Chapter Text
It was Daryl’s day off, which usually meant he would get up when it was still dark outside, grab his crossbow and backpack, and go hunting in the woods behind their house. His brother taught him how to hunt, how to track the animals, and be one with nature. It was a necessity back then because if you didn’t hunt, you didn’t eat. Their daddy did not believe in providing food for his children. But Daryl chooses to remember the hunting and locks the rest in a deep recess of his mind.
So it’s his day off, but he’s only just waking up. The alarm clock on his bedside table shows 3:27 PM. Daryl’s sleep-addled brain tells him to jump from the bed and run to hide in the woods. Daddy doesn’t tolerate laziness. But he takes a moment to wake up properly and quickly realizes that his daddy is long gone, and he can sleep however long he wants.
Daryl’s been working nonstop for the past two weeks, staying in the garage until odd hours at night. There were two rounds of food poisoning in his workplace (that Daryl dubbed in his head as a 'shitfest') that left only him able to work. He knows why he brings his own lunch. First, he doesn’t have the money for fancy lunches, and second, he likes to know where his food comes from. Sure, sometimes it’s a possum that was rummaging around in his trash can, but he still knows where it came from. On the other hand, he wouldn’t touch the meatloaf that brought the second round of food poisoning with a metal bar, let alone eat it.
^
He reaches for his phone, hoping and praying that there are no messages calling him to work, that none of the idiots in the garage ate something vile again. He’s not sure he can pull off a one-man show again for a week. Sure, working on the bikes, that’s easy, even if it’s physically taxing. But that’s what Daryl likes, and he’s relatively good at it. But the rest... The interaction with customers, handling money, answering emails, and the worst of all - taking phone calls... he can’t deal with that stuff. He has no idea what is wrong with him, but talking on the phone not only brings out his accent way more than he’s comfortable with, it also makes him sweat and stutter, and overall, he sounds like he has some brain damage.
Luckily, there are no messages from work, just one missed call and a message from Merle. He decides that Merle can wait, tosses his phone back in the direction of the bedside table, and gets up. He stretches, and his back and shoulders pop like a glowstick. Damn, he’s getting old. He pads to his bathroom, once again thankful for not having to share it with his brother. They were still living in that shitty trailer he grew up in, butting heads every day on everything when a fancy lawyer in a suit arrived, saying their auntie, who they didn’t even know they had, had left them her house.
It was immediately decided that Merle gets the ground floor, while Daryl settled upstairs and made it his. He even installed his own kitchen, converting one of the rooms because there is no way he’s gonna share the kitchen with Merle.
While he's brushing his teeth in the Merle-free bathroom, his phone keeps beeping with new messages. With the toothbrush still in his mouth, he walks back to the bedroom to check the chaos unfolding, but deep down, he already knows. When his phone starts blowing up like this, it means Merle’s in trouble.
There are now seven missed calls and thirty-three new messages. How could that happen in the span of three minutes? He has no idea. With a sigh, he opens the messages first. It's mostly an illegible mix of random letters and symbols, so he quickly scans the messages for any semblance of coherence. There's one very blurry selfie, possibly of Merle’s chin and bottom teeth, and another indistinct photo of a toilet stall. The rest is gibberish.
It's clear that Merle's high again, perhaps mixing it with alcohol. Judging by the messages, he needs to be picked up and driven home to sleep it off. Daryl's not sure what it says about him that he can recognize the bar by the blurry photo of the toilet stall, but he knows the place. There's no need to think about getting dressed; there's only one clean shirt at the back of his closet, as he had no time for laundry in the past two weeks. It's his least favorite, which is why it stays in the back and never sees the light of day. It's too tight, so he ripped off the sleeves, but that didn’t help, and it's missing most of the buttons, making him look like a douchebag who needs to show off his chest—like there's something to show off. He shrugs it on, buttons up the three remaining buttons, pulls on the least dirty cargo pants, and heads to the kitchen.
The toast is done by the time he ties his boots, and he grabs the two dry pieces of bread to eat in the car. Downstairs—The Kingdom of Pleasure, as Merle calls it—the air carries the scent of stale bodies, cheap beer, cigarettes, and something else Daryl isn't keen on identifying. That said, it's relatively clean; you can still see the stained carpet in some places. Daryl sweeps the trash littering the hallway aside with his foot, creating a safe path. He swears that he'll make Merle clean it up, but deep down, he's quite sure that he'll end up doing the cleaning himself in the end.
Daryl's truck isn't in the driveway, so he hops onto Merle’s bike. He hopes the truck's parked nearby because taking high Merle as a passenger on his own bike would be a death sentence. He tucks the toast into his pocket, hoping to catch a long enough red light to wolf it down as he heads toward the bar.
^
It takes him over 35 minutes to arrive, catching every red light possible, so the toast is gone by the third one he stops at. Daryl wishes he'd thought ahead and made a proper breakfast; the dry bread just didn't cut it. He parks the bike beside his own truck, which luckily sits right in front of the bar. What's not fortunate is the state of the truck. It was already in bad shape, but now there's a massive dent in one of the doors, and Daryl can tell they won't open anymore.
He steels himself, checks his shirt, and futilely attempts to pull it closed; the buttons stop just above his navel. The bar isn't as run-down as the usual joints Merle frequents, so Daryl continues to struggle with his shirt as he enters. Surprisingly, it's quite crowded despite being just past 4 PM. The interior is dimly lit, and he notices that about half of the tables are occupied. He nods at the bartender, a new face he's never seen before, and makes a beeline for the restroom.
He sidesteps vomit that welcomes him at the doorway, unwilling to inspect it further. The lone stall is open, confirming that the restroom is empty. Daryl backs out carefully, avoiding the vomit once more before returning to the bar. The bartender is making an effort to appear busy, but it's clear she has nothing to do.
Daryl decides to cut to the chase, skipping the usual pleasantries. "Ya seen my brother?" he asks.
The aging lady behind the bar just grunts in response. "Big, rude, high as a kite? Yeah, he was here. Wanted to start a fight when I told him to leave. Was shoutin' about Darlyna coming to pick him up. I wanted to call the cops, but one was already here so he took him," she pauses for a bit. "He was here with that guy," she points to a table in a secluded corner.
Daryl starts walking over to the table she pointed him to but stops to throw "Thanks!" over his shoulder.
The guy sitting at the table appears to be around Daryl's age, dressed in a navy shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His brown curls sit perfectly on his head, and Daryl secretly resents him for that. Until he looks up, revealing the most electric blue eyes. Once their eyes meet, it's difficult to look away.
Daryl doesn't notice he's staring until the guy asks pointedly, "Can I help you?"
He tears his eyes from the hypnotic stare and chooses to focus on the table. "Heard ya saw my brother," says Daryl, eyes firmly locked on one of the coasters lying on the table.
"If your brother is the guy I think it is, then yeah. My partner took him to the station," answers the guy.
Daryl responds with a gruff grunt; he's not surprised. Merle's run-ins with the law are nothing new. He could bail him out, but it's often wiser to let Merle sober up somewhere less prone to inflicting harm on others. Suddenly, a beer appears on the table in front of him. The guy motions to it and says, "'S for you. I know what it's like to have a shit brother." Daryl's mind feels drained, worn out, so he simply sinks heavily into the other chair and takes a sip of the beer. It tastes nothing like the cheap ones Merle favors, granting Daryl an unexpected moment of enjoyment.
He senses the man's eyes analyzing him, and when he eventually lifts his gaze, their eyes meet once more, causing his heart to flutter. Daryl would be less than honest with himself if he denied that the man is handsome. He yearns to lean over and touch the guy's impeccably groomed beard. His hand seems to act independently, inching toward the man, forcing him to extend his arm in an offering.
“Name's Daryl,” he states. The guy studies him for a moment, inducing a pang of self-consciousness in Daryl. He hides his eyes behind his hair and begins retracting his hand. This prompts the man to reach over and shake Daryl's hand.
“Rick Grimes, nice to meet you. Even in these circumstances.”
“Rick Grimes?” Daryl repeats. The name flows smoothly from his tongue. Rick's gaze returns to him, bearing a hint of inquiry. Recognizing that his earlier comment might have sounded like mockery of the name, Daryl hastily adds, “Suits you. Anyways, what did your brother do that ya call him shit brother?”
“He's not my real brother. I don't have any siblings. But Shane's as close as a brother to me... He slept with my wife," Rick admits, a sad smile accompanying his words. "And he's still with her because he told me today, just before he arrested your brother, that he moved in with her. We separated a couple of weeks ago; the marriage wasn't working out. Now we're waiting for the divorce to go through. She took our son, and I moved out. And now he's living with her and my son, sleeping in my bed, and living my life."
Daryl's not sure what the proper response is, so he just nods, pulling his face into something that hopefully looks sympathetic.
“I knew they were sleeping together,” Rick continues. “I was just hoping that at least one of them would come clean to me. I’m not even mad anymore. Just…disappointed, I guess.”
Daryl knows that this is a time for him to say something—something like "you’re better off without her"—but he's not sure if it would be appreciated.
He can’t remember the last time he felt so at ease with another human, even when talking about such an uncomfortable topic. And it feels like the conversation is coming to an end. And that just can’t do. So he blurts out: “Do ya want to play darts?”
Rick looks up at him from where he was studying his closing and opening fist. Daryl knows it was the wrong thing to say. Or was it? Because suddenly Rick snorts, shrugs and says: “Sure, why not. Come on.” And he gets up and goes to the bar to get the darts.
Daryl is surprised that Rick so easily agreed, but he's also glad that he can spend more time with the intriguing man. He can use a drinking buddy, or perhaps even a friend, because today just keeps on giving.
Rick is already waiting at the dartboard, darts in his back pocket, and fresh beer for both of them in each hand. As Daryl approaches, Rick gives him the beer bottle, and their fingers brush for just a second. It sparks something in Daryl’s belly that he's never felt before. He looks in shock at Rick, who just smiles at him. He has a really pretty smile, Daryl decides.
“401 okay with you?” Rick asks, their eyes briefly straying to Daryl's chest. That damned shirt! Daryl tries to pull the two sides together, but unless his chest magically gets smaller, or the shirt bigger, it’s just not going to happen.
“Y-yeah,” Daryl blurts out, still frustrated with the shirt. Rick goes to the dartboard and punches in the correct settings. Daryl watches him do it, and his eyes just land on the darts in his back pocket. Yeah, he’s not looking at the butt, just the darts, that’s it. He doesn’t know what urged him to do it, but before he realizes what’s he doing, he strides over to Rick and just plucks the darts from his back pocket, accidentally brushing his knuckles over Rick’s butt.
If that surprised Rick, he doesn’t show it at all. Just looks over his shoulder at Daryl with a smile. So Daryl guesses it’s okay to do shit like this with another man. Just guys being guys, right?