Helplessness Blues
Chapter Two
What's my name, what's my station, oh, just tell me what I should do
I don't need to be kind to the armies of night that would do such injustice to you
Or bow down and be grateful and say "sure, take all that you see"
To the men who move only in dimly-lit halls and determine my future for me
"All these one dollar bills are giving me a real hankerin' for a trip to the Cheetah Lounge. What do you say, baby brother? Blondie do us a favor back there?" Merle grinned lazily, taking a drag from his cigarette. One hand gripped the steering wheel, the other draped out the open window. Though Daryl didn't know why his brother bothered. Merle's truck already reeked of tobacco.
"Just drop me at my place. Had enough of your bullshit for today."
Daryl kept his eyes glued to the landscape as they drove. Not really looking at much of anything, a blur of colors and shapes. As they passed field after field, flush with grain and corn, he couldn't help but think that the farm they had just vacated was lacking compared to the other locals. Less growth, less hustle and bustle.
Daryl liked to notice things.
This particular observation only served to deepen the gnawing feeling in the pit of his gut though. Surely, him and Merle shaking down the farmer's daughter for cash wouldn't help rejuvenate their dwindling crop.
As though sensing his brother's growing guilt, Merle glanced up from the road. "You always were too fuckin' soft."
Daryl expressed his dissent with a grunt. "It ain't being soft. Just not in the business of extorting money from little girls."
"Hey now! You're in the business of whatever I decide the day calls for, you hear? And we both know she wasn't that little. You most of all, knowin' she worked at Marietta's. Huh, looks like I might have to start eatin' out more if I'm gonna want to keep eatin' in" Merle raised his brows, smiling lecherously.
His brother. Always a gentleman. Daryl could only roll his eyes, his annoyance seeming to grow with every rotation of the old truck's tires.
Merle cleared his throat, a sound that could only be described as a 'hack,' his tone turning serious. "Didn't have nobody lookin' out for me when I was her age. And our old man was a hell of a lot worse off than hers. If anything, we're doing that little thing a favor. The world ain't gonna take care of her."
Whatever helps you sleep at night. But Daryl kept the thought to himself, relieved that for once the aftermath of a job didn't result in a blow out between the two of them. Something that seemed to be happening more and more often lately. Besides, Daryl knew what helped Merle sleep at night. A six pack and a handful of opiates.
As for him? He didn't get much sleep these days.
That's how he knew where little Blondie worked. Late nights, more often than not, he'd find himself drifting over to the old 24-hour greasy spoon. One of the last remaining fixtures that wouldn't hassle you about smoking indoors. He could order a single cup of coffee for $1.25, unlimited refills. Just sit and think, sometimes read, until his eyes burned and blurred. Until the thought of going back alone to his hole-in-the-wall apartment didn't make him want to blow his brains out.
At the moment though, even his shit little studio seemed preferable to spending another minute of the day with Merle.
As the truck pulled to a stop, Merle's mouth set into a straight line. More grimace than smile. "I'll give you a call later if I hear of any work."
Daryl nodded silently, the only farewell exchanged between the brothers. The payment from the day's 'work' burning a hole in his front pocket. He could almost feel it against his skin, hot and heady. And not in a pleasant way.
He entered his apartment and was greeted by stale air. Perfunctory furniture. A decent model of television. A fridge stocked with nothing but the remnants of a 12 pack of Bud and half of a leftover Subway sandwich.
Home sweet home.
He stood at the kitchen sink and drank two glasses of water. Debated putting on a pot of coffee but decided instead to try and get some sleep. Kicking off his boots, he sprawled across the low sofa and turned the television to a Braves game. It occurred to him that he needed a shower. Didn't smell as bad as Merle, but at the moment it wasn't pleasant.
Putting the television on mute, he draped an arm over his eyes to block out the light streaming through his window and willed his mind to clear. As usual to no avail.
He couldn't remember when he first started working for Merle. Couldn't remember because he'd been doing it as long as he'd been alive. Hell, he was still in diapers when Merle taught him to lift candy from convenience store shelves. As he grew and developed, so did the jobs. Chop shops, amateur betting, bootlegging, dealing in guns and drugs.
It didn't matter that lately he hated it. That lately, guilt from the shit they pulled felt like it was eating him alive. So he'd chain smoke and drink too much coffee, too much whiskey. Anything to try and slow the feeling of deterioration in his chest. But he carried on with it because Merle was his brother. Because Merle didn't want to do it all alone. We've all got jobs to do. And his job was to stand by Merle. Stand by his brother. Besides, what else would he do otherwise?
It hadn't used to bother him so much. There was a time when the rush and adrenaline of getting away with a score or a scam had been enough to sate any doubts. But he wasn't a kid anymore. He couldn't try and justify his bad behavior with the blanket of juvenile delinquency. And as he got older, he only got sharper. Only got better at noticing things.
Like the way Hershel Greene only became a regular on the bourbon and betting circuit a year ago. Around the same time his blonde slip-of-a-thing daughter showed up behind the counter at Marietta's. With woeful eyes always rimmed in circles of fatigue. And as Hershel cried into his cups, his debts to the Dixon's growing – Daryl couldn't help from noticing its effects on the blonde slip-of-a-thing. That her frequency at his late night haunt increased, her shifts seeming to stretch to inhuman lengths.
It had been easy before. Easy to deal with the drunks and the junkies. The fellow riffraff. He let himself believe that their dealings ended there. Realizing that his actions had lasting consequences on their families, their livelihood... that was something much harder for him to reconcile with.
But it was something that Daryl Dixon should have known better than anybody. Wasn't like he and Merle hadn't experienced the same sort of thing first hand. Merle was right. They'd dealt with a hell of a lot worse than Blondie had. Than Beth had.
Of course he'd noticed the name embroidered in baby blue thread on her apron.
Just like he noticed the way her lip curled up in a subtle display of disgust at the sight of them on her porch. And the way it seemed to be a conscious effort for her to hold her body still. Whether it was to prevent a slight shaking from fear or from reverting to a stance of fight or flight, he wasn't sure. Wasn't sure he wanted to know. The way he noticed those ridiculous pajamas she wore, cartoonishly out of place at a shake-down.
He wondered if she had recognized him from the restaurant. Doubted that she had. She always had a look in her eye when she poured his coffee. Like she was seeing him but not really seeing him. Like her body was on autopilot while her mind was working through something bigger than not mixing up the decaf with the regular.
$150 buys a lot of $1.25 cups of coffee. Suddenly he felt like an ass for not being a better tipper whenever he went out. As exhaustion and his lingering hangover claimed him, all he could think about were those stupid lemon-print pajamas.
Authors Note: Want to start off with a massive thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. The amazing support I've received thus far has been overwhelming and such incentive to continue on with this.
This was just a short lil' thing of a chapter, really just to set up Daryl's headspace and introduce his situation. Did my best to try and capture the code and morals of Season 3/4 Daryl while still accounting for whatever obvious influence Merle would have. Next chapter is more plot driven, features more interaction between our faves. Shelly2 asked when writing AU Daryl, how do I picture him from the series? I picture him as optimum hair Daryl (not too short, not too long), which to me is mid/late season 3 Daryl.