Chapter Text
It was a distant muffled thumping, perceived on the very tip of consciousness, which woke him from his heavy, full bodied sleep. It was a dreamless sleep; the type that left your body feeling stiff and your mind clouded. The type that made you feel like you had been wading through a mile of swamp, and emerged covered in mud that grew dry and stiff on your limbs; the journey leaving you disorientated and unsure of your location.
He smacked his dry lips together and rolled his sand paper tongue around the inside of his mouth. It tasted like it had been used as both a urinal and an ashtray at some point during the night.
The thumping sound repeated; sharp and comprehensible now he had risen from his sleep.
He wiped away the crusts from his eyes with his finger tips and waited for his bleary vision to clear, before confirming his location. The room was spinning and lurching around him. The alcohol in his system hadn’t quite worn of yet, but he recognised where he was.
The deteriorated sofa was still in the corner of the room, with the fabric torn and foam bulging out between strands of woven thread. The black heavy blanket was there, stamped with a red demon’s skull and tied on to a rod above the only window. It was used to keep all signs of daylight out. The old wooden casement window had seized a long time ago, before the place had been purchased, and its inability to open left the air in the room in a constant stale state.
The threadbare carpet was littered with clothing, empty take out containers, motorcycle parts, important court documents that should’ve been filed away, and cigarette butts that hadn’t made it into the ashtray.
He had made it home and into his own bed last night, which was a good thing and something that had become increasingly unattainable over the past months. But if he was in his own home it also meant the banging on the door ─ which was getting louder and more urgent─ was probably for him.
He had put himself to bed in his torn and faded jeans and his scuffed up leather boots, so there was no need to dress for modesty’s sake. He glanced towards the dust covered vanity, trying to decipher his image through the cracks in the mirror. He thought about making himself look somewhat presentable by combing his fingers through his mess of hair, darkened with greasy build up, but he figured anyone banging on the door at this hour would probably accept him in his current state.
He turned his attention to his cell on the night stand, and pushed at the screen with fumbling hands to confirm just what hour it was.
9:03 am.
He groaned to himself and rubbed at his eyes again, getting rid of the last of the blurs. It was not a ridiculously early hour for most, but Daryl Dixon was the type of guy who spent his days in bed, sleeping off the nights that were filled with drinking and smoking and slamming his fists into someone’s jaw.
Convinced the urgency in the beating of the door meant the person wasn’t going away, he kicked his way through the clutter that covered the floor area, and stumbled through the open doorway into the living area of the two bedroom bungalow he and his older brother Merle shared.
The remainder of the house was much like his own room, only in a further state of chaos. Newspapers from years gone past were stacked in corners of the room. Ancient, faded and dog eared magazines covered the coffee table, crafted shabbily by his brother. Oil and ash and various bodily fluids from the brawls and other mishaps of visitors stained the carpet. Items that had been traded for Merle’s many products lay in various states of repair on top of any available surface.
Merle was responsible for the vast majority of the mess in the home, yet it always managed to spill over into Daryl’s own space, and into his life.
Despite having his own bed to sleep in, he found his brother laying spread out, face down on the sofa. One leg was stretched out, propping him on to the sofa against the floor. One arm was bent above his head in an awkward twisted angle, the other strewn over the coffee table, his hand dangling in a nearby ash tray. Tufts of his grey peppered hair stuck out in all directions over his head. His face was turned to the side, mouth slack and hanging open. A white line of dried drool ran over his cheek and onto the fabric of the sofa.
“Merle!” Daryl barked vexedly as he kicked his brother firmly in his outstretched thigh.
His brother snorted deep into his throat, but didn’t wake.
“How can you sleep through that shit?” Daryl called down to him, referring to the incessant banging at the door. After receiving no response once again, he gave his brother another swift kick in the ribs, to which there was barely a grunt in response.
He knew exactly how he could sleep through it. The same reason he could sleep for three days straight, bypassing all need for food and water. The same reason he could spend the prior five days in a state of wide eyed hyperactivity, scheming and conspiring and putting wild plans into action. Merle was coming down off something, and Daryl had given up on trying to keep track of just what it was.
Merle had always had a substance abuse problem. Prior to joining the military at age twenty, it was cigarettes and their father’s not so secret stash of moonshine, with a bit of pot here and there if he could get his hands on it. After his dishonourable discharge and time spent in prison, where he first formed his outlaw motorcycle club, The Savage Sons, Merle had begun sampling every drug known to mankind.
Daryl did drink, and once he started it was hard to stop. Most nights it was the only thing to get him to sleep, the only thing to drive the demons away; Demons of past, present and future. What he was, what he wanted to be, what he would never be. Merle never wanted to think about anything, at any time, and Daryl figured alcohol wouldn’t be enough to help Merle deal with his demons, even if that was something he was willing to try.
Daryl stumbled over to the shuddering front door, nearly tripping over a lump in the dirt encrusted floor rug, and swearing under his breath, promising to himself for the hundredth time to throw that thing in the trash.
He placed his eye in line with the peephole, groaning as he recognised the people on the other side, and what they wanted.
He sighed dejectedly as he pulled the door open to the bright morning light and two sheriff’s deputies dressed in their light tan uniforms and sporting their wide brimmed hats.
“Mornin’ sunshine!” Officer Walsh called, tipping his hat in mock politeness and flashing a mocking lopsided grin.
Daryl hated the guy. He hated his sideways smile, his long and flat nose which had been broken a few too many times. His dark curly hair, and sun darkened skin. He found the guy arrogant, abrasive and rude, and far too keen to toe the line with his overly aggressive physical contact.
Officer Walsh was one of two, and he made up the “bad cop” of the good cop/bad cop pairing. Officer Rick Grimes, Walsh’s partner, was another story. He was around the same age as Walsh, had the same lean body type and dark curly hair, but he also had a wise face, easy blue eyes, and a cool demeanour.
Daryl always found Grimes to be far more agreeable of the two. Daryl had even though of considering him as a friend, if their lifestyles hadn’t been so different. Daryl had once offered to help Grimes out with a case a few years back, working as a consultant in tracking. They managed to find a missing girl hiding out in a barn and return her safely to her family. It had been a defining moment in their relationship, and Rick had even tried getting him on permanent payroll, before Daryl has screwed it all up.
Grimes seemed to genuinely care about the job he did, rather than use it as a way to exert power over others, and he seemed to genuinely care about Daryl. Even now, standing in the doorway he had a grimace on his face and disappointment in his eyes. He didn’t want to be here, doing what Daryl knew he was going to do.
Rick Grimes believed there were three types of criminals. The first type couldn’t help who they were. They were born with crime in their nature; it was in their blood, a defect of the mind. No matter how many times you tried to rehabilitate them, they just couldn’t change. The second type were the ones who wouldn’t change. They didn’t start out bad, but something in their lives made them turn to crime. They found the life of crime easier, or they didn’t believe they could do better, or they let substance abuse take over their lives. That was Merle Dixon. Then, there was the third kind. The type who wanted to change, but didn’t know where to start. They also started out right, but something messed them up along the way. They lacked a supportive social network, education or skills, or they felt they had some kind of obligation to a person who held them back. But Grimes was sure if given the opportunity, they could become a valuable member of society. Grimes believed that was Daryl Dixon.
“Mornin’ officers.” Daryl said coolly, as he leant his bare shoulder into the open door. “What can I do for you?”
“You violated your probation again.” Walsh informed, with a taunting smile on his lips, his thumbs tucked into his belt.
“I missed one session.” Daryl protested.
“You missed four.” Grimes corrected grimly, with eyes creased in tension.
The look sent a jolt of dismay through Daryl. He knew Grimes was waiting for the day Daryl completed his therapy. The day he had control over his angry outbursts. The day he could step out of Merle’s shadow.
Daryl chewed on the full part of his lip, and turned his eyes up to the ceiling as he counted the sessions he had missed in his head. Maybe he did miss four. Months often flew by like weeks in the hazy, spinning, muddled up world he shared with his brother.
“I won’t be missin’ the next.” He insisted, attempting to usher Walsh back away from the threshold so he could close the door.
Walsh stuck his police issue boot up against the door frame, halting the door. He peered through the gap, false regret in his voice, “You know we gotta take you in.”
Daryl sighed and with a shake of his head grunted in response, “Yeah I know.”
He stepped back from the door and let Walsh swing it wide open, causing the handle to smash into the already destroyed plasterwork. Daryl didn’t care, there were enough holes in the walls already.
“Can I get me some breakfast first?” Daryl requested, making his way towards the kitchen area before waiting for a response.
“What do you think we are, your personal drivers?” Walsh called as he welcomed himself into the home, eying over its contents, including Merle’s passed out form on the couch. “Get your ass over ‘ere or we’ll add a ‘resisting’.”
“Have your breakfast.” Grimes said, stepping just inside the threshold and dismissing Walsh with a wave.
Walsh gave him a challenging glare, but Grimes was perfunctory, he simply turned his eyes to the towards the police cruiser parked in the driveway behind Daryl's beat-up pickup.
Daryl watched with irritation as Walsh began to poke through the clutter on the floor with his boot. “You got a search warrant?” he asked with an aggressive finger pointed in his direction.
“Arrest warrant says we may enter the premises where necessary, to perform an act of duty.” He turned his sight back to Daryl and smirked, finger pointed to the motorcycle parts by his feet. “And it would be a gross miscarriage of justice for me to ignore this stolen property right here.”
“Shane.” Grimes piped in from behind him, “We ain’t here for that. And we don’t even know if it’s his, or if it’s stolen. Let the man get himself some breakfast, and stop overstepping your boundaries.”
Grinning to himself at Walsh’s scolding, Daryl stepped into the tiny kitchen area, made even smaller by the overflowing stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and the overfull trash, spilling out on to the floor.
“How’s the wife and kids?” He called out, while he explored the empty cupboards.
It was a low blow. In the years that he had got to know the officers, he had picked up that Walsh was insanely jealous of Grimes’ comfortable family life. Walsh didn’t have a family. He had never even known Walsh to have a woman. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was such a jerk or because he had some kind of sexual dysfunction or both, but he did know every time Grimes spoke of his wife and two kids, he saw pain in Walsh’s eyes.
“They’re fine.” Grimes called back through the house. “Carl’s in his senior year. Judy just started judo classes.”
“Lil’ ass kicker.” Daryl said mirthfully, thinking of the little girl he had only met once, four years ago. A tiny babe with fuzzy ginger hair, in the arms of Grimes wife, Lori. She had insisted Daryl hold the baby, although he had refused. He didn’t want to get his dirty hands over something so fragile and pure. The confidence Lori had shown in him at that moment had always left Daryl wondering if the Grimes’ discussed him at home, and if they did, he wondered what they said.
Daryl tugged on the kitchen fridge forcefully, knowing how it always stuck, and it jerked open, revealing nothing but a half empty jar of pickled pigs feet, of which the thought of eating turned his empty stomach.
He slammed the door shut and began sifting through the junk strewn over the countertop until he had found a pack of cigarettes.
He dug into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved his lighter, flicked it open, lit his cigarette and took in a long drag.
“Breakfast of champions”, he mumbled to himself.
“C’mon.” Grimes called to him, nodding his head back towards the cruiser. “We’ll get you somethin’ on the way.”
Daryl scooped up a red flannel shirt hanging over the counter, not bothering to check if it was clean, or if it was even his. He slipped his arms into the holes where the sleeves had been torn off and then tucked his half empty cigarette packet into the breast pocket.
“Merle!” he called to his brother as he marched toward the sofa. “Hey, Merle!” he called again, this time bending to speak right into his ear.
Merle swatted into the air in front of Daryl’s face. “What is it, you little fuck?” he muttered, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Goin’ to lock-up.” Daryl informed him, nonchalantly, taking another drag on his cigarette.
Daryl marched across the room and stepped through the front door to meet Grimes who was standing on the porch, leaning over the rickety balustrade. He glanced back to see Walsh still lingering inside, glaring down at Merle, who was now lying on his back, his own cigarette in hand, holding Walsh’s glare and grinning defiantly.
“We’ll be seein’ you soon.” Walsh promised, before turning and following Daryl out the door. “You Dixon’s never stay away for long.”
An hour later, Daryl was sitting with a belly full of sausage and muffin, on the cold metal bench inside the holding cells at the county sheriff’s department. He knew the place well, visiting it several times in the past several years and more so recently with the frequent violations of his probation.
It wasn’t that he was a bad person. He didn’t even really consider himself a true criminal. But his brother was always getting him into bad situations, and his own temper often made it worse.
The holding cells were relatively empty for that hour in the morning. He figured the first round of duty lawyers had already been through. He shared his cell with one other man. A regular, around fifty years of age with an overgrown bush of a beard. He was homeless, and Daryl was sure he got himself frequently arrested just so he had a roof over his head.
A forty year old street walker, nicknamed penny for the ridiculously cheap prices she charged her clients, was the only one in the woman’s cell across the hall. She had winked at him when he was brought in, and offered him a free ride once they were out, but Daryl politely refused. As he always did.
Daryl was standing with his head pressed up against the bars, cigarette in hand, waiting impatiently for his lawyer to arrive. They had taken his lighter away for safety reasons and he hadn’t had a cigarette since his first one this morning. It was making him itch all over.
“You got a light?” Was the first thing he asked his lawyer when she entered the room, with her full lips turned down and the dark skin of her brow furrowed in disappointment.
Michonne dug into the satchel bag at her hip and pulled out a lighter, stepping toward the bars to light the cigarette for him. “You know you’re not supposed smoke in here.”
Daryl blew out a mouthful of smoke. “What’re they gonna do? Arrest me?”
Michonne smirked.
“You stopped seeing the therapist.” Michonne said pragmatically, shifting the strap of her bag and tossing her neat and fine dreads over her shoulder.
Daryl chewed nervously on the side of his finger, he hated disappointing Michonne, yet he did it so often.
“I thought you liked this one.” Michonne crossed her arms over her chest, and turned dark accusing eyes on him, waiting for his response.
Daryl shrugged and began picking at a callous on the side of his finger with his teeth.
“I only liked her ‘cause she never said nothin’.”
“So why didn’t you keep seein’ her?”
“’Cause she never said nothin’. What’s the point? I just went there and sat on her sofa and she would just stare at me, expectin’ me to say somethin’.”
Michonne sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You need to say somethin’, Daryl. If you don’t talk about your shit, this ain’t gonna stop.” She swung her arms in big circles, motioning to the holding cells, “You gonna waste another twenty years of your life in places like this?”
“Don’t wanna talk about nothin’.” Daryl muttered sullenly, “What’s the point in talkin’? None of ‘em care, they just wanna get their pay check.”
“And keep you outta prison!” Michonne retorted, placing her hands authoritatively on her hips. “Just like I do.”
Daryl held her glare, lips held in a firm line, wanting to blow up at her like he did everyone else, but knowing Michonne was one of the few people who did actually care about him, he let his shoulders drop, and his lips turn into a frown.
Michonne had been assigned his case five years ago, on a misdemeanour assault charge. She had managed to get all charges dropped that time. Most recently he had been involved in a particularly nasty ass kicking that had resulted in a major and permanent injury. He had broken one of his rules; never hit someone weaker than you, but the guy had deserved it.
The guy was a well-known low life who lived in the area. He had been beating on his wife for fifteen years, and then he had started to watch his young daughter in a most un-fatherly way. The night Daryl had beat the man to a bloody pulp, he had interrupted him while raping his battered and unconscious wife in a parking lot and telling his screaming daughter, who had locked herself in the car, that she was next.
Ed Peletier had lost vision in both eyes, had paralysis of the left side of his body and suffered from frequent seizures. He lived in a care facility now, far away from both his wife and daughter.
Michonne had backed him one hundred percent on that particular incident, and she had worked night and day, proving that Daryl had done the world a service. She managed to have his charge reduced from malicious bodily harm to common assault, and had his sentence reduced from ten years to five years suspended with probation. There was only one condition; he was to attend and complete a full course of anger management therapy.
Michonne and Daryl had grown close over the years, and she became one of the few people who could look through his tough outer shell and see a soft heart within. Michonne saw that he was a person who only fought when he felt he had no other choice. Unfortunately Daryl Dixon led a lifestyle which meant he needed to fight a lot, and his anger problems meant sometimes he didn’t know when to stop.
After seeing twelve different therapists, Daryl still hadn’t completed a full course of therapy, and his temper continued to get him in trouble. Michonne had near run out of options on keeping him out of jail, and she had now run out of therapists who were willing to take his case.
Daryl kicked at the bars of his holding cell aggressively when she told him this, causing old Ken, the homeless man, to wake from his nap momentarily, look at him in wonder and then fall back asleep.
Michonne huffed impatiently at his temper tantrum.
“This is why you need therapy. Your temper will keep getting you in trouble if you can’t learn to control it.”
“Well I ain’t gonna learn am I? There ain’t even anyone left to teach me.”
Michonne crossed her arms and leaned into the cinderblock wall, her face twisted in thought.
“There is somebody you could try.” She spoke slowly as she dug her hand into her bag, and began rummaging through. She pulled out a white card and examined it, seeming hesitant to hand it over. “She specialises in alternative therapy.”
Daryl took the last drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the ground and snuffed it with the toe of his boot. He screwed up his face in distaste; he knew why she hesitated now, “Alternative therapy? You mean like that coffin guy?”
Since he was in grade school people had been trying to get him into therapy, and Daryl had had his fair share of therapists, ranging from the average sit down and talk to the outright insane. Some just wanted to use herbal remedies and meditation. One guy wanted him to spend the night lying in a coffin at a funeral home. It was supposed to make him think about death and the path he was taking. He had spent a few hours there, and then Merle had found him and done the place over. It was surprising how much coffins would sell for on the black market.
“You know you should give these alternative therapies a real go. You never know, something may just work.” Michonne turned her eyes up the sky. “Lord knows regular therapy ain’t helpin’.”
“Give me her number.” He said with a flick of his fingers. He didn’t have all that much choice. It was either the last therapist in town who would risk taking him on as a client, or prison.
Michonne took out the card and placed it into his outstretched hand. “And look Daryl, she’s just starting out, you’ll be among her first clients, so go easy on her. She might ask you to do things that take you out of your comfort zone. Give it a fair go.”
He looked down to the card in his hand, reading over the phone number and address. It was in Atlanta, which wasn’t ideal, but it was only an hour from home. He turned the card over to read her name and credentials.
Beth Greene
Alternative Therapist
MC. CETS. RART.
It had taken a few hours for Michonne to smooth things over with the judge and get him out of lock up. She had dropped him off at his home just before 6pm, when the light was beginning to grow dim.
Merle was gone from his spot on the sofa, but after a quick search of the house Daryl found him lying on his bed, still fully clothed.
Daryl emptied his pockets on to the kitchen bench, placing the small white business card alongside his lighter and house keys, and then stripped off the shirt, leaving it in the place he had found it and headed towards the bathroom.
It was a long shower, the type you take when you are contemplating your life choices; Letting the hot water roll over your back urging the deep thoughts from your mind.
He knew Michonne’s resources had been stretched thin, and this would definitely be his last chance, but he had no faith in therapists, especially one who was just starting out. He knew she would end up just like the others, with her little notebook and her condescending looks and her glances at the clock waiting for the session to be over. None of them knew what made him do the things he did, why he took things to far, and none of them seemed to care to find out.
But he knew he had to do this, if he didn’t owe it to himself, he at least owed it to Michonne.
He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and rubbed it through his hair before wrapping it loosely around his hips. He pushed back his tangles of damp hair, and examined his face and body in the mirror. The scars. Some from long ago, some from only a few weeks back. He wondered how many more he would get while spending five years in prison.
He went back to the kitchen, lit himself a cigarette, picked up the card and pulled out his cell phone.
It rang twice before someone answered.
“Beth Greene, Alternative therapy.”
It was a female voice, soft and light with a slight southern twang rather than the drawl he was used to. The girl didn’t sound much older than sixteen and Daryl figured he must have caught hold of the secretary.
“Yeah, the name’s Daryl Dixon, I got this number from Michonne.”
“Oh yeah. Anger management, right? you wanna make an appointment?”
“Yeah, the sooner the better.” He did want to get it out of the way.
“Well the schedule’s pretty open, you’re the only client.” She chuckled lightly, like she knew a joke he didn't, “so I can book you in anytime. How about tomorrow? 4pm?”
“yeah, that’s cool.”
“Great. Just wear something comfortable and make sure you drink plenty of water before you come.”
Daryl hesitated, thinking it an odd request. “Okay.” He finally replied.
“I’ll see you at 4pm tomorrow, Mr Dixon.”
Daryl swiped his thumb against the screen to end the call and then stared at the card in his hand, reading over her credentials and wondering exactly what they stood for.
Comfortable clothes, and drinking water before you come. Just what kind of therapist was this woman?