A/N: Con artist AU. I don't write a lot of multi-chapter stories because I'm terrible with updating, but we'll see how we go. This will likely only have three parts anyway. Maybe four. As always, thank you all for reading/favouriting/reviewing my little stories. Title from Holocene by Bon Iver. Enjoy.
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Daryl Dixon is about to die.
It feels dramatic, feels exaggerated, to throw around such a statement, but the barrel of Abraham's gun is heavy against his skull, just like he imagines Rosita's is against Beth's.
Beth. Who, as of sixteen hours ago, is now his wife.
"You know why, don't you?" Abraham sneers and Daryl scowls. His hand does not waver, but neither does Daryl's; his own gun trained on Rosita.
"I'll kill her," Daryl warns.
"Yes," Abraham notes, "and then I'll kill you. And then your wife."
"Please," Beth begs, "let's all put down our weapons. Let's just walk away. We never have to see each other again."
"You think we'd believe you?" Rosita snaps, "You think, after Berlin, after Sydney, we'd believe anything you'd say?"
"Sydney was a mistake," Beth says, voice sounding small. Daryl can hear his heart pounding in his chest.
He doesn't have a fucking clue what they're talking about.
"Noah died!" Rosita yells, gun shaking slightly, her grip still strong, "Noah died because of you!"
A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn't bother to wipe it away.
"And Berlin?" Abraham asks quietly, "Zach?"
"Your boyfriend died and you didn't even shed a tear," Rosita sneers, "and what about this one?" she jerks her head back towards Daryl, "How you gonna remember him?"
"No one has to die today," Beth whispers.
Abraham cocks his gun.
"Yeah, you do."
There's an alarm. Followed by an explosion.
The whole building shakes and then there's silence.
And the lights go out.
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His favourite bar has turned into his least favourite bar.
And he fucking hates it.
Old Tom didn't give a shit. Knew his customers didn't give a shit, so long as the beer was cold and the whiskey was neat. But Old Tom is dead now, heart attack or something. Young Tom installs actually lighting, serves craft beer and drinks in jars. Has trivia nights, open mic nights. And not just drunks getting up there and singing their sad drunk songs, but college kids, with their out of tune guitars and slam poetry.
Old Tom was probably turning in his grave.
It's come to the point where Daryl should probably find another bar. The old regulars he hasn't seen in weeks and the new regulars all look the same; designer plaid shirts and fair trade beanies. Pristine work boots and polished leather jackets. These kids have never worked a solid day in their life.
As one Dylan wannabe leaves the stage, he waits for the next. Instead, a beautiful blonde girl walks up to the small stage. A woman who had been making out with an Asian guy in one of the darker booths, pauses momentarily, to yell a short Woo, Beth!
And like that, she has a name.
She doesn't introduce herself. Doesn't call for silence.
Just a girl with a voice and a guitar. Just a girl.
There's a healthy amount of applause and a part of him wants to join in, because she is kind of perfect and for the first time, Daryl doesn't find himself cursing Young Tom.
"You don't belong here."
He glances up in surprise. She's beside him, perched on the metal bar stool. Looks her up and down, takes in the sundress and the boots and her blonde hair in pinned braids. Looks her up and down and scowls.
"I don't mean it like that," she smiles gently, "I just mean, you ain't like them."
She waves her hand at the others in their vicinity. There's a man beside her, ordering some brand of beer he's never heard of. There's a table of five guys on their phones, only glancing up whenever an attractive woman walks past. There are a couple of guys by the pool table, having a loud argument about some recent summer blockbuster.
"Used to be different, this place," Daryl shrugs, "guess I keep comin' here, hopin' it might go back to what it used to be."
She flashes him a shy smile.
"Let me buy you a drink," she offers and he isn't going to turn down a pretty girl or a shot of whiskey. She places her order with the bartender, who quickly places the glasses in front of them. Fumbling through her bag, she drops her wallet and quickly, he bends down to get it for her.
"Thanks," she smiles, placing the glass to her lips, "what should be drink to?"
"We gotta drink to anything?" Daryl raises his eyebrow and she shrugs, glancing down shyly.
"Ain't it more fun that way?"
He shrugs and she leans into him, her thigh pressing against his.
"To new friends in old places."
Okay. He can drink to that. And he does, slamming back his drink, savouring the burn. She coughs delicately and he chuckles, despite the fact that even he's feeling a bit lightheaded.
"Should stick to what you know, girl," he smirks, "like girly drinks and peach schnapps."
"Never had peach schnapps in my life," she giggles and her laughter is like bells, ringing in his ear. This girl must have powers, making him feel like he's floating.
She makes him feel loose. Makes him feel weightless.
"Girl like you would probably like moonshine."
His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He feel clumsy, uncoordinated.
"Look at you, Daryl Dixon," she teases, "pretending like you know me."
It's instantaneous. The way the warning bells go off in his mind.
"How," he stumbles over his words, "how do you know my name?"
He doesn't feel himself falling until the couple making out are beside him, catching him, leading him out of the bar and into a van.
He blacks out shortly after.
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He wakes up in a warehouse, zip-tied to a chair.
A chair that's bolted to the ground.
His captors clearly thought a lot about this.
Still, he struggles. Still, he curses until he's hoarse. Examines the room for some kind of sharp edge or weapon. There are a couple of desks, a projector and screen. A playpen, a filing cabinet. A couch and a guitar. Her guitar.
His head is killing him.
"Hey!" He yells, "What the fuck did you give me? Hey, bitch! What the fuck-"
"Please don't call my sister a bitch."
The voice crackles through an unseen speaker, and he struggles in his chair.
"Who the fuck are you people?" he shouts, "Where the fuck am I?"
He's answered by a door swinging open.
A woman, different from the two at the bar, walks in, baby on one hip, gun on the other. She places the child into the playpen, smoothing a hand over her downy head. He watches with a mixture of fascination and confusion as the woman makes her way over to the filing cabinet, unlocking it and grabbing a file.
"I'm going to untie you," she says evenly, "you understand that if you make a move out of line, I will kill you, don't you?"
"Yes ma'am," he mutters.
From one of the desks, she pulls out a large hunting knife. Gun in one hand; knife in the other, she rounds him, the blade making quick work of the plastic.
He rubs his wrists, spits on the concrete floor.
"Why the fuck am I here?"
"You know this man?"
From the file, she reveals a photo of the last face he wanted to see.
His brother.
"Never seen him in my life."
The lie flows easily off his tongue.
"Okay then," the woman sighs, placing the photo back in the file, "I'll tell you who he is. This man is Merle Dixon. Your brother."
"Don't know where he is," Daryl responds, "you gonna let me go now?"
"It's not that easy," the woman frowns, "you see, we gave your brother a large sum of money to do a job for us. And he's skipped town. Costa Rica, we believe."
"Then find him," Daryl rolls his eyes, "ain't got nothin' to do with me."
"If we find him, my husband will kill him," the woman explains, patiently, "he doesn't take kindly to being betrayed."
Daryl's eyes narrow.
"Exactly how much did you give him?"
"One million," she replies, "he would have gotten another million, after."
"Fuck," Daryl breathes.
"We hired him because we needed a Dixon," she continues, "Merle wasn't our first choice, but he was the more…available choice. He's unavailable. Unavailable with our one million. So we'd like to offer you a deal-"
"Deal?" Daryl interrupts, "Look, lady, I don't owe you shit."
"One million upfront," she ignores him, "two million after. And we don't kill your brother."
Three million dollars. He looks at this woman, the woman with the gun and the baby. And a contract, he notes as she hands it to him, the conditions outlined, clear as day.
Vegas. Heist. Rick Grimes.
"You Lori Grimes? The Lori Grimes."
She nods curtly and he skims the contract glancing up again.
"You know I'm retired?"
"Everyone's retired," Lori smirks, "until they're not. You got a price, Dixon?"
"Five million," he quirks his eyebrow, "and a night with the girl."
"Not a fucking chance, asshole!" the speaker crackles once more, the sister, he presumes.
"Five million," Lori echoes, "Beth is off the table."
Daryl smirks.
"Six million then."
Lori frowns.
"Beth, can you come in here, please?"
Moments later, the blonde appears. The sundresses are gone, replaced by tight jeans and a leather jacket. She makes a beeline for the baby, bending at the waist, picking up the small child with a practiced ease.
Her ass looks amazing in those jeans.
Lori spares him a nod and leaves the room.
"One million dollars, huh?"
"Huh?"
"Sex with me is worth one million dollars."
She's smirking. That same smirk she wore at the bar, teasing him about drink choices.
It's that smirk now that makes his blood boil.
"Don't flatter yourself, darlin'," he growls, "Just wanted to see what kind of people you were. You were a test."
"Did we pass?"
The door swings open again; it's Lori, with another file.
"Six million dollars," she tosses it in his direction, "and Merle's debt is forgiven. Do we have a deal?"
With his eyes still on Beth, he nods.
"Yeah. We do."
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Everything about them screams ragtag bunch of misfits.
If there's one thing Daryl Dixon hates, it's that.
Because there's the ever-professional Lori Grimes, and her ever unstable husband Rick. Two polar opposites, calling the shots. Tara Chambler, the hacker, who is quick to tell him that she is so much more. Glenn Rhee, the getaway driver, forever attached by the lips to Maggie Greene, the elder of the grifting Greene sisters. And then there's Beth.
Daryl doesn't have much patience for confidence men. Never has, never will. All that flash, all that glitz. They're cubic zirconium posing as diamonds. Smoke and mirrors. All style, no substance. Chameleons. Changing their skin so much they don't even know who they are underneath it all.
"Is this all?" Daryl looks around, "Is this the team?"
"Yes."
Rick is dangerously quiet, keeps his answers short. Lets his wife do the talking.
"You need more muscle," he says bluntly, "and these blue prints? You can't dismantle million-dollar security system with a girl and a mac. This stuff takes-"
"Months?" Tara interrupts, "Inside knowledge? Yeah, we know."
"You are coming in at the very late stages," Lori sighs, "If we look disorganised, it's because your brother-"
"Royally fucked us over," Maggie snaps, "so catch up, Dixon."
"He's not the only ones," Glenn sighs, "If anything, Merle Dixon is the least of our problems."
"Who's the worst?" Daryl asks, only to be met with silence, "Ya'll just gonna ignore me?"
"Abraham Ford and Rosita Espinosa," Rick sighs, "they were poached at the early stages."
"By who?"
But he knows Rick's past. Knows these people, even if it's only by reputation alone. He knows about the skeletons in the man's closet.
Knows how he betrayed Michonne. And how she's out for blood.
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He's been out of the game for five years, but the rules remain the same.
You never con a con artist. You simply stay out of one another's way.
He learns from Tara, that before Rick and Lori, she ran with a different crew. She met Glenn an age ago, at some kind of gaming convention. He started dating Maggie Greene and, through something she declares pure coincidence, they become acquainted with Abraham, Rosita, and Eugene. And for a while, they were unstoppable.
She contributes their disbandment to the natural progression of time. People drift apart, priorities change. Some people are in the game for life, some people are after that one big score that will make them so rich that they can disappear.
That's what this is, apparently. The mother load.
"You think six million is it?" she scoffs, "if we pull this off, you can guarantee that that amount will be tripled."
"What are we stealing, exactly?" Daryl's eyes narrow.
Tara looks positively gleeful.
"Diamonds."
Diamonds. Of fucking course. Easier to transport than cash, easier to fence than art. More dangerous, too. High profile. One wrong move and they'll be running for the rest of their lives. Two wrong moves and they're looking at jail time.
Three wrong moves and you'd best bet they'd be dead.
"You have a buyer?" he asks, sceptical. He knows the rules, knows the plays. Knows that for every offer there's a counter offer. For every honest man there are five dirty ones waiting in the wings. Everyone's trying to get something for nothing and will go to the ends of the earth to do so. They won't hesitate to throw them under the bus. They won't hesitate to take the treasures and lock the doors and watch them burn behind them.
"Dale knows him."
Dale.
He's certain Tara means to be reassuring, but instead is sets him further on edge.
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A bit of back-story, if you will.
Daryl's old crew was, for a long time, the best in the game.
Was. Were. It's all past tense now.
Before Daryl retired, before Daryl took what money he had left to disappear, he lived and breathed the game. It was him and Merle, Shane, Andrea, and Carol. And Dale, calling the plays.
And for close to a decade, they were the unstoppable.
There was the big five bank heist of 1999, the sapphire shakedown of 2002. The lost Picasso job of 2004. And their final, failed job, the one that cost Shane his life and Carol her sanity and sent the Dixon brother's into hiding.
2005. The one time they went into pharmaceuticals. And the last.
It would be fair to say that Merle warned them all. Told them in his own way how he didn't like to mix business with pleasure and, dress it up however you want, drug running is a whole different game compared to fencing forgeries. Dale was against it from the start, and in the end it was him that put a stop to it, that bowed out in the middle of the job and tipped off the authorities. Never let it go unsaid that Dale was their moral compass. And maybe, in a way, they got what they deserved the moment they started thinking that their way was true north.
They played god. They tried to tip the playing field. They were in no way prepared for the consequences of their actions. Never even considered them. Because if they did, they'd know that the line between thief and terrorist is a very thin one indeed.
And they crossed it.
But it would have made them rich; that's all Shane and Andrea cared about. Would have made them notorious, something that inspired Merle to no end.
It would have saved Carol's daughter. Well, it could have. There's no way of knowing. She died, in the end.
Sometimes Daryl thinks that maybe if he had been better, faster, stronger, smarter, they would have succeeded. Sophia would have gotten the operation, the experimental treatments, and the world-renowned doctors. Carol's daughter would have lived.
They were fated to fail when so much was on the line.
And, let's face it; it's only a matter of time before your luck runs out.
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Daryl arrives at the warehouse when they're vacating. They're inconspicuous enough - Glenn and Rick and Tara, dressed as movers, loading up the filing cabinets, wiping down the desks. The place reeks of bleach and they don't exchange a word, but they do a piece of paper.
It's an address in Senoia.
The Greene Farm.
He knows a bit about Hershel Greene. Knows that he left the farm when he was sixteen, ran a good game until his old man died and he took that opportunity to get out, settle down. There are not a lot of honest men in their line of work, but Hershel Greene was one of the few.
He was partners with Dale for a long time. Met Josephine on a job and didn't see her until years later, when she showed up at the farm looking for her own out.
He married her. And they had Maggie.
They don't talk about the cancer that took her life. Or the car accident that took his second wife. Just as they don't talk about Shawn.
Truth be told, he doesn't know all that much about Shawn Greene.
He pulls up to the house a bit after the rented moving van. Beth Greene is standing on the porch, holding the baby. He hasn't seen her do much of anything else, now that he thinks about it.
That and seduce men in bars.
It's not her role, though. That much is apparent. She's the background character, the maid or the waitress. The type of person people look at but don't see. Maggie is the distraction that opens the door. Beth slips right in.
"Hey," Glenn grabs his attention, "help us move this stuff into the barn?"
He gives a quick nod, grabbing some boxes, placing them where directed. It's a weird set up - Andrea preferred office spaces and Merle was always partial to motel rooms. The barn, however, is not unlike the warehouse. There are desks, the filing cabinet. The projector and screen, the playpen. He wonders momentarily why the Grimes' can't just get a sitter or something. Why they have to drag this poor kid everywhere they go.
"You excited, man?"
It's Glenn again, Glenn, who he worked with once, years ago, when Dale needed a driver and he needed the best. And in walked this guy looking more like the Karate Kid and less like the Transporter. And sure, he got them out and got them out quick, but he was all nerves beforehand and threw up after.
In the end, it was one of their more successful jobs.
"Don't really get excited," Daryl shrugs, watching as Rick and Lori start spreading out maps and blueprints, "like to be zen."
"Zen," Glenn nods, repeating the word a few times, "yeah, I hear ya. Maggie says she always feels like she's gotta be talked down before something like this. She likes to be calm. Don't think she's ever really calm when Beth's involved, but she's a hell of a lot more cautious."
"Ain't a bad thing," Daryl shrugs and Glenn hums in agreement.
Cautious might not get you the score that dreams are made of, but it gets you out. Keeps you alive.
Shane wasn't cautious. And if the rumours are true, neither was Shawn Greene.
"How long she been doing this?" Daryl asks, and Glenn gives him a curious look, "Don't like working with rookies, ya know? Too eager."
"Oh," Glenn nods knowingly, "well this isn't her first rodeo, so to speak. I mean, she ran with us for a while, killed it in Paris during the Egyptian antiquities job. Hell, in Berlin, Maggie had the flu, so she really stepped up. She's got a real gift with languages."
"Why'd she stop?"
Glenn looks nervous and Daryl's eyes narrow, warning bells once again going off. There's a story here. A secret.
Daryl hates secrets.
"Why does anyone stop?"
It's not a real answer, but Daryl can see through his vague response.
You play with fire, and you get burned.
And in their profession, everyone has singed fingers.
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Six million dollars.
He thinks about it at night, when he's trying to fall asleep on the lumpy sofa in the Greene family room. Thinks about it when he punches the pillow, as if a sudden bout of violence will make it comfortable.
Six million dollars.
It's why he stays. Why he hasn't walked away.
Lori is a good grifter. Would have been a force to be reckoned with, back in the day. But she's a mother now, and she's a smart one. She's not going to leave her children motherless. So she runs point from a distance, and on one hand, she's good at the seeing the bigger picture. And on the other one, it's the smaller picture he worries about.
It's the small things that can go wrong. A security guard walking out of schedule, misinformation from a mark. Even the most accurate of sources can get it wrong and then they're fucked beyond belief. When a job relies on an inside man, your play is only as strong as the information you're fed.
In his experience, it's not a big catastrophe to be worried about, but a series of small ones, setting off a chain reaction that leads to consequences bigger than Ben-Hur.
Rick is confident, but not overly so, which is actually a comfort because confidence can lead to cockiness and cockiness can lead to a kind of blind sidedness where not everyone makes it home. He prefers wariness, every single time.
That's the thing though, he is so fucking wary, to the point where he's seriously doubting if it's worth it. Because he doesn't know what it is about this crew, but he doesn't fully trust them. And then there's Merle, who might be an asshole, but he's an honest asshole. His brother knows better than anyone that there's no such thing as money for nothing and that he'll have to look over his shoulder for Rick Grimes at every turn. That ain't a life to live. That ain't a life worth living.
So if Merle ran, he'd have to have had a damn good reason.
And Daryl? He's got six million reasons to stay.
He gives up on sleep. Figures there's always tomorrow, and it isn't like they're doing much of anything at this farm. Tara calls it team building, but he's not about to be doing trust falls and human pyramids. Pulling on his jeans, throwing on a flannel shirt, he makes his way to the kitchen.
Hopefully the old man might have some booze around.
Sifting through the cupboards and pantry, he tries to be quiet but fails, when he hears footsteps behind him. Spinning around, he squints into the darkness, ready to attack if need be. It's only Beth, in sleep shorts and a crop top and smiling up at him, sleepily.
"Glad I'm not the only insomniac here."
"Lookin' for a drink," he mutters, ignoring her quip-like greeting.
"Daddy doesn't keep liquor in the house," she says quietly, and he sighs, remembering how Dale never liked them drinking on the job, said it was because he'd had more than a few near misses because of loose tongues and sloppy tactics.
"Come with me."
He barely hears her, but she loops her arm through his, entwining their fingers together, pulling him gently towards the kitchen door. It opens silently, and he closes it gently behind him. She drags him through the night, past the barn, and into the stable. She leaves him by the door and he thinks she's fumbling for the light switch when the place is lit up by the dim glow of a kerosene lantern.
"Close the door," she commands gently and he complies. She's swift, moves with a certainty that he wonders if she's always possessed. Maybe she learnt it from Maggie, maybe her daddy. She's a legacy, and sometimes in this business, it's a hindrance. He imagines that they've expected a lot from her. He imagines she delivers on some levels and fails on others. He imagines she surprises on many more.
Rummaging through a trunk full of horse blankets, she pulls from the bottom a jar filled with moonshine.
"Strong stuff for a little thing like you," he comments, not meaning to be overtly sexist, but not concerned that it came out that way either.
"One of my daddy's farm hands used to hide all his liquor here," she grins, teeth violently white in the lantern glow, "this is all that's left."
He opens the lid, takes a bit whiff. It's strong stuff. Quality stuff.
"It's good," she confirms, "you ain't gonna go blind or nothin'."
Sometimes, he thinks there isn't that much really worth seeing.
Taking a swig, the clear liquid burns down his throat. It is good, as good as the stuff Old Tom used to serve up, back when he was still serving up drinks. Takes another swig and it isn't long before his head starts to feel a bit fuzzy.
"You ain't gonna rufie me this time, girl?"
She doesn't reply, takes her own delicate sips, only coughing a couple of times. He thinks this might be who she really is, this quiet, thoughtful girl, her face as open as a book, every emotion flitting across her big, blue eyes.
"Merle didn't take off to Costa Rica," she says softly, swirling the liquid in the jar, "pretty sure he went to see Carol."
Carol. She was never the same after Sophia died. Went to Vegas, bought a house. Did some consulting work for some casinos, because that's really the only kind of job someone like them can get. In the shadows of the neon lights and poker tables.
"You know she's teaching kids?"
"What you mean, teachin'?"
"Taking in foster kids, teaching them to con," Beth explains calmly, "daddy sent me to her, when I was starting off. She's one of the best."
"Why'd she call Merle?" Daryl demands, "Why'd he take off with the money?"
"She needed it," Beth shrugs, "don't know what for though."
"How in the hell do you know all this?"
She shrugs. Honest to goodness shrugs and he wonders if she's real or if she's playing him. But she was taught by Carol, and maybe this is the biggest piece of information he now possesses in figuring her out.
The perfect lie always has an element of truth.
"People don't notice me," she says softly, "people don't look up when I enter a room."
He thinks that's a bit ridiculous. Bull shit, even.
When she's in a room, she's all he can see.
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"Daryl can't fly."
He hates how they speak about him like he's a burden. Like these people aren't wanted by the authorities or anything.
Okay, they aren't. They just haven't been identified yet.
He's still in hiding, still on the run. Can't take that risk.
"I can make my own way there," he folds his arms across his chest, "suits me better, anyway."
"Beth can go with him," Maggie volunteers her sister, who looks up, equally surprised.
"Maggie, I was just going to catch the bus-"
"Daryl's driving," Maggie interrupts, "and I'd prefer if you didn't travel alone."
"I'd prefer it too," Hershel notes, giving Daryl a stern look, "you don't mind, do you Daryl?"
He does mind. Minds a great deal. Because he isn't some kind of chaperone, just as he isn't some kind of chauffeur.
In Rick's eyes, it's decided, no room for arguments. Tells them to head out in the morning, that they'll finish up here and fly out the day after tomorrow. Set up early. Tells them to call them when they arrive. And if they don't arrive, he better not see them if they want to live.
"We'll be there," Daryl mutters, fixing him with a glare that goes ignored.
Six million dollars.
He chants that figure in his head.
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He doesn't ask her why she doesn't fly.
Figured she did once. Jobs in Paris, Berlin, Sydney. She's been all over the world, and not by a luxury liner.
She's a quiet travel companion, which he's grateful for. Packs light, just a duffle bag tossed in the back of his truck. Listens to music for the first few hours. Plays on her phone for a few more.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, not looking up from her game, "I know you don't like me."
"Like you well enough, girl," he shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road.
"I tricked you," she glances up quickly, "that ain't a foundation for trust."
"You ain't the first woman in my life to con me," Daryl says gruffly, "probably won't be the last."
"I didn't want to," she adds, "if that makes a difference."
"Why did you?"
"Maggie was gonna," she sighs, "but Carol said that you would like me better, which I found pretty hard to believe."
"Carol?"
"Yeah," she places her phone away, resting her feet on the dashboard, skirt riding up her thighs, "did you? I mean, if I were just a girl, not a grifter, and you were just a guy, not a mark, would you have liked me? Would you have wanted to take me home?"
"You're dangerous, you know that girl," he says heavily, eyes straying from the road to hers.
"I'm honest," she replies.
With a sudden twist of the steering wheel, he drives onto the shoulder of the road, throwing the car into park. With the truck still running he looks her straight in the eye, hands clenching the wheel.
"Same thing," he murmurs, "what the hell are you?"
Maybe it's rhetorical. Maybe he's not looking for her answer, maybe he wants to figure her out himself.
Maybe there's not even anything to figure out.
But he's got three days to try.
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