Chapter 25: I found a place where they could hear me when I sing

"The fuck's up with you?"

Daryl spares Merle a glance. Not a lot more. Merle is yelling to be heard over music too distorted by a terrible jukebox speaker to be particularly recognizable; Daryl thinks maybe he's heard it somewhere before but he's not sure and he doesn't care. This can barely even be called a bar in any proper sense of the word; it's essentially a big shack about fifteen miles back the way from which they came when they first got into town, dim, loud even without the music, pool table that looks like it's just about ready to splinter into a pile of scrap wood if someone leans on it too heavily, floor gritty with dirt, all the liquor as terrible as the speakers, all the beer just as bad, and a bunch of bikers who don't appear organized enough to be a gang so much as a bunch of very big unwashed guys who ride around in close proximity to each other.

It's Merle's kind of place. Daryl used to think it was his too, but now he wonders if it was maybe just his by default because of Merle. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the noise, the way it smells. It feels claustrophobic. He wants to be outside where it's quiet. Quieter.

He wants to look at stars and think about some stuff. Some things.

Like how Beth is going back to school tomorrow and he's not sure how that phrase makes him feel. She said she didn't care about how much older he is, and that's very nice of her to say, but he's not certain he feels the same way.

But Merle is poking at him, and he shouldn't just completely ignore it, because that would be even more suspicious. He shrugs. Has to yell, himself. Which he also doesn't much care for.

"Nothin'. Tired."

"You ain't even worked today, man."

"From day before." He shrugs again. "Ain't getting a lotta sleep, you fuckin' snore too loud."

Merle snorts a laugh, rolls his eyes. "You gone all fuckin' prissy on me, Darylina. Anyway you're lyin', ain't never been a problem for you before."

Actually it has; Daryl just hasn't bothered to say anything about it. He and Merle have slept in close quarters more than once, and there are a lot of ways in which that was less than pleasant. But yes, this time he's lying, and the noise and Merle's level of plastered - not considerable yet but getting there - are most of what's making that at all possible.

Even if it's not working.

"Whatever." He knocks back the rest of his bourbon. "Ain't your problem."

"What, can't look out for you? Can't be concerned?" Almost a sneer; this is bullshit and they both know it. Merle is poking because Merle is feeling more himself now, and there are few things Merle likes less where Daryl is concerned than something he doesn't know about, because something he doesn't know is something beyond his control.

Something he can't use to snap Daryl back into line.

That's fucked up. Daryl knew that but now he knows it.

He shoots Merle another glare, wonders just how drunk he's going to have to get Merle before Merle drops it and has forgotten it by the next morning. In the meantime Daryl is going to have to work on managing his feelings better.

That's hilarious.

"Nothin' to be concerned about."

"Yeah, I dunno 'bout that."

Merle turns around and leans back against the bar, half full can of Camo Genuine dangling from his fingers. Daryl doesn't have to see to know that he's eying the woman across the room, with her deep brown skin even deeper brown in the low light, her enormous breasts straining at her pink tube top and her lime green skirt so short it's practically an elastic band riding low on her hips. She's wearing a ton of makeup and earlier she was cackling as she hung onto one of the bikers' beefy arms. Daryl saw her look him up and down as he walked past her and vaguely recognized that look, like she'd like him to toss her a fuck in a way she might not want a lot of the other men in here, but under that expression - slightly parted lips and coy smile - he saw desperation. Not directed at him. Directed at the universe in general.

God, get me out of here.

He feels for her. He'd even help her if he could.

Lady, I'm trying just like you are.

Except no. He's not trying like her. She's scrabbling at the air.

He might have actually grabbed something.

Merle likes this kind of woman. Daryl is mentally preparing himself for the apartment to be a little more crowded tonight.

"You wanna piece of that?"

Daryl starts. He hadn't realized he was drifting, and it takes him a second to realize what Merle means, but then Merle jerks his head in the direction of the woman and Daryl's stomach drops toward his boots. This has happened before. For the most part, this is how and why he's fucked the few women he has. Merle gets it into his head that he should get his little brother laid, as some kind of favor, and Daryl takes the path of least resistance and does it even if he doesn't want to. Which he basically never does.

Increasingly in part that's because he's not sure Merle is really doing this as a favor to him. Merle might think that's why he's doing it, but Daryl is beginning to wonder if it's more about his baby brother being kind of weird about this, about not wanting to do this, something Merle takes for granted: you get drunk and you fight and you get high and you fuck, and of the last two things, Daryl's dislike for the former is something Merle will tolerate, but the latter...

Merle is uncomfortable with it and Merle is trying to fix it. And he refuses to give up.

Daryl looks at the woman. She's noticed him looking and she's got that coy mask on again, something almost brutal in how she wears it, and though he still feels the most profound sympathy for her - as one of the bikers paws at her and laughs in her ear - his skin is now trying to crawl off his body to huddle whimpering in a corner.

He thinks about touching Beth - about fucking Beth - and it's wonderful. It's like diving naked into a deep pool of sunshine. He thinks about touching this woman and he wants to run.

Christ, it isn't her fault. That makes him feel worse.

No, he most definitely doesn't want a piece of that, but telling Merle so is a huge squirming slimy can of worms. So instead he shrugs. Neutral. Maybe that'll be enough to shove Merle off.

Nope. "C'mon," Merle persists, jabbing him in the ribs with an extremely pointy elbow. "Been a while for you, go for it. You know she'd want it, fuckin' look at her."

He is. Not seeing the same thing as Merle is... Except he's not so sure about that, because Merle is a lot of things but stupid isn't one of them, and neither is oblivious, at least not when he comes out from under the drinking and the drugs.

And suddenly this is awful in about five or six fun new ways.

Merle isn't going to let this go. He can already tell. If he pushes back, if he says no, that's going to make things hellish, and he's actually getting better at pushing, getting better at saying no, but today was so weird and he's so weirdly tired, and this feels so dangerous, like there's something - someone - he has to protect and in order to do that he has to tread very carefully. At least when it comes to this.

He thinks about Beth knowing that he's fucked this woman and he feels sick. Not because she would be angry. He's sure she wouldn't be angry. Or at least not much.

Mostly, he thinks she would probably be sad. And not really over some kind of sense of betrayal.

She would probably be sad for the same reasons he is.

And that's unbearable.

God, he just can't. And he can't not. He glances at Merle and tries to keep mere impatience in his expression, irritation, resignation, but also trying to fake some interest, some well actually I guess now that you mention it, and he digs deep into the core of himself and hauls up some cold steel and walks across the room.

And as soon as she sees him she extracts herself, and she follows him out to the truck.

She sits next to him in the cab - passenger's seat, Beth's seat - and she stares at him with those heavy black-lined, shimmery purple-shadowed eyes. Like she can't believe what he's just said.

"You wanna talk?"

He rolls an uncomfortable shoulder. This is going about as badly as he expected. "Or nothin'. Look, I just-" He plunges on, because if he stops now this is probably just going to get even worse. "It ain't you, okay, you're fine, just... That guy back in there, that's my brother, and he's gonna be a bigger fuckin' pain in the ass than you can imagine if he don't think somethin' happened, so when we go back in there, can you just do me a huge goddamn favor and... make like somethin' happened? Please?"

He is such a pathetic piece of shit. And the thing is, no matter what he does here he is still a pathetic piece of shit. There is no scenario in which he wins. There is no scenario in which he even goes as far as tying it up.

She blinks at him. Peers at him. She's sort of angry now, but she's also still bewildered more than anything, and he wonders if anyone has ever done this to her before.

"What are you, a faggot?"

He shakes his head. Not that I've ever been able to determine.

"So what the fuck's your problem?"

My life is in ruins and I never want it to stop.

And then he realizes something that smacks him in the face, huge and startling and actually kind of great if it's accurate: he can tell the truth here. This woman has no reason - as of right now - to make a Thing out of it, and she might even understand. It's not impossible. So he meets her gaze, dead-on, and says, "I got a girl."

I got a girl. Jesus fucking Christ, he has a girl.

Does he? Is that what this is? Holy shit.

Just the faintest hint of dawning comprehension. "He don't know?"

Daryl shakes his head again.

"How come?"

"What I said before, about him bein' a total pain in the ass?"

She laughs softly. All the anger is gone, and so is the bewilderment. Now she just seems curious, leaning forward a little and studying him. "But why would he be, about that?"

The truth. Here we go. And anyway, this is only an approximation of it; he's still not even positive about what the truth here is. "She's a lot younger. She got a good family. She's... She ain't the kinda girl I'd normally... be seein'."

As if there was any girl at all he would normally be seeing. There is literally no part of this that's in any way, shape, or form normal.

But there's more comprehension on her face, and that's when he realizes what an old story this is. What a complete cliché, in every important sense. Nice farmer's daughter gets a thing for the rough drifter farmhand. They sneak off together. It's all a secret. No idea where it's going, if anywhere. Lots of potential problems. It's so done that it's not even all that interesting.

He has to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from erupting into peals of almost hysterical laughter.

She arches a brow. "What?"

"Nothin'. Just... So you get it, right? You can do that?"

She looks at him for a long, silent moment. Finally she nods, and he feels a rush of fierce gratitude. The corner of her painted mouth quirks up in a smile that's actually pretty charming. Probably because it's real. "But you owe me like ten fuckin' drinks. Alright?"

He nods too. Very likely it'll even solidify the impression that he fucked her. Imply there might be a second round. Very reassuring.

She leans back in the seat, her body angled toward him in a way that's far more comfortable than flirtatious, and he's suddenly sure she welcomes this break as much as he does. Which is nice. He likes her. More than he would have thought. More than mere sympathy allows. "So we got about ten minutes before we should head back in, I guess. Tell me about this girl."

That's unexpected. He cocks his head slightly. "Really?"

"Yeah. Tell me. Sounds like there's a story there."

An old, clichéd story, sure, but he finds himself telling it anyway, or at least a very abbreviated version. He starts talking, sort of haltingly, but as he gets going it comes easier and easier, the words not nearly as hard to find as they might have been. Maybe it's because this is the first time he's talked to anyone about this, and he thinks about Beth saying exactly that in the ruins, that he needed someone to talk to and it was easy to see, and he knows she was right.

He talks about the first time he saw her in the rain and he didn't want to be a creep but he also didn't want to just drive away and leave her there, and he saw her again coming out of church and she was so pretty, and he started driving her around, talking to her - she was sweet and she just wanted to hang out with him, didn't appear to want anything else and he didn't want anything else, until he did, and seems like she does too, and the whole thing kind of fell apart and it hasn't stopped since then. And he's stricken now by the feeling that it's sliding out of control and it's terrifying and so amazing, and he has no idea what to do.

And he stops and she's smiling at him. She chuckles and shakes her head.

"Honey, you are so fucked."

He sighs. A little mournful. He knows. It's hopeless.

"I think you should stick with her. Sounds like she's good for you."

She is. He knew that, knows it, but the woman says it and it strikes him all over again. Beth is good for him. Beth has made his life better. She's fucked with it and she's made some definite improvements in doing so.

And at this point that's pretty dangerous.

"Why'd you wanna know?"

She glances down at her nails - long delicate acrylic airbrushed soft pink and purple with tiny jewels. They're pretty. "Ain't a lotta good right now." Turns her eyes back up to him. "Sounds like that's you, too."

"Ain't a lotta good all over."

"The world is kinda shit." This time her smile is pained. "Me, I was tryin' to get to Atlanta. My sister had a nail salon, said she was gonna fix me up with a job."

"What happened?" Except he thinks he already knows, at least the general shape of it. The outline. This is an old story too. They're all old stories. There's nothing new under this or any other sun.

"Closed up before I even got myself there. Sorta got sidetracked. Bad shit went down with a man." She turns her face away. "Not really worth talkin' about."

"You can."

The look she flings at him is pointed, just the slightest bit suspicious, though he senses it's instinctive suspicion rather than anything he's said or done. The blur of light from the bar windows catches her eyes and he gets his first good look at them, and they're a rich brown half a shade darker than her skin. There's life behind them, clinging. She's getting slowly ground down, but she's not done fighting.

He sees that and he knows it so utterly and completely, and he thinks, She deserves so much better than this.

Maybe we both do.

"I shared. You share." He gives her a faint smile that feels a little sad and which he supposes probably is. He is sad, but it's a gentle kind of sad. "Show me yours."

She's quiet a moment. But she shows him.

It's pretty much like he expected. An old story. Woman tries to make something of herself, of her life, everything falls apart, she looks for something else, is betrayed. Tries to get her own back, tries to make the guy pay for it - not in violence but in shame - but he doesn't give a fuck, because men don't. She's alone. She's lonely. She's just trying to fill her days. Trying to feel something. Erase that loneliness for a while. Trying not to think about what she almost had. Trying not to look back because that gets you nowhere, except there's no forward either. There's only a dismal kind of now.

He aches for her, and there's nothing he can do to help her. Nothing at all.

She falls silent, staring at her hands again, and even with her face angled down he can see the tears she isn't letting go of, and all his remaining fear evaporates in a need to reach out to someone in pain, his kind of pain, do it in a way he never would have been able to do before he offered a ride home to a girl walking soaked in rain, and he touches her chin and tilts her head up and kisses her.

It's chaste, just his lips lightly on hers, but he feels her loosen, feels a kind of calm stealing over her. He has no idea if this is doing any good at all, but it's something, and he thinks about if Beth knew he did this...

And he's sure she would get it.

She might even smile. He's pretty sure that if she could, she would make a world where everyone does this all the time.

After a moment he pulls back, and he can look at her. This isn't so awkward that he can't do that. It's not really very awkward at all. "We should go back inside," he murmurs, and she nods, picks up her purse and opens the door and climbs out, tottering a little on her extremely high heels.

They go back inside, split up immediately, and when he rejoins Merle he's met with a grin and lifted eyebrows.

He orders another bourbon. "What?"

"Half a fuckin' hour, little brother? How many fuckin' times you nail that bitch?"

He doesn't answer.

She doesn't come over to get any drinks out of him. He doesn't see her at all for the rest of the night. When Merle finally decides it's time to stagger out of there, Daryl looks for her, because he actually kind of wants to say goodnight to her, but he can't find her. Seems like she left.

He never asked for her name. That bothers him. It bothers him the whole way home.

She has a name. They all do. Every last lost goddamn one of them.

It does matter.