He was never late on Saturday nights. Every time they had played together in their shitty dive bar he was there right after her, so the fact that it was nine fifteen and his truck wasn't even in the parking lot left her worried. Beth knew that things were still a little tense between them but she didn't think he would actually stand her up, even though he had the night before. She was frantically running through things in her head trying to put together an acapella set when the familiar, too loud sound of his truck filled her ears.

"Where were you? I was getting worried!" Daryl pushed past her and slammed his door shut. His boots hit the pavement and he struggled to stay calm. All he could process was one wave of guilt after another, for not calling her last night, for being mad she had friends, for leaving his father alone.

He flinched violently when she grabbed his arm, he was on edge and the contact was too much for him.

"Just because you're mad at me doesn't mean you can ignore me! Answer me, Daryl!"

Before Beth could move he had her pinned against the side of the truck. She looked up at his face and saw his left eye was starting to swell. "I was fuckin' busy. I ain't answerin' your questions. And I don't give a shit about that punk ass kid!" He banged his hand on the side panel and then spun away from her and into the bar.

When she found him again he was downing shots.

Daryl was trashed before they stepped on stage. She had seen him do several shots of whiskey while the act before them finished up and guessed he had had more when she wasn't looking. He almost knocked over her mic stand with the neck of his guitar and tripped as he stepped up on stage. He apologized too loudly and his slurred words echoed into the microphone. They stumbled through their set. His usually impeccable playing was sloppy, his timing was completely shot and there was little she could do to compensate. Beth jumped from her stool and made her rounds apologizing to the people who had stayed. She ignored the glare from Maggie and the sympathetic grin from Glenn. When she got back to the front of the bar and saw him nursing a beer she couldn't contain the anger and embarrassment coursing through her.

"What the hell is wrong with you!"

He didn't even turn around, all he could think about was leaving the house and ruining the little bit of time he had with her.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do here."

He didn't know either so he downed the rest of the beer.

"I'm not dealing with this, Daryl!" He tried to duck away from her and nearly toppled off the barstool. Beth glared at him, she grabbed his car keys off the bar and left. She drove the truck around the block a few times before parking back in front of the bar. Daryl was outside doubled over, emptying his stomach onto the sidewalk. She watched as he turned around and slammed his fist into the rough, brick exterior of the building and the next thing she knew she was beside him pulling on his elbow to lead him to the truck.

She was grateful that Maggie had pointed out his apartment building because he wasn't much help slumped over in the passenger seat with his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window. The mailbox in the lobby said "W. Dixon" on the slot marked 3A. She had a hard time figuring out which key was the right one, he had too many on his key ring. He stood up a little straighter when he finally processed where she had brought him.

"Can't go in there. You gotta go." He stumbled a bit when he reached for her.

"I'm just gonna make sure you're alright. Turn on a light for you."

He swallowed down the sick feeling and focused on her throwing his own words back at him. If he wasn't so drunk he would've smirked at her, he also would've had to fight away the feeling of being impossibly small. He wasn't used to having someone make sure he was alright.

She looked around the small apartment. It's cluttered, but not dirty. There was too much furniture, like someone had tried to cram two lives into the space of one. The couch was made up into a bed with cheap, low thread count sheets and a flat pillow. The way Daryl staggered across the room and collapsed down onto it let her know it was his. She helped him with his boots and draped one of the blankets over him. She was on her way to the kitchen to find a glass and some ibuprofen when the line of pill bottles on the counter made her stomach drop. All the labels said William and she finally realized that cough she heard wasn't coming from next door.

The bedroom was dark and smelled like a hospital. It felt like her grandmother's room at the nursing home, that same, almost erie, quiet punctuated with the rasp of a body giving out and the resignation of a soul slipping away. Beth held back the tears at the onslaught of memories and finally understanding why Daryl always headed home early. She let the door click closed behind her.

She busied herself with cleaning up the kitchen and then moved on to the bathroom, by the time she heard a rough voice calling Daryl's name the dishes were done and the floor was swept. It was after midnight. She went into the room with a glass of water.

"Another nurse? Punk ass kid can't even help me die." His breathing was shallow and slow and every few words were interrupted by coughs.

"I'm not a nurse, I'm Beth. Daryl's… g…"

"The new piece of ass? You're the one who's got him skippin' out on his old man?"

Beth watched him squint as he tried to look her over in the dark room.

"Little young, ain't ya?"

She didn't have response.

"Don't matter. He ain't worth your time anyhow."

She still didn't have a response. The way he was talking, the low gruff voice and harsh breaths, the words he used to describe Daryl, the way he leered at her from his support of pillows, everything about him made her uncomfortable.

"Ain't worth shit, that one."

She left the glass on the table and shut the door behind her. This was nothing like her grandmother's room. There were no mumbled thank you's or I love you's. There was no promise of things being alright or reassurances that it was the way things happened. That they would all be alright. When Beth settled down into the battered recliner and looked over at Daryl snoring lightly on the couch she tried to picture how he had been able to cope with this on his own. His eye was a little swollen and beginning to bruise and she noticed the way he curled into himself as he slept. She grabbed a blanket from the pile she had folded and let her eyes drift closed.