. But it seemed that her music tastes had evolved just as drastically as her drinking habits during their time apart. Or maybe he just hadn't been paying close enough attention…?

She answered the door wearing sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt, and a half-drunken smile. Her makeup for the night had been wiped away, leaving only smudges of mascara and eyeliner from recently crying, and her hair looked like it had been curled for the night out, but now it was thrown up into a loose ponytail with tendrils slipping out around her ears and on the back of her neck. The blue in her eyes was bright and lively behind her glasses, but not in the way he preferred. The spark in her gaze was from intoxication, not genuine happiness.

Nonetheless, he was elated to see her. The relief washed through him and it felt like his entire body was relaxing all at once, as though he'd been subconsciously tensed-up all day until the moment he was with her again. Suddenly, anything Jimmy might've had to say was a distant memory, completely forgotten in the moment. Completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Her smile grew wide as she gazed up at him, soft pink lips curving up into her cheeks and sending a flicker of excitement to her heavy-lidded eyes.

"You made it."

to be continued...