Take Me as I Am
Chapter 9
[Fever]

"You're not going to die, Daryl Dixon. I sure as hell won't let you."

Beth felt the heat rise up to her face, flushing her milky skin into a bright pink color. She was livid. Beyond livid. She hated the thought of being useless—well, useless when it comes to combat. And today, she proved to herself that she wasn't, not completely anyway. To even think of Daryl dying because of her own stupidity, she wouldn't be able to live with herself afterwards. If he had died and she found the rest of the group, what would she tell Rick? What would she tell Carol?

She released his face and looked away, hardly keeping her tears at bay. Sniffling, she went to the far edge of the bed to retrieve the bandages, and antiseptics. She was searching through the first aid cabinet in the bathroom when she heard him say that he was going to die. There was a nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen, two rolls of surgical bandages, half bottle of isopropyl alcohol, some sterile saline and some sports tape. They were so lucky that these were in the house. Without them, Beth wouldn't have been so sure that Daryl would live through the night.

After arranging the items on the edge of the bed, she paused momentarily, casting a glance at Daryl from the corners of her eyes. His eyes were open, his breathing sounded shallow and deep and his brow was speckled with beads of sweat.

Beth frowned, concerned. He looked more than pale to her, which was a given since he had lost so much blood. "Daryl," she called out to him.

"Hm…" he hummed in reply, not bothering to look at her.

"I need to clean your wounds, the proper way… okay?" She wasn't really asking for his permission, she was still upset at his death comment. She almost wanted him to tell her no so she can use that as an excuse to blow up in his face. That would be childish though.

"Hm… 'kay," he breathed out, he sounded exhausted and drained.

Beth scooted closer to his head and placed a hand over his forehead, wondering if he had a fever. She gasped and yanked back her hand, stunned. "God Daryl," she whispered with worry. "You're burning up!" She turned to grab the bottle of ibuprofen, unscrewed the lid and poured all of the contents onto her palm. Four. She counted four 200 mg pills of ibuprofen. That was not enough to even last through the night if his fever took a turn for the worse.

Stop that, she scolded herself. Daryl will make it… he will. He won't die… she won't let him.

"Beth?" she heard him rasp, his throat sounding dry.

"Yeah," she shook her head to get rid of the depressing thoughts and beamed him a smile. "Take this, it'll help with the pain and your fever," she pushed one pill through his lips and waited until he swallowed it before putting the other one in. "Let me get you something to drink," Beth got up from the bed and headed towards the door. Shutting it softly behind her, she made her way down the stairs; drawing out her knife she opened her ears to any sudden sounds.

Though she believed that Daryl had drawn out the remaining walkers of the house, she could never be too cautious now. She needed to watch her every move, because if she didn't… if she didn't, Daryl might die in her care. Putting a knife through walker Daryl's head would be something she couldn't do… how could she?

The house was silent, no sounds of walkers, no sounds of life. Glancing at the front door to double check the security, she determined it was safe for her to shield her knife when the door had remained closed since she and Daryl had passed through it not too long ago. She headed straight to the kitchen, grabbing a few jars of food and a bottle of diet cola and the candles from the kitchen table and was about to make her way up the stairs when a growl froze her in her tracks.

Her heart hammered in her chest, a thousand possibilities of what that growl could be ran through her head. Walkers, bears, walkers, humans, walkers? It couldn't be a walker—it would've attacker her by now. Another growl, followed by sounds of the source sniffing her dampened her fear. Slowly, she spun on her heels to find a mess of dirty white fur and a brown eye staring at her from the kitchen floor.

A dog.

A dog? Could this be the very dog that Daryl was talking about that night? The one that he thought was at the door on that night? It didn't growl at her after it had sniffed her—it was just staring at her.

"H...hi there," Beth cooed, taking a side step around the dog. "I don't mean to be rude, but I have a very needy patient up there… I need to get around you… so… don't bite me."

As if he understood her words, the shaggy one-eyed dog let out a soft 'ruff' and scampered out of the kitchen. Beth tilted her head in mild confusion, but decided against wasting any more precious time. She made her way up the stairs, carefully juggling the contents in her arms. At the top base of the stairs, she looked at the door she closed, and there sat the shaggy white dog.

"Curious little puppy aren't you?" Beth gave a soft smile when it tilted his head at her comment, his ears perking at her voice. Stepping past the dog, she entered through the door, setting the items in her arms on the floor besides the head of the bed.

"Drink this, then I'll start cleaning you up," Beth pressed the uncapped bottle of soda to Daryl's lips and lifted his head so he can drink. He only managed a couple of sips before he coughed and shook his head. She sighed, concerned. The last thing she wanted to do is cause Daryl more pain, but knowing the bullet pierced through his body, there was a high chance it needed stitches.

"Where am I going to find needle and thread in this house," she asked no one in particular, burying her face in her hands.

As if on cue, the one-eyed dog 'ruffed' and got up from its position on the floor and scurried into the other room on the second floor. When it noticed Beth not following it, it returned and 'ruffed' softly again.

Beth looked up from her hands, "What is it?" she asked wearily. The dog whined and lolled its tongue to the side and disappeared around the corner. Curious, Beth followed it to the other room and saw it wagging its tail in front of an oak dresser. It jumped up on its hind legs and patted the top right draw with a paw. "Do you want me to look in there?" she asked it, feeling a little silly talking to a dog as if it understood her.

It 'ruffed,' and wagged its tail.

She made her way to the dresser and pulled out the drawer, gasping in shock when she found knitting and needlework supplies. "Oh my gosh," she exclaimed, searching through the organized tray of thread and then the needles on a pin cushion. She stared at the dog in disbelief. Was it possible that this dog lived here with its owner? Crouching down to its level, Beth extended her hand, allowing it to sniff it. Sensing no aggression from it, she gently rubbed his ears. "Thank you," she whispered to it with a genuine smile.

"Don't you have a name?" She groped around its neck for a collar, and found it covered by its mess of hair. Finding the metal tag dangling in front of his neck, she squinted her eyes to read it. "Male, Dooley," she said. The dog barked, lolled his tongue at the side of his mouth and wagged his tail.

"Ah, so you're Dooley… Well thank you Dooley, you are a life saver," she gave him a final rub behind his ear and returned her attention back to the draw, retrieving the necessary items for some stitches. She made her way to the bathroom to fill two small basins with water and grabbed a few washcloths hanging on hooks before returning to Daryl.

Beth bit back the urge to blush when she started to peel off the layers of his clothing, after all in this situation, she shouldn't be bashful. She muttered soft apologies when Daryl grunted in pain as she removed the last of his shirt, revealing his bare chest and bandaged waist.

By now, the sun had set almost completely and it was near impossible to see. She called Dooley from the hallway and shut the door behind him and secured it shut by locking it and putting a chair's back at the base of the doorknob. Should walkers get in, if they were careful not to make a sound… they would not find them up on the second floor. It was humans she was worried about. At least with it a bit secured, she had time to help Daryl escape through the window should humans find the funeral home.

Satisfied with the security of the door, she went about setting up two candles, one on a metal tray on the floor, another on the nightstand by the bed. She pulled it closer to her from the wall, careful not to make too much noise. She set up most of the supplies on a large towel on the floor besides the nightstand and she began preparing the instruments.

She wished she memorized every word her daddy told her about stitching up wounds had she known that the world was going to hell and she had to save a man. All of this was unnerving. Though she didn't have the exact same equipment as her dad did back at the farm or at the prison, she was sure she could make do. She had watched him do it time and time again when the animals at the farm got injured. She just needed to be confident.

She washed her hands with in one basin, and then poured alcohol on her hands. After her hands dried, she unwounded about a foot of black thread and poured alcohol all over that and set it aside. Next, she bent the needle to a wide 'U' shape using the same sanitizing procedure, and proceeded to put the needle over the candle flame to burn off the excess alcohol. She kneeled by the side of the bed, and grabbed the scissor and began cutting away at the bloodied, makeshift bandage.

She peeled the bandage aside, and pulled the bloody rag off of his body. Blood wasn't oozing out, but it was at a light trickle, which could be a good sign, or a bad one. She didn't know which. Taking the candle in one hand, she pulled the source of light closer to the wound to examine it. She was no doctor, she couldn't even pretend to be—but she's had experience with suturing wounds. She was beyond relieved to find no chunks of flesh, or organs, protruding from the wound.

"You're one lucky son of a gun," she muttered to the semi-unconscious Daryl. Quickly, with the candlelight by her, she cleaned the wound with some saline and fresh cut up strips of the white bandage as best as she was able to. After threading the needle with great skill, she began the meticulous task of sewing up the gaping wound.

"Tie, cut. Tie, cut," she kept repeating with every stitch as her dad would. Minutes later, the gaping hole turned into a one inch long, sutured wound. Beth quickly pressed a few fresh square cut bandages over stitches and taped it down with strips of sports tape.

She was worried that Daryl hadn't reacted to the needle piercing his flesh—was he completely unconscious? After rinsing her hand, she stood onto her feet and pressed a hand against his cheek. "Daryl?" she called to him, but he didn't answer. His skin felt slightly cooler to the touch, and he wasn't sweating as bad as before—she could only hope that it meant his fever was dying down.

"Daryl, I need to turn you around," she whispered to him, knowing he will not answer her. She sighed, knowing there was a chance she could ruin her work on his wound on the front side of his body if she wasn't careful in turning him around. Somehow though, she managed to drag him up by the sheets and roll him onto his stomach, exposing his back.

Beth stepped back with a shock gasp, almost knocking a basin of water over. Her bottom lip trembled at the sight of his back. Scars… old, large scars marred his light skin. Her heart ached, knowing what had caused those scars. He had mentioned he had an abusive father… she never knew it was to this awful extent.

All her life, Beth was loved unconditionally by her parents. Anything she wanted, she got. She would be nothing without her father's love. To think that Daryl hadn't had any fatherly love in his life… she mourned for him. Kneeling besides him, Beth brushed her fingers along the longest scar across his back, the one that crossed one of his gargoyle tattoos. Sniffling, she bent her head and pressed her lips against the scar in a feather-light kiss, a tear splattering onto his skin.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but she was unable to voice her words.

Wiping away her tears, she shook her head and demanded herself to focus on what was the most important thing to do now—stitching up his last two wounds.

Sanitizing some of the equipment one last time, she focused all her attention and thoughts on suturing the exit wound from the bullet. The edges were jagged and bleed more freely, but she couldn't leave it open and bleeding. At least with it sutured, Daryl stood a chance.

The final length of the exit wound, she guessed it to be nearly two inches long after the stitches secured it shut. She bandaged the stitched wound carefully and grabbed the candle in her hand to inspect the stab wound. Inspecting it this time around, it wasn't as bad as she thought it was when it had happened in the abandoned junk lot. Still, better safe than sorry.

She had to work fast though, the candles were rapidly losing length and she had to get him bandaged up before she was immersed in complete darkness.

-0-

Finally, Beth sank back onto her bottom—exhausted. She had stitched up, cleaned and bandaged all three wounds and turned him onto his back. With minutes to spare, Beth was able to wash her hands quickly and settled herself at the edge of the bed on the floor, cuddled with a blanket and the jar of pigs feet, peanut butter and soda.

Dooley made his way over to her, staring at her expectedly.

Beth couldn't help but let out a soft laugh and treated him to two chunks of the pigs feet. "You earned it, Dooley… I think he'll be okay because of you," she whispered, petting the fur of his head as he chewed on the food.

Drawing her hand back, she pressed her forehead against the footboard of the bed, relishing the cool wood against her skin. It had certainly been an eventful week… it certainly opened her eyes to the world around her. She tucked her arms into each other in front of her chest and shivered—not from the cold.

In the past four days, she had managed to be kidnapped, almost eaten by walkers in a tunnel, almost choked to death in her dreams, almost raped by Randy, almost dying by walkers again, and now she was nursing an injured Daryl. She wanted to say her life sucks—but that would be selfish. She was alive… and that was it. She should be glad to be alive, and she is but she was so very tired of the fighting. Tired of killing… tired of running.

Her thoughts turned to Daryl earlier this week when they were eating downstairs in the kitchen table. The way he suggested that they could stay here and make a life for them—was he being honest? Thinking back to that night, the way his eyes made her heart flutter and her stomach quiver… the way he was trying to tell her something with his eyes. His eyes essentially told her that she was the reason why he started to believe there were still good people left.

Does he still believe in that now? After all that they've gone through in the past four days… she was struggling to believe it herself. Well… no. Why was she so biased? Didn't those two men from Joe's group save her and Daryl? If it weren't for them taking down some of the walkers on the tracks… they wouldn't have made it at all.

Dooley broke her out of her thoughts when he inched closer to her, full from dinner, and curled up next to her feet and laid his head on his paws. Beth smiled and scratched his ears, glad that she had a conscious companion with her. She closed her eyes and sighed—she really didn't want to sleep.

Even when Daryl convinced her that Father Stokes' death was not her fault, a part of her heart felt guilty over his death. In sleep, she might see his haunting face again and that was the last thing she wanted after the exhausting day. Maybe if she thought of something else… her dreams will be sweet?

Making herself comfortable on the floor, Beth began recalling happy moments at the farm with her family before the turn. The way she and Maggie bantered, the times the entire family shared on the porch, gazing at the stars. The way her father always told her that he loved her dearly.

Slowly, the tension in Beth's shoulder eased and she fell into a light, dreamless slumber.

-0-

Beth awoke to Dooley whimpering by the bed where Daryl laid. She froze when she heard guttural moans emitting from above the bed.

Was… was he dead?

She swallowed nervously, her hand reached for the knife strapped at her hips. She didn't want to kill him… even if he had turned. Was he really dead? Her bottom lip trembled—not wanting to find out the truth.

But… she had to. Daryl would never tell her not to kill him if he turned. Daryl would always do what's best for the safety of the group… him turning… he would take care of himself before he turned.

She steadied her breathing and pushed the blanket past her shoulders, letting it fall around her on the wooden floor. Slowly, she inched into a crouching position, a hand rested against the wooden footboard of the bed. Then cautiously, she raised her head to peer above the blankets, gripping the handle of her knife tightly in her hands.

On the bed, she saw his head toss side to side. He looked pale with sweat dotting all over his forehead. Sweat.

Beth released the breath she didn't know she was holding and sheathed her knife. Walkers don't sweat. Rising fully on her feet, she sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on Daryl's forehead. He has a fever again.

"Daryl… Daryl?" she gentle tapped at his cheek, hoping to get his attention. Daryl's eyes remained shut. She quickly reached over the nightstand and poured out the remaining two ibuprofen pills, but mulled over how to give it to him. The last thing she wanted to do is shove pills up his butt—as sometimes as required for infants or those who can't swallow. The next best thing was to crush the pills up into a powder and pour it in his mouth.

So she wrapped the two pills in a piece of paper and used the butt of her knife to smash them into powder like form. Carefully, she poured the contents into his mouth followed by a capful of pop. She stroked his throat gently, hoping the action will make him swallow. Thankfully, he did.

Beth sighed, feeling a little defeated. A sick man needed more medication and proper nourishment… like soup and water—not diet soda, pigs feet and peanut butter. She tucked a hand under her chin, her fingers pinching her bottom lip.

No matter what she thought of, she always came to one conclusion… she needed to go on a run—alone.

The very thought sent a shiver of fear up her spine. Was she ready for it? She worried her lip with her teeth, her arms tucked into one another in front of her chest. She turned her head to look at Daryl's pale, sweat drenched face.

She had no idea how high his fever was, or how long it would last. She knew though, that the body organs begin shutting down when the fever reaches 104 degrees Fahrenheit. He needed more fever reducers and pain relievers… or else. She couldn't risk letting Daryl die— last evening she looked at him, straight in the eye and told him she wasn't going to allow it.

She shouldn't back down on her word. In this world, a person's word is all they have left.

Nodding to herself, she began building her courage. Daryl can't protect her forever, and God forbid… if he dies, she needed to learn how to go on runs alone anyway.

Okay, Bethany Greene. You can do this!

Dooley 'ruffed' by the desk and wagged his tail, drawing Beth's attention.

Beth walked over to the neatly organized desk and began rummaging through the drawers. In the first drawer, she found a well-used, but preserved map with scribbles of writing all over it. She gasped when she found the red circle around a particular area, labeled 'Funeral Home.'

This had to be the map that the owner of the home used to go on his runs.

Spreading the map carefully over the desk, she scanned the surrounding area. She sent a small prayer to Heaven, thanking the Lord for Dooley leading her to this map. Streets circled in blue were labeled with the word 'pharmacy' and in green 'food' and purple 'hunting.' Whoever this was, he or she had scouted very, very far and wide. The span of the circles went well over a forty mile radius.

The map was too precious to bring out on the run. Doing her best, she found a plain white piece of paper in one of the drawers and sketched out the four nearest pharmacies and food places on the map. She doubled, and then tripled check to make sure they were within a ten mile radius because without a car… she had to go fast and leave fast.

Daryl may scold her and call her careless later for deciding to set out on her own—that's what she was counting on. If she could just hear his voice one more time… even if it's out of anger, she would be more than happy. Quickly, she scribbled a note on a piece of paper and left it on the desk for Daryl in case he wakes up and looks for her.

She tucked the map into her back pocket of her jeans and headed to the door. Cautiously, she put the chair aside and listened through the door for any sounds of activity. Satisfied at the silence, she opened the door a crack, and peered out into the hallway. All was how she left it last night. She entered the hallway, a hand on her knife, just in case with Dooley at her heels. She casted Daryl one last glance before shutting the door behind her.

With Dooley following her, Beth felt safer. The duo made their way downstairs, and out the front door after surveying the surroundings and demining it fit. The moment Dooley was out the door, he raced into the woods, leaving Beth to secure the door shut behind her.

"Dooley!" she hissed, but the one-eyed dog was long gone. Carefully, she maneuvered through the noise trap without triggering it and scanned her surroundings once more.

A sudden rustle from her right side caught her attention; she whipped around to face the intruder, her hand on her knife. Then out comes Dooley, with a familiar black backpack strap in his mouth. Beth let out a disbelieving laugh before she bent down to take her old backpack from Dooley.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you?" She rubbed his ears and searched through the backpack. A bottle of water, a jar of peanut butter and the money Daryl found. The latter was no use, but the bottle of water, she needed. "Alright Dooley, I guess you're coming with me?" she asked as she strapped the backpack on.

Dooley wagged his tail and looked at her expectantly.

"Okay then… let's go."

/

J.R. – Longgggg chapter. Beth is starting to build herself up…. even though she is naïve. What will happen to her on this run? Will she make it?! Will Dooley make it?! Will Daryl make it?! Stay tuned!

Thanks for reading, please review!

(By the way, I edited some minor details in chapter 1. No need to re-read it or anything, nothing major.
I did change the age of Daryl to a bit younger. 33 years. He really doesn't look 40 to me... soo... yeah.)