AN: Here we are, another chapter.

I borrowed some elements on this one, but you'll notice it's (pretty dramatically) different from the other version, as it should be. This was where the turn first started to take place. This chapter sets us up to go in the right direction.

From here out, there will be borrowed cast/characters, borrowed settings (like Carol's coffee shop), and some precious-few borrowed ideas. For the most part, from this point forward, we're setting out on our own and leaving the old story behind, as I hope you can tell with this chapter.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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When Daryl first woke up, his initial thought was that he was going to kill his brother, Merle, for the sound of the blender. After his homicidal tendencies ebbed away a little, he pushed himself upward and finally sat on the edge of his bed, blinking through dry and blurry eyes at the glowing red numbers on the digital clock on his nightstand.

He picked the clock up, blinking a few more times, and finally accepted that the numbers read correctly. He'd slept later today than he'd probably slept in the last ten years. It was owing, surely, to the fact that he'd gone to bed far later than he should have.

He could barely even remember how he got home, and he could only hope that he hadn't done something stupid, pulling into the driveway, like running over some of Merle's random plants or murdering one of his miniature herds of pink flamingos. Although, with the way that Daryl's head was feeling at the moment, the murder of a beloved flamingo flock might be decent payment for the blender his brother seemed to be working overtime.

Daryl got up, groaning for the fact that, for as much as he wanted to continue sleeping, thanks to the hangover that was plaguing his body, he was already cursing himself for having laid in the bed so damned long that now he was stiff as hell, and Merle was going to give him shit for it.

A trip to the bathroom followed his final rise to his feet, since there was little putting it off, and then he slipped into his pants, shoved his phone in his pocket, and shuffled into the kitchen to find Merle sitting at the table, with the reading glasses he usually kept hidden unless he was using them perched on his nose, reading the paper while he drank down one of the disgusting tasting protein shakes that he was so damn fond of making in the morning.

Daryl deposited his phone on the table, cracked open the cabinet above the sink where they kept the miscellaneous drugs, and opened up the Tylenol. He palmed two of them, cracked open a bottle of Pepto Bismol, and used the minty flavored shit to wash down the pills before he returned both bottles to the cabinet and closed it.

He sniffed at himself and shook his head. He smelled awful. He smelled like liquor was sweating out through his pores. He stunk like sweat, stale smoke, and sex.

When he finally looked back at Merle, Merle was looking at him with a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

"Nice to see your damn ass up, princess," Merle said. "Thought I was gonna have to call the morgue here before too long. Tell 'em I had a little business to keep 'em busy on this fine Saturday. What the fuck time you come in, anyway? Woke my ass up with all your knockin' around an' shit. Better not have killed my flamingos when you pulled up. I tell you that much."

Merle simply stared at his brother, shook his head and went to the refrigerator. Before dealing with his brother, in any capacity, Daryl needed to try to get some kind of control over the raging hangover that was eating him alive. Merle was always easier to take without a hangover. Daryl pulled a carton of juice out of the refrigerator and sniffed it. He poured himself a glass, hoping that the sour smell was indicative of it being a citrus juice, and not that it was out of date. Daryl took his glass and, groaning at his aching body, sat down at the table, rubbing at his pounding head.

"I don't know what damn time I got in," Daryl said. "I don't even hardly remember getting home, so I don't know how many of those fuckin' birds are still standing out there. It was too damn late. I can tell you that. I'm too old for that shit. I don't know how you do it." Daryl laughed to himself. "Can't believe I woke you up. Figured you'd be out."

"Nah…" Merle responded. "Was gonna go out. Got hung up at work, though. Runnin' my mouth. Picked up somethin' to eat on my way in. Did you know that Nice Rack's doin' takeout now?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"No," he said. "I mean—I knew they'd do you up a doggy bag. I don't know if I ever tried to just get it go."

"They straight-up call it take-out now," Merle said. "You can even call ahead and they'll have it all ready for you. Mac was tellin' me about it yesterday, so I run by there on my way home. Didn't have to cram into one of them booths or sit in one of them wobbly ass chairs. Got a big piggy sandwich and fries with a quarter rack on the side. All bagged up for me when I got there."

"This story got like an end to it, or we just reminiscing about your food?" Daryl asked.

"Asshole," Merle said with a snort. "I was still gonna go out. Then I started watchin' this movie while I was eatin' it. Woman looked kinda like Farrah Fawcett. Weren't her, but…you know I always had the hots for the Farrah Fawcett kind. Blonde hair and all like that. Got so hung up in it that it got late. Figured it was some kinda sign to stay my ass in and jerk off to fuckin' Farrah Fawcett instead of goin' out to waste twenty bucks somewhere chasin' some damn piece of ass."

"And probably one that don't look a damned thing like Farrah Fawcett," Daryl offered. Merle laughed in response.

"Where the hell'd you go?" Merle asked.

Daryl smacked a little against the film that was coating his tongue. The juice, which was extra sour on top of the minty taste of Pepto Bismol, wasn't doing a thing to help his thirst. At least, though, the drugs were starting to chase his headache away.

Daryl reached out and took the pack of cigarettes and lighter from the table near his brother. Merle pushed the ashtray in his direction to assist him.

"I had a plumbin' job. Left there and took my ass straight down to Salty's," Daryl said.

Merle chuckled. He helped himself to a cigarette, as well, as soon as Daryl put the pack down.

"Hell, I figured that damn much, Daryl. You look like hammered shit."

Daryl didn't doubt that, actually, and he wasn't insulted by it. He felt like hammered shit.

He wasn't as heavy of a drinker as he used to be. When he did drink, though, it tended to get out of hand pretty quickly, especially if he was drinking with the full intention of getting drunk and with the forgetfulness of how much he hated the feeling that came the day after.

Merle, on the other hand, was much more of a drinker than Daryl was and, maybe because of that fact, and the fact that he'd built up his drinking stamina over a lifetime of drinking heavily, drinking never had quite the same effect on him that it had on Daryl.

"I sure as shit drank too damn much," Daryl mused.

He chuckled as parts of the night came back to him. He remembered most of the night. At least, he thought he did. He didn't remember it clearly or crisply, though. He remembered it in a hazy fog, almost like the whole world had been veiled, or like he'd seen it all through some kind fine mesh screen.

"Went the hell home with someone," Daryl said. "Brought my ass back here after she passed the fuck out."

Merle abandoned his paper at the moment, deciding he had more interesting things to consider than searching for old acquaintances in the obituaries or trying to figure out the crossword puzzle of the day. He sat back in his chair, content to smoke his cigarette and engage Daryl in conversation.

"You know her?" Merle asked.

"In the biblical sense," Daryl said. "Absolutely." He laughed to himself. "Beyond that—I just met her last night."

Daryl had lived with Merle his whole entire life, minus the three months that he'd lived with a woman named Claudia that, through some kind of emotional crisis, he'd tried to convince himself he could learn to care about. He'd never actually cared about Claudia, though, and it had turned out that the feeling was mutual. After three months, they'd been more than happy to part company. She'd headed back to North Carolina to take a job near her family, and Daryl had moved back in with his brother.

It was likely that he and Merle would live together until one of them died. And then, more than likely, the one left behind would just spend the rest of their days living with a ghost or a memory.

They hadn't planned it this way. Sometimes Daryl felt like there was some kind of cosmic joke that had kept them together for so long. They'd both left home together when they were relatively young, and they'd moved in together, but they'd never intended to stay that way. They'd intended to move out and find their own lives when they'd gotten enough money and found somebody to spend their lives with—someone who was a lot more attractive in both their imaginations, and also not their blood relation. They'd had very different ideas about how their lives would go, but it seemed that they'd just gotten stuck as they were.

They worked in the same business. It was a small business owned and operated by a man that they both considered to be a friend. They offered a variety of small jobs, essentially, that ranged anywhere from basic plumbing and electrical work to minor landscaping and construction. The business was a pretty damn good business. They made a decent paycheck and worked good hours. There was almost always something to do, and if they ever needed to pick up extra hours, which they really didn't need to do all that often, there was always the opportunity to do so.

Daryl worked with Merle, who was ten years his senior, and he lived with him. More often than not, whether he liked to admit or not, he could go entire weeks or months without seeing another damn soul outside of work.

Merle was, and had always been, the more social of the two of them. He'd never had a relationship that lasted beyond a week or two, and he said he didn't have any desire to have one. He said that it closed him down from meeting new people, and that it narrowed his horizons. Daryl knew that his brother was full of shit. Merle wanted a relationship—the kind they both saw represented on the movies they watched and vowed not to mention to any of the guys they worked with—but he just didn't pick the right kinds of women out for those kinds of relationships. Merle Dixon had a sweet tooth for women that tended to be a lot younger than him, tended to be looking for a sugar daddy to take care of them, or tended to be looking for something that didn't come with a morning after.

Rather than admit that it hurt his feelings, though, or that there was any kind of empty and gnawing pit in his gut, Merle pretended that he had no interest in anything more than he ever got from the women that he turned loose just as soon as he got off.

Daryl was a little different than Merle. Whereas Merle pretended to be happy with being the confirmed bachelor, he called Daryl the sweet one – the romantic one. Merle loved to rib Daryl for being the kind that gave women flowers for reasons other than to get laid. The truth was that Daryl had always been one of those that really ached to have what was represented in those cheesy ass movies that they both watched – always declaring, loudly and for each other's benefit, that there was nothing else on, anyway.

Daryl had always thought he liked the idea of marriage. He liked the idea of finding that one perfect woman out there – someone that was practically heaven sent, just for him – and settling his ass down with her. He liked the idea of spending the rest of his life with the woman that he thought was absolutely perfect. His own angel on Earth. He liked the idea of having a nice family and, someday, of being someone's old man and even their grandfather.

But life had different ideas, apparently. Because he was marching straight in the direction of being old enough to be somebody's grandfather, but he had yet to find the woman he was looking for to even begin the walk toward his own cheesy ass happy ending.

Daryl had heard plenty of assholes talk about fireworks, and sparks, and excitement. He'd heard them talk about that one woman being the one damn person you couldn't get enough of. The person that, once you found her, you wanted nothing more than to be with her until you died in her arms.

Daryl had never found that. He'd never even come close, though he'd tried to fake it once or twice under the assumption that, eventually, it might come true. He'd thought that if he chose a woman because she had a pretty face, a nice ass, or some tits to write home about, and if he managed to keep her around long enough, she'd become that woman for him. If nothing else, she'd at least become something that was as important to him as a habit and, since he'd smoked for most of his life, he knew he had the ability to form habits.

Deep down, he didn't want just a habit, though, and he knew that. Maybe that was why his plans to force some amazing relationship, out of something that was hardly even mediocre, had simply never worked. The longest relationship he'd ever had lasted for six months—nine months if he counted the time they got back together after they broke up, just to end up breaking up again. In the end, and after several more failed short-term relationships, he'd accepted that he didn't want a forced habit. After several failed attempts to find anything worth keeping, here he was, nursing a hangover he'd gone in search of, sitting across from his asshole brother who was drinking a strawberry protein shake.

Merle chuckled.

"You ain't got no idea who she was? Like—you ain't never even seen her around? This town ain't but so big, Daryl."

"Bigger'n it used to be," Daryl mused. "Bigger'n you give it credit for."

Daryl rubbed his hand across his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion and the burning in his eyes and then he took another drag off his cigarette, blowing the smoke out with something of a hissing sigh.

"Hell, if I know who she was, though. I mean—I remember she looked familiar. Like I don't remember who I thought she was, you know? But I remember thinking that she looked familiar. Like I've seen her around somewhere," Daryl said.

"And so, you fucked her to see if it would jog your memory faster'n askin' her name?" Merle asked with a snort.

"Fuck off," Daryl said, laughing to himself. "I just got to talkin' to her. She was drunk as fuck. I was drunk as fuck. I don't even remember if we talked about it, or I just thought how damned much I'd like it, and the next thing I know, we were at her house. I fucked her. I remember that, and she passed out cold. Like—cold, cold."

"You ain't killed her did you?" Merle asked with a laugh. "Ain't nothin' in the paper today, brother, but I'll let'cha know if an article turns up about some damn woman gettin' fucked to death."

"She was alive," Daryl said. "I mean I'm not a total ass. I checked to see she was breathin' and shit. Didn't know if she'd really want my ass around the next day, you know? Mighta just been a one-time fuck for her."

Merle laughed quietly, and then he hummed to himself.

"Can't help but notice, brother, that the way you say that," Merle mused, "makes it sound like—maybe you was thinkin' it weren't no one-time fuck for you?"

Daryl frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh hell, brother," Merle said. "You ain't gone and set your eyes on some one-night stand, have you?" Daryl didn't respond to him. Mostly, he wasn't sure what to respond. "What she look like?"

"What?" Daryl asked.

"You got cloth for ears, boy?" Merle asked. "What the fuck your sugar look like?"

Daryl's stomach twisted. He could pretend it was a response to the acid that a night of heavy drinking had created, combining with the juice and other goods he'd consumed. At least the Tylenol was doing something to quiet down the snare-drum monkey playing in his head, and the pink liquid was beginning to help to settle down the burning of a thousand suns going on in his gut.

"Hell…I don't really remember," Daryl said. He shook his head.

"Oh…bad damn news, brother," Merle said. "Get ole Jim or Jack talkin' too damn loud, and you set yourself up for a spirited damn game of bag a' hag."

Daryl chuckled again and shook his head once more.

"Nah…she weren't no hag. I mean I remember that much. I was pretty well blitzed, but…I remember she looked good. Had a nice body. Pretty face. These blue eyes to fuckin' die for. I just kept lookin' at 'em while I got drunker and drunker. I mean—I don't remember exactly what she looked like, Merle, like I couldn't draw no picture of her, but I know she weren't no hag."

Merle smiled to himself.

"Sounds to me like you remember more than you lettin' on, Daryl," Merle mused.

"She prob'ly don't even remember I was there. She was real damn drunk, Merle."

"If she don't remember you was there, then you did a piss poor job fuckin' her," Merle said. "And your ass deserves to be forgotten."

"I left her my number," Daryl said. "You think that was a stupid thing to do?"

Merle shrugged his shoulders.

"Some women don't wanna call the piece of ass they was just using," Merle offered. "In that case, wouldn't be surprised if your number was to find its way to the landfill. Still, some women—they'll go after that shit. Especially if you give it go her good enough, brother." Merle hummed and nodded at Daryl, making a face that made Daryl roll his eyes.

"You're disgustin', you know that?" Daryl asked. Merle laughed, clearly proud of himself.

"I'm just wantin' to know if the pussy was good, boy," Merle said. "Did you come home with it on your breath?"

Daryl swallowed. He remembered last night like a dream after waking. He remembered snatches and bits of it. He remembered it like a story he'd heard, maybe, but with a few details he'd forgotten. He could see her face, right at the front of his memory, but its every detail wasn't clear. He did remember, though the way she'd opened her mouth and tipped her head back when he'd hit that one spot—the spot that had made her clench around him until he'd thought she'd take his dick clean off his body.

"The fuckin' was good," Daryl offered. "There weren't no doubt about that. At least for me, and I don't think she hated it."

"I know you ain't as practiced in this shit as I am," Merle offered, "but one-night stands are usually just that. Chances are, she wants to forget your ass just as much as you're supposed to want to forget hers."

Daryl hummed to himself. He reached for the pack of cigarettes again. He picked up his phone and looked at the display that offered him nothing more than the time, day, and date. He dropped it back on the table and lit another cigarette for himself.

"That's just it, Merle," Daryl said. "I ain't sure I wanna forget her."