Helplessness Blues

And I have read the right books
To interpret your looks
You were knocking me down
With the palm of your eye

Chapter Four

It was a conscious effort for Daryl to focus on the page in front of him.

He had come to Marietta's wholly prepared to experience a level of confrontation and discomfort but his interaction with the blonde slip-of-a-thing, with Beth, had thrown him for a loop.

His initial plan had been to simply leave the envelope of cash in the Greene's mailbox. Not even attach a note. But at some point during his long ride up the farm's winding pathway, he lost his nerve. Shaking his head and swearing at himself, he turned his bike around. Went back to his empty apartment, the envelope of cash weighing heavily in his pocket. Weighing heavily on his mind.

He slumped onto the sofa, flicked on the television. Did his best to immerse his attention into a film, some old black and white western. But his eyes and his brain seemed to be two completely different entities at work. And though the moving pictures reflected in his glassed-over vision, nothing of the story seemed to sink in. The gears of his mind firmly lodged stuck in a setting of guilt. Eventually he gave up on the ruse of being entertained and turned the television off.

He could go to the bar? Hershel Greene would surely be there at this hour. Mumble apologies to the man himself, present him with his daughter's money. But that notion was dismissed quickly. Place like that - the money would sooner be in the bartender's register, scribbled down in some other bookie's ledger, long before it went back in Greene's pocket.

He realized with some regret, Hershel taking his daughter's money wasn't very different than him and Merle taking it in the first place. The little thing would still be out $150 because of him.

Besides, the last thing he needed was to run into Merle or one of their 'associates.' He didn't need anyone else claiming that Daryl Dixon had gone soft. Maybe had always been soft.

That left Marietta's. As the moon rose higher in the sky and sleep failed to claim him, he could feel his body itching for that familiar cup of coffee.

It was less about the drink itself, but rather the ritual of it. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something comforting about that damn diner. From the flickering of the fluorescents overhead to the worn upholstery of the booths, forever sticky with maple syrup. To the warm air that always smelled slightly like cigarette smoke and something sharp and sweet. To the sleepy, distant smile the overnight waitresses would give him as they poured his coffee.

The way the blonde slip-of-a-thing, the way Beth, would retreat to her counter and hum softly to herself, sometimes laugh quietly at the old television set.

He had noticed her with other customers of course. The way she'd smile warmly, all banter and friendly conversation. Sneak free desserts to her favorites. Always ask the kids for their orders themselves. They'd sit up a little higher in their chairs, proud and pleased that the pretty waitress treated them like grown ups.

She was never like that with him.

She never threw around her words or bright smiles. Never leaned against his table, hand on hip, asking him about his day. But she was always attentive enough. Always silently refilled his cup before he needed to ask. That was service.

He had never been the easiest person to be friendly to. Wasn't good at reciprocating. Wasn't good at smalltalk or sharing. Maybe she was just perceptive. Maybe she could tell he wasn't good with words and kindly left him be.

Maybe she could just tell he was probably no good.

Maybe she was right.

Hell, of course she was right.

As he kicked the engine of his bike to life, he shook off any hesitation about going back to the diner. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake. He wasn't going to be scared away from his favorite restaurant by a teenage girl. This is less about her and more about you, he reminded himself. This anxiety and preoccupation with the young waitress was just the physical manifestation of his own guilt. Not only over their dealings with Hershel Greene, but for all the shit he and Merle pulled.

He'd drive to the diner as usual, have his cup of coffee, and give her the cash if she was there. Then things would carry on as normal. That would be the end of it.

Or at least the end of it until the next time Merle wrangled him into some shit.

Entering the restaurant, he noticed her first, even with the chime of the bell alerting her to his presence. She was munching away at something. He didn't know how she stayed so slim as she seemed to spend her shifts constantly eating breakfast foods. He almost laughed at the sight of her stuffing her face. Laughing at himself mainly. For almost being scared off by the little thing.

But then she fixed him with one of those looks. Those looks that only women can pull off. The kind that make a man's blood run cold.

"Oh, It's a man's world, you say? Keep saying that as I destroy you."

Dixons as a whole ain't afraid of nothin'. But a look like that? From the right woman? Could send a shiver up even Merle's spine.

All he knew was he needed to get out of her immediate line of vision.

Retreating wasn't an option at this point, so to his usual booth he fled. Had just enough time to steel himself and consider his strategy when she huffed over. All temper and fired up bravado. And Daryl Dixon who would break a man's nose for insulting his choice in beer found himself being chastised by a teenaged waitress for picking his own damn table.

And the strangest thing was, in another world, he would have found it almost endearing of her.

But the reality of the interaction sunk in and before long his guilt and angry defensive nature took over again. And he was throwing down the money, ready to stalk out and never return. He'd invest in one of those fancy coffee contraptions before he'd let a stranger make him question himself, Goddammit.

But just as quickly, the tension and fury seemed to melt from her frame. And she seemed softer than he'd seen before. The look in her eyes firm and unquestioning.

"Just black, right?"

A simple question had never disarmed him so easily. His own anger dissipating seemingly as quick as hers had. And the next thing he knew, he was sat in that booth with his coffee as though nothing had ever happened. It couldn't be that easy. Could it?

Just because he wasn't angry anymore didn't mean he wasn't unsettled though.

The confrontation, the conflict – he could handle that. He was built for that. But this? What was this? He looked up from his book and chanced a glimpse of her over at the counter. The little thing was eating away at her french toast and humming to herself contently. Like she hadn't just confronted a man with a good fifteen years and fifty pounds on her. What kind of mind game was this?

Heat crept up his neck as she felt the pull of his stare and lifted her eyes to his. She raised her brows, similar to how she had done in her kitchen, expecting him to say something. But this time the animosity was absent in her expression. Quickly, he averted his eyes back to the page.

He cringed slightly as she reappeared at his side, coffee pot in hand. She didn't cease her humming as she leaned over to refill his mug. His eyes darted from her hands to the envelope of cash on the table before him. Was she ever going to take it? His fingertips nearly brushed against the manila paper, unconsciously trying to push it towards her.

Picking up on his signals, she sighed rather sadly. "I appreciate it, but I can't take the money back."

"Why the hell not?" He needed her to take the money back. He needed the knot of guilt in his stomach to unfurl. He needed it settled.

She paused for a moment, seeming to put her thoughts in order. "I was angry, still am. And I don't agree with what y'all do. But the gambling and the betting, that's my Daddy's mistake. That's on him. And on me for covering for him. Not you."

He turned from his coffee and looked at her thoughtfully. He hadn't expected a response like that. At her age, he had been all impulse and aggression. He considered her silently for a moment, as she seemed to shrink under his gaze.

Color crept to her cheeks and she spoke again, this time shyly. "Though I'd really appreciate it if you'd all stop letting him bet. Or at least stop letting him bet on losers all the time."

Daryl couldn't help but smirk, finding his own voice more easily than he had all night. "Yeah, your old man doesn't really know how to pick 'em."

She smiled but it was rather a cheerless expression. It reminded him that the situation wasn't very funny to begin with. He cleared his throat gruffly and did his best at apologizing. In his own way. "Go on, just take back the cash. It's yours anyways."

She shook her head adamantly, her face stubborn. "Nope. You were just doing your job. Money was owed to you. You got it back."

He furrowed his brow, his frustration mounting. "Yeah, well it don't feel right taking it. Don't feel right keeping it."

She chuckled humorlessly, a hand going to her hip. "Well then, maybe you should look into finding a different job."

We all got jobs to do Daryl Dixon. Are you sure this is yours?

His throat tightened for a fraction of a second. There it was. What he had been thinking and feeling under the surface for months now. And this waitress had been able to discern it and draw it out of him in one simple interaction. He didn't want to do what he'd be doing anymore. He just didn't know how to stop.

"Look." Her voice startled him out of his internal crisis. He kept his head still but moved his eyes to look at her. "If you want to make it up to me, then just move to the counter. I'm pretty much dead on my feet and I might not make it if I have to keep walking over here with coffee."

She spun on her heel and made her way back to the counter before he could even respond.

Awkwardly, he gathered up his things and went to follow her. She turned her head, blonde ponytail swishing around her and gave him a small, almost teasing smile. "Don't forget your big envelope of cash now."

He flushed sheepishly, but at least the knot of guilt in his intestines had unwound some.

He took a seat at one of the counter stools. The motion triggered images of being at the bar. Only here nobody was shouting or fighting. Merle wasn't swaggering around sweating out liquor. And he had to admit, the service was a bit prettier, albeit a lot more unnerving.

"You hungry?" She offered up another menu. "Kitchen is open all night. Obviously... it's a diner." She rolled her eyes at herself self-effacingly. Her mood had shifted, relaxed some. Again, it made him uncomfortable and he did his best to bury his face in his book.

Truth be told, he was starving. But he never ordered food, only coffee. And it felt strange to break his ritual, especially as so many things tonight hadn't gone according to plan. So instead he just shook his head.

"You sure? Not even just toast or something?" Her eyes were wide as she pressed the issue. Reminded him of a mama, making sure her kids weren't hungry when they got home from school. Annoyance rose in his chest as he thought of his own mama.

"Jesus Christ, girl. I said no. Can't a man just read in peace?"

She rose her hands in mock surrender at his lashing out, but there was no real fear or discomfort behind her eyes. "Suit yourself. Just thought maybe you were so damn surly because your blood sugar had crashed. But I guess not." She raised her brows at him challengingly. "I know it's not because you can't afford to eat."

"Just take the damn money if you're gonna keep going on about it!" His temper spiking, he looked up from the page angrily. But there was something teasing in her eyes and he felt his anger dissipate.

Ignoring his outburst, she gestured to the old television set. "Is the sound going to bother you?"

Off guard again, he shook his head.

And just like that, she settled comfortably onto a stool a few away from his and turned back to the program. Some rerun of the evening's late night talk shows. And he caught himself stealing glances at her every so often. As she'd laugh lightly at something or start humming to herself.

They didn't speak again until she walked back behind the counter to refill his coffee. "You should really consider switching to decaf."

"Excuse me?"

"Decaf coffee. Maybe you'd be able to sleep at night if you weren't up drinking it black at 2am." Her eyes were wide and blue, her head tilted.

"You always bother the customers like this?" His voice was gruff but there was no malice in the tone.

"You mean do I always chat with my regulars? Yes. And you're the first person to complain about it, so..." She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch.

"Never used to chat. Not with me anyways."

Her cheeks flushed. "Well... to be honest, I always thought you were a bit intimidating. I mean, obviously I was right. You are. But...I don't know..." Her thoughts trailed off as a wave of insecurity washed across her face. "Unless I really am annoying you."

Daryl regarded her curiously and shook his head so subtly it was almost imperceptible. Strange as it was, she wasn't annoying him. In fact, he thought it was kind of nice. Having someone smiling at him, talking to him, checking on him. Even if it was just her job.

She glanced up to find him watching her and held his gaze for a heavy moment. She looked as though she were about to speak again when the bell over the door chimed, pulling her away.

Daryl looked back to his book but listened as she greeted the new customer. One of her regulars, she chatted animatedly and got them settled in.

Suddenly, he felt sheepish for thinking her friendly demeanor was anything other than professionalism. The warmth and welcoming that seemed so new and out of place for him, was expected from everyone else.

He knew it was time to call it a night.

Normally, he'd wait for a receipt and pay at the register. But Beth was still busy with her new customer. So instead, he reached inside the envelope of cash and pulled out a crisp $20, placed it under his empty coffee mug.

Sure, she could refuse her money back. But she couldn't stop him from being a good tipper.

Without a word, he hopped off the stool and left.

The bell above the door chiming behind him.

Authors Note: Hi lovelies. I just have to say that the positive reception towards this little story thus far has been so surprising and wonderful. This fandom really is the sweetest and most supportive. I hope their interactions this chapter stayed true to character. Daryl is suspicious and surly, all bark but no bite. Beth is thoughtful but stubborn, warm yet teasing. Reviews are more than welcome, as always. Hoping to have the next update by the weekend. We've made it through the first whole month of the hiatus! And again, feel free to ever come by Tumblr and say hello! You can find me at bethgreenepeace. xx