Chapter 13: have mercy on the man who sings to be adored

Beth isn't around a whole lot the next day. That's good.

Also not.

As arranged, he comes over bright and early around nine - which means that for once Merle is on his own on a Friday night, and very annoyed that his brother and wingman is refusing to join him. But like the reed he can be, Daryl bends in Merle's gale, and after his brother slams the door and stomps down the outside stairs so hard Daryl is half sure they might finally rip out of the wall, he has a beer and lies on the couch in front of the muted TV and tries to sleep.

Actually sleep. Not pass out. Sleep. Like a normal fucking human being, which he isn't, but one of the things dinner with the Greenes suggested to him is that pretending to be such a thing may indeed be possible. Maybe, if he tries really hard, he can pull it off. For a while. He wants to.

He wants to for her. He feels like she went to bat for him a bit. He doesn't want to make her look bad. He doesn't want to embarrass her.

But it takes him a while to fall asleep. The window is open, and he keeps thinking he smells that soap she uses drifting in to him on the breeze.

So the next day he's not late and he brings a prearranged load of lumber with him, and they unload that and work until noon - him and Hershel and Shawn - and break for sandwiches and lemonade on the porch. Beth brings them out. Smiles at him. Kisses her father on the temple and goes back inside without saying anything.

And he remembers he's going to see her tonight, see her sing, and he feels like he's carrying a secret around with him. Something small and bright and warm.

Even if it's not really a secret at all.

Around mid-afternoon, the neighbor Hershel mentioned - name of Otis - comes over and they work until five - not going with any particular speed, which Daryl is grateful for because it's a hot day and while heat has never gotten to him in any major way he's feeling it now. But as the sun starts to progress toward the horizon the heat abates a little, and on the way back to the truck - saying he can't stay for dinner, and he actually wants to, but he also wants to go back to the apartment and shower and make a level effort to get his shit together - he stops by a rain barrel next to the side of the barn and bends over it, scoops up a couple handfuls of water and pours them over his head. It's cooler than he expected - feels fucking wonderful - and he shakes himself a little like a dog and straightens up, swiping his hair back from his face, water running down his collarbones and back between his shoulderblades and sticking his tank top to his skin.

And of course he turns and she's there, carrying a pail of chicken feed and looking at him. And something about the scene is so fucking cliche that he almost laughs.

He is aware, in a very dim way, of the distinct possibility of oncoming disaster.

"You still comin' tonight?"

He feels strangely exposed. It's not a big deal, shouldn't be, but he feels somehow more undressed than usual. Shirt sticking to him. She can see a lot of him. Bare arms is one thing, but.

But what the fuck, seriously. She doesn't seem weird about it. He nods.

"Good. See ya then."

And she turns and she's gone, leaving him standing there, still dripping, breeze cool on his skin, staring at the place where she was as if she's still there.

Brown leather around her wrist today. Brown with what looked like brass studs. She can wear so many different kinds of things there and somehow all of them are so essentially her. He kind of wants to ask her about it, though what he would ask, how he would phrase it... He doesn't know.

But it might be nice to put her on the spot for a change.

The coffee shop is crowded - no surprise there, Saturday night in a town where it looks like the biggest entertainment going is probably high school football - and by the time he gets there the tables are all taken and a reedy boy is up on the tiny platform stage with a guitar which is marginally in tune and a voice to match. Daryl can make out every other lyric and together they add up to a whole lot of feelings, so he basically tunes it out.

They have good coffee. He remembers that. He goes up to the counter, starts to order some, and the girl there gives him a quick look and an equally quick smile.

"You're Daryl, right? Apparently we owe you one on the house." She's just turning away to the pot, but she shoots him a smirk over her shoulder. "Beth's house, anyway."

Girl. But she did say. She also said he wasn't going to have any say about it, not that that's surprising in the least at this point. That he was going to owe her, again. And if this is really about strategically trading favors, he's not sure that's a game he can win. It seems like she plays it very well.

He glances around the place - the small tables, a few couches and armchairs toward the back - and he doesn't see her, or Shawn. He turns back to the girl just as she hands him the coffee, raising his voice to be heard above a sudden spike in volume. The reedy kid is singing about dead grass and lonely roads and a persistent lack of rain.

"Beth - she come in yet? You see her?"

"Not yet. She'll be here in..." The girl glances at the clock behind her. "Any time now, actually. There's one more after this one, then her." She hesitates, and from the way she looks at Daryl, he's pretty sure she saw something on his face worth addressing.

Only question is what.

She nods at the kid on the stage and leans in a little closer, a sardonic smile pulling at her full mouth. "Yeah, he's... He really believes in himself. Y'know? I guess that's what matters."

He takes the coffee, gives the girl his own faint smile, and retreats to an empty space in the back of the room, leaning against the wall and trying to maintain a comfortable distance from as many people as possible and watching the door.

The reedy kid departs, accompanied by a smattering of applause, and is replaced by a tall, powerfully built redheaded girl with a banjo. She plays pretty well, and her voice - while not exactly what he would call sweet - is tuneful and strong in a pleasantly rough kind of way.

He's enjoying that for what it's worth, though he's mostly ignoring the words - when Beth comes in carrying a guitar case, and something in him seizes up just a little.

She's not wearing the tee and jeans she had on earlier, though she's still wearing the cowboy boots. Instead she's wearing a sleeveless knee-length dress all patterned in speckled purples and blues and whites, and her hair is braided and piled on her head in a loose coil, tendrils hanging around her face. Little makeup. Not much. Less than the first night in the rain, though in fairness the rain had probably washed a lot of it away already by the time he found her. Leather still cuffed around her wrist.

She's beautiful.

This is the first time he admits it to himself. Really admits it, turns and faces it, recognizes it for what it is. This realization, this thing he understands because he no longer has the option of not doing so - it's right in front of him, looking toward him and waving, so bright it's as though all the rest of the light is being sucked out of the room, and just for a fraction of a fraction of a moment he can't even breathe.

He's never seen anyone so beautiful. He didn't even know what 'beautiful' was.

She's not alone. Two boys are with her. The first is Shawn - and Shawn gives him a look which isn't exactly warm. Not cold, not challenging, and not - he thinks - even all that specific to him. It's more of a boilerplate you've been in the general vicinity of my sister, I've seen you in the general vicinity of my sister, I'm fully prepared to murder you if necessary kind of look - even though Daryl could probably just about throw him across the room, even if there isn't a tremendous difference in height.

The second, he guesses, is Jimmy. Jimmy is a handsome kid, looks about Beth's age, nice smile, arm around her, reaching down to help her with the guitar case.

And Daryl bristles.

Just for a second. It's intense but it's gone almost as fast as it comes - sharp and unexpected and deeply instinctive, and it's disturbing. Very. He's never felt like that, not about something like this. Not in this context. Not in this situation. And as he watches Jimmy and Beth move up toward the front of the room - Shawn sliding into a seat next to a girl with bobbed brown hair and large dark eyes which light up as soon as she sees him - he thinks it's not even about Jimmy. It had nothing to do with Jimmy. He doesn't know Jimmy. He doesn't care about Jimmy. It might as well not have been Jimmy at all. It could have been anyone.

It's about where Jimmy was. It's about the space Jimmy occupies.

He stares after them, the coffee forgotten and cooling in his hand, and he hurts. Hurts - for a second - like someone has just driven a fist into his stomach, without any warning and for no apparent reason. A confused, surprised hurt.

Suddenly he doesn't want to be here anymore.

But he's not moving.

The girl with the banjo gives the room a brilliant smile and a cute little bow, and steps down into the crowd. There's a lull, a rise in the volume of conversation, and Daryl is actually considering using the break to sneak out and try to come up with some kind of convincing excuse for the next time he sees her, when she climbs on stage, tuning up the guitar a little, and he knows he's not going anywhere.

She says something. Her name, maybe. She smiles and it's radiant, and she's clearly so happy to be up there - maybe the tiniest bit nervous but also fully in her element. She's standing there like someone who knows they can do something, do it well - not with any ego but simply with the objective knowledge that comes with genuinely being good at that thing. Taking pleasure in being good at it, and taking pleasure in doing it at all. For the thing itself.

You get to sing?

Not tonight.

Why dontcha sing somethin'?

Really?

Yeah, you heard me. Go on and sing somethin'.

So she does.

There's energy to it. It starts with a flurry of strumming, not hard - because he doesn't see her doing that, it's not a her thing to do - but firm, and immediately her voice is accompanying it, strong and sweet and filling the suddenly quiet room. And even if he wanted to tune it out, he couldn't. It commands attention.

birds beneath my window, dustying their wings upon the lawn
I hear them in the morning light giving last amen to a migratory song
they're never looking 'round for me, their eyes are on the sky or the ground below
but I'd rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know

There are these moments.

Daryl doesn't read romance, doesn't watch romantic movies, has never considered himself a romantic person in any way, shape, or form. The world has been beating him up pretty much since he was old enough to walk around in it, and that kind of treatment doesn't leave a lot of tissue soft enough for romance. Everything is scars and muscle. But he's still aware that sometimes people have these moments, that they might really exist, where you look at someone and the rest of the world just disappears. It's just fucking gone. It doesn't matter, it's inconsequential; to the extent that things like water and light and air exist at all, they're a life support system for this person - this one person above all other persons.

There are these moments where you look at someone and you can see only them, and you never want to see anyone else for the rest of your life.

Daryl Dixon has empirical confirmation of the existence of these moments, because he's right the fuck in the middle of one.

I'm underneath your window now, it's long after the birds have gone to roost
and I'm not sure if I'm singing for the love of it or for the love of you
but I've flown a long way, honey, hear my confession then I'll go
I'd rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know

She finishes. The room applauds. It's not deafening applause, but it's solid, a few cheers - clearly, if people have come here specifically to hear people, she's one of those people - and she stands there beaming, looking down at the guitar, slightly flushed. Thanking them. She actually looks a little awkward, just a touch, and she's settling herself to start something else, picking at the strings, and that's when he goes for the door.

Doesn't look at her. Leaves the coffee on someone's table when he passes them and shoves the door open, practically throwing himself out into the night.

A couple of blocks up the quiet street he stops in front of the dying music store and turns in place a bit, as if he's looking for somewhere to go, almost pacing. Everything in him is clenching, releasing, clenching again. He feels almost sick. He half falls against the brick, fumbles for a cigarette, lights it with shaking hands.

Just for the briefest of moments, he thinks about leaving. Grabbing the truck, tossing the few possessions they have into it, grabbing Merle, going. On the road. Not looking back. Not stopping until they've crossed the state line - any state line. It's bad out there. He knows what's waiting for him out there. He knows where he'll very likely be headed out there. That long, slow downward spiral.

There's nothing good for him out there.

But he's not sure he can take what's in here. Not anymore.

This girl - this capricious little life-fucking-with goddess - she used her considerable powers to keep him here. Because she likes him.

He wonders if she has any idea what the fuck she's actually done.

Note: song is "Snow is Gone" by Josh Ritter