A/N: Sorry for break in updating, everyone. Busy IRL weekend, and my muse got sidelined. Also: I've rewritten the last segment of Chapter 9 after reading some spot-on insight from my Ideal Reader, ImOrca. You certainly don't HAVE to go back and reread it, but I wanted to let you about the change in case any of you wanted to. ~ CeeCee
"Manure is important in a rapid composting method that requires a high-nitrogen, high-bacteria heat-up material."
He tries to figure out which way is up. Or down. He'll settle for either. Everything is too bright, too warm and it doesn't help he's got Merle rasping endlessly in his ear…
"You're like the shit they gonna scrape off'n the bottom of their boots, little brother…you ain't nothin' but redneck trash," he cackles, fades away, begins gnawing on Daryl's pants' leg. Which makes no sense at all, really. How can he be at his feet and in his ears? Or is it his head?
His head is one pulsing mass of glue, bisected by the occasional slivers of broken glass shoved in for good measure. The sun has never been this bright, has it? He staggers, the hole in his left side screaming at him in his mother's voice, which he'd forgotten he remembered. This field is clearly at least one thousand miles long. There are several figures at least eight feet tall running towards him, the voices booming into his bloated brain. Another voice briefly overrides them…
"Ain't no one else ever gonna love you but me, little brother. I brought you up, din't I? I showed you how to be a man, least I tried, Darylena. And you repay me by runnin' off with your li'l sheriff buddy, what left me hogtied on the roof to rot or become walker food!" Merle shoves him hard, and his entire left arm is singing in harmony with his burning side. Why won't these mother*ckers just leave him the hell alone?
Though the pain is roaring through him, he now sees the group of giants approaching him across the field is actually Rick, Shane, T-Dog and Dale. Huh. He's not sure what's scarier.
"I was jokin' about shootin' me," he chokes out, his tongue slick with blood, a moment of clarity bursting through the soupy, pain-filled haze he's swimming in. The blood tastes odd and he flashes on a gutted, tiny animal. Squirrel? Maybe. That's what he's got 'round his neck? Somethin's hangin' there. He looks down. Ears. Right. They make him feel better. He dispatched those dead bastards, treated himself to a little squirrel. Damn straight.
And now these fools are slingin' him over their shoulders, and Andrea's running forward, her blond hair flying. She's got this ridiculous hat on and she's gabbling some nonsense about shooting him. He's clawing desperately at consciousness, if not sense, but he's losing. The last thing he's dimly, distantly aware of is Rick ripping his necklace of trophies from him.
See? I'm right, bro. These people, they just take and take…Merle follows him down into darkness. It's better than being alone.
oooOOOooo
He wakes up confused, but only because it's been months since he's slept in a real bed. And he's never slept in a bed as nice as the one he's in now. He takes quick stock of his body before attempting to sit up. The screaming puncture hole in his side has receded to a dull, warm throb clinging to his torso. He touches his bandaged head, winces.
He vaguely remembers Hershel's face, surrounded by pure white hair, hovering sternly, calmly over him, cleaning the wounds carefully. He also remembers the old geezer made no mention of the network of old scars crisscrossing Daryl's back. Living with them for so long, you think he'd forget about them. He never does. He can always feel them there, something he has to carry around with him until the day he dies.
The low light filtering through the lacey curtains and the enticing smells wafting up from the kitchen remind him he's had nothing but raw squirrel for over twenty-four hours. His clamoring stomach is now louder than any of his wounds, and he tries to prop himself up, motivated by the aroma of real food. His vision softly explode in slow bursts of yellow and white, clouding his vision. He flops back on to the pillow, hugs it, pissed at the limitations of his own body.
Pussy, Merle whispers in his ear. Sissy. Little Darylena, layin' like a fresh little pansy in his pretty little bed.
Go away, he's clear enough now to not respond out loud.
But Merle's right: he is all of those things. Both Merles, the real one and the one in his head, got it straight. He's not got a clue how to be a man. He thinks of Hershel, stayin' mum on the remnants of the lashins' his daddy gave him throughout his childhood. They are something he keeps hidden away at all costs, when he's able and thinking. Now he just pulls the clean sheet around his shoulders, like a cocoon.
oooOOOooo
The dingy honky-tonk is nearly empty at 1:30, the music over, the dancers gone. A few stragglers hang on, to have that last drink to send them over the edge into sweet oblivion, or to find another human being to approximate the same. Daryl doesn't give a shit. He's waiting for Merle, like usual, to get back from one of his runs. Daryl doesn't know if he's buyin', or sellin', he just knows it's about meth.
He knocks back a shot of cheap whisky, gestures for another. The bartender complies. Daryl gazes blearily at the dude next to him, a grizzled guy with a trucker's cap on, his face nearly on the bar top. Blitzed. Suddenly there's a small, warm hand on his back. He spins around, reaching for his knife.
"Whoa, cowboy, just sayin' hi," her hair is dark red, messy. Her eyes rimmed with kohl liner. Appealing in her tight tee shirt and jeans in the way certain women are after midnight.
"Sorry," he mutters, turns back to his drink.
"A man like you shouldn't drink alone," she continues, hops up onto the stool next to him. He considers her for a moment, looks at how her shirt hugs her breasts, her small waist. Looking doesn't cost anything. Looking isn't complicated. He nods at the bartender again, points at his drink, makes a "v" with his fingers. The guy sets the two shots in front of them.
"Hey, thanks," she takes a small sip which she probably thinks makes her look ladylike. He thinks she should just stick to what she apparently knows.
"Don't say much, do ya?" After the first polite sip, she throws the rest of the whisky down her throat. He shrugs. She leans in towards him, and he can smell her, stale booze and something muskier, overly-sweet. It's not entirely unpleasant, and his body responds. She smiles knowingly, leans closer, her hot breath on his cheek. "Let's see what else that mouth is good for," and she reaches for his face, sliding her other hand up under his shirt. Her face is confused and he jumps up and away from her, feeling very sober suddenly.
"What the hell is going on under there…?" She trails off, shakes her head, looks at her hand which felt the raised snarls and striations on his back, wanders away. And he breathes a sigh of relief. Gets another drink. Waits for Merle.
oooOOOooo
He's nearly drifted off again in a haze of painkillers and exhaustion, when there's a soft knock and the door swings open. Carol stands there, tray in hand. The food smells better than anything he's ever smelled.
"I brought you dinner," she sets the tray down, and he stays huddled under the thin sheet, his only protection.
She stands at the door, almost as if she's waiting for something, or someone. "I just wanted to say…" she pauses, gathering her words. "You did more today for my little girl than her daddy did for her in his entire life." The admission is struggle, he can hear in her voice, filled with shame and self-recrimination. She grips the doorjamb, seems ready to go.
Then, she swoops down, and before he fully understands what's happening, her warm lips brush his bruised cheek. She's up and gone in a second, a hummingbird on a blossom. He pushes himself up without thought, perhaps to follow her flight. The sheet slips off his shoulder.
"Didn't do anything Rick or Shane wouldn't a'done," he grumbles, grabbing at the sheet, but her eyes have already flickered to the decimated skin on his back.
"I know," she replies, a sigh. "And you're every bit as good as them." She stops, bites out a few more words. "Every bit." And then she is gone, and he is left with the scant protection of the sheet, the dinner that she left at his bedside, and the whisper of her lips on his cheek.