Yours, Mine, and…Ours?
xx2xx
The phone call came in the middle of the night.
Pummeling fists damn-near beat the door in before Daryl had a chance to roll over and rub the sleep from his eyes. An unconscious smirk twitched at his mouth as he listened to his bunk-mate grumble and stumble his way across the room, and the dim light that poured in when Oscar yanked the door open might as well have been the high noon sun because its effect was just as blinding. Daryl's scowl was deadly when he recognized that little snake Andrew from the galley; sleep, actual, honest to goodness restful sleep, on this swaying metal death trap was something he was rarely successful in attaining, and to have this little shit interrupt it? He was pissed. He didn't trust the little fucker as far as he could throw him, and that happened to be pretty far. Hopping down from his bunk, Daryl hissed as his bare feet met the cold floor. "You best have a damned good reason for busting up in here, Boy."
An ugly sneer twisted the young man's mouth, and his resentful eyes drifted downward to Daryl's clenched right fist. "Why? I interrupt your Friday night date?" He stumbled backward a bit when Oscar's meaty hand shot out to push at his bony shoulder in annoyed warning.
"Dumbass. You asking for it." The whites of Oscar's eyes gleamed in the darkness as he showed their rude, unwanted guest his back and returned to his bunk. "He's yours, Dixon. Just don't leave too much blood on the floor."
Daryl huffed out something vaguely resembling a laugh, taking Oscar's place at the door and leaning one naked shoulder against the jam as he matched the punk's sneer with a curl of his own lip. When he noticed the way his narrow eyed gaze was drawn to the devil tattoo on his upper right arm, he raised his hand to the back of his head and scratched just to give the kid a better look. It was a small but satisfying victory when the kitchen grunt took a healthy step backward; hell, Daryl almost wanted to smile, but he still had a bone to pick and pick it he would. Later. He'd already wasted too much time on this mini-pissing contest. "Look," he sighed heavily, tiredly. "We both know patience ain't my strong suit, 'specially where your scrawny ass is concerned. I can think of plenty of people I'd rather have a midnight rendezvous with, and you, you slimy little shit, are hovering somewhere down at the bottom. You got something to say, you just spit it out so I can get back to my beauty rest." Oscar snorted somewhere behind him, and Daryl had to smile, just a little barely there thing really and just one side of his mouth at that, but it was a smile nevertheless.
"Ain't nobody gets between a pretty boy and his beauty rest."
"You damn right," Daryl deadpanned. Oscar wasn't finished though; that was one thing he'd learned to appreciate about his roommate after all these years. Usually, the big man was the strong, stoic, mostly silent type. His next mumbled words reminded Daryl that a sly smartass lurked beneath that veneer.
"So you and Dixon wrap it up, and let me get back to mine."
Andrew's sneer was briefly replaced with something halfway between a smile and a grimace. His expression exhibited nothing but renewed scorn, though, when Daryl suggested they take their little chat outside, and the heavy door swung shut.
Daryl crossed his arms across his chest and flexed his biceps in a clear show of intimidation. "Quit dickin' around and talk."
The boy opened his mouth, no doubt, to give a snide response, but he must have rediscovered some shred of common sense and merely said, "You got a phone call."
Daryl dropped his arms with a roll of his eyes. "That your reason for showing your ugly mug 'round here?" Even as he spoke, his gut clenched with worry. Outside phone calls on the rig were usually reserved for emergencies, and he could count on one hand the number of people left in the whole wide world that even gave enough fucks about him to make the effort. Something was wrong. Still, he turned around and put his palm on the door. "Piece of advice, Boy. Scram." Daryl let his forehead thud lightly against the door in response to what came next.
"Some dude. Claims he's your brother."
"Ain't got no brother." The lie physically hurt with the telling of it, and Daryl let his head fall just a little harder against the door before swearing and gritting out an order. "Wait. Don't go nowhere. Just wait."
That oddball engineer Porter was in the lounge as they walked through, watching reruns of The Dukes of Hazzard in some kind of hallucinogenic trance. The little shit's fellow thug in arms, Tomas, watched them pass with ill-concealed contempt in his mean, beady eyes. Tobin looked up from his nightly puzzle to spare them both a nod.
"Finally," Abraham groused, a long hallway and a couple of flights of stairs later. His blue eyes cut over to Andrew then landed back on Daryl. "I was afraid you'd deep-sixed his ass."
Daryl took the phone from the burly man's outstretched hand, damn-near vibrating with dread as he did so. The red headed driller wisely ushered everyone out of the room with him as he left, including Andrew; Daryl was grateful for the privacy. He held the phone to his ear for a long time, just listening to his brother breathing over the shoddy satellite connection until Merle's whiskey rough rasp drifted over the crackling static.
"It's me, Darylina."
Daryl's heartbeat picked up, and his palms started to sweat. His gruff response didn't hold as much bite as he'd like; it was too damned good to hear the asshole's voice. "Ain't got time for your shit, Merle."
Merle's answering cackle was more than a little strained. "That any way to talk to your blood kin?" Daryl's prolonged silence had his forced merriment dying down. "Guess I deserve that."
"You off the pills?" Daryl closed his eyes tightly when his brother evaded the simple, straightforward question and raked a hand through his hair before bracing it against the wall. "You're a real piece of work. You know that, Merle?"
"Don't," Merle sighed. "It ain't like that. I'm tryin', dammit."
"Just like you were trying the last time they pumped your stomach?" Daryl snapped. "The time before that? I done told you…if you ain't off the pills, we don't got nothing else to say to each other." For the longest time, Merle didn't speak, and Daryl's thumb hovered over the button that would disconnect the call; in the end, he couldn't be the one to say goodbye. In resignation, he finally ended the standoff and breathed out a pained question. "What do you want from me, Merle?" Again, his elder brother avoided the question, and Daryl felt his anger tick up another degree. He grit his teeth as Merle went off on a new tangent.
"You ain't asked about Bo."
"I don't want to talk about Bo, Merle."
"That Bo's a fine huntin' partner. Even quieter than you. Has a particular fondness for squirrel huntin', that one. Just last week…"
Daryl erupted, his patience run dry. "Goddammit, Merle!" Phone clenched tightly in his shaking hand, he growled out a warning. "You don't quit pussyfooting 'round, I'm gonna hang up. Now tell me why you called before I do, and we don't talk for another five years."
"Four."
Pulling at his hair with his fist, Daryl barely resisted the urge to beat his head into the wall, repeatedly. "What?"
"Feels like forever," Merle rasped out. "But it's only been four."
Might as well been forever; might as well been yesterday. Some things never changed, and Daryl was embarrassed to find he wasn't above pleading. "I'm giving you ten more seconds, Merle. Ten. Nine. Eight. I mean it, Merle. Six."
"Think you skipped one, Darylina."
Merle's attempt at teasing bordered on pathetic, was half-hearted at best. Daryl ignored the sharp pang in his heart and continued his monotone countdown. "Five. Four. Three. Two more seconds, Merle," he warned, his voice cracking painfully, his thumb at the ready. He was already lowering the phone from his ear when his brother's voice stopped him, quiet but somehow louder than if he'd screamed the words.
"I need your help, Baby Brother. I need you to come home."
Merle's place was right where he'd said it'd be, nearly two miles off the main highway, nestled in a clearing deep in the Georgia woods.
Daryl killed the Triumph's engine and gratefully climbed off. The rough gravel road he'd traveled the last quarter mile had been hell on his back, and he'd yet to even begin to work out all the knots incurred from his unexpected road trip across three states. The fine film of dust coating his face, neck, and exposed arms combined with the slippery sheen of sweat he literally felt everywhere left Daryl feeling filthy and longing for a shower. Doubting one was in the cards anytime soon, he stretched his arms above his head, hoping to ease the kinks of his stiff and abused muscles. As he did so, he allowed himself a second, more critical look at his immediate surroundings.
Earth tone pea gravel gradually transitioned into a walkway of polished, uneven creek stone, leading all the way to a generous covered porch. Immature yellow rose bushes framed the walkway, only a few straggly weeds poking up here and there. By no means neglected, the lawn still needed a good mowing. The house, a white clapboard, was simple and old, set against a backdrop of towering pecan trees easily a couple centuries old themselves. Farther afoot, flowering pink and white dogwoods were interspersed with the live oaks and tall Georgia pines of the woods that seemed to hug the property. Clusters of wild Cherokee rose bushes dotted the acreage as well.
It was pretty, Daryl decided. Peaceful. With the warm Georgia breeze tickling his face and the faint, gentle rush of the distant creek playing in the background, he was surprised to realize just how much of the tension of the past week had already started to leach away from his muscles, his burdened bones. It was a different kind of isolation from the rig, a couple hundred miles out in the Gulf. Still, Daryl wasn't sure he didn't prefer the deep blue sea to this shaded oasis. Though it was nothing at all like he'd expected, there were traces of Merle everywhere he looked.
The yellow police tape looped around the porch rails gave way easily under his hand. Broken glass crunched noisily beneath the heel of his boot. The handmade swing creaked loudly when he nudged it with his denim clad knee, groaning in protest when his tired body fell into it not even seconds later.
Daryl kept it steady, his feet planted firmly in front of him, his legs apart. A week, and he still hadn't completely adjusted to being on solid, unmoving ground. Endless hours, days on the bike, and he craved the stillness. He cracked the first bottle of his six pack open and regarded the splintered wood of the ruined boards directly across from him as he gripped the sweating bottle tightly in his hand. With a sigh, he tipped his weary head and the bottle back and took a long pull, drinking more than half before letting the beer dangle from his loose fingertips. He let his thoughts drift, years of practice aiding him in skillfully steering them away from his brother, and soon a smile tugged insistently at the corners of his mouth.
The red head in the grocery store had been cute, almost as cute as her chatterbox little daughter.
Daryl was no fool; he'd felt her eyes on him. Every cell in his body had prickled in awareness of her, and that was before he caught her not so discreetly checking out his ass. He'd swiped the candy right from under her nose just to fuck with her; the near visceral reaction just touching her soft skin had elicited from him had been an unexpected shock to his system. His groin tightened just remembering the way his heart had started thundering in his ears, the way every nerve ending in his body seemed to alight with longing and heat. If the kid hadn't been there…well, it didn't bear thinking about. Daryl lifted his head, nursing the last of his beer, and watched the evening sun burn out against a deep blue Southern sky. He snorted when he realized the cloudless vista brought to mind her eyes, and he found it lacking in comparison. Fuck, it'd been too damned long if he was waxing poetical or some shit like that. He needed to get laid. No crime in admitting it. Without his meaning to, his thoughts drifted to Sasha, and the recent denouement of their longstanding arrangement.
Sasha had been his last, too many months ago now to count. He'd called her up the night before he left New Orleans and met her for drinks at his favorite Bourbon street bar. Two beers later, jambalaya shared between them, they were laughing and carrying on like old times when she kissed him soft and sweet, patted him on the cheek, and gently ended any notions he had of inviting her into his lonely bed that night or any night after again. A new medic had started coming in to the station, she told him, and she liked him. He made her smile, he made her happy, and Daryl had recognized the shift in her immediately. The lost, pretty, angry girl he'd first hooked up with was nowhere to be found. She was hoping for a future with this Bob of hers. Something he'd never offered and never would; Daryl just wasn't capable of being that guy. Sasha didn't blame him, and he didn't hold any grudges against her. They'd parted with the promise of being friends. Still, he doubted he'd ever see her again. It was for the best.
Just like it was for the best Daryl banish all further thoughts of the woman from the grocery store from his lust addled brain. Kids were cute and all. He might even grudgingly admit to having a soft spot for the little tykes. But he wasn't in the habit of screwing their mamas. He wasn't into relationships, period; at least not the white picket fence kinds. Navigating a relationship with a mother, single or otherwise, Daryl figured, had to be like tiptoeing through an emotional minefield, and he wanted no part of it.
But fuck. She'd been more than cute, the red head. With her freckles and flushed skin, her wispy auburn curls kissing that graceful neck, she'd been sweetly sexy and completely unaware of it. Trim but curvy in all the right places, those faded old jeans of hers had fit her like a comfortable, well-loved second skin.
Weren't no shame in wanting to peel those tight pants right off those pretty legs; Daryl even ceded the desire was only natural. But traveling any further down that rabbit hole could only prove disastrous, and people might not think it, but he had more sense than that. With the growing tightness of his own jeans quickly becoming an unwelcome more than a pleasant distraction, Daryl again redirected his thoughts. Absently adjusting himself, he stood up, six pack in hand as he walked slowly toward the front door and studied it in the waning evening light.
The screen on the upper half flapped loosely in the breeze; the glass on the bottom half was mostly shattered, lying in pieces scattered all about the porch. It'd have to be replaced much like the busted porch boards.
Daryl decided he'd tackle one or both problems in the morning; one more day in lock up down at the King County jail wouldn't hurt his screw-up brother. For all Merle knew, he still hadn't made his way completely through the state of Alabama. Acting on a hunch, Daryl crouched in front of the door, brushing errant shards of glass from the welcome mat with his empty beer bottle before peeling the rubber back. With a triumphant smirk, he held up the shiny silver key.
It was well after three a.m., closer to four when Daryl finally stumbled into the Bed and Breakfast's courtyard, the wrought iron gate proving to be much more of a challenge than usual thanks to the harder stuff he'd imbibed once he'd parted Sasha's company and hit up a few more of the local hot spots. The quaint old Victorian loomed overhead, the muted orange light glowing from the kitchen windows a sure sign Eric, at least, was still up like the rest of the French Quarter revelers. Daryl lingered in the shadows with his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back and sweat beading on his upper lip, at war with himself and whether he wanted to make his presence known. He liked the man well enough, but damn. He was too cheerful and chatty on a good night, and this wasn't one of those. The night had been destined to go to shit well before Sasha let him down gently, and Daryl just wanted to be alone.
Eric, however, didn't get the memo, the awkward thud of his walking boot against the veranda giving him away long before his voice did. "Oh, honey. You smell like a brewery."
Daryl grunted in response, his damp cheek pressed against the pillow of his folded arms on the hammock. The swaying motion was soothing, familiar after years spent on the rig, and he'd frequently sought it out on previous trips such as these, finding it difficult sometimes in the beginning days to find respite in a normal bed.
Eric, like Daryl had known he would, didn't let his lack of conversational effort deter him, making himself right at home and placing his Sudoku puzzle book on the table in front of him. His long features looked pinched with frustration in the flickering flame of the Citronella candle, and he soon plucked the pencil clenched between his teeth from his mouth, tossing it aside with a pout. "Sometimes I swear Aaron buys these books to torture me."
A smirk pulled at Daryl's mouth, but he said nothing right away, his whiskey soaked brain recalling the conversation he'd had with Eric's quieter, more thoughtful counterpart just that afternoon. They'd been fine-tuning the Triumph for Daryl's long journey back to Georgia when Aaron had mentioned his failed efforts to help stave off Eric's boredom while he recuperated. Solitaire had quickly grown old; word searches too elementary. As Eric's spirits had flagged and even negotiating the steep stairs to their bedroom in the cumbersome boot had become a heated bone of contention between the pair, Aaron had looked for ways to stimulate and challenge what he'd called Eric's 'brilliant' brain. Despite his own lack of sentimentality, Daryl had been impressed. He still was, and he told Eric so. "Least he's tryin'. More than most people do their whole lives."
The pleased smile on Eric's face only lasted a second before he sobered and leaned forward. His face was cast in shadow as he studied Daryl in the pale shadow of twilight.
Man might as well been looking through him, Daryl thought as he sat up on the hammock and bent to retrieve his discarded shirt from the ground, all the while avoiding meeting Eric's glittering gaze. The damp material caught uncomfortably over his broad shoulders, and he muttered a low, harsh curse. The sympathetic understanding on Eric's angular face when he glanced up was his undoing. "The hell you starin' at?"
"The demons on your back aren't the only ones you carry, are they?"
Daryl snorted and folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head furiously. "You come up with that psychobabble shit on your own or you been watching too much Dr. Phil while you've been laid up on your ass? You think you know me? You don't know a damn thing, so shut your fuckin' trap."
Eric threw up his hands in apology, his chair scraping against the veranda as he labored awkwardly to his feet. His smile was uneasy as he threw one hand down on the table to brace his wobbling weight, his retraction babbled and bordering on nonsensical in the face of Daryl's intimidating display of anger. "You've got me. It's late. And I've been bored out of my mind. Each one of those reality television shows is worse than the other, and I didn't mean a thing by it, Daryl. I swear. Would you like some spaghetti? It's left over from dinner. My God, these candles are worthless, aren't they?"
Daryl watched Eric swat ineffectually at a buzzing mosquito with a confused frown etched between his brows, half of what he'd said already lost into the ether as his trumped up outrage suffered an abrupt death. He latched on to the only part of the man's monologue that'd made sense, hooking his thumb in the low waistband of his pants as he gave the slightest jerk of his chin in acknowledgment. "You mention spaghetti?"
Once again, Daryl was surprised. Ex-military man or not, Merle had always been a dirty ass slob, and he'd only gotten worse as his pain pill addiction had become increasingly severe. It was difficult for Daryl to fathom how his brother had managed such strict regimens and order in the service when it went against his very nature, but he had for years, only leaving the job when a landmine overseas had taken one of his arms. Moving deeper into the house, Daryl easily recognized the signs of the scuffle Merle had briefly related to him over the phone. Obviously, the real shit had gone down as soon as the altercation had relocated to the front porch because the living space was otherwise neat, the overturned coffee table and the magazines and books scattered all across the hardwood floor the only evidence something had even happened at all.
The house was quiet but for the background hum of the appliances, unnervingly so considering who owned it, and empty.
That made the squeak of the yellow rubber duck beneath Daryl's boot all the more startling, and his cheeks burned hot with embarrassment even as he bent to pick it up. Searching until his eyes found a large dog bed, he grinned at the extensive assortment of chew toys littering its immediate perimeter. Bo.
A broader inspection revealed the walls, shelves, and various tables of Merle's home were virtually littered with the shepherd mix's likeness. The ants in the kitchen food bowl, the half empty mug of coffee beside the sink, were confirmation enough for Daryl. Neither Bo nor his brother had walked these floors in a while.
Stowing away his beer in the sparsely stocked fridge, Daryl did a quick search of the cabinets and successfully located a can of Raid. He coughed into his grimy forearm when the spray fogged in front of him and the noxious smell invaded his nose. Scraping the ruined remnants of chow into the garbage and tying the bag up, dead ants and all, he wasted no time carrying it out to the deck he'd glimpsed from the window over the sink.
Open to the elements, the porch spanned the entirety of the back of the house and supported an eclectic assortment of patio furniture, a glider, and a grill that was no doubt Merle's pride and joy.
Once he'd taken care of the trash, Daryl slumped in the glider, his hand burrowing into his jeans pocket for the crumpled Morley's he'd picked up on the Bama-Georgia state line. He absently tapped the unopened pack against his knee as the breeze and the tinkling music of a nearby wind chime picked up, lost in thoughts of drunken standoffs and demons chasing angels with curls of fire. These things Daryl ruminated on a long time, a very long time, and eventually, he drifted into an exhausted sleep.
The navy sky was blanketed by a sea of stars.
And Daryl Dixon was finally home.
Threw a bunch of stuff at ya, didn't I?
Hope you enjoyed the chapter; I never did manage to get the last section to my liking exactly, but eh. Least I'm not stuck in the mud like I still am with next chapter of The Wonder. That one's giving me fits. But anyway...
In case it wasn't clear, flashback portions of the chapter are in italics, and I left present day portions of the chapter in bold.
I'm gonna just go ahead and change the rating of this story to M; I think it's safe to say we're headed in that direction if Daryl's potty mouth this chapter didn't already take us there, lol.
How 'bout Daryl, huh? Just when you think you got him pinned down, he shows you another facet of himself. Which one do you think is the real Daryl? All of them or none of them?
Oh, and that Sasha part? Just sorta happened. Don't worry, though. I'm Caryl all the way. :)
Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites. I'd respond to each personally, but I no longer have all the email alerts, and I can't access them here with FF being so glitchy.
Next chapter we shift gears back to Carol.
Hope you're still along for the ride.
P.S. Any mistakes are all mine. I edited some parts of this chapter so many times, I'm pretty sure I somehow managed to screw something up actually trying to fix it, lol.