[ ix. that's on me ]

june 24th, 2012

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"HOW DO I PLAY this game again?" Daryl Dixon grumbled. He shot a sidelong glance at Beth Greene, his sole companion, as he gnawed on his thumbnail, a habit borne of restless nerves.

The hunter found himself situated in the heart of a ramshackle living room within a weathered trailer-like house. The place had seen better days, much like the world beyond its tattered walls.

After the prison had fallen, Daryl's singular priority solidified: finding Astrid. The only trace of her, in the wake of ruins, had laid in her gun—a cold, steel emptiness, resting in a pool of blood. He had grudgingly considered the possibility that the blood could belong to her. But deep down, he refused to accept that she was gone. Astrid couldn't be dead, he thought. She just couldn't be.

He would find her. Now, if only Beth shared in the same desire to find their family.

But ever since they hit the road, the teenager had only been concerned with tracking down a damn drink. Daryl had not necessarily been against her wishes, given all that had happened, but he had bigger worries itching at him. Getting sloshed was not high on his list, and it sure as hell should not have been at the top of hers either. She should have been hell-bent on finding her sister, just as he was to locate his wife.

Yeah—his wife.

Daryl found that he could call Astrid nothing else now. It might not have been stamped with official documents, but in their day-to-day fight, labels meant nothing. He already had a ring, tucked away safely in his pocket, and had been planning to pop the question a few weeks back. But life had a way of spiraling out of their control.

Beth cleared her throat, rousing him from his thoughts.

"So, first I say something I've never done. If you've done it, you drink. If not, I drink. Then we switch," She explained. Her blue eyes searched his. "You really don't know this game?" She asked.

Daryl grunted in response, leaning his sinewy frame against a battered recliner. His elbows rested on his knees. "Never needed a game to get lit before," He retorted.

"Wait, are we starting?" Beth asked, her brows knitting together in confusion.

Daryl regarded Beth with a steely expression. "How do you know this game?"

"My friends played. I watched," Beth replied. She drew a deep breath. "Okay, I'll start," She volunteered. She glanced around the disheveled room before fixing her gaze back on the hunter. "I've never shot a crossbow," She stated with a sly grin. "So now you'd drink."

Daryl clenched his jaw, the lines etched on his face deepening as he contemplated the unfamiliar rules of the game. Without a word, he hoisted the mason jar filled with moonshine to his lips and took a swig. The fiery liquid coursed through his throat like a wildfire, a sensation he was well accustomed to. "Ain't much of a game," He grumbled.

"That was just a warm-up," Beth insisted. "Now it's your turn."

Daryl tore at his thumbnail again. Games had never been his thing as a kid, and this one was an alien concept to him. Astrid might have taken a liking to it if she had a better taste for the bottle—but that just was not her style. She only touched the stuff when teetering on the edge, and even then, it was a rare sight. Lost in thought, he did not realize that Beth was waiting for him to break the silence.

The hunter shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," He mumbled in defeat.

"Just say the first thing that pops into your head," She encouraged.

Clearing his throat, he dredged up something from the depths of his memory, something simple and true. "I've never been out of Georgia," He finally said.

Beth's eyes ignited with genuine interest. "Really? Okay, good one," She complimented him. He watched as she took a measured sip of moonshine and it left Daryl feeling uneasy. The girl was barely eighteen, yet she pulled the burn as if it were only water. Setting the glass down, she tapped her fingertips against the table-like crate between them, poised for the next revelation. "I've never been drunk and done something I regretted," She confessed.

Without a moment's hesitation, Daryl raised the jar to his mouth. He licked his lips, tasting the bitter residue of regret. "I've done a lot of things," He admitted, the words slipping past his defenses as the alcohol loosened his grip on his secrets.

"Your turn."

"Hmm. I've never been on vacation."

"What about camping?" She questioned.

Daryl shook his head. "No, that was just somethin' I had to learn to hunt."

Beth's curiosity led her to delve deeper into his past. "Did your dad teach you?" She wondered, her innocence probing the well-worn scars of his upbringing. He nodded slowly, memories of his father rising like shadows in the night. She eventually took another drink. "I've never . . . been in jail. I mean, as a prisoner," She joked.

The insinuation was unmistakable, and it seared through the hunter like a white-hot iron.

Beth still wore a playful smile, but any trace of a past one had vanished entirely from Daryl's own face. His muscles tensed and he could feel his eyes narrowing into a glare. "Is that what you think of me?" His question was laced with a dangerous edge.

"I didn't mean anything serious," Beth tried to clarify, her words stumbling. But it was too late; the damage was done. All smiles faded as the uncomfortable silence lingered. Beth now fidgeted with her mason jar glass, avoiding eye contact with him as she attempted to explain herself. "I just thought, you know, like the drunk tank. Even my dad got locked up for that back in the day," She stammered.

"Drink up," Daryl retorted, his voice rough as gravel, his eyes locked on her.

"Wait," Beth protested. "Prison guard. Were you a prison guard before?"

Daryl frowned. Even after Zach's death, there was always someone prying into his history. "No," He answered simply.

Beth, still visibly awkward and avoiding his gaze, chewed on her bottom lip as she searched for a way to salvage the conversation. She eventually spoke up. "It's your turn again," She said, her voice tinged with a quiet desire to shift the focus away from the uncomfortable exchange.

Daryl agreed, but rather than continuing the game, he abruptly rose to his feet with a different intention in mind. "I'm goin' to take a piss," He announced, crossing over to the other side of the room.

As he let go of the mason jar that he had been sipping from, the sound of shattering glass filled the room. "You have to be quiet!" Beth cried, her warning barely rising above a whisper.

"Can't hear you!" Daryl shouted numbly as he undid the top button of his pants. "I'm takin' a piss!"

"Daryl, don't talk so loud."

Daryl shot a sharp look over his shoulder. "What? Are you my chaperone now?" He scoffed. Beth briefly met his glare before she quickly looked away again, still fidgeting with her glass. He paid her little mind.

Once he finished, he zipped his pants back up and started striding towards Beth, his heavy boots crushing household debris beneath him as if they were inconveniences in his path. "Oh, wait," Daryl sneered, his lips twisting into a mocking grin. "It's my turn, right?" His words carried a biting edge. The alcohol had him in its cruel grip now. "I've never—nver eaten frozen yogurt," He declared, his voice oozing with disdain. "Never had a pet pony. Never got nothin' from Santa Claus. Never relied on anyone for protection before," He growled, his anger seeping into every word. He shoved a chair out of his way, his movements rough and forceful. "Hell, I don't think I've ever relied on anyone for anythin'!"

Beth turned to face him, guilt etched on her features. "Daryl—"

"Never sung out in front of a big group out in public like everythin' was fun—like everythin' was a big game!" Daryl barked, cutting her off fiercely. "I sure as hell never cut my wrists lookin' for attention!" He snarled, his fingers slashing through the air, mimicking the action of slitting his own wrists.

Beth's expression contorted into fear, but the hunter did not care. His rage roared.

Suddenly, a loud thud echoed from outside the house, accompanied by the guttural growls of a walker. Daryl turned swiftly to peer out the window, his muscles coiled like a spring. "Sounds like our friend out there is tryin' to call all of his buddies," He snickered darkly, kicking more trash aside, no longer caring for how loud he was being.

"Daryl, just shut up!" Beth hissed.

He whipped back around to face her. "Hey, you never shot a crossbow before?" He taunted. "I'm goin' to teach you right now." He stormed over to a nearby countertop and snatched his crossbow, handling it like an extension of his own arm. Daryl then crossed back over the room, bent down, seized Beth's dainty wrist, and yanked her forcefully to her feet. "C'mon, it's goin' to be fun," He huffed as he dragged the teenager towards the door and out onto the porch.

Beth struggled, swatting at his arms, but she was powerless against his strength. "We should stay inside! Daryl, cut it out! Daryl!" She protested, her boots digging into the dirt as she fought to free herself.

He finally released her as they stepped onto the yard, where a lone walker lurked a few feet away. "Dumbass," Daryl called. "C'mere, dumbass!" The walker began its sluggish approach, and without hesitation, the hunter raised his crossbow, releasing an arrow that found its mark in the walker's left shoulder, pinning it to a nearby tree.

"Daryl, stop!" Beth ordered.

He loaded another arrow. "You want to shoot?" He challenged her.

"I—I don't know how," She stammered weakly.

"Ah, it's easy," Daryl drawled dismissively. He extended his left arm, wrapping it around Beth's slender shoulders with a harsh tug that pulled her close against his chest. He attempted to thrust the crossbow into her trembling hands. "Right corner," He commanded with an air of authority, forcing her to take aim. Then he pulled the trigger himself, watching as the arrow plunged into the walker's right shoulder now. The creature snarled and strained to reach them, but it was entirely powerless, pinned to the tree.

"You like that?" Daryl snapped.

Beth abruptly pulled away from his grasp and shoved the crossbow fully back at him. "Just kill it!" She pleaded.

Daryl fired a third arrow, this time targeting the walker's leg. Afterward, he began approaching the immobilized threat. "C'mon, Greene," He called back to the girl. "Let's pull these arrows out and get a little more target practice."

"No!" Beth cried from behind him. Daryl was nearing the walker, prepared to retrieve an arrow, when he was shoved to the side and his vision became flooded with a cascade of blonde hair. He whipped his head around to see Beth, her knife plunged deep into the walker's skull. She withdrew the blade, and blood dripped down her pale arm.

His eyes narrowed into an angry glare. "What the hell did you do that for?" He growled. "I was havin' fun."

"No, you were being a jackass!" Beth screamed at him, her frustration boiling over. "If anyone found my dad—"

"Don't!" He yelled, cutting her off sharply. "That ain't even remotely the same."

"Killing them is not supposed to be fun," She snarled.

"What do you want from me, girl, huh?" Daryl demanded, closing the distance between them, causing her to retreat several steps back.

"I want you to stop acting like you don't give a crap about anything," Beth retorted. "Like nothing that we went through matters. Like none of the people that we lost meant anything to you. Like losing Astrid had no effect on you. You haven't even shed a damn tear over her, and you say you love her? Did you even really care about her at all?"

Beth had crossed a line that was not meant to be crossed. "Shut up!" The hunter screamed at her. "You don't get to talk about her!"

"Why not?" She demanded. She threw her arms up in exasperation. "It's not like you will!"

"That's enough!"

"That's bullshit!"

"Oh, yeah? Is that what you think?" Daryl questioned sharply.

"That's—that's what I know," Beth stated, her voice suddenly quivering.

"You don't know nothin'," He spat coldly in her face.

"I know you look at me and you see just another dead girl," Beth snapped, unflinching. "I'm not Astrid. I'm not Michonne. I'm not Carol. I'm not Maggie. I'm not any of them, but I survived, and you don't get it—because I'm not like you or them. But I made it, okay? So, you don't get to treat me like crap just because you're afraid!"

Daryl's blood ran cold, and he took a step towards her. "I ain't afraid of nothin'," He declared with a thunderous growl, like a beast ready to pounce.

Beth just continued to stare at him, her courage unbroken, her burning gaze a steady flame. "I remember," She whispered. "When that little girl came out of the barn—after my mom. You were like me." The teenager suddenly took a step forward, her breath hot against his face, a clash of brutal forces. "And now, God forbid you ever let anybody get too close," She spat at him.

"Too close, huh?" He muttered. "You know all about that. You lost two boyfriends, and you can't even shed a tear. Your whole family's gone, and all you can do is just go lookin' for hooch like some dumb college bitch!"

"It's not like you're shedding that many tears either," She shot back. "You know what, Daryl? Screw you. You don't get it."

"No, you don't get it! Everyone we know is dead!"

"You don't know that!"

"Might as well be, 'cause you ain't ever goin' to see 'em again!" He screamed, his words a jagged edge. Now, a small sob had finally escaped Daryl's young companion's lips. "Astrid . . . Rick . . . You ain't ever goin' to see Maggie again!"

"My sister isn't dead," Beth insisted gently—like a fragile ember refusing to be extinguished. "Astrid is not dead, Daryl!"

"Yes, she is!"

The hunter cried out, a raw and primal sobbing sound that reverberated in the stillness of the afternoon. His voice fractured, breaking into a pitiful whimper, akin to a wounded animal in its agonizing final moments. "Astrid's dead," Daryl said softly. "I couldn't—I couldn't protect her. She's . . . she's gone, Beth. I tried—I tried to stop her, but she . . . she wouldn't listen. I had her in my arms . . . I had her. And then she was gone. I could have stopped her—I could have saved her. Now she's dead." He choked on his words. "And it's all my fault!"

Beth's hand extended, reaching for him. "Daryl, just stop—"

"No!" He thundered, tearing himself from her grasp, his anger rekindled in a blaze of blistering torment—but not for her. For him. Daryl's heart raced within his chest, the fire of his fury burning hot on his reddened face, and his breath grew ragged and uneven. He turned his back on Beth, unable to meet her gaze any longer. "The Governor rolled right up to our gates," He murmured, shaking his head in self-condemnation, his clenched fists trembling at his sides. "Maybe—maybe if I hadn't stopped lookin'. Maybe because I gave up. That's on me," He whispered, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. "And then . . . and then your dad . . . Maybe—maybe I could have done something."

Suddenly, he felt the embrace of strong but tender arms wrapping tightly around his battered frame. Beth now held him so tightly, as if to prevent him from crumbling into oblivion. Her face nestled against his scarred back, and in that intimate moment, the floodgates within him finally burst open.

Astrid's radiant smile flashed across the hunter's shattering mind, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. Yet it was beyond his power to change. She was gone—dead, and he would never lay eyes on her again. He was entirely alone in the world.

With the weight of his grief pressing down upon him, Daryl Dixon's exhausted shoulders slumped, and his head hung low. The tears flowed freely from his eyes. In the desolation of their existence, the only thing that held the hunter up now was Beth Greene—the one person left alive who dared to see into the fractured heart and mind of a beyond-broken man.

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