Chapter Text
Author's Note: An Arrow In Your Harbour is an AU fic diverging from my main story Goodnight Love. This fic can be read as a stand-alone and is primarily Daryl/OC.
'When I speak to you
I can feel a storm falling blackly to the roads,
The pelting rains the instant they hit.
Devotion is full of arrows.'
Joanna Klink
These Western Nights
Imogen Alford entered the dive bar with some trepidation, wincing as an old Taylor Swift number started booming out from the speakers overhead, sparking a collective roar of protest from the group of rednecks gathered at the bar. But the party of women milling around the pool table bore no such grudge, clutching each other and squealing in excitement as they then started singing along at the top of their voices. Everyone else either ignored them or shook their heads in mocking disappointment. Imogen chose to emulate the former, making her way to the end of the bar instead.
During Imogen's acoustic sets, Taylor was a crowd favorite, but if she was ever hired to sing here, it would perhaps be wiser to leave it off the list. But she wasn't here to work, only for fun. Yet instead of lessening her anxiety, the prospect only served to increase it. The itching for something stronger than a beer was upon her, but she tried to quell the urge, having promised her brother, Kit, during their last phone call to moderate her drinking.
Biting her lip, Imogen tentatively took a seat on a wobbly barstool, clinging to the counter for support. Perhaps it hadn't been a good idea to head out here at this time of night, not with the sudden wave of violent attacks currently dominating the headlines. The clerk at the convenience store near her apartment had been bitten on the arm by a customer just yesterday. Nobody else in the bar seemed bothered though, only interested in having a good time. Maybe she should have brought a girlfriend along, but now whenever she wanted to hang out, they always made excuses. Imogen knew why of course. It all came back to her heavy drinking, her friends tired of having their rare evenings out ruined. So far they hadn't completely cut her off, but it was on the cards unless she mended her ways.
"Did it hurt, honey?"
Imogen cringed, smelling the redneck before actually seeing him, having sidled up to her unseen during her reverie. "My nose hurts, now you come to mention it," she snapped, turning to face him, only to find herself having to crane her neck up at the interloper. He was a big burly guy, nursing his drink as tenderly as any mother. Cropped grey hair and piercing eyes. Old enough to her father when it came down to it, not that he seemed the type to be concerned by the comparison.
As Imogen glared up at him, he just leaned sideways on the counter, seemingly unperturbed by her insult. "You talkin' about my natural odor, London?" he parried, winking at her. "The ladies love it, even if you don't. Primitive passions and all that."
Imogen rolled her eyes. Of course he would assume she was from London. Every Yank she encountered made the same assumption as soon she opened her mouth. "A beer, please," she fired at the surly bartender, who acknowledged her order with a glare before stalking off to serve it up.
"This one's on me, sweetheart," the redneck declared, slamming down a grubby five dollar bill down on the counter. "Keep the change, buddy," he called over to the bartender, who nodded, looking more amiable all of a sudden.
Imogen took the beer, thinking more fool him. She wouldn't touch him with a ten foot barge pole. But if he wanted to fork out for her, fair enough. Plus she now had a good reason for staying relatively sober, just in case she ended up in his sweaty embrace after all. Another thing to owe him for. He was just the gift that kept giving. The thought made Imogen snort into her beer, much to the redneck's confusion
"M'name's Merle, by the way," he frowned, taking a seat on the barstool next to her, making it creak threateningly.
Imogen just shot him a sideways look as she sipped her beer again. He was persistent; she had to give him that.
"I'm here with my lil baby brother," Merle explained, jerking his chin, "that's him yonder."
Despite herself, Imogen glanced over in the direction he'd indicated, only to be confronted by the sight of yet another goddamn redneck. He stood on the outer fringes of the group, face sullen beneath his goatee and cropped dirty blonde hair. Taking a swig of beer, he inadvertently caught Imogen's eye. Instantly he was on the offensive, scowling at her. He looked to be in his thirties, unkempt, with distinctively slanted blue eyes and surprisingly muscular arms escaping from the hacked off sleeves of his faded red plaid shirt. Maybe he was a marginal improvement on Merle but she still wasn't interested.
"The only way he gets pussy is if I procure it for him," Merle said with a rueful shake of his head, his words making Imogen splutter into her beer. "And even then he don't put out. Or so the ladies say. But I ain't havin' no faggot for kin. So how about you straighten him out by showin' him a good time tonight, hmmm?"
Imogen rolled her eyes, hiding her revulsion. This guy was really ticking all the boxes on how to be a bigoted bastard. His brother deserved better than being publicly humiliated and called homophobic slurs. Plus it was disturbing how casual Merle was about procuring prostitutes for his own flesh and blood. "My services can't be bought, pal," she then retorted, knocking back her beer. "Nor do I take on charity cases."
"C'mon, honey, don't be like that," Merle protested, "he might be a little slow to start, but a beauty like you would soon him warm him up, right?" He winked at Imogen again, his gaze then trailing over her in a way that made her skin crawl, making her wish she'd worn something less skimpy than the halterneck and denim cut-offs she had on.
"I'm not interested, end of," Imogen said coldly, pushing a loose lock of black hair out of her eyes, "so move on, Merle."
"Daryl, get your scrawny lil ass over here!" Merle suddenly boomed, making Imogen start violently. "Show the lady what she's missin'!"
Rolling her eyes again, Imogen made to leave, finishing the last of her beer - fast. Merle's loud outburst had caught the attention of his redneck buddies, who were now catcalling and shoving the obviously mortified Daryl forwards. His face was now a shade of burning red, giving him an ugly mottled look. But as she made to slide off her barstool, Merle suddenly grabbed her wrist, halting her.
"Don't be so rash, dollface," he drawled, tightening his grip as Imogen tried to discreetly pull herself free. "Just say a quick hello and see if you take, OK?"
Imogen swallowed hard, wondering if she could take Merle in a fight, never mind his precious baby brother. But he was built like a brickhouse, towering over her by a good foot or so. Punching his face didn't seem like a good idea. Things were fast spiralling out of her control, and nobody looked inclined to come to her aid either, everyone averting their eyes. Unbidden, Imogen thought of her daughter who would be fast asleep right now, wondering if she would make it home to see her again. But just as quickly, Imogen dismissed the thought, reprimanding herself for being so melodramatic. Merle could hardly kill her in a crowded dive bar in front of a wealth of witnesses, could he? But still the fear persisted regardless, making Imogen once again try to break his hold on her, Merle merely grinning and subtly increasing his grip instead.
Daryl shuffled up beside them, shoulders hunched. "Let go of her, man," he hissed as he drew level with his brother, face still mottled. "You want the cops comin' down on our asses!?"
"Was just keepin' her warm for you, baby brother," Merle smirked, shoving Imogen at Daryl, forcing him to reluctantly catch her in his arms. "Enjoy!" He loped off back to his buddies, saying something crude in an undertone that made them burst out laughing.
Angry, Imogen tore herself out of Daryl's hold, nostrils flaring at the reek of stale sweat and cigarette smoke that clung to his wrinkled clothes. Glaring at him, she suddenly made a break for it, fear making her legs move faster. Then she was outside, gulping in deep breaths of fresh air, lungs catching in her chest. Bent double, palms pressed against her knees, Imogen tried to regulate her breathing; all too aware she was on the edge of an anxiety attack. The desperate desire to drown her sorrows was suddenly and sickeningly overwhelming, almost making her turn tail and head back inside despite everything.
But the memory of Merle's grip on her was mercifully enough to quell it. It wasn't the first time a guy had gotten too handsy, but it was the first time in a long time she'd felt that frightened in a public space, something about Merle scaring her. Afraid he was going to burst through the doors to drag her back to his brother, Imogen abruptly decided to hightail it home and cut the night short, even as it was a waste of the cost of a babysitter. Straightening up, she made for the empty alleyway that ran alongside the dive bar, intending to take a shortcut. But the sound of a sudden guttural snarl brought her up short, making her whirl around, startled. Her mind immediately jumped to it being a bobcat, but it didn't sound like any bobcat she'd ever heard.
Nonetheless, Imogen had no desire to run into a bobcat more than she did Merle, so she picked up the pace, glancing around her as she moved. Just as she was approaching the end of the alleyway, a squat shadowy figure suddenly came staggering out of a nearby doorway, startling her again. But he was just one of the many crackheads and alcoholics haunting the small town's sidewalks. Upon seeing the stranger was utterly legless, Imogen considered it safe enough to try and bypass him, figuring she could just skip around him judging from the way he was weaving wildly across the alleyway. Keys in hand, just in case, she drew level with him, only to suddenly freeze at the sight of his seemingly half ripped off face –
Screaming, Imogen reeled back, crashing against the crumbling brick wall. The stranger lunged at her, catching hold of her arm, reminding her of Merle. With another scream, Imogen yanked herself free, dropping her keys in the process. She tried to run and pick them up at the same time, only to fall flat on her face. Crawling away, she managed to get up again, just as the stranger took another wild swipe at her. Panicking, Imogen turned to run back to the dive bar for help, Merle or no Merle, only to crash into a broad chest. Winded, she stumbled, only for whoever it was to shove her aside and deck her attacker in the face with full force, knocking him to the ground.
Sobbing now, Imogen edged away, hand clamped over her mouth. Her rescuer glanced over his shoulder at her, face scornful. To Imogen's horror, she seen it was the stranger from the bar - Daryl - the savage curl of his lips striking further fear in her heart. Feeling like she had just jumped from the frying pan into the fire, Imogen turned and fled, tears starting to freefall down her face. Panting, she headed for Main Street, hoping to flag down a passing car. But it was just as deserted as everywhere else, frustration making her sob even harder.
She didn't even have a bloody cellphone anymore, not after breaking it last week, having to rely on borrowing her room-mate's, albeit for a surcharge. Or she had to head out to the red and grey telephone booth that stood on the corner, eating up her change. Her brother had mailed a brand-new one but it had become delayed en route. Plus she knew Kit would create if he found out she'd wasted what little money she had on booze and a babysitter, instead of putting it towards a new cellphone in the meantime.
"Hey!"
Imogen whirled around, hoping to see help, only to instead behold Daryl striding towards her, face now furious. Clutching her keys in her hand, she got ready to strike, to run, to be anything but another victim -
Suddenly there was the unmistakeable sound of Merle's strident tones followed by a chorus of cussing and shouting from his buddies, making Daryl turn around, oddly alarmed. But Imogen didn't linger to work out why he reacted so, taking her chance to make a run for it. Swearing, Daryl pursued her, before suddenly lunging forwards and grabbing Imogen at the waist, catching the back of her halterneck. He then pulled her flush against him, clamping his other hand over her mouth before she could scream. Struggling in vain, Imogen bit down on Daryl's hand as he dragged her thrashing body down a neighboring alleyway. But he just choked back his curses, grip like iron, seemingly intent on suffocating her.
Hauling her behind a dumpster, Daryl then ducked down, pulling her along with him. Fresh tears leaked out of the corners of Imogen's eyes, but she suddenly stopped struggling when the sound of Merle and his buddies became louder, signalling they were somewhere nearby. Why Daryl was hiding from his own brother, she had no idea except that he probably didn't want to share his spoils. Daryl stiffened as Merle then started shouting for him, ignoring his buddies' impatient protests, one of them loudly complaining about almost being bitten by 'that stoner back there'.
For a few minutes, Daryl and Imogen remained crouched down behind the dumpster, listening as Merle continued to call for his brother, convinced he was nearby, since Daryl's motorcycle was still where he'd parked it. But one by one, his buddies wandered off, the sound of approaching snarls speeding up their exit. Merle then made his own departure. Yet Daryl stayed put, his grip on Imogen unrelenting. Unbidden, Imogen remembered the crackhead from the alleyway and his torn off face. But had she been mistaken? Was it a mask? Or was it real? Were Merle and his buddies too out of it to even notice anything so obviously off? Or again was it just her and an overactive imagination fuelled by fear?
Legs now numb, Imogen staggered as Daryl then hauled her to her feet, ruthlessly dragging her down the rest of the alleyway. The crackhead was still alarmingly within earshot. As Daryl turned the corner, where it was just open ground and some scattered outlying shacks and houses, he suddenly stopped. Collapsing against the wall for a moment, Daryl tried to catch his breath, Imogen now pressed against his chest, his arm like a vice.
"Listen to me, Duchess," Daryl hissed in her ear, hand still clamped over her mouth. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, OK? So's when I let go, yer ain't gonna do somethin' stupid like scream, right?"
For all his fine words, there was no mistaking the threat in his voice, but Imogen nodded regardless.
Hesitating, Daryl then mercifully let her go, shoving her far away from him. Imogen stumbled, almost oversetting herself. He backed further away from her, hugging his arms to himself as he hit brick wall again. Predictably, his facial expression became childishly sullen, eyes narrowing as he appraised Imogen.
Wrongfooted, Imogen stared at him. "What the fuck is up with you!?" she then hissed, all too aware of the approaching snarls, nearly distracting her from Daryl.
"What's that prick on, man!? Daryl snapped, ignoring Imogen, raising his fists instead. "Viagra!?"
"Never mind him - you need some serious fucking help!"
But Daryl wasn't listening, stalking around the corner instead, wherein he almost walked straight into her attacker from the alleyway. With a yelp, he reeled back, Imogen screaming as he did. The stranger's face was even more twisted and distorted than before. It had been no overactive imagination on her part, being all too horrendously real. But it just couldn't be…
Abandoning Daryl to his own fate, Imogen suddenly turned and ran, cowboy boots crossing the open ground at a fast clip. Aiming for the closest house, she threw herself up the porch steps, hammering on the front door with both hands, screaming for help, tears rolling afresh down her face. But nobody came to the door. No lights switched on. Imogen whirled around, desperate. The house opposite also remained cast in darkness. Either nobody was home or they just didn't want to be involved.
Panting, Imogen headed back the way she came, since it was just fields and dark roads beyond the scattered shacks and houses. But on a whim, she suddenly changed course, going round the back of the old warehouse adjacent to the now empty alleyway Daryl had dragged her down. She could cut past the row of pawnshops and thrift stores, maybe making for Main Street again. Imogen had no idea what the hell was going on or how she was going to get home, only knowing she had to get out of here. For whatever reason Daryl hadn't harmed or molested her. But that didn't mean he wouldn't. As for everything else…
The memory of the man's ravaged face rose afresh before her. As if on cue, another snarl echoed through the air, coming from somewhere close by, the sound making Imogen stumble. Maybe she was wrong though. It was probably just a coked up creep in a mask. Nobody conscious could walk around like that. Yet… No, it wasn't. It was impossible. But she had seen the man's face with her own eyes, Daryl too. But it just couldn't… It went round and round in her head, what she wanted it to be and what she had seen.
Sobbing in earnest now, Imogen blindly rounded the side of the pawnshop, heading for the small lane that was used for the vans that dropped off donations to the neighboring Goodwill. It was blocked off by a low wall, but with some difficulty she hoisted herself over it, dropping down to the other side like a cat. Running, Imogen once again switched direction, aiming for the old schoolhouse instead, just off the intersection. From there, she could hopefully hitch a ride home and get the hell out of here-
The sudden screech of motorcycle tyres made Imogen freeze, only to see Daryl driving straight at her, throwing the throttle forwards as he mounted the sidewalk. With a scream, she threw herself backwards, landing on her rear. Daryl skidded the motorcycle to a halt in a half circle around her, his face furious, the front of his sleeveless shirt torn. Through her veil of tangled black hair, Imogen stared up at him in shock, too paralyzed by panic to even think of moving.
"Hey!" he cursed, clambering off the motorcycle. "Ya just fucked off and left me with that fuckin' thin'!"
"Where – where is he!?" Imogen stuttered, finally sitting up. "Where did he go!? What – what is it or him or what!? What was wrong with his face!?"
"It's somewhere fuckin' backaways!" Daryl retorted, looming over her. "Just tryin' to find my brother, man, and I just keep runnin' into ya and that goddamn freak!"
"Hey, I didn't ask you to drag me down that alleyway!"
"It was for yer own good, bitch!" Daryl spat, jabbing his finger at her. "Ain't got no thanks either for savin' yer ass from that thin'! Just bitin' my hand for my pains, didn't cha, huh!"
"I never asked you to help me either!"
"Well it ain't gonna happen again!"
"Then go!" Imogen said incredulously, wiping her eyes as she staggered to her feet. "Why you still here!? Go and find your goddamn homophobic pervert of a brother!"
"Hey, Merle ain't no pervert!"
"No, he's just a fucking degenerate who doesn't like it when a woman says no, right?" Imogen flung back, remembering Merle's iron grip and leering gaze. He had tried to force his brother onto her despite her refusal. If she had stayed, where would have the evening led? Would Merle have tried to take what Daryl supposedly didn't want?
For a moment Daryl looked like he was going to throttle her, but with great difficulty, he controlled himself. "He ain't that either," he said through gritted teeth, "just had too much to drink, tha's all."
"Well, if you're happy for your flesh and blood to act like your own personal pimp, be my guest!"
"He's just tryin' to look out for me, alrite!?"
"Is that what you're calling it now!?" Imogen said in disbelief. "What your brother is doing isn't normal, Daryl! It's abuse!"
Daryl flushed again, inwardly flinching at the memory of Merle loudly declaring Daryl couldn't get a woman unless Merle paid for her pound of flesh. Merle always either bought his own women or picked them up in a mutually drunk haze, never to see them again. But when it came to chasing skirt, Merle wasn't what this English piece of ass believed him to be.
Imogen just shook her head, before turning and leaving, only for Daryl to suddenly grab her arm. "What the fuck!?" she cried, yanking herself free. "What is it with you and your brother not understanding the meaning of personal space!?"
"Just – just hold up, man," Daryl said, nervously glancing around them, "let's not be so hasty 'ere."
"Look, no offence, I'm just not interested, alright!?" Imogen snapped, holding her hands up. "You're not my type. It's nothing personal."
"Don't flatter yerself, bitch," Daryl snapped, recovering himself. "Just listen up."
Imogen stood there, confused. "I can't hear anything," she frowned, watching Daryl crane his neck. "You're hearing things."
"Nah, I can hear somethin'," Daryl argued, holding his palm up, indicating silence, "if ya just shut yer trap, yer'd hear it too."
"Look, just get going, asshole!" Imogen spat, at the end of her tether. "There's nothing there, so stop wasting my time" –
- "Ya really that desperate to run into that freak again!?" Daryl retorted. "Go on, then, be my guest! See if I care, girl!"
"That guy was just a crackhead in a mask," Imogen said, pointing at Daryl this time. There. Saying it out loud made it feel real. It was just a janky weirdo in a Halloween get-up. And this Daryl gimp was just trying to drag the wool over her eyes for whatever sick kick he was getting from this farce.
But just as Imogen then barged past Daryl, it was only to freeze again at suddenly hearing a distant chorus of snarls and groans. Slowly turning around, it was only to inexplicably see a row of what Daryl deemed 'freaks' lurching towards them, conglomerating at the top of the road in a ghastly procession. Shocked, Imogen staggered back, only to crash into Daryl. He shoved her aside, backing away towards his motorcycle. Grabbing her head between her hands, Imogen collapsed against the wall instead, wanting nothing more to curl up into a ball there and then. This just couldn't be happening. It couldn't be -
The sudden revving of an engine roused Imogen from her reverie. As she slowly lifted her head, it was only to see Daryl now astride his motorcycle, his wild expression at odds with her blank one.
Daryl had no idea what the hell was going down, only that he needed to get the hell out of here and somehow find Merle. Yet something was stopping him from leaving this bitch behind. "Git on!" he ordered, spit flecking the air. "Ain't got all night!"
Dazed, Imogen somehow found herself on the back of his motorcycle, arms reluctantly wrapped around his middle. Daryl then kicked the bike into gear, before taking off, trying to go where they couldn't follow.
Trouble's always gonna find you
But so will I…