Beth's heart is an alarm bell ringing in her ears as her body senses danger and violently shakes her from sleep. Her fingers clench in the sheet as the mattress tremors beneath her, only to find it damp against her palm. In a daze she turns her body towards the source of the movement and when she finds it she can't breathe. She's frozen. Shocked. Unable to comprehend what's unfolding before her eyes.
Daryl.
There's a sheen of sweat covering his skin, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath him. He's sweating so much it's damp beneath her as well, and that's what she can feel against her palm. His body thrashes about, jerking violently from side to side as though under attack. A series of broken moans are thrown from his mouth between ragged breaths and then the noise shrinks to a whimper that slices through Beth like a knife. Under his wild hair his eyes are closed, eyelids pulsing rapidly and jaw clenched so tight Beth's own aches in sympathy.
Her eyes dart to his mouth in disbelief because she's never heard him make a noise like that before. She almost doesn't believe it's coming from him until she sees his lips move and her gut clenches. The sound is audible pain. She feels it in her core. Raw agony pushing out from behind his teeth. He's hurting.
He's hurtin' himself.
A realisation sobers her; she has to stop this. She has to wake him.
Now.
"Daryl," She says softly as she watches a violent tremor rack his frame.
When he ducks his head with another whimper, Beth edges closer. His hands twitch at his sides as he digs his chin into his collar bones, bowing his head as low as possible. The sawing of his breath moving in and out of his chest speeds up until its one continuous frenzied sound. It doesn't even sound like breathing anymore. The air is moving back and forth too quickly for the oxygen to make its way into his bloodstream.
He's hyperventilating.
"Daryl, wake up," She says a little louder as she edges closer.
Another whimper cuts Beth to the core and instinctively her hand stretches out in front of her.
Tentatively, she lays a hand on his chest.
Something solid connects with her abdomen and throws her from the bed, driving the air from her lungs in an instant. The next thing she feels is her cheekbone slamming against the hardwood floor. Numbness gives way to tingling and suddenly pain shatters the left side of her face. Gritting her teeth, she swallows it down, pushing herself up quickly and swinging her gaze in search of Daryl.
Hunched over with his forearms shielding his face – as if from an oncoming blow – she watches a tremble descend his spine. His rippling muscles catch the moonlight as they quiver and clench brokenly. Even in the half-light, she can make out the dark lines of scar tissue that litter his back.
Belt marks.
Oh.
Oh no.
Suddenly and violently something clicks into place. The way he's huddled and trembling; he's the image of a beaten child.
Because he was.
Oh God.
He was Sam.
"Daryl," She whispers softly as she crawls back onto the bed, being careful not to make any sudden movements or get too close.
He looks at her through his hair, slick with sweat and plastered to his face and neck.
"Beth," Daryl gasps, sat bolt upright and trembling, his eyes wild as they connect with hers.
The sour scent of Daryl's fear sweat is soaking the air. Beth sits stone-still on the bed, heart crawling into her throat as she stares back at him. His face drained of blood, he looks pale and sick, dark circles etched beneath his eyes.
After a moment, Daryl scrambles across the bed and buries his face in her middle. Beth gasps as something hot and wet begins seeping through her vest. Tears. He's crying. Fear spilling out of him into her warm embrace.
She draws in a slow breath and lifts a hand to card through his hair, pushing it back from his face. She keeps stroking her fingers slowly across his scalp and his unsteady breathing starts to fall into a rhythm. They stay like that for a long time, Daryl's breath against her rib cage where he's pillowed against her chest, listening to her heart beat, her hands in his hair.
"My ol' man was a drunk," Daryl murmurs into the darkness, still and silent but for their breathing, "Used to beat on my mom, an' Merle when he was around."
Beth's fingers curl in his hair as she feels something wrap around her heart and squeeze.
"My mom put a bolt on the inside of her closet," He says, opening his eyes and looking at Beth. Her insides turn to ice because she knows what he's going to say. She knows because she already heard it earlier on the porch steps. She feels an unbearable ache when she thinks about how hearing it must have come as such an unexpected blow for Daryl. To have something like that come out of nowhere, flay him open and dig up his childhood pain.
His gaze is ducked, submitting to her gentle touch, "Sometimes she'd tell me to lock myself in, an' not come out till mornin'."
Beth's fingers card through where his hair is longest and rest on the nap of his neck, palm flattening against his skin.
"I could hear my daddy yellin', stuff breakin', my mama cryin'," Daryl whispers, voice straining with all the emotion locked in his memories, "All I wanted was to protect her, but I wasn' strong enough."
The ache in Beth's chest radiates through her entire being, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp at something so wrong. Yet, after all the bad things that have been done to him, Daryl is one of the good things in this world.
He turns his head away as Beth's fingers slide down the thick corded muscles of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. His arms tighten around her, pressing his face deeper into her soft belly. Her fingers continue to drift lightly across his shoulder. When they come across scar tissue they stop.
"That was for talkin' back," Daryl murmurs.
Beth's eyes widen. Her fingertips carefully trace the outline of the gnarled scar before continuing to stroke soft circles across his back. It isn't long before her fingertips catch the ridge of raised skin streaking the space between his shoulder blades. The scar is dark, even in the low light and almost cuts across the entire muscled landscape of Daryl's back. Beth's gut twists, thinking how hard he must have been hit, how many times, to leave such a deep and visceral scar.
"That was for not answerin'," Dary says. His eyes flash to Beth, briefly, then away.
Teeth dig into her bottom lip as she thinks about Daryl as a boy, torn between his fear of what will happen if he speaks and his fear of the repercussions if he doesn't. How that reluctance to speak still lingers. How his eyes still scan people's faces for cues he looks like he'll live or die by. It makes sense now, his wary silence. The cruel conditioning that he endured shaped him this way, and not all of the scars from his childhood can be seen.
Beth sighs. What do you say to something like that? She presses a lingering kiss to his temple, his sweat salty on her lips.
"Thank you for tellin' me," She whispers softly, brushing her hand through his hair again. Daryl closes his eyes and sighs, his breathing coming out slow and steady.
"After she died, I didn' lock myself in the closet no more," Daryl murmurs, "Took the beatin's instead."
Beth's heart shudders and she feels a little of the tension leave Daryl's arms as he slowly becomes a dead weight against her middle, not long for sleep.
"I know it's fucked up, but it made me feel closer to her somehow."
"It's not fucked up," Beth says, her hand curling around his skull and staying there, "It wasn't your fault, Daryl."
Daryl lets out a shuddering breath that Beth feels in the pit of her stomach.
They don't talk after that. Beth watches Daryl's back rise and fall until he drifts into a rumbling slumber. She keeps her arms curled loosely around his head all night, as though her embrace could protect him from any more harm. But she knows there's nothing left in this world that can hurt Daryl Dixon, except what's inside his own head.
It's horrible, and it's painful. God, it hurts just to look at him, to see the unrelenting pain in his eyes like his skin has been flayed off leaving him raw and vulnerable. But it's out there now. Which means it isn't in there anymore.
He's not ok, not yet, but it's a start. He'll start to heal, and he'll be good.
