Chapter 20: the words that I sang blew off like the leaves in the wind

He stays away about an hour. He thinks. He doesn't look at his phone except once to confirm that it's dead, and then he keeps half an eye on the moon as it rises and whitens and casts long shadows. His shadow, walking with him.

He moves in circles through the tall grass, sometimes head up and sometimes down. Not looking at anything specific, no more than anything else. The fox screams again, a little closer. Hoot of an owl further away. Rustle of movement all around him. Life. He's definitely not drunk anymore, and he actually doesn't feel that bad now. The urge to cry has passed. He's just out in the night, breathing, untethered from Merle and the town and the truck and everything.

Except the farm and a certain girl, and he doesn't mind being tethered to that and to her. Because what he now understands is that in spite of the pain of being near her, in spite of the way she's tying his heart in knots and doesn't seem to know that he needs her to untie them, in spite of how he's starting to think about her in a way that isn't right and that he knows he can't have... He's never happier, right now, than when he's with her. When he lets go of all the knots and all the tugging at the most base levels of his body and his instincts, he just really loves being with her. No matter what they're doing. He loves talking with her. She's the easiest person to talk to he's ever met, even if he still doesn't say a whole lot. He loves listening to her sing. He loves being with her and doing nothing at all; just sitting next to each other in silence and existing, and taking pleasure in the simple fact of existence. Which is pleasurable in a way he had no idea about until he met her.

He loves being with her, and no matter how he's beginning to think about her, want her... He can be happy just with that. Just with her company. That's not lying to himself. That's not trying to convince himself of something he knows isn't really true. It's true. He's sure.

He wants to stay here, and he wants to be with her. Just to be with her.

Is that worth losing his brother over?

That, he's not so sure about. Still. He thinks he should be. He's close. But if he keeps on being honest, what happened back there was basically a game of chicken. Seeing who would blink. That game isn't necessarily over. But he does think he'll win.

Merle needs him. Merle knows that.

He never before regarded that as power.

He's also never manipulated someone. Never in his life. He doesn't want to. He's horrified by the idea. And this isn't exactly manipulation. But he's not happy about it.

But maybe this could still be good. Maybe this could all work out.

He stands in the dark for a little while and just breathes. Thinks about the ruins, Beth's ruins, all bathed in pale light. Dreamlike. He'd like to be there with her now. Just sit with her on that bench and listen to the night.

There's a word for this. For this feeling. He almost has it.

He turns around and goes back to Merle.

Merle is sitting on the tailgate. Merle is extremely drunk, can barely walk straight. The ride home is silent. Daryl puts Merle to bed and sits up for a while, thinking. Something has happened to him and he's thinking in some rather startling new directions. What happened in the shower, what he did, where his mind went, he's no longer so certain that was such a bad thing. He didn't hurt anyone. He didn't actually touch her. He just thought about her. Just imagined her. Is he really an awful person for that? What if it was someone else? What if - somehow, just letting go of the fact that if this was really the case he would drive the truck up a hill and put it in neutral and get out and lie in front of it - it was someone else and she knew? Would she say he was an awful person for it?

He's not so sure she would.

She hasn't yet judged him for anything. Not even kissing her the way he did. She seemed nervous, even a little scared, but she hadn't blamed him for it, not that he could tell. Hadn't been angry. She said she wanted to be friends and he doesn't think she was just trying to spare his feelings after all. He thinks she meant it. That he's worth being friends with.

Maybe he's not completely bad. Maybe he's not as fucked up inside as he thought. Maybe he doesn't really ruin everything. Maybe he really does deserve something nice.

These are remarkable thoughts he's having. These are revelations. He's kind of stunned by them, but he can't find it in himself to question them.

He turns the TV on mute, lies down on the couch, and watches well-groomed people on PBS pleading for money until he falls asleep.

He dreams about touching her. Just running his hands over her arms, framing her face and feeling how warm her cheeks are. When he wakes up with the dawn he actually doesn't feel guilty.

He goes back out to the farm and nothing has changed, but also everything is different.

Beth helps out this time - not for long, but he enjoys it, working beside her, rather than feeling like he's about ten seconds from falling down and twitching weakly and whimpering to himself. Otis joins them and things proceed quickly. Beginning of next week, Hershel says, is when they'll probably be done. But Daryl should keep coming back. There's more to do. There's stuff involved in getting ready for fall and his help would be appreciated, especially given that Beth is going back to school after next week and obviously won't be around as much.

So he'll see her less. But there might still be dinners. There are weekends. There's Jimmy, and she has friends, but he'll still see her sometimes. He doesn't think she's going to forget about him, anyway. If anything, maybe he'll just become a feature of her landscape. Always there but no longer anything particularly special. That might be okay. That might actually be the best thing.

He stays for dinner, and after he doesn't leave right away. He sits under a tree - the tree where she sang to him - and smokes and watches the fireflies rise out of the grass.

He remembers that song. He has a good memory for things like that. Lyrics. Things he reads. Words he hears. They stick around.

then I saw on a white space that was left
a blessing written older than the rest
it said leave me here, I care not for wealth or fame
I'll remember your song, but I'll forget your name

He doesn't ever sing. But maybe he wants to. A little.

"Hey."

He looks up and there she is, and it doesn't hurt. Much. He gives her a nod and she sits down next to him without being asked. Not that she would need to. She leans back against the trunk of the tree and draws her knees up to her chest and sighs.

Her wrist is wrapped in a spiral of beaded wire. Glass beads again, gold and copper and brown. He thinks about autumn colors and wonders if she did too when she was picking it. He'd still kind of like to ask her about it. Maybe sometime. He's not sure how he would phrase the question. It's more of a general kind of curiosity.

He still doesn't know so many things about her and he still wants to.

"Your dad says you're goin' back to school week after next."

"Yeah." She sighs again. "You know... Well. You know how I feel."

He grunts and taps ash onto the grass. A breeze carries some of it away. "Don't like it?"

"No. Not for the reasons people usually have, I guess. Classes are okay. I like some of 'em, we got a good music one. I don't hate homework. Don't like it, but..." She gives him a faint smile. "It's not that. I got friends. Everything's okay. I just..."

Sudden understanding. He feels a connection with her, that tether becoming something more mutual. "You don't like bein' there," he says softly.

She nods. "Yeah. That's it. Just doesn't... Somethin' about it doesn't feel right. Like I'm supposed to be doin' somethin' else." She extends one leg into the grass. Her legs and feet are bare and she wiggles her toes, which are lacquered with light pink polish. It sparkles. "That probably sounds weird, huh? Goin' to school is exactly what I'm supposed to be doin'."

"Yeah," he says, glances over at her and smiles. Very small. But he smiles a lot more around her. He's noticed. "But you're kinda fuckin' weird, girl."

She laughs and wiggles her toes again, lifts her knee enough to place her foot flat on the ground. He guesses she's feeling the cool of the grass. He thinks about kissing her toes. Her knee. Almost innocent.

He used to be so uncomfortable with touching. Touching other people. Being touched. Now he thinks about touching her, everywhere, and it's wonderful.

"You actually like movin' around all the time?" She folds her arms around her bent leg and looks at him. "You were talkin' like you didn't. But you never really said."

He shrugs and blows a stream of smoke up toward the branches. "'s alright."

Is it? That actually might be the closest to a real lie he's ever come with her.

"But you're stickin' around here for a few weeks."

He nods.

She leans her head back, still looking at him. "Thought you didn't like bein' here."

"Yeah, well." There are things he can tell her. Things he couldn't tell anyone else. Not complicated things, not really secret things, but just things he never says to people. He wonders just how many of those things there are. He smiles at her again, the faintest curve of the corner of his mouth. "Maybe I like bein' out here. I like this place, I guess." He breathes a soft laugh. "I like your mom's cookin'."

She echoes his laugh and looks away, up at the sky, the deepening blue and the first few stars. A firefly drifts out of the grass when she shifts her foot and rises to her. She extends her hand and catches it on her knuckle, where it sits, flexing its wings and winking slowly on and off. He watches her, a low, sweet ache settling under his breastbone.

There's a word for this.

"I like you."

The firefly rises from her hand and floats away. She turns her face back to him, frowning slightly, and he sees something flickering in her eyes, almost glowing. He wasn't trying for anything. He wasn't pushing. She's easy to talk to is all, and he found something in himself, a thing he could tell her that he wouldn't be able to tell anyone. A simple thing. A true thing.

He's not good at saying when he likes something, because what he likes has never mattered.

But it does matter.

Her lips part, the barest hint of a smile playing around them though her brow is still furrowed, and in his mind he touches her chin, her jaw, leans in and nods their mouths together, and he doesn't worry about anything and he isn't afraid. It's perfect. Like her.

He just looks at her. But here, outside his mind, he isn't afraid either. It's okay. It's enough.

He's not a bad person for wanting this. He really doesn't think so. Not anymore.

He just can't have it.

"I like you too," she says softly. "Toldja." Again that flicker, then something cuts it off and he sees a shade go down. Abruptly she clears her throat and sits upright, gets to her feet and pushes her ponytail back over her shoulder. "I should go help Mama clean up."

He only nods, watches her move, watches the last of the light catching her shoulders. Thinks about the deer, that grace, that promise of greater grace and speed and strength. She's going to be so beautiful when she's older.

She's so beautiful now.

"See you tomorrow." She flashes him one more smile and jogs toward the house, long legs carrying her. The first night with her, she dodged puddles in the moonlight. Quick and nimble and effortless. Like some kind of puddle-dodging expert.

He finds his own smile through that ache as he watches her climb the porch steps and disappear into that world of light and overall niceness.

There's a word for this. Fucked doesn't really fit anymore.

He almost sings on the way home. Almost.

I am the only unquiet ghost that does not seek rest.

Note: song is - once again - Josh Ritter's "Bone of Song"