Daryl would never admit it, but he slept so much better in Aaron and Eric's guestroom than he ever had back at the prison. He didn't believe a house or an inanimate object could have an energy or a, what do those hippies call it, an iaura/i, but something was definitely different. Even sleeping in the guestroom as opposed to one of the two houses his group called home was different. Maybe it was just being around some new folks, or maybe it was that Aaron and Eric bent over backwards to try and cheer him up, including attempting to get him to play Scrabble, to which Daryl just grunted and shook his head before heading out into the chilly fall air. Truthfully, he appreciated the gesture, he just hated Scrabble, never was good with words or spelling.
But tonight something was off, he remained in his bed for hours, just looking at the popcorn ceilings, making shapes out of nothing. For some reason, the pain in his chest was worse, an unmistakable twang that pulled deeply on his heart, and it wasn't heartburn from that southwest chili Aaron had made and apparently used every damned jalapeno in the safe zone. No, it was Beth. Anymore he just shoved his feelings out, he didn't think of her, he barely looked at Maggie. It was too painful.
Aaron tried to get it out of him, poking and prodding at his brain and heart gently. Daryl would come down the stairs without showering for two days, his hair sticking up because of the grease sweat, he'd grab the mug of coffee Eric always had waiting on the corner of the kitchen island before heading out to the garage to work on his bike. Then Aaron would come out, hands shoved in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and he'd attempt to make small talk. Cold out here, huh? He give a fake shiver with an even faker laugh. You know, you can talk to me or Eric, we care about you, Daryl. Or some other variation while he wandered around the garage in his sock feet, touching things and never putting them back where Daryl had placed them. Eventually, when Daryl didn't respond, he'd let out a tiny sigh and then; Well, you know where to find me. Eric's making tofu for lunch. I know you're probably skeptically, but it's actually good once you put enough soy sauce on it. Then he'd wander back into the house and Daryl would continue doing what Daryl does. Think, work on his bike, take a gulp of coffee which is now cold, work on the bike a little more, step outside of the garage for half of a cigarette, step back inside, another gulp of coffee—finish the cup, work on the bike.
Don't think about Beth.
Usually he's woken up to the smell of instant coffee and whatever concoction Aaron is whipping up in the kitchen, but this morning he hears the definite sounds of boots walking across the wooden floor, and through squinted eyes he can see the dirty, scuffed leather making their way from the door and along the length of the mattress, stopping at the dresser. It's probably Eric being Eric and dropping off his washed clothes, normally he drops them off while Daryl is gone for the day.
But he doesn't hear drawers open, instead he hears the sound of the antique model car that's on top of the dresser being picked up, the small sound of the metal doors being open by gravity, and then the loud bang of metal against the wooden top. This is not Eric. This has to be a dream. He closes his eyes like a child and burrows himself deeper in the gray blanket. He hears the footsteps come back towards his head, maybe they're leaving.
"Mornin' baby brother! I know you's awake, never was good at playin' possum."
Daryl slowly opens his eyes, only to be met with blue eyes he's known his entire life, the salt and pepper hair he's made fun of for the last ten, and the distinct mixture of Jack Daniels and body odor that could only be from a Dixon. This had be a dream, a hallucination, like he had while looking for Sophia. "Merle?"
"Happy to see me?" He asks, standing up, slapping the side of Daryl's head softly.
Daryl blinks a few times before rolling onto his back, staring up at his big brother, confused. "Really want me to answer that?"
"That's no way to greet blood."
"What're you doing here?"
Merle ignores his question and heads back down to the dresser, this time opening the top drawer. "Nice set up you've got here, huh? Living with a couple'a fags."
"They're good people."
"Uh huh, I know baby brother. The gayest one, with that firecrotch hair, he does your laundry, huh? And the other one cooks your meals." Merle leaves the drawer open before wandering over to the chair in the corner, where Daryl's dirty jeans lay draped over the back, Beth's knife laying peacefully on the woven, wooden seat, he squints at the vase of flowers next to it before shaking his head. "Must be better here than with good ol' Merle, huh?"
"It's a real bed. Ain't no cot."
Merle ticks his tongue and leans on the footboard of the bed. "Need you to come with me, baby brother."
"Ain't goin' nowhere with you." Daryl scoffs. "I'm fine here."
"You're fine alright, burning yourself, living in misery every day." Merle watches as Daryl's brows furrow, enjoying getting a rise out of him. "I saw it, alright. Big brother Merle's been keeping his eye on you, baby brother. Someone's gotta keep an eye out since Officer Friendly's off on Loon Island again. Killing people in the streets." He ticks his tongue. "Only place he's gon' lead you is to your death, though you seem to be doin' a good job of that yourself.'
"Some job you're doing." Daryl flings the blankets off and somberly climbs out of bed, groaning a little as his feet hit the cold, wooden floor. "You got a point?"
"That little blonde thing from the prison, the old man's daughter." Merle states as Daryl's face falls, he should've know, he can't count on Merle for anything. "B…, Bianca…no…, Beth. That's right, little brother, ol' Merle knows all about that, too. Leading her to safety after our good friend the Governor came through, catching her snakes, the funeral home. Mmm-mmm. You fell in love with her."
"Don't." Daryl manages to croak out as he stands.
"You couldn't save her, you watched that cop bitch—"
"I said don't." Daryl half-heartedly pointing his finger in Merle's direction. He's officially on par with Rick, seeing dead people, rage and sadness building inside him. He had been trying to forget Dawn, forget Grady, forget all of it.
"She's alive, baby brother."
"Get the fuck outta here." Daryl picks up the old fashioned alarm clock and throws it in Merle's direction, it goes straight through him, landing safety on the chair behind him. "Can't I get some goddamn peace for once? I was so relieved when your old ass died, finally I wouldn't have to deal with you bothering me, but now you're here, worse than ever." He stops, his breathing heavy. "She got shot in the head Merle, I ain't stupid."
Merle stands for a minute, watching as Daryl fights the tears welling in his eyes. He's not mad, which is surprising. When they were boys in school the minute Daryl dared to talk back Merle had him pinned on the floor, a hand at his throat. He'd let him writhe for a minute before helping him, then explain he as preparing him for their dad, mouth like that will get you nowhere with him. "You done? Gonna let me explain some things to you, little brother? Tell you what is fact like I always have? Or are you gonna throw another hissy fit, Darlina."
"Ain't fact. She's dead."
"She ain't. That fancy pants doctor, Edwards, stitched her up good. Bullet didn't even touch her brain, baby brother. I ain't no doctor, but she's all healed up. Heading here now, red car, real piece of shit. She'll break down in Palmer Springs, outside'a Richmond. You gotta get her, brother. She'll die without you, it's a damn romance novel." Merle smiles. "Clocks tickin', baby brother. Those biters are hungry."
