broken claims

Part 2

"C'mon. Slide the lock open."

Daryl sighed at the sound of a giggle from the other side of the door. Leigh had stuck tiny fingers through the gap at the bottom to wiggle up at him and then scampered back and forth unseen while he tried convincing her to unlock the door from her side. It was a game for her, barely four years old and a slight terror, darting around while he thumped his head against the door itself softly.

"Just break it down," Merle suggested from where he sat crosslegged on the floor, his own eyes shut as the process kept dragging itself out. "One good kick ought to fix it. Don't bitch out on me, kid."

He snarled at the doorknob that jiggled helplessly when he tried it. "Sharley'll just kick up a fuss. Won't see Leigh for months if I give her property damage to complain about."

A tiny pink stub of a crayon rolled out into the hallway. Daryl bent down to pick it up. "Alright, sweetheart. You've had your games. I know you've been hearing me. Reach up for that lock and open up."

Her feet scuffed against the carpet from her side. "Can't."

Merle sighed again. They had been through this process for nearly two hours. "Where's your mama?" Daryl tried again. "Go on and get her."

"Can't," Leigh repeated, quieter. Any trace of amusement was fading. "She'll get mad."

Sharley was an explosive mix of hot and cold. For a few months of pregnancy she had been level headed as they sorted through the process before dipping low, barely coping before going into labour. Daryl had gotten the call hours after Leigh was born. Sharley kept quiet, refusing to let him know it was happening until it was finished. Leigh was Rosalie Swan on paper and Merle had petulantly christened her Leigh out of spite, their mother's name plucked from what Sharley had given her.

Daryl was fumbling with the little that Sharley allowed him. And now she wasn't opening the door when it was his time to have her for the weekend, temporary stability to get her fed and looked after before bringing his kid back into the madness.

"Tell you what," he tried offered, testing the door knob with persistence. "Your mama takes a fit and I'll deal with it. Nobody gets mad at you."

"Promise?"

Last time he saw Leigh she took him aside to stoically explain the concept of a pinky-promise. The concept was practically legally binding to her. "Yeah. Promise," Daryl said dryly. Finally the lock slid back and he barely restrained himself from flinging to door open and catching her with it.

Leigh peered up at him with a bruise darkening up nicely on her cheek. He froze at the sight of it, Merle clambering up to his feet behind him with a vague groan of dislike. "You promised," Leigh reminded him like he needed reminding, one foot stomping lightly on the beige carpet of the apartment.

Sharley's heels were slung across the floor. He saw them and a pair of worn men's running shoes, a cardboard box with a few beer bottles sitting inside. Daryl crouched down to inspect the mark. "How'd this happen?"

Please, he thought desperately, be reckless. Run into a wall, catch a tree branch the wrong way while playing. Anything but someone taking a swing at a child. 

But she shook her head, silence knitting into a confession of it's own.

The apartment was dingy. He looked through the gloom of it and hated everything that he saw. "Go on and take your uncle down to the truck. Think you can keep him handled?"

Her hair was sliding free from the loose elastic pinning it back. Daryl gently eased it down and slid it around his wrist to deal with later. Merle's mouth looked ugly as he hoisted Leigh up into the air, giving him a look that spoke volumes.