Chapter Text
Daryl didn't understand why he had to take this damn class. All he wanted was to work on cars, and his overbearing upper-working-class-barely-and-by-the-damn-bootstraps dad had finally agreed as long as his son went on to college for it.
“Alright. They make degrees in that. Go get one.” So he had signed up to start working toward a B.S. in Automotive Technology, applied for what seemed like about a hundred scholarships with his father breathing down his neck, filled out a FAFSA with even more neck-breathing, and then jumped on his bike with nothing but a set of sheets and some clothes on his back.
And now Daryl was sitting uncomfortably in the back row of a tiny classroom watching other students file in one by one. He looked down at his schedule again. History 101 - MWF 10:30-11:50 - Humanities Bldg 112 - Grimes.
What the hell did he need history for just to diagnose why an engine was making some weird sputtering noise?
He sighed deeply and took out a notebook, some dollar store number with a red plastic cover he'd scrawled “Daryl Dixon. Monroe Hall. Room 212” onto the night before in black Sharpie. He took a marker out of his backpack and added “History” underneath, the pungent smell of the ink making the inside of his nose tickle.
“You know anything about this professor?”
Daryl looked over at some girl sitting next to him with short brown hair. She was smiling earnestly but reasonably, her eyes bright, probably full of excitement for the first day of college and all that jazz that people told him he should be feeling. He could tell she was beautiful, the kind of girl that a guy like him should want... if he'd wanted girls at all.
“Nah,” he answered.
“Heard he's drop dead gorgeous but hard to please.”
“Pfft. Ain't they all?” Daryl muttered without meaning too, and the girl next to him giggled into her hand.
“I'm Maggie, by the way.”
“Daryl.”
“You staying in Blake?” she asked. Blake Hall. Ha. Like he could afford it.
“Nah. Monroe.” Daryl looked back down at his notebook and his cheap little Bic pen laying beside it, suddenly feeling more self-conscious of his threadbare plaid shirt and his jeans with the patched up hole in the knee.
“What's it like?” she asked.
“It's alright,” Daryl said. Truth was, Monroe Hall was just fine. It was vintage, for lack of a better word, and a little dusty in places, but it was still nicer than what he was used to, which was a double-wide trailer on a stack of questionably sturdy cinder blocks.
“Think that's him,” Maggie said, jerking her head toward the front of the classroom. “Well, RateMyProfessor certainly didn't lie about that... ”
Daryl looked up, but the man had his back turned by now, scrawling a single date on the board. His jacket hid any details that might've been interesting from the back, but he did have nice handwriting.
3500 BCE
BCE? Daryl could've sworn that E shouldn't be there. Wasn't it Before Christ and then some Latin shit he could never remember? Ano dominatrix? Nah, that wasn't right.
He tried the think more on the subject, but before his mind could even make an immature joke about “anal domination,” the professor turned back around to the class and Daryl inhaled so sharply that he started coughing. Blue eyes shot to his.
“Are you alright, Mr...?” His voice was smoother than a bike ride on a freshly paved road.
“Dixon,” Daryl choked out. “Sorry, uh, sir. Professor, um...” He looked down at his schedule again. “Professor Grimes. Sorry.” Daryl forced his body back under his control, swallowing back any more coughs before they could escape and make him look like any more of an idiot.
“Right, well, maybe you can tell me the significance of 3500 BCE, Mr. Dixon.”
Daryl's chest constricted in a panic, and all he wanted in that moment was to know the answer. He wanted to impress this man more than he had ever wanted to impress anyone. Any other class, he'd be playing it off like he didn't care that he didn't know, but “drop dead gorgeous” had been a damn understatement. Why couldn't it have been 1776 or 1492 or something he remembered?
Oh, Professor Grimes, you got no damn idea how much I wish I fucking knew.
“I'm sorry, I...” Daryl's hands shook, and he hid them under his desk, afraid that even from all the way up at the front of the classroom, the professor might see them.
“Then turn to page 27 in your book and read the first paragraph out loud for us.”
“I...” Daryl hadn't bought his books yet either. The scholarships and loans hadn't gotten him that far, and his dad had told him he wouldn't have money for them until next paycheck, which wasn't until the Friday after classes started. Classes started on a Wednesday, so he'd probably be okay. That had been the logic anyway.
The professor quirked an eyebrow up at him.
Daryl was dying inside. He had made a spectacle out of himself on the first fucking day and to top it off, he looked like an unprepared dumbass.
“Here,” Maggie hissed, sliding her book onto his desk, already open to the right page.
“Thank you,” Daryl said back. “Okay, I... I'm ready.”
Professor Grimes nodded at him once and made a little go on then motion with his hand, so Daryl leaned down over the book and started to read, praying that he could get through this without stumbling over any words. It was only two medium-length paragraphs, but it felt like an eternity before the professor stopped him and started his lecture.
“God, what a fucking nightmare,” Daryl said to Maggie as they walked out of the Humanities building. He had decided as soon as she slid her book over that she was his first official friend in college. Well, after his roommate if that even counted.
Friends. Daryl had friends. Well, a friend, but damn. It was a lot better than his idiot brother who had done them all proud by getting hauled off to prison as soon as he hit eighteen. Dumbass had tried to solicit an undercover cop by offering her a bag of cocaine in exchange for a little rub-n-tug. Kinda hard to get out of that one.
It had put all the pressure to make something successful out of the Dixon bloodline squarely on Daryl's shoulders, and he resented him for it so much that he almost felt guilty about it.
“You did alright on the readin at least,” Maggie said. “But I can't really blame you for gettin all flustered. No one should be allowed to look like that in a tweed jacket of all things.”
Daryl froze and turned to look at her. He hadn't said he was gay, hadn't thought his little comment was enough to read that way either. Hell, that was probably one of his biggest secrets next to that time he'd kissed his cousin in their aunt's closet at the family reunion just to see what all the damn fuss was about in movies. Granted they were both nine, and she was a third cousin, but it still made him shudder a little to think about it.
“I never... How did he look exactly?”
Maggie gave him a withering glance.
“Please, Daryl,” she said. “Surprised you weren't doodlin Daryl Grimes on your notebook with little hearts around it.”
“And you're still talkin to me?” Daryl asked, but his brain switched directions before he even let her answer. “Oh shit, do you think he noticed?”
“If he did, he's probably used to it,” she said. “Half the reviews on RateMyProfessor are about how blue his eyes are or how wavy his hair is or how his legs look when he squats down to pick a marker up off the floor. He's definitely got a chili pepper.”
“And the other half?” Daryl asked, pretending he knew what the hell she was talking about.
“About how he shouldn't be allowed to teach basic courses because he's too tough when most of the kids in his class aren't even going into the history field.”
“Great. I'm gonna fail,” Daryl said. “Shoulda checked that site before I signed up.” But he felt a little twinge of regret at the just the thought of an alternate timeline that didn't involve him getting to stare at Professor Grimes three days a week. And he didn't have his own computer anyway.
“No you won't,” Maggie said, putting her hand on his shoulder with the ease that girls only had with a guy they knew one hundred percent was never going to view them as a sex object. “Top of my class in high school. You, Mr. Dixon, are officially my study partner.” She smiled before adding quietly, like she knew he wouldn't want anyone to even maybe hear, “And my gossip about hot professors partner.”
“Thanks.” Daryl pulled out from under her hand, tilting his shoulder a little so it would just fall away. He was grateful that she just let it drop without saying anything. He wasn't used to having a friend, let alone having someone offer to do something nice for him without it coming with some kind of ultimatum like “if you could take a look at the Chevy” or “doing better in life than I did.” He started to open his mouth to say something, though he wasn't sure what, when he heard his name floating over from across the quad.
“Daryl! Hey Daryl!”
Both his and Maggie's heads snapped up at the voice.
“Friend?” she asked.
“I don't know,” Daryl answered. Because he didn't. And then he realized that was a weird way to answer and added, “My roommate.”
A black head of hair jogged over across the grass, and Daryl saw his roommate's eyes snapping to his female companion as soon as he was close enough to make out her features.
Oh boy. Even Daryl could tell that she was way out of his league. She was way out of his own league too though really, but he was already batting for a different team even if he hadn't let them announce him on the roster yet.
“So, you're Daryl's roommate? I'm Maggie. Maggie Greene.”
“Yeah, I'm Gloommate.” The kid's eyes went wide when he realized his word fumble. He glanced over at Daryl like he could somehow help him and then back at the girl. “I mean, I'm Daryl's roommate. Glenn. I'm Glenn.”
“Nice to meet ya, Glenn.” She smiled and turned back to Daryl, tugging his history notebook from where he'd been holding it close to his chest like a security blanket. She pulled a pen out from behind her ear and scribbled something on the inside cardboard of the back cover before handing it back to him. “Our first test is Monday if he sticks to the syllabus, which I reckon he will. Text me and we'll pick a time to meet up in the library.”
She smiled at him and then at Glenn again before walking away.
“Holy crap,” Glenn said, when she was finally out of earshot, turning his head slightly toward Daryl but unable to pry his eyes off of Maggie's retreating figure. “You've got game, man.”
“What?” Daryl asked, and then he realized what Glenn was suggesting. “Nah, man, it's not like that.”
“So you're not interested in...?”
“Nah,” Daryl said. “Not my type.”
“Bro, that girl is everyone's type.” Glenn shook his head.
“What you want anyway, yellin at me loud enough for the whole world to hear?”
“I thought you might wanna go to the dining hall with me for lunch. Not like either of us know anyone yet. Well, I don't at least.”
“Sure, whatever.”
“Cool.”
Glenn hitched up his backpack and started strolling off. Truth was, Daryl was glad he asked, because he was low on Ramen in the dorm room and he didn't know where the dining hall was exactly. He hadn't felt comfortable enough yet to go find it on his own. He was used to the woods and to having grease under his fingernails, not this clean place with its thick air of institution and professors who made him weak in the knees.
“So,” Glenn asked, trying to fill the quiet. “How was your first class?”
Daryl thought of Professor Grimes, of that thick and smooth southern voice and that wavy hair, the hard face with just the hint of a shadow of where a beard could be if he'd let it. Piercing blue eyes locking on his.
“Gonna be hard, but I think I'll like it,” Daryl finally said, just as Glenn threw open the door to the Student Center.
“Mr. Dixon,” a low voice said in the same tone someone might say, “excuse me.” The man slid past him with a Styrofoam to-go container and a cup of coffee his hands. It took Daryl a second to react, his chest constricting with panic just like he was being put on the spot in the classroom all over again.
“Professor,” he finally said when he remembered how his tongue worked, but the older man was already gone, walking down the sidewalk back toward the Humanities building with purpose in each step.
Flustered all over again, Daryl turned back around and followed Glenn toward the smell of French fries.