(Although written as stand alone stories, I have four set in the time between "Still" and "Alone". Read in the correct order they are a series. The order is:
Moonlight and Forgotten
A Night So Long
Sometimes You Gotta Believe
Closer
More will be added so check my profile for updates)
0000
A Night So Long
Beth sat in the front seat of the broken down pickup truck, fiddling with the wires under the dashboard. It was a scenario they had repeated a dozen times with a dozen derelict vehicles. Most were abandoned because they were either mechanically a wreck, or out of gas. This one was no exception. Three of its four tires were missing. The fourth was flat. The gas tank was beyond empty, someone had scavenged the spark plugs and cables, brake and power steering had fluid leaked away into the dirt. Its only saving grace was the interior was free of walker stench and there was a small camper mounted on the bed. That meant a relatively secure and comfortable night's sleep.
Daryl and Beth would strip off everything usable, which was less and less these days, then Beth would search for a key. If she found one she would give the ignition a crank, not because she expected the vehicle to start, but because she hoped the CD player might. If there was no key, she would dig around under the dash, until she found the right set of wires to hotwire. Daryl was convinced she had been a car thief in an earlier life, she got so damn good at it. One day they were going to find a car that actually started, had gas, and four usable tires, then her skill would be of value. Up until now it hadn't gained her anything.
Until now.
Daryl jumped as music blared from the cab of the truck. He dove for the front seat just as Beth popped up from underneath the dash and hit the volume button to mute the blaring sound. Her eyes were wide as saucers, partially from fear any walkers in the area had heard the noise, but mostly in pure delight. She grinned at him, a smile so bright and wide it was infectious.
"Ya happy now?" he asked sarcastically.
She just continued to grin and nod, then very carefully increased the volume. Daryl didn't pay much attention to music. He had always preferred silence or the sounds nature made without any human help. But even he recognized the voice coming from the truck's speakers.
"Hank Williams," Beth said. "Whenever we'd go on a road trip Daddy would always play 'classic' country. Told us we needed to understand the old stuff in order to appreciate the new. He even made Shaun turn off his own music and listen."
"And I suppose y' all sang along."
"Of course," Beth laughed again. "If you gotta listen you may's well join in. Even Daddy would sing a few bars. Sides, who can't sing along with Hank Williams."
Daryl could think of one person. Merle had once told him he had a voice that sounded like gravel in a cement mixer and that was several hundred packs of cigarettes ago.
"Ya may's well listen 'til the battery goes dead," he told her.
With the music playing behind her, Beth had hopped out of the cab of the truck and stood in the middle of the road. As Daryl watched she closed her eyes, singing softly with the music. Her body began to sway and she raised her arms like a songbird in flight. Slowly she spun a languid pirouette, embraced by the arms of some mythical partner. A smile curved her lips as the lyrics softly flowed. She knew every word, responded to each beat of the music as though it were a living creature nurturing her soul, feeding her spirit. As her body moved with the rhythm of the music the dirt, blood, stench and sorrow of their existence seemed to melt from her. He knew he should look away. His gaze an intrusion, an unwanted visitor, taking voyeuristic pleasure as her spirit was stripped of its encumbering weight. She paused her naked soul cleansed, renewed by the antiquated songs emanating from a worn CD in a rusted truck too far gone to save. He had no right to revel in her rebirth. For he was also antiquated, worn and too far gone to save. And yet, when she opened her eyes at the end of the song, she looked to him. Her raptured face alight with bliss. She held her arms wide open, inviting him into her embrace.
"C'mon, Daryl," she said softly. "Sing with me."
Her request shocked him out of his reverie, and he snapped an answer more harshly than he intended. "This ain't no girl scout jamboree."
"Aw, Daryl," she repeated smiling. "It's Hank Williams. What red-blooded, Georgia country boy doesn't sing along with Hank Williams.?"
"This country boy," he answered as he slung his crossbow over his back and turned, stalking towards the woods. "I'm gonna hunt. Sing if ya want to, but keep it quiet."
He only glanced back once when he hit the tree line and was out of her sight in the dense undergrowth. She stood where he had left her in the middle of the road, hands at her sides, the music playing softly behind her. All the wear and sorrow that had been stripped from her, had returned a hundred fold.
"Asshole," he cursed himself. "You're a fucking asshole, Dixon." His words had cut her deep, he knew that. And he had no idea how to fix it. Music made the light that was Beth Greene shine, not just a candle, but a glorious beacon in the darkness. How could he tell her what music meant in his world?
0000
Running. The air heavy with moisture and terror, clogging his lungs, the muscles of his legs on fire as he pushed farther into the inky depths of the Georgia backwoods. Brambles grabbing at his clothing and skin like withered, skeletal claws, drawing blood from jagged wounds. At his back the roaring bass of music so loud there were no longer instruments or voices, just the pound, pound, pound of the lowest registers, felt in the bones more than heard with the ears. The more his father drank, the louder the music played until the old man's brain imploded on alcohol and sound, then the violence exploded outward against anything within range of his fists and his belt. More often than not, since Merle had enlisted, that thing within range was him. The last time his father laid his back open so bad they thought he was going to end up in the hospital. Tonight the subwoofer vibrating through the floor of the trailer and into his tiny cramped bedroom at the far end had pushed him beyond panic. He had crawled out the window and taken flight. Knowing full well when his father finally caught him, there would be more than hell to pay unless he would keep the old man at bay until either the bourbon burned out of his system, or he collapsed in an alcoholic stupor somewhere behind him.
Then Daryl heard the baying of the dogs. His coonhounds. Raised and trained by him. The old bastard had let his own dogs loose on him. Game over. Daryl stopped running, bent over half double struggling to breathe in the liquid air. There was no way he was going to outrun his own hounds. He had trained them too well. Nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide. Game over. His only option – to face the music. He hunkered down, his back against the trunk of an ancient live oak, and he waited.
0000
Daryl pushed deeper into the woods than he intended, than he knew was wise, hoping to dispel the fury that had engulfed him. Beth had done nothing wrong. She had not deserved either his words or his attitude. She had no way of knowing that, for him, music preceded violence and even after his father was stone cold in the grave, he hated most any music. How could he explain that to her? Music had always brought her joy – family, laughter and a father who loved her beyond Daryl's imagining. The farther he walked the cooler his anger became. He knew it wasn't Beth he was angry at and that her request had been an innocent one.
He also realized he had ventured so far that he would never hear her if she needed him, nor, he had to admit could she hear him. Walking blindly into the night was just damn stupid. As he started to retrace his steps, his heart began to pound so furiously in his chest he swore it was louder than the bass on his old man's stereo, harder than it had beat the night he'd raced into the dark to escape his father's rage. Only this time the fear was not for himself. His anger had been replaced by an overwhelming fear for Beth's safety. He should never have left her alone.
0000
Beth stood in the middle of the road watching the swaying honeysuckle Daryl had plowed through in his haste to be away. Her throat was thick with the need to cry, but she fought the urge. She would never have pushed him about singing had she known how he would react. Something she said had been hurtful, and she wasn't even sure why.
She shook her head, letting the soft strains of the music behind her seep into her brain, slowly dispelling the cloud of confusion that had squelched her buoyant mood. For a few moments she relished the music washing over her. Whatever she had said to hurt Daryl's feelings, she would never do it again. He meant too much to her now.
Beth knew she could not stand all night worrying. She needed to secure the area if they were going to camp here. Looking around the road, Beth gathered enough scraps of metal to rig an alarm wire around the broken down pickup. It wasn't a big area, but they would be alerted to the approach of walkers in plenty of time. The camper was surprisingly intact, and the door locked securely. There were enough downed branches along the side of the road to build a small fire. Gathering several armfuls, she arranged the twigs but decided not to light a fire just yet. Settling against the truck's only remaining tire she nibbled on a few of the dried berries she had in her pack, saving the bulk of them, and the wild greens she had collected during the day for Daryl.
Rummaging through the camper she had found a small pillow and blanket and when it became too dark to see she climbed up inside. For a long time Beth lay on her back, eyes wide and staring into the darkness. She always knew her singing annoyed Daryl, but she was caught completely off guard by his angry outburst. She had felt so happy, she just wanted to share her joy with him. Every time she thought they were making some progress on their communications she would say or do something that would silence him for hours. And she rarely knew what it was. She decided she would apologize when he got back. In the meantime she would enjoy the sixteenth replay of Hank William's greatest hits, because she might never hear another recorded song as long as she lived. Beth pulled the blanket up to her ears and listened, until the CD playing on a continuous loop lulled her to sleep.
0000
The low voice invading her sleep was not the one she had embraced as she had drifted off. Blinking owlishly in the darkness, Beth waited until her eyes adjusted to the moonlight. When she was awake enough she realized the voice she heard was not from the CD. This voice was rough, careworn, but surprisingly on key, so low and soft she had to strain to hear it. Getting to her knees she peered out the side window of the camper. Daryl had returned and started a tiny fire. He sat were she had a few hours ago, leaning against the only tire, knees drawn up, his head resting on the fender. His eyes were closed and he was softly singing. She couldn't help but smile.
Quietly, Beth slipped out of the back of the camper, walked around to the side and sat down beside Daryl. He had stopped singing when the door of the camper creaked open. For a while Beth sat silently.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. "Whatever I said to make you mad, I didn't mean to."
"No need," he said. "Wasn't you. Was me. Nothin' you done." He opened his eyes staring into the night. "Ya know how I told you I was a dick when I was drunk."
"Yeah," she answered.
"Well, turns out I can be a dick when I'm sober too. I'm sorry Beth, for goin' off on you like that. It was nothin' you done."
"Something you want to talk about?" she asked.
"Naw. Just somethin' I need to forget."
Beth slid closer until her shoulder was snug against his. Then she rested her head against him, her hand finding his arm. The first time she had done this he had tightened up like a bowstring. This time, there was only a small flinch of muscle before he relaxed. Hank Williams still played softly in the background and Beth began to hum. She was about to remark on how long that battery had lasted when the music suddenly stopped. The silence was crushing. She raised her head and looked at Daryl. He did not meet her gaze, but she felt his hand cover hers and gently squeeze her fingers, as though apologizing for the battery's demise. She settled back against him, her senses reaching out, listening for the music of the night woods - an owl's soft hoot, crickets chirruping and the croaking challenge of bullfrogs in a nearby pond. There was more to music than lyrics and notes. That was something Daryl Dixon had taught her. She sighed softly and let the night sounds wash over her. She was completely content.
end