AN: This is a oneshot based on a prompt/request by the real Sonia.
I own nothing from the Walking Dead.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111
"You lost the damn bet," Merle growled, pulling Daryl by the arm, "now you gotta go through with it."
Daryl rolled his eyes to himself. He'd really gone outside to smoke a cigarette. He hadn't gone outside to escape the stupid ass bet that Merle and Mac had suckered his ass into.
It was all stupid. Tonight was supposed to be some kind of "Ladies' Night" at the bar and Daryl would have just as soon stayed home. The bar—the Lone Wolf, though it would've better been dubbed the Pending Condemnation – was the kind of place where, usually, there was nobody there that you wanted to actually see in public. You certainly didn't want to see them after dark. The guy who owned it, Billy, was a buddy of Mac's. That was the main reason that Mac and Merle ended up there drinking after work—they got a lot of drinks on the house. Billy claimed that he was fixing up the place. He was looking for a "different clientele," and he was hoping to get a better reputation in the town. Really all he'd done so far was slap a fresh coat of paint on the walls and declare certain nights "special" nights when drinks were cheaper. That was how the whole "Ladies' Night" thing had been born.
Of course, Billy hadn't failed at his mission entirely. The bar was crowded tonight and, for once, the majority of the patrons there were women. They'd come to see the advertised "changes" to the place, to experience the promised "new ambience," and to load up on the drinks that, for them, were half-priced—and that was even assuming they were buying their own. It seemed, too, that he hadn't failed at drawing a more diverse crowd than usual. Some of the women there were the kind of women that Daryl was used to seeing at the bar, but a good number of them were fresh faces—and they weren't all bad.
As a result of the influx of women, Daryl had spent most of the evening just sitting with Merle and Mac at a table and eyeing the women that were there—usually gathered together in clusters—who were almost wholly ignoring their existence.
Though such an activity inspired boredom that made Daryl simply want to go home, Merle and Mac were immune to it and insisted that he was there, with them, to have "fun". That was how the hell the bet came to be.
And the bet, much like his companions for the evening, had been stupid. Daryl had lost the damn thing before he fully understood the rules. It was a drinking challenge—who could do the dumbest shit possible and come closest to actually killing themselves in the shortest amount of time. Whoever lost the contest, lost the bet. They had to whatever the other two decided was a suitable punishment for not contracting liver disease. Daryl never stood a chance. He wasn't a professional drinker like Mac and Merle. They'd slammed back the three shots placed before them before Daryl even fully realized it was a race. He'd tossed back one shot to the sound of the two of them congratulating each other over the fact that, now, his fate was in their hands.
Daryl figured that the whole thing would end with him having to pony up the money for the night's drinks. He'd rather not blow that much change in one night, but if that's what he had to do to shut the two of them up, he'd consider it money well spent. So when he'd gone outside to smoke, and let them talk things over, he hadn't thought any more about it. That was, until Merle came busting out the front door like a bat out of hell and dragged him back inside for trying to "run away" and "welsh on a bet".
Merle pushed Daryl into his seat so hard that Daryl had to grab the edge of the table to keep from tipping backward and spilling into the floor. He spat a curse at his brother and Merle just laughed.
"What the hell, Double D?" Mac asked. "You ain't man enough to hold to ya word?"
"Didn't give no damn word," Daryl said. "Hell—weren't even a fair bet. You come up with it. You come up with the rules. I come back from taking a piss and shots are lined up? Next damn thing I know—you're telling me that my ass lost some kinda damn contest that I didn't even know I was playin' in."
"You ain't man enough to go through with it, lil' brotha, we'll let'cha out," Merle offered. "Let'cha off the hook. You can go on home an' snuggle up with your teddy bear—forget the shit ever happened."
Daryl rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth against his brother's heckling.
"I don't give a rat's ass about your stupid ass bet, Merle," Daryl responded. "Whatever. I'll pay for the damn drinks."
Merle and Mac looked at one another. Both of them grinned like the assholes they were and Daryl got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. They weren't going to have him pay for the drinks. They were too bored for that. They were going to make him do something that would give them a topic of conversation that would last for the rest of the night—and possibly for years to come.
"I ain't doing a damn thing illegal," Daryl said. It was his final word on the matter.
"Hell, Double D," Mac drawled, "we wouldn't ask you to do nothing to soil your pearly white reputation. Doing you a solid favor, really."
Daryl rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair so that he was sitting more comfortably. He waved his hand at their waitress and she signaled to him like she was taking a shot. He shook his head at her and did his best to "draw" a beer in the air. She apparently got the message because she gave him a Colgate smile and a thumb's up.
He could only imagine the kind of solid favor that Mac and Merle might do for him.
"What the hell you want me to do?" Daryl asked.
"Don't act so sour, boy," Merle said. "You gonna like it. Gonna be real good for ya. We was thinking about your ass and—we decided that you gotta go around this bar and you gotta ask one of these ladies for a date."
"Real thing, though," Mac said. "Not no date here tonight. Meet up with you. Go out with you—someplace different."
"And when she turns me down?" Daryl asked.
Merle shrugged.
"Didn't say she had to accept," Merle said. "Hell—we've all gone after that piece that just didn't want nothin' to do with it. But—you still gotta ask."
When the waitress arrived at the table with Daryl's beer, he caught her wrist. Tiffany was her name—at least he thought it was—and she was pretty well used to the regulars at the bar. She didn't even flinch at their occasional "hands on" approach to interacting with the wait staff.
"Hey," Daryl said. "These here assholes said I gotta ask somebody out. You wanna go out?"
She rolled her eyes around the table.
"I'm married," she offered.
Daryl smiled, thanked her, and let go of her wrist. He looked at Mac and Merle, the moment she walked away from the table, and shrugged.
"You heard her," Daryl said. "I asked—she said no. That was the most damn fun I've had in years—was it good for you?"
"Real funny," Merle said. "But it's gotta be genuine. Look around—there's a lotta women here tonight. Gotta be somethin' that tickles your fancy, boy."
Daryl glanced around the bar. There were a lot of women there that night. And if he was really looking? Maybe there'd be quite a few that he wouldn't mind getting to know. The trick to it was that he wasn't really great at approaching women. He didn't enjoy the anxiety that came along with it. He didn't like the chance at rejection. And, more often than not, experience had taught him that he should probably expect rejection—especially if it was the kind of woman that he might actually be interested in talking to.
And a lot of these women looked like they were there to drink together. Their body language didn't even say that they were open to men approaching them—least of all men who were still wearing some evidence of their job.
"Nah," Daryl said. "I'm comin' up dry."
Merle frowned at him.
"I'm starting to worry about you, Double D," Mac commented. Daryl simply drank his beer in response. The old man got up from the table, probably to take a piss, and walked off. Merle sat there, scowling, and stared at Daryl like that was eventually going to wear him down.
"You tellin' me not one?" Merle asked.
Daryl hummed.
"At least thirty damn women here..." Merle started.
"Oh more'n that," Daryl said. "You never were no good at math."
Daryl laughed at his own comment, but it did nothing to lighten his brother up. He picked at the pretzels in the basket in front of him and washed down the stale and salty bits with beer. It wasn't too long before Mac came back to the table and leaned on it instead of taking his seat.
"You don't get outta shit that easy," Mac said. He shook his head at Daryl. "Want it or don't want it—you're gonna ask it out." Daryl raised his eyebrows at the old man. Mac offered him a lopsided grin and pointed toward the bar. "That one right over there. I done scoped her out for ya. No ring. Not talkin' to a soul. Keeps lookin' around all—like she's expectin' someone, but you know there ain't nobody coming," Mac said.
Daryl turned around and looked in the direction that Mac was gesturing. It wasn't hard to spot the woman that he'd "picked out" simply because she was sitting alone and not many of the women crowded in that area were by themselves. From this distance, she seemed to be fairly well-dressed. She was clean and attractive. She looked like she was in her forties—close to Daryl's age—and that she had missed spending most of her life as a road whore. In short, she didn't fit in there—and if she was looking for someone? It probably wasn't Daryl Dixon.
"Someone's coming," Daryl said. "Woman like that? Someone's coming."
Merle chuckled and Mac caught the laughter like it was contagious. Immediately Daryl knew what he'd done wrong, but he couldn't go backward in time and fix it.
"Could be you, lil' brotha," Merle said. "Play your cards right..."
"Pick again," Daryl said, trying not to pay Merle any attention.
"Hell no!" Mac barked. "I walked my ass all the way around this damn place and that's the one I picked out. Now get'cha sorry ass off that chair and prove you a man of your word. Hell—prove you a man at all. Go ask her ass out."
Daryl refrained from pointing out that Mac had, possibly, had too much to drink. There was no use in arguing with him. There was no use in arguing with Merle. He'd have a better chance of going out to the street corner and convincing a stop sign to up and move than he would have of getting either of them to act decent.
He'd have a better chance of convincing that nice, unsuspecting woman to go out on a date with him.
Daryl stood up, drank down the rest of his beer, and headed in her direction. He ignored the put on "cheers" that he could hear coming from the table that he'd just left. He almost lost his nerve once, but he powered through it. She looked like a nice enough woman. At least when she turned him down, she'd probably try not to make it hurt too bad.
Daryl announced his arrival by resting his hand on the bar in front of her. She looked at him, started to open her mouth like she might speak, and then turned her eyes like she was looking for someone else. He raised his eyebrows at her.
"What'cha drinking?" He asked.
She looked at her drink like she couldn't remember.
"A—something called a—tropical...I don't know," she admitted, laughing to herself. "I just asked for something fruity."
Daryl felt himself relax a little.
"You want another? Or you interested in trying something else?" Daryl asked.
She shook her head gently.
"No, thank you," she said. "I'm—just having the one. I have to drive and—I really don't like to drink too much if I'm driving."
Daryl held his hands up in mock surrender.
"Understood," he said. "You got a name?"
"Carol," she responded. "Do you?"
"Daryl," he said. He sucked in a breath. He could drag this out—taking her through some of the cheesy ass pick-up lines that never really worked for him anyway, or he could make it as quick and painless for the both of them as possible. He chose quick and painless. "Listen—I'm here with my brother and my boss. They sent me over here on a bet. You don't gotta say yes—that ain't part of the bet—but I gotta ask you out. And—I'd prefer—that you don't throw that tropical drink on me as an answer."
Her cheeks blushed pink even in the dim light of the bar.
"I wouldn't do that," she said. "Not unless—you deserved it."
Daryl chuckled to himself.
"Fair enough," he said. "So—I'm sorry for messing up your evening, but that's what that was about."
His job done, Daryl started to walk off, but he stopped when her hand touched his arm—her fingers wrapped around it. He turned around and raised his eyebrows at her while he hummed in question.
"You didn't do it," Carol said.
"What?" Daryl asked.
"You didn't ask me out," Carol said.
Daryl furrowed his brow at her.
"I did," he insisted. "Didn't you just hear the whole thing I said?"
Carol shook her head at him.
"You told me about the bet you lost," Carol said. "You told me that—I didn't have to say yes but that you had to ask me out. You asked me not to throw my drink on you. But you never actually asked me out."
Daryl sighed. Everyone was a critic and everyone loved to watch him jump through hoops like a circus poodle.
"Fine," he said. "You wanna go out?"
Carol straightened up a little.
"That's not a very good way to ask someone out," Carol said. "I mean—the words are fine. But you should at least—act like you mean it, even if you don't."
Daryl chuckled to himself. He could consider himself properly scolded.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. If I'm gonna do it, I oughta at least do it right." He cleared his throat. "Carol," he said, pausing. She nodded her head at him. "Would you—uh—would you wanna go out with me?"
Carol smiled at him.
"I think I would," she said.
Daryl was struck to the point that he couldn't even begin to reply. As soon as he got control of his senses, though, and his brain processed what she'd actually said, he responded with the first words that his brain offered him.
"You serious?" Daryl asked.
She raised her eyebrows at him again.
"Well were you serious with the invitation?" Carol asked.
Daryl hadn't actually considered that. He hadn't actually considered it because he'd dismissed the possibility before he'd ever left his table. He'd never thought it would happen so he hadn't prepared himself for the fact that it might. Taking it into consideration, though, he realized that he could be serious. After all, she was attractive. She seemed nice enough. A date wouldn't hurt and, after that, he'd know a little bit more about her— and her about him—on which he could base his thoughts about whether or not there would be another.
He nodded at her, a little amused by the turn of events.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah—I'm serious. If you're serious."
Carol smiled.
"I'm serious," she said, nodding her head at him. And then, as though she wanted to somehow seal the deal, Carol leaned a little in her chair and waved at the two assholes that were watching them from a few feet away like they were the most entertaining show ever. She gave them a thumb's up and Daryl felt his face burn at the cheers that they offered in response.
But he'd have to let the assholes have their fun—after all, if they hadn't pushed him, he'd never be standing there in front of Carol with the promise of a date in their future.
And—if it hadn't been for those very same assholes, who cleaned up all right when it was required of them, he might not have stood in front of Carol again, two years later, and said "I do" to the same chorus of hollered cheers. They had done him a "solid favor," as Mac had called it, after all.