A/N: So sorry for the delay on this one. TW: language, substance (alcohol) consumption, references to crimes. xo - CL
Chapter 6: take me to your level
"Ha! Found it," Maggie says excitedly from where's sat in front of the desktop computer, nestled in the corner of the den room - slash junk room - slash future nursery room – in the small home she shares with Glenn.
Glenn's sitting on the sofa in the middle of the room, feet propped on the coffee table, hours deep in an incredibly important mission of the video game with which he's currently obsessed.
Maggie spins in the computer chair to face him. "Ya hear me, Glenn? I found something very intriguing."
Glenn removes his headset with a roll of his eyes, tossing his controlled to the side and sliding his eyes to his wife. "Oh yeah? Intriguing, ya say? Well, out with it, already; the suspense is just killing me." His voice is filled with mild boredom and less-than-mild snark, but he has the wisdom to flash her a genuine smile.
Maggie rises from the chair and scurries across the room, sitting next to her husband on the sofa. In her excitement, she collides with him and nearly causes them both to topple over.
"Okay," she says, somehow low on oxygen despite the short distance of her recent journey across the room, "so, ya know how I've been researching the Dixons, trying to figure out who exactly my daddy and sister and brother are opening their proverbial and literal doors to?"
"How could I forget?" Glenn deadpans. "Where I'm from, my love, we call your behavior obsessive and maybe even stalker-ish." He curls a finger into the short tendrils of dark hair framing her face even as he calls her out.
Maggie rolls her eyes before continuing. "So, tracking down Merle's extensive record was a piece of cake – "
" – And Merle is Daryl's big, bad older brother?" Glenn interrupts, though he knows most of this by heart – involuntarily – at this point. His wife had been on a mission rivaling his own, admittedly more important, gamer missions for the last several weeks.
"Right," Maggie confirms. "And, really, babe – you should see all the shit he's been nailed for – I mean, I know I used the word scum the other night, but that's a total fuckin' understatement – "
"Okay, please get to the point. I'm losing hard-earned lives as we speak," he points hesitantly at the TV in front of them. "And, I get it. Merle is scum. Worse than scum. So where is he? And how does this involve Daryl and your shitty table manners?"
Maggie scoffs. "I'd hardly consider my askin' a simple question in the realm of shitty table manners, but I digress and will ignore that offensive comment for now. Anyway, I just found an article from some print up north. Merle Dixon is in the pen, Glenn. Forty to life for manslaughter."
Glenn's smirk disappears immediately. "Shit," he says, frowning. "Like, as in – he killed someone? But manslaughter – so, not with intent, I guess – but still, I – wow, Maggie. You're quite the sleuth when ya put that utterly confusing yet endearing and magical mind o' yours to it. I feel honored to be under your protection, wife."
"But wait," Maggie says, fully facing her husband, placing her hands on his shoulders so they're square. "That's not all. Our recent honorary dinner guest, Daryl, just got out."
"What?" Glenn sits up straight now, eyes widening. "Out of prison?" Tension comes alive in his body. "Like recently? For what? Did he kill – "
"No, no," Maggie interjects. "Charges weren't the same, but related to the same string of incidents, apparently. Car jackin', drug possession, few other petty, smaller-scale crimes. He served five years, though. Released 'bout six months ago."
"Shit," Glenn repeats, keening forward a bit to rest his elbows on his knees. "You really did dig up the dirt, Mags. Think your dad knows?"
Maggie nods, beaming a little at her detective work. "No wonder he left so quickly the other night. Probably knew shit like that can't be kept on the down low for too long, regardless of how tight daddy's lips are."
Glenn sits up a bit straighter, turning slightly toward his wife. "Or maybe – maybe he was just uncomfortable talkin' about it in a room full of strangers?" He proposes, eliciting yet another eye roll from Maggie. "Anyway, there's no reason to go all 'A-ha! Caught ya, ya perp!' – we don't even know the real story, the details, babe. I thought he seemed nice enough, normal even and non-criminal-y."
"Just goes to show ya how deceivin' looks can be, right? I've got to call Beth," she responds, making to stand from the sofa.
Glenn stretches an arm out, catching Maggie by the hand. "Why? Why call her now? Sure, looks can be deceivin', babe, but what about that whole 'don't judge a book by its cover' thing?"
"Ya think this is in line with a cover, Glenn? This is more like a few chapters, or maybe even more. I can tell that Bethy – I don't know – she seems to like him, Glenn. I don't want her to get hurt. Or get too close. She's been through so much as it is with momma, and daddy, and Zach, and – it's only right that she knows. He clearly hasn't told her – "
"I learned years ago that what I'm about to say will likely fall on deaf – but very cute, may I add – ears, but I'll say it anyway: Let them be, Maggie. Let Daryl have the chance to tell his own story. We both know how it is – what it feels like – to have other people share shit they got no business sharing." Glenn runs a hand down the smooth skin of his wife's arm.
Maggie stands, hands on hips, directly in front of her husband, eyes filled with emotions Glenn couldn't begin to name. She seems to be contemplating his suggestion and his words.
But it's mere moments before she shakes her head, grabs her phone, and starts dialing.
Xxx
Beth presses the ignore button on her phone for at least the fifth time. Whatever Maggie wants can wait. She's still not quite ready to hear any apologies for her sister's behavior toward Daryl the other night at dinner.
They're pulling up to The Cellar, probably the sketchiest bar in town if she'd have to guess, but they stock the best variety in terms of alcohol, which is what she and Daryl are here to consume. And this was her mama's favorite, secret place.
"You sure you're not fixin' to have me murdered, Miss Greene?" Daryl asks, pulling the keys from the ignition of the truck. It's one of only three vehicles in the poorly kept lot, though, from experience, Beth knows that doesn't mean there aren't many, many more patrons inside the hidden gem she's visited over and over again, especially in the last few years.
She walks around the truck bed to the driver's side, looking up at Daryl with what's meant to be a sly grin. "I'd hope that after all this time spent with me, you'd have a little more trust, Mr. Dixon," she says, nudging him slightly.
"Just Daryl," he says, cutting his eyes away from hers. "Try not to throw my last name 'round if other people are around, if ya think you can manage."
Beth takes a step back, almost physically recoiling from the harsh tone with which he'd spoken. "Sorry," she says quietly, and deep down, she means that, even if she's not sure why.
"Follow me," she says, walking past him, toward an exterior set of descending stairs tucked into the side of the weathered, abandoned building adjacent to the parking lot. Beth thinks it was maybe once a nice shop, or a bank – something hopeful and bright. It'd been nothing but vacant shelves and broken glass for as long as she could remember.
The stairwell is encased by walls of concrete, decorated with dead insects and poor attempts at graffiti, art, and phone numbers. The stairs are all significantly spaced and made of porous steel, the kind that clanks and echoes upon contact. Beth avoids touching the red handrail, all chipped spray paint and stained and splattered, running along on the right of the stairwell, only because she'd seen way too many instances of it serving as a reservoir for bodily fluids of all kinds.
When they've descended the last stair, there's a short, enclosed hallway ending at a closed door, which is much like the rest of the path they've taken to get here: damaged, weathered, and heavy. Beth knocks three times and then pushes it open.
As she steps inside, she can feel Daryl right behind her, his front, solid and lean, lightly brushing her back, his head far above hers. A shiver radiates down her spine, and she can't quite understand it in that moment.
The Cellar is dark and whorls of smoke are wafting upward toward the unfinished ceilings. The horseshoe-shaped bar is in the middle of the vast room, which matches the size of the vacant level above. Music radiates from an old jukebox packed into one of the room's dark corners, and the vibrations travel upward through the soles of Beth's shoes.
As expected, there are several people sprawled throughout the bar – many appear middle-aged, but the ages range from young adults, loud and energetic, to geriatrics, solemn and fatigued - despite the emptiness they'd seen in the parking lot, far above their underground surroundings.
They find two empty seats at the bar, isolated a bit from much of the afternoon crowd. The bartender – Beth knows him well, as they attended school together for their entire lives – appears in front of them within a few moments.
"Hi, Beth," Jimmy says, lips quirking. "Haven't seen ya in a few weeks. How ya doin'?"
"Doin' okay, Jimmy," she responds, allowing brief eye contact before looking to Daryl. "This is my – friend," she continues with some inexplicable trace of awkwardness seeping through the words, "Daryl."
"Howdy, Daryl," Jimmy says easily. "Can I get ya somethin'?"
Daryl's fidgeting in his seat, twisting a napkin around and around and around between his fingers.
"Bourbon," Daryl finally grunts, "neat. Thanks."
"Beth?" Jimmy asks, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up a bit further on his nose. "Ya want the usual?"
Beth nods, offering Jimmy a small smile. He returns the nod and heads to the other end of the bar to prepare their orders.
"What's the usual?" Daryl asks, still twisting that napkin.
Beth can't stop herself; she reaches over and smacks her hand down on the napkin stretched between his hands, twined around his fingers. Daryl turns to her, then, eyebrows furrowed slightly, before looking down at where her small, delicate hand rests on the edges of his rough, weathered ones. Her face heats, and she removes her hand as if it had instead been the heated part of her.
"Why do you fidget so much?" She asks simply.
He shrugs. "Don't realize it most the time. Guess it feels weird if I'm too still."
Jimmy's back with their drinks, placing cheap, paper-thin coasters on the bar in front of them.
"One neat bourbon for the fella and a vodka on the rocks with a splash of grenadine for the miss – oh, hey! – the almost misses," Jimmy says, winking. "Holler if ya need me." He's gone, then, moving to the blonde 30-something woman, who is wearing minimal clothing and extremely bright lipstick, standing a few spaces away from where Daryl sits.
Beth peers at Daryl from the corner of her eye as he takes a deep pull from his glass.
"Vodka, huh?" he muses, clinking her glass lightly with his own. "Had you pegged all wrong."
"What's that s'posed to mean?" she asks, taking a sip from the glass filled with the things of her nightmares and dreams.
"Just unexpected," he muttered, head turning as he looked around the room.
"Ya thought I'd drink some frilly shit, huh? Like a Sex on the Beach, probably, or a wine cooler." She scoffs. She preferred beer, but she didn't drink that here.
"How'd you find out 'bout this place, anyhow?" He's tapping his index finger lightly on the bar between them. She wonders if it's physically impossible for him to not be moving.
"Sort of on accident," she says after a long, silent pause. "Sort of on purpose. When my mama started acting – I don't know – different, and nobody else seemed to give a second thought, I followed her here once. I wasn't even old enough to come in, but it ain't exactly a straight-edge type of place, if ya didn't notice."
Daryl shifts slightly in his seat, angling his body – though not his head, nor his face – toward hers. "This was her closet," he says quietly. "'Til then, at least."
Beth nods. It still tears at that wound deep inside of her to talk about some of this – with anyone. The double life her mother had seemingly lived for longer than anyone even knew – than anyone would ever know.
"That her drink?" he asks, dipping his head toward Beth's glass.
She nods again, taking another sip and trying hard, as always, to stifle the grimace as the alcohol burned its way down her esophagus.
"It's actually incredibly gross," she says, smiling – first to herself, then at him, when she turns her head toward his. She's surprised to find his blue eyes on hers. "Not sure why this was her choice of poison."
She feels her phone vibrating against her thigh again, then. She shifts to remove it, flinging it then onto the bar.
"Don't ya think ya ought to see what she wants so bad?" Daryl asks, looking away again. He holds his empty glass up, motioning at Jimmy for another.
"She'd text me if it were an actual emergency, which is beyond logic," Beth says, silencing the phone. "Not exactly my favorite person right now, so a chit-chat doesn't sound appealin'."
"Don't let what she said the other night – ya know, at your dad's house – what she said to me, of all people, drive a wedge 'tween ya and your sister, Beth. It was nothin'."
"Wasn't nothin' to me," she bites out, draining the rest of her drink. "Thought you didn't wanna talk 'bout it, anyway."
"I don't," he snaps back, tipping his head as he downs the content of his drink.
"Am I gonna have to carry you outta here?" Beth asks after a few moments of silence that somehow made her feel as squirmy as Daryl. She was only half-way through her second drink and felt the familiar warmth blooming in her head.
He holds his hand up, signaling Jimmy for another.
"Nah," he says, smirking, "and don't expect me to carry your ass either."
"I wouldn't even know where to carry you," Beth says, more to herself than to him. "I don't know where you even live." The thought makes her smile for no reason at all. "Actually, I don't know much about you at all."
"What do ya wanna know?" He asks, voice edged in irritation. But there was something else there, too: amusement, she thinks. "My favorite color? It's black."
She shoves her shoulder into his, swaying a little, elation climbing up her bones when he laughs, likely because, despite her efforts, all he probably feels is a light nudge against his strong, solid form.
Beth suddenly wants to know so many things – where he lives, where he used to live, where his brother is, why he wears loneliness like it doesn't matter. She can't form the words to ask.
"What do ya wanna tell me?" she asks instead, propping an elbow on the bar and her head, angled more toward his, in the palm of her hand. She isn't sure she'd noticed before just how blue and icy his eyes are. The oncoming and retreating gleams of sunlight that shine each time the door to The Cellar is opened highlight their color, and the depths and subtleties beyond them.
He fidgets with another napkin. "Well, I'm a Capricorn," he begins, tone so serious that she cannot stop her laughter from bursting out. "I'm stayin' at Rick and Lori's, for now. Not forever. Helpin' with a few projects, the horses' annuals of course. Once that's done, Rick's got a few more things for me, it seems like. Hopin' by late fall I'll be on my feet and able to find another place to stay."
It was the most she'd heard him speak at once. She has to check to confirm that her mouth isn't agape.
He fidgets again, shifting his hips a bit in the barstool. She only now notices he's removed his signature vest, that his arms are tanned and lean, corded with muscle and coarse hair. She leans away, just slightly, while nodding in encouragement.
"My – uh, my brother, Merle is – he's older than me. Only sibling. Your sister wasn't wrong. 'Bout him bein' a – what'd she say? – piece of work? That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said 'bout him in years."
Beth looks away to signal Jimmy for another, despite knowing she should stop. She doesn't want him to stop.
"We were on our own for the most part, since we were kids. Got into some bad shit," he pauses and drains his glass just before Jimmy appears with another round for them both. Beth feels Jimmy's eyes on hers and she nods in the hopes of dismissing any misplaced concern she'd guessed he may be feeling given the situation – her, in The Cellar, with a man who, to most, was a stranger. One who was not her fiancée or family.
"Like what kinda shit?" Beth asks on an exhale. She watches him wince a bit as he swishes his drink around inside his mouth.
"Like stealin' shit, Beth. Breakin' shit. Beatin' up whoever crossed us. Makin' friends with worthless fucks with shitty lives, like ours were. Tryin' and buyin' and eventually sellin' shit, like drugs and stolen parts."
"Is that why he's in jail?" It comes out of her mouth before she can stop it; and, truthfully, she hadn't thought about it much at all in the few days since she'd overheard that conversation between her daddy and Daryl. "I – Daryl, you don't have to answer that. I don't even know why I would ask something like that – I ain't Maggie, and – "
"'S okay," he mutters. He's looking at his hands as his fingers slide across and around the glass in front of him. "I know you ain't Maggie, and I know you ain't askin' 'cause of some morbid obsession or to go spread gossip. Ain't gossip anyhow. That all – that's part of it, why he's locked up. He's been locked up a lot."
"I'm sorry," Beth says, voice nearly a whisper. She means it. She feels waves of pain rolling from him and into her. She wonders what else Merle had done, how long he'd been - and would be- in jail, what their parents were like – she felt it all, the pain, the curiosity, the sympathy and grief, so strongly, so suddenly.
"Don't be," he says roughly. "He is exactly where he deserves to be."
It feels like words of finality, at least for now, and as she takes a breath, Beth feels a lightness in the air.
"Thank you," she says, placing her hand hesitantly on the junction of his elbow and bicep, "for tellin' me a little about you. I meant when I said I like you, Daryl."
She feels – or maybe sees – the sharp inhale he takes then, along with the uncertainty in his eyes, which slide from his hands to her hand to the bar to her face and all over again. Then she feels his palm on the top of her hand, and it's like she's being shocked, as an invisible line of heat spreads deep inside of her.
"We should go," he says quietly, removing his hand.
In front of them, her phone lights up again.