I've got a confession to make... I've only seen the first two seasons of The Walking Dead... Shh, don't tell anyone.
I do like the dynamic between Rick and Daryl, though, so this is why this story exists. Also, Daryl's character is an interesting one, and I like digging into his past since we don't know much about it (or I'm assuming we don't... I really need to sit down and watch seasons 3-5).
Anyway, thanks for reading. I know this has nothing to do with my Veronica Mars stories (I am so sorry), but it's something.
I do not own these characters
Beth found the cassette tapes underneath the driver seat of a broken down pickup. She grinned, holding up the old, cigar box, looking like Christmas had come early for her (not that they celebrated Christmas anymore, or any holiday for that matter), so Daryl kept his mouth shut and allowed her this one victory. He then whistled for Glenn and Maggie to hurry up.
Back at the prison, Beth, Maggie, and Carol sifted through the box of cassettes while Carl lingered behind them, his eyebrows furrowed when he asked, "What are those things?"
"They're tapes," Maggie answered with a small grin, laughing softly when Carl's confused look deepened. "Before CDs and mp3 players people used to listen to tapes."
"And before those there were 8tracks," Carol pointed out chuckling quietly when Carl turned his questioning gaze on her. "Hershel knows what I'm talking about."
"Oh yes," he answered nodding his head, sitting in an old, rickety rocker. Judith sat contently in his lap, chewing on the ear of an old, blue, stuffed elephant. "My favorite had been an old, Johnny Cash 8track that I had for many years."
"Johnny Cash?" Beth turned a quizzical look on her dad.
He smiled and softly sang, "I'm stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps dragging on."
"We can definitely relate to that," Glenn jested from his position on the table, his legs dangling over the edge, and he received an amused look from Hershel.
"I had a couple of Zeppelin albums on vinyl," Rick said from the corner, cleaning his gun. "Used to listen to 'em on my dad's old record player."
The small group turned to Daryl, who had been content with saying nothing, and his face flushed red at the sudden attention. He shrugged and muttered, "Didn't listen to a lotta music."
"Nothing?" Beth gave him a skeptical look. "I find that hard to believe."
"Yeah," Glenn stated incredulously. "You seem like a fan of The Doobie Brothers."
"Nah, I see him more of an ACDC fan," Maggie guessed winking Daryl's way.
"I ain't ever heard no Doobie Brothers' songs, and the only ACDC song I know is the one about the balls, and only 'cause Merle had a friend who used ta play it all the damn time." He turned his attention to the arrows he had been working on, keeping his eyes down as he added, "Didn't have time for music, so I didn't listen to any."
He wasn't sure why their prying irritated him. They were just asking about his music preferences, and they weren't being overly nosy like usual, but Daryl didn't want to talk about his past with anyone. Not when their moods were lighter than they've been in days, maybe even weeks. Besides, the only music he remembered listening to were the loud, thumping southern rock songs at the parties Merle used to drag him to, and the song his old man used to casually hum while he picked out a belt.
Barely suppressing a shiver, feeling a phantom pain go down his back, Daryl dug his knife into the piece of wood, taking off more than he wanted, making the point sharper than it needed to be, very much aware of the others looking at him. The room was filled with a tense silence for almost a full minute before Carol broke it.
"My mother had a fit when she found my Rolling Stones records." With her words, the group left Daryl alone, and he couldn't have been more grateful in that moment. She offered him a small smile and he nodded in thanks, returning his attention to his task.
"Let's play a couple," Carl suggested after a brief lull in conversation, reaching around Beth to grab a random tape. He squinted at the title, shrugged, and handed the tape to his dad. Rick took it, pushing himself to his feet, and grabbed the shabby looking radio Glenn had brought back a few runs ago.
"Not sure how much battery life this thing has," Rick commented pressing the eject button. The tape deck slowly opened and he slid the cassette into it, pushing it closed. "So, don't get upset if it goes out." He pressed play, stepping away from the radio, and returned to his position against the wall. He picked up the gun he had been cleaning, slowly putting it back together, offering Daryl a smile when he caught the other man's eyes.
Daryl, however, did not return the smile; too busy listening to the song, wanting to know what the odds were that this song, this stupid, fucking song, happened to be the one to start playing. His breath hitched in his chest, the phantom pain running down his back again, his stomach dropping to somewhere near his feet. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat but that was easier said than done, and his vision blurred around the edges.
Hands curling into fists, Daryl shoved himself to his feet, his half-carved arrows hitting the floor and rolling under the table. He's not sure if he actually said, "Need air," or if he thought it before he turned on his heel and fled the room. He burst outside, trying to get air in his lungs, panicking when he couldn't quite manage it.
His vision grayed around the edges, his body shaking so hard he felt as if he were about to come apart. Somehow he ended up on his knees, hands braced against his thighs, blunt nails digging into his flesh through his jeans, his eyes squeezed shut. He had to get a hold of himself, but, at that point, it'd be a lot easier to hit three walkers with the same arrow.
He sensed more than heard someone kneel in front of him, a pair of callused hands gently wrapping around his wrists, a soft voice saying, "It's okay. Just breathe. Breathe for me."
Daryl tried, he really did, but it felt like someone had wrapped a hand around his airway, squeezing and squeezing until there's nothing left. The last thing he needed was to pass out in front of whoever was sitting in front of him, but if he didn't calm down soon that's exactly what he was going to do.
One hand left his wrist, snaking around the back of his head, pushing him forward until his forehead rested against a broad chest. Fingers idly ran through his hair, the same voice murmuring, "Breathe, Daryl, just breathe. I've got you, just breathe."
He listened to the voice, allowed it to slowly bring him back, trying to match his breathing with the expanding chest beneath his cheek. Finally, one stuttering breath after another, he's able to gain some control. His body was still trembling a bit, his eyes still closed, his head still buried in someone's shirt, but he's breathing and that's all that mattered to him.
Daryl's not sure how long he knelt on the ground, probably no longer than five minutes, but it soon became evident that he's wrapped in a semi-hug. His first instinct was to pull away, get as far away from whoever had him as possible, but he couldn't make himself move. He wasn't even sure he wanted to move.
But, as he learned quickly in life, all good things must come to an end. The hand left the back of his head, his wrist was released, and he felt whoever had him stand up. Hands gripped his elbows, helping him to his feet, and Rick's gentle voice asked, "You okay?"
Daryl didn't trust his voice, so he opted to nod his head, keeping his eyes down, unable to even look at Rick. He felt embarrassed, having a meltdown in front of the ex-lawman, and he's just waiting for the other man to judge him, throw accusations at him about how weak he was being. That it was just a stupid song, and he didn't have to let it affect him like it did.
Instead, Rick grabbed his shoulder and ducked his head to catch Daryl's eyes. "Was it the song? That triggered your attack?" He must have seen something on the hunter's face, an answer Daryl was just not capable of verbally giving, and Rick murmured, "We just won't play it again, alright?"
"'s stupid." Daryl's voice is hoarse, a little shaky, but he managed not to trip over his words. Something he's grateful for, already embarrassing himself enough for today. "Don't need to stop listenin' to the song."
"It's not stupid," Rick replied his thumb brushing against Daryl's shoulder. "The song hurt you. We're not gonna expose you to something that hurts you. Alright?" Daryl nodded jerkily, wishing he had a cigarette, chewing on his thumb nail instead; a nervous habit he'd had since he was a kid.
He fought a yawn, his meltdown or whatever leaving him strung out and tired, and he wanted nothing more than to hide in his cell and sleep for the next week. But when Rick tried to escort him inside, Daryl shrugged off his hand and muttered, "'m good. Get back to the others."
Rick looked like he wanted to argue, but he must have read Daryl's face again, opting to nod instead. As Daryl turned to head back inside, however, the ex-lawman called, "You ever need to talk…" he let his words trail off, but the hunter got the message loud and clear. And maybe, someday, he may actually take Rick up on that offer, but not today; not for a long while.
The radio was still playing music, a soft ballad by a woman Daryl didn't recognize, but by the way Beth sang along he knew the blonde didn't have the same problem. He listened to the song for a few seconds before turning away and heading towards his cell.
He lied on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm resting on his stomach while the other pillowed his head. He tapped his thumb against his torso, his mind unwillingly drifting to that song again. He hadn't heard it in years, not since the last night he ever saw his father, but the mere thought of it still made him remember his father's drunken footsteps as he headed up the pathway, humming that stupid song. Daryl never hid, hiding had made things worse. No, he waited sitting in the corner of the couch, knowing what was coming and still unable to stop it. No one could stop it.
He shuddered, turning onto his side, curling into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself. He had to stop thinking about it, didn't want to trigger another attack. That's the last thing he wanted to do, so he forced himself to think about something else; anything else. You'd think the end of the world would have been the cause of his nightmares, but that barely scratched the surface of his messed up childhood. His old man still haunted him, even after all these years, and Daryl couldn't even do anything about it. You couldn't exactly fight a ghost.
It took a while, but eventually Daryl's eyes slip closed, exhaustion winning out against his memories. He fell asleep to faint singing from down the hall, quietly humming that song to himself. In a way, it was oddly therapeutic.
How fucked up was that?