Daryl doesn't eat out much; hell, he doesn't go out much period. His days consist of waking before the sun and passing out before the moon, hours of outdoor labor in-between. He uses machinery to dig the graves these days, but he still finds himself missing the gratifying aches in his bones from tearing up the ground with his own hands and a shovel. Sometimes he still works that way, when there's something going on that he just can't shake. But nothing much at all is on his mind these days.
There's a mom and pop diner kitty-corner from the cemetery, Maryann's. It's quarter to five in the morning and there's only a couple of cars in the parking lot, so what the hell, he thinks. It's rainy and gloomy, his hands are cold and wrinkled from picking up his knocked over trashcan and garbage before he left. Damn squirrels.
The bell atop the door jingles quietly as he enters, shaking out his hair like he's a dog. There's an older guy hunched over in the furthest booth, scratching his pencil over a crossword puzzle. Daryl debates taking the booth on the opposite side of the room, but he sees only one waitress behind the counter, leaned back against it with her head cocked high, staring at the old TV perched above. The clanking of his boots must have caught her attention, because she peers over her shoulder straight at him and smiles vaguely.
"What can I getcha?" she asks, her voice far more chipper than her expression seems to be. Daryl slides onto one of the stools and shrugs, damp hands rubbing over the thighs of his jeans.
"Coffee, I guess." She bobs her head, flipping over the mug in front of him before swiping the coffeepot from its holster and pouring him a steaming cup. He notices the puckering pink dashes along the inside of her wrist and he must be staring because her face goes just as pink before she turns away and skedaddles down the length of the counter to wipe away imaginary water stains from glasses.
It isn't until the third time he's there that he catches her name. Beth. She doesn't introduce herself but he figures she doesn't have to when she's been wearing a name badge all along. There's a purple smily face sticker stuck at the end of her name and it makes him snort. Her head jerks at the sound and her one hand encircles the wrist of the other, gingerly rubbing over the marks there. Whether it's subconscious or not, Daryl doesn't know, so he swallows down his coffee in one, two gulps and leaves a clang of change on the countertop.
He doesn't go back to the diner after that but he does spot her once a couple weeks later, in the parking lot across the street. It's raining again, harder than the first time he saw her, and he's leaving work for the day, half burnt cigarette in hand. She's stomping her feet and swinging her fists down like a toddler having a tantrum, yelling at another girl, who's slightly taller and seemingly older. Her brown hair blows in the wind just as she begins mimicking the waitress's movements. Daryl turns his attention to the water funneling into the sewer beneath his feet as the screaming match continues, followed by a few loud sobs.
By the time he looks up, Beth is alone, attempting to unlock a car door. She appears worked up; he can tell she's shaking from there. Her long, curly blonde hair is matted and drenched and she kicks the driver's side door repeatedly before it yanks open and she throws herself inside. He watches her pull out of the spot but the car stalls at the foot of the parking lot entrance. Normally Daryl is a mind your own kind of guy but whatever it was, something draws him across the street that evening.
Slowing as he reaches her car, he peers in the passenger's window, rain beating down hard, almost in time with the sobs that seemed to be wracking through Beth's body. It takes her several seconds to feel his presence, or his gaze, and while he expects to scare the living shit out of her, she simply stares up at him with sad blue eyes.
A strange stabbing pain takes hold of his chest and without thinking twice, he motions for her to come inside the diner with him.
She's huddled on the other side of the booth as he explains that it's probably the distributor causing her car to stall in the damn rainstorm; he'd be happy to look at it for her, if she wants. All she does is shrug in reply. He pulls out his wallet and sets out some money for their coffees; the waitress working then doesn't pester them, though she does keep throwing curious glances their way. It bothers him, he hates feeling watched, but he seems to be the only one of the two to notice, so he doesn't act on it.
Her crying had stopped, thankfully, as soon as they were inside. Daryl has never really known how to handle an overly emotional woman. Hell, he didn't even really know what to do now that she had calmed down some. Does he ask her if she wants to talk about it? He doesn't really want to talk about it; it was none of his concern but he supposes neither was approaching a girl he hardly knows and offering to fiddle with her car.
"My dad died yesterday." It was strange hearing her talk like that; he had grown so accustomed to her overtly happy reciting of Waitress 101 in the days he had spent at the counter. "I found him. In our barn."
Daryl mutters something that could have been his condolences, but she doesn't seem to register any of it. He's not sure if she means it was suicide or something else, and he's not dumb enough to pry.
"Does it get easier over time? Seeing dead people?" He's taken aback, and slightly confused, but it hits him that she probably had enough information to draw that conclusion. Every time he left Maryann's, he headed straight across the way to work, at the cemetery. So she probably either pegged him as a worker there or a psycho creep; he was somewhat relieved that latter seemed to never cross her mind. "You must be used to it."
"Yeah, but that ain't the same." He's not good at comforting but he can be honest about this, at least.
"How do you mean?"
"I don't know 'em. The people I bury mean nothin' to me. They ain't my family, they ain't my blood; just slabs of meat that gotta be hidden away." It's the truth; when Merle had died, it crushed him, even with all the awful shit his brother had put him through.
Her face contorts in a way that he thinks maybe he's scared her, and for some unknown reason, it makes him feel guilty. But it dissipates quickly as she reaches over to snatch his wallet and flips open to his license.
"Thanks, Daryl."
His visits to Maryann's become more regular and she opens up to him somewhat. Her smiles when he comes by appear genuine and not forced in a 'how may I help you?' way. Seeing her grin at him like that, hell, seeing her at all, gave Daryl a peculiar feeling. Like he was gonna be sick or like the skin beneath his ears was dangerously close to a candle flame.
The more he got to know of her, the more he was intrigued. They were different in every way imaginable and maybe that was why he was so fascinated by her. She tells him about her sister Maggie, growing up on her family's farm, her love of music. She even speaks of her father occasionally, but she never mentions the scars on her wrist and Daryl never dares to ask.
She's just getting back from her break when Daryl walks in one morning, taking a seat at his usual spot. Beth's name badge sits on the counter, the purple smily face faded. He pulls a pen from his pocket and goes over the eyes and mouth, making them stand out as they were meant to.
Their casual friendship carries on for months. It's early June, just starting to get real sticky out. Daryl's drink switches from coffee to Coke, which she pokes fun at him for. He makes some crack about if she had ever woken up beside him, that'd be what he'd offer her, a Coke and a cigarette. He doesn't mean anything suggestive by it, it was only a passing comment meant as a joke, but that's probably why Daryl never banks on being the funny guy. And judging by the look that swipes over her face, it leaves Beth feeling more than a little uncomfortable. But being the lady that she is, she laughs sweetly and kindly (as kindly as she could), and attempts to brush the remark off. It's too late, though.
He knows he's crossed a line, one he can't simply hop back over. Embarrassed thoroughly, Daryl pays for his Coke as always and makes his way to work far too early.
He keeps his distance for a few weeks. Some days on his smoke breaks, he leans up against the wrought fence of the cemetery and tries to spot her moving about in the diner. Occasionally, he'll catch flickers of a blonde ponytail or he swears, the gleam of her smile.
It has been 24 days since he had last spoken to Beth (not that he was counting) when she surprised him at the cemetery. He's in his worn out work gloves, dirt and a thin layer of sweat covering all his exposed skin. The excavator sits in storage, just as it has the past couple of weeks. Daryl's been working by hand ever day and while it kills his back and shoulders, he needs the pain.
She's clad in her muted yellow uniform dress and her slightly disheveled hair lets him know that she has just come off a shift. The purple smily looks over at him with beady eyes.
"You ain't been by in a while. Give up Coke finally?" She is being lighthearted, or trying to be, with her small smirk and shyly crossed arms. Daryl's face must be harsher than he intends, because her face quickly falls, as do her eyes. "You get off soon, yeah? You maybe wanna... I'unno, come by my place?"
How she knows his schedule, he doesn't know; somewhere deep down, he hopes that maybe she had been watching him even somewhat as much as he had kept tabs on her. But he couldn't say for sure. He means to say no, he's done with her and diners and weird lingering feelings in the pit of his gut. But his tongue betrays him.
"Yeah, okay. Ain't got nowhere else to be."
She smells like clean linen, her skin sweet but tame, like raspberries.
"What do you see in me?"
His breath hitches as the words tumble out of her mouth, clumsy but soft. He almost laughs, because he has a habit of doing so at the worst possible moments. This really is hilarious in its own way. If it were anyone else, he'd assume they were fishing for some kind of reassurance or compliment. But her eyes, wide like saucers and screaming at him to give her something, anything, to make her believe that this is real… he knows she isn't like that.
She is completely naked beneath the thin sheer sheet, it tucked and curled around her body just so, like she was part of some kind of painting. Her hair is wild and full, begging for him to run his hand through it. And he does, boldly. There's a moment where he worries she'll pull back but all she does is lean into the touch and let her eyes fall shut. Her hand reaches up for his face and midair, he presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist and he draws a smily face with his thumb on the side of her jaw.
"I'unno. I just see you."