A/N: Had this little idea floating around in my head all week so I had to get it out. Some drug references, just in case that bothers anyone.
It may be extended but we'll see.
Hopefully you enjoy it! :)
He's never been out of Georgia before. He'd never admit it, but leaving always kinda scared him. He knows his home, he knows the land and how to handle the herds. Most of them, anyway. But Daryl's not dumb enough to believe that everyone out there in the world are like the people he and Merle have encountered in all the small towns they invade. Atlanta people are their own breed too, but he learned how to adapt to those city-folk when he was just past thirteen, thanks to Merle.
It's not that he supports his brother's practices but Daryl knows that their choices for getting by aren't many, so he'll turn the other way when Merle deals out meth to kids that look like they are barely out of high school (and he'll certainly lower his head when Merle uses himself; that's a nightmare in and of itself). The temptation's not there on his end, even if Merle taunts him and attempts to leer him to the dark side, but there are just some things his brother will never have control over. That doesn't include convincing Daryl to follow him around to the ends of the Earth, despite his better judgement.
Somehow Merle manages to swing some big (well paying) job and while it makes the younger Dixon a bit uncomfortable, he doesn't have the gall to try and talk his brother out of it. But he's gonna hit the road with him, keep an eye on him, and make sure that he doesn't get himself into too much trouble. That happens far too often and Daryl's a bit tired of it.
The ride to Birmingham is something else and he's glad he got to drive. Merle passes out in barely twenty miles and Daryl relishes the quiet. There's a certain level of excitement bubbling through his veins, passing through scenery he's never seen, the sunset blinding him but he doesn't mind much. It's beautiful. For a moment, he forgets why they're heading there anyway; he imagines they're just driving cross the country, seeing the world. It's a bittersweet fantasy, and a laughable one when he thinks of his life in reality.
Merle does his business and Daryl watches, reluctantly. He ignores the faces and focuses on his brother's feet, thinking back to when he was kid and they'd run around shirtless, shoeless, toes stained brown and green. Life smelt like muddy creek water and wildflowers; it smelt like steaming trash and piss now.
He's ready to head back home but Merle insists they grab a drink or two first; he wants to celebrate the beginning of something wonderful, or so he says, and the prospect just makes Daryl's stomach twist a little bit.
They stop in a place called The Nick; it's dark but not too crowded or loud, just the clank of pool balls and a muted jukebox. Daryl's got whiskey in his hand before he knows it and Merle's wandered off to swindle some money out of a biker whipping darts. To make the time pass, Daryl drinks. Steadily.
The jukebox phases out eventually and a few lights flicker on, illuminating a stage. Hoots and hollers erupt in the room as a petite blonde girl clutching an acoustic guitar takes it front and center. She's vastly out of place, all fresh-faced and shiny hair. Her boot taps unwaveringly constant on the wooden stage as she begins to strum. Her sweet melodic voice fills the bar from wall to wall and most of the bearded, leather donning gents fall silent.
"With charcoal eyes and Monroe hips, she went and took that California trip..."
She plays for a little less than an hour; as the songs pass, the attention glued to her wanes, but Daryl's never wavers. It doesn't seem to affect her, how bodies come and go in the audience, voices booming over her music in conversation. Her eyes flutter shut sometimes and Daryl focuses in on the tightening and relaxing of her throat.
Merle's piss drunk by the time he makes his way back over to his brother, all slurred profanity and hand squeezing Daryl's shoulder. The younger shrugs the touch off, finally tearing his gaze from the girl removing her guitar.
"Gimme the keys," Merle demands, going to grab his brother again. Daryl ducks from the touch.
"You ain't drivin', Merle."
"Jesus Christ, Darlene, just gon' lay down till y'get yer panties back on." Daryl's neck heats up in slight aggravation but he's distracted by the flash of blonde in the corner of his eye.
"So lay in the bed." He leaves it at that, finding a reason to wander near the girl by clearing off his own table and setting his glass at the bar. The bartender thanks him but he doesn't really catch it.
Up close, in dimmer lighting, she looks less otherworldly. There are faint freckles along her shoulders and arms, a slight build up of sweat along her brow. She chews on her lip as she talks with an older man in shades, who hands her a small envelope.
Daryl stands near the bar awkwardly, hands rubbing over the sides of his vest. When sunglasses at night finally wanders off, he finds his voice. He meant to just observe and watch, but he wants to get a good look at her for whatever reason.
"That thing's seen better days," Daryl notes about her guitar but he doesn't know why; it's not like he knows the first thing about music, let alone instruments. The thing is worn to hell though, all dinged up and scraped. Her hair flicks over her shoulder as she looks to identify the voice. She shrugs and strokes the body of her guitar, as if she's petting a cat.
"It ain't what ya got, it's what you make," she replies matter-of-factly, a small smile dancing on her lips. He's not sure what she means in the moment but she turns back around and bends over to pack up her instrument; it takes all of his self-restraint to not let his eyes linger on her.
"Keep on with that," he tells her and turns on his heels to leave just as she glances over her shoulder at him. He's out the door before she can respond, if she would've anyway.
The drive back to Georgia seems twice as long and Daryl almost wishes Merle wasn't snoring so he had something to distract him.
Merle gets a few more heavier jobs and Daryl plays chauffeur and chaperone, one in the same. Huntsville, Augusta, Chattanooga. Daryl does his best to keep his brother in line, no more lingering around and getting shitfaced. They can do their business and then head back home, there's no need for anything else. Merle doesn't always listen but once in a blue moon, he does. And Daryl is much calmer driving home those nights.
Nashville is the next destination and this one Daryl fights. It's too far, too long of a haul, and the deal is huge. The thought of towing that much two hundred and something miles is enough to make his palms sweat. So naturally, he overshoots. Instead of trying to talk Merle out of the job, he tries to walk him off of the damn career path.
"Whatchu wanna do then, huh? This is all we got!" Merle argues, his face reddening with anger, muttering under his breath a slur of insulting expressions.
"It ain't what we got, it's what we make." He doesn't know where those words come from but they feel right. He wants to point out that they can hustle pool and Daryl will work on cars or something, it doesn't have to be like this. But before he can get any more words out, Merle pulls a face and waves him off. They're going to Nashville and that's that.
At least he doesn't have to drive there this time around; there's some one-sided conversation on Merle's part as they head north, but Daryl's attention is focused on the greenery outside his window and counting the pieces of roadkill.
There's no fight put up about stopping for a drink once all is said and done. Four more hours in the car with Merle will feel like thirteen years, so he wants to be as relaxed as possible.
Nashville's not his kind of town at all. There's a lot of lights and too much noise downtown; weird people. He'd much rather be back home. Or maybe Birmingham, that was an okay city in his book. Maybe another drink will help drown out the sensory overloading.
There's an assclown on stage at the joint they're in, all straw cowboy hat and leather boots, croning on about his pick-up and cold beer. Daryl wants to laugh and Merle probably would if he wasn't so distracted by the double-d brunette waiting on him at the bar. So he's on his own, like he normally is, and he's on his third drink by the time a new voice floats through the room.
It's sweet and pretty, and it takes Daryl's eyes a second to adjust to the form on stage but he recognizes her straight away. Her hair still gleams in the spotlight and she still holds that beat up for shit guitar like a newborn baby. Her lips are cotton candy pink as they form words and a ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of them. Daryl has to shift around on his stool when he forces his gaze away.
"Long black limousine, shiniest car I've ever seen..."
When her set is through, he's tempted to approach her because what are the chances they'd bump into each other again, state lines away? It must mean something but then he realizes that nothing really means anything, stuff just happens. And what would he say to her anyway? So he keeps to himself, staring at the bottom of his glass like there's an answer down there he's been searching for his whole life.
Merle's obnoxious cackling fills his ears and he glances over at his brother, three girls hanging all over him with cheeky grins and ample chests, like they actually care about what he's saying. Daryl snorts and finishes his drink, only to have a peculiar feeling creep up the back of his neck. Somebody's looking at him.
It's her, off in the corner on a stool, her case laying across her lap like a table. Her eyes seem to light up some when he peers back at her and he can't recall ever feeling this way before, like there was a ton of bricks in his stomach and his mouth was lined with sandpaper.
She stands suddenly and makes a beeline towards him, swinging the guitar case so carefree that it makes her look impossibly younger. Stopping across from him at his table, she tilts her head to the side curiously. "I recognize you from somewhere."
"Birmingham," is all he utters back, going to drink from his glass to keep himself occupied, only to notice it's bone dry.
"Birmingham? Huh."
"Saw you play there." Her face reflects some kind of recognition and he wants to reach out and tuck her tumbling down hair back behind her ear, but he doesn't. As soon as he decides against it, she goes ahead and does it herself, flipping her braid behind her shoulder. He can't help but smile a little.
"Oh, 'course. Whatcha doin' all the way up here, then?"
"Travelin' with my brother. 's for work." It's not a real lie, not completely, but he still worries that the half-truth is evident on his face. If it is, she doesn't seem to notice. And like clockwork, Merle hoots at the bar, drawing attention to himself from everyone within twenty feet. She makes the connection with raised eyebrows and Daryl would be embarrassed if he wasn't so used to the feeling of being a Dixon.
"Well, what are the chances of our paths crossin'?" she laughs lightly and he would bottle up the sound if he could. He doesn't know what to say so he says nothing at all and she seems to take that as her cue, clutching the handle of her carrier with both hands. "I'm sure I'll see you around again, then. Keep on with that," she states, nodding towards Merle. Her hand ghosts along his forearm as she floats away and Daryl's skin tingles in a really wonderful way.
He's more than happy to drive home, Merle's incessant babbling being drown out by his own mind. Her voice rings through his ears and he envisions her caressing hands along his shoulders instead of her guitar.
He'll make sure he sees her again.