Chapter Seven

The sun had set a while back but Daryl remained where he was, a man alone with his regrets and his anger and his emptiness. He'd known his brother to be a stupid, reckless, dumbass sonofabitch. But his latest stunt took the cake. Daryl was livid and defeated over it.

And Merle, he was just gone.

The damn fool had tried to take down the Governor with the intel they'd gathered—along with Rick's ill-fated agreement to turn over Michonne and her research in exchange for leaving AGD alone. It was a cowardly, bullshit move, and the Governor wouldn't have complied, of course. But they'd been desperate and looking for any way out of their hostilities.

There'd been casualties on both sides at least. The cops had shown up at the agreed-upon rendezvous spot and taken everyone involved in the covert meeting into custody. In the building, they'd found guns, drugs, incriminating paperwork—the works. The Governor had made sure the evidence was overwhelming for when Rick and Michonne showed up, hoping to take them both out of the equation with that frame-job and whoever else showed up with them. However, Merle had shown up alone right before tipping off the cops. The plan had been to grab as much paper evidence that he could and get out but the Governor had caught him and simply altered his plan to take out Merle instead with his setup.

It was what happened afterwards that set Daryl's blood to boil.

An "accident" they'd told him when Merle's body was found dead in his jail cell as he awaited a meeting with AGD's attorney. It had been no accident; it had been a prick called the Governor and Daryl vowed to make him pay. Somehow.

Plus, there remained the fallout of the situation back at the offices, not to mention the fact that the Woodbury threat still loomed. When Rick had come to his senses and decided against selling Michonne out, Daryl had been relieved. He'd come to appreciate what their newest hire could do for the company. Everything she did showed off her intelligence and quickness. Her no bullshit attitude remained abrasive to some, but she wasn't a bitch, just aloof and guarded; protective of herself in the way you had to be when you're used to being on your own for so long. Besides, he rather liked the fact that she was so straightforward. It saved him a lot of grief, and he actually found her kind of funny when she tore into someone for being a dumbass.

He'd thought Rick saw her usefulness too. They'd gone on that business trip together and he'd had nothing but good things to say afterward, Carl too. It seemed as if they were all turning a corner on the luck and trust front. The negotiations with the Governor had undone all that. Rick's anxiety returned when he realized just how high the stakes were and just what a psychopath the Governor turned out to be.

It still didn't make no damn sense to Daryl why Woodbury wanted anything to do with an outfit like AGD. But those bastards were clearly greedy and used to fucking with people because they could. The folks he met—the Martinez guy and the braniac Milton— they didn't strike him as crazy like the Governor so why were they following his orders?

Maybe they were saying the same thing about him.

It didn't matter now because his brother was dead and those assholes were behind it for sure, if not directly then in some kind of covert move. That last conversation he'd had with his brother loomed. Merle's criticism. Merle's hurt and fear. Merle's questions about whether he wanted Rick to reconsider turning over Michonne as if he knew the woman somehow mattered to Daryl just as much as Rick doing the right thing by them all.

Daryl didn't bother looking at the clock hanging by the door. He felt each second of his new status as the last Dixon standing. The darkness and lack of activity in the hallways told him that it was late. Almost everyone had left for the night. Rick had sat with him for a while after getting the news, not saying much but assuring him that they'd make the Governor pay for what he did. He looked about as worn out as Daryl, having met with the staff and Board of Directors about everything that'd been going on the past several weeks. He'd come clean on their struggles and it released the incredible weight off the man, but it didn't make any of the problems magically go away. Before leaving to take care of business and then get home to his kids, he'd grasped Daryl's shoulder in solidarity, mirroring his earlier assurances that they were all family, despite his or Merle's dubious choices.

Carol had stopped in, cooing and tutting over him in that way that he'd become used to. They'd sat down and made arrangements for Merle and he'd been happy for the help but also overwhelmed and exhausted by it as well. She'd offered to take him home and make him dinner but he wasn't hungry and didn't want the company, not that it was personal. After nudging him a few more times, she accepted his decision and left him to his thoughts with a soft peck to the top of his head.

He didn't even know why he was still in the office except that he didn't quite know where to go from here. He couldn't go home and stare at the four walls of his small trailer. Usually, he loved the quiet of being in the middle of nowhere, but not tonight.

A knock on the door startled him. He frowned. It was something to get used to, having folks care enough to check on him but he tired of dealing with people and making awkward conversation over their condolences. He didn't want to deal with that anymore. He just wanted to be alone. Before he could make any sort of response, though, the door opened and Michonne stepped through. In her hand she held a bottle of local moonshine and two glasses.

No, he didn't want her company, but she'd brought a persuasive offering.

Although it was him that should be accommodating her; apologizing to her. He'd known what would likely go down and had been complicit in allowing Michonne to be framed in Merle's place. If things had gone according to Rick's plan, she'd be the one dead. Or worse. And it would have been his fault partly, even if his reasons were noble. He'd known it wasn't right but hadn't been willing to go against Rick on the matter. It was cowardly and he couldn't help but feel that he'd paid a heavy price for not speaking up.

Michonne set the glasses on his desk and tipped the bottle towards him. He nodded and she poured two generous servings before pulling up a chair and joining him on the other side of his desk. She didn't sip at the harsh liquor like he might have expected from a woman; she threw it back, like she'd been born and raised amongst folks who reveled in a stiff shot of booze when times got complicated. Knowing what little he did of her, he really should have known better than to expect anything less. He followed her lead and poured them some more.

If she was here like this, maybe it meant that they were past apologies and excuses. Maybe it was an acceptance that they all have to do what they must to get by. Sometimes you're on the winning side of that, sometimes you're not.

And sometimes nobody wins.

They sat there, nursing their trauma for who knows how long. Time stopped being a thing Daryl tracked as he allowed Michonne to refill his glass two, three, however many times it took. As the numbness set in, the outline of his control began to blur and gray around the edges. He felt himself topple into the fluidity of his raging emotions, rapidly seeping, then spilling from his well-trained controls.

At some point he stood up and staggered the few steps to Merle's side of the office, sloppily taking in the cut marks in the desk and stains on the chair from where he often spilled coffee or bits of food from his lunch. One drawer stood ajar and he could see the unorganized stack of papers crammed in the small space as if Merle had just swept his desk clean into that one compartment. The sheets poked out, as askew and unkempt as his brother had been.

Daryl leaned heavily against the desk trying to keep his balance and dislodged a light object at his foot. Stepping back, he saw that he'd toppled over Merle's trashcan. He hadn't replaced it. The knife marks from the other day, inflicted when Merle had taken out his aggression on it, clawed at Daryl's gut the moment he spotted them. Daryl remembered that it was only so many hours ago that his brother had been sitting next to him, worrying his nerves, frustrated over their inability to take out the Governor.

Merle had been right when all was said and done. That wisdom had come out in all the wrong ways but he'd been spot on, for all the good it did him in the end. If only Merle had picked a better time to be noble. If only he'd used his damn head instead of betting so caught up in being the one in charge, intent on proving to Daryl that he was the big fucking brother and would be the one to fix things.

Looking down at the distressed plastic bin, a rage filled Daryl, fueled by the alcohol and his now unleashed sorrow and regret. He forgot that he was at his place of business or that there was another person in the room with him. There was just the memory of Merle and that trashcan serving as a reminder of every stupid fucking thing Merle had done in his life to ruin things. And with those memories came all the stupid fucking things Merle did to be the best family he could to Daryl because, for most of their lives, no one else gave a shit about them.

He kicked the trashcan, feeling the satisfying give to the cheap plastic. He kicked it again and again, pressing it into the hard wood of the desk as he did so. Picking it up, dented and scratched from all the abuse, he slammed it against the desk repeatedly. The slices from Merle's knife deepened as Daryl banged it along the hard surface, showing no signs of stopping.

Daryl had always been a terrible drunk: angry, careless, often cruel. Under the haze of alcohol, he couldn't block out his insecurities and crippling sadness and bitterness that his life was nothing more than whatever dead-end hole he found himself in, usually nursing a bottle of Jim Beam or throwing back whatever crap Merle and his friends could scrounge up. If no one started anything, he'd simply brood in a corner until the drunken stupor wore off or he passed out. But the slightest provocation would set him off into blind rages where he'd fight anyone over anything at all. It didn't matter if he woke up the next day with a sore jaw or black eye or a throbbing nose covered in dried blood that seeped down to his mouth.

The familiar chaos felt good to Daryl as he continued to throw the trashcan around, beating down Merle's chair and desk, slamming the trashcan into the ground and stomping on it as best he could in his condition. For the briefest of moments, he registered movement across the room but didn't spare Michonne much of his attention as she shut the door and then returned to her chair to poor another shot. Otherwise, she failed to react to his tirade, wisely choosing to let him get it out of his system.

After a good amount of time throwing around Merle's sparse belongings in the office and thoroughly destroying the knife-pocked trashcan, Daryl stood at the corner of Merle's desk, breathing hard and pursing his lips tight to keep from screaming and howling. The torrent of his feelings was ebbing and it was almost unwelcome because he wanted to continue feeling that pain. He longed to hold onto it so he wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath where Merle would become a memory and this thing that he'd think about in the past tense. Turning, he collapsed back into his office chair, his world spinning around him. He flopped his head to the side and stared out of his window where he could see the moon shining high in the sky.

He had no idea what time it was but the woman across from him didn't seem concerned in the least. She sat in her chair, leaned back with her arm extended as she ran long, silent fingers against the rim of her glass. Her eyes weren't focused on anything in particular nor did she react to him at all. Apparently, the alcohol had the opposite effect on her, calming her, since she didn't appear to have that tightly coiled look about her that had become her suit of armor. In the fog of his rapidly cooling temper, he remembered that her day had been shit too—and that she hadn't deserved it.

Clumsily, he reached for the bottle and poured her another round before refilling his own glass.

It was well past midnight when she dragged him into his trailer and threw him across the bed in a heap. He didn't protest; he was too far gone for that. All he knew was that the pain had gone away for a while.

He watched her with bleary eyes and the panic set in: of being alone, of being left behind, of being powerless to save the people closest to him. He wondered if she'd be willing to stay with him and help him forget for just a little longer. Spending the evening throwing back booze with her had ignited something.

He'd realized that she was fierce, but again, he recognized the familiar in her too, even though they seemed so different on the surface. She kept her feelings wrapped so tightly inside, yet he could tell that she felt things deeply. She'd learned how to keep her ties to a minimum, just like he did. No doubt she had her own reasons for such a solitary life. He was curious how that came about because he'd bet she wasn't always like that.

And clearly the woman could drink him under the table.

His mind jumped around to consider her intentions as she filled a large glass with water and set it by his bed. She helped him kick off his shoes and shed his jacket but made no move to remove any other item of clothing.

When he focused on her movements to help clear his booze-soaked mind, all that resonated was how incredible she looked right now. That and how he hadn't been scared when they'd sat in his office just now, not saying a word, just drinking and being. The darkness in the room obscured her features but the light shining in from the clear night cast her in a gentle glow that hit across her cheek and along her neck when she turned her head this way or that. As she moved at his side, he imagined her leaning over and having all that dark luminescence melt into him, pour into his soul and fill him with whatever strength that seemed to come so instinctively for her. He imagined that she'd be all softness and coaxing pressure and that he would welcome her and breathe her in until he had his fill. He would simply let her essence settle in for as long as it took.

He rolled over to the end of his bed and caught her arm before she moved away. She looked down at him, not with sympathy or pity but with understanding, with determination. He opened his mouth to say anything that would keep her with him but no words came out.

Michonne smiled at his sloppiness and pushed him back on the bed. "Get some rest, Dixon." Those were the first words she'd spoken to him since she'd walked into his office. She turned away and shouldered the bag she'd brought in with her.

He couldn't let it end like this.

"Hey," he called out, now settling into his dead weight, pushing down on his mattress. "Just, wait a minute." Michonne's furrowed brows made him think she wouldn't comply, but she walked over to where he lay. She sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at him again. Daryl's head was spinning so he rolled onto his back and tried to concentrate on one spot. His eyes found the swell of her cheek and he followed the smooth skin to the corner of her mouth. His stomach lurched as her lips pointed up into a grin at his wavering attempts to communicate with her. When his eyes retraced their path, he noticed the slightest dimple, which sparked a grin of his own.

Daryl raised his hand up and dropped it before he could bring it down on her arm. His coordination wasn't the best and he was liable to get himself in trouble if his hands followed where his mind insisted on wandering.

"Just wanted to say," he slurred, "need to tell ya …" The thoughts were there but blocked and clouded by his compromised motor functioning.

Forgetting his earlier caution he reached up again and grasped her arm. Her muscles were firm and her skin as smooth as he'd hoped. Would all of her be this solid if he covered her with his body; would her sturdy form yield to his? Was he man enough to ask if she'd take that kind of leap with him? Would it ease this ache that threatened to haunt him deep into his dreams of lost family and bold demons, future battles and fallen brothers and sisters? He imagined pulling her to him so he could prove his worth to someone who understood his distance. The way she'd shown up tonight, being everything he needed in that moment, made him think that he'd find the answers in their connection. He was worth something if he could make her feel good—and he could survive this ache if he lost himself in the pleasure she'd give to him. No taste of her would go undiscovered, no depth unplundered. Neither had to hold back out here in the sticks with only the trees and critters for company.

But that didn't seem right, just a roll in the hay as he'd done to fill other difficult nights with a handful of nameless, long-forgotten women he'd take up with over the years. What if she could just lay down next to him, maybe hold him for a while and let her arms wrap around him in comfort, just as her company had in his office earlier? What if she would just hold his hand for a while?

If she would accept him, it would make him whole again, his plastered brain told him.

As suddenly as it flared, he shook his head of these foolish thoughts. That wasn't him, the kind of guy to just make a move. In fact, there were a lot of things lately that he wasn't man enough for. Images flashed of a cold, dead Merle, lying on the table as he identified the body. Blurry images lingered of a warm, silently vibrant woman, still alive despite his betrayals and sitting so patiently at his side as he collected his thoughts and reigned in his base impulses. She waited for him to speak.

Blinking in slow motion, he did his best to face her, meet her eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She stilled at his admission but didn't pull away.

He was a modest, quiet man and he didn't have words to convey any of the jumbled rationalizations or plans toppling from moment to moment in his mind. His attraction to her was fleeting and pulsing, rising to the surface before submerging itself in a pool of fear and confusion and uncertainty. When affection inevitably returned, it was replaced by guilt. He couldn't hold onto it with her eyes on him, expecting … something. He willed himself to focus and reign in everything he could into one coherent stream of consciousness.

And what he lacked in emotional stability right now, he made up for in honed instinct. What he did have was an understanding of the one thing he and Michonne shared right now unmarred by booze or insecurity. They had vengeance.

"Whatever you got planned for him, I'm in. That bastard is gonna pay." Michonne's eyes steeled at the mention of their nemesis but then softened after letting his words sink in.

Her tight smile wavered in the dimness. "I'll stay until then. We'll take him down."

Daryl waved her off, slapping at her arm in the process. She was warm against the back of his hand. "Aint goin' nowhere. Carl said you was one of us. Rick knows it too, just got it twisted in his head tryin' to keep us safe." He waved his hand around as if that would explain everything. He tossed his head against the pillow. "Shouldn't 'a let it get that far. Won't let nobody do you wrong again," he slurred.

They were in this together whether she liked it or not. She nodded.

She reached up and took his hand still loosely holding her arm, squeezing it before laying it across his chest. It was a quick contact, over before he thought to hold on. Because he was so drunk, he could have imagined it but he thought he saw the slightest flare of … something in her expression before it ghosted away. But as she stood, she brushed his hair back, her strong fingers a welcome drift across his skin as she touched him. He closed his eyes to it, succumbing to his overwhelming inebriation.

From a faraway place, he heard the click of the door closing and the cab they'd arrived in pulling away. He drifted off to sleep he replayed the soft pressure of her touch and wondered if her kiss would give him the same burning satisfaction as the moonshine she'd shared with him.

TBC…

AN: And another chapter in the can for you. I have so much already written for this story (and my other stories too) and I wish I could throw all of it out there for y'all to experience. But alas, work has been (happily) keeping me very, very, very occupied in the last few weeks which cuts down on my writing/editing time. But during my next respite, which I suspect will be sooner rather than later, I'm going to churn it out, just you wait and see.

Thanks for the continued support. I'm so grateful for those of you sticking it out with me.