Just a pointless drabble that formed in my head while listening to Black Stone Cherry.
Disclaimer: I own not a thing.
He found it in a house they were raiding; the simple two story was seemingly untouched by the hell that had unfolded and there it was, just sitting on some teenager's desk like it was ready to be picked up when they got home from school. He'd pocketed both the item and the cords that accompanied. Now he was sitting shotgun in the car while Rick wove through abandoned cars on the deep Georgia back roads. He managed to get the business end placed in the cigarette lighter and held down on the power button until the screen lit up. "Fuck. Yes."
"The hell," Rick asked as he glanced over at him.
"Kid had it in his room," he explained. "Found it while you were taking the toilet paper from the bathrooms. " He thumbed through the startup menu until he got to the vast music library and began to scroll. "C'mon, kid, have something good on 'ere."
"An iPod? After you gave Glenn so much hell for that laptop?"
"Laptop ain't practical – an iPod with music already loaded and can be charged in the car? Lil Ass-kicker needs herself a music education beyond Beth's hymns."
"Fine," Rick relented with a grin. "Anything good?"
Daryl plugged the adapted into the cassette player before starting the music. "You like southern rock?"
Rick didn't have a chance to respond as the music began and Daryl edged the volume up as loud as he dared without drawing an audience. He watched as the man relaxed into his seat, propping his feet on the dashboard, and letting the crossbow settle on his lap (though his hand never wandered far from the trigger). Daryl's free hand propped against the open window as his fingers tapped against the rubber lining to the beat. It was a familiar band but not one Rick considered a favorite – he much preferred the quiet roughness of Johnny Cash or Kris Kristofferson to the raucous thundering of Black Stone Cherry.
Daryl seemed to emerge from his shell as his feet joined his hand in keeping the beat. What surprised Rick the most was the soft crooning coming from the man beside him. "I wanna be a white trash millionaire, ain't got much but I don' care, count your cash and kiss my ass, the whole damn world's gonna know I've been here…"
It wasn't a flawless rendition – he probably wouldn't have gotten a standing ovation at the Opry – but it was beautiful in its own way. "How have I never heard you sing before?"
"Cause I don't."
"Daryl…"
He sighed. "Sometimes for Jude when it's my night with her and she's fussin' but that's about it these days."
"Your voice is beautiful," Rick told him softly, shyness to his confession as he glanced away.
"Used to play in a band," Daryl told him. "Made a few extra bucks playin' the bars in my neck of the woods – double when the lead singer was too trashed to sing, which he usually was."
"What did you play?"
"Guitar," he said softly. "You didn't grow up the way I did without knowin' your way around the frets to a few Hank Williams songs."
Rick nodded. "How come I've never seen you pick up the one Glenn has?"
"Ain't somethin' that I really like sharin'," Daryl explained. "It's a little frivolous in times like these."
"I'd like to hear you play sometime," he told him gently. "Frivolous or not."
"Maybe I'll give ya your own private concert." He grinned. "Now shut up 'cause here comes the good part."