Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started over the stupidest thing.

One sudden movement. A flinch, a shattered glass of water.

That’s all it was.

Will Dixon stared at his youngest son, taking in the silence that followed the shatter, his tense, frozen stature as he tried to suck in even breaths, down-play the puddle of water, glinting with glass, that spread across the dirty lino.

‘I got it,’ Daryl said, too quickly, giving away his calm façade. ‘I’ll clean it. Ain’t no big deal,’ he paused, trying to ignore the voice of his brother mocking his pathetic attempts to appease his Pa in the back of his head. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

More silence followed. Daryl was being watched, his Pa’s eyes fixed on him like a predator watches prey. He’s used to the feeling. He wondered, as he felt his hair prickle under his father’s glare, if this is why he likes hunting so much. For once, he’s not the prey.

He drops to his knees, holding back a grimace as he starts trying to scoop the watery glass up with trembling hands. His father is still watching, watching as blood starts to pinken the water where the glass has inevitably started to nip at Daryl’s palms.

Blood always had a way of setting him off. Like a damn shark.

The silence was the next thing to shatter. His father’s voice booming, echoing around the dingy kitchen. He pulled Daryl up, fists gripping the front of his shirt in bunches as his face was close enough that Daryl felt his spit, smelt the whiskey and rotted teeth on his breath, screaming about how they didn’t have the money to waste on him being so stupid.

So fucking stupid.

His father shoves him down, and he lets it happen. He used to tell himself that he lets it happen because it’s easier this way. Now he’s older, he’s resigned to the fact that he lets it happen because he is too weak to stop it.

He lands belly-down in the glass, the biggest shards burying into his forearms as he tried to break the fall. He doesn’t register that he is still apologising until he realises it is pointless. You’d think, after 21 years of this, he’d have learnt that nothing he could say would ever stop his father once he’d got that look in his eye. And really, he did know it.

Didn’t stop him trying, though.

His father mounted him, pressing him down into the glass with his hand in his hair, and Daryl knew it was time to fuck the apologies and instead try to escape.

Too late.

He was being manhandled, flipped over onto his back and the hand that was still in his hair lifted his head and slammed it down onto the lino, causing his ears to ring, his vision to spin. He squirmed, too aware of the pathetic whimper that escaped him at the motion as he tried to wriggle out from under his father’s grip. No use.

Still delirious, the fist meeting his cheek came out of nowhere, even if he had been expecting it. One blow was followed by another, and another, and when Daryl tried to cover his face with his forearm, his father gripped his wrist, nails biting into his skin, and twisted his arm painfully above his head, drawing out a gasp of pain that sounded gargled through the blood now pouring from his nose into his mouth.

His free hand tried to push his father back. A pathetic gesture with no real bite behind it, doing nothing but leaving a bloodied handprint on his Pa’s shirt.

That meant he got the belt.

Daryl, vision now blurred with blood as well as pain, felt his shirt get ripped away from him, fabric cutting into him as the force split the seams. When he was younger, smaller, his father used to remove his clothes for different reasons. The feeling of air against bare skin still made him skittish, even though that hadn’t happened in years. Now he had panic to blind him as well.

He felt the glass dig into his stomach as his Pa flipped him back over, slamming his head on the floor to stun him long enough to unbuckle his belt.

The first lash wasn’t the worst. Never was. It hurt, shocked him out of his blurred vision long enough to see the pool of blood spreading underneath him. But the second one always hurt worse, crossing jagged across the first lash, cut flesh fraying as leather met skin.

The third lash almost made him gag.

His back felt hot and wet, his palms slick with blood as he weakly clawed at the lino in a pathetic attempt to get away.

It was pathetic. All of it.

He heard his dad scream the word in his ear, causing his head to buzz with pain and noise and eventually, as usually happened, the shouting seemed to become one long, undistinguished note. The words, all words he had heard before, blended into one another to become white noise, merged with the pain of it all.

It stopped as suddenly as it started. Usually, Daryl counted the lashes, mostly so he knew what to expect on the clean-up. Right now, the number was lost on him, his mind was too hazy, the blood coating his stomach too thick.

Now it was too quiet.

He could feel his father on him still, legs spread, one hand finding its way back into his hair, the other digging into his buttock. Will Dixon inhaled sharply, the blood, his son’s narrow hips, causing his teeth to bury into his lips, his hips to rut. He gave one, meaningful thrust, and Daryl whimpered under him.

Pathetic.

Daryl felt himself being roughly turned once again, his father’s red face inches from his, pupils blown wide, sweat and rage and desire coating his features. He stood, dragging Daryl up with him and Daryl scrambled to find his footing.

One last slap.

Daryl’s legs gave out and he suffered the indignity of falling on his bony ass, glass biting him through his bloodied jeans.

His father spat on him, before leaving him bleeding on the kitchen floor.

Time was always untrustworthy in the aftermath. The door slammed, his father fucking off to the bar to unwind now he had gotten his fix. Daryl lay in his blood for a bit, heaving in breath, trying to get his head together enough that he won’t pass out as soon as he tried to stand.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He does know that he needs to stop the bleeding. He knows that, in a few hours, Pa will be back, and he’ll be drunk – or drunker – and if the kitchen is still in this state, he’ll get the belt all over again. So he needs to either clean it, or he needs to leave, bunker down in the woods for a few days. Either option requires him to get it together, to stop the bleeding, stitch up what he can and stop being such a fucking pussy.

He makes it to the bathroom, wraps a disgusting towel around his back to try and stop the bleeding and then fumbles in the cabinet for a pair of tweezers to remove the glass that dug into his hands and arms with each movement.

The doorbell rang.

The sound caused Daryl to freeze, air catching in his throat, blood pounding in his ears. It was probably nothing. One of Merle’s junkie friends trying to borrow some money or something. But if it was something important and he ignored it, there’d be hell to pay all over again. He looked down at himself, at the shards of glass in his stomach, the blood soaking the waistband of his jeans. He couldn’t open the door like this.

Just as he had decided to ignore it, the doorbell rang again.

And this time, it was accompanied by the pounding of a fist.

He was gonna have to open the damn thing. Hope whoever on the other side wasn’t squeamish.

Every damn step hurt. Each movement pulled at his torn flesh and caused the glass to bite further into him. He gritted his teeth, grunting with the effort that it took to fight back the dark corners starting to creep into his vision the closer he got to the front door.

More banging.

Impatient bastards.

Whoever he was expecting to see, it wasn’t the cops.

Which was stupid, really. Cops were over nearly every damn day when Merle wasn’t in the lock up. Drug raids, bar fights, drunk driving – you’d think Daryl would be used to it by now.

He didn’t open the door fully. Cracked it open just enough to glare through with the eye that he was sure wasn’t bruised, squinting in the evening sun.

‘Whatdya want,’ he huffed, tasting blood in his teeth.

Two officers stood on the rotting porch wearing tan uniforms. One looked concerned, the other somewhere between bored and frustrated, hand resting on the gun at his waist. ‘Called out for a noise disturbance,’ the bored one stated, ‘mind explain what all the shouting was about?’

Daryl, feeling the blood continue to pulse down his back, considered simply shutting the door. He couldn’t deal with this, not right now. The dark spots in his vision were growing and damn if his old man wouldn’t kill him if he let cops into the house.

‘Ain’t nothing,’ Daryl dismissed, voice raspy. He would cling to the door for support if only the glass wouldn’t embed deeper into his palms. ‘We’ll keep it down.’

‘You alright?’ the other Officer asked, he was taller, leaner, looked barely older than Daryl himself. A rookie, then. His face tugged down in a frown as he peered through the gap in the door.

The glass somehow felt as if it had gotten into his throat, so he tried to nod instead.

A mistake.

The motion had him seeing stars, numbing his fingers and toes as he realised he was about to pass out.

Fuck.

The first Officer, now more frustrated than bored, huffed ‘fuck this,’ rubbed the back of his head, and shoved the door open. The doorhandle caught Daryl in the stomach, knocking against glass and jagged flesh and making Daryl grunt in pain as he once again fell on his ass.

He wanted to lash out, tell them to ‘get the fuck out of my house,’ and ‘come back with a fucking warrant,’ but the words didn’t come. He couldn’t move his mouth. Couldn’t move at all. Could only see the damp ceiling above him and his fading vision and then the second Officer leaning over him, wide-eyed.

‘He’s bleeding pretty heavily.’

‘Christ.’

He felt hands on his shoulders and started to panic, trying to shuffle away as someone hushed him like he was an animal caught in a trap.

‘Hey, calm down man, s’alright, we’ve got an ambulance coming.’

‘No,’ Daryl managed to snap, unable to keep the fear out of his voice. ‘M’fine, leave me be.’

‘Fine,’ the Officer repeated, ‘I can see that. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?’

Daryl wanted to snap again, but despite the blood in his mouth, his tongue felt like sandpaper, so begrudgingly, he did as he was told. He fixed his eyes on the Officer’s, bright and blue, the pain too great for him to squirm at the eye contact.

‘Good, just like that,’ the Officer reassured. Despite himself, Daryl felt himself cling to the words. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘Dixon,’ he spluttered. ‘Daryl,’ his name came out slurred.

He heard sirens, someone shouting and he flinched, grunting as the motion sent a ripple of pain over him.

The last thing he remembers is someone trying to reassure him. He remembers this because it’s strange. He’s not used to soft words. Certainly never expected them from a cop.

He doesn’t get to ponder this. His world quickly fades to black.

Rick had heard a lot about the Dixons. He’s nearly a year into active duty and while he hasn’t had to deal with them yet, the elders on the force have always got something to say about them and none of it was good.

The family have been quiet recently. The oldest son is in the lock up, the father has spent a night or two in the drunk tank and has picked up a warning for being drunk and disorderly, but they’ve been nothing more than an inconvenience. Rick was almost excited when he was finally called out to the Dixon residence. Time to see what all the fuss was about.

The excitement withered as soon as they pulled up to the house. Well, house might be a strong word, it was more of a dilapidated shack at the edge of town, backing onto the woods. The neighbouring shack was across the street, so whatever noise was being made must have been loud.

Shane put the parking brake on before leaning on the steering wheel with his forearms and scoffing at Rick’s expression. ‘Ain’t nothing to worry about, man,’ he said, amused. ‘Just redneck scum making noise. They ain’t got nothing better to do.’

The porch, damp wood dusted with cigarette ash, creaked as they approached the door. Any noise had been replaced with an eery silence. The windows, single paned and cracked in places, showed dark rooms and moulding curtains. It didn’t look like anyone was home.

When no one answered the door, Shane pounded his fist against it, impatient as ever. Rick tried to ignore how Shane’s fingers twitched over his gun at the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching. The door cracked open, and a watery blue eye peered out of them.

‘Whatdya want?’ the man on the other side of the door asked. And it became immediately apparent that something was really, really wrong.

The sliver of man they saw was pale and bloodied. Blood in his teeth, blood in dark, scruffy hair. His eye, the one peaking from behind the door, seemed to focus and unfocus, as if he were seeing them, but not really looking. His deep southern accent was slurred in a way that sounded like it was from pain over alcohol.

Either Shane didn’t notice the distinction, or he didn’t care. Rick watched as the blue eye behind the door dropped to look the hand still resting on Shane’s gun.

‘Called out for a noise disturbance,’ Shane drawled, ‘mind explain what all the shouting was about?’

The door widened slightly, just enough for Rick to make out the bruises darkening the other side of the man’s face as he blinked unevenly.

‘Ain’t nothing,’ he rasped, swaying as he spoke, a bloodstained hand hovering as if he wanted to grip the door for support but thought better of it. ‘We’ll keep it down.’

‘You alright?’ Rick asked.

There was a pause, and then a nod, and then the blood drained from the man’s face.

And just as Rick realised that this man was on the verge of collapse, he heard Shane huff, annoyance and impatience getting the better of him.

‘Fuck this.’

Shane kicked the door open, and the man behind it tumbled to the floor.

Rick had seen mugshots of Will and Merle Dixon – watched Merle grow up through them. Both father and son had a similar look, tall, light hair, skin lined from years of drink and drugs, angry expressions and dead eyes. Rick knew Will Dixon had a younger son, but his record was relatively clean – bar a few warnings – so they didn’t have a mugshot. If the man on the floor was the youngest Dixon, he must take after his mother. He was small, unnaturally slim for someone of a broad stature, a mess of unwashed dark hair that was matted with blood. He was younger than he had looked though the gap in the door, probably just a little younger than Rick was. He looked up at them wildly, like a cornered animal, and Rick felt his breath catch as he assessed the damage.

Jesus, that was a lot of blood. He knelt to get a closer look, sucking in a breath through his teeth as he realised that was glass embedded into his stomach and arms.

‘He’s bleeding pretty heavily,’ Rick told Shane without looking at him.

‘Christ,’ Shane cursed, already dialling for an ambulance.

Rick gingerly laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, one of the few parts of him not bloodied or bleeding, and the man flinched back as if his hand burnt.

It had been a stupid thing to do, Rick would realise afterward. These injuries weren’t an accident. Someone had done this. Someone had meant it.

No wonder than man, kid, really, had flinched.

‘Hey, calm down man, s’alright, we’ve got an ambulance coming.’

‘No,’ he was trying to shuffle backwards, whimpering as his back pushed against the filthy threadbare rug. ‘M’fine, leave me be.’

Rick blinked, eyes flitting down the shredded bare torso. ‘Fine,’ he repeated, deciding there was no arguing with a man in this condition but unable to completely curb his sarcasm. ‘I can see that. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?’

For a moment, the man looked just about ready to bite his head off. A flash of anger was quickly replaced by a flash of fear, his eyes – one of which was now nearly swollen shut – fixing onto Rick’s without a fuss.

‘Good, just like that,’ Rick all but cooed, unable to shake the feeling of trying to coax round a frightened animal. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘Dixon,’ he spluttered – Ah, so he was the youngest – ‘Daryl.’

Each word sounded like it hurt. Daryl blinked, hazy eyes trying to remain focused on Rick’s. Rick was relieved when he heard the sirens growing closer.

Shane stood out of the porch, having already scoped out the house, and shouted down the ambulance. Daryl jolted at the sound.

‘Daryl,’ Rick hushed, trying to remind himself that he was speaking to a man not a feral cat stuck in a trap, ‘it’s alright, we’re gonna make it alright.’

Daryl looked like he wanted to disagree, but he was barely conscious. Barely, and yet he reached up and gripped the front of Rick’s uniform as if to pull himself up, his eyes fighting back his eyelids, darting around as if he were looking for someone, looking for an escape.

He passed out before the paramedics got to him.

Daryl didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to wake up just yet. Mostly because he didn’t want to deal with the mess.

He couldn’t remember if he had managed to stitch himself up, but he does know that he would have to scrub the kitchen floor, wash his bloodstained clothes, wipe his bloody handprints from the bathroom sink before his Pa got back – if he wasn’t already. He’s surprised he’s been allowed to sleep this long – his father must have gotten drunk enough to fall asleep in a gutter somewhere instead of coming home.

Everything hurt. Everything hurt and he just wanted a little more sleep.

But it was loud. And without opening his eyes, he knew it was bright. He could hear muffled voices, footsteps, machines beeping. Must have fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on. In that case, he really needed to get up before his Pa dragged himself home.

But the couch wasn’t this comfy. He couldn’t feel the springs digging into his back, couldn’t smell the alcohol and smoke it was saturated with.

So, where the hell was he?

The memory hit him like a truck. The cops, the sirens, fuck.

Pa was going to lay into him all over again.

He cracked his eyes open and he’s at the hospital.

Great. How the fuck was he going to manage to pay this off? No job, no Merle – and as much as he hated to admit it, Merle was the real brains behind their earnings. He was the one with connections, Daryl knew Martinez, but Martinez was just a small-time dealer. He wouldn’t have enough to shit to sell to be able to pay this off, and Daryl doesn’t have the people skills to shift it, as Merle likes to remind him.

Money had been almost non-existent since Merle got sent to the lock up last year. Between Pa’s pitiful social security and Daryl’s ability to hunt, they had been barely scraping by. Ain’t no way he’s paying this off.

He groans, stress and pain mingling into nausea.

That’s when he hears someone clear their throat.

He jolts awake – fully awake, freshly closed wounds pulling and the cannula pinching the crook of his arm as he looks around the room, dread pooling in his stomach. Ain’t no way his Pa would have followed him here. He wasn’t fool enough to make a scene so public – not that anyone would give a shit.

He’s right. It’s not his Pa. It’s the Officer with the blue eyes who told him it was all going to be alright. Ha. If only he knew.

‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ the Officer smiled, leaning forward in his chair so his elbows rested on his knees. He looked tired, dark circles curled under his eyes which had crinkled at the corners now Daryl was awake. Daryl just blinked at him, bewildered. Was he being arrested? Had he done something? He rummaged his brain, which felt fuzzy from blood loss and meds, to try and remember if he had done anything recently that he could be taken in for.

But there was nothing. Not since Merle had gone. He’d been in the woods for most of it, occasionally at the bar, but sober enough to keep himself out of trouble. Mostly.

Maybe they were going to try and pin something on him.

The Officer’s forehead creased. ‘You alright?’

‘Never better,’ Daryl snapped. Stupid fucking question. ‘How long have I been out?’

The Officer checked his watch, stifled a yawn and said, ‘about six hours, now.’

‘Six hours? And you’ve been there the whole time?’

‘Pretty much. Went to get coffee at one point though.’

‘Why?’ Daryl demanded.

‘Well, it’s like, 2am and –’

‘I ain’t asking about the coffee, dumbass.’

The Officer blinked at him, and for a moment Daryl wondered if he was about to get handcuffs slapped over his bandaged wrists. He waited, not daring to breathe, but not caving and looking away, for something painful to happen.

But the Officer just laughed. ‘Of course you ain’t. The lack of sleep has got to me, see. Shoulda had a stronger coffee.’ He cleared his throat again, ran a hand over his tired face before adding, ‘I guess I thought you’d want some company when you woke up. You were in bad shape when we found you.’

Daryl shuffled, suddenly feeling very exposed as he dropped eye contact to fiddle with the bedsheets. He wished he was wearing something other than this flimsy hospital gown. He’s used to wearing layers, to covering up. It was something Pa had always enforced when Daryl had been young. Hide the scars, hide the bruising. He wasn’t exactly a looker and the only one allowed to look at him was Will Dixon. Now he’s older, it had stuck. He went sleeveless when hunting in the heat of a Georgia summer – but never in public.

‘M’fine. Don’t need no babysitter.’

The Officer smiled again, shook his head. ‘Never said you did. Besides, that ain’t the only reason I’m here.’

Of course. Here it comes. Any excuse to arrest a Dixon.

‘Why are you here then, Officer,’ Daryl sneered, his bandaged hands stinging as he clenched the bedsheets.

‘You don’t gotta call me that. Name’s Rick. Rick Grimes.’

‘Rick Grimes,’ Daryl repeated, ‘you got something you want to tell me?’

Rick cocked his head, those blue eyes flicking across Daryl’s face, taking in the bandages and bruises and the narrowed eyes, but also the way his hands trembled. ‘I got something I want to ask you, actually.’

‘Shoot.’

Rick sighed, rubbed his face again, ‘I need to know what happened, and I need you to be honest.’

Daryl scoffed, pulled the sheets over his arms, ‘don’t see how it’s any of your business.’

‘Really?’ Rick asked, giving him a pointed look.

Daryl glanced over at him, at the tan officers’ uniform, at the bloodied handprint under the collar, and swallowed.

‘Hunting accident.’

‘Uh huh,’ Rick nodded, not believing a word, ‘and the glass?’

‘Dropped it, cut myself cleaning up.’

Rick watched him for a moment, elbows back on his knees as he hunched forward, fingertips meeting in front of his mouth. ‘You seen your father today?’

Daryl nearly choked on air at the question, the blood loss doing nothing to stop the stain of embarrassment on his bruised cheeks. ‘What’s it to you?’

Another pointed look.

Daryl felt his temper start to climb, and he let it. Anger always had a way of drowning out the shame.

‘Do I look like a battered wife to you, Officer?’ he snarled, arms snaking defensively across his body below the sheets.

‘You certainly don’t look like someone that ends up in hospital after dropping a glass.’

‘Climb outta my ass, m’fine.’

‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened.’

‘I don’t need help!’ Daryl snapped, ‘ain’t none of your damn business. M’fine!’

Rick shot his hands up in surrender. ‘Alright, alright. You win. Can you at least tell me what the shouting was about? We had a noise complaint.’

‘Football was on. Must’a gotten too into it,’ Daryl shifted again.

Rick sighed. Daryl didn’t look like a football fan. Truth be told, he didn’t know the first thing about it. He couldn’t give less of a shit and it must have been pretty damn obvious.

‘Remind me, who was playing?’ Rick asked.

Daryl shot him daggers in lieu of the answer he didn’t have.

‘Look, at least let me give you a ride home once you’ve been discharged, maybe buy you a coffee or something.’

‘What a bleedin’ heart you are,’ Daryl grumbled. ‘My legs work just fine, I can walk.’

‘It’s like, five miles out, and you’ve lost a lot of blood,’ Rick stated, looking strained. ‘Please.’

He sounded so damn genuine that it made something stutter inside of Daryl. Every instinct, everything Merle had taught him, drilled into him, was screaming at him to tell his cop to go fuck himself. He didn’t need help, he had never needed help, and certainly not from a fucking cop.

And yet, he remembered how Rick’s voice had sounded, soothing him as he lost consciousness. He searched Rick’s face, scouring it for something to distrust, but it was so open, so damn honest, those tired blue eyes watching him with care, concern – but not pity.

Daryl groaned. ‘Fine, if it makes you feel better.’

‘Thank you,’ Rick said. ‘It does.’

They sat in silence for a moment, Daryl distracting himself by chewing at the skin around his thumbnail, Rick looking like he had more to say but thought better of it.

‘I’ll leave you to rest, alright? Be back in the morning to check in, hopefully you’ll be fit to leave by then.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Daryl said, wrestling with the mortifying realisation that he was disappointed Rick was leaving. God, was he really that hard up for decent company he wanted a cop to sit at his bedside? He could hear Merle cuss him out for it, calling him a pussy from inside his mind.

Rick smiled at him, it was tight, tired, but genuine, before standing with a huff and brushing himself down. ‘See you in the morning, then.’

All Daryl could do was blink, stunned, as Rick took his leave.

What the hell was that about?

‘Kid’s awake,’ Rick says, as soon as Shane picked up the phone.

‘Yeah? What’d he have to say for himself?’ Shane huffed, voice gruff from sleep and the annoyance at having been woken up fresh on his tongue.

‘Hunting accident.’

Shane laughed, ‘what, does he think we’re stupid? That’s rich.’

‘Shane,’ Rick warned without bite.

‘You’re not telling me you actually believe him?’

‘Of course not. But what else can I do? Force the truth outta him?’

There was a pause, and Rick knew Shane well enough to sense a shrug through the phone. ‘You could, depends how much you want it.’

‘Not that much,’ Rick growled.

‘Well, just leave it then man. I don’t get what the big deal is.’

Sometimes, just sometimes, Rick was floored by just how little of a shit Shane seemed to give about the people they were sworn to protect. He was a good cop – even if he preferred playing bad cop – he was smart, strong, intuitive, and yet he had seen the same scene Rick had seen at the Dixon house. He had seen to blood, the way Daryl flinched, the cuts on his back that crossed over badly healed scars.

He had seen, and he didn’t give a damn.

‘How can you possibly be okay with any of this?’ Rick hissed, desperate to keep his voice down as he stood in the hospital corridor.

‘Come on man, he’s just a Dixon, you know how they are. He’ll be in the lock up with his brother before long, probably.’

‘Not that it matters, but his record is clean,’ Rick spat.

Shane barked a laugh, ‘barely. Look man, just get home and get some rest, alright? You’re working tomorrow. Got a job to do.’

‘This is my job,’ Rick snapped, before hanging up.

Rick didn’t sleep. Not well, anyhow.

He might as well have spent the night and the damn hospital.

Every time he tried to close his eyes, drift off, all he could see was the blood on too-pale skin. The image of Daryl in the hospital, waking up in a panic, the bruising and the bandages and the way he tried to hide his pain with each movement like an animal trying to hide its weakness from a predator.

He could hear his prickly voice, defensive but underlaid with vulnerability, with fear.

Rick was dressed and in the car by 7am to head back to the hospital.

Daryl is awake when Rick arrives. It’s breakfast, soggy-looking scrambled eggs and undercooked bacon which Daryl is picking at with his bandaged fingers.

‘Officer,’ he greets, without looking up.

‘It’s Rick,’ Rick reminds him with a smile.

‘Whatever,’ Daryl shrugs, his sparse appetite seeming to disappear further in company.

‘How are you feeling this morning?’

Another shrug. ‘Fine, coupla stitches, I’ll live.’

Rick pursed his lips as he assessed Daryl in the light of day. The worst of the blood had been washed off, revealing new scars and old bruises. Rick’s eyes caught the faded yellow marks around Daryl’s neck that mirror handprints, with a matching pair around his upper arms. His fresh injuries included a split lip, a black eye, a swollen cheekbone. He was bandaged from the forearms down, and although covered by a hospital gown and sheets, Rick suspected he would have dressings on his stomach and back to match.

‘You’re a tough sun’ova’bitch, I’ll give you that,’ Rick mused.

This got Daryl to look up, narrow eyes glaring at him. Rick was once again reminded of a feral cat, untrusting, ready to fight or flee. ‘Ain’t nothin,’ he said, as if he really believed it, ‘like I said, just a coupla stitches.’

‘Doc tell you when you can get outta here?’

‘Not yet. Don’t need their permission neither. I’m good to go.’

And just as Rick opened his mouth to protest, in came a doctor. Rick silently thanked his lucky stars and Daryl scowled.

‘Mr Dixon,’ the doctor started before spotting Rick and faltering. ‘Would you, eh, prefer to discuss this in private?’

Rick stood to leave, but Daryl simply shrugged again, ‘don’t care.’ He was chewing the skin around his thumbnail as he said it, and while his head was down, his gaze flashed over to Rick, if only for a second.

And call him crazy, but Rick’s gut told him that Daryl’s don’t care could be interpreted as please stay. So he sat back down and watched some of the tension fall from Daryl’s shoulders as he did so.

‘As you wish,’ the doctor remarked, ‘how are you feeling today, Daryl?’

‘Peachy,’ Daryl huffed.

‘Do you mind if I have a look at your stitches?’

‘Suppose not.’

And the delicately slow act of unravelling the bandages began, starting with the forearms. Rick busied himself with picking at the skin around his nails, stealing the occasional glance over at Daryl’s bruised wrists, now laid bare. Only a few wounds on his arms had needed stitching, and the absence of the glass and the blood made it look less severe. Daryl still flinched under each of the doctor’s careful touches.

With his arms and hands redressed, the doctor asked Daryl to remove the hospital gown. And even though Daryl must have expected this, his bruised cheeks stained red at the question. He glanced over at Rick, who raised his eyebrows and glanced towards the door, as if to say, I can leave, if you want.

Daryl, still pink, chewed on his bottom lip, eyes flitting between the doctors’ hands and Rick. He shrugged again, the tension back in his shoulders.

Rick nodded in understanding and remained sat, but kept his eyes averted. The tension once again dissipating.

But only a little.

Rick had been right, out of the corner of his eye he could make out a blur of dressing coating Daryl’s stomach, no doubt hiding gashes that were destined to add the gnarled scars already decorating his chest. He seemed shorter than his father and brother, and where they are long and lean, Daryl’s body and bones were set out to form a more compact figure. Except that Rick could see the man’s ribs, the sharp jut of his collarbones. He was too thin for a man of his stature. A starving animal, backed into a corner.

And with each touch, he was looking at the doctor as if he were going to bite.

Rick had to force composure at the sight of Daryl’s undressed back. Keloid scars rose and fell like valleys, cutting through a faded tattoo on his shoulder blade, with one curling up to the base of his neck. The rest snaked underneath the bandages, welcoming new additions of torn flesh to the canvas.

It felt private.

It felt like a punch in the gut.

Someone had enjoyed doing this. Someone had enjoyed doing this for a long time.

Daryl tried to hide his poorly controlled flinches at each touch, the redness creeping from his cheeks and ears down to his chest and back.

Rick understood that his presence was important, needed. But his gaze was not. He kept his eyes fixed on a point out of the window.

Once the doctor gave the all clear, Daryl couldn’t pull his hospital gown on fast enough, wincing as his rushed movements stretched bruised and stitched skin. He caught Rick’s gaze then, holding it with those sharp blue eyes, waiting, daring.

But mostly afraid.

Of what, Rick wasn’t entirely sure.

But Rick kept his face set as he held Daryl’s glare, and although he didn’t smile, he kept his eyes soft and the corners crinkled as he nodded once. Daryl hitched a breath as if he had been holding it in and looked away, rolling his shoulders.

Daryl was given painkillers, strict instructions to return in a few weeks for the removal of his stitches, and a bunch of paperwork that made him frown, and then sent on his way.

‘Brought you some clothes for the road,’ Rick said, somewhat sheepish, once the doctor had left the room. ‘Yours were a bit bloodstained, and I figured you wouldn’t be keen walking out in a hospital gown.’

To Rick’s surprise, Daryl almost laughed. ‘Could get used to the breeze, though.’

Rick chuckled, holding neatly folded, fresh clothes he had pulled from his wardrobe this morning. Just jeans and a sweater, ones he wouldn’t miss but would keep Daryl warm against the late autumn air. ‘These yours?’ Daryl asked, thumbing the thick knit of the dark sweater.

‘Not your usual style, I take it?’

Daryl eyed him suspiciously once again. ‘Didn’t say that,’ he huffed, the way his fingers assessed the fabric reminding Rick a cats kneading. ‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ Rick confirmed.

‘Don’t like owing people.’

‘You don’t owe me, Daryl.’

Daryl huffed, shuffling under the sheets. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, barely audible, gaze fixed purposely out of the window.

‘They won’t fit well,’ Rick told him, just before turning to leave and give Daryl privacy to change.

Something changed in Daryl’s face then, his guarded features dropping into something that resembled shame. He looked Rick up and down at the words and bit the insides of his cheeks. ‘You don’t say,’ he snapped, but Rick could sense the embarrassment behind the sarcasm. He just didn’t really understand it.

Daryl sat in the front seat with his hand on the interior handle as if he were about to spring from the moving car at any moment. Rick was right. The clothes didn’t fit well. His sweater too big, rolled up at the sleeves and neckline hanging low enough to expose a collarbone. Rick felt a surge of protectivity at the sight. They didn’t speak much, Daryl gave a few directions, occasionally rolled his eyes at Rick’s music choice, but the silences weren’t uncomfortable.

Rick would probably have more to say if he weren’t distracted by the dread in the pit of his stomach that grew the closer they got to the house.

It felt wrong. Driving Daryl back there, knowing what had happened. What would probably happen again. Rick felt almost complicit.

The Dixon residence looked just as abandoned as it did the day before. Lights off, roof sagging, lawn overgrown and strewn with cigarette butts. Daryl stiffened as the car pulled to a stop, cheeks stained pink and eyes locked on the front door.

Instinctively, Rick reached out to touch him, to squeeze his shoulder, but Daryl flinched at the movement, pushing the car door open with the motion. But he didn’t get out of the car. He sat frozen, a true deer in the headlights.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be alright?’ Rick asked, voice as soft as he dared.

‘Yeah,’ Daryl breathed, the lack of bite making the dread in Rick’s stomach stronger. Daryl cleared he throat, seeming to shake himself into motion and got out of the car. Before he closed the door, he turned around, not quite meeting Rick’s gaze, his cheeks burning from pink to red. ‘Thanks… for, y’know.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Rick said, trying to catch Daryl’s gaze, obscured by his hair. ‘Just, look after yourself, yeah? Might not survive the next hunting accident.’

Daryl’s lips drew into a thin line, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, meeting Rick’s gaze for the last time before turning and heading towards that damn house.

He didn’t look back again, but Rick stayed until the front door closed.

Daryl had to clean the kitchen after all.

It wasn’t unexpected, but something withered inside him as he assessed the scene under the flickering kitchen light. Dried blood that had started to flake, shattered glass reaching to the corners of the room, his father’s bloodied boot prints trailing through the house and out the front door.

Pa hadn’t come home yet. Small blessings.

But Daryl probably didn’t have long.

So he got to work, scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees, soapy water soaking through his bandaged palms and stinging his wounds. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Merle was laughing, calling him fucking Cinderella. Father’s little bitch boy.

Daryl bit down hard on his lower lip as he worked, hating that Merle was so often right. Hating that he wasn’t even fucking here. He muttered a string of curses as the cuts on his back began to pull. He’s not sure how long he was at it, but he knows he is light-headed when he is done. And everything hurt so much more. His hands, his back, his head. He could take the painkillers – ones he would have to hide once his Pa got back unless he wanted to lose them – but they had to be taken with food.

And that could be a problem.

The fridge was near bare. They had three eggs, a carton of what was once milk, a six pack and some cheese slices that felt like plastic. Daryl found some stale bread in a cupboard and, after cutting off a moulding crust, made himself a sandwich.

It was disgusting. So dry it kept sticking to the roof of his mouth but he was so damn hungry and reluctant to pour himself another glass of water. He had eaten worse. He was lucky to be eating at all.

Lucky, and so damn stupid.

The front door opened, causing Daryl to freeze in place, sandwich half raised to his mouth.

‘You in here, boy?’

Daryl swallowed, took a deep breath. ‘Yes Sir.’

He was met with a sigh, followed by heavy footsteps, boots dragging on the floor indicating a hangover. He appeared in the doorway, ragged, dirty, tired eyes glinting, assessing the room for any lingering trace of the night before. ‘Where’ve you been at?’

‘Went hunting,’ Daryl lied, fighting to keep his voice steady, to keep his face calm, uninterested. If only he could stop his jaw from clenching.

‘Whatcha catch?’ His father asked, now eyeing the half-eaten sandwich through low brows.

Daryl swallowed again, shuffling in his chair. ‘Nothin’, woods were quiet.’

‘Were they now?’ he asked, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms. ‘Why are you eating that, then? You know our rule. You don’t catch, you don’t eat.’

Daryl couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere but at the half eaten, disgusting sandwich on the chipped plate. Damn thing wasn’t even worth getting his ass beat over. He fought back the waves in his stomach as he muttered, ‘sorry Sir.’

His father approached then, wearing a grin that bared his yellowed teeth, and slapped the plate off of the table. Daryl flinched as it shattered across the freshly cleaned floor. ‘I should give you another hiding, boy,’ he sneered. ‘Sitting around, doing fuck all and still expecting to be fed.’

They were nearly forehead to forehead, his father bearing down on him as Daryl stared ahead, unmoving, unseeing, waiting.

‘Can’t afford to be feeding the likes of you,’ his father breathed, voice thick with rage and ecstasy. ‘Look at you. It’s not like you need it. Got enough meat on your bones to survive the whole winter as it is. Christ.’

And then hands were on him, roughly, one in his hair, the other pinching his cheeks while cupping under his chin and forcing his head up, forcing Daryl’s eyes to meet his. Black and dilated like a shark, filled with wild lust and hate.

‘You used to be such a skinny little thing. Just like your mother,’ the hand gripped his cheeks tighter, dirty nails marking his flesh. ‘What happened? What happened?’

Daryl couldn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. He just sat there and tried not to tremble.

‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ his father said. ‘I think, your brother spoilt you. I think you got greedy,’ his face was so close now, so damn close. ‘I think you knew that I – enjoyed you – when you were small. I think you ruined yourself on purpose.’

Daryl tried to shake his head, to disagree, but his father held him in place and his voice died on his tongue.

‘I think you want to embarrass me.’

‘No,’ Daryl protested, trying to pull away.

The nails dug in further.

‘No? No what?’

‘No Sir,’ Daryl gritted.

His fathers palm met his left cheek at full force, the noise echoing around the kitchen. He stayed hovering over Daryl for a moment, hand still gripping his hair, as if deciding whether he had to energy to land another hit. Daryl heard nothing but the distant sound of the clock ticking, the snorts of his father’s bullish breath.

‘No food unless you catch something.’

And with that, he let Daryl go, roughly pushing his head down as he went.

Daryl went to sleep hungry most nights. It wasn’t anything new. He was used to it.

And with the state he was in, he wouldn’t be successful on a hunt for at least a week. Probably more. Wouldn’t even be able to work his damn crossbow. He was going to be hungry for a long time.

But, hey. If his Pa was right, it wasn’t such a bad thing.

He strips before the grimy bathroom mirror, wincing at the motion of pulling Rick’s sweater over his head. God he was a mess. His torso a collection of mottled colours that weren’t supposed to be there. Angry bruises over old scars. He feels a swirl of shame.

He should have told Rick to leave when the doctor had checked him over. Should have spared him the sight. But the prospect of being alone with the doctors wandering hands had made him feel queasy, which Rick’s calm gaze and steady breathing seemed to negate.

It was stupid. Stupid. He didn’t even know this Rick. He was just another cop. Another stranger. Another set of prying eyes, at best judging him, and at worst…

Daryl shuddered, hating that even after years, he could still feel hands on his skin. Hating that even soft touches were designed to hurt.

He began to peel the dressings off, scrutinising which cuts would become new scars, and which would fade. He was going to have a deep one just below his navel, but luckily, it wasn’t too severe length-ways. The rest would probably get lost in the tangle of scars he already had. Irrelevant. Forgettable.

His stomach grumbled, and in response he ran a hand gingerly over his visible, bruised ribs, counting them to convince himself that they were real.

That he was real.

And suddenly it was all too much, and all he could do to stop himself from doing something truly pathetic like crying was to turn away from the mirror, call himself a pussy and retreat to his mattress in the corner of Merle’s room. Or rather, Merle’s old room. It didn’t matter how long it had been since Merle had last stayed, Daryl was forbidden by both his brother and his father from using the bed.

He wrapped himself back in the sweater, thick-knitted with soft yarn and nicer than any piece of clothing he had ever owned and carefully curled himself onto the mattress. As he did, he heard a crinkle in the pocket of the jeans Rick had given him. Probably trash, but his curiosity got the better of him.

The folded piece of paper he found in the pocket had a phone number scrawled across it in blue ink, accompanied by the words I’m here – Rick.

Daryl read it, read it again and snorted.

He didn’t need anyone. Certainly not some cop.

He fell asleep clutching the note all the same.

It would happen again. Of that, Rick was certain.

It was just a matter of time.

Rick spent his shift distracted. Someone could have come at him with a gun and he wouldn’t have noticed until he had a bullet hole.

But things were quiet, giving Shane time to force coffee after coffee down Rick’s throat, going on about the girl he was seeing and the game tomorrow. Rick nodded occasionally, but honestly, he was sick of hearing about Lindsey-Mae and the Falcons.

He couldn’t believe he had let Daryl go back into that house.

Worse, he couldn’t believe that Daryl had walked back inside as though it wasn’t a big deal. As if he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The coffee in Rick’s otherwise empty stomach churned as he realised that Daryl probably didn’t have anywhere else to go. Daryl had no other choice and acted as if his only choice didn’t bother him.

It did, Rick could see that. He just couldn’t do anything about it.

Shane had told him once that, as cops, they were the power, but Rick so often found that the opposite felt true. They dealt with people that needed help and support on a near daily basis, but what help could they offer, except putting someone in handcuffs? How did that help an addict? A homeless man? A woman in a mental health crisis? How the hell did it help Daryl, who had to walk back into the house where he was getting beaten to a pulp on a regular? Sure, they could arrest the suspect – but even that wasn’t simple. Especially with Daryl insisting everything was fine. It didn’t undo what had already been done. It didn’t even guarantee it never happening again.

Rick felt so utterly powerless.

‘You even listening to me, man?’ Shane asked, indignantly.

‘Yeah, course,’ Rick lied. ‘Just tired is all.’

Shane scoffed, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Whose fault is that, huh?’

‘I had to question him when he woke up,’ Rick defended.

‘Shoulda gone home, gone to bed. You’d have caught him in the morning, not like he was going anywhere.’

‘I didn’t want him to wake up alone,’ Rick said through gritted teeth.

Shane was looking at him in disbelief. ‘Lemme ask you something man, you think he cared whether you were there or not? Judging by his sorry state it ain’t the first time.’

‘That doesn’t make it better.’

‘I’m saying it don’t make a difference. You got to focus on your job.’

‘I am,’ Rick scowled.

Shane rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he looked away, giving up on the notion of trying to explain things to Rick. As if he were too damn stupid and soft to understand.

Rick bit his tongue and let him think it.

They barely spoke for the rest of the shift.

He slept like shit. Again.

Rick let his anger at Shane distract him. It was easier to feel than the constant, sinking worry, the twist of – something – in his gut at the mental image of Daryl, wearing Rick’s too-big clothes, walking back into that house with his fists balled up to stop them from trembling. How Shane couldn’t see that it was wrong, couldn’t bring himself to care even if it was wrong, Rick couldn’t bring himself to fathom. He had been friends with Shane since school. Brothers, even. Yet since becoming Officers together, Rick could no longer deny the wave of discomfort at the frequent reminders that maybe Shane wasn’t the man Rick had thought he was.

He tried to keep himself busy. It was his day off, so his tidied his apartment, did his laundry, spoke with his ex, Lori, over the phone to check in on Carl. He was nearly two years old now. It was Rick’s weekend coming up, which was something to look forward to. He stopped to chat with Carol at her apartment down the hall, she made him tea, let him rant about Shane and worry about Daryl and rubbed his back with a sort-of motherly affection, even though she couldn’t have been anymore than 10 years older than Rick himself.

It wasn’t until the evening that he felt his phone start to vibrate in his pocket.

At first, he assumed it was Shane. Some strange and futile hope washed over him as he wondered whether he was calling to apologise. But Shane didn’t do apologies. Rick should know that by now.

Instead, his phone displayed a number he did not recognise. A landline. Local.

He answered, swallowing his heart down his throat. ‘Hello?’

‘This Rick?’

‘Daryl?’

‘Yeah,’ Daryl said, the phone accentuating his accent. He sounded younger over the phone, almost apprehensive. It made Rick’s head spin with relief that he had called and fear over why he had called.

‘You okay?’ Rick asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

‘Yeah,’ Daryl said again, but he didn’t sound sure. ‘I found your number in my – your – pocket, figured… figured you’d want your clothes back. I could drop em off somewhere, if you want.’

Rick huffed a sigh of relief, ‘don’t worry about it. How are you feeling? Stitches holding okay?’

‘Fine,’ Daryl murmured, ‘ain’t no trouble.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Suppose so.’

They were silent for a moment, static filling the space between them.

‘I, eh, I was just about to go and grab a coffee. You want to come?’ Rick had no idea what possessed him to ask, and the fear at being too forward gripped his throat, making his words almost croaky. But he wanted to see Daryl again. He wanted to see for himself that he was okay.

There was another pause, before Daryl responded, ‘don’t got no money.’

‘My treat,’ Rick offered, slightly too quickly.

‘I ain’t a charity,’ Daryl huffed.

‘I know,’ Rick said, once again fighting to keep his voice even, casual. ‘Don’t think of it as charity. Think of it as a friend buying coffee for a friend.’

‘We don’t know each other,’ Daryl countered.

‘Maybe, but I’d like to know you,’ Rick said.

Another pause. Rick felt as if he were drowning in the fear that he had overstepped.

‘Fine. When?’

‘Half an hour? I can pick you up,’ Rick said, feeling his heart flutter as some of the tension dissipated.

‘Half an hour,’ Daryl repeated, ‘but, if it ain’t too much trouble Officer, could you pick me up from the corner, not like, right outside the house?’

‘I can do that,’ Rick told him through a grin, ‘but if we’re going to be friends, you can’t keep calling me Officer.’

‘Rick,’ Daryl corrected himself, his voice almost soft.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ Rick told him.

Daryl grunted in confirmation before hanging up, leaving Rick standing in his kitchen, still gripping his phone and smiling like a damn idiot.

Daryl wonders at what point did he lose his mind and all of his senses. Somewhere in the last beating, for sure, but he had been though a lot of shit. A lot of shit and still never ended up willingly in a car with a cop, going on a coffee date.

No, not date.

If anything, this was an act of pity. He tried to remind himself of this as Rick pulled up at the corner of his street, grinning at him. It was pity, when he asked Daryl how he felt, how he had slept, if he liked whatever the fuck a latte was. It wasn’t friendship. It certainly wasn’t anything more.

It couldn’t be.

Daryl tried to hide his grimace as his back rubbed against the seat and the seatbelt pushed into the wounds on his abdomen, tried to cough to cover the growling of his empty stomach. Anything to make himself seem less pathetic. Anything to ward off the pity.

They stopped at a traffic light, Daryl jousting in his seat and hissing in pain and the seatbelt dug into that wound under his navel.

‘You alright there?’ Risk asked.

‘Yeah, fine,’ Daryl gritted, swallowing back the pain and trying to sit still, seem comfortable.

‘You sure about that?’

‘Said m’fine!’ Daryl snapped, and almost instantly regretted doing so. He almost said sorry. Almost. But he could hear Merle telling him to get a fucking grip instead. So he kept his mouth shut and pretended he didn’t feel guilty.

Rick nodded and didn’t ask again for the rest of the journey. He did talk though, and he talked a lot.

Daryl had never been a big talker. It was beaten out of him before he even had the words. His Ma was too drunk to comprehend what he was saying, his father and brother too impatient to listen. And as he grew up, he learnt it was easier to let Merle do the talking for him. Merle always had something to say, even if it was the wrong thing to say. As long as Daryl could go along with it and stick up for himself against the neighbourhood kids, he didn’t need to talk.

Rick seemed to pick up on this. And Rick didn’t seem to mind. He held the bulk of the conversation, pausing to hear Daryl’s clumsy input every now and then, and Daryl noticed his almost goofy-looking grin whenever Daryl did have something to add. As if he were happy to hear what Daryl had to say.

Or he’s mocking you, Merle’s voice cut in. Why would he care what a piece of shit hillbilly has to say, huh? I’m the only one who wants to listen to you baby brother. Remember that.

But Rick smiled softly at him, stealing glances from the road on a straight stretch. Daryl felt a nervous flutter in his empty stomach as he told his inner Merle to fuck off.

‘You work yesterday?’ Daryl asked, embarrassed at how unnatural this all came to him. ‘How was it?’

‘Pretty dull, but a dull day is a good day in my line of work.’

As he said it, Daryl noticed that Rick’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, his mouth pulling into a sort of frown. ‘You and your cop buddy didn’t throw anyone in jail, then?’ Daryl pried.

Rick laughed a little. ‘Nah, although I’m sure Shane was itching for it.’

‘Trouble in paradise?’ Daryl asked, heart hammering against his ribcage as he wondered how far was too far to push this.

‘My partner and I had a bit of a disagreement.’

‘What about?’

Rick paused, Daryl dug his fingers into the leather of the car seat. ‘He doesn’t share my understanding of our job requirements. Seems to think I’m being stupid.’

‘Were you?’ Daryl asked, quieter. If he asked his old man something like that, he would be beaten to high hell.

Rick pulled his eyes off of the road momentarily to look at him, and Daryl flinched, jaw tensing as he waited for something to hurt.

But nothing happened. Rick just frowned, set his eyes back on the road and said firmly, gently, ‘no I wasn’t.’

Something about the surety of the statement put Daryl at ease.

Daryl had never been in a coffee shop before. He had been in a Waffle House once, a Dennys, plenty of dive bars, but this was a step out of his comfort zone. It was quiet, clean, filled with comfy furnishing and advertising drinks that he had never heard of.

‘What would you like?’ Rick asked him.

‘Just a coffee.’

‘What kind?’

Daryl’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Ain’t there only one kind?’

Rick paused, eyes boring into Daryl for a split second, before looking up at the board above the counter. ‘You know, I take you as someone who has a sweet tooth, that right?’

And it was right. Daryl did have a sweet tooth. But admitting this felt at best embarrassing, at worst, shameful, so he just fixed Rick with a glare and didn’t say anything.

But it didn’t matter. Rick took Daryl’s silence as a yes and ordered him some fancy-sounding coffee with vanilla syrup from the Asian kid behind the counter. ‘Two of those pastries as well,’ Rick threw in, pointing through the clear cabinet.

Daryl cleared his throat, shuffling from one foot to the other. ‘Told ya, I ain’t got any money,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s on me,’ Rick insisted, smiling at him, and then at the Asian kid, who he seemed to know. He asked how Rick was, how was work, how Shane was doing, how Carl was doing. Daryl felt increasing awkward, fingers picking at the skin around his thumbs while concealed in his pockets.

‘You guys sit down, I’ll bring the coffee over,’ the Asian kid said, handing Rick a tray with the two plated pastries.

The coffee shop was empty – it was a bit late for coffee, really – so Rick led them to the comfiest corner and placed the tray on the table between them as Daryl sat down carefully to avoid aggravating any wounds.

‘I’m not sure what it is,’ Rick said, gesturing to the pastries, ‘looks chocolatey, hope that’s okay.’

Daryl could not remember the last time he had had chocolate. ‘M’not hungry,’ he lied.

Rick watched him for a moment, those blue eyes piercing, trying to pry into Daryl’s mind. ‘Daryl,’ Rick started, voice low, ‘you look like you haven’t eaten in days. Just humour me, please.’

He sounded so damn sincere and Daryl, for a moment, felt anger bubble in his chest. He didn’t need some cop worrying about him. It wasn’t any of his damn business.

But his stomach growled, and he was so fucking hungry. So hungry, and embarrassingly curious about the little pastry on the plate before him. It seemed foreign to him. Alien. Too delicate and too fancy and yet undeniably inviting.

And wasn’t that just his problem. No self-control. Spoilt, he heard his father spit. He didn’t need to eat, had gone longer without eating before. Much, much longer. And when did he finally run on empty, he didn’t need something so indulgent. Daryl chewed on his bottom lip, trying to ignore how his stomach felt as if it were eating itself. Trying to ignore how Rick was looking at him, all soft and hopeful and it made him feel sick.

‘Fine,’ Daryl relented, voice quieter than he had expected.

Rick grinned, relaxing in his chair a little and opening his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the Asian kid holding two coffees in glass mugs.

Daryl caught a glance at the kid’s nametag as he set the drinks down. Glenn. He looked a bit younger than Daryl, but not by much. Glenn caught him looking and smiled, almost apprehensively.

‘Thanks, Glenn,’ Daryl muttered, words unnatural on his tongue, but it felt important to say. Merle never would. Wouldn’t even bother to learn the kid’s name.

And Merle wasn’t here. Sometimes, Daryl wasn’t sure that his absence was all that bad of a thing.

Glenn looked taken aback, but then offered a toothy grin that lit his eyes up and said, ‘no problem, eh…’

‘Daryl,’ he offered, gruffly, feeling his cheeks start to stain pink as he could feel Rick watching him.

‘Nice to meet you, Daryl.’

The coffee was good, although it tasted fuck all like any coffee Daryl had ever had before. Fucking thing had cream on the top.

‘You didn’t have to do this,’ Daryl mused, unable to meet Rick’s eyes.

‘I wanted to,’ Rick replied. ‘Besides, I figure your company is better than some of the idiots I work with.’

‘Well, you are a cop,’ Daryl dismissed, the corners of his lips turning up, ‘it’s a low bar.’

‘That it is,’ Rick agreed, amused, but with a hint of… something else. Stress? Frustration? Daryl shuffled once again in his seat, hoping it wasn’t directed at him. ‘How is it? The coffee, I mean. Was I right about that sweet tooth?’

‘It’s good,’ Daryl shrugged, ‘don’t taste much like coffee to me though. Coffee ain’t supposed to have syrup in.’

‘Makes it taste better, though,’ Rick grinned, as if trying to pry something out of Daryl.

‘Suppose,’ Daryl said, taking a gulp of his drink, conscious of not letting cream stick to the tip of his nose. ‘Guess I’m just used to that instant shit. Reminds me of my Ma.’

Rick cocked his head slightly at that, brows furrowing and he lent forward, elbows on the table. ‘How so?’

‘Well, Ma was a big drinker, always waking up with a hangover. Some days not waking up at all. Just laying in bed all day. Used to make her coffee just to try and wake her up – s’what Merle said it did – ain’t ever work though. Mosta the time she wouldn’t even touch it. I’d have to drink it in the end, when it got all cold and shit. Not allowed to waste a thing. I weren’t good at making it neither. Merle used to say it tasted like piss,’ Daryl finished with a scoff.

It was weird, talking about Ma. Merle was gone when she died, didn’t like talking about it once he was back. The last time Merle had really given Daryl a proper, rib-breaking beating was the day he got home. He had missed the funeral by a week. And his old man ain’t ever wanted to talk about it. Will Dixon did not mourn the loss of his wife, only the loss of her services. Services he had already been starting to squeeze out of his youngest son.

It had only gotten worse when Ma died.

Rick was watching him carefully, eyes sad. ‘I’m sure she appreciated the gesture.’

Daryl scoffed again, ‘maybe,’ he shrugged. Truth be told, Daryl wasn’t sure his Ma even registered it was happening. She hadn’t been all there, especially towards the end. ‘Coffee here is much better than anything I could make.’

They were quiet as they finished their drinks.

The presence of the little chocolate pastry was getting harder to ignore with the drinks gone. Daryl still hadn’t touched his. It was stupid, but he there was an unreasonable itch in the back of his mind that as soon as he took a bite, his father would burst in and start beating him to high hell. His father would never step foot in a place like this, and although he was brazen with dishing out beatings, Daryl doubted he would be reckless enough to smack him about in front of a cop.

He would kill him if he knew Daryl was out, in a place like this, drinking coffee with a cop, though. The pastry would be the cherry on top.

But how would he know? How?

Rick was watching him still, waiting for him to take a bite, pretending not to hear the continual grumble of Daryl’s empty stomach.

Fuck it.

He weren’t scared of nothin’.

Daryl broke of a small corner of the pastry with his fingers and popped it in his mouth, where it melted on his tongue. Sweet, chocolatey and warm. Rick’s smile warmed him further. He couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed by this. Not right now.

‘Good, right?’ Rick asked.

‘Mm-hm,’ Daryl agreed, taking another bite, mostly to see Rick smile at him again. The slightly mortifying, definitely exhilarating realisation dawned on him that he liked Rick’s smile and he liked being the reason for it.

He blocked out Merle’s voice calling him a fucking faggot and, eager to please, finished off the pastry.

It didn’t fill him up much, but it was enough to calm the starving anger in his stomach. It was something. Daryl thanked Rick sheepishly, cheeks once again pink and eyes not able to meet his. But it didn’t seem to matter. Rick was smiling, all goofy-like and lopsided and it was so infectious that Daryl felt himself grin as well.

They said goodbye to Glenn on the way out, Rick handing the tray with the mugs to him to save him a trip to the table.

Daryl managed an awkward nod, the ghost smile still etched on his face.

‘I’ll see you guys soon!’ Glenn said as he waved them out. It sounded like a promise, and Daryl let himself cling to the stupid belief that maybe he would be back here with Rick.

Daryl was in pain.

He was just very good at hiding it.

Rick watched Daryl’s jaw tense as he lowered himself into the car, his breath hitch as the seatbelt pulled across his middle.

He was good at hiding fear, too.

But Rick knew he didn’t want to go back to that house. At least not yet.

‘So,’ Rick started, once they were both in the car. ‘I’m not much of a chef, but I was gonna cook tonight and was wondering…’ he fought to keep his breath steady against the creeping worry he was pushing things too far, too fast. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to join me?’

Daryl didn’t respond right away. He shot him a narrow-eyed stare and Rick was sure he was going to get told to fuck off. But then Daryl’s eyebrows pulled together, his teeth chewing into his bottom lip. ‘You don’t gotta do this,’ he huffed, turning to look out of the window with his arms crossed over himself.

‘I want to,’ Rick said, voice firm yet soft. ‘And if my cooking is that bad, we can order takeout.’

Another pause, and then Daryl sighs. ‘Why?’

Rick cocked his head, watching Daryl who was carefully looking anywhere but directly at him. ‘I told you, you’re good company.’

‘Hardly,’ Daryl huffed, but he let the matter drop. ‘Whatcha cooking?’ he asked, now glancing at Rick from the corner of his eye, a hint of curiosity on his voice.

‘I don’t know,’ Rick mused, ‘maybe something with spaghetti.’

Daryl’s eyebrows rose as they pulled up to Rick’s building. ‘S’nice place,’ he said, picking the skin around his thumbnail.

It wasn’t, really. It was the cheapest place Rick could find with two bedrooms after his breakup with Lori. It wasn’t bad, but it was a standard issue block of flats. Nothing special. But Rick remembered Daryl’s house – the smell of damp and blood, the rotting wood, the moulding carpets – and supposed that his building was probably a nice place. At least in comparison. So, he smiled as he parked up and said, ‘thanks.’

They got out of the car and Daryl looked around, ‘think I’d miss the woods, though,’ he said.

‘You outdoorsy?’ Rick asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Could say that,’ Daryl said, trying to hide the ghost of a smile. ‘Spend more time outdoors than in. S’easier that way.’

Rick tried not to think too much into that last statement.

The lift was broken – Rick doesn’t think it has worked once in the time he has lived there – so they took the stairs to the top floor and Rick tried not to notice how much Daryl struggled. It was five floors up, and Daryl was gritting his teeth in pain by the second and breathing heavily by the third. Rick bit back his concern. He knew enough about Daryl already to know he would react badly if Rick called him out, asked if he needed help. Rick just slowed down so Daryl didn’t have to push himself so hard.

Inside, Daryl didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He stood awkwardly in the living room, eyes darting about and Rick realised he was looking for exits. Fire escape, front door, window with a five storey drop. Daryl shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Relax, put something on the TV,’ Rick started, eyeing the couch, hoping that Daryl would sit down, stop looking like he was caught in a trap. ‘Help yourself to whatever, I’m going to start on dinner.’

‘Need a hand?’ Daryl offered, voice wavering as if he thought the question was stupid.

‘Sure, only if you want to.’

Another shadow of a grin pulled at Daryl’s lips, ‘I ain’t good in the kitchen, really. Good at prepping game, though. Ain’t really the same. Can make a decent rabbit stew, though.’

‘Well I ain't good at either,’ Rick told him, and it was the truth. He was a good shot, but not a good hunter and all of his food came from the supermarket. And the cooking – well, he had had to learn to cook for Carl, but he had burnt everything from toast to pasta – so he wasn’t exactly confident in his skills. ‘We can learn together, trial and error – although you’ll have to make me your rabbit stew sometime.’

The kitchen quickly turned into a bombsite.

The pasta was undercooked, but the sauce was burnt, drawing a colourful string of swearwords from Daryl as it started to bubble over. Dirty dishes quickly stacked up as they chopped vegetables and forgot about certain ingredients and by the time they had finished both of them had oil-spit stains on their clothes.

It tasted okay, though. At least Rick thought so.

They sat opposite each other at the little round table in the kitchen, the mess they had made fading into the background as Rick observed that Daryl seemed almost relaxed for the first time since he had met him. Defences down, chatting almost freely with a lopsided smile. He was surprisingly witty, there was a touch of sass about him that made Rick’s chest warm and drew out effortless laughs, which seemed to please Daryl all the more. He was also eating, to Rick’s relief, and eating a lot, quickly. Once again, Rick had to force the image of a starved, stray cat out of his mind.

‘S’not bad, huh? Maybe we’re better in the kitchen than we thought,’ Rick said, gesturing to Daryl’s near empty plate.

There was a flash of something in Daryl’s face. Shock and shame. His fork paused on the way to his mouth and he swallowed thickly, eyes darting between the plate and Rick. He shuffled in his chair. Rick wondered what it was he had said wrong.

‘S’alright. Mostly you, though. I just burnt shit.’

Rick scoffed, ‘tell that to my son, kid hates my cooking.’

‘You have a son?’ Daryl asked, faltering again, fork now resting on his plate.

‘Yeah, Carl. He’s nearly two.’

Daryl dropped eye contact, thumb coming up to his mouth ready for the skin to be bitten. ‘You and the Mom, you together?’

‘No, not for a long time. It’s a…’ Rick paused, sighed, ‘a complicated story.’

‘Sorry to hear it,’ Daryl said, still not meeting his eyes.

‘So what about you,’ Rick asked, swallowing down his apprehension as he decided to test the water. ‘You seeing anyone?’

This got Daryl looking up, those eyes narrowed in suspicion once again. It didn’t linger though. Instead, he laughed a little. ‘Nah,’ he said.

Rick feels a weird jolt of relief that he decided to unpack another time. He tilts his head, ‘that’s surprising.’

Daryl scoffs. ‘Stop,’ he says, his voice huffing, but not annoyed.

‘I’m serious!’

‘Whatever man,’ Daryl dismissed, but Rick can see a faint, unsure smile dance across his face.

‘I haven’t been with anyone since Lori,’ Rick said, leaning back in his chair, his meal finished.

‘Why not? Don’t chicks dig the whole power-play cop thing?’

Rick barked a laugh at that. ‘If they do then it’s Shane they’re after.’

‘You mean buzzcut?’

Another laugh. ‘Yeah, buzzcut. I’m surprised you remember him, you were pretty out of it.’

Daryl shrugged, ‘hard not to remember that big bald head of his.’

Rick snickered. ‘In all honesty, I’ve been waiting for the right thing, the right person. Sappy, huh?’

‘Sappy,’ Daryl confirmed, ‘but I get it.’

He looked almost sad for a moment, causing Rick’s heart to tighten, but it was only a flash. Daryl cleared his throat, looking down at his empty plate with his eyebrows knitting together. ‘Lemme help clean up,’ he said, making his way over to the sink.

One moment, everything was fine. Normal. Rick washed, Daryl dried, they fell into easy conversation like they had known each other for years.

The next, well.

At first, Rick isn’t sure what happened. It happened so damn fast.

Daryl’s bandaged hands slipped, a glass falling from his grip and shattering across the floor, shards glinting in a sea around their feet. Daryl freezes, breath catching in his chest, turning completely motionless as if made from stone.

And then his breathing is back and it is rapid, ragged and uneven and he steps back with the glass crunching under his feet and Rick shoots his hand up to stop him, steady him, not trusting the soles of Daryl’s worn shoes to keep the glass out and Daryl flinches violently as Rick’s fingers brush his shoulder, yelping like a kicked dog –

His breathing quickens, Rick doesn’t know how long he will be able to take in this little oxygen without passing out.

‘Hey,’ Rick said, voice calm and low like cooing an animal, ‘hey, it’s okay.’

But it’s not okay, at least not to Daryl, because he is trembling and panting and his eyes screwed shut as he waits, body tense, for something.

Something that had caused him those scars.

Rick bites back a wave of panic he knows isn’t going to help the situation, which is then quickly followed by a wash of anger that this is Daryl’s go-to reaction. Someone had caused this. This was hardwired. It took all of Rick’s mental strength to bite down his anger too.

‘Daryl,’ he said gently, hands hovering over Daryl’s shoulder but not actually touching him. ‘Daryl, it’s okay, it’s just a glass. I can clean it up. Nothing to worry about.’

Daryl choked out a sound that Rick assumed was supposed to be words, shaking his head and taking another step back. ‘Sorry –’ he eventually stuttered, the word sending fresh tremors though his body. ‘M’sorry.’

‘You don’t gotta be sorry,’ Rick hushed, wishing he could touch Daryl and wrangling with a strange twist of grief that touch would probably make things worse. ‘It’s just a glass, Daryl. Just a glass.’

‘S’my fault,’ he said, voice strained, eyes still squeezed shut and his head still down like a beaten dog.

‘It was an accident, these things happen,’ Rick reassured him. ‘No one’s angry with you, Daryl.’

Daryl laughed in a way that sounded like it hurt his throat and shook his head again before repeating ‘my fault, s’my fault.’

‘Hey,’ Rick said voice firmer as the panic started to bubble again. ‘Daryl, look at me, please.’

And he did, slowly, eyelids pulling open and suddenly he was wide eyed and frozen again and all Rick could think of is that one time he had hit a deer with his car, the way it had stared at Rick’s headlights, blinding it against the inky blackness of the road at night. Rick shook away the memory. Daryl wasn’t a deer. He wasn’t in danger of being hit. But he didn’t know that. Rick had to show him.

Rick kept his eyes soft, fixed onto Daryl’s as he spread his palms out of instinct to show he wasn’t a threat. ‘I’m going to put my hand carefully on your shoulder, is that okay?’

Daryl nods once, eyes still blown wide, so Rick slowly, purposely moves his left hand, keeping his right spread before him, so Daryl can follow and process the movement. He focuses more on touching the fabric of Daryl’s shirt first, avoiding putting any pressure onto what lay under it. Daryl flinches at the initial contact, but it is no where near as violent as before. A small jolt, and then he stills, allowing Rick to gently grip his shoulder to ground him.

‘Good,’ Rick coos, nodding, smiling, ‘you’re doing great. How are you feeling?’

Daryl nods, so discreetly it is almost unnoticeable. But the tremors seem to ease slightly. His breathing, still ragged, is deeper.

Rick slowly brings his right hand to Daryl’s free shoulder, repeating the motion and feeling a flood of pride and relief when Daryl doesn’t flinch at the contact.

‘Okay, now I want you to try and match my breathing, can you do that?’

Another nod, surer this time. Daryl fixes his eyes onto Rick’s as Rick starts to take even breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Daryl copies, each breath catching in his throat, but he sticks at it and so does Rick.

And eventually, they’re in sync.

The tremors have stopped, and Daryl looks around, taking in the glass, the way Rick’s thumbs are stroking his shoulders, and looks almost sheepish.

‘Sorry,’ he says again, but it isn’t panicked anymore. The desperation and fear replaced with a sort of mumbling embarrassment. ‘I’ll clean it up.’

Rick smiles, shakes his head. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he reaffirms. ‘And I’ll clean up. It’s not a bother.’

‘But –’

‘No buts,’ Rick counters. ‘I want you to sit down on the couch and choose something to put on TV. Can you do that for me?’

Daryl seems to consider this, his cheeks pink and Rick spots a flash of anger flicker over his features before being replaced with a flash of shame. He sighs, nods his head.

‘Fine.’

‘Thank you,’ Rick says, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. He gives Daryl’s shoulders a gentle squeeze before removing his hands and watching as Daryl slinks away into the living room, already chewing at the skin around his nails.

Now alone, Rick releases a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding and lets himself feel the anger he had forced down. He sees it all again. The blood, the glass in Daryl’s flesh, the bruises and the scars that crisscross over each other and Rick knows, knows what has happened before. He knows that it will happen again.

And what the fuck can he do about it?

Part of him – the part blinded and stupid from rage – wants to march into the living room and demand names from Daryl. He wants to tell Daryl that he knows. That it’s not right and he doesn’t deserve it and then he wants to find whoever is responsible and hurt them in ways that would make Shane – who was always so liberal using force – quake.

He sighed, pressing his fingers into his temple in frustration. His anger wasn’t going to help anyone. And although Daryl seemed intent of convincing everyone otherwise, Rick knew that this situation – that Daryl – needed a gentle touch.

It was probably something he had never experienced.

Rick almost wanted to cry at the thought.

Instead, he pulled himself together, hearing Daryl start to flick through the channels in the living room spurring him into action. He swept up the glass, finished washing the dishes, and made them each a cup of tea, ensuring Daryl’s was sweet.

He needed some sweetness in his life.

And, as hopeless as he was, it was the least Rick could do.

It had been three weeks since the incident at Rick’s.

Three weeks, and he had seen Rick nearly every day.

They spent a lot of time at the coffee shop, with Glenn, and his girlfriend Maggie, and her sister Beth, and for the first time, Daryl felt like he might have friends.

Actual friends. Not just kids from the block with no one better to hang out with, or Merle’s friends who weren’t really Merle’s friends and only stuck around and tolerated Daryl because of Merle’s stash.

It was early days, and he could hear Merle’s voice in the back of his head telling him constantly that he didn’t know these people. They sure as hell didn’t know him. Dirty redneck trash. It was pity. Always pity, baby brother. No one’s ever gonna care for you except me.

But Merle was gone. And even when Merle was here, his version of care felt a lot different to Rick’s version of it. Where Merle showed his care through harsh words and harsher lessons, Rick showed it through cooked meals and hot drinks and the way he listened to every word Daryl said.

Daryl felt guilty, knowing he preferred Rick’s version of care. He also felt pathetic. He shouldn’t need cooked meals and a listening ear. He had never needed this before. Never needed anything from anyone until Rick came along.

Sometimes Daryl wanted to hate Rick for it. For making Daryl need.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. He lets himself go along with it. He lets himself talk and laugh and drink that sickly sweet coffee and tell Glenn about his day when he asks and he doesn’t even try to fight that weird warmth that spreads across his chest when Rick looks at him like that. Like he’s something more than what he is.

Like it won’t all come crashing down eventually.

His Pa hadn’t questioned Daryl’s whereabouts. Probably hadn’t noticed he had been gone. Daryl hadn’t been hunting since the incident – hadn’t been able to but he hadn’t really needed to either. Most days, he ate at Rick’s. On the days he wasn’t at Rick’s, he didn’t eat at all, but the odd day of hunger was barely noticeable. It wasn’t such a bad thing. He wasn’t exactly skin and bone.

But, now he was nearly healed, he felt the nagging urge to pick up his crossbow and head out to the woods. Mostly to clear his head, but partly because he knew that soon, his father would notice the lack of game – and eating or not, Daryl would have to pull his weight and provide. It was what he was there for, after all.

Daryl was about to head out when the phone rang. A shrill sound that made his stomach drop. He had told Rick not to call him, ever – couldn’t risk his father picking up – and no one else called them. No one. He heard his father’s bedspring creak upstairs as he shuffled in his sleep. Daryl darted for the phone and picked it up with trembling hands.

‘Rick?’ he whispered, as soon as the phone was to his ear.

For a moment, all he heard was static. And then –

‘Who the hell is Rick?’ Merle asked, indignantly.

Daryl sighed in relief and annoyance, swallowing his heartbeat back down into his chest. ‘No one, not important,’ Daryl dismissed, ‘what do you want?’

‘That ain’t no way to speak to your big brother,’ Merle snapped. Daryl could hear the sound of the prison muffled through the line, other inmates on the phone, the bark of a guard, shoes squeaking on the concrete floor. He supressed a groan and rubbed his forehead, feeling a little guilty – he hadn’t spoken to Merle in months, and calling him by another mans name was hardly a greeting.

But then again, Merle only called when he wanted something. Usually, to pick up meth for his return home. Daryl tries to quickly do the math to figure out if Merle’s release was sooner than he had thought.

‘You always want something. Might as well tell me,’ Daryl said.

Merle chuckled. He knew Daryl was right, but he would rather stay in the lock up than admit it. ‘I wanted to tell ya that your big brother is about to be let out on good behaviour,’ he said, feigning innocence and causing Daryl’s eyes to roll.

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Daryl huffed.

‘It’s like you don’t want me home,’ Merle said, that faux innocence still dripping from his voice.

‘Just tell me what you want.’

‘Well, you know Martinez…’

Daryl sighed, so it was drugs.

‘Now, now, lil’ brother. With the amount of shit I've had to do for your worthless ass over the years I'm sure you can do this for me.’

And he was right, of course. Merle had taken more than his fair share of beatings in Daryl’s place. He had been arrested for stealing food for him, he lied for him, fought bullies for him, taught him how to hunt, how to grow up, how to be a man. Daryl knew he was being selfish. He burrowed his teeth into his lip and nodded, and even though Merle couldn’t see, he seemed to understand.

‘There’s a fifty under my mattress. Want you to go to Martienz and tell him I sent ya. He’ll know what to do.’

‘Can you at least tell me what I’m picking up?’ Daryl huffed, hoping it wasn’t meth. He didn’t like Merle on meth, had told him as much. The reason he was in lock up again was for possession of it. And besides, Daryl felt a twist in his stomach when he thought of Rick. What Rick would say – would do – if he knew Daryl was picking up meth. Even if it wasn’t for him. It didn’t matter really. Not in the eyes of the law. Daryl swallowed. Rick hadn’t been angry with him yet, or disappointed.

It was only a matter of time.

‘That’s on a need-to-know basis, kid,’ Merle said. It was as good of a confirmation that it was indeed meth as any. ‘Once you got it, put it under the mattress where you found the fifty.’

‘Got it,’ Daryl sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. ‘When do you think –’

He was cut off by the sound of his father getting out of bed and swearing.

‘Merle, I gotta go,’ Daryl said hurriedly, panic rising as he heard the creak of the floorboards drawing closer.

‘Haven’t spoken to me in months and suddenly you gotta go? Just like that? You always such an ungrateful –’

‘Merle, seriously,’ Daryl hissed, as the footsteps made their way down the stairs.

‘Who you on the phone to, boy?’ His father demanded as he reached the landing.

Merle was ranting away on the other end, calling him a brat and a pussy and whatever else and Daryl considered simply slamming the phone down to get him to shut up but part of him did feel guilty. Merle hardly ever called from inside. The other part of him knew that if he did hang up, Merle would have a beating of his own to dish out when he did get home, whenever that would be.

‘I said, who you on the phone to?’ And his Pa was right behind him, red faced and swaying slightly as he blinked the sleep and booze out of his eyes.

‘Merle,’ Daryl answered with a stutter.

‘What?’ Merle snapped.

Daryl didn’t get to respond before his father snatched the phone.

‘Whatcha calling for boy? Been let out already?’

Daryl stood frozen, listening to Merle’s muffled anger through the phone and gritted his teeth. Conversations between his Pa and Merle never ended well. And Merle wasn’t here. Daryl feels the air start to get trapped in his chest.

‘Don’t you take that tone with me, it’s my house you’ll be coming back to when they get sick of seeing your damn face everyday,’ his father growled, face reddening further.

Daryl couldn’t make out what Merle was saying, but it didn’t sound good. It was never good. Merle knew how their father was better than anyone. He knew that mouthing off never helped nothin’. And yet he didn’t fucking learn.

Then again, Daryl was good at keeping his mouth shut and he still ended up with a few new scars and a black eye more often than not.

Daryl watched as the vein on his father’s temple started to protrude, he watched the spit spray as he shouted but the words faded into each other as they so often did. It didn’t matter what he said. It mattered what he did. Daryl wants to leave, to bolt out of the door and into the woods before his father put the phone down and registered his absence, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was wait.

It didn’t take long. Soon enough his father yelled ‘when you get back here, I'm gunna make you wish your ass was back hiding in the corner of the prison showers,’ before slamming the phone down with such force that it had to be broken. And for a moment, everything went very still. His father didn’t move, staring down at the cracked phone with rage plastered over his face, still swaying, his breath deep and ragged and stinking of booze.

And then he looked up, eyes locking onto Daryl like a wildcat fixing onto its prey. ‘You,’ he breathed, pointing at him. Despite himself, Daryl felt himself edge backwards. ‘When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer me. I expect you to answer me right away. Understand?’

‘Yes sir,’ Daryl answered, making sure his voice didn’t shake.

‘Are you sure? Didn’t seem like you understood just then.’ His father was close now and Daryl hated how he towered over him. Hated how he didn’t dare look up.

‘Sorry sir,’ Daryl mumbled, nails digging into his palms concealed in his pockets.

There was another pause where all Daryl could hear was the clock ticking, his blood pumping, his father’s breathing, panting like an animal in heat.

‘Sorry,’ his father repeated, ‘that’s alright then, ain’t it? You said you were sorry.’

Daryl didn’t move, couldn’t move as his father’s face was now inches from his.

‘You think sorry fixes everything, don’tcha boy?’ he questioned, head tilted, teeth bared. ‘You knock over a glass, it smashes, you say sorry. Glass is still smashed. Your useless brother gets arrested for stealing food so you can stuff your fat fucking face. You say sorry. Doesn’t get him out of trouble now, does it?’

Daryl didn’t respond. He just kept his gaze fixed to the floor and tried to focus on his breathing, just like Rick had taught him.

‘Does it, boy?’ his father yelled, spit hitting Daryl’s cheeks. But he doesn’t give Daryl time to respond this time. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his knife and suddenly Daryl regains his movement, feet stumbling backwards as he tries to make it for the door.

He’s not fast enough. He never is.

His father grabs him by the bicep and squeezes hard enough to leave a bruise and Daryl sees the blade catch the light before he feels it slice his upper arm. He yelps, feeling the warm of his blood begin to trickle down his arm.

‘Sorry,’ his father breathed, licking his lips at the sight of Daryl’s blood. ‘Sorry won’t make that scar go away.’ His father held him there, letting the blood ooze down to his elbow, sneering at the sight. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I understand,’ Daryl nodded, frantic. ‘I understand.’

Another slash, hot pain shooting up his arm as another cut opened up just above the first. Daryl gasped at the pain, hand instinctively coming up and gripping the wrist of the hand his father used to keep his arm in place.

‘Please,’ Daryl exclaimed, aware of how pathetic he sounded but the glint of the blade was making him stupid with fear.

This only made his father laugh. And then his hand was off of his arm and around his throat, squeezing that instead and making Daryl’s vision swim. ‘That ain’t no way to talk to me, is it, boy?’ his voice low, almost amused.

‘Sorry sir,’ Daryl choaked, the panic and pain making him dizzy.

‘There’s that word again.’

And then he let Daryl go, allowing him to gasp in air and stumble back before swinging and hitting him square in the jaw.

The only sense of Daryl’s that currently worked was his taste as his mouth filled with blood, which he coughed up over the floorboards.

‘Pathetic,’ his father sneered, once again taking him by the throat. ‘A waste of air.’

Daryl felt his fist connect with his cheekbone, his vision bursting with stars upon impact.

‘You know what I think? I think your whore mother opened her legs for another man to make you. Ain’t no way your pansy-ass is a son of mine.’

And then Daryl did something really stupid. He told his father to ‘shut the fuck up,’ with his snarled voice, words choaking up his squeezed throat.

The world stood still. Daryl heard nothing, felt nothing except his father’s hand on his neck, his breath on his face. He doesn’t know why he said it. It wasn’t about his Ma’s honour. Not really. He barely remembered the woman – there were no photos, nothing of hers in the house. He didn’t remember her face. But she was the last thing he had had that came close to a parent, even if she was too drunk to string together a coherent sentence half the time. Even if she did turn a blind eye to what his father was doing to Daryl, just as long as it gave her a break from him herself.

‘What did you just say to me,’ his father asked, voice quiet. He was never quiet. Never. Daryl felt his heartrate quicken.

‘I said, shut, the fuck, up,’ Daryl said through gritted teeth, hands gripping his fathers wrists as he was lifted off of the floor by his throat.

He was back on the ground before he could register what had happened. Head hitting the floorboards, that hand around his throat pushing so tight his vision started to curl with darkness. This was it, he thought for a moment. This was what was going to get him killed. He had spent years wondering what the final beating would look like. Maybe it was here.

But just as he was about to pass out, the hand came off his throat and he coughed, spluttering for breath as his father mounted him at the hips. Daryl took a blow to the nose, the eye socket, one to the mouth and he was shocked none of his teeth were knocked loose and his father was shouting, screaming, words indistinguishable but loud enough for the neighbours to hear.

Maybe they would call someone again.

Maybe Rick would burst in and this would all be over.

Surely he would. Any second now. This would all be over.

Any second.

His father roughly removed Daryl’s shirt, rutting against him as he yelled. Daryl felt ice shoot up his spine as he realised the belt buckle he could hear being undone wasn’t his father’s.

It was Daryl’s.

He went blind with panic. Huffing and whimpering as he tried to claw himself away, he could hear himself saying ‘no,’ – as if it mattered – but as soon as his flies were undone any rational thoughts raced from his mind.

He punched his father. He didn’t really mean to. But his fist connected with his nose and it burst like a berry, blood pouring down and dripping onto Daryl’s face. His father pulled back, cupping his face and howling, giving Daryl enough time to yank his jeans back up but it wasn’t enough. His father’s eyes were wild, blood pouring from his nose into his mouth and he was laughing like a hyena, like he was high, like nothing else mattered now but enjoying whatever he was about to do.

His leg came up and he dug the heel of his boot into Daryl’s wrist to keep him still and pressed his forearm across Daryl’s neck and leaned, his weight near crushing Daryl’s windpipe. That’s when Daryl saw the glint of the knife.

Daryl felt as if someone was holding his head underwater. Sounds became muffled, his vision blurred, his breath locked in his lungs as his father grinned down at him, flicking the blade between his fingers.

In that moment, he knew Rick wasn’t coming. No one was. He was on his own. Just like always.

He waited for his father to say something. But he didn’t. He didn’t need to.

He just started cutting.

Daryl heard himself screaming, even if he didn’t realise he was doing so. He couldn’t tell exactly where he was being cut, just that his stomach burnt with pain and blood was starting to pool in the dip of his sternum and pour down his sides. He heard someone pleading, saying ‘stop,’ over and over, and he only figured out it was his own voice when nothing else could be heard.

His father pulled back slightly, licked the blade and grinned – all blood and rotted teeth – before he asked, ‘feel like saying sorry?’

‘Fuck you,’ Daryl breathed, voice weak. He still managed to spit blood in his face.

His father stood, slowly, wiping the spit off his face which turned from pink to red to purple with every vein popping out of his temple. He looked down on Daryl for a moment, letting himself bathe in rage, before he kicked Daryl hard in the stomach, his boot coming back bloodied.

Daryl curled onto his side, blood pouring from the wounds on his stomach and seeping into the floorboards, and vomited.

This earned him another kick.

Daryl felt himself starting to slip away. He couldn’t move, could barely breath. This had to be it. Had to be.

At least he wouldn’t be around to clean up.

Another kick.

Daryl retched, but there was nothing but blood and bile left to bring up.

Just let it fucking end already, Daryl caught himself thinking bitterly as his hands curled to his stomach and quickly became slick with blood. Just let everything go black – or white – isn’t that what people say? Go towards the light?

He spluttered a wet, bloody laugh. No light in a place like this. Not for him.

When the next kick didn’t come, he thought that maybe he really had died. Maybe it was finally over. But he heard footsteps, loud and stagged and then the hiss of a beer being pried open. Nope. Not dead yet. He wasn’t even given that luxury.

Daryl lay still as he listen to his father trapse around, knowing that if he were seen to be conscious, his father would come back in to make sure he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t going to die then he needed to get out, to leave.

Eventually he heard the front door slam shut. His father was gone.

Daryl wanted to go too.

‘…So then I asked her why she was getting so worked up over it? I mean it’s not like where were ever officially dating, and lemme tell you, she was not very pleased to hear that.’

‘I can see why,’ Rick sighed, trying to disguise his glance down to his watch to see how long he was left on shift. Five fucking hours left of this. He bit back a groan and forced a tight smile to Shane. Rick had been trying to pay attention to him, really. He just didn’t care like he used to. Not about Shane, at least. Not after everything. Instead, he let his mind wonder to Daryl – pondering what he was doing. He had told Rick he wanted to go hunting today. Rick pictured him out in the woods, crossbow in hand, hopefully wearing enough layers to keep him warm from the creeping chill of late October. Daryl said he would try and call when he got back – couldn’t promise anything, though – Rick had a gnawing suspicion it’s because he didn’t want his father to hear him use the phone. He tried not to dwell on it.

Rick and Shane had swung by the coffee shop, Rick desperate for some caffeine to help him stay awake through Shane’s endless list of triumphs. Maggie was there today too, keeping Glenn company and her face lit up as they entered.

‘Rick!’ she greeted, ‘how are you? How’s Daryl?’

Rick felt Shane twitch beside him.

‘Both fine, thank you, might swing by with him tomorrow.’

Shane rubbed the back of his head, foot tapping impatiently.

Two coffees later, they were back in the car, parked up, still chatting. ‘You still seeing that Dixon kid, then?’ Shane asked, faux casual, rubbing the back of his head as he spoke.

‘Daryl,’ Rick corrected, ‘and yeah, he’s a friend.’

Shane scoffed, but didn’t say anything. Rick knew he wanted to, though. He knew damn well what Shane thought of him. He clenched his jaw and tried not to think about it.

Shane was speaking again, starting to ask how Carl was, but he was interrupted by the crackle of the radio, dispatch telling them about a noise complaint, potential domestic incident, giving the address – Daryl’s address.

Rick felt the colour drain from his face.

Shane was looking at him out of the corner of his eye as he told dispatch that they were on it, one hand already on the steering wheel.

Rick felt numb, a wash of misplaced shock hitting him, which was stupid, stupid, because he knew this would happen again. He knew it and he didn’t do a damn thing.

‘Drive,’ he muttered to Shane, who nodded and slammed his foot on the gas.

Shane was a good driver. A fast driver. Precise and ruthless as he was with nearly everything he did. Rick still felt they weren’t going fast enough. All he could see was the last time – the blood, the glass, the way Daryl had peaked through the door, skinny and bruised and bloodless, unfocused eyes staring at Shane’s gun. He remembered the smell of damp and rot and blood, the alcohol-soaked carpets, the stale cigarette smoke that clung to the torn wallpaper. He could still feel Daryl grip his shirt with bleeding hands. And then he thought back to the night before, where Daryl had been at his place. Where he had been safe, happy, comfortable enough to doze on the sofa as they watched a film after he had tentatively picked at the bowl of popcorn like he was doing something he shouldn’t be. Rick felt the familiar aura of dread start to engulf him as they reached Daryl’s street. He was out of the car before Shane had brought it to a complete stop, nearly running for the front door and knocking frantically. No response. Shane knocked the second time and Rick took a step back and rubbed his face. Still nothing. The house looked abandoned, just as it did the first time. Silent, curtains drawn, inhospitable.

Shane was about to ram the door when Rick tried the doorhandle.

The front door, unlocked, creaked open, revealing the dark hallway. The smell of damp. The smell of blood. Rick felt his head spin, felt Shane’s eyes on him, the silent command to keep it together, man.

And he did, he would. He could be professional about this. It’s nothing he hadn’t seen before.

Except, it was Daryl’s blood he knew he could smell. His mind flashed back once again to the night before, to how Rick had found himself staring at Daryl’s sleeping face, calm and unguarded, safe. And Rick had felt a twist of affection in his gut, a rush of pride at Daryl’s safety.

But it had all been an illusion. There was no safety for Daryl when he had to come back to this place. Rick hadn’t done anything to stop it.

Any composure he had was nearly lost as he entered the living room. It stopped him in his tracks, knocked the damn air out of him. Shane whistled behind him at the sight, muttered ‘fuck me,’ as they took in the blood, Daryl’s discarded shirt, the shattered phone, the bloodied handprints on it like someone had tried to make a call.

‘He ain’t here,’ Shane told him.

‘He’s gotta be,’ Rick snapped, starting to tear through the house, only to be met with empty rooms, empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays.

‘I’m telling you man, he ain’t, I’ve checked everywhere.’

Rick raced up the stairs, busting open doors, one room Rick assumed was Daryl’s father’s – sunken double bed, yellowed mattress, stack of porn mags. The other room had an unmade twin bed and a mattress on the floor in the corner. A trail of blood led to it, droplets and smudged boot prints, handprints on the pillow, on the mattress. A blood-soaked towel lay on the bedding. All Rick could do was stare.

He called Daryl’s name, the sound echoing through the empty house, in one last desperate moment of hope that Daryl would reveal himself, say he was fine in that gruff, dismissive way of his, and be annoyed at Rick for making such a fuss.

But nothing. He was met with silence, silence that was broken by Shane downstairs on the radio, giving the Sherriff an update. Rick stumbled down the stairs, legs feeling numb under him, and stared once again at the scene in the living room.

‘We’ll find him man, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry,’ Shane told him, patting his shoulder roughly. But Rick didn’t respond. All he could see was red.

He didn’t take much with him. Didn’t have the energy to carry it. He shoved his crossbow into a holdall, along with the contents of the first aid kit he kept under the sink in case of emergencies and the fifty he found under Merle’s bed.

He tried to clean himself up a little, pressed a dirty towel to his stomach with shaking hands to try and stop the bleeding. He was going to need stitches. But he could deal with that later. Right now, he just needed to get out. So, he tore up an old shirt, wrapped it around his stomach as a makeshift bandage, threw on the sweater Rick had given him and took a sharp intake of breath as he hauled himself up, blinking back his bloodless vision.

He had tried to call Rick first. As soon as he heard the front door slam, and as soon as the pain had eased just enough for him to think straight, he had crawled to the shattered phone and jabbed the number in.

Nothing. The old phone had been ripped out of the wall, the mouthpiece in bits. Daryl swore, used what little strength he had to shatter the damn thing further, and let out a single, harsh sob that he didn’t have time for.

No one was coming. He was on his own.

He doesn’t really think, can’t really think, can barely focus on anything but the pain and the fear and the voice in his head saying stop being such a pussy. Stop being such a goddamn pussy. The adrenaline carries him out of the front door, stumbling down the porch steps, all put dragging his holdall behind him as he staggers down the street.

He keeps to back alleys and dirt paths, avoiding eye contact with anyone he passes and he knows he looks bad. Walking like he’s drunk, bleeding through his sweater, blood on his face, in his teeth, down his neck. He looks like a dead man walking. And that makes him a target. He’s from a shitty part of town, Merle ain’t here and he’s down on his luck. Easy pickings. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s been jumped. Wouldn’t take much to take him down neither. He tries to make himself look taller, tougher, like he isn’t about to keel over. He keeps his hazy vision set, his fists clenched, and moves as swiftly as his quickly-numbing legs will allow.

The sun had started to set when Daryl reached the block of apartments. He can’t remember the route he took to get there. Couldn’t remember how long it’s been since he started walking. He knew he couldn’t feel his feet, his hands were cold, the waistband of his jeans soaked with blood. He knew that the adrenaline was starting to ebb, that his vision was starting to curl black at the corners.

He gets in, the door to the building had a jammed lock that Rick had complained about and swore weakly at the out of order sign plastered on the elevator.

The stairs it is.

It was a slow process. He clung to the railing, pulling himself up as if he were scaling a mountain, holdall dragging behind him like an anchor. He had to bury his teeth into his trembling lip to keep himself quiet, forcing each pathetic whimper back down his bruised throat. Each step pulled at the wounds on his stomach, the blood that had started to crust on his makeshift bandage once again becoming sticky and fresh.

When he got to Rick’s floor he was certain he was going to pass out. He wasn’t sure if it were from the pain or the blood loss. But he blinked it back. He was so close. So damn close.

He knocked on the door, vision blurring, leaving a bloodied smudge where his fist met the wood.

But nothing. No one answered. No one was home.

It took everything Daryl had not to sob.

And he didn’t have much. He just huffed, spit and blood dribbling from his mouth as he panted and sank to the floor, back against the door, eyes falling closed. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. Not unless he crawled back home and pretended none of this had ever happened. But he didn’t have it in him. Couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He shivered and curled in on himself. Maybe Rick was at work. Maybe Rick was asleep. Maybe Rick knew he was here but just didn’t care and Daryl was being delusional by thinking that this was okay, that Rick would want to help a lowlife piece of shit like him. He could leave. Would leave. Coming here was stupid. He just needed to rest, just for a little bit.

He looked down at his bloodstained sweater, his hands shaking as he buried them into the damp fabric for warmth. He just needed a moment. Just to catch his breath.

He’s a kid. Around ten years old. Merle is out with god knows who doing god knows what, and Daryl is curled up on the sofa under a ratty blanket watching some shitty cartoon and he falls asleep there. A mistake and he knows it, but he’s home alone and it was probably fine.

It should have been fine.

He wakes up, the glow of the TV illuminating the room and casting deep shadows on his father, who is now sat next to him, one hand on Daryl’s slender thigh. Daryl closes his eyes again. Pretends he’s still asleep but it doesn’t matter. Daryl knows what happens next.

And it happens slowly. His Pa’s face is next to his, breathing heavy and thick with alcohol and usually, Daryl finds himself slipping into someplace else – his head lost in the woods, tracking a rabbit with the crossbow that his arms are too short and weak to work properly yet, but that night, he can’t get away.

‘Stop,’ he says, like it matters.

It doesn’t stop.

‘Stop,’ Daryl repeats, wriggling. A hand holds his wrists together over his head.

His shirt is being pulled up. The touch burns, branding his thin skin and Daryl hisses at the contact. His foot comes up and catches his father right where it hurts. His Pa swears, bucks off of him, the wind knocked out of his lungs and Daryl scrambles back, blinking away sleep and panic and shock at what he had done.

It doesn’t last.

And his father, he’s not stupid. Not really. He knows how to hurt Daryl, make him bleed and make it look like an accident. And that’s exactly what he does. He takes his blade, holds Daryl down, and then tells the nurse that Daryl slipped getting out of the bathtub.

Merle is with him when he wakes up at the hospital, calling him a pussy and a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know what happened – thinks their father was just drunk and inattentive and that Daryl was just clumsy. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But it’s a good thing, Merle is telling him. He’s had a blood transfusion. He’s a universal donor.

‘We’re gonna make a fortune, baby brother,’ Merle says, grinning with all his teeth on display. ‘You’re a certified gold mine.’

And that’s what they do, for a time. Take him to a different clinic every few days, sign him up under a different name, say he’s older than he is and no one asks, no one gives a shit. Daryl remembers watching the blood drain from his arm, his fingers growing cold, Merle rubbing his hands together as the cash came in. He remembers Merle handing him a chocolate bar after each time, which sort of made up for it, but then he remembers his father finding the wrappers in his jacket pocket.

He doesn’t remember what happens after that. Just that it hurt. It hurt. And that there was more blood.

That, and he got anaemia.

‘Hey,’ a voice, unfamiliar, echoed in his brain. ‘Hey, wake up.’

Someone was shaking him, there were hands on his shoulder, on his forehead and his eyes snapped open, his stiff, cold body flinching and fuck that hurt.

He hissed in pain, trying to pull away but the hands were off of him immediately and someone was hushing him like a child.

Daryl blinked up at the owner of the voice. A woman, short hair, prematurely grey. She had a kind face contrasted with sharp eyes that seemed to be assessing his injuries through his clothes. ‘Thought I’d lost you there,’ she said, voice soft, faux cheerful. ‘I’m Carol.’

Rick’s neighbour. Daryl remembers him mentioning her. Daryl watched her through narrowed eyes, his chest rising and falling as he realised he isn’t going to be able to run. He was at this woman’s mercy.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, voice sweet.

‘What’s it to you?’ Daryl croaked, his throat bruised and swollen from his father’s palms.

Carol watched him, unblinking and her own eyes narrowing and then widening in recognition. ‘Ah, you’re Daryl, right? Rick’s said a lot about you.’

What Rick could have possibly had to say about him, Daryl let himself wonder. Maybe it was good. Maybe it wasn’t. There wasn’t much good to say. But Carol was smiling at him for real this time, her eyes soften in a kind of understanding, and her fingers gently brushed a strand of hair out of Daryl’s eyes.

‘I live down right there,’ she said, pointing at the door just down the hall. ‘There’s a lot of blood on you, all that yours?’

Daryl looked down at himself, at his ruined sweater, his bloody hands, and nodded. ‘S’mine,’ he muttered, voice slurred.

Carol nodded. ‘I need you to come with me so I can get you patched up, is that okay?’

Daryl shook his head. He could clean himself up, sort himself out. Didn’t need help. He wanted to stay here – wanted Rick – and the realisation made him feel sick.

But Rick wasn’t here and he felt like shit and he had nowhere else to go and Carol seemed to know this. She smiled, warm and maybe a little sad. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, and I’m pretty handy with a needle,’ she told him. ‘And I could give Rick a call, see where he is? Let him know you’re here?’

Daryl considered this, mostly wanting to tell her to leave me be, but something about her made Daryl almost relax. He didn’t quite know why, but he nodded, a lump forming in his bruised throat. It was cold out here, and uncomfortable, and he was going to need stitches. That he did know.

‘No hospitals,’ Daryl said, both a question and a statement.

She smiled again, lopsided and sad. ‘No hospitals,’ she confirmed.

She reached down, arm sliding under Daryl’s back and helping him up, stronger than she looked, holding Daryl upright as he stumbled on shaking legs towards her apartment.

‘Well, the good news is, five of these don’t need stitches,’ Carol said, once she had sponged the dry blood off Daryl’s torn up middle. ‘Bad news, the other six do. That’s not including the two on your arm.’ Daryl groaned, the disinfected making him wince. ‘Great,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

‘Still no hospitals?’ Carol asked, ‘I can stitch you up here, but they’d have stronger stuff to help with the pain.’

‘No hospitals,’ Daryl said, heartrate spiking at the thought. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

He was lying shirtless on Carol’s dining room table that she’s turned into a makeshift doctor’s bed, and frankly, she had more first aid equipment than any normal person had any business having. She set it all out like she’d done this before, placing a pillow under Daryl’s head and pausing occasionally to stroke his hair in a way that – although he can’t remember her – he felt that maybe his Ma might have done once. And he let her. What else was he supposed to do?

Carol started threading the needle and Daryl glanced down at his bare torso, at the split skin he knew was going to scar, at the bruised ribs and the stubborn layer of fat that his father couldn’t seem to starve off of him no matter how hard he tried, and he shuffled, self-conscious and laid bare in front of this stranger.

‘I’m just going to get some more antiseptic,’ she told him, gently, fingers carefully brushing his hair before she left.

Daryl closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and wrestled with the burning sensation forming at the corner of his eyes.

‘Psst!’ a voice said, and Daryl nearly jumped out of his skin, cuts pulling in awkward directions. He looked around wildly, heart pounding, but he couldn’t see anyone.

For a moment, he thought he’d really lost it. That his father’s finally knocked him about the head a little too hard and unhinged something. But then he spotted her. A little girl, no older than six, with a crop of sandy blonde hair, eyeing him from behind the kitchen island.

Daryl just blinked at her.

‘I got you something,’ she said, voice still a whisper like they were hiding from something.

‘What’cha got?’ Daryl asked, unsure. He had no experience around kids, and he knew he must look a sight, cuts and bruises and a swollen face – he was surprised she wasn’t scared of him. He almost wanted her to be. It would be easier. He sat up a little, kept his good eye set and narrowed, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. Instead, she peaked out from behind the counter and approached, arms outstretched –

‘It’s an ice pack,’ she told him. ‘It’ll help. It’s magic.’

Daryl took it, hands trembling a little, and placed it over his black eye, causing her to grin widely and rock from heel to toe in excitement. ‘See?’ she exclaimed. ‘Magic!’

‘Magic,’ Daryl repeated, softly. ‘Thanks.’

The girl stood there for a moment, eyes raking over Daryl, taking in the damage and Daryl fidgeted, would have given anything to put a shirt on.

‘Did the monster get you?’ she asked, shyly.

Daryl spluttered, almost laughed. That’s one way of saying it, he supposed. He saw it all again in a flash – his fathers’ rotten teeth, the flash of the knife, the roaring of his voice and the booze and the blood – ‘yeah, the monster got me,’ he said.

The girl nodded, expression serious, and clutched her doll closer to her chest. ‘The monster used to get me and Mommy too,’ she told him. ‘And then we came here. It’s safe here. The monster can’t get you. Don’t worry.’

And it’s suddenly too much. The burning sensation spills from the corners of his eyes and starts to dampen his face. He huffs, sobs, rubbing his face roughly with his hands but doesn’t try to stop. And the girl doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell him he’s being a pussy, not like the disembodied voice of Merle that haunts his mind – but even that was silent. So Daryl let’s himself cry.

The girl wandered over, snaking her small hand into Daryl’s bigger, bloodied one, and let him cry too.

‘I can do it,’ Daryl told Carol, leaning up on his elbows as she readied the needle.

‘You're shaking, I’m not. It’ll be safer and quicker if I do it,’ Carol told him. And Daryl wanted to argue, because he wasn’t useless or soft and he had done this before, so much that he could probably do it with his eyes closed but it might be nice not to have to, especially when his arms trembled as he held himself up. He huffed, but he didn’t fight it.

Daryl begrudgingly laid back, head resting on the pillow, the table cold against his back.

‘Comfy?’ Carol asked with a wry smile.

‘Never better,’ Daryl replied, grimly.

‘I’m sure you already know this, but this is going to sting.’

And it did. Stung like a bitch but somehow not as bad as when he would do it himself. He laid through the ordeal with gritted teeth, occasionally scrunching his nose at the odd tug of pain.

‘Where’d you learn to do this?’ Daryl asked, hoping the conversation would give him something else to focus on.

‘Internet, mostly,’ Carol said, eyebrows furrowed as she focused on her work. ‘Easier than making up a new excuse every time I had to go to the hospital.’

Daryl nodded, mouth dry.

‘The monster got him too, Mommy,’ the girl – Sophia, Daryl learned – said. She was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, running her fingers through her doll’s woollen hair. ‘He’s safe here. I told him.’

Carol paused her work momentarily, her eyes catching Daryl’s tentatively, before she continued. ‘That’s right, sweetie. He’s safe here.’

And Daryl knew she knew. Knew Rick had probably told her. Knew Rick knew himself even though they both liked to pretend that he didn’t. Look at the state of him – bruised and battered and so fucking pathetic. Too weak to stop his old man beating him bloody. Too much of a coward to fight back. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed down the lump in his throat and tried to play it off like it was from the pain.

‘I’ll try calling Rick again,’ Carol said softly. Too soft and Daryl wanted to snap at her, tell her to treat him like a man, not like he was a scared kid. He wanted her to tell him he was being a pussy, stitch him roughly, snarl in disgust at his shirtless body, stop pussyfooting around it. He could take it. He could.

But he didn’t. Carol walked through to the living room, Sophia slipped her hand back into his, and he bit back another sob.

‘Rick, it’s Carol… calm down… yes I know Rick… Rick!’ Daryl heard her snap, draw a breath. ‘He’s here Rick. I got him... yes he’s okay, just needs a couple of stitches… hold on.’ Carol returned, holding the phone out to Daryl. ‘He wants to speak to you.’

Daryl nodded, heartrate spiking as he took the phone and tried to prop himself up.

‘Rick?’ and fuck if his voice chose the worst moment not to work properly, strained and bruised and breaking and he curled with the embarrassment of it.

‘Daryl! Are you okay? What happened? I’ve – I’ve been out looking I –’

‘M’fine,’ Daryl told him. ‘Just, bit battered, I guess. What do you mean you been out lookin?’

‘We got called out to your house, Daryl. No one was there, the blood –’ Rick’s voice cracked, or maybe it was just the line. ‘I thought… Jesus, Daryl, I thought…’

‘I’m alright,’ Daryl told him, desperate to stop Rick’s voice sounding like that. ‘M’fine. Had worse. Just can’t go back there for a bit. Been some… complications.’

‘Complications,’ Rick repeated, weakly. ‘Look, I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?’

Daryl heard muffled voices on the other end of the line, someone arguing.

‘You don’t gotta come rushin, I ain’t gonna drop dead.’

‘I’ll see you in ten,’ Rick said, firmly. No room for argument, not for Daryl, not for whoever else was muttering down the line. And then he was gone.

Daryl handed the phone back to Carol, who readied herself to continue stitching him up. ‘He’ll panic when he sees you,’ she told him. ‘Can’t stand seeing his loved ones hurt.’

Daryl scoffed. ‘I ain’t a loved one.’

Carol eyed him for a moment, hands hovering over his wounds, before sighing and shaking her head, soft smile pulling at her lips. ‘Whatever you say, Pookie.’

Daryl decided not to argue. He didn’t have the energy. He slumped back down onto the pillow and closed his eyes again, letting Carol stitch him back together.

It was more than just a few stitches.

Daryl was a mess of mottled bruises, deep blues and purple hues decorating his face, his torso, his neck –

Rick felt dizzy with rage at the imprint of hands around Daryl’s throat, at the small, half-moon cuts where fingernails had buried into flesh. The black eye he had had when Rick first met him, nearly healed, had once again swollen shut, and while Carol had done her best to wash of the blood, his face was still flaked with the evidence of where it had poured from his nose and mouth, down his chin, down his chest.

Daryl was sitting up on the dining room table when Rick had arrived, shirtless and skinny and sheepish as Rick balked at the sight of him. His back was facing Rick, those keloid scars on full display and Carol was at his side, working delicate stitches into two deep cuts on his bicep, underscored by another bruised handprint.

Rick had had to sit down at the sight of Daryl stomach. He slumped into a kitchen chair, hands on his forehead, and forced himself to breathe.

‘Ain’t that bad,’ Daryl offered, voice small and croaky from being strangled.

‘It is that bad, Daryl,’ Rick told him, firmly, not yet able to take his head out of his hands.

Everyone was quiet for a bit, Daryl keeping his gaze low, Carol occasionally shooting Rick a warning look as if to say get it together. And Rick knew he needed to. But the rage threatened to swallow him whole. Carol finished up the last of the stitches, stroked Daryl’s dark hair out of his face, and went to fetch him some painkillers, leaving Rick and Daryl alone in the kitchen.

‘What happened?’ Rick asked, fighting to keep his voice steady, soothing.

Daryl shrugged, eyes fixed on his bloodstained hands. ‘Was an accident.’

‘Daryl,’ Rick snapped, and he didn’t mean to, he really didn’t. Daryl flinched at the tone, hands trembling as he picked at the skin around his nails. ‘I’m sorry,’ Rick breathed, ‘I just – please tell me the truth.’

Daryl looked up at him, eyes meeting his under his shock of dark, unwashed hair. He shrugged again, folding his arms over his stomach as if to shield himself. ‘Made him angry,’ was all he said, voice quiet.

Rick buried his head in his hands again, leaning back over the chair and forcing himself to count back from five. He knew it. He’d known it all along and he had done nothing. Now, he felt the ugly itch to get in the car and go and bury a bullet into Will Dixon’s skull.

But it wasn’t the time for any of this. Daryl shifted where he sat, chewing at the skin around his thumbnail and seeming to hunch in on himself, make himself smaller. Rick could feel the fear, the shame, rolling off of him in waves. He forced another breath, allowed himself a moment to grind his teeth and indulge in the idea of shooting Daryl’s father, and then let it go.

‘Okay,’ he said, sitting up in the chair, giving his face one last rub. ‘It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it okay.’

Daryl didn’t move, didn’t look at him, his face hidden by his hair.

‘You can stay at mine, we can get this all sorted out.’

‘Don’t gotta do that,’ Daryl mumbled. ‘I just…’ he trailed off, words catching in his throat. ‘I didn’t… didn’t know where else to go.’

Rick stood up, moving to face Daryl who drew back ever so slightly, arms once again snaking around his middle. Rick wanted to touch him, to rest his hands on Daryl’s shoulders, to run them gently over the bruises on his neck to show him not every touch was supposed to hurt but he didn’t. He held himself back. The last thing Daryl probably wanted was more hands on him. Instead, Rick ducked his head, trying to meet Daryl’s lowered gaze, keeping his eyes soft. ‘I want to, Daryl. You don’t have to go anywhere else. You can stay as long as you want to.’

Daryl caught his eye then, tentatively, head still lowered and nodded.

Carol came back with prescription pain meds and poured Daryl a glass of water. ‘As far as I can tell, you haven’t broken any ribs. You have lost a lot of blood, so you’re going to need rest and a lot of it. Now,’ she pulled back slightly, looking Daryl up and down with a sharp, playful motion, ‘you strike me as the kind of man who struggles to sit still,’ Daryl huffs at this, the hint of a smile flashing across his features, ‘but you’re going to have to sit back and relax for a while, hm?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Daryl said, almost shyly.

‘You’re also going to have to eat a little more,’ she tells him.

Daryl goes still at the words, his arms, still wrapped around his middle, tense, and his fingers bury into his sides.

‘Consider it done,’ Rick told her, glancing at how Daryl’s visible ribs created ridges in his bruising. It was a miracle he hadn’t broken them really, he had no padding, no protection. Skin and bone and ready to shatter. Daryl shot him a look, almost unreadable, but somewhere between annoyance and nerves – and shame. But there was always shame. Rick notices how his fingers dig further into his sides, hard enough to leave new bruises.

‘Any problems, you can come back here, I’ll do what I can to fix you up, okay?’ Carol told him, soft with a smile.

Daryl nodded, head low once again.

‘Do you really have to go?’ a small voice asked from somewhere behind them.

All three of them turned, and Sophia stood in the doorway with her doll clutched to her chest, blinking at them and pouting.

‘Just across the hall,’ Daryl told her, trying to smile but it came out as more of a wince.

Sophia looked at her mother, eyes wide with worry. ‘And the monster?’

‘The monster can’t get him, don’t you worry,’ Carol told her, running her hands through Sophia’s hair and planting a kiss on her forehead.

It was all too much for a moment. Rick turned around, busied himself picking up Daryl’s holdall and taking a deep, shaky breath because he couldn’t cry. Not right now.

‘Thank you,’ Daryl said to Carol, voice quiet, eyes still low.

Carol planted a kiss on Daryl’s forehead then, slow and deliberate, allowing him time to flinch and to settle. ‘Anytime,’ she told him, hand lingering lightly in his hair. ‘Anytime.’

‘You take my bed tonight. I’ll get the bed in the spare room set up tomorrow,’ Rick told him, helping settle Daryl on the couch.

‘Don’t,’ Daryl started, looking guilty – always guilty – ‘I can sleep here.’

Rick shook his head firmly. ‘No way, you need rest, you need somewhere comfortable. We’re not arguing about this.’

Daryl huffed. He was always ready to argue about something. ‘What about when Carl comes over, huh? Can’t stay in the spare room then.’

‘When Carl comes over, you stay in my bed, I stay on the couch,’ Rick told him. He’s already thought this through and he’s thought about it a lot. Sometimes his mind wonders here when he’s stuck on a boring patrol with Shane. In these daydreams, he’s swooped in, taken Daryl away from that place, and Daryl moves in with him uninjured and happy and it’s nothing like this. Where Rick was so much of a coward that he let this happen again. Where Daryl was sitting shirtless and shaking in his living room, all dried blood and fresh bruising and angry stitches.

‘I can’t take your bed,’ Daryl says, voice strained, eyes fixed on the floor.

‘Daryl,’ Rick said, kneeling next to where Daryl sat, fingers dancing just to the side of Daryl’s face as he debated whether to touch him or not. ‘Please.’

The magic word. Daryl all but pouted, catching Rick’s eye for a moment as he hesitated, eager to please but reluctant to take. Rick held his gaze, trying to keep his expression open and soft.

‘Fine,’ Daryl huffed.

‘Thank you,’ Rick said. Daryl looked like he wanted to growl at the words, his arms once again crossing over his stomach, his shoulders hunching and his skin prickling against the chill. Always a scared animal, always backed into a corner. ‘You got a change of clothes in here?’ Rick asked, gesturing to the holdall.

Daryl shook his head, looking sheepish. ‘Nah, didn’t think,’ he mumbled.

‘You can borrow some of mine, then,’ Rick told him, heading to the bedroom and coming back with a clean shirt and the comfiest sweatpants he owned. ‘They won’t fit well,’ Rick added, as he handed them to Daryl. Daryl’s gaze dropped to his lap and he shifted slightly, arms drawing in closer around his midsection. Rick felt something tug at his insides at the sight. ‘They’ll be too big,’ Rick added.

Daryl looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, then scoffed, bloodless cheeks turning pink, and shook his head. ‘Sure,’ he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm and shame. He pulled the shirt on hurriedly, and Rick pretended not to hear his grunt of pain at the movement.

‘What have you got in here, anyway?’ Rick asked, eyes once again falling on the bulky holdall.

Daryl didn’t answer right away. He cleared his throat, shuffled a little. ‘Crossbow.’

Rick blinked, and then laughed, because of course it was his fucking crossbow. Of course that’s what he would have thought to bring.

‘But you didn’t think to bring a change of clothes?’ Rick asked him, amused and affectionate, letting himself sit on the couch next to Daryl, and if he sat a little too closely to him, Daryl didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in, even if it was barely noticeable.

‘Brought a first aid kit, and a fifty I stole from my brother,’ Daryl said with a shy smile. ‘Sorry, Officer.’

‘And spare underwear never crossed your mind?’ Rick asked with a laugh.

‘Not once,’ Daryl confirmed, offering a chuckle that looked like it physically pained him, pulling at his bruised ribs and fresh stitches and Rick’s amusement was quickly dulled by that familiar rage. That it hurt Daryl to be happy. That he could see the dark bruises curling up his throat from under the neckline of his shirt, Rick’s shirt, too big on Daryl and making him look hollow. Daryl seemed to sense the sudden shift in Rick’s mood and he tensed, wincing as his sore muscles contracted, as his breath constricted in his chest.

‘Hey,’ Rick said, suddenly and softly. ‘It’s okay, I ain’t mad. Not at you, anyway.’

Daryl watched him, unmoving and still tense. Rick silently cursed at himself. ‘Who you mad at?’

‘Whoever did this to you,’ Rick said, voice a low growl, nodding towards, well, everything. Everything. The roughly cut wounds, the bruises ranging from freshly left blues to faded yellows, the way Rick could see bones that were supposed to be hidden away, the way Daryl flinched at Rick’s tone as if waiting, waiting. Rick closed his eyes, took a breath. ‘I should break his fucking jaw,’ he felt himself saying through gritted teeth.

Daryl was still, watching Rick carefully, before he snorted, shook his head. ‘Ain’t worth it. Weren’t even that bad.’

‘How can you say that?’ Rick asked, exasperated.

‘Because it weren’t,’ Daryl said sharply. ‘Sure, it was bad, but it’s been worse. He’s been worse. I… at least he didn’t…’ suddenly his voice caught in his throat and he was blinking back tears and looking away, looking anywhere but Rick and Rick felt a stab of guilt because it wasn’t the time for this. Not right now. Not after everything.

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. ‘Let’s just get you into bed, okay? I bet your exhausted.’

Daryl looked like he wanted to argue, but his eyes were still glassy with tears and he was tired, so tired, and Rick knew this. So he clenched his jaw and nodded once, and begrudgingly let Rick sling his arm around his bony frame and guide him into the bedroom.

He’s fourteen. He doesn’t remember what started it. He never remembers because it never matters and it will always, always happen again.

Merle joined the army. Trying to get away, get his life together or some shit and Daryl hates him for it, for leaving on his own free will. Money is tight. Tempers are short. His father is all hunger and bite and there’s no one else to take it out on. To take any of it out on. Ma’s gone. Merle’s gone. It’s just Daryl and his old man. He wakes up with blood on his thighs and sheets most mornings. Just sleeps in it now. Ain’t no point cleaning it when his father is going to make him bleed again the next night. Not enough clean sheets and not enough energy. It’s summer, so he’s just home, all day everyday, except when he’s in the woods, but he’s not allowed to be gone for too long at the moment in case his father needs his fix and god help him if he comes back empty-handed.

That’s probably what has happened, Daryl tries to remember, he probably fucked up, too heavy on his feet, snapped a twig, scared away the prey and has to stumble home hungry before dark. He’ll face a beating either way, but it’ll be worse if he’s late and has nothing to show for it.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is his father's face is inches from his and he’s pinned against the wall at the top of the stairs, his hair being pulled tight on his scalp. What matters is his father is drunk enough he’s slurring, drunk enough he’s stupid and it always hurts worse when he’s like this. Daryl knows his father is angling him towards the top step. He knows his father is toying with idea of pushing him back and watching him tumble.

The hand moves from his hair to his throat and Daryl is being manoeuvred, feet lifting from the floor and he’s being edged backwards over the stairs, his father dizzy with the idea of letting him go. Daryl grabs at his father’s wrists, tries to hang on, but he’s being pried off, his father bending his fingers back with his free hand until he hears snapping and Daryl’s strangled yelp.

There’s a moment where their eyes meet, Daryl’s wild blue ones fixing on his father’s, dark and dilated, and he knows he’s fucked.

He doesn’t just fall. He’s thrown. He hits the stairs about halfway down and when he lands in a heap at the bottom he feels like he’s gone blind. Doesn’t know which way is up or down and everything hurts, everything hurts and he can’t fucking breathe –

He’s being dragged backwards, into the living room by his hair and wants to thrash but he’s limp and useless and motion sick from the fall and when he starts to make sense of his vision again he sees it – his left arm bent under his elbow and above his wrist. He has to blink a few times before he realises that his arm isn’t supposed to bend like that. That that pale splinter he’s looking at is bone.

And once he sees it, the pain explodes and he’s blind again, begging as his father mounts him. Please please please –

‘Please what?’ his father says, tongue near his ear.

‘Please stop,’ Daryl whimpers. Somewhere is his mind, he hears Merle start to chew him out for begging. ‘Please, stop, please.’

But it doesn’t stop. It never does.

Regardless, he keeps begging.

When his father finally pulls away, he stands over him for a moment, sweat dripping off of him and into Daryl’s face as Daryl slides in and out of consciousness. He nudges Daryl’s arm, boot touching bone and Daryl would have screamed if he’d had the energy but all he can do is release a gargled sort of groan.

‘Won’t be hunting for a while with that,’ his father remarks. ‘And you know the rules. Don’t catch. Don’t eat.’

He waits for Daryl to respond, as if he could, and grins at the silence. And then he crouches back down, getting real close, standing in the blood still seeping from Daryl’s arm and shuffling his boot towards the break to watch Daryl squirm. ‘It ain’t such a bad thing, you know,’ he tells him, licking his lips. ‘The state of you, all fattened up like a pig for slaughter, huh? That shithead brother of yours spoiling you before fucking off.’ He mounts Daryl again as if he can’t help himself, teeth burying into his bottom lip as he forces down onto Daryl’s slender hips, fingers gripping Daryl’s sides with punishing force. ‘Be good to get some of that weight off you. Get you all small again, just like your Ma. Don’t need to eat half as much as you do.’

For a moment, Daryl thinks it’s going to start again, thinks his father’s coming back for round two. He tenses, whimpers, tries to pass out. But then his father is standing again, and once again he feels a sear of white-hot pain where boot touches bone. ‘Don’t have much of a choice now,’ he chuckles, and then he leaves Daryl there to go and clean himself off, have a smoke, another drink.

He did take Daryl to the clinic afterwards though. Gets him all patched up from his ‘hunting accident.’ Daryl’s arm is in a cast for the rest of the summer and his father was right, he doesn’t catch anything, except frogs from the stream out back which he has to eat raw and the occasional worm. He survives mostly from eating out of the trash when his father has passed out from drink.

It was probably for the best.

Like his father said, it’s not like he didn’t have the weight to lose. He sure as hell hadn’t lost enough to sate his father once the cast has come off. It was never enough and it never would be.

And even though Daryl knew this, it didn’t stop him from trying.

Daryl woke up to hands on him, soft on his shoulders and he gasped and balked and scuttled backwards, legs tangled in the sheets until his back meets the headboard. The room is cold but he could feel the sweat sticking his clothes to his aching body and he’s panting like a damn dog, blinking back the panic to see who is touching him, please stop touching him, please don’t not again please –

‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Rick hushed, sitting at the edge of the bed with his palms up and spread. ‘I ain’t gonna hurt you.’

Daryl blinked at him, adjusting to the dark, to the reality that his father isn’t here and it's not happening again – at least not right now – and felt his face start to burn. ‘What the hell, man?’ he hissed, pulling the sheets up to his chest. ‘Make a habit of creeping on people when they sleep?’

Rick looked stricken. ‘No, no, I heard – you were having a nightmare or something. Came in to check on you.’

Daryl rubbed his face, his hand coming back clammy. ‘M’fine. Don’t need you watching me. Don’t need nothing from nobody, so fuck off,’ he huffed, voice still strained from the bruises at his throat.

Rick doesn’t fuck off. He pulled a face and sighed, but didn’t move an inch. Instead he said, ‘you were asking someone – him – to stop.’

And Daryl knows it’s a question, but he doesn’t answer. He can’t answer it. Instead, he tried to spit, ‘none of your damn business,’ but it comes out sort of strangled. Fitting, really.

‘You can talk to me, Daryl,’ Rick said, voice soft.

‘Ain’t nothing to talk about.’

Rick nodded, unbelieving yet accepting, and shuffled closer. Daryl almost tells him to fuck off again, but there’s something about the way he looks – tussled from sleep, warm and inviting, safe – that made Daryl feel weak in a whole new way. Weak enough that he let Rick sit next to him, leaning against the headboard with a small gap in between them. Weak enough that Daryl quickly and almost subconsciously closed that gap, brushing up against Rick’s side and feeling a spark of warmth at the contact.

‘I saw Maggie today. She was asking about you,’ Rick said, voice causal and calm like a lullaby.

‘Yeah? She okay?’ Daryl asked, feeling himself sink further into Rick’s side.

‘She’s good. Think she misses you, it’s been a few days.’

Daryl scoffed.

‘We should go visit, maybe not tomorrow,’ Rick said, knowing full well Daryl wasn’t in any state to be going anywhere right now. ‘But soon. Her and Glenn will be happy to see you.’

‘What, like this?’ Daryl asked weakly, gesturing to himself and he didn’t mean to. Doesn’t know why he asked.

‘Like anything, they’re your friends.’

Daryl scoffed again, eyelids starting to get heavy as he listened to the steady sound of Rick’s breathing next to him. ‘Ain’t much good at that. Having friends n’all.’

‘Well,’ Rick said, his fingers tentatively coming up to brush a strand of Daryl’s hair out of his eyes, ‘you better get used to it.’

‘Maybe,’ Daryl remarked, because it was probably pointless. This, whatever this was, wouldn’t last. Nothing good ever did. He couldn’t stay here forever, nestled into Rick’s side, slowly resting his head on his shoulder. He would be back in that house soon enough with no one but his old man to keep him company. Rick, Glenn and Maggie, it was all temporary. They would get sick of him soon enough. Start to see him as he really was. But for the moment, Daryl let himself slide back down into the sheets, into Rick’s too soft, too big bed which smelt of laundry powder and Rick’s aftershave. He sighed, stifled a yawn, and was vaguely aware of Rick’s arm snaking around his shoulders as he began to drift back off to sleep.

Daryl woke up with his head pressed against Rick’s chest and he sat up so quickly he nearly tore his stitches. He gasped in pain, doubling over and suddenly Rick was awake too and asking ‘What happened? You okay?’

‘Fine, ain’t nothing,’ Daryl said, voice tight from pain and sleep.

‘You sure? Want me to take a look?’ Rick asked, sitting up and stretching.

Daryl pictured himself shirtless, just like he had been all laid out on Carol’s kitchen table, his stitches and scars and excess on display. Like a pig for slaughter. Daryl shook his head quickly, ignoring how his brain felt loose in his skull at the motion.

Rick didn’t seem convinced but didn’t push it. ‘Alright, let me know if it gets worse.’

‘S’fine,’ Daryl said, avoiding eye contact. He was still pressed up against Rick, warm under the sheets from sleep and god he would have hell to pay if Merle ever found out about this, let alone his father. Falling asleep on another man’s chest.

But Merle wasn’t here, and his father was a simpleminded piece of shit. So Daryl let himself soak in Rick’s warmth.

‘I was thinking pancakes for breakfast?’ Rick said, mid-yawn. ‘Sound good?’

Daryl’s stomach curled with hunger at the thought, yesterday’s blood loss making him dizzy. He hadn’t eaten yesterday and he could feel it even though he shouldn’t. He’s been without food for longer, much longer.

A memory tugged at him. It’s his birthday. He’s six. Or maybe he’s seven. It doesn’t matter. What matters is his Ma is up and awake and if she’s hungover she’s hiding it well and he’s kneeling on a kitchen chair helping her make pancakes. She lets him pour the batter, taste the syrup, make handprints in the flour and it’s good for a moment, fun. And then his father’s there, knocking the hot pan onto the floor and his Ma is burning her hands trying to clear up the contents and she’s sorry, so sorry but it doesn’t change anything. His father takes her by the hair and smacks her, screams in her face, about wasting money they didn’t have, about treating Daryl like a baby, feeding him up, making him weak. A waste of time. Waste of money. Waste of space. His Ma crawls back to bed crying and cradling her blistered hands.

‘M’not really hungry,’ Daryl dismissed.

Rick sighed, rubbing his face. ‘You gotta eat something, Daryl. You lost a lot of blood yesterday.’

When Daryl doesn’t respond, Rick clambered out of bed, stretching, and said ‘well I’m making them anyway. You can just eat as much as you want.’

Daryl growled before trying to pull himself up, his whole body complaining at the movement.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Rick said then, rounding on Daryl and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘You stay right there. Carol’s orders, remember?’

‘Ain’t useless,’ Daryl huffed.

‘I know,’ Rick confirmed, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he looked at Daryl, his thumb stroking his shoulder. ‘But you’re healing. It’s okay to accept help.’

And Daryl wanted to argue. No it ain’t. He shouldn’t need help. He’s never needed help before, and he certainly doesn’t need it now.

But the bed is so comfy, and everything is so sore, and Rick is smiling at him like he’s something more than he is, something better, someone deserving of care and Daryl felt himself waver. It’s selfish and pathetic, but he doesn’t want Rick to stop looking at him like that. And one day, he will, so Daryl just nods stiffly, gaze fixed on his hands, and lets himself go along with it. Just this once.

Breakfast in bed. Sounds novel. Laughable, for someone like him.

Hell, at home he doesn’t even have a real bed to have breakfast in. Just a ratty mattress and bloodstained sheets.

But Rick brought it in to him on a tray, complete with orange juice and coffee and Daryl doesn’t really know what to do with himself, so he chewed at the skin around his thumb and made sure the sheets are shielding as much of himself as possible.

‘Eat what you want,’ Rick told him again.

He starts small, or tries to. He always tries to. Rick’s been feeding him most evenings for three weeks now and it always starts like this. Daryl tries to be controlled, well-mannered, tries to ignore the swirling hunger that always seems to plague him, but after the first few bites it almost always falls to shit and he’ll just start shovelling the food down like a starving animal. Even though he’s clearly not starving. Even though he’s been eating more consistently than he’s done in years. This time is no different. It’s sweet and sticky and so fucking good and suddenly it’s gone and he’s left staring at his empty plate. And not for the first time since he met Rick, he wondered if maybe his father was right. He couldn’t control himself. Couldn’t seem to stop stuffing his face at every damn opportunity. He probably would cost a fuck tonne of money if he was able to eat whatever he wanted. It was probably for the best he didn’t have the option.

It’s not like he needed it.

‘Tasty?’ Rick asked, like Daryl hadn’t basically inhaled it.

Daryl nodded, tugging at the shirt he was wearing, trying to hide himself as much as possible. ‘Yes chef,’ he murmured, offering Rick a sort-of half smile to try and hide his shame.

It didn’t seem to work. Rick watched him for a moment, brows furrowed, lips drawn tight. ‘You can help yourself to anything, you know. Don’t have to ask. Just, help yourself. Don’t go hungry.’

Daryl squirmed at the words, shuffling to stand up and move the tray into the kitchen because the empty plate with smeared syrup and crumbs was making his stomach turn. ‘Don’t need much,’ Daryl said, voice tight, because he didn’t need much but he always seemed to take it.

Don’t need to eat half as much as you do.

And soon Rick would realise this. He was just another greedy mouth to feed. Unemployed and overfed and a pain in everyone’s ass.

Rick was still looking at him with his brows pulled together. ‘It’s not just about need, Daryl,’ he said carefully, those piercing eyes fixed on Daryl who couldn’t bring himself to meet them. ‘It’s about what you want, too. You can help yourself to anything you want. Understand?’

Daryl didn’t understand. He nodded anyway.

‘Now let me take that,’ Rick said, standing up and taking the tray. ‘You rest up.’

‘I’d like to check your stitches.’

It’s around midday. Daryl is curled on the couch wearing a pair of Rick’s sweatpants and his Georgia State training shirt, his hair freshly washed by Rick over the bath, giving him an almost fluffy appearance that Rick thought best to keep to himself.

Daryl shot him a look at the words, eyes narrowed, arms snaking around his middle. ‘Why?’ he demanded, now clinging to the bottom of his shirt as if he expected it to be ripped off him.

‘Because I want to make sure you’re healing okay.’

Daryl shifted, face twisting into a scared sneer. ‘Can check em myself,’ he said.

Rick suppressed a sigh, ran his hand through his hair and offered a weak but reassuring smile. ‘I know you can. I know. I just want to be sure.’

‘Why?’ Daryl demanded again, shoulders hunched, teeth bared, a cornered animal.

‘I care about you, Daryl,’ Rick said simply, and the words came to him easy because he meant them.

Daryl watched him for a moment, eyes still narrowed, body tense in a way that had to hurt him, but then his teeth met his lip and he dropped eye contact, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. ‘Alright,’ he resigned, voice tinged with dread. ‘Stubborn fuck.’

He pulled his borrowed shirt off, grunting in pain at the motion, and then he was red in the face and unable to meet Rick’s gaze.

Rick got straight to it, as Daryl’s discomfort was palpable. He crouched before him and Daryl sat back, chewing the side of his thumb and beginning to fidget. The stitches had taken well. Clean and near professional but there were so many of them, pulling together deep cuts inflicted out of pleasure, done so roughly the edges had bruised. With the last of the blood washed away, more injuries were revealed. Boot prints on his exposed ribs, marks where fingernails had pressed into his bony hips, an old scar tracing down his abdomen and below his waistline…

Rick had to close his eyes, take a breath. Count down from five. Try not to shake from the rage. It was too much. He felt his fingers twitch as he thought about all the ways he could make Daryl’s father suffer for this.

‘You done lookin?’ Daryl snapped, his voice pulling Rick back into reality. Rick looked up at Daryl, whose face was red and tight and almost shy. And there was the shame again. Like he was doing something wrong by just existing. Rick frowned as he realised that Daryl had pulled in a breath and was holding it in, making his stomach all the more concave.

Rick managed to nod as he collected himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and drawing back. Daryl wasted no time in getting the shirt back on, and only once he has secured the hem of it at his waist did he dare to breathe out. He avoided Rick’s gaze and had somehow gone redder, his hair falling in front of his face as if he was trying to hide.

‘Stitches look good,’ Rick said.

‘Good,’ Daryl repeated with a scoff. Wrong choice of words, then. They both knew the cuts would scar.

‘You want any painkillers?’ Rick asked, still trying to focus on keeping his breathing – his thoughts, his rage – in check.

‘Nah, ain’t bad,’ Daryl shrugged.

Rick wasn’t sure if Daryl was downplaying it out of shame, or if he meant it, and was just so used to it that his pain tolerance was unusually high. Rick didn’t know which option was worse.

‘You good, though?’ Daryl asked then, nervous as his eyes flickered briefly over Rick’s face, taking in his clenched jaw, his pulled tight lips, his narrowed eyed.

‘I’m fine,’ Rick sighed, rubbing his face. ‘I’m just sorry I didn’t do anything sooner.’

Daryl stiffened at the words as if they were a shock. As if he couldn’t believe anyone would care. ‘Ain’t nothin to do about it,’ he said, tilting his head slightly and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. ‘Just the way it is, ya’know.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Rick said firmly, hands gently finding their way onto Daryl’s shoulders. ‘It shouldn’t be.’

‘It is,’ Daryl insisted, looking at Rick this time, eyes peaking out from under his hair. ‘I can take it.’

‘Can you?’ Rick asked, voice strained, and it’s the wrong thing to ask because Daryl glares at him, inching backwards but Rick keeps his hands on Daryl’s shoulders and Daryl doesn’t shake him off. Rick forced himself to take another breath before moving his hands up slowly, hands barely touching skin as he traces them up Daryl’s neck, dancing over the bruises left there by his father. ‘He could have killed you, Daryl.’

‘But he didn’t,’ Daryl snapped, but it didn’t have any real bite to it. ‘It ain’t the first time.’

‘It’s the last time,’ Rick told him, hands moving up again, cupping Daryl’s face. ‘He won’t touch you again.’

And it was clear from the look on Daryl’s face that he didn’t believe it. He scoffed, shook his head and shrugged, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t move away from Rick’s touch, either. If anything, he lent in.

Shane called late afternoon. They had Will Dixon in custody. He’d punched Shane in the face upon arrest and Shane was in a shitty mood because of it. That, and because Rick had taken the day off to ‘babysit some redneck.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Rick growled.

Shane actually laughed at that, harsh and surprised. ‘Whatever, man,’ Shane huffed, amusement mixed with annoyance. ‘You think being there is more important than being here? Fine. You do you. But lemme tell you something man, if you really wanna help him, you’d be more use here. Gotta question this piece of shit.’

Rick considered this, chest tight as he looked through from the kitchen into the living room to where Daryl was huddled under a blanket on the couch, eyelids drooping as he watched some sitcom on the TV.

‘Alright,’ Rick relented, voice quiet. ‘Alright. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

Rick hung up, closed his eyes and took a breath, before walking into the living room, the tension in his body catching Daryl’s attention immediately. He sat up, hands gripping the blanket hard enough his knuckles turned white. He looked ready to fight, or flee, like he wasn’t sure which yet.

‘What is it?’ he asked Rick, almost breathless.

‘Your Father’s in custody.’

Daryl blinked, body frozen. ‘Why?’

‘You know why, Daryl,’ Rick sighed.

Rick almost expected anger, and for a moment it seemed so did Daryl. Rick saw it flash across his face before being replaced with a gnawing sort of panic. He shook his head so his hair fell in front of his eyes, started chewing at the raw skin around his thumb, a habit he had done so often recently that his nail was rimmed with dried blood. ‘Ain’t worth it, yaknow. Better ta just leave it.’

‘It is worth it. This shouldn’t have happened to you.’

Daryl just shrugged, eyes fixed on the TV but he wasn’t watching it.

‘I’m going down to the station to question him.’

This got Daryl looking at him, all wild eyed with rage trying to mask the fear.

‘What? Why? Get someone else to do it,’ he said, voice rushed, words tumbling. ‘Better yet just leave it, let him go. Ain’t worth the trouble.’

‘I was first on the scene. So was Shane. Should be us asking the questions.’

Daryl was shaking his head at the words, body stiffening as he backed up further onto the couch. ‘Don’t, man. Please don’t,’ and Rick tried to pretend he didn’t notice the crack in Daryl’s voice. Tried not to think about how the word please sounded just like when he had said it in his sleep last night as he begged, pleaded, for something to stop. It hadn’t stopped.

Please, stop. Please.

‘It’ll be fine, Daryl. I swear it. I won’t be long.’

‘Ain’t worth it,’ Daryl was repeating, standing up now, moving towards Rick like he wanted to grab onto his sleeve to stop him from leaving but he didn’t and Rick reached out, slowly so Daryl didn’t flinch, and brushed the hair out of Daryl’s face, fingers lingering over his bruised cheek. ‘Just call the station and let him go,’ Daryl added weakly.

‘That’s not up to me.’

Daryl didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, just stood there, trembling in a way that would have been imperceptible if Rick’s hand wasn’t still on his cheek. Rick met his eyes, trying to convey silently that it was okay, that it would be okay.

‘I won’t be long. I promise,’ Rick confirmed, voice soft, thumb gently running over Daryl’s swollen cheekbone. ‘Rest up, help yourself to whatever you want, okay?’

And for a second, Rick felt a flickering instinct to plant a kiss onto Daryl’s forehead. Just as he would have once done with Lori. The feeling caught him by surprise, but what surprised him more was how naturally it seemed to come to him, and how unnatural it seemed to suppress it. Daryl tilted his head slightly, an unasked question dancing on his features, his cheek pressing firmer into Rick’s open palm. Rick allowed his hand to slide up, carefully brush Daryl’s hair behind his ear before pulling back and offering a smile. ‘I’ll see you in a few hours.’

Rick had seen Will Dixon before, but only in mugshots. He had aged since his last one. Skin lined through drink and drugs and sun exposure, hair thinned and greying, eyes dark, fixing on Rick instantly, unblinking and cold. Rick could tell he was tall even though he was sitting down. He sat with his legs spread and grinned when Rick entered, baring a row of gappy yellow teeth.

‘Officer,’ he greeted, tongue running over rotten teeth. ‘Wanna tell me why the hell I’m here?’

Rick didn’t respond. Didn’t take his eyes off of the man as he sat opposite him, pulling his chair out from under the table with a deliberate scrap across the floor.

‘Why do you think you’re here,’ Rick asked, tilting his head. ‘Enlighten me.’

Will Dixon assessed him for a moment then, eyes narrowed, sizing him up like a snake trying to figure out if it could swallow its prey whole. ‘Something one of my boys done?’ he asked then, voice lofty. ‘Little shits always getting into trouble.’

Rick didn’t say anything. He kept his face set, his head tilted and waited for Will to squirm.

‘My oldest is in the lock-up,’ Will remarked, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. ‘But you knew that. So that leaves Daryl.’

And hearing Daryl’s name on his tongue was almost too much. Rick felt his jaw clench and then his fists. But he swallowed down the rage. Didn’t want to give his man the satisfaction.

‘I’m sure we can work things out,’ Will remarked, causally. ‘Just let me talk to him.’

Wrath sometimes felt like standing on the shore. Washing over him in waves, pulling him down into its current. He wouldn’t let it drag him under. He couldn’t. Not now.

‘I want you to explain something to me,’ Rick started, voice calm and cold. ‘I want you to explain the blood we found, in your living room. It was fresh. There was a lot of it.’

Will was watching him again, quiet and sucking on those rotten teeth. ‘You been in my house?’

‘I’ve been in your house,’ Rick confirmed, holding Will’s stare. ‘I’ve seen it. I know.’

Will smiled again, all teeth and it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘And what is it you think you know, huh?’

‘I know it weren’t no accident,’ Rick said. ‘I know what you did to him. I know you meant it.’

Will sat back, rolling his shoulders, eyes still fixed on Rick. ‘What, you think I did something to him? Is that what he told you? Did he go running to the cops like the little bitch he is?’

‘We got called out for a noise complaint.’

‘And you went into my house? No warrant?’

Rick leaned forward, resting on the table between them. ‘I can do that, if there’s reasonable suspicion that someone’s been hurt. Did you not know that?’ he asked, head tilting.

Will ground his teeth, jaw set, eyes flashing.

‘And the blood, that knife we found, you understand what it looks like. Don’t you?’

Will laughed, but there was no humour behind it. ‘I don’t give a damn what it looks like. Ain’t nothin to do with me. He’s either gone and picked a fight he couldn’t win or he’s done it to himself. Neither’s surprising. Always been a pain in my ass, he has. More trouble than he’s worth. Always causing problems, whining about some shit, making me angry. Got his idiot brother arrested for stealing food so he could stuff his fat fucking face more times than I can count. Ain’t no surprise he’s tryna get me done too. Waste of air, he is.’

Rick had fought it. He really, really had. But in the end, he got pulled under.

He saw red, Daryl’s blood, Carol’s fine stitches tugging together the skin on his hollowed stomach. He saw the scars that decorated Daryl's back, crossing over the indents of his spine. He saw each rib, felt Daryl’s swollen cheekbone under his thumb, that look of shame, the handprints around his throat…

Rick stood, chair knocked backwards, palms slamming on the table. ‘You watch your damn mouth –’

‘Or what, Officer?’ Will asked, drinking in the sight, the rage, eyes dilating, mouth twisting in a snarling smile.

Rick was on him then, hands gripping the collar of his shirt, angling him up to face Rick. He held him there for a moment, letting him grin up at Rick, breath stinking of stale smoke and booze and rot. Rick got in closer, tilted his head. ‘Or I will beat your ass into the ground. You understand me? You go near him again and I will knock your teeth out, watch you choke on em.’

‘Rick!’ Shane was there then, peeling his hands off of the front of Will’s shirt and shoving him backwards, looking at him as if he had lost his damn mind. But Rick held Will’s stare, head still at an angle, eyes set, sharp and dark. Waiting, daring.

Neither said anything as Shane dragged Rick from the room.

Rick had been fucking ages.

At least that’s what it felt like.

It probably didn’t help that all Daryl had done since Rick had left was pace around the kitchen, staring at the clock and occasionally pausing to stuff a cookie into his mouth. One of those nice ones from the bakery section of Walmart. The kind of thing Daryl never, ever got to eat and damn they were good. A temporary distraction from the churning pit of nerves in his stomach.

Rick was probably with his father, right now, listening to him talk about how it was all Daryl’s fault. How he had asked for it. How he was a pathetic, useless waste of space. How he was more trouble than he’s worth. A pain in the ass. A little pussy faggot bitch.

And what if Rick believed him?

Why wouldn’t Rick believe him when it was all true? His father was a mean, miserable, violent drunk, but he wasn’t a lair. At least not when speaking about Daryl, anyway.

Daryl shoved another cookie into his mouth, the too-big bite taking a while to chew and he’s glad no one can see him, eating like a damn animal, pacing around like he’s caged.

It was all a waste of time anyway. Daryl can’t remember his father ever doing more than a quick stint in the drunk tank. He would always come back. Always. Each time angry, foaming at the mouth to take it out on someone. On him.

Wouldn’t be any different this time around.

And Daryl would have to go home eventually. If Rick didn’t come back and want him gone right away, it wouldn’t take him long to realise everything Daryl’s father said about him was true. That all he was doing here was taking up space.

Another cookie.

What would happen when Daryl had to leave? Had to go crawling back to his father’s house? Daryl knew the answer. Could feel the answer, marked across his skin, cut into the fat on his stomach, scarred into his back – all except that one on his left shoulder that he hadn’t had feeling in for years, cut over so much that the nerves had simply given up.

Rick had been gone two hours now.

Two hours.

Had he been with his father the entire time? Daryl might as well leave now, shove his crossbow back into his holdall, maybe see if Carol will let him stay the night before having to slink back home and wait for whatever hell his father would cook up for him.

Maybe he didn’t have to go back at all. Could just go and live in the woods like the feral thing that he is.

He reached for another cookie but was met with only crumbs.

He’d eaten the lot. Hadn’t even really registered he was doing it.

The worse part was, he didn’t even feel full. He had just mindlessly stuffed them into his greedy, fat fucking face. Just like he always did. And he could have kept going. Would have, if there were more in the box.

The panic hit him like a cold bucket of water, drenching him from the head down and making him dizzy. He stopped pacing, practically stopped breathing, and slumped down into a kitchen chair. If his father hadn’t put Rick off of him, this would. Daryl had just gone into his cupboard and eaten for the sake of eating. He didn’t even need it.

Sitting around, doing fuck all and still expecting to be fed.

He felt sick, could still taste the chocolate on his tongue and it was too sweet and too much and he was too much too much too much –

Daryl heard a key in the lock. For a moment, he really did think he was going to be sick. Maybe it would have been better if he had. It would have been a waste, but any food he ate was a waste when he didn’t need it. There was enough of him as it was.

The front door opened. He heard Rick’s voice, Rick’s footsteps, but Daryl couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight, couldn’t flee. Could barely fucking breathe.

Rick was at his side in seconds, hands coming in to touch and Daryl flinched back, two violent twitches because there was no way Rick wasn’t pissed off. He had to be angry. And went people got angry, Daryl got hurt.

‘Hey, Daryl, it’s okay, it’s okay,’ Rick was telling him, voice hushed and thick with worry but Daryl couldn’t look at him, couldn’t move, couldn’t think couldn’t breathe couldn’t –

‘Daryl,’ Rick’s voice cut through the fog of panic, firm yet soft, causing Daryl to look up at Rick through his hair. ‘Hey,’ Rick cooed, small smile like he was trying to win over a stray and hadn’t been bitten yet. ‘That’s it, you’re doing great. Just look at me.’

And Daryl did, fixed his Rick’s, just like he did when they had first met, and he forced himself to inhale a ragged, painful breath into his lungs and jesus did his stitches fucking hurt.

‘That’s it,’ Rick said, ‘you’re doing great. Just keep looking at me, keep breathin.’

It’s easier when he’s told what to do. Always has been. Even easier when it was Rick.

Daryl copied Rick’s breathing until his evened out, until the fog lifted and he was left feeling like a fucking pussy for letting the panic get to him. He finally pulled his eyes from Rick’s, looking to the floor and chewing at the skin around his nails. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, feeling the heat on his cheeks.

‘You don’t gotta be sorry,’ Rick told him, sitting in the chair next to him and placing a hand on Daryl’s knee. ‘Are you okay? What happened?’

Daryl nodded, and then shrugged, glancing at the empty cookie box like a dog expecting a beating, hoping this would be enough to let Rick know what had happened. What he had done.

It wasn’t. Rick cocked his head, brows furrowed in confusion, trying to decipher Daryl’s body language like morse code. Daryl realised he was going to have to say it, to admit it, out loud, and he felt a wave of anger rise up trying to drown out the shame but it didn’t work. He gulped, shuffled in his chair.

‘Ate em all,’ he said, sheepishly, shyly, nodding towards the box. ‘Didn’t mean to. Didn’t think. M’sorry.’

This seemed to do little to ease Rick’s confusion. He looked between Daryl and the empty box for a moment, gears turning in his head. Daryl felt his lungs growing tight once again.

‘It’s fine, Daryl,’ Rick said slowly, feeling Daryl tense under his palm. ‘Ain’t no big deal. I told you to help yourself.’

It was Daryl’s turn to look at Rick, confusion merging with suspicion. Was it a trap? A play of innocence?

He remembers once, he’s probably around 13 and he’s brought home a buck. A big one. Was an absolute bitch to drag back through the woods and by the time he gets home he’s battered and aching and so fucking hungry he can barely stand because it’s been days and he’s just used the last of his energy on this and he’s proud. This is his biggest kill to date, the best thing he’s ever brought back and there’s no way his father will be disappointed by it, surely. He’s done what is expected of him and he’s done it well.

And his father does seem pleased. He claps Daryl on the back, rough hands knocking against a two-day old lash mark but Daryl doesn’t mind for once, doesn’t even flinch much. His father helps him skin it, which is good because Daryl is so hungry that his fingers feel numb around the knife and he tries to hide how his arms tremble with the effort of moving the damn thing around. His father talks as they work, and while Daryl can’t remember the stories he told, Daryl remembers how they made him uncomfortable, how they made his skin crawl and how he had to nod and laugh along anyway.

They eat well that evening and it’s not just what Daryl has caught, it’s other things too, things he’s not used to having. Fresh vegetables, fries, bread that hasn’t come from the freezer and real butter, even a jug of Kool-Aid. Daryl doesn’t think much about it. He should have, but he doesn’t because he’s so hungry, fucking ravenous, and he’s earned it. So he just eats. Eats like a wild thing. Eats like he’s starving. Eats like he deserves it because he’s sure, he’s so fucking sure.

And when he’s done, he looks up, and his father is watching him, licking his lips as if he’s the most appetising thing at the table.

‘Hungry, were you?’ he asks, eyes glinting as Daryl started to squirm.

Daryl nods, wanting to explain, to reason that he hasn’t eaten in days and he’s brought home a buck – a fucking buck! – and he deserves to eat, he’s earnt it. The words die on his tongue.

‘Always fucking hungry you are,’ his father says with a smile and a snarl. He leans forward, ready to pounce. ‘Explains a lot really, don’t it?’ And he looks at Daryl pointedly, eyes running up and down his body and Daryl feels exposed, naked, can feel the ghost of his fathers’ hands roaming over him from a few nights beforehand. He crosses his arms over his middle and his father stands, walks over, and yanks his arms up and off of himself. ‘Ah, ah, ah – don’t you try and hide it, boy. You did this to yourself.’

And then he grips Daryl’s sides, fingers digging into fat and flesh. ‘This is what happens when I let you eat whatever you want, see?’ he hushed, getting in close enough that Daryl can feel his breath on his neck. ‘You can’t control yourself, can you?’

Fingers dug in deep enough to bruise. Daryl felt his father start to nibble at his neck. Daryl doesn’t respond, he just trembles.

‘Can you?’ his father yells then, so loud and so close to Daryl’s ear he feels momentarily deaf.

‘No sir,’ he stutters, ears ringing, trying desperately not to flinch as he feels his father’s other hand start to squeeze his thigh.

‘Had to do this for your Ma too, yknow. Keep her controlled, keep her small. She used to thank me for it. She was good. So good,’ his father’s lips were at Daryl’s neck as he spoke, his hand snaking further up his thigh. ‘But you – you just take and take, don’t you boy? Eat and eat even though you clearly don’t need it and look where that gets you.’

The grip on Daryl’s side is hard enough to bruise, fingers pinching and pulling at him, almost burying under his ribcage.

‘You need me,’ he breathes, reaching the base of his thigh. ‘You need me and you’re not even grateful.’

Daryl shakes his head, but the hand at his waist snaps up, wrapping under his chin and gripping his cheeks to angle his face towards his fathers.

‘Use your words, boy,’ he growled.

‘M’sorry,’ Daryl says, eyes wide.

His father watches him for a moment, drinking in the fear and the shame. ‘I do this for you, boy,’ he said. ‘I know you. I know what you need. You don’t need shit.’

And it ends like it always does.

But that was then, and this is now, and Rick is knelt in front of him, watching him, waiting. Daryl felt Rick’s hand on his knee and he jerked back. Rick moved away in an instant.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rick said and he sounded like he meant it. And Daryl is sorry, sorry for making Rick look all hurt like that, sorry for the way Rick’s hands wring together. The thing is, Daryl wanted Rick’s touch. Craved it and it’s pathetic and its worse because sometimes all he can feel is his father when he only wants Rick.

For a horrifying moment, he felt like he might cry. Rick’s hands hover over Daryl’s shoulders, not touching, but Daryl can still feel their spark. He leant forward, and Rick gingerly sets an open palm down at the base of Daryl’s neck, thumb running over his collarbone.

‘Daryl,’ Rick prompts, voice as gentle as his touch. ‘Talk to me.’

He doesn’t want to talk. He wanted to bite and tell Rick to fuck off so he can slink off to a corner and lick his wounds in peace but he also doesn’t want Rick to leave. Not really. He just wants things to be easy. Things are never easy.

Daryl sucked in another painful breath, biting at the skin around his thumbnail so he tasted blood. ‘Didn’t need to eat all that,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Can’t afford to eat like that. Eatin for no damn reason. M’sorry.’

Rick watched him for a moment longer, chewing at his bottom lip, thumb still maintaining its soft rhythmic movements across Daryl’s chest. And then his free hand gently settled under Daryl’s chin, barely making contact but his fingers persuading Daryl to look at him. ‘Whatever your father told you,’ Rick started, voice careful, ‘he was wrong. About everything, alright? All of it. You deserve so much better –’

Rick had to stop then, compose himself, and Daryl didn’t really understand why this seemed to bother Rick so much. He didn’t say anything, just kept biting at his thumb and he asked, ‘whatdya talk about?’ Because although he didn’t want to hear it, he wanted to know.

Rick seemed to be considering the best way to answer, and Daryl tried to ready himself for it. For Rick telling him what he knew, what his father knew. He could take it. He’d taken worse.

So why did it feel like the world was ending the longer he waited for Rick to speak?

Rick sighed, offered this soft, sad smile that Daryl hated, before he said ‘just stuff. Got angry.’

It’s not the answer Daryl wanted or expected, but it got him to cough up a choked sort of laugh. ‘He has that effect on people.’

‘I’m sorry you had to live with that,’ Rick said quietly. ‘You didn’t deserve it.’

Daryl scoffed, suddenly hyper aware of how Rick’s fingers were still on his chin, tracing that little scar he had that he tried to cover with stubble. ‘How would you know?’ Daryl asked, barely audible and he didn’t mean to ask it, not out loud. But the words slipped out anyway.

Rick paused for a moment, fingers still at the scar on his chin. ‘Because I know,’ he said softly, smiling proper this time so his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made something inside Daryl melt. ‘You’re a good man, Daryl. You’re good –’ the hand that was on his collarbone glided down, resting above his heart, ‘– right here.’

Daryl didn’t trust himself to speak. Didn’t trust himself to move, so he sat there, all embarrassingly doe-eyed and staring at Rick, drinking in his warmth as if he were a sun Daryl had never seen, his heart beating harder under Rick’s soft touch.

In some ways, Rick wished that he had never met Will Dixon. Not only because he lost his cool and gotten an earful about it from his boss, but because now, when he looked at Daryl, at his endless list of injuries, he could see his father inflicting them, standing over him, rough hands at his throat, those yellowing teeth grinning as Daryl hurt.

Rick felt like he was seeing Daryl’s reaction to the world under a new lens. He had always known why Daryl was the way he was. The jumpiness, the flinching, the narrow-eyed stare that said I don’t trust this as he waited for something to hurt him. Rick had known why. Known and ignored it but now it was glass had been wiped clear and he could see it, really see it. And it made him feel sick.

‘I gotta check those stitches again,’ he told Daryl, once things were calm, once Daryl was settled on the couch and breathing normally. Rick had seen how Daryl had jerked and winced as he panicked earlier. Knew that he could have pulled those delicate stitches out. And if Daryl was reluctant to let Rick check earlier, he was damn defensive over it now.

‘No way,’ he snapped, curling in on himself, gripping the hem of his shirt and snarling. ‘It’s fine. Leave it.’

Rick feels something tug at his insides. Something like nerves and dread and he wants to ignore it but he shouldn’t, because its similar to the feeling he had every time he watched Daryl walk back into that house.

Daryl was all skin, bone and sinew. Hollow cheeks, hollow stomach, hollow eyes. And he was – or should have been – a wide set man. Broad shoulders and chest, just without the substance to support it. He was strong, undeniably so, muscles lean and wiry from hunting and working his crossbow, but it wasn’t enough and he looked so tired, all the time. And Rick wasn’t stupid. He knew there was more too it. He had seen the way Daryl was around food. He knew Daryl’s father had something to do with it. He had put that much together, but only enough that he has assumed that food wasn’t readily available. But now…

Now he couldn’t ignore the itch that there was more to it.

Couldn’t unhear Will’s jab about Daryl getting his idiot brother arrested for stealing food so he could stuff his fat fucking face.

Couldn’t unsee Daryl’s shame, Daryl’s fear, as he eyed the empty box as though waiting for a beating. Didn’t need to eat all that. Can’t afford to eat like that. Eatin for no damn reason.

‘Come on,’ Rick said, soft yet firm, causing Daryl to shift and scowl. ‘Gotta make sure you’re okay.’

‘Don’t hurt,’ Daryl told him, shrinking back into the couch cushions. ‘Waste of damn time.’

‘Making sure you’re okay is not a waste of time,’ Rick told him, hands resting on his hips and for a moment he felt like he did when he was trying to reason with Carl.

And Daryl acted like Carl, in the way he didn’t budge, just kept his arms folded tightly over himself and all but pouted while averting his eyes.

‘Daryl,’ Rick said, wrestling to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘Come on.’

‘Nah, man. Leave me be.’

Rick sighed as Daryl all but growled at him, eyes narrowed and teeth bared, all bark and no bite and Rick knew he had to try another approach.

‘What are you so afraid of?’ Rick asked, keeping his voice cool and calm but steading himself, just in case he caught a stray fist.

For a moment, Daryl looked like he really might hit him – heckles all raised, fists clenched – but then it falls away, leaving Daryl looking a little lost and so fucking young and Rick feels that tug inside him again.

‘Ain’t afraid of nothin,’ Daryl snaps, defeated, like he’s trying to convince himself more than Rick.

‘Then let me check you over,’ Rick insisted, keeping his voice soft.

Daryl glared at him for a moment longer, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. ‘Fine,’ he relented, and he looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He swallowed hard, twitched his neck, and pulled his shirt off with a grunt and a reddening face.

The bruises were darkening, spreading across his ribs like wet ink and curling purple at the edges. At least the swelling had started to go down. Rick’s gaze traced each cut, stitched up and an angry red where the threads pulled them together. All the stitches were intact, but it looked sore. Rick’s jaw clenched as he saw Will’s rotting smile, his dark, dilated eyes, that knife they had down at the station in an evidence bag, the dried blood on a dull blade.

‘Told ya it was fine,’ Daryl huffed, watching Rick watch him.

‘No harm in making sure,’ Rick told him, fighting the urge to put his hand on Daryl’s knee again, not wanting to risk the reaction it had received earlier.

‘Hurts like a bitch taking my shirt off every time you wanna play nurse though,’ he mumbled, already yanking his shirt back on, leaving his hair looking scruffier than usual. Rick couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at his lips at the sight.

‘Hey, I think I make a good nurse,’ Rick told him, letting his smile grow.

Daryl let out a sharp exhale that mimicked a laugh. ‘Whatever you say, man,’ he said, settling back into the couch with his arms once again curling over himself, almost defensively. He was looking at Rick in a way that Rick couldn’t quite understand. A paradox of emotions playing across his features in tandem. Trust and distrust and nerves. His lips almost smiling but his eyes clouded and suddenly Rick could feel it too. The hope and the hurt and the fear and for a second it was almost overwhelming. He pulled back, standing up and turning his face away and sucking in a breath.

'I’ll get you some painkillers,’ he told Daryl then, unable to stop the slight tremble in his voice.

Daryl was watching him. Rick could feel it. ‘Don’t need em,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s not always about need, Daryl,’ was all Rick could say. All he trusted himself to say, before escaping to the kitchen to compose himself, chiding himself for being such a damn coward.

Rick didn’t have it in him to cook. Instead, he ordered pizza, setting in it the box on the coffee table so they could eat on the couch and watch TV.

Well, that had been the plan, anyway.

Daryl didn’t eat. Didn’t so much as look at the pizza. Just sat there, all stiff and still with his face set and dark. Rick noticed the way he seemed to try and shrink into himself. The way his arms crossed over his stomach, his fingers pinching at his bruised and bony sides.

‘You should eat,’ he told Daryl eventually, voice causal but his chest tight.

‘Nah,’ Daryl said. ‘Don’t need it.’

‘Are you hungry?’ Rick asked, keeping his eyes on the TV, pretending to watch so Daryl didn’t feel cornered. Rick wasn’t sure it was working.

‘Don’t matter,’ Daryl snapped, shuffling inwards, making himself smaller. ‘Ate too much earlier.’

‘You didn’t,’ Rick said quietly. Calm like he couldn’t hear his own heart pounding in his chest. ‘If you’re hungry, you should eat.’

There was a pause, and Daryl was looking at Rick with squinted eyes so Rick looked back, holding his gaze as Daryl assessed him. And then Daryl scoffed, shook his head, and looked back at the TV as the eye contact became too much. ‘Don’t need it,’ he said again, voice tight. ‘Got enough meat on my bones as is.’

And Rick just knew those words weren’t his. Rick knew he was just parroting what he’s been told. The rage nearly made his vision white. He considered marching back down to the station, following through on his threat and then some. Knocking out those rotten teeth and watching Will Dixon choke on his own blood.

Daryl shuffled on the couch next to him, chewing at his thumb Rick could feel the shame rolling off of him in waves. Rick turned to face him, moving in a little closer, but not close enough that Daryl felt trapped, and resisted every urge in his body that willed him to cup Daryl’s face.

‘You’re skin and bone, Daryl,’ he said, his voice urgent, desperate for Daryl to believe him and not his father even though he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

And it wasn’t. Daryl laughed at the statement. Short and harsh and bitter. ‘Whatever, man.’

‘I mean it,’ Rick insisted, leaning in closer, needing Daryl to look at him, to see that he meant it.

Daryl did, pulling back, watching Rick through those narrow, untrusting eyes. Rick saw a flash of anger quickly replaced by shame and doubt and some sort of longing sadness that made Rick ache.

‘What did he tell you?’ Rick breathed, and it’s not really what he meant to ask but at the same time he felt like he needed to know.

The question seemed to throw Daryl off, he blinked, and Rick saw that anger again, desperate to take over, to make a distraction, to make things easier. But it wasn’t quite strong enough. Daryl looked away, chewing the skin of his hands yet again and shrugged. ‘Nothin that ain’t true.’

‘Daryl,’ Rick pressed, softly, keeping distance but trying to move into Daryl’s line of sight, trying to meet eyes that were trying to avoid his.

‘Don’t catch, don’t eat,’ Daryl said then, and it took Rick a second to register what he meant by that. ‘Didn’t deserve it otherwise. Didn’t deserve it even then. Food, I mean. Can’t afford to be feeding the likes of me,’ he mimicked, ‘specially when I don’t need it.’

Rick took a moment to process this, letting the words, the meaning, sink in and it made him grow cold and then burn hot with rage that he had to swallow down like a bitter pill.

‘You know that ain’t true, right?’ Rick asked, afraid of the answer.

Daryl was watching him again, staring as if trying to pull the exact thoughts from Rick’s mind. ‘Ain’t ever been told otherwise,’ he shrugged.

‘I’m telling you otherwise,’ Rick said, shuffling in closer, hands coming up on instinct to cup Daryl’s face but he stopped himself, not wanting scare him off. Not right now. ‘You gotta eat, you deserve to eat.’

And Daryl didn’t believe him. Of course he didn’t. But he looked like he wanted to. He eyed Rick’s raised hands cautiously before leaning in, angling his face ever so slightly forwards. Rick felt a pull at his heart as he slowly brought his palm up, resting it gently on Daryl bruised cheek, feeling stubble, that sharp jawline, how Daryl seemed to melt into the touch. ‘S’not that simple,’ Daryl sighed into Rick’s hand.

‘It is,’ Rick told him, and somehow he’s gotten even closer without realising it. They’re touching at the hip, the shoulder, Rick realises his face is close enough to feel the soft huff of Daryl’s breath, to see the small flecks of green welded in the blue around his pupils. ‘It is that simple.’

‘Don’t feel it,’ Daryl said, voice quiet, eyes flickering down to look at Rick’s lips for just a second. He looked surprised at his own admission, at the vulnerability of it all. Rick ran his thumb down Daryl’s cheek, resting it near the corner of his mouth.

‘We’ll get there,’ Rick told him. ‘We will,’ he insisted when Daryl narrowed his eyes, that doubt creeping in again. ‘But you gotta eat, Daryl. You gotta try.’

‘I eat,’ Daryl said weakly, breaking eye contact. And he looks like he wants to say more but thinks better of it.

‘I know,’ Rick said softly, reassuringly, not wanting to sound accusing. ‘But not enough.’

‘More than enough,’ Daryl huffed, his voice wavering slightly. ‘Just take n’take.’

‘According to who? Your father?’ Rick questioned, ‘forgive me if I don’t take his word as gospel.’

‘You don’t know him,’ Daryl said, his accent seeming to thicken as his voice continued to shake. ‘You don’t know me.’

‘I do,’ Rick insisted, his hand running up into Daryl’s hair, brushing it back hovering just above his ear. ‘I know you.’

And Daryl is looking at him again, eyes wider than Rick’s ever seen them go, darting over Rick’s face, trying to see the lie, the deceit, but finding none.

‘You deserve this,’ Rick told him softly, hand still in Daryl’s hair, finger running over the tip of his ear. ‘You deserve to eat. You deserve to be safe – feel safe – feel loved.’

Rick didn’t intend to say that last part, but he meant it, even if it caught him by surprise. Seemed to surprise Daryl too, who glanced at Rick’s lips again. Only for a second. Then he met Rick’s eyes, his own set back to their usual narrowness, but without any of the suspicion. Just that sad longing again, clouded over with something almost soft.

‘Don’t believe it,’ he said, voice so quiet Rick almost didn’t hear it.

‘You will,’ Rick told him, as gently as he could. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

There was a knock at the door.

Daryl froze, heartbeat pounding in his ears, breath catching in his throat.

Rick was at work. Had said over and over that he could call off, could stay with Daryl, but Daryl had told him to go. Didn’t need to be babysat. Could look after himself. Rick had worn that tight-lipped frown as he was leaving, unhappy with the decision but respecting Daryl’s wishes and it’s been a few hours now and the knock at the door made Daryl wish Rick was here.

It wouldn’t be his father. Couldn’t be. He was still in custody. He didn’t know – couldn’t know – that Daryl was here. It would be fine. It was probably Carol, or someone trying to sell something, or –

He cracked the door open, making sure it was on the chain, and peeked out of the gap with narrow eyes.

‘Daryl! Hi!’

It was Glenn. All bright eyed and smiley and carrying a shopping bag and all Daryl could do was blink at him.

‘Whatcha want?’ he said – snapped – because the fear was creeping out of his body and leaving him embarrassed.

Glenn didn’t seem phased. ‘Just thought I’d swing by,’ he said, ‘brought snacks. Beer too. Can I come in?’

Daryl stared at him a moment longer, trying to figure out his angle because there had to be one. Surely. Glenn rocked from heel to toe, looking increasingly nervous at the pause, and Daryl felt his resolve crumble. He undid the chain and opened the door wide, so Glenn could get a good look – could see the bruises and maybe, hopefully, decide that actually, this wasn’t for him and leave Daryl alone.

Glenn didn’t say a word. Didn’t even seemed to register it. Instead, he grinned wider and wondered in, making his way to the kitchen as Daryl trailed behind him like a wary dog.

‘Brought these from the coffee shop,’ Glenn said, shaking a paper bag filled with muffins as he started to unpack the shopping bag he brought, spreading the contents on the table. ‘You like chocolate, right?’

Daryl just stared at him, narrow eyed and untrusting.

Again, it didn’t seem to bother Glenn.

He set out a six pack, a few bags of chips, a bag of pre-made popcorn and the muffins on the kitchen table and grinned widely. ‘You hungry?’

‘No,’ Daryl said, bluntly, warily, arms crossed in a way that hurt his bruises.

‘Suit yourself,’ Glenn said, opening the popcorn and taking a handful. ‘You a Nintendo kinda guy, or…?’

‘What the fuck is a Nintendo,’ Daryl asked, unable to help himself due the slight embarrassment that he didn’t know, and the mounting confusion over what the fuck was going on.

Glenn looked delighted. ‘It’s like… PlayStation, you know?’

‘Merle had an Xbox once,’ Daryl said, brow furrowed in thought. He had helped Merle steal it from some second-hand electronics store, and even then, Merle never let him touch the damn thing. It didn’t last long. His father stomped on it until it was in pieces not two weeks later.

‘Yeah, kinda!’ Glenn said with enthusiasm. ‘I thought we could play some? Could be fun?’

‘Fun,’ Daryl repeated, eyebrows low, arms still crossed and it was only then that Glenn started to look nervous. He shuffled where he stood, hand on the back of his neck as his smile turned sheepish. And Daryl felt a small lick of guilt.

‘We don’t have to… I just thought that, well, you know –’ Glenn started, but Daryl cut him off.

‘S’fine,’ he said, reaching for a beer. ‘Show me this Nintendo thing then.’

Daryl was bad at Mario Kart. Bad even though Glenn tried to talk him though it in quick, excited rambles, red shell this, green shell that –

‘This is bullshit,’ Daryl huffed, taking a swig of his beer as he drove Dry Bones off a cliff.

‘You have a blue shell! Use it!’ Glenn exclaimed.

‘How?’ Daryl growled.

‘I showed you how! Press L2!’

‘What?’

‘Bottom left bumper!’

Daryl snarled in an annoyance that felt almost playful and Glenn was all but cackling. Daryl lost each round, coming dead last except for once, before giving up, claiming half-heartedly that it was a shit game anyway.

‘Didn’t peg you as a sore loser,’ Glenn grinned, shoving more popcorn in his mouth.

‘I ain’t,’ Daryl snapped.

‘You’ll get better. Maggie was worse than once. She beats me now, sometimes.’

‘Where is Maggie, anyway?’ Daryl asked, settling back into the sofa, beer in hand.

‘Helping her dad on the farm today, or she would have come by too,’ Glenn said.

Daryl swigged the dregs of his beer, watching Glenn out of the corner of his eye. ‘Rick ask you to come by?’ he asked, trying to sound causal but unable to keep the edge out of his voice. The embarrassment at needing to be watched like a child. The insinuation that he can’t be trusted to look after himself.

Glenn shook his head. ‘Nah, I heard you were staying with Rick for a bit. Had a day off and thought you’d like the company.’

‘What else ya hear?’ Daryl questioned, voice sharp, because even if Rick hadn’t said why, it must have been obvious what had happened. Daryl had seen himself in the mirror. He knew what the bruises looked like. He knew how pathetic it must seem.

‘Nothing,’ Glenn said, stammering slightly, but honest. ‘Just that you’d been through the wringer a bit, but I don’t know anything else, I promise I –’

‘Stop,’ Daryl sighed, feeling that weird guilt start to gnaw at him again. ‘S’fine, ain’t a big deal anyway.’

‘Looks like it hurts,’ Glenn said.

‘It don’t’ Daryl replied, almost softly while wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. Why wasn’t he chewing this kid out? It weren’t none of his business and yet Daryl couldn’t bring himself to be angry, even though anger was easy, familiar.

Glenn was watching him, all bright eyed and friendly and so fucking naive and Daryl couldn’t bring himself to shatter it – that weird innocence that he seemed to have. Daryl sighed, reaching for another beer as he wondered if Merle had ever thought that about him.

He had once. Daryl is sure of it.

It just didn’t last. It couldn’t last.

One of his earliest memories is of Merle. He can’t be older than five. They’re in the old house, the one that burnt to the ground eventually, and he’s sitting on the kitchen floor with a picture book that someone has put cigarettes out on. Merle is making him a ‘Merle Special,’ which is really just kraft macaroni with ketchup, and while he hovers over the stove, he asks Daryl what he’s looking at in the book and Daryl will point to the pictures and show him. ‘Cat… dog… lizard –’

‘That ain’t no lizard, baby brother,’ Merle laughs. ‘That’s a damn turtle.’

‘They’re the same,’ Daryl pouts. ‘Reptiles.’

‘They ain’t the damn same,’ Merle tells him, but he doesn’t sound mad, and even at this point in his young life, Daryl is so used to people sounding mad, so he giggles, because Merle is safe and he feels safe and it’s rare and Merle smiles as he stirs the pan.

Merle serves up into a chipped bowl and only serves up enough for Daryl and Daryl has come to realise, as he has gotten older, that it’s because there was never enough for both of them. So Merle would simply go without, portioning the other half up for Daryl to eat later. Merle never says anything. He just watches Daryl with a soft smile that contrasts with his hard features as Daryl tucks in all messy.

‘Eat up,’ Merle tells, him, ruffling Daryl’s baby blond hair that will darken dramatically as he ages. ‘Ain’t everyday you get the Merle Special, so you best enjoy it.’

And he does. But that’s not a shock, really. He’ll eat anything. His father calls him a bottomless pit. A waste of money and food and at this point Daryl is too young to understand it but old enough that he knows it’s a bad thing. That he is a bad thing.

But Merle makes him feel like a good thing sometimes. Like right now, where be puts a cassette in the deck on the kitchen counter and mimics air guitar, strutting around like Angus Young while Daryl eats, overdramatic and solely for the purpose of making Daryl giggle. Dinner and a show.

And it’s all fun and games until the front door slams open. Merle freezes but doesn’t flinch – he never flinches. Instead, he listens, holding a finger up signalling for Daryl to be quiet, and Daryl knows well enough that he should be. And they hear heavy boots stumbling in the hall, a muttered string of slurred swear words then Merle has Daryl by the wrist and is steering him towards to back door.

‘Wait outside. Don’t make a sound, you hear? I’ll get you when it’s over.’

Daryl opens his mouth to protest but Merle shoots him a look, grip tightening momentarily before he pushes him out into the yard. ‘Shut up and do as you’re told,’ Merle snaps.

So Daryl does. He sits, arms around his knees and to the side of the back door, trying not to shiver or shake as he hears the cassette player being shut off, the sound of something smashing, crashing, his brother and father shouting and then just his father, loud and overbearing and then he hears this repetitive, smacking, cracking sound that he soon comes to learn is the sound of leather on skin but he doesn’t know that yet. He just knows that it scares him.

And then it falls silent and it’s like that for a while and Daryl doesn’t move because Merle told him he would come and he trusts Merle, even though its dark now and he’s cold and he’s started to cry. Eventually the back door opens, and Merle is there, pale and bloodied and his face contorts at the sight of tears on Daryl’s face. He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’s taken Daryl by the wrist again, harder than before, but his hands are shaking this time as he yanks Daryl roughly to his feet and all but drags him back into the kitchen. Daryl’s feet stop at the sight of it all. The blood, spattered on the dirty tiled floor, on his picture book, the cassette deck in pieces, dishes swept off of the sides and shattered in the blood. Daryl tries to pull away but Merle holds him there, hand still shaking but his grip firm.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Merle said, voice rough with pain and rage and something Daryl doesn’t recognise. ‘You’ve got to look at this. Take a good, hard look, baby brother.’

And despite what his father tells him, Daryl is very good at doing what he’s told. So he stands there, snivelling and looking at the blood that’s starting to dry, and the dark stains seeping through the back of Merle’s shirt.

‘This is what he is,’ Merle tells him, voice sharp and quiet. ‘What we are. Do you understand that?’

And Daryl doesn’t understand. He just cries harder.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Merle exclaims then, their father’s inherited temper getting the better of him. ‘What the fuck you have to cry about, huh? Didn’t happen to you. I made sure of that, didn’t I? Don’t be such a pussy.’

Daryl tries to stop crying. He really does. But it’s not good enough so Merle is dragging in forward again, towards to blood and holding his face to look at it so he can’t turn away. ‘This is what life is for us,’ Merle is saying, almost manic, ‘this is what happens, and you need to toughen up, you need to deal with it, you need to do as your told, when your told.’

Daryl nods, choking on a sob and clinging onto Merle’s leg with his free hand.

‘Get off me,’ Merle snaps, pushing him away. ‘I told you, don’t be such a pussy.’

‘Sorry,’ Daryl sniffs.

‘Never be sorry,’ Merle says. ‘Being sorry is for pussies.’

Daryl nods again, still looking at the blood, and then back up at Merle, who was watching Daryl closely. ‘Did it hurt?’ Daryl asks him, quietly, scared of the answer.

And Merle seems to crack for a moment, his grip on Daryl’s wrist loosening, his free hand coming up to rub his face and he sucks in a breath. ‘A bit,’ he said, ‘ain’t nothing I can’t handle.’

A few months later, Merle is in juvie for the first time in Daryl’s life. Only then does Daryl understand what Merle was trying to tell him. Even then, he didn’t learn his lesson.

The front door opened and Daryl filched, beer sloshing in the bottle, Glenn jumped at Daryl’s sudden movements and there was Rick in his tan uniform, back from work and grinning at them, eyes lingering on Daryl all soft and Daryl felt his cheeks heat up.

‘Looks like you had a good day,’ Rick said.

‘S’alright,’ Daryl muttered, face still burning from the look Rick had given him and from the way Glenn’s eyes darted between them as he wore an annoyingly knowing grin.

‘We played Mario Kart,’ Glenn said.

‘Stupid fucking game,’ Daryl added, making Glenn snicker.

‘If it makes you feel better, Rick’s not much better than you,’ Glenn told him.

And it did make Daryl feel a little better, although he wouldn’t admit it.

Rick mocked offence, coming in and shrugging his jacket off. ‘I thought I was getting better,’ he said, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt to make it more comfortable around the neck, causing Daryl to quickly avert his eyes. ‘You guys eaten yet?’

Daryl nodded his head at the same time as Glenn said, ‘not yet.’

Rick shot Daryl a look, sharp yet soft and Daryl squirmed.

‘I’ll cook,’ Rick said, voice leaving no room for protest. He walked behind them and past the couch, fingers instinctively but slowly making their way into Daryl’s hair as he passed, halfway between and ruffle and a stroke and he didn’t seem to even realise he had done it. Daryl felt his face burn and then burn some more when he realised he had lent into the touch, and that Glenn was watching them with his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

They were alone. Glenn had gone home, Daryl had eaten too much at dinner because anything at all was too much after what happened yesterday and he was fidgeting on the couch feeling uncomfortable, too full, too much too much.

‘I’m proud of you,’ Rick said, causing Daryl to shoot him a narrow-eyed stare.

‘For what?’ Daryl snapped, anxiety bubbling in his chest.

‘For tryin,’ Rick told him, leaning back on the couch, hair all tousled from a long day, giving Daryl a look that made his heart skip in a way he would try to tell himself was just nerves.

Daryl exhaled, making a pffft sound, and shook his head.

And then the tone changed, Rick started to chew his lip, like he wanted to say something – needed to say something – but didn’t know how and then it really was the anxiety that caused Daryl’s heartrate to spike.

‘What?’ Daryl asked, sharp and concerned and unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

‘They want to speak to you, down at the station,’ Rick said, voice gentle. ‘You’re not in trouble, they just want to know what happened, take a statement. Move the case forward.’

‘Ain’t no case,’ Daryl hissed, the panic stealing his breath. ‘Aint nothin to talk about. Not a damn thing. Told ya to drop it. Let him go.’

‘Daryl –’

‘No!’ Daryl snapped, voice raising, harsh against his throat. ‘I ain’t doing it! Ain’t no way.’ He doesn’t know when he stood up, but he’s on his feet, backing away until his calves hit the coffee table.

Rick stood too, hands up and trying to hush him like a spooked horse. ‘You don’t have to decide now, I told them you’d think about it.’

‘Don’t need to think about it. Don’t need to – I ain’t doing it!’ Daryl exclaimed, trying to keep breathing but it was getting harder, his chest tighter, his vision blurring at the edges and –

Rick’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him firmly through the initial flinch and then they snake around him, pulling him into a hug and Daryl all but crumbles, burying his head into the crook of Rick’s neck and huffing a dry, panicked sort of sob.

‘It’s alright,’ Rick cooed, voice smooth and almost like a lullaby and his hands find their way up the base of Daryl’s neck and into his hair. ‘It’s alright. You don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to.’

‘Don’t fucking lie,’ Daryl sobs, trying and failing to keep the rage in his voice. Instead, he just sounds pathetic.

‘I’m not lying,’ Rick hushes him, lips close to Daryl’s ear. ‘I swear it.’

He’s back in that house, staring at the blood, trying to form a coherent thought through the panic and the rage and he should be good at this. At thinking clearly under pressure. It’s his job and he had been good at it until now. But now it’s personal. That was Daryl’s blood. This was Daryl’s life. And Daryl wasn’t here.

‘We’ll find him man, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry,’ Shane is telling him, hand on Rick’s shoulder and Rick doesn’t have the words to respond. He pulls out of Shane’s touch, remembering all the times Shane has downplayed this as normal, as just something that people like the Dixon’s do and that it should just be ignored, but the worst part is Rick had ignored it too. He hadn’t done a damn thing. And now, it might be too late.

‘I’ll call the hospital, see if they’ve got him,’ Shane says, ready on the walkie.

‘He won’t be there,’ Rick feels himself say, brain not really engaging with his mouth. He couldn’t imagine Daryl willingly taking himself to a hospital. Not after how he was before.

Shane exhales loudly, rubbing the back of his head. ‘He might not have a choice, man. Lost a hell of a lot of blood.’

‘I know,’ Rick growls, and suddenly he’s moving. Out the living room, through the kitchen, through the unlocked back door. He’s in the yard, trudging through the overgrown, dying lawn and towards a gap in the dilapidated fence that leads out into the woods.

‘Where the fuck are you going?’ Shane is demanding, following him out.

Rick ignores him.

No one ignores Shane.

Shane grabs his shoulder again, hand slipping down and catching his bicep and Rick turns – swings – and Shane ducks just in time.

‘That how you wanna play it, huh?’ Shane growls, shoving Rick back. ‘You think punching me in the jaw is gonna make you feel better, be my guest,’ and Shane spreads his arms, welcoming the challenge. ‘But lemme tell you, it ain’t gonna help you find that kid any faster, man. Gotta get your head on straight. This is a job – your job – so pull yourself together and do it.’

Rick’s fists clench, twitch, and for a moment, he nearly does take another swing. But as much as he hates it, Shane is right. They’re wasting time and Daryl is god knows where, probably still bleeding and he’s lost so much already.

‘You good now?’ Shane asks, ‘you wanna take this seriously?’

‘I am,’ Rick snarls, in response to both questions. He feels that anger – that blind, panicked rage – threaten to swallow him again and he sucks in a breath, pressing his fingers into his closed eyelids, and tries to think. ‘Call the hospital,’ he tells Shane, because he doesn’t think Daryl is there but it’s worth checking. ‘Then call the station. Put an arrest warrant out on Will Dixon. I’m going to search the woods. He feels safe out there.’

Shane’s watching him for a moment, his expression somewhere between exasperation at how much Rick cared, and a weird sort of pride that Rick was taking control and was taking control because of Shane. Rick fights back the urge to hit him again.

‘Got it, boss,’ Shane smirks, rubbing the back of his head. ‘You go ahead, I’ll catch up.’

It’s cold. Colder than it should be in Georgia and the woods were quiet and eerie and dark under the thick canopy. Roots snared around Rick’s ankles as he trudges onwards, calling Daryl’s name, trying to fight back the panic when he’s met with silence.

He tries to picture it – picture Daryl – out here, uninjured and alone with his crossbow. Tracking a deer, resting under a tree, doing anything to get out of that damn house. And then he tries to picture Daryl out here, bleeding and scared and staggering forward, stumbling through the undergrowth, teeth clenched through the pain. He tries not to picture the outcome. Tries to push the image of Daryl, slumped over and unconscious, out of his minds eye.

Rick calls out for him again, hearing nothing in response but the birds flying off at the sound.

And this is where things start to slip. Rick tries to move forward, but the roots get thicker, the weeds and leaves and mud start to stick to his boots and he moves like he’s wading through water, like something is holding him back. He feels his heartrate spike, the hair on the back of his neck prickle like he’s being watched and he whips around but no one is there, not Daryl, not Shane, and he realises he doesn’t know where he is or how to get back. He reaches for the Colt Python, but it’s not there. He is unarmed and alone and he hears a voice in the distance so he follows it – or tries to – slow and frustrated and scared and then he stops.

There’s blood. Blood everywhere. On the ground, on the leaves, on the trunks of trees and he tries to call out for Daryl but his voice doesn’t work.

And this is his fault, his fault, he tells himself as he has to walk through the blood, coating his boots slick and sticky and he feels like he could throw up. It’s his fault Daryl is out here. It’s his fault he didn’t stop it when he knew he knew he knew –

He hears something. Someone screaming but it doesn’t sound right and it doesn’t sound human and he tries to move faster but he can barely move at all.

And then, without knowing how he got there, he’s standing on the edge of a ravine, looking down it’s rocky lip to the creek below and there’s someone there, laying at the water’s edge all broken and sprawled out like a rag doll.

Rick knows who it is, he knows he know but he can’t fucking move. And the blood. It coats Daryl’s pale skin, matts his dark hair, sinking into the mud and turning the water red and Rick sees his face – somewhere between dead and alive – not moving, not moving –

And then he opens his eyes, glassy and white yet bloodshot. Not alive. Not dead. But starting at Rick, seeing, knowing, scared –

Rick woke with a start. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. The TV was still on and running teleshopping so it’s late but he’s safe and so is Daryl.

But then he heard a yelp. A crash, coming from Daryl’s room and for one awful moment he thought that maybe he was still in the nightmare. But he’s not. This was real and he can move so he rushed for the bedroom door.

Daryl was on the floor, on all fours, one leg tangled in the bedsheet and he trashed like a trapped animal, a hand reaching up to the nightstand and frantically searching for the bedside light and it took Rick a moment to realise that Daryl was still asleep. His eyes were open, but he’s not there. There was only fear.

‘Don’t, m’sorry, please don’t,’ Daryl pleaded, and he sounded so young that it hurt.

‘Daryl,’ Rick said gently, hovering over him, not wanting to piss him off like he did last time, but not wanting to leave him in the terror. ‘Daryl, it’s okay. Wake up.’

Daryl didn’t wake up. He gasped, thrashed, sobbed. But he didn’t wake up.

Rick crouched next to him, hands gingerly reaching for Daryl’s shoulder, hoping to shake him awake. ‘Come on Daryl, it’s just a dream.’

But Rick knew that it wasn’t just a dream. Not really. These things had actually happened to Daryl. This pleading, this fear, it was real and Daryl couldn’t escape it.

‘Please.’

Rick gave Daryl another slight shake, and it was enough. Daryl’s eyes shot open as he jolted awake.

What happened next happened so quickly that Rick didn’t have time to register it. ‘Get off of me!’ Daryl all but screamed, wild, feral, swinging himself over and grabbing Rick by the throat. ‘Get the fuck off of me!’ And Rick was momentarily pinned down under Daryl’s frail body. Daryl was stronger than he looked, and knocking Rick on his back had knocked the air out of him, so he gasped, seeing stars, as Daryl growled in his face. It wouldn’t have taken much for Rick to get Daryl off of him. He was trained for this, and had both a height and weight advantage, but Rick didn’t move. He laid back, letting Daryl grip his throat while he tried to find eye contact.

‘It’s okay,’ Rick told him. ‘You’re okay.’

Their eyes meet, and panic, fear, confusion and shame flash across Daryl’s features in quick succession. ‘Rick,’ he murmured, voice thick with terror and sleep, pulling back off of Rick like his very skin burnt Daryl's palms.

‘Didn’t mean to spook you,’ Rick said softly, pushing himself up on his elbows and clearing his throat.

‘S’fine, ain’t spooked,’ Daryl lied, staring down at his hands. ‘M’sorry, I didn’t mean to –’

‘It’s okay,’ Rick cut him off, quick and gentle, ‘I know you didn’t mean to. I know.’

Daryl huffed in several breaths, rubbing the sweat off of his forehead, head lingering in his hands. ‘Just a dream,’ he said, as if trying to reassure himself as much as he was trying to reassure Rick.

‘Looked like a bad one,’ Rick told him, sitting up and leaning forward on his knees.

And Rick expected Daryl to deny it, downplay it like he did with everything, but he didn’t. He just nodded, chewing the side of his thumb and looking utterly defeated. So Rick stood, offered Daryl a hand up and steered him to the bed when Daryl took it, sitting him down on propped up pillows, rearranging the sheets, and then climbing in next to him. Rick shuffled in closer, and Daryl shuffled along to let him. They sat, backs leaning against the headboard and pressed against each other with their legs under the duvet. Daryl seemed to melt into him, resisting the urge to rest his head on Rick’s shoulder and Rick resisting the urge to wrap an arm around Daryl.

‘Whatever you think happened,’ Daryl said unprompted and unsure, ‘it did. Worse too, probably.’

Rick felt the air catch in his chest. He wanted to speak, but sensed Daryl wasn’t done, and he didn’t want to risk interrupting, putting Daryl off saying more. So he nodded and leant in closer.

‘It was worse after Ma died. It was bad before, but losing Ma, the house… I don’t know. Merle was gone, so it was just me and him in a trailer for a year until he could afford to move. He was pissed, angry, hell, lonely too. Couldn’t get away from it neither. Wasn’t going to school. Wasn’t leaving the trailer except to hunt. He didn’t want anyone to see the bruises. One night, I remember, he’d been on the shine since noon, he wakes me up all handsy, pours me a glass – was only ten, so it tasted bad – and I spat it out. Shit burnt, you know? Anyway, he was all up in my face about wastin good shine and that. If I was gonna be a man, I needed to learn to appreciate the good stuff. So he grabs me by the hair like this,’ and Daryl imitates the move, one hand gripping the front of his damp hair, hard, ‘and then gets my face like this,’ Daryl’s other hand gripped his cheeks, wrapping under his chin, and mimics his father pushing his mouth open like one would to a dog, ‘and he just starts pouring that shit in. Tasted like fucking gasoline. Got all up in my lungs and shit. Thought I was going to drown. On fucking moonshine,’ he scoffed, as if it was funny, and shakes his head. ‘Poured a whole jar right down my throat. Waited for me to get done coughing my fucking guts up before swinging for me, at least. Split my fucking eyebrow open,’ Daryl points to a small, fine scar on his left brow as he speaks. ‘Anyway, I throw up, which is wastin the shine again, so he takes his hunting knife and –’

And Daryl can’t seem to finish. He sucked in a breath and Rick felt him tremble while trying to suppress it. ‘First time he used a knife on me. Had the belt plenty, yaknow?’ Daryl wiped his face. ‘He used to like it when I was drunk. Slept more. Didn’t move around as much. Easier for him ta handle – s’what he used to say. Easier for me to handle too I guess.’

Rick goes cold, his heart pumping ice through his veins at the implication. He wanted to press it, to ask for it spelt out clear for him but Daryl was looking up at him through his lashes, silently pleading for Rick to understand without having to be told.

‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ was all Rick could say and it felt pathetic. Such pointless words trying to make up for such hurt.

Daryl tilted his head, a frown pulling at his lips. ‘Ain’t on you,’ he said.

‘It is,’ Rick said, fighting to keep his voice steady. ‘I knew. When we first met, I knew. I should have done something. Anything.'

‘I wouldn’t have let ya,’ Daryl said, still watching Rick carefully. ‘Didn’t want anyone to know. Still don’t.’

‘I coulda done something. Should have,’ Rick said, and he couldn’t help how his voice had started to waver.

‘Nothing to do about it,’ Daryl shrugged. ‘Nothing’ll change. Never does.’

‘It could,’ Rick insisted, ‘if we fight for it.’

Daryl shook his head, folding his arms over his middle. ‘I can’t, Rick. Please.’

Rick closed his eyes, the burning sensation behind them threatening to spill over and Daryl leaned into him trying to both give and receive comfort.

‘I told you earlier, you don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to. Ever again. I mean that,’ Rick told him. ‘And whatever happens, whatever you choose, you don’t gotta go back there. You can stay here, always. This is your home.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Daryl said weakly, head resting on Rick’s shoulder, sleep starting to pull his eyelids down.

‘I do, I mean it,’ Rick said, firmly, adamantly, arm finally wrapping around Daryl’s shoulders and holding him close but loosely, so Daryl knew he could move away if he wanted. Daryl didn’t move away. He sighed into the touch.

‘You’ll get sick of me eventually. All up in your space all the time. It’s fine. I get it,’ Daryl said, voice quiet.

‘I’ll never get sick of you. Never could.’

‘You say that now,’ Daryl hummed, and he sounded like wanted to say more, but sleep and nerves got the better of him.

Rick gave him a light squeeze, leaning his head to the side, lips resting against the top of Daryl’s head. ‘I’ll say that for as long as I know you.’

And Daryl didn’t believe him. He scoffed, shook his head, and let sleep pull him under, body going limp against Rick’s. Rick watched him for a moment, face almost peaceful in sleep in a way it never was when he was awake. Rick felt that burning sensation behind his eyes again, tears threatening to spill over, and he took a breath, swallowed them down, and wiped his face roughly with his free hand. If Daryl didn’t believe him, he would simply have to prove it to him.

Rick pressed a light kiss into Daryl’s hair, warmth spreading across his chest at the way it made the corners of Daryl’s lips twitch upward in a small smile, at the little hum of pleasure that slipped out. And then he let himself cry, near silently and only for a moment, before slipping off to sleep while holding Daryl close.

Daryl had never been interested in anybody. Not like that.

Not like this.

He’d always assumed it was just something else that was wrong with him. When Merle would go on about girls, or try to set him up with one, or lend him porn mags, Daryl just felt… nothing, really. Apart from a tinge of unease in his stomach. It’s not like he couldn’t tell they were hot or whatever, it’s just, nothing happened for him. Not like Merle told him it should.

He’d always just assumed it was for the best. The idea of getting close to someone – anyone – the idea of talking and touching and someone seeing him shirtless, naked, all of his shame on display, was too much to even think about. Who would want someone like him, anyway?

Certainly not someone like Rick.

Rick, who had had a girlfriend, who had a son and a good job and was a good man. Rick, who would never – could never – be interested in some fucked up redneck like him.

Daryl knew all of this. He knew it. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull out of Rick’s embrace. Couldn’t bring himself to move his head from the crook of Rick’s arm as it wrapped around him, holding him close even in sleep. Daryl knew he was being stupid. Selfish. Weak. But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look away from Rick’s sleeping face, his sharp jaw slack and hidden by his neatly trimmed beard, his closed eyelids hiding those icy blue eyes.

And even if it was a possibility – which it wasn’t – Rick deserved someone better. Someone whole. Someone who hadn’t been marred and used in the way Daryl had. Someone who didn’t attack him in his sleep.

Daryl groaned at the memory of last night. At coming to with his hands around Rick’s throat. His full weight pressing down on Rick’s chest. Just like his father. Nothing more.

Rick shifted closer, lips resting against Daryl’s forehead and Daryl felt himself go still at the motion, scared to even breathe in case Rick woke up and pulled away with a look of disgust because he would be disgusted. Surely. Anyone would be.

And if Daryl were smart, he would move away himself. The sun was spilling through the curtains, Rick could wake at any moment, and Daryl knew how much that look Rick was bound to wear would hurt him. But he was stupid, and he felt safe here, cared for, warm. And he never got to feel like this. So he let himself be stupid and he didn’t move.

When Rick did open his eyes, he smiled softly at Daryl, brushing a stand of hair out of Daryl’s face and Daryl was sure the way Rick’s lips pressed into his forehead must have been an accident. Either that, or he was imagining things.

‘Morning,’ Rick said, voice thick with sleep. ‘Did you sleep well? Asides from, well, you know.’

And Daryl nodded because he did sleep well. He told himself it was because he was overtired. Not because he had fallen asleep in Rick’s arms.

Rick gave him a small squeeze before untangling himself from Daryl, sitting up and stretching and Daryl felt himself go red as Rick’s t-shirt rode up, revealing lean muscles and a dusting of fine hair.

‘How do you like your eggs?’ Rick asked, stifling a yawn and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

‘M’not hungry,’ Daryl told him, almost automatically.

‘Not what I asked,’ Rick responded with a smile. ‘I was thinking sunny-side up.’

‘Whatever,’ Daryl mumbled, feeling his stomach twist. He wasn’t used to eating this much. It made him nervous, and what made him more nervous was the fact that, despite it all, he was hungry.

He really shouldn’t be.

But he sat at the kitchen table, scoffing it all down like he’s starving. Wiping the yolk from around his mouth and cringing at what Rick must think of him. At how his father was right all along.

At least he had the willpower to turn down seconds when Rick offered, all smiles like Daryl hadn’t done anything wrong by eating like some starved creature when he’s never been more overfed.

‘It’s okay, you know. If you want more,’ Rick said, all faux causal while pouring them a mug of coffee each.

‘Nah,’ Daryl said, pushing the plate away, avoiding eye contact. ‘More than enough.’

And Rick looked like he wanted to argue but decided against it. He sighed, smiled that sad smile that Daryl hated, and handed Daryl his coffee. ‘If you want anything – anything at all – just let me know and I’ll get it.’

Daryl knew he should just let it drop. But he doesn’t. He can’t. ‘Don’t need it,’ he snaps, too full and too much and it’s making him feel sick. ‘I keep telling ya. M’fine. Can go without.’

Rick looks so utterly defeated for a moment that Daryl almost wants to take it all back. But he doesn’t and Rick implored ‘you don’t have to go without. Not anymore.’

‘You don’t get it,’ Daryl huffed, crossing his arms over himself and dropping eye contact.

‘You’re right,’ Rick said, slumping down in the kitchen chair and rubbing his fingers into his eyelids. ‘I don’t get it. I’m trying, I want to, but –’

‘You can’t,’ Daryl snapped, pushing his chair away from the table, away from Rick but not yet standing up.

‘I can try,’ Rick said, voice low and desperate and determined. ‘But you’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get how someone could do this to you. Your own father – I don’t get how, why he did this. I don’t get why no one did anything. Why I didn’t do anything. I don’t get why I’m sitting here, still not doing anything, not putting a bullet through his damn skull –’ Rick’s voice caught in his throat, his eyes glassy with tears and rage and Daryl didn’t know what to say. What to do.

Mostly, he didn’t understand why it mattered so much to Rick.

He did know the look on Rick’s face scared him a little bit. He also knew that he didn’t entirely hate it.

But he did feel guilty. He wasn’t worth this. He wasn’t worth Rick getting this upset about. He didn’t like that he was the reason that Rick looked like he was torn between crying and biting someone’s throat out.

‘Ain’t no big deal,’ Daryl told him, cautiously. ‘Just how it is.’

And Rick let out this wet, desperate laugh that almost sounded like a sob. ‘It is a big deal, Daryl. It shouldn’t be like this.’

‘But it is,’ Daryl insisted.

Rick wiped his face roughly, palms wet with tears and jaw set with rage and sorrow and something else that Daryl didn’t quite understand. All he knew is that he wanted Rick to stop looking like that. He didn’t want to be the reason Rick looked like that.

Rick seemed like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just huffed a stifled sort of sob and shook his head to compose himself. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ he said, finally, voice strained steady through gritted teeth. ‘You deserve so much more. I shoulda killed him in that interrogation room. Woulda been worth it.’

‘S’bullshit and you know it,’ Daryl said, defeated.

Rick shook his head, adamant with his eyes glinting. ‘It ain’t. You’re worth it, Daryl. All of it.’

Rick tried to play it off like he was fine, that it wasn’t bothering him, but Daryl could tell. Years of walking on eggshells had finetuned him to the moods of others, and Rick wasn’t as good as hiding his thoughts at he seemed to think he was.

It set Daryl’s teeth on edge.

Made him want to lash out, apologise, run.

And he knew that it wasn’t directed at him. He knew Rick wouldn’t hurt him. Or at least, he hoped. But just knowing that this was because of him made Daryl feel the urge to vomit up his breakfast. He had dragged Rick into his mess. He was the reason that Rick’s face looked like that.

And was it worth it? Rick feeling all of this on his behalf?

No. Course not. But that didn’t stop Rick. He was too stubborn, too good, had some stupid sense of justice that had no place in reality even though Daryl kind of wished that it did.

Maybe it could.

Or maybe he was delusional.

‘Rick,’ Daryl said, late morning while Rick was flicking uninterested through the book he was reading. ‘What eh – if I did go to the station, what would they want me to talk about?’

Rick closed his book, sat up straight. ‘They would ask you what happened. Want you to walk them through it, tell them anything you can remember. What he said to you. If it has happened before…’ Rick trailed off, tilting his head as he looked at Daryl. ‘They might want to photograph your injuries, too.’

Daryl felt himself pale at the suggestion.

‘You don’t gotta do this, Daryl. Not if you don’t want to. I do understand,’ Rick told him gently.

‘Do you want me to?’ Daryl asked, picking at the skin around his thumbnail.

‘That shouldn’t matter,’ Rick said softly. ‘Wasn’t me it happened to.’

‘Does matter,’ Daryl said, voice quiet. ‘Matters to me.’

Rick paused, shuffled closer, hand gingerly brushing the hair out of Daryl’s face. ‘I want justice for you. Whatever that looks like. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.’

Daryl nodded, considering this as he chewed at his thumb. ‘Will you be there with me?’

‘If you want me to be, then yeah, of course,’ Rick said, hand pushing Daryl’s hair back, thumb stroking his cheek, running softly over the yellowing bruises.

Daryl nodded again, shrugging, swallowing down nervous bile before saying, ‘alright. I’ll do it then.’

And he would have regretted it as soon as he said it. But Rick was giving him this look, all soft and hopeful and proud, and Daryl was sure no one has ever looked at him like that before. Rick pulls him gently into a hug, arms slinging under Daryl’s and around his back, careful so not to disturb his injuries, and Daryl let himself melt into it. And once again, when Rick’s lips brush against Daryl’s forehead, Daryl tells himself that it was an accident. Even if Rick lingers just a little longer than he should.

It was weird, Daryl mused, being at the station without his hands cuffed together, or without Merle with his hands cuffed together. Daryl had only been arrested once, when he was fourteen, for being drunk underage in a parking lot of a Denny’s. His father had had a ‘friend’ over. They had plied him with drink. And Daryl knew what was coming, so he waited and he ran, barefoot and scared. He had tried to hide inside, in one of the booths, but the manager was having none of it – shoeless, sick down his shirt, mouthing off drink-slurred words – it was no surprise when he had the cops called on him. The Officer had cuffed him, brought him down to the station, sat him in a room to sober up, and then just gave him a warning. She had looked at him like a mangy stray, pity with a hint of disgust. Daryl figured it could have been worse.

Daryl sat across from two cops in a small room with a one-way mirror. He recognised one of them – Shane – who had clapped Rick on the shoulder as they entered but had barely looked at Daryl. The other was older, her greying hair pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck and had introduced herself as Officer Hughes. Rick sat next to Daryl, dressed down in his civies, his tight features betraying his relaxed persona.

‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Dixon. I know how daunting it is,’ Hughes said, giving him a thin-lipped but genuine smile. ‘If it gets too much at any point, just let us know and we can take a break.’

And Daryl wanted to snap at her, tell her to stop patronising him, that he weren’t a fucking child, but his tongue felt like sandpaper and his hands were trembling so he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded stiffly.

‘Got a pretty strong case against your old man. Ain’t exactly a smooth criminal, know what I mean?’ Shane chuckled, leaning forward on the table between them.

Daryl saw Rick’s head tilt out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched as he shot Shane a warning look.

‘Whatcha want me to do?’ Daryl asked, voice unsure, but surprisingly steady.

‘At the moment, just answer some questions. We can talk about our options afterwards,’ Hughes told him.

‘Can you tell us what happened on the 23rd? The day me and Officer Grimes here were called to your place?’ Shane asked, nodding towards Rick as he spoke.

And Daryl knew that this wasn’t going to be easy. But he felt his stomach drop at the first question. The urge to fight, to flee, bubbling up inside him as Shane and Hughes watched him expectantly as Rick shifted next to him, moving ever so slightly closer.

Daryl took a breath, sharp enough to hurt his lungs, and reminded himself that he weren’t no pussy. He weren’t afraid of nothin.

‘Was gonna go hunting,’ Daryl started, quiet but steady, ‘pa had been out of it all morning, ain’t made a peep, thought I’d try and avoid him, bring back some game for when he wakes up, yaknow? Sometimes keeps him quiet. Anyway, Merle calls from the lock up – he ain’t ever do that – and he starts rattling on about –’ Daryl caught himself, realising he probably shouldn’t tell the cops that Merle was on the scrouge for meth, ‘about nothin important, but the sound of it wakes the old man. Hates being woken up, specially when he’s all hungover. Anyway, he takes the phone and him and Merle start going at each other like always, but Merle ain’t here so…’ Daryl trails off, suddenly acutely aware of how everyone is staring at him. ‘So yaknow.’

‘Care to elaborate a little there, Dixon?’ Shane asked, one eyebrow raised.

And there was that rage again, making Daryl want to punch that stupid, almost smug look off of Shane’s face. But it didn’t last long. The shame, the fear of having to actually say what had happened was too overpowering. He swallowed, bit down on the side of his thumb.

‘He’s pissed with Merle. Pissed with me for not telling him who was on the phone quick enough. He’s pissed at being woken up. Gotta take it out on someone,’ Daryl shrugged, hoping that would be enough.

It’s not.

‘And how does he take it out on you?’ Hughes asked.

Daryl shrugged again, all stiff and taking a moment to try and remember to breathe. ‘Get’s all up in my face, shouting and such, ain’t nothin new. I said something he didn’t like, so –’

‘And what was that?’ Shane drawled.

‘Said sorry,’ Daryl mumbled, teeth tearing at the skin around his thumbnail. ‘Stupid. So he pulls a knife.’

Daryl felt Rick stiffen besides him. Doesn’t miss how Rick’s knuckles turn white as he gripped the table.

‘What happens next?’ Hughes pushed gently.

‘Gets me by the arm, cuts me twice, asks me if him being sorry will fix it,’ Daryl can’t help the bitter, nervous laugh that escapes him in a harsh burst. ‘Try to get away. But that’s pointless. Always is. Gets me by the throat then, takes a swing or two, starts mouthing off again. Can’t remember what he said.’ Daryl steadied himself. Takes another painful breath. He remembered the taste of blood in his teeth, the sting of the blade, the smell of alcohol on his father’s breath, the fear, the fear. ‘Think I tell him to fuck off, or something. I dunno. Was stupid, made things worse.’ And Daryl remembered hitting the ground, his head spinning, his fathers dilated eyes, the way he thought it was over. Finally fucking over. ‘He drops me, hits my head, gets me by the throat again and starts choking me out. Think he might actually see it through this time. He don’t.’

Daryl doesn’t want to look at Rick, who was very still next to him, who was taking deep, ragged breaths like a bull in a ring. He doesn’t want to look at Hughes neither, and definitely not at Shane. So he looked at his hands, at the dried blood that had settled around his ruined cuticles, before forcing himself to speak again, voice horse.

‘Takes a few more swings. Keeps on hollering about some shit, can’t remember what, don’t matter. He’s got me all pinned and –’

And Daryl remembered it. His shirt being pulled from him. The clink of his father’s belt being undone, the pull of his jean flies. The white blind jolt of panic that had coursed through him like lightning. He caught himself in the one-way mirror for the first time, and he looked like shit. Tired and scruffy and scared. He’s wearing Rick’s clothes and they don’t fit him right and his cheeks puff out like a child in trouble and he hates it, fucking hates it, and hates it even more sitting next to Rick. For a moment, the difference between them, the space, had never been bigger. Rick may as well have been for a whole different planet than Daryl, who looked like he had crawled out of the gutter.

No one’s ever gonna care for you except me.

Merle would find this whole fucking thing hysterical. Pathetic. His snitch of a baby brother, crawling to the pigs as if they would ever help someone like him. As if they could ever care. Merle would have a beating of his own to dish out for this, for being so much of a pussy he’s gone to the fucking cops. For ever believing that someone like Rick, leagues above him, could ever, ever give a shit about dirt like him.

‘Daryl,’ Rick says softly, ‘you okay?’

Daryl doesn’t respond, can’t respond. He can barely fucking breathe as he glances up and caught the look on Shane’s face, unimpressed and seeing Daryl for exactly what he was. Daryl stumbled to his feet. He needed to get out. Needed to get away from the tan uniforms and the fucking mirror and whoever’s eyes watched him from behind it and out of this tiny room that felt airless, too hot, too close.

He yanked at the door handle, vaguely aware of someone trying to speak to him over the rushing of panic in his ears but he can’t make it out and the doorhandle won’t budge.

He’s locked in.

And then it’s like he’d been taken out of his body. Like he’s somewhere else, watching this happen to someone he doesn’t recognise. He hit the door with his fists, pulling frantically at the handle and then he started yelling, clawing at the edges trying to pry it open and Rick’s got him by the shoulders and Daryl flinches, all but yelped and turned with his back pressed against the door, looking up wildly but not seeing.

‘Gotta get out, lemme out, need to get out.’

And Rick was trying to tell him something but Daryl won’t listen, can’t listen. Can’t hear a damn thing over the panic and the fear and the rushed beating of his heart and his vision blurs and maybe he’s crying or maybe he’s about to pass out and he’s not sure which is worse.

‘It’s an automatic lock,’ he thought he heard Rick say, voice strained, his panic almost parallel to Daryl’s. ‘We can open it, we can, you gotta calm down, okay? I got you, it’s okay –’

But it’s not okay, Daryl wants to snarl. It’s not okay it’s not it’s not –

The door clicks open and Daryl turned, yanking the handle and stumbling back as it opened with force, nearly sending him square on his ass. And then his feet were moving, one in front of the other in a sort of staggered run until he reached the end of the corridor, until he can see the outside world through the glass window in the door.

And that’s where he stopped, doubling over, trying to gasp in a breath before vomiting on his shoes.

Daryl sat on the couch, staring ahead but unseeing, blood around his thumbs where he had bitten away the skin to the side of his nails. He hadn’t said much of anything. The odd grunt, shake of a head, a shrug, but no words since he pleaded with Rick to let him out of the interview room. He didn’t argue when Rick settled him down on the couch, when Rick wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Made none of his usual complaints about being babied. Just sat there, staring ahead.

So Rick made him tea, sweet like he knew Daryl secretly liked, and sat next to him, keeping a bit of distance even though every instinct wanted to hold him close. He put something on the TV at low volume, and although Daryl didn’t watch it, the background noise seemed to put him slightly more at ease. He lulled back into the couch cushions, slowly and almost imperceptibly, and then started leaning more towards Rick.

Rick took this as a sign and shuffled closer, just close enough that their sides brushed together.

They sat there for a while, Rick trying to keep his mind clear and his breathing steady for Daryl to mirror if needed, and eventually, Daryl started to slowly regain some awareness. He fidgeted a little, pulling at the edges of the blanket, at the hem of the shirt he had borrowed from Rick. He ran his hands through his hair and Rick spotted how he grimaced, turned red as his fingers caught in the tangles, at how sick had matted a few stands together.

‘I could run you a bath? Sound good?’ Rick suggested.

Daryl paused, hesitating before he nodded. His injuries made it difficult to wash his hair, reach his back, and although he tried to hide it, Rick knew it was a struggle.

‘Could help you wash your hair, too, if you’d like,’ Rick offered, soft and low and leaving Daryl with an out if he needed.

Daryl’s face grew pinker and he rubbed his palm over his mouth, eyes darting between Rick and then down at his own lap.

‘Ain’t gotta do that,’ he said, quiet, voice horse. Rick was just relieved to hear him speak.

‘I want to,’ Rick told him, leaning in closer.

And Daryl hesitated once more before nodding again, chewing at his bottom lip.

Rick watched as the bathwater curled with the lavender-scented bubble bath Carol had given him, frothing where the tap water hit the surface, just hot enough to give off a little steam.

This was all his fault.

He should have known. Should have known Daryl wasn’t ready for this. Hell, he should have known he wasn’t ready. He had guessed what had happened to Daryl that day. Seen the blood, the knife, the stitched-up wounds. Those handprints wrapped around Daryl’s throat. He knew, and yet there was something about hearing it. Something about how Daryl sounded so resigned over it. Something about the mental image of Daryl apologising to that monster and still getting sliced open.

Don’t, m’sorry, please don’t.

And what about all the things that Daryl couldn’t say? Something had happened between being knocked to the ground and being cut open. Something that made Daryl react like that. Like feral cat backed into a corner.

He used to like it when I was drunk. Slept more. Didn’t move around as much. Easier for him ta handle – s’what he used to say. Easier for me to handle too I guess.

The words, the rage, the strange, primal yet fruitless want to try and claw his way back in time and stop any of it from ever happening to Daryl – it was dizzying. Overwhelming.

And it was selfish, really. None of this had happened to Rick. Rick hadn’t stopped any of it from happening to Daryl, even when he could have. Rick shouldn’t need to be ready to hear what happened. Not when Daryl had to live it.

He saw it again. The image of hands around Daryl’s throat, the knowledge that Daryl had thought he would die like that. The fear, the blood, that wild-eyed, cornered stare he had given Rick when he couldn’t open that damn door. The sick on his shoes. The way Shane had looked at Rick all unimpressed with his eyebrows raised like Daryl was the problem –

Rick lent back against the bathroom counter, pinching the bridge of his nose and counted down from ten, willing the running water and scent of lavender to ease some of the rage that was making him blind.

He would be ready, he resolved. Whenever Daryl was ready to tell, he’d be ready to hear it.

Rick waited outside of the bathroom, letting Daryl undress and settle in the bathwater in his own time. He knew this was hard for Daryl. Knew Daryl hated being shirtless, feeling exposed, being seen. Rick felt his heart flutter at the trust they had forged for this to happen. At how, when he re-entered the bathroom, Daryl was sitting in the water with his back exposed, the mesh of scars, old and new, vanishing below the bubbles.

Daryl shot him a look, cheeks red from what Rick convinced himself was just from the water temperature. ‘Sorry,’ Daryl murmured, looking sheepish and making sure there were sufficient bubbles to conceal his stomach, ‘ain’t much ta look at.’

And he looked so nervous, eyes wide and low, like a child seeking approval and Rick smiled, shook his head softly. ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ Rick told him, settling on his knees to the side of the tub. ‘I could look at you all day if I didn’t think you’d claw my eyes out.’

Daryl somehow went even redder, heat spreading to the tips of his ears and down his chest as he scoffed, wearing this shy half-smile that made Rick melt. ‘Might spare your eyes, been as it’s you n’all’ he mumbled, making sure his damp hair obscured his face as he said it.

Rick gently poured water over Daryl’s back, his palms working soapsuds carefully across the keloid scars and nearly healed wounds that marked the day they first met. Daryl stiffened at first contact, and then seemed to lean into it, almost purring when Rick worked his fingers into knotted muscle, letting the water give him glide over Daryl’s skin. Rick noticed Daryl twitch as his hand moved over a particularly deep scar on his left shoulder, which, though obscured by soap bubbles, seemed to be a combination of multiple scars that had merged into one, cut over cut over time.

‘Sorry,’ Daryl mumbled, rolling his shoulder. ‘Ain’t got no feelin in that one. Nerves shot.’

Rick felt that familiar flash of rage again, but this time it didn’t quite win out over the sorrow. Over the sheer horror of it all. Rick ran his thumb over unfeeling skin, as tender as he could, and wondered if Daryl had ever been touched softly on this spot – or anywhere. The question danced on the tip of his tongue, he wanted to know but he didn’t. And he didn’t want Daryl to have to answer any more questions today.

But just like Rick’s touch on his numb skin, Daryl seemed to sense it.

‘Weren’t all bad,’ Daryl said quietly, accent thicker than usual. ‘Ma, she was alright. Drunk, mostly. But when she weren’t…’ he trailed off, shrugging. ‘She died in a fire when I was a kid. Just gone, yaknow? No photos, no nothing. Don’t remember what she looked like. Don’t remember anything but the smoke.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rick said, voice thick and quiet.

Daryl shrugged again.

Rick took the wash jug and tapped for Daryl to turn to the side, to tilt his head back a little. And Daryl did as instructed, arms crossing over his stomach which was still obscured by bubbles.

‘Temperature alright?’ Rick asked, filling the jug.

‘Mmm-hm,’ Daryl mused, closing his eyes.

Rick poured the water carefully over Daryl’s hair, smiling slightly at the sight of Daryl’s face, completely unhidden for once. Rugged and scarred and so damn beautiful.

‘Forget what you look like under all that hair sometimes,’ Rick teased, working the shampoo into Daryl’s scalp. ‘You ever consider tying it back? Nice to see your face, you know.’

Daryl opened his eyes just enough to squint at Rick, making a pfft sound as if the suggestion was ridiculous. ‘S’for your eyes only,’ he said, and then his eyes shot open as if he were shocked by his own words, that redness spreading like wildfire across his features once again.

Rick chuckled, running his fingers through Daryl’s hair in a way that wasn’t just to lather the shampoo. ‘I’m honoured,’ he said, ‘besides, I ain’t one for sharing. Not with anyone but you, anyway.’

Rick hadn’t been sure it was possible for Daryl to go any redder. He was proven wrong.

Rick continued to work his fingers through Daryl’s hair, carefully loosening any tangles, tracing over that spot behind his ear that made Daryl hum in a sort of embarrassed pleasure. Rick loved seeing him like this. Almost unguarded, features slack and soft as he instinctively seemed to lean into Rick’s touch as if he had been searching for it all along. It was such a rare sight, something that Rick wasn’t sure anyone else had seen before. And that knowledge alone made his heart swell with both pride and a sorrow. Rick was pleased that it was him that could offer this peace, this safety to Daryl, but he felt that ache deep in his gut because Daryl had deserved this all along.

‘All done,’ Rick told him softly, as the last of the suds were washed from his hair, smirking as Daryl all but pouts as Rick moves his hands away.

Daryl opened his eyes, blue under low lashes as they flickered over Rick’s face, hovering over his lips before fixing onto Rick’s own eyes. And then he turned scarlet, seemingly aware of himself, naked in the tub and hidden only by water and bubbles. He dropped his gaze, arms wrapping around his middle as he shuffled, causing a slosh of the bathwater. ‘Didn’t have to do that,’ Daryl mumbled.

‘I told you, I wanted to,’ Rick said, ducking his head and trying to find eye contact again.

And Daryl shyly obliges, meeting Rick’s gaze as colour spreads across his cheeks again. ‘Thanks,’ he said, voice quiet, husky in a way that suddenly has Rick’s face heating up. ‘Yaknow, for everything.’

‘I’m sorry I convinced you to do it,’ Rick said.

They sat on the bed, propped up against the pillows, legs under the duvet. Daryl wore the softest t-shirt Rick could find paired with check pyjama bottoms Rick had been given for Christmas the year before and Rick felt this deep, primal protective urge at the sight of him, hair fluffy from the bath, wearing Rick’s too-big clothes.

‘My choice,’ Daryl said, chewing at his nails. ‘My fault for being such a damn pussy bout it too.’

Rick saw it flash before him once again. The bloodied knife, Carol’s careful stitches pulling together ragged wounds, the blood, the panic, the rattle of the door handle, the sick on his shoes –

Don’t, m’sorry, please don’t.

‘You’re not being a pussy,’ Rick said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. ‘You’ve been through things most people can’t even imagine. You’re the strongest person I know.’

Daryl scoffed. Shook his head. ‘Ain’t strong. Fuckin let it all happen in the first place, didn’t I? Coulda left, like Merle.’

‘Merle’s in prison,’ Rick said, raising an eyebrow and earning himself a sharp look from Daryl. ‘Ain’t nothing strong about that.’

‘Dunno,’ Daryl shrugged. ‘Prison’s better than being there. S’what Merle says.’

‘And yet, you’ve never been to prison.’

‘No. Told ya, too much of a pussy I guess,’ Daryl huffed.

‘I don’t think so,’ Rick mused, ‘I think – I know – you’ve never been to prison cause you’re a good man. Got good morals. That takes strength. Strength Merle don’t have.’

Daryl huffed a laugh, harsh but genuine. ‘You’re such a fuckin cop, you know that, Grimes?’

‘Hope that’s a compliment,’ Rick teased.

‘It ain’t,’ Daryl said, nudging Rick in the ribs and wearing this wolfish grin that got Rick’s chest running hot.

Rick’s arm found his way around Daryl’s shoulders, and while neither of them really seemed to expect the motion, Daryl didn’t flinch at the contact. Instead, he shuffled closer, tentatively leaning into Rick’s side.

‘I mean it, though, you know? You are strong. The things he did to you – you haven’t let it compromise you, haven’t let it break you.’

Daryl sighed, sagging into Rick’s side. ‘You saw how I was in there. Couldn’t even talk about it. Freaked out like some damn psycho. If that ain’t broken then…’ he trailed off, biting at the side of his ruined thumbnail.

‘You’re not broken.’ Rick told him, firm yet soft, fingers tracing carefully around the two stitched up cuts on his bicep. ‘If you were broken, you’d be like him. You’re not. You’re a good man, Daryl.’

Daryl pulled away, not fully, but enough to turn and look Rick in the face with those narrowed eyes flicking over him, challenging him. ‘Am I shit,’ he said, arms folded. ‘M’redneck trash, you know that. Ain’t even worth your time.’

And Rick hated how Daryl looked like he really believed it.

‘I’ll give you all my time, always,’ Rick told him, pushing the freshly washed hair out of Daryl’s face as he spoke. ‘You’re worth the world, Daryl.’

You’re my world, Rick nearly added. The realisation of this settling over him like a warm weighted blanket but not coming as a surprise. He’d known it for a while now, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself. Even if he hadn’t fully realised what it meant.

He realised now though, as Daryl watched at him with this look that made Rick forget that there was anyone else – anything else – in existence apart from the two of them, pressed together in the bed in his spare room, skin beneath clothes warm and tingling at the contact. Those blue eyes, darker than Rick’s own, glistened with this shy sort of hope, a hint of disbelief that didn’t seem to end in his usual distrust, chapped lips pulling into a tentative smile.

And it was only then that Rick realised how close their faces were. Close enough that Rick could smell toothpaste and lavender. Close enough that all he would have to do is angle his lips forward slightly and…

Rick swallowed, trying to reign in thoughts and wants and fantasies that he wasn’t sure Daryl reciprocated. He didn’t want to risk ruining things. Risk ruining this.

He did let his hand find its way into Daryl’s hair once again, repeating the motion that Rick had learnt made Daryl’s eyes close as he shivered slightly, tracing from his forehead, behind his ear and down to his jaw.

‘I should let you get some sleep,’ Rick all but whispered, and if he didn’t know better, he would say Daryl looks almost disappointed at the words.

Daryl sighed, leaned in closer, head lulling against Rick’s shoulder. ‘Ain’t tired,’ he lied with a small smile.

Rick chuckled. ‘Could stay for a bit, if you want?’

Daryl’s smile grew, but Rick could tell he was trying to hide it. ‘Suppose, if you want to, that is.’

‘I want to,’ Rick confirmed, unable to resist the urge to lean over, lips brushing the top of Daryl’s hair so lightly he hoped it would be imperceptible. ‘I want this.’

‘Stay, then,’ Daryl said, voice low from sleep and something else that caused warmth to pool deep in Rick’s stomach.

So Rick stayed, holding Daryl close as they both drifted off to sleep.

Lori was pretty – beautiful, really – Daryl supposed.

She sat in the living room opposite him, Carl on her lap, watching him with these big brown, long lashed eyes, curious, not quite trusting, not quite disdainful, as Rick placed a cup of coffee down before her.

Carl was staying for the weekend. Lori had wanted to meet Daryl beforehand. Daryl felt almost sick with nerves and he knew why, objectively, that Lori needed to know who she was leaving her son with. He weren’t stupid. But he was his father’s son.

Daryl also knew how much this all meant to Rick, who knelt down next to Lori so he could fuss over Carl and the image of the three of them all so close felt like a shard of ice in his heart. They looked like a real family. Lori suited Rick. She was tall, slender, well put together, long dark hair and neatly ironed clothes and expensive smelling perfume. Daryl could just picture it – picture them – going on family holidays, sitting around the dinner table at night, hosting BBQs, going on dates to fancy restaurants – all that shit that real people do. They looked like a couple.

And they weren’t. Daryl knew this. But it didn’t make it feel any better. Not when Daryl knew what he looked like. What he was like. Especially in comparison to someone like Lori, who was so obviously Rick’s type. The proof of this sat in between them, watching Daryl with these big, curious blue eyes he’d inherited from Rick.

‘How are you feeling now, Daryl?’ Lori asks him, voice soft and restrained. Daryl wonders exactly how much Rick has told her. How much she knew about him.

‘Good,’ he said, nodding and glad that the bruising had finally started to fade over the last week. ‘Fine. Ain’t nothing I can’t handle,’ and he tries to keep his tone light, but it falls flat and the way his fiddled with the sleeves of the sweater he borrowed from Rick give him up. ‘Carol fixed me up good, so…’

‘Sophia!’ Carl exclaimed, turning to Lori and tugging at her cardigan.

‘I’m sure you can go and visit her this weekend,’ Lori told him.

‘We can invite them over,’ Rick suggests, meeting Daryl’s low gaze. ‘Sophia would love to see you too, got a soft spot for you, she has.’

And it’s true, but Daryl feels himself blush all the same.

‘Does she?’ Lori questioned but not unbelieving, ‘she’s such a shy little girl, always hiding behind her mother’s legs with me.’

‘She’s a good kid,’ is all Daryl can say to this. He doesn’t want to tell her about how they first met. About how she saw it all. The blood, the open wounds, the way he cried, shirtless and exposed on Carol’s kitchen table. No kid should have to see that. But Sophia, she did. She lived it too.

‘She is,’ Lori said with a smile. ‘Do you have any younger siblings, Daryl?’

Daryl shook his head. ‘No. Older. Bout ten years older. He ain’t around much, though.’

‘That’s a big age gap,’ she remarked, bouncing Carl on her knee as she spoke.

‘Mm-hmm. Don’t think my folks planned on having a second,’ Daryl said. And he didn’t think it, he knew it. An accident, a mistake. Tried to beat you out of your mother more than once, boy. Knew you weren’t worth the trouble, even then.

‘Well, I hope you know what you’re in for this weekend. Terrible twos – they can be quite a handful!’ Lori said as Carl started to wiggle, wanting to be released from his mother’s lap.

She set Carl down, who came toddling over, plastic dinosaur toy clutched in his chubby little fist. He stopped beside Daryl, steadying himself on Daryl’s knee and holding up the toy, looking proud and excited and undeniably cute.

‘Whatcha got there, buddy?’ Daryl asked, voice soft, unsure and quiet.

‘T-rex,’ Carl told him still holding the toy up for Daryl.

‘Is it?’ Daryl asked softly, clearing his throat and leaning in to get a closer look. ‘You’re smarter than me, kid.’

Carl nodded, grinned, rocking back and forth of his feet, one hand still holding Daryl’s knee to keep himself steady. ‘For you,’ he said, thrusting the toy up again, waving it for Daryl to take. And Daryl does, gingerly pulling a hand from where it had hidden in his sleeve and slowly taking the toy.

‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling heat brush across his cheeks as he caught Rick smiling at him out of the corner of his eye.

‘Can play dinosaurs later,’ Carl said as if he’s sure, leaving no room for argument.

Daryl can’t help but chuckle. ‘Sure thing, little man.’

Carl’s offering is a little wet from where Carl has been chewing on the damn things tail, but Daryl doesn’t mind. He felt his chest warm as he held it carefully, as if it’s precious, and watched Carl patter around the coffee table to climb onto Rick.

Lori is smiling at him, and it makes Daryl want to hide.

‘I am sorry for intruding, asking you all these questions. Must seem like I’m interrogating you,’ she said, holding her hands up as if caught. ‘But you and Rick – this is all still quite new, if you don’t mind me saying. I just wanted to meet you for myself beforehand. I hope you understand.’

‘I get it,’ Daryl said, and he did. It was good, that she was watching over Carl. Checking these things. The amount of times his Pa had just left him somewhere as a kid – always with friends – but they were never so friendly. Not in that way, anyway. Daryl shuddered, fingers entwining in his sleeves and he forced a tight smile.

‘Besides, Rick always has to vet out my new partners,’ Lori said then, eyeing Rick with a toothy grin. ‘Figured it’s only fair to return the favour.’

And Daryl felt his face burn at the suggestion, eyeing Rick, who was similarly red and almost sheepish, but smiling. ‘Oh, uh, we’re not –’ Daryl started, stuttering, unable to look at either of them any longer.

‘You’re not?’ Lori asked, lightly with a curious, almost teasing sort of grin.

‘It’s not like that,’ Rick said, voice careful and Daryl could feel Rick watching him. Daryl didn’t look up, still burning red, suddenly very interested in his cuticles.

‘Well,’ Lori said, finishing off her cup of coffee and wearing a knowing smile, ‘you make great roommates, then.’

He’s seven, probably. Maybe younger. Don’t matter.

What matters is that Pa’s got friends round. Three of em. And they’re drinking and smoking and talking real loud while playing cards and Daryl keeps out of the way but his Pa wants him to bring them drinks and snacks and they scare him.

He’s in the kitchen, filling a chipped bowl with salted nuts and he wants to take a handful but he knows he knows he’s not allowed. He hasn’t eaten yet today and he’s told again and again that he doesn’t need to eat and maybe his pa is right. But the lock that his father has started putting on the fridge is gone today – free access for the men – and Daryl’s eyes keep catching it, his stomach growling at the thoughts, the possibilities that he tries to ignore.

He wishes Merle were here. Sometimes, when Merle is here and his father has friend’s round, they’re allowed to join in. Merle’s got guts and a sharp tongue and while that usually pisses their father off to no end, it amuses his friends, so they’re allowed to stay and drink and play poker and Daryl doesn’t like it but it’s easier. He knows what to expect.

But Merle’s gone and Daryl pads into the living room, carrying the bowl, a fresh bottle of shine, and tries to make himself as quiet and as small as possible as he edges them onto the card table – an offering, a distraction from himself.

It doesn’t work.

His father catches him by the wrist, grip sharp, and holds him there, twisting his arm. Daryl doesn’t whimper, doesn’t move. He knows better than that. Instead, he goes very still.

‘Whatcha think boys?’ His father asks the room with that rotting smile, ‘how’s he lookin?’

Daryl doesn’t remember what they said as they jeered. But the answer didn’t matter, not when the result was the same. He wants to pull away, to hide, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes low and wishes he was wearing more layers.

‘He looks just like his ma, don’t he?’ one of the men say, leaning forward, elbows on the card table and grinning at him and smokes pours from between his teeth.

‘Acts like her too. I swear, if I didn’t know what was between his legs I’d assume he was a little girl,’ his father laughs, gripping him harder, pulling him closer. ‘Ain’t that right, boy?’ he asks Daryl, face close, breath thick with stale smoke and shine.

And Daryl doesn’t response. It’s risky, but he doesn’t want to give his father the satisfaction.

‘Shame, really, ain’t it?’ one of the men muse, eyes pulling over Daryl’s bony figure. ‘Woulda been a pretty little thing, huh?’

‘He woulda,’ his father agrees, not looking anywhere but at Daryl. ‘You just gotta keep him in line, is all. Needs a firm hand, just like the old girl upstairs. He don’t know what’s best for him. Too soft, always has been. Would eat himself useless if given the chance, you see. Ain’t that right boy?’

And the way his father’s dirty nails dig into his wrist tells Daryl he can’t get out of it this time.

‘Yes sir,’ he mumbles, eyes fixed on the stained, threadbare carpet. And it’s probably true, anyway. He is always hungry. All he thinks about some days is food, that and the fear.

‘You see, his brother, now he was a man from the start,’ his father remarked. ‘Tough as nails that one, almost makes up for his little attitude problem. Now Daryl here,’ his father thrusts him forward with a chuckle. ‘Well, you see him, dontcha? Give us a twirl, Darlina, go on.’

And his father lets him go, takes a long swig of shine straight from the bottle and watches him, eyes darkening as his pupils grew.

Daryl stands still, fists clenched at his sides, eyes darting around the table at the hungry faces. He wants to say no. Shake his head. Tell them all to fuck off, to leave him the hell alone. Please. Please.

‘Don’t you make me ask you again,’ His father warns, voice low as he leant closer.

Daryl knows what that means. Knows his father won’t ask again. Hell, he ain’t asking this time. So Daryl clenches his jaw, takes a shallow breath into his tight lungs, and turns 360 while the men laugh, whoop and whistle.

When he’s done, he stands there, face burning, eyes down, hoping it’s over now, that he’ll be allowed to go. It’s dark, but he’d rather be out there, rather be deep in the woods than here. Anywhere but here. Anywhere.

‘Come sit with me, boy,’ one of the men say, grinning at him, teeth missing, beard greying. ‘I got a spot for you right here,’ he says, patting his lap.

And no. Please no. Daryl looks at his father, eyes wide, silently pleading and it’s stupid, so fucking stupid because he already knows the answer.

‘Go on, then,’ his father tells him, giving him a shove. ‘Do as you’re told.’

For a moment, Daryl considers running. He wonders how far he will make it before it hurt. But he knows that it’s pointless. Even if he does get away, it’ll happen again, and it’ll be so much worse when he comes back.

Daryl swallows, keeps his eyes low, and trapses around the table to the man, letting himself be manhandled onto his lap. The man is heavyset, his clothes stained, he smells of sweat and drink and smoke and rot and he wraps an arm around Daryl’s stomach to hold him in place, a hand gripping him low on the hip, fingers sinking below his waistband.

‘Good boy,’ the man breathes into his ear, squeezing the flesh at his side and inhaling sharply. ‘You keep being a good boy for me, you hear? I’ll give you something real special later.’

Daryl meets his father’s eyes from across the table. Silently begging, silently asking for this to stop.

Don’t, m’sorry, please don’t.

‘You do as he says, boy,’ his father tells him, sharply.

‘Yes sir,’ Daryl all but whispers, trying to ignore the feeling of something twitch behind him.

His father snorts out a laugh, shakes his head, and then gives his attention back to the deck of cards before him, grabbing a handful of nuts before he starts to shuffle.

‘Daddy, I’m hungry,’ Carl whined. He was sitting on the carpet with Daryl, toys out of the box and spread across the living room. If he knew Daryl was unsure, he didn’t show it. Showed no hesitation to shove toy trucks into Daryl’s hands and tell him they were playing ‘car chase’.

‘How about a snack before lunch?’ Rick suggested, sitting at the table and flicking through some paperwork that Daryl had a sinking suspicion was to do with his father. ‘Anything take your fancy?’

Carl paused, considering this before turning to Daryl. ‘What snack should we have, Dare?’ he asked, not quite able to pronounce the ‘yl’.

And Daryl felt very young all of a sudden, cross-legged on the floor, a semi-sticky truck in his palm, a creeping sense of fear that this was a trap. Both Carl and Rick were watching him, Carl expectantly, and Rick softly, fingers on his paperwork that twitched as though he wanted to come over and hug him.

‘M’not really hungry, buddy. You go ahead.’

Carl pouted, tilted his head in the same way Daryl had seen Rick do time and time again. ‘But it’s snack time,’ he told him. ‘Don’t need to be hungry.’

And Daryl almost laughed because he was so much like Rick. In the same way Daryl feared that he was like his old man. And he had always been told that he was more like Ma, but sometimes he thought it didn’t matter. Neither of them shoulda been parents. Not really. Neither of them shoulda been around a child.

Carl pulled himself up, toddled over, and flopped down in Daryl’s lap, giggling and looking up at him, little hands reaching up to Daryl’s hair. ‘You ever had apples and peanut butter?’

Daryl, initially stiff at the contact, felt himself relax a little as Carl wiggled in his lap, grinning up at him with a baby-tooth smile. ‘Not at the same time,’ Daryl told him, leaning forward to let Carl tug at his hair. ‘Tell you a secret though,’ Daryl said, voice a loud whisper, causing delight to spread across Carl’s face at the prospect, ‘peanut butter is my favourite.’

Carl clapped his palms together, squealing. ‘Mine too!’ he laughed, still writhing around, half in Daryl’s lap, half on the carpet. ‘Daddy, can we have apple sticks and peanut butter?’

‘I’m already on it, bud,’ Rick said, and he was, paperwork tucked into a folder, watching Daryl with this look the made him flush pink and avert his eyes. He walked past them on his way to the kitchen, pausing to kneel beside them, giving Carl’s hair a ruffle and leaning in close to Daryl, hand slowly making soft contact with his shoulder. ‘You’re doing great,’ he said, just loud enough for Daryl to hear. ‘You’re a natural.’

And Daryl wanted to disagree, to dismiss it, but it made his chest warm and then he met Rick’s eyes, the way he was looking at him like he was something precious, like he belonged here, in Rick’s living room with Carl like he was a part of the family and he couldn’t bring himself to speak at all. He nodded, small and almost dumbly and it seemed to make Rick melt all the more. Rick’s hand moved from his shoulder to the back of Daryl’s neck, touch gentle to allow Daryl to pull away if he wished but he didn’t. He leant into it, tilting his head back as fingers brushed a small circle into his nape.

‘Dunno what I’m doing,’ Daryl murmured, a confession and a plea, looking into Rick’s eyes and trying so damn hard not to look at his lips. At least not for more than a second. And he wanted to tell Rick, to say that this was a bad idea, that he was bad, broken, that Carl was too good to be around someone like him. Hell, Rick was too good for it. His father once told him that he broke everything he touched. Sucked the good outta everything. And what if he ruined this? How would he live with himself then? He swallowed thickly, the nerves, the doubt, obviously showing on his face because Rick gently angled his head forwards, resting his lips just above Daryl’s hairline and Daryl was running out of way to convince himself that it wasn’t a kiss.

It couldn’t be.

‘Just keep being you,’ Rick told him, lips still lingering in Daryl’s hair. ‘That’s enough.’

And it didn’t feel like enough. But Rick said it like he meant it, looked at him like he believed it, so maybe it wasn’t so bad if Daryl pretended it was true. At least for a little bit.

Rick liked to think he was a sensible man. Rational. Smart. These were qualities that he prided himself on. He liked to think that it set him apart from Shane, from other on the Force, who could be impulsive and irrational and Rick liked to think he could provide a balance to that.

But there was something about the way Daryl sat beside the high-chair, covered in applesauce and spoonfeeding Carl that seemed to drown out any sensible, rational thought he had ever had. Something about the way Daryl looked, nervous and unsure but happy, making silly airplane noises as he guided the spoon to Carl’s mouth and then occasionally remembering himself and flushing with embarrassment. Something about the way a week of meals had given Daryl some colour – some life – back into his face. He was less gaunt, less haunted, less terrified. Carl giggled, clapped, kicked his little feet in amusement as Daryl spoke in this exaggerated, gruff voice, drawled accent, playful in a way Rick’s not sure he’s ever had the chance to be before. It made Rick want to be impulsive.

And the bruising, now a faded yellow that snaked down Daryl throat and below the neckline of the jumper Rick lent him, the way Daryl tried to hide the fresh scars on his arms from Carl’s innocent gaze, made Rick want to hurt Will Dixon in a way that stitches wouldn’t fix.

Rick hovered over the stove, making sure dinner didn’t burn, as he composed himself. Will Dixon had been released from custody. Couldn’t be held any longer without official charges and his superiors didn’t really know how best to move forward with it. It was obvious what had happened, and Daryl’s partial statement was strong evidence, but Rick knew, he knew that Daryl wouldn’t handle a trial. Wouldn’t handle being cross-examined, having his injuries shown to a courtroom full of people. Something twisted in his stomach at the image of Daryl on the stand, having to face down his father, having to tell a judge, a whole court, what had happened. What his father had done to him. And Rick wanted justice. He wanted to see that man behind bars, but not at the any cost.

And it wasn’t fucking fair. None of it was.

The thought of Will, back in that house, thinking he had gotten away with it made Rick almost blind with anger.

It could be that the court press charges regardless. Daryl wouldn’t have a say in it then, but he also might not have to stand trail if the court find there is enough evidence to convict. This is the best-case scenario. This is what should happen.

But does it?

Rick had not seen this happen yet in his time as a cop. And that alone is enough to send an almost guilty prickle of doubt running down his spine.

He hadn’t told Daryl any of this yet. He didn’t want to ruin the almost innocent sort of joy Daryl seemed to wear when playing with Carl. But he would have to tell him eventually. Soon. Rick swallowed, stomach turning with guilt and worry and rage.

He plates up, collecting himself before turning around. ‘Dinner for the grown ups, now,’ he said, placing a plate in front of Daryl and then busying himself in wiping away applesauce from Carl’s face. ‘Eat what you can, okay?’ he added softly.

And Daryl nodded, picked up his own fork, and started to eat. Slow and cautious, and then quicker, but not quite as desperate as a week ago, where he would eat like he never had before and never would again. He would sometimes pause – freeze – as if remembering himself, catching Rick’s eyes as if searching for permission, waiting for something to hurt. All Rick could do was offer a smile, a nod, a silent reassurance that this was good, that every bite Daryl took uncoiled some of the fear in Rick’s chest, every mouthful a relief.

Daryl still looked guilty once he has cleared the plate.

‘I’ll sleep on the couch,’ they told each other at the same time.

They paused, blinked at each other, mirroring each others amusement, before Daryl cleared his throat. ‘Can’t kick you outta ya own bed,’ he said, folding his arms.

‘And I can’t let an injured man sleep on the couch,’ Rick countered.

‘M’fine now,’ Daryl groaned, ‘nearly healed. I keep telling ya I’ve had worse. Slept in worse places too.’

‘You haven’t even had your stitches out yet. It’s only been a week,’ Rick frowned.

‘Don’t hurt, though,’ Daryl insisted, almost pouting.

‘I’m sure,’ Rick told him, only half teasing, because he was sure it was true – Daryl’s pain tolerance was unusually high – although that didn’t exactly make it better. ‘But even still, you take the bed.’

Daryl pouted further, shuffling his feet and avoiding eye contact. ‘Urm,’ he started, face starting to turn pink before he had even said what he wanted to say, ‘I mean, we could… It ain’t like we haven’t shared before. If you want – If you don’t mind…’

Rick could help the grin that spread across his face, the warmth that flared across his own cheeks and down his neck. ‘You wanna share?’ Rick asked, almost playfully.

Daryl shrugged, pulling at the skin around his fingernails. ‘Don’t mind.’

‘We can share.’

‘Fine. Just don’t want ya to hurtcha back on the couch, old man,’ Daryl quipped, almost shy.

‘I’m only four years older,’ Rick said, mocking offence.

‘Makes all the difference,’ Daryl snarked, giving Rick a nudge.

So that’s what they did. Daryl pulling the covers to his chin, flipped through a book he had pulled from Rick’s shelf and pretending to read it as Rick pulled his shirt off to change, although Rick didn’t miss the way Daryl’s face flushed red, how he shuffled awkwardly as Rick slipped into the sheets next to him.

‘Sorry if I snore,’ Rick told him, laying on his side to face Daryl, who huffed.

‘You snore, you can go sleep on the couch.’

‘Gonna kick me outta my own bed?’

‘Maybe.’

They were quiet for a moment, Rick’s smile fading slightly as he felt the familiar itch, the need to tell Daryl what had happened. That his father was out. That the court might press charges. That he might not have a choice.

And Daryl sensed it, of course he did. So damn perceptive to any change in demeanour it was almost uncanny. ‘What?’ he asked, voice sharp with nerves.

‘Your father’s been released from custody,’ Rick told him. ‘Couldn’t hold him any longer without an official charge.’

Daryl seemed to process this. Rick can almost see the cogs in his brain churning this over. He nodded, shrugged, and started chewing the side of his thumbnail. ‘Alright,’ he said, voice gruff.

‘The court might still pursue it. Might still press charges,’ Rick told him, slowly.

Another shrug. ‘What does that mean, yaknow, for me?’

‘It means,’ Rick started, taking a breath, ‘that it’ll go to court, that there’ll be a trail. Means you might be called to the stand.’

Another pause, heavier, sharper. Daryl was staring at Rick, those narrow blue eyes piercing. ‘What?’

‘You might not have to. They might be able to convict him with the evidence we’ve already got. Might not even go to court. It depends,’ Rick said, trying to keep his voice calm, soothing. It didn’t make a difference.

‘Might,’ Daryl repeated, his voice sharp. ‘That ain’t giving me a lotta confidence, Rick.’

‘Daryl –’

But Daryl sat up, sheets tangling around him as he glared at Rick like it’s all his fault. ‘I ain’t doing shit,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t give a damn what you and your little cop buddies want. I ain’t doing it.’

Rick was sitting up now too, rubbing his face, frustration bubbling in his chest. ‘You might not have a choice,’ he told him, voice strained, but as gentle as possible.

And although it was the truth, it was the wrong thing to say.

‘Oh, what, you gonna force me now, is that it?’ Daryl snarled, clambering out of bed. ‘Gonna make me stand there, tell em a sob story, get me to bitch and moan about how daddy used to beat me? Hell nah.’

‘Daryl –’

‘Forget it,’ Daryl snapped, pulling away, making towards the door. ‘Leave me be.’

And the bedroom door slammed shut behind him. Rick groaned, sinking back into the sheets and listening as Daryl stomped into the living room, started to pace for a bit. Rick only let himself settle when he was sure he wasn’t going to hear the front door slam too.

‘Don’t, m’sorry, please don’t. Please.’

Rick was on his feet before he was really awake, stumbling into the lounge to find Daryl on the couch, gripped in sleep and sweat and fear.

‘Please don’t. m’sorry, so sorry –’

Rick hated how young he looked sometimes, especially when he was like this, twisted in unconscious panic. It was easier to see it – to picture it – Daryl as a small child, cowering and bleeding and dealing with things no child should ever have to even think about. And with Carl in the next room… Rick tried not to picture this terror on Carl’s face. Hoped to god it never finds a place there, never has a reason to cross his features.

‘Stop, stop, get off, please stop, please –’

‘Daryl,’ Rick crouched next to the couch, knowing better than to touch. ‘It’s a dream, you’re safe. You gotta wake up.’

Daryl huffed a dry, sleepy sort of sob, hands coming up before him as if he was trying to push someone off of him.

‘Come on, it’s alright, you’re safe, just wake up.’

And Daryl does. Jolting awake, eyes wide and wild and for a moment unseeing as he heaved in a breath and trembled, searching the room for something, someone. He sagged when he sees its Rick, swore and rubbed the sweat and tears roughly off his face.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, unable to meet Rick’s gaze. ‘Fuck.’

‘It’s alright,’ Rick hushed.

‘Don’t,’ Daryl snapped, but there was no bite behind it. ‘Don’t say that. It ain’t alright. S’fucking pathetic. I can’t –’ he pressed his palms into his eyes and let out a strangled, angry sob that sounded like a knife to the chest.

Rick climbed onto the sofa next to him but something told him not to touch. Not yet. Not after that.

Stop, stop, get off, please stop, please.

‘You wanna talk about it?’ Rick asked, quietly.

‘Fuck no,’ Daryl hissed, voice wet, ‘I don’t wanna – I can’t – how the fuck am I gonna do this, Rick?’

And he sounded so young. So young and so lost and so fucking desperate as he tried to bite back tears to the point where Rick could see the blood on his lips.

‘Can I?’ Rick asked, offering his arms out because he wanted to hold Daryl close but only if that’s what Daryl wanted.

Daryl looked at him for a moment, anger trying to conquer the fear, but Rick watched it lose as Daryl huffed and all but collapsed into Rick’s arms, burying his face into the crook of Rick’s neck as he started to shake with silent sobs that Rick could tell he was still trying to fight back.

‘I gotcha,’ Rick told him, holding him close, pressing kisses into his hair without a thought. ‘M’right here, Darlin, right here.’

Rick held him there until he started to calm, the strangled sobs easing out into sniffles, his hands rubbing small circles onto Daryl’s back through his shirt as he rocked him almost imperceptibly, just like he would do with Carl.

‘It might not go to trial,’ Rick told him, ‘and if it does, you might not have to be involved.’

‘But it might,’ Daryl said, voice tight. ‘I might. I can’t, Rick.’

And Rick didn’t know what to say to make it better. Because nothing could make it better. So he just kept holding him, kept running butterfly kisses down his head and behind his ear.

‘That last time, I really though he was gonna kill me,’ Daryl said, voice no more than a whisper. And Rick stilled, lips still pressed against hair as the rage washed over him, cold this time, sending ice down his spine. ‘Ain’t the first time. Hell, he’s done worse. Just felt like…’ he trailed off, sucking in a sharp breath. ‘Guess it woulda been easier, yaknow? If he did.’

The ice spread from Rick’s spine, across his chest, catching the air in his lungs as he fought not to picture it. Daryl lifeless in the blood. ‘Don’t say that,’ Rick said, sharp, pulling back and trying to get Daryl to look at him. ‘Don’t even think about it, jesus, Daryl, I can’t –’

‘No, I can’t,’ Daryl snapped, meeting Rick’s stare, eyes angry and wet. ‘I didn’t want this, didn’t ask for it. I mean it. Woulda been easier.’

‘Daryl –’

‘What? What do you want me to say, Rick? That I’m happy? Damn delighted he didn’t choke me out and now I’ve got to deal with – with all this?’

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting against the sting behind his eyes. ‘Look, whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together, okay?’

‘And what then?’ Daryl asked, voice strained. ‘Can’t stay here forever. Can’t do this forever.’

‘Why not?’ Rick asked, hand finding its way into Daryl’s hair.

And Daryl’s looking at him like he’s stupid. Like he’s crazy. ‘Come on, Rick. I don’t – this isn’t – you, Carl… I ain’t made for all this.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Rick told him gently. ‘You are made for this,’ and he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t hold back the words, ‘made for me.’

Daryl barks a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘Nah, Lori’s made for you, man. I ain’t.’

‘Don’t want Lori,’ Rick told him, chest tingling, fingers feeling the electricity against Daryl’s skin.

‘You don’t want this,’ Daryl countered.

‘I want you to be happy,’ Rick told him, almost breathless, ‘I want you to be safe.’

‘Dunno how to be those things,’ Daryl said, bottom lip trembling again.

‘Then let me show you,’ Rick insisted. ‘Let me try.’

They were so close now. So damn close, nose tips nearly touching, breaths slow and shallow and Daryl was looking at his lips, nervous but with low-lids and he moved his head forwards slightly, as if testing the water, the tip of his rounded nose meeting Rick’s.

And fuck it.

Rick let his lips brush Daryl’s, gentle at first, barely there until Daryl pressed forward, pressure building, unsure and inexperienced but Rick could taste the longing, the need, as Daryl’s clumsy hands gripped the sides of Rick’s t-shirt. Rick reciprocated, guiding him through the movements like a dance, hands gliding up to cup his face as he lost himself in rough kisses.

Daryl pulled back, noses still touching, and whispered ‘dunno what I’m doing,’ and it sounded like an apology so Rick hushed him with another kiss.

‘Being you is enough,’ Rick told him, migrating kisses to the corner of his mouth, lips chasing the stubble along his jaw. ‘This is enough.’

‘I don’t – Rick, what if… I can’t –’

And Rick heard it again. Stop, stop, get off, please stop, please.

Rick pulled back a little further, hands still cupping Daryl’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone as Daryl watched him, apprehensive, as if waiting for everything to fall apart. ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do. Ever. You being here, with me, that’s everything. Everything.’

And Daryl’s eyes warmed, but he didn’t look sure. ‘What if I never…’

‘Then we never,’ Rick told him, firmly, gently. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together. We’ll deal with it together. Okay?’

And Daryl nodded dumbly, eyes wider than Rick had ever seen them before he leaned forward, lids fluttering shut, lips meeting Rick’s in another unpracticed kiss. ‘I want to, but…’

‘You set the pace,’ Rick told him. ‘You’re safe.’

And Daryl breathed a half-laugh onto Rick’s lips, his own hands tentatively making their way into Rick’s hair. ‘You’re ridiculous,’ he told him, voice low and gruff and warm.

‘Maybe. But I’m yours, if you want me,’ Rick grinned, pressing his forehead against Daryl’s.

Daryl nodded again, not trusting his words and then he laughed again, a little tighter this time. ‘My old man would kill me.’

‘I’ll kill him first,’ Rick told him with a grin, fingers sliding possessively into Daryl’s hair and planting a kiss on his forehead, raising another laugh from Daryl.

Before long they found themselves curled up on the couch, Rick leaning back, arms around Daryl who fit into Rick’s side like a missing puzzle piece. Like he was always supposed to be there. Rick played with Daryl’s hair as they both tried and failed to fight off sleep.

‘M’sorry,’ Daryl said, voice sleepy and soft, nervous. ‘Bout earlier. Getting mad. Ain’t your fault. I know that.’

Rick pressed a kiss onto the top of Daryl’s hair, shifting slightly to hold him closer. ‘I get it. You don’t gotta apologise.’

‘Nah, I do,’ Daryl told him, firmly. ‘You didn’t deserve it. Weren’t right.’

‘And you didn’t deserve it. Anything that he did to you. You didn’t deserve it,’ Rick said because he still didn’t think Daryl realised this.

And he was right. Daryl sighed. Shook his head. ‘Don’t matter now. It’s done,’ he paused, swallowed hard, shuffled closer into Rick. ‘Just wish I knew what to do next.’

‘I told you, we’ll figure it out, together. Whatever happens,’ Rick told him, voice steady and sure as he traced kisses down behind Daryl’s ear. ‘I got you.’

Daryl didn’t respond, he just sagged further into Rick’s embrace as sleep beckoned, ribs and sharp edges seeming to soften as he let himself be held.

He’s seventeen and god he’s tired.

So fucking tired. All the time.

Fuck knows where Merle is. Army, prison, some month-long bender. It don’t matter. He ain’t here and sometimes it’s like he never was.

Daryl had a successful enough hunt. Nothing special, but he’s brought back a couple of rabbits and a couple of squirrel and it’s enough to shut his father up and earn him dinner, but he doesn’t want it. Not today. And he’s hungry – he is – but he’s learnt by now that the hunger ain’t worth it. It’s easier to go with less. To be less.

Besides, he gets drunk quicker on an empty stomach.

And his father is already there, slacked in the shine and sprawled on the couch and for once he seems almost calm. And Daryl wants to avoid him, to drink alone on the porch, but he has no such luck.

‘Boy,’ his father barks at him, ‘getcha ass over here.’

And Daryl suppresses a sigh and does as he’s told, standing across from the couch, the filthy, ash strewn coffee table between them, and waits.

‘Come keep ya old man company, make yaself useful for once,’ his father says, taking a swig of shine and spilling some down his front.

So Daryl sits, not on the couch, doesn’t want to be close enough to the man to touch, but on the floor, crosslegged and leaning forward on his knees and his father pushes a glass across the coffee table towards him like a drunken barman. Daryl takes it, takes a swig and lets it burn.

‘Good hunt today?’ his father asks, the casualness of the question setting Daryl’s teeth on edge.

‘S’alright,’ Daryl says.

‘You eaten yet?’

‘Nah,’ Daryl dismisses, ignoring the way his stomach seems to curl in on itself, how the shine mixes with bile in his gut, how his father raises his eyebrows, looking almost amused.

‘You followed the rules,’ his father tells him, ‘could eat, if you feel like you need it.’

‘Don’t need it,’ Daryl says, because it’s true, he doesn’t need it and this is the answer his father is looking for.

‘Damn straight you don’t,’ he says with a chuckle.

They sit in the quiet for a bit, Daryl draining his glass, hoping it’ll set his nerves at ease at least a little. His father chucks the rolling tobacco over to him, hitting him square in the chest. ‘Roll one for yaself too, son. Don’t say I never give ya nothin.’

And Daryl hates that he’s grateful. Hates the wash of want and relief that the nicotine brings. He rolls up and lights up, sucking in the smoke and hoping it dulls the pain in his stomach.

‘Rough shine, ain’t it?’ his father asks.

‘Guess,’ Daryl shrugs. It burns, but he’s had worse.

There’s more silence. His father watches him, assessing, chewing over thoughts and words as he swills the shine around his mouth. ‘When did you get so damn quiet, huh? Used to be you’d talk my damn ear off. Never shut the fuck up when you were a kid.’

Daryl shrugs again. ‘Ain’t much to say.’

‘You are a miserable sonovabitch, you know that?’

Daryl says nothing, doesn’t trust himself to. Just takes a drag of his cigarette and drains his glass before putting it on the coffee table. His father shakes his head, sits up and refills it. ‘Bet you hate me, dontcha?’

And Daryl stills at the question, breath catching, eyes narrowing as he watches his father watch him, those dark eyes fixed, waiting. This was a trap. Had to be. Gotta be.

Daryl doesn’t respond, and his father takes this as an answer in itself. He sighs, shakes his head and tuts before draining his own glass. ‘Everything I’ve done is for your own good, yaknow,’ he says. ‘So hate me all you want. You’d be nothin without me.’

‘How’dya figure that?’ Daryl asks, voice sharp, unable to stop himself. It’s risky, it’s stupid, but he can feel the ghost of his fathers’ hands around his throat, the faded bite of leather at his back, the swirling hunger in his gut, and he can’t help himself. He never can.

His father grins at him, smoke billowing out from behind yellowed teeth. ‘You were born wrong, boy. Built wrong. And men like us – you, me, your shithead brother – we don’t get ta be wrong. Don’t get ta be weak. And you were. Still are, sometimes. I taught ya – showed ya – how things gotta be for us. I mean, hell, where would you be without me, huh? You ever think about that?’

And Daryl does, sometimes. Not as often anymore. But when he was younger, still at school, watching all the other kids and wondering why they got it so easy? Why did they get to eat and play and exist without someone breathing down their fucking neck all day? Why was he different? How was it fair?

He learnt a long time ago that life ain’t fair. And who would he be without his old man? He was still born wrong. He was still built wrong. Wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference who his father was. He would always be too much and too little at the same damn time. Always be redneck trailer park trash. He takes another swig of shine and grimaces as it burns his throat, as his father wheezes another laugh.

‘I keep ya straight. Keep ya in line. Keep ya tough. You’d be nothin without me boy. Ain’t worth a damn thing as it is.’

‘Got it,’ Daryl muttered, jaw tight, wishing he could get up, fuck off into the woods again. You could – he hears Merle’s voice muse, somewhere in his mind – if you weren’t such a damn pussy.

‘Watch your tone with me, boy,’ his father warns, still smiling.

‘What do you want?’ Daryl asks, the shine making him stupid. And he’s not sure what he’s looking for, whether he even wants an answer or whether he’s looking for another beating just to get it over with. It don’t matter. He’ll get both soon enough.

‘Told ya, wantcha to keep ya old man company,’ his father says with a mocking innocence, as if that’s all he ever wants. As if there’s never anything more.

There’s always something more.

‘And I want you to remember yourself. Who ya are. Whatcha are,’ he sits up, draining his glass and slamming it on the coffee table and Daryl hates, hates that he flinches. Hates that it makes his father’s eyes dilate and grows his rotting smile. ‘You’re mine, boy. Ain’t nothin more than that. Never will be.’

Daryl stood with Carol in her kitchen, the table she had used to stitch him up on now scattered with flour and eggshells, bowls of sugar and chocolate chips and sticky handprints as Carl helped Sophia roll cookie dough into spheres for the baking tray.

‘Here,’ Carol handed Daryl the chocolate chips, knocking a handful back into her mouth. ‘Work snack, keeps you focused.’

And Daryl hesitated because it felt so damn indulgent. So utterly unnecessary, and yet… Carol was grinning at him, playful, mirroring how Sophia and Carl kept sneaking raw cookie dough like it was a game and fuck it, Daryl took a handful and knocked it back too, making a mess as some of them missed his mouth and scattered on the floor causing Carol to laugh.

‘Smooth,’ she said, giving him a nudge and a wink and Daryl scrunched up his face in mock offence.

Rick was on a call in the living room to Shane and it was work related. Daryl could tell by the way his brow pinched at the caller ID, the way he had pressed a distracted kiss on Daryl’s forehead before excusing himself.

And Daryl tried not to think about it. Tried not to listen in the Rick’s hushed tone in the other room. Carol almost made it easy – forgetting, taking his mind off it. Daryl wasn’t sure how she does it.

‘He looking after you, then?’ Carol asked, nodding towards the living room.

‘Don’t need lookin after,’ Daryl told her.

‘Of course,’ Carol told him, playful, yet not unbelieving. ‘But it’s nice, though, right?’

Daryl remembers how he woke up that morning. Tangled in Rick’s arms on the couch and how Rick had kissed him, soft and slow and uncaring about morning breath. How Rick had made him coffee, sweet like he liked it. How he made pancakes for breakfast because he knew they were Daryl’s favourite even though Daryl would never, ever admit to this and encouraged him to have seconds with extra syrup and smiled all soft when he did so, as if he wasn’t doing something bad, as if he wasn’t taking too much. As if he deserved it.

‘Suppose it is,’ Daryl said, almost shy as Carol grinned, ruffled his hair, gaining herself a huffed ‘stop.’

‘Dare!’ Carl called, summoning Daryl over, dough covered palms outreached. ‘Tasty!’

Daryl circled the table so he stood in between Carl and Sophia, Carl immediately reaching out and leaving sticky handprints on the front of the shirt Daryl had borrowed from Rick.

‘Thanks bud,’ Daryl laughed, before brushing a lick of flour across Carl’s nose with his thumb in retaliation, causing Carl to shriek and giggle.

‘You wanna try some cookie dough?’ Sophia asked, tugging at Daryl’s sleeve.

And Daryl hesitated again. He’d eaten a lot already today, and yesterday. Day before, too. Ever since he’d met Rick, in fact. He’s never been able to eat this consistently before in his life and it makes his insides twist – and feeding the hunger somehow seems to add to it. The more he eats, the more his stomach seems to expect it. Used to be he could go days, days without eating, with the hunger dulled into white noise. Now, it only takes a few hours before it's complaining, grumbling, nagging at Daryl to stuff something more into his face and Rick can hear it, see it, and for some reason keeps feeding it. Feeding him. Keeps bringing back strange pastries from the coffee shop after a shift, muffins from the store, bars of chocolate, candies he’s never tasted, things his father would beat him to high hell for.

You’d be nothin without me, boy.

Rick appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame and looking at Daryl all soft, taking in Carl’s sticky, flour dusted handprints on the front of Daryl’s shirt.

‘You got flour in your hair,’ Rick told Daryl, wearing this lopsided sort of grin before coming over, hand ruffling Daryl’s hair before gently angling his head forward to kiss his forehead. ‘Sugar too, by the taste of it,’ Rick added, licking his lips.

Daryl felt the tips of his ears burn scarlet, could see Carol grinning wolfishly at them from across the table.

‘Thank our star baker over here,’ Daryl grumbled through a shy smile, nodding to Carl, who was waving a chunk of cookie dough in Rick’s face.

‘Daddy, taste!’

Rick lent down just enough to let Carl clumsily feed him the dough, making an exaggerated mmmm! Sound as he swallowed. ‘That’s real tasty, bud. You make that all by yourself?’

‘With Dare!’ Carl exclaimed, clapping and sending flecks of sticky dough astray. ‘And Carol and Sophia!’

‘Daryl’s not tried any yet!’ Sophia cut in, tugging now at Rick’s sleeve now instead.

‘Hasn’t he now?’ Rick asked her, before turning to Daryl, one hand finding its way loosely into Daryl’s hand and giving it a slight squeeze. ‘You wanna try some?’ he asked, voice low as Sophia and Carl chattered to each other over them. ‘You don’t have to. But you can, if you want.’ And Rick held a piece of dough up, a suggestion, an offering, the hand that was in Daryl’s dancing fingertips over his scarred knuckles.

And somewhere in the back of his brain he can hear it – his father, cussing him out, telling him he’s greedy, a spoilt brat, eating and eating when he don’t need it.

But it ain’t about need.

It’s about want.

And Rick wants him to. Daryl wants to.

He opened his mouth, and Rick’s smile spreads warmth – all sunny and sweet – across Daryl’s chest and down to his stomach, pink heat colouring his cheeks as Rick pops the dough into Daryl’s mouth.

And for fuck sake, it was fucking tasty. Sickly sweet and overindulgent and so damn good.

‘Whatdaya think?’ Rick asked.

‘S’alright. Tastes good,’ Daryl said, almost begrudgingly, and then he leaned around Rick, looking to Sophia. ‘Could be a chef, kid.’

‘Wanna be a baker!’ Sophia corrected him, looking delighted.

‘You know,’ Carol cuts in, taking a tray ready for the oven, ‘bakers have to get up really early – before the sun! You’d have to learn to be a morning person.’

Sophia pulls a face at that and shakes her head. ‘Nope! I’ll have the first midnight bakery! No early mornings for me!’

‘Well, my little midnight baker, can you set a timer for Mommy? First batch is in.’

‘What did Shane say?’ Daryl asked, fighting to keep his voice causal, uninterested.

They were alone in Carol’s living room, Carol and the kids still in the kitchen and the smell of cookies baking was almost overwhelming. Melting sugar and chocolate, hot butter on baking paper, it all smelt new to Daryl, almost foreign. He wanted to hate how the smell alone made his mouth water. Wanted to hate how part of him was excited to try them once they were fresh from the oven. But he hated the sound of his father’s voice rattling through his head even more. And hell, he had tried to appease the voice – his father – his whole damn life and look where that got him.

Maybe it was time to start trying to ignore it.

‘Shane thinks it’s likely the court will pursue the case, regardless of you not pressing charges,’ Rick told him, voice low and careful. ‘Based on the nature of your injuries, the use of a weapon, the, eh, duration of abuse and all that.’

Daryl blinked at that word. Bristled. And he wanted to argue against it. It ain’t abuse. Abuse is something wives and children go through. Ain’t a word meant for someone like him. What happened to him was just… normal. Just the way things were.

It’s how things gotta be for us.

But as he rolled his shoulders, he could feel the tug of tight skin, scarred from years of leather meeting flesh. He could feel the absence of sensation on that spot on his shoulder blade, numb and cold from being cut into over and over. He could feel the ghost of hands on him, on his neck, chest, stomach, lower –

He shivered, swallowed, shuffled where he stood.

‘So it might go to court, then?’ Daryl asked, knowing the answer.

‘It might,’ Rick confirmed. ‘But we don’t know anything we didn’t know yesterday. Still don’t have charges, so…’ Rick trailed off, rubbing his mouth and Daryl sensed he had more to say.

‘What is it?’ he asked, cautious.

‘Shane thinks you should give another statement. I tend to agree with him. If it does go to court, the more you can tell us now will lessen your chances of being called to give evidence.’

And suddenly Daryl was in that room with the mirror, scrabbling at the doorhandle, desperate to get out please let me out please.

‘I can’t –’

‘I know,’ Rick told him, softly yet firm. ‘I know that. You don’t gotta go back to the station. We can do it at home, I’ll pick up a voice recorder from the station, you can give the statement to me. Just me. You think you can do that?’

Daryl considered this. And while the idea of laying it bare to Rick was less than desirable, it was better. Better than the station. Better than the looming threat of having to stand before a court and tell them what happened while his father watched him from the docks with those hungry eyes.

‘I can try,’ Daryl told him, mouth dry as he nodded.

‘That’s all I ask,’ Rick said, cupping his face, brushing his thumb over faded bruises. ‘I’m proud of you, you know.’

Daryl snorted. ‘Ain’t nothin to be proud of,’ he muttered.

Rick looks at him for a moment, something tender in his eyes. Sad, but not pity. Never pity. ‘Wish you could see yourself the way I see you,’ he said.

It’s too much for Daryl all of a sudden. Too soft. Too close. Too damn intimate. He felt his cheeks stain red, Rick’s touch on his skin running electric currents between them. Daryl swallowed, shuffled, let out a shaky sort of laugh. ‘Don’t think you can see so good,’ he mumbled, eager to deflect.

‘I see you,’ Rick told him with a smile, with a kiss which Daryl clumsily reciprocated. And then, as if sensing that it was all a bit much, added, ‘besides, my eyesight is just fine, best damn shot in the Force, I am.’

‘That right, Officer?’ Daryl asked, brushing the tip of his nose against Rick’s. ‘Reckon you’re a better shot than me?’

‘Maybe not,’ Rick conceded, ‘maybe we’ll have to put it to the test someday. You could take me hunting, see who’s got better aim.’

‘Game’ll hear you coming a mile off,’ Daryl huffed, ‘way you stomp around.’

‘Scared I’ll outshoot you?’ Rick toyed, moving in closer, hands dropping to Daryl’s waist, holding him loosely just in case he wanted to pull away.

‘Hell no,’ Daryl responded, moving in closer, hands – still unsure – snaking under Rick’s arms and around his back. ‘Like ta see you try, though.’

And Rick wore this crooked smile that made Daryl feel his heartbeat in his throat before he kissed him, all soft and slow and Daryl let himself melt into it.

They were interrupted by Carol, clearing her throat, leaning against the kitchen doorframe and feigning innocence as both Daryl and Rick turned scarlet as they untangled themselves. ‘Cookies are ready,’ she told them. ‘Our little bakers are keen you both get a taste.’

Sophia was forcing cookies on them as soon as they entered the kitchen, soft and warm and slightly melted into Daryl’s palm.

‘From our midnight bakery!’ she told him, giddy with excitement.

And he hesitated. He did. But only for a second.

‘Yummy,’ he told Sophia, hand in front of his mouth as he chewed. And it was, fucking delicious and thick on his tongue and he could still hear his father, but the way Rick was looking at him, like he was the damn world, was louder.

‘If you need to stop at any point, just let me know, okay?’ Rick said.

Daryl sat on the couch, all stiff and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, teeth working away at the side of his thumb. On the coffee table, Rick had laid two mugs of hot chocolate, a jug of water, a plate of those cookies he knew Daryl liked, and the voice recorder he had picked up from the station. He had insisted Daryl dress comfy, so he’s wearing a pair of Rick’s sweatpants and a soft-cotton t-shirt overlaid with an oversized flannel, and he hadn’t protested when Rick draped a blanket over his shoulders. It was getting cold outside, and Rick hadn’t missed how it seems to cause a certain stiffness in some of Daryl’s old injuries.

Daryl nodded, eyes not meeting Rick’s. So Rick sat down next to him, figuring it would be better than sitting across from him, from watching him as he spoke about things he didn’t want to say. Rick left just enough space between them so that he wasn’t crowding Daryl, but Daryl could seek touch quickly if he needed.

‘Ready when you are,’ Rick told him, giving him a kiss on the forehead, soft and quick.

Daryl nodded again. So Rick pressed record.

‘Just take me through the day, nice and slow.’

And Daryl does. Voice careful, telling him about the phone call, Merle, his father waking up, the knife, the fear –

He told Rick about being knocked to the floor. How the blade slit the skin on his arm. How his father’s hands find their way around his neck. How he thought that was it. The end. But it weren’t. And then they reached the point of no return. The point that Daryl didn’t make it to in the interview room. Rick watched as Daryl starts to faulter, the blood drain from his face, his eyes drop in a panicked sort of shame.

‘You wanna stop?’ Rick asked, softly.

‘I want it over,’ Daryl told him. He scrunched his eyes shut and took a sharp inhale of breath.

So Rick nodded and let him continue.

‘He’s got me on the floor, all pinned down, I can barely fuckin breathe and he’s just hollering, throwing punches. I can’t see, can’t think, just gotta take it, yaknow? Wait for him to be done. But then he takes my shirt off, rips the damn thing offa me, and I know it’s bad. I know it. He’s kinda… he’s…’ Daryl’s voice trembles, Rick can see blood as Daryl chews his bottom lip, trying to get the words out. ‘He does this… thing, like he can’t control it, I dunno. Starts rocking on me, pressing down while he’s got me pinned. He, eh… I hear a belt buckle go, and usually that just means, well, yaknow. I’m gonna get belted. Ain’t nothing. But it ain’t his belt. It’s mine he’s undoing. And it ain’t happened like that in a long time, but…’

Daryl had to stop and Rick is glad of it. The rage is blinding, drying his mouth, making his palms clammy, making his heart pound so loud he can feel it in his temple. He knew where this was going. He knew that this had happened. He knew, but hearing it was something else.

But now wasn’t the time. Not when Daryl looked like that, trying to shrink in on himself like it was his fault, like he was dirty. Rick kept his anger locked behind clenched teeth. ‘Just take your time,’ he told Daryl, fighting to keep the strain from his voice.

‘Nothin happened,’ Daryl said, voice thin, wispy, almost desperate. ‘I told him ta stop, I always did, don’t change nothin, but…’

Rick sat up, pausing the voice recorder. ‘Hey,’ he said, shuffling to face Daryl. ‘You don’t gotta… you don’t gotta do that. Don’t gotta defend yourself to me, alright?’

Daryl’s eyes are fixed on the floor, wide and wet, his teeth burying into his bottom lip to stop it shaking. ‘But I did,’ Daryl insisted. ‘I told him no, I swear –’

‘I know, I know,’ Rick hushed. ‘It ain’t your fault. It’s not on you.’

Daryl sniffed, blinked hard, tears staring to dampen his lashes as he fought them back and god Rick wanted to hug him, but he wasn’t sure touch was what Daryl needed right now. He shifted closer all the same.

‘I can keep going,’ Daryl said, voice thick but steady. ‘Want it over.’

Rick nodded and started the recording.

‘I’m tryin ta get away, get him offa me, so I hit him. Didn’t really mean to, just wanted ta get out. He starts bleedin everywhere, mighta broke his nose, I don’t know. But he’s off me and I… I try ta get my clothes on again but he’s quick, yaknow? Taste of blood and all that. And he’s laughin like a fuckin psycho. I remember that. Gets me pinned down again. Ain’t strong enough, quick enough. Never fuckin am. Just let it happen I guess.’

Rick paused the recording again.

‘You do not let it happen, Daryl,’ Rick told him, voice firm, maybe a little sharper than he had intended. ‘That isn’t how it works. It ain’t your choice. It’s his. He chooses to do it. Not you.’

‘I had choices, though,’ Daryl disputed. ‘Coulda left. Merle did. Coulda fought back more. Coulda just kept outta his damn way.’

‘Don’t do that,’ Rick said, ‘don’t do that to yourself. None of this is your fault.’

‘True, though.’

‘No, it’s not. You think fighting back, staying outta the way would have changed anything? You know what kind of man he is better than anyone. Men like that want to cause hurt. Don’t need a reason. Don’t need an excuse. You know that.’

Daryl’s teeth worked away at this lip as he thought this over. He leaned into Rick’s side, took a shaky breath and nodded once.

‘We can stop for a bit, if you want,’ Rick told him, planting a kiss onto the side of Daryl’s head.

‘Nah, m’good.’

Rick once again started the recording.

‘He, uh, puts his heel on my wrist, right here –’ Daryl gestured to a yellowing bruise on his right wrist, ‘and leans on my neck. I don’t know how long he keeps me like that for. Time goes all… eh, weird when it’s happening. Then he takes the knife again, just starts cutting. Can’t see where at first. But I can feel it. Hurts. The blood. Dunno how long he’s at it for. Think I’m telling him to stop. I don’t know.’ He paused, shame heavy on his features, before rubbing his face roughly and sniffing.

‘Wanna break?’ Rick asked.

‘No. Nearly done,’ Daryl said, composing himself. ‘Once he’s had enough, I think he asked me if I were sorry again. Suppose he thought it was funny,’ Daryl laughed, all bitter and harsh. ‘Told him to go fuck himself. Spit in his face. Stupid. Whatever. He gets up, stands over me, just lookin, like he does. Then he kicks me, right in the stomach. I think I throw up, so he kicks me again, few times more. I dunno. All I know is I’m bleeding. Start thinkin, yaknow, maybe this is it again. Might bleed out. Least I wouldn’t have ta deal with the mess,’ he laughed again, the sound falling flat. ‘Anyway. He fucks off somewhere. I think he has a smoke, a beer, and I just – well, just lay there really. Wait for him to go, or drink himself out, whatever comes first. I hear the front door eventually. Know I’m alone, then.’

Daryl shuffled closer to Rick, pressing into his side, fingers pulling at a loose thread on the blanket still draped around his shoulders.

‘Can you tell me what happened after he left?’ Rick prompted, sensing hesitation.

‘Once I know I ain't gonna pass out, I try and get to the phone. Tryin ta call you,’ Daryl cleared his throat, shifting where he sat. ‘Phones all busted, though, so…’

Rick tried, really tried, not to picture it. To picture Daryl, bleeding out and trying to get that shattered phone to work. He remembered it, the blood, the smell of smoke and liquor and tangy copper. The bloody handprints on the landline, the bile soaking through the floorboard. He closed his eyes. Counted back from five. Hoped Daryl didn’t notice.

Daryl noticed.

‘Can stop, if ya want,’ he offered, chewing the side of his thumb.

‘Only if you want to,’ Rick told him.

Daryl frowned, paused the recording. ‘Rick,’ he said, firm but almost resigned. ‘I can stop.’

‘No,’ Rick told him, voice tight and sharp and he hated how Daryl drew back slightly at the tone. ‘No,’ he said again, softer, forcing his breathing into control. ‘Don’t stop for me. It didn’t – I didn’t…’ Rick trailed off, groaned, rubbed his face roughly. ‘I should have done more,’ he said then, unable to keep the edge out of his voice entirely.

‘Rick –’

‘I should have,’ Rick snapped, cursing himself again as he felt Daryl freeze, holding his breath instinctively, waiting for something to hurt and god Rick hated that. Hated that this was Daryl’s learned reaction. Hated that Rick couldn’t control himself enough not to trigger it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told Daryl, ‘I’m not mad, not at you. I’m mad at me. And at him. At everything, I guess. But never you. I’m sorry.’

Daryl was looking at him, narrow blue eyes flicking across Rick’s face as Rick looked ahead, trying to control his breathing, his rage. ‘I didn’t want help, you know that, right?’

Rick blinked at him, drawing a blank so Daryl continued.

‘When you turned up that first time. I didn’t want no help. Didn’t want you there. Coulda kept on livin like that until, well, until it ended, I guess. Woulda just kept at it if you hadn’t cared so damn much,’ Daryl swallowed, rubbed his mouth, shuffled awkwardly. ‘Would still be there now, if it weren’t for you. But I ain’t. I’m here. Being fuckin babied by ya. Got a bed ta sleep in, more food than I need, my old man ain’t breathin down my damn neck all day. Ain’t never been this comfy, yaknow. Never had this. Never thought I would.’ Daryl paused, taking a shaky, unsure breath before seeking eye contact, features nervous but determined. ‘You did that,’ he said, quietly, firmly. ‘Wouldn’t be here without you.’

He kissed Rick then, the motion lacking confidence but full of meaning, determination. Rick leaned in, hands resting on the side of Daryl’s face, tasting blood where Daryl had been chewing his lip.

‘Got nothin to be sorry for,’ Daryl told him, forehead resting against Rick’s and wating there until Rick nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Daryl pulled back, cheeks stained pink as if suddenly becoming self-aware, the closeness, the openness of it all, getting the better of him. He dropped eye contact, cleared his throat. ‘Should I, eh, want me to carry on?’

‘Of course,’ Rick told him, ‘only if you can, though.’

‘I got it,’ Daryl nodded, chewing at his cuticles yet again.

So Rick pressed play.

‘Right,’ Daryl started, trying to remember where he had gotten to. ‘I, eh, once I figured the phone ain’t gonna work, I knew I needed to get out. Didn’t know where, at first. Just knew I had to try and stop the bleeding. Had to leave. Wasn’t really thinkin straight, so…’ he cleared his throat again. ‘Knew I was gonna need stitches. Knew it was bad. Tried to stop the bleeding with a towel, ripped up an old shirt, tied it round me for pressure n’all that. Don’t think it did much. Then I left.’

‘Why didn’t you go to the hospital?’ Rick asked, already knowing the answer, but knowing it would need to be asked on record all the same.

‘Can stitch myself up fine, done it plenty. Don’t need no hospital for that,’ Daryl shrugged. ‘Ain’t got the money for it, anyhow.’

‘What happened next?’ Rick asked.

‘Came here,’ Daryl said with another shrug. ‘Considered hiding out in the woods for a few days. Done that plenty too, but…’ Daryl trailed off, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air around them. Rick slipped his hand into Daryl’s and squeezed.

‘When I got here, you were gone, and I didn’t know what to do. I was tired, yaknow? Think I fell asleep against your door. Musta been a sight,’ Daryl chuckled weakly. ‘S’when Carol found me. Took me in, stitched me up. She’s… yeah. She’s good.’

Rick can’t help the half smile that pulled at his lips. The image of Daryl and Carol in her kitchen last weekend, eating fistfuls of chocolate chips, a welcome change to the other memories Daryl had recalled. Daryl and Carol had a natural connection, and Daryl relaxed into her presence quicker and easier than Rick had seen him do with anyone else. He felt a twinge of almost jealousy, but it was quick to dissolve, and Rick was just happy that Daryl had someone like her to lean on.

‘That’s it, really,’ Daryl said. ‘Ain’t much more to it.’

Rick nodded, paused the recording. Kissed Daryl on the forehead. ‘You did great,’ he told Daryl softly. ‘Proud of you.’

Daryl shook his head, made a pffft sound. ‘Get the feeling we ain’t done yet, though. Right?’

And god Rick wished they were. Hates the tight, unsure smile pulled across Daryl’s features. Hates that Daryl has to go through this at all. Rick mirror’s Daryl features, the tight, not-quite smile, the twitch of entwined fingers. ‘Not quite yet,’ Rick confirms. ‘Gotta ask you a few things. Tell me if you need to stop.’

Daryl nodded, teeth once again worrying into his bottom lip as Rick pressed play.

‘What’s the relationship like, between you and your father?’ Rick asked, mentally running through the list of questions he knew he had to ask but didn’t want to.

Daryl snorted, hair fluttering out of his face at the motion. ‘Dunno how ta answer that one, Officer.’

‘Well, what was he like, growing up?’

Daryl paused, processing this. ‘Drunk. Mean. Tried ta avoid him mostly. Was easier when Merle was around. Took the worst of it. So did Ma. But then Ma died and Merle left, so…’ Daryl swallowed hard. ‘Guess I picked up the slack. He always said I was like her – my mom. Used ta think that was why… with Merle, he never…’ Daryl paled, and Rick noticed how his hands seemed to tremble. ‘I mean, he used to beat Merle to high hell. Used ta watch it happen. With me though…’

‘You don’t gotta,’ Rick started, but Daryl interrupted with the shake of his head.

‘Ain’t gonna, don’t think.’

‘That’s okay,’ Rick said, voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Just say what you can.’

Daryl nodded. Sighed. ‘Ain’t got much of a relationship with the man outside of trying not to piss him off, I guess. Taught me how ta hunt when I was a kid, but it weren’t – weren’t no father-son activity. Thought it was, at the time. I musta been, what, seven, maybe? Taught me how ta track, shoot, prep game, set traps. Figured out pretty quickly it’s cause Merle weren’t around to do it no more,’ Daryl scoffed, jaw clenching. ‘He was there, I killed some buck, so young it barely had its fuckin antlers in, first proper kill that wasn’t just a rabbit in a trap, yaknow? Told me then that, now I know how to hunt, I gotta contribute. Pull my own weight. S’lotta it to pull, too, he told me. Don’t catch. Don’t eat. Sick of feeding me. Sick of me takin, costin him money. Been like that ever since.’ Daryl paused, licking blood from his chewed up bottom lip. ‘Guess that’s my relationship with the man. All comes down to what he thinks I’m taking from him. What he can take from me in return.’

And Rick wanted to pause the recording. Wanted to drive over to that house, wanted to draw blood, bruise his knuckles on Will Dixon’s face. He forced composure on himself, trying to keep the rage off his face – but he knew Daryl could see it flash in his eyes, tighten his jaw.

‘Have there been previous incidents?’ Rick asked through clenched teeth, hating how impersonal it all sounded, hating how he knew the answer, hating how he he still had to ask.

‘Mmm,’ Daryl grunted, nodding.

‘How… how often?’ Rick asked, fighting to keep his voice calm, steady.

‘Depends, I guess,’ Daryl shrugged. ‘Goes through phases, suppose. After Ma it was almost weekly, sometimes more. Beatings anyway. Belt is common, knife is rarer, gotta really piss him off for him ta pull that one. Threw me down the stairs a few times, broke my arm once, bone snapped right outta the skin, right here,’ Daryl rolled his sleeve up, pointing to a pale, jagged scar on his forearm, the sight of it making Rick’s teeth grind together. ‘Happens less often now. But when it does, it’s worse.’

‘You ever call the police on him before?’ Rick asked.

And Daryl laughed at that, loud, harsh and short. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Ain’t stupid.’

‘Coulda helped,’ Rick offered, weakly.

‘You think that, then your delusional,’ Daryl snapped. ‘Woulda made it worse. Woulda made him mad. Hell, hate ta think how pissed he is now.’

‘You never have to find out,’ Rick told him.

Daryl swallowed, started to fidget. ‘Hope not,’ he said, voice strained.

‘He ever been arrested before? For something like this?’ Rick asked, eager to get this over with. Eager to wrap Daryl in the blanket currently draped over his shoulder, to kiss him until he forgot, even if it were only for a moment.

Daryl thought about this, twitching his nose as he tried to rack his brain. ‘Don’t think so. Least not that I remember. First time the cops were ever involved was that first noise complaint, yaknow, when we met,’ Daryl nudged into Rick at that, turning just slightly pink. ‘He’s been arrested for other shit, nothin serious, though. Few drunk n’disorderly’s and that. When I was a kid it felt like he coulda got away with murder. Merle just had ta look at someone the wrong way and get thrown in lock up. Always thought it was unfair. Now, I dunno, sometimes I think that’s how Merle wanted it. Prison’s better than being in that house.’

‘Alright, last question then,’ Rick said, giving Daryl a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You wanna press charges?’

To Rick’s surprise, Daryl hesitated.

‘Want it to be over,’ Daryl said, carefully. ‘Never wanna see him again, but…’

And Rick waited for Daryl to mull it over, to find the right words.

‘Don’t think I wanna press charges. Don’t think I can. I just want to forget.’

And Rick knew this was going to be the answer. He knew it but still, he couldn’t help the small churn of disappointment in his gut. He knew, realistically, that this was the better option for Daryl. He just hated the fact it was. Hated that it wasn’t easier. That justice came at such a high cost and Will Dixon deserved to rot behind bars. Daryl deserved to be the one to put him there.

But Daryl also deserved a life where he never had to relive any of what he had just told Rick. Where he never had to remember the things he hadn’t said.

‘Okay,’ Rick said, stopping the recording. ‘It’s over. You did great.’

Daryl slumped back into the couch cushions at the news, eyes closed, head back and breathed in deeply through his nose. Rick noticed how his fingers were trembling. He brought the hand that was still entwinned in his up to his mouth, pressing kisses on each finger until they held still.

‘Don’t get why we gotta do this,’ Daryl huffed, fingers gripping the hem of his borrowed shirt.

‘Having evidence of your injuries could be vital if it goes to court,’ Rick told him softly.

They were in the bedroom, Daryl pressed against the wall like a cornered animal with his arms crossed over his middle. Rick had a digital camera from the station and he had told Daryl that this would be part of it. He’s now not sure if Daryl had processed this at the time.

‘Too much to ask that they just, what, believe the statement, ain’t it?’ Daryl snapped, voice raspy, eyeing the camera like it was going to bite him.

And Rick hated that the answer to that question was yes. It was bitter on his tongue, sent bile and shame up his gullet. He didn’t need to answer because Daryl already knew. Rick thought he might hate that even more.

‘You don’t have to do it,’ was all Rick could say.

‘But it’ll help, right?’ Daryl drawled, voice sharp and cold.

‘It will,’ Rick confirmed, sounding almost defeated.

Daryl ground his teeth, still staring at the camera. ‘Who’ll see it?’

‘Me, Shane, Hudges – you remember her, right? – the DA, Defence Attorney, the Judge, the Jury –’

‘Anyone we ain’t showing it to? Good lord, might as well put it in the fuckin papers,’ Daryl hissed, arms tightening across his middle.

‘I know it seems like a lot –’

‘Seems like?’ Daryl exclaimed, ‘it is a lot! Why’s it anyone’s damn business? Why can’t they just –’ his breathing was becoming shorter, sharper. Harsh, hard-fought breaths catching in his lungs and Rick could see where this was going. He put the camera on the nightstand and was at Daryl’s side in a few quick strides, hands hovering close but not touching, not yet.

‘Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. We don’t gotta do it. Don’t gotta do anything, not right now. Just follow my breathing, alright?’ Rick cooed, voice low and soft as he tried to find eye contact.

Daryl met Rick’s gaze, eyes wide and wild and shining wet with panic, and seemed to force himself to mirror the way Rick’s chest rose and fell until ragged breaths started to come easier.

‘Can I touch you?’ Rick asked.

Daryl nodded, eyes still locked onto Rick’s.

Rick’s hands found their way to Daryl’s shoulders first. Contact gentle and then firm, thumbs rubbing circles just under Daryl’s collarbones. ‘You’re doing great,’ Rick hushed.

‘Don’t feel it,’ Daryl said, voice tight.

‘Just cause you don’t feel it, doesn’t make it not true,’ Rick told him, one hand moving from Daryl’s shoulder to rest on the side of his face.

And Daryl huffed but didn’t say anything. He just lent into the touch, closing his eyes as he did so.

‘We don’t have do this,’ Rick told him. ‘And if you do want to, we don’t have to do this now.’

Daryl nodded, then swore, and then nodded again. ‘I don’t want to,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘But I gotta, don’t I? Might as well get it over with.’

Rick nodded in understanding, kissed him quick on the forehead and then moved back, busying himself with the camera so Daryl could take off his shirt without feeling watched.

It was closing in on two weeks now since Daryl had moved in, and Rick mentally cursed himself for not trying to get the evidence sooner, even though he knew that Daryl wouldn’t have been ready for it. He wasn’t exactly willing now. The bruises were fading out into yellows and greens but bloomed purple at the centre still. The stitches, near ready to come out, knitted together healing flesh that was close to scarring, adding to Daryl’s already extensive collection. Rick noticed with a wash of relief – of a protective sort of pride – how Daryl’s ribs had started to melt back under a slight layer of padding gained from a few weeks of good meals, of Rick’s care. His stomach not quite as concave, his collarbones not as sharp. Rick could see it in Daryl’s face, too. Less hollow, less gaunt, quicker to flush and blush. Quicker to smile. The sight made some of the tight concern uncoil in Rick’s chest.

‘S’get this over with,’ Daryl huffed, arms folding awkwardly in front of himself, trying to shield himself, not knowing he was to Rick what the moon was to the night sky.

Rick tried to be quick. He worked swift and quiet while capturing the stitches and the scars, the faded bruises around his throat, angling Daryl’s face gently to capture the last of his black eye, the discolouration of his cheekbone. Rick remembered what it all looked like on that first night in Carol’s kitchen. All fresh, skin bone and blood. Blood under his nose, blood in his teeth, blood dried and starting to crisp down his chin, down the dip in his sternum. He remembered how Daryl trembled, how he tried to hide it. How his lips and fingertips threatened to turn blue. How he was so cold. How Rick knew that, really, they should have taken him to the hospital. Even though Carol is handy with a needle. They all knew that Daryl risked losing too much blood.

It was a stupid risk, looking back. But Rick also remembered how Daryl looked in the hospital too. In that flimsy gown, looking at the doctors wandering hands like a cat with it’s back up. There was no right option, it felt like.

‘All done,’ Rick told him, letting Daryl scramble to yank his shirt back on.

‘Took ya long enough,’ Daryl muttered, face red and eyes low. ‘Feel bad for the poor fuckers that gotta see that,’ he added, following up with a weak, unconvincing laugh.

‘You shouldn’t,’ Rick said. ‘You got nothing to feel bad about. You’re injured. Someone hurt you. Did it on purpose. He should feel bad, not you.’

Daryl laughed again, a little more convincing, a little more bitter. ‘That’d be the day,’ he snorted, arms wrapping around himself again, fingers working at the hem of his shirt.

‘Yeah, it would,’ Rick said, jaw clenched, picturing Will in that house, beer open, boots up on the coffee table, cig in hand and bloodstains spread on the floorboards. ‘Still think I shoulda shot him.’

‘Lose ya badge for that, Officer,’ Daryl mused, lips curling up just slightly as he nudged into Rick and didn’t move back in a motion that Rick had come to understand was his way of seeking a hug. Rick wrapped his arms around him, loose so not to trap him, and tried to calm his rage by breathing in the scent of him. Sweat and smoke and that lavender bubble bath. Cedar from the shower gel he was borrowing from Rick.

‘It’d be worth it,’ Rick told him. ‘You’re worth it.’

Rick held him there for a moment. Or maybe for a while. Time seemed to slip away from them like a tide.

‘You ain’t really gonna shoot him though, are ya?’ Daryl asked, voice rough and muffled from where his face was pressed into the crook of Rick’s neck.

Rick pulled back, just enough so he could meet Daryl’s eyes, cup his face. ‘Only if you want me to.’

Another laugh. Genuine this time, warm. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Daryl said, wearing this crooked smile that Rick held in reverence, just for a moment, before having to kiss it – kiss him – slow and deep in a way that felt like worship.