When the Whispers Die [Daryl Dixon/OC]

The Salty Spittoon

You can watch my tiktoks on this story. jinglebelle_93 This has also been cross posted to Ao3

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This is the first thing I've actually dared to post. I'm honestly just fed up with reading AI garbage.

The first part of the story is already finished, so the plan is to drop updates every week or so.

The chapter title makes zero sense. I kept it as a tribute to my goblin brain and the questionable notes I scribbled while I was trying to name the bar. The brainstorm went exactly like this: Salty Spittoon. "Are you calling me a liar?" "I ain't calling you for dinner!" No, can't use that. Remember to change it. You're unbelievable. Get it together.

I didn't get it together. Obviously. So, consider this a heads up for the absolute insanity you're encouraging by clicking on this. Thanks for being here. I'm also looking for engagement. So if you have a story you're trying to get out there, let me know! I love reading and anything I can do to help. Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. <3

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The phone wouldn't quit. It wasn't just the noise; it was the vibration drilling through the nightstand and straight into Jemma's skull, rattling the cheap wood until the sound was all she could hear. She knew exactly who was on the other end without even twitching a finger to check the screen. Jemma just lay there, trying her best to block it out, her eyes fixed on the corner of the ceiling where the water damage had finally claimed its territory. A patch of white paint was curling away from the plaster in dry, yellowed strips that looked like trash hanging over her head. Beneath it sat a gray patch of mold she'd been promising herself she'd scrub for at least a month, but promise was as far as she ever got.

"Answer the damn thing, Jem," Merle grumbled. He didn't bother opening his eyes, just shifted his weight on the mattress they'd dragged onto the floor. His back was a solid wall of scarred skin and old regrets, looming in the half light.

Jemma reached out, her thumb sliding over the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. "What, Ma?"

"Jemima? Is that you? I need to talk to Merle. Put him on." Hattie's voice was thin and high pitched, carrying that wet sloppy edge that usually meant she'd been hitting the bottle since the sun broke the horizon.

Jemma felt a surge of pure hate for that name. Jemima sounded like someone soft, a girl who lived in a house with a yard and a future, instead of a cramped apartment that smelled like a basement and stale beer. "He's asleep. Call his phone."

"I tried! It goes straight to that voice thing. Tell him it's important. Tell him I'm hurting, Jemima."

Jemma closed her eyes, feeling the headache behind her temples start to pulse in time with the ringing that was still going off in her head. She'd forgotten that Merle's phone was currently in pieces. Three nights ago, the brothers had been at it again. Some stupid argument over a missing tool that turned into a full blown shouting match. Merle had ended the debate by launching his phone at Daryl's head. It had missed, shattering against the wood paneling instead. Daryl hadn't even blinked. He'd just sat there on the sofa and watched the plastic bits rain down onto the carpet like it was part of the show.

"Yeah. Well, he doesn't have a phone anymore, Ma. Hold on."

She rolled over, shoving the device hard against Merle's shoulder. "It's Hattie. She's spiraling again."

Merle grunted, fumbling for the phone with a hand that shook slightly. His voice dropped into that low, gravelly tone he reserved only for her mother. "Yeah, I gotcha, girl. Calm down. I'm comin'."