records

inside your head

He escapes hell with nothing but his guitar and the clothes on his back.

Funny thing, his life. Even the cold, hard facts sound like a country song.

—

Oh, and there's Merle.

Yeah, there's always Merle.

—

Here's how they know that they've made it, according to Merle:

The smack is good.

The girls are fine as hell.

The record label lawyers have them on speed dial.

His spiel makes Daryl grunt with frustration. Same shit, different day; today it's a party. On a yacht. In their fucking honour.

Some days Daryl curses the redneck population, who still buy CDs and can't steal music like every other regular Joe. Curses them for sending their single to the top of the charts, much to the joy of his label and the chagrin of every other artist in this town. You can write a song as deep as the goddamn ocean, but at the end of the day, you write about girls and trucks and you're basically printing your own money.

And that, Daryl observes - label heads fawning over his brother like he cured cancer - is the bottom line. Their bottom line.

The Brothers Dixon. Multi-platinum. Sold out national tour. The bad boys of country music.

Thank god they're still docked, otherwise he'd probably throw himself overboard.

—

She's all angles and long limbs, he discovers, when she bumps into him at the studio.

Beth Greene. He knows her name, knows her face. The label head sent them (Merle) a warning; don't mess with this one. Don't even try.

He expects sundresses and bright smiles, but instead she's ripped jeans and braids. Well-worn cowboy boots, from actual farm work, not a dozen or so music festivals and rodeos.

"Watch it, kid," he snarls, steadying her by the elbow, her papers and notebooks littered on the ground.

If she's intimidated, she doesn't show it, to her credit. Bigger starlets have gone out of their way to avoid his presence. They can handle creeps like Merle easy enough. But him?

He's danger and darkness and, fuck it, they should cower. They should be afraid.

Instead, she offers him a smile, ignoring his tone and murmuring a breathless thanks. She kneels in front of him, collecting the loose papers that have settled and before he can stop himself, he crouches down, offering his silent assistance.

It's a mess of lyrics and sheet music and drawings and photographs.

"It's my inspiration," she says softly, his head jolting up after she catches him staring at what he assumes is a photo of her family.

Like a punch to the face, he's hit with the sudden yearning to be her inspiration.

And, fuck, that's unsettling.

Scrambling to his feet, he feels too big for his body, as if the room and this girl are trying to suffocate him. He places some distance between them, heading towards his intended destination, without so much as offering a goodbye.

(Remember: Daryl Dixon doesn't do goodbyes.)

But this waif of a thing, blonde hair and blue eyes, nearly makes him freeze in his tracks.