The Texas air was hot and sweltering, Rick Grimes left his hat on the seat of his Charger as he approached the active crime scene, he could feel beads if sweat racing down his back and wished for rain to come crashing down on a desperate whim,
"What's up?" He asked a rookie officer, she was visibly shaking, and she'd also shed her official uniform top and operated in a dirty white tank,
"The Dixon brothers. Ones in there beaten to pulp, the other got away,"
"Big Dixon has a brother?"
"Younger brother, poor thing was bein' forced to take care of Big Dixon. He done got caught up in Big Dixon's bullshit,"
Rick nodded; it was an unfortunate situation, "What's wrong with 'im?"
"He's scared for his life, poor thing, we've seen 'im once, right there by the window; he got bruises for days and is bleeding from some wounds, he's hysterical. We think Big Dixon's got him wired on something."
Merle Dixon had been one of Texas's biggest offenders for years, recently, however, he'd begun associating himself with big name drug cartel crews in Mexico. He was a menace, a murderer, and unreasonable. He was slick, always getting himself out of situations one way or another. Rick wondered about the younger Dixon,
"Can I see his record?"
There was a pause between them; they could both hear the man screaming profanities from the inside of the house.
"Got it handy." The rookie gave him a slightly wetted file; she was sweating terribly.
Returning to the coolness of his car he watched a bit longer as the area was secured, swat team ready, ambulance on scene. He sighed and flipped the manila folder open.
Daryl Dixon was twenty-three years old, ten years Rick's junior; he had cold blue eyes and a hard face with soft looking skin. He had no criminal record, stood at five feet nine inches, loved animals and lived on a ranch that had been in the Dixon family for generations. He attended high school but dropped out his sophomore year to tend to it in the wake of his brother's deficiency. Daryl was very standoffish, short fused, and stealthy. He made a hobby of hunting and had a love for all-American muscle. He smoked camel cigarettes and had no children. He had no interest in politics and was critical of well-made persons and minorities. When approached about his brother and brought in for several friendly interrogations he started off calm but sharp-tongued, by the end of each he was held in restraints and sent out cursing and spitting.
Typical redneck.
Getting out of the care and back in the sinister Texas sun, Rick put his hand on his holster, he nodded at the rookie and past her towards some very uncomfortable looking men in suits,
"Sheriff Grimes," said one, he wore a laminated name tag that read Russell with a unflattering picture of his long face, "can you tell us anything about Baby Dixon?"
Assuming he was referring to Daryl Dixon, Rick shook his head, "He doesn't give any trouble, I've never heard of him, nor about any trouble caused by him. Good kid, the observations of him say that just stays on the farm unless he's working Big Dixon's jobs."
"On that note." Russell said, he looked stuffy and captured in his suit, "I'll have my boys play it by you."
Rick nodded; an easy fed? Some shit was up, but not here with Baby Dixon.
As he anxiously inched towards the front of the house, Rick was updated on the situation,
"He's in the living room, he has a gun, it's loaded, I don't think he knows what's going on- he just seems scared."
"He's not a threat?"
"Just a scared kid, I dunno how he got there, but he don't want to be there."
On the porch of the front of the house Rick nodded to the swat officer who had keyed him in,
"Hey Daryl! I-,"
"Don' yew speak ta me like ya know me er somthin' ya piss drinkin' cop!"
Rick sighed, he wasn't prejudiced to anyone, but ill-tempered people put him on edge, "Come out the house Dixon."
"Tha fuck for?! S'ya can gun me down like some prize- goddamnit, leave me alone!" His voice was raspy and he gasped between breaths, "I'on wan' a fight, just get tha fuck outta here so I can get on home!"
An idea struck Rick, he gestured for the swat officer again, "Y'all get out," he told them, "I got this."
The swat officer announced it to Russell through his remote and Russell stood intact, he waved the idea and they began to retreat.
This was going too smoothly.
Rick was beginning to perspire, nothing is supposed to be this easy in these situations, "Daryl come out, I'm takin' you in. You need to get cleaned up and interrogated before I let you go him."
"Heh," Baby Dixon cocked his gun, but suddenly his voice was close to the door, "you gone' put me down, cop?"
"Nah," Rick sighed, "I'm goin' through a divorce, my best friend been sleepin' with my wife and its hot as Satan's ass out here."
"Tha fuck tha's got'ta do wit me," he drawled, he'd somehow taken umbrage to what Rick had told him.
"Dixon, get the fuck out the house. You know the routine, we bring you in, you cuss us out, you go home, this shit happens again."
The door flew open right as the swat team trucks began moving out, Daryl Dixon was bloodied and beaten from head to toe.
"I wan'ta go home." He growled as he threw his pistol to the floor, his legs were shaking and his eyes were bloodshot.
"I'on even know where I am."
Rick pointed his gun at Daryl, his deputies and officers doing the same, "You see that black charger there? Get in it."
"I can't walk, asshole."
Rick sighed. He sheathed his gun and hooked Daryl's arm around his shoulder, they ambled towards his car, and once Daryl was in he closed his eyes and let the AC beat against his face.
"Why are they being so nice?" Rick asked his deputy,
"They don't want Daryl," Thomas winced, "Russell had personally interrogated Baby Dixon before, a few years back, the kid don't know shit that Russell don't. Big Dixon is the trophy winner, him and his Spanish associates."
"Oh, so they won't even pay attention to this then."
"Basically, but that's pretty reckless."
"I'm sure they've been watching him somehow. I'm gonna take him to my place, I want to ask him some questions myself."
Thomas gave Rick a deeply disapproving look.
Rick wasn't stupid. He was far from unreasonable. The "Big Dixon and His Spanish Associates" case had been an open book full of rape, betrayal, corruption, theft and conspiracy for over six years- murder, to say the least, was the most merciful thing to ever happen in Big Dixon's wake. He'd taken down financial empires unintentionally, destroyed families, ruined lives... He seemed to be a tornado that just grew pointlessly bigger as it traveled spontaneously about its path. Never once was Baby Dixon involved; in fact, Rick had remembered on situation where Big Dixon had brutally beat an officer who helped to question Baby Dixon, he claimed:
"You stay away from ma' brother. I'll fuck yew up if ya don't."
They left Baby Dixon alone after that. Rick preferred to work from a distance with this case because of his family, but since Lori and Shane had promptly torn it apart he felt no need to hide in the shadow of Big Dixon or ride the coat tails of Feds like Russell.
He'd bring down Merle Dixon himself. That was final. The man had reeked havoc in Texas (now the US) for too many years.
When he returned to his car Daryl was fast asleep, he'd turned on the radio to a country station where a man was singing some soft blues. Rick chuckled and began the drive back to his house. Daryl had soft, sinewy hair. It was worn and cake in blood, he had gashes above his left eyebrow and several odd looking puncture wounds in his wrist and neck. He was riddled in purple bruises and welts; his shirt was ripped open and it seemed as if someone had taken a leather belt to his chest. His breathing was short and shaky, he woke up twice, the second time when they pulled up to Rick's house. He wasn't happy about the arrival but said nothing.
Rick helped him inside and to his bedroom's shower,
"Come to the kitchen when your done," Baby Dixon nodded.
He took out two beers and placed them on the kitchen table for Daryl, drinking one himself, he called Thomas.
"What's the deal with Big Dixon?"
"He's fuckin' around in Mexico."
"He assaulted his brother and left?"
"Yeah, they found a few bricks of cocaine and a Ziploc baggy full of loaded meth syringes, I think he messed up Baby Dixon cause he wouldn't go to Mexico with im'."
Rick wondered if Merle had a brother complex before asking another question,
"Can ya get me some pictures of the ranch he lives on? I don't want to send him back till I have him against Big Dixon."
"Sure thing, be careful Rick. Don't get too reckless."
Rick hung up.
He was sure it wouldn't be too hard to turn someone against their brother if they had been violently drugged and beaten by him. He looked about the house and decided to lock the front door; Lori had a bad habit if showing up randomly with a 'let me explain' look on her face, he didn't want her to jeopardize this chance. Glancing at his watch he began a slow tread to his room, it'd been thirty minuets since Daryl got it the shower.
"Dixon..." Rick had begun to speak but when he caught sight if Daryl hanging off the edge of the bed and using the towel as a blanket, he stopped speaking. His body was absolutely grim. Rick had never seen so many bruises and scars on a person before, even behind the fresh cuts and wounds were more scars and healed blisters. Retreating to the kitchen he grabbed his cameras and took pictures of Daryl's body, he could give that to the prosecutor as they built their case against Merle Dixon. He noticed that Daryl's face was left mostly untouched save for a dark shiner on his right eye, he wondered if Merle might not have wanted to watch his brothers face while he pounded him ruthlessly. From further inspection Rick observed that Daryl's left wrist was strangely turning a greenish black color.
It was broken.
"Jesus Christ." He swore, how could anyone sleep in that kind of agony?
Just as he was leaning in to wake Daryl up his phone rang, it was Thomas,
"What's up?"
"Ranch is pretty much destroyed."
"The hell happened?"
"I'm guessing Big Dixon dropped by here before skippin' town, firefighters been here a while puttin' out the fire."
"Shit..." Rick wiped his face,
"Best to keep Baby Dixon at your place or the hospital." Thomas suggested,
"I'm taking him to the hospital now."
[Beach Avenue]
The doctors insisted that Daryl receive more than just a wrapping on his wrist, and when he finally let them put him in a cast it was later on in the evening. Baby Dixon complained that he was hungry,
"What would you like?"
"I'on want no hospital chicken-feed," he spat,
"I can order you something from nearby." Rick bribed,
"Yeah, I'll pay ya back when I get home."
Chivalry?
"Dixon, your ranch has been pretty much destroyed."
He looked like a fish out of water at first, then his face slowly panned the emotions he was going through: denial, reason, logic, pain, understanding.
"Wha happen' to my livestock?"
Rick recalled the rest of his conversation with Thomas,
"Your female brown cow was slaughtered as well as a bull..." He let it sink in Daryl's skin, he looked about ready to burst, "All your dogs are safe, the horses are fine, chickens, sheep, and all the crops are fine."
"Fuck." He let out an exasperated sigh, "I thought it was gonna be worse than that. He burnt it to tha floor didn'e?"
"Yeah,"
Daryl played with the black cast for a moment, "On'a my bitches is pregnant, she okay?"
"I don't know specifics like that yet."
"Man," he looked Rick in his eyes for the first time, "thanks Officer Friendly."
Rick was moved slightly, the thickness of Daryl's accent was wearing down with his behavior, there was sincerity behind the gratitude and shining in his eyes.
"So, whad'ya want from me. Merle stuff? He had the truck loaded up with cocaine n' whatever else and is probably'n Mexico already."
"What about you?" Rick was serious, he watched as Daryl winced when he flexed his arm to itch the back of his head,
"I guess he wanted me to go with im', but I can't just leave everyone out heren' by themselves."
"Everyone?"
"Ma livestock."
Rick smiled softly, "Wass gone happen ta them, they got no one to tend to em."
"I have a friend who grew up on a ranch a lot bigger than that, I asked her to look after them while you rest up."
"How long am I gonna have to do that?"
"Maybe three weeks,"
"Damn, tell the woman not ta feed my pups non'a that artificial throat wettin' shit."
"I will."
"I can't stay I tha hospital three weeks I can't afford it."
"We'll pay for it i-,"
"'m not sellin' out ma brother."
'He beat the shit out of you and loaded you up on cocaine and meth' he wanted to say, but Rick nodded.
"I'll wait for you to come around."
"It won't happen Officer Friendly, just sayin'."
"I'm pretty sure you're gonna realize how fucking insane your brother is soon."
Baby Dixon was silent, he looked out the window, "I already have."
[Beach Avenue]
Daryl Dixon healed swiftly. He'd attended two weeks of physical therapy with unusual prowess, he cooperated with Rick and a Federal Agent of his choice, they successfully took down two operating meth labs in just four days with those three weeks. He wasn't too proud of ratting out people he had nothing to do with, but admitted softly, "Everyman done got his price now."
Daryl's price was expensive, though the department of security and justice were paid handsomely in return for his snitch, he asked that the departments help him to rebuild his home on the ranch and tidy the place up. The second week of his recovery, Rick allowed Baby Dixon to ride with him to the ranch where he watched expressionlessly as cleanup crews and his friendly neighbors cleaned up his rickety home from its ashes.
The third week of his recovery Daryl walked on what used to be the foundation of his old home, the twenty-three year old fiffled with his cast,
"Done' want nothing big," he muttered to himself, "but I wan' it ta be... Invitin' and homey."
Rick smiled; he'd seen images of the ranch, it was dark, outdated and intimidating.
"How about you make it a romper with a guest room and a basement."
"Tha fuck is a romper?"
"A one floor house, they're long, and nice."
"I could make it look like a barn." He mused, he really was a southern boy,
"Yeah, that'd be really nice."
"I need a stable."
Rick gave a Daryl a familiar look.
"You 'on know where it was tha' Merle was stayin'- do ya?"
"Nope; care to tell?"
Later on that day Daryl made a few thousand dollars, he called a architect in to start the floor plan the next day.
It was week four, Daryl's new house and barn were going up, he stood in the grazing field next to one of his mares with a grimace.
"Who knew my biggest obstacle uh'd be ma biggest profit."
Rick was focused on the horse, "You mean to tell me you have ten horses and no stable?"
"Nope, he burned that down a while back too."
"Why'd you put the new one there?"
"Well... My Ma always wanted a nice stable in right when ya turn into tha ranch."
Rick was pleased with Daryl's friendliness with him. Nowadays the redneck answered him with 'yeahs' instead of 'what's' and smiled a bit more, he wondered for a second if this was God making up for his cheating wife. He was breaking grounds with Daryl; the meth labs had connections directly to Merle and in his busted up apartment they found the bruised body of a prostitute and the cell number of one of Mexico's rising gangs', head honcho's number. Daryl was unaware of their progression, and the FBI preferred him that way, picking up speed on his ranch so that he could be as comfortable as possible.
"Tha nurse said ma three weeks is up at that hospital, where do I go now?"
"Wanna stay with me?"
"If you'll have me."
Rick smiled, "Lets pick up some beer on the way back."
"Some Mexican piss sounds good." Daryl sneered, grinning malevolently. He moved close to Rick to explain the changes he wanted made at the Ranch: driving into the ranch, to your left was the stable being constructed and to the right were the chicken coops, driving down further to the left was the barn for the cows and to the right were the beginning of his crops.
"Nah, tha's not crops Rick," his name rolled off Daryl's tongue with ease, his rough voice eager, "tha's just a, really, big ass garden. Bunch a' random shit in there so i'on have ta leave ma property."
Rick laughed at him, he wondered if he and Daryl could have a genuine friendship. Baby Dixon was watching him with sky blue eyes when Rick turned to pet the mare,
"What's her name?"
"Farah."
Rick ran his hand across her strong rib cage, she was a beautiful biscuit-y color, like a pale, golden cream.
He spent the rest of the evening helping out at the ranch, Daryl watching him suspiciously and Rick watching Daryl happily.
[Beach Avenue]
It was a bright night outside; Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon were shitfaced in the backyard of the sheriff's home.
"Ya know- cop," Daryl slurred, "I done' know bout' ya,"
Rick stumbled as he walked around the porch, listening to Daryl.
"You tha stupid type. Tha type who'll just up save a mans life jus' cause ya can. Then yew get all comfy n' shit n' wanna be friends. But ya ain't no hero."
"Uh...huh."
Rick hasn't noticed the lean muscle of Daryl's body until now. He was fit and tan, lightly bruised, and his skin stretched over his muscles when he moved, "Ya make stupid choices that's gone get someone ya love hurt one day. And yew know it," Rick ran his tongue over his teeth when Daryl threw his head back to drain the rest of his Corona.
Daryl stopped to toss the bottle on the floor.
"And that's ya fuckin' problem right there. Ya love people. Ya can't swallow ya feelings- I can jus' tell it by lookin' ya down."
His sleeveless plaid shirt had hiked up to his navel and left an expanse of bronzed skin exposed in the light of the full moon. His hip bones were similar to a skinny woman's, jutting outwards and joining the noticeable curve of his slim waist. Rick wondered if Daryl's thighs were as thick as his accent for a slight moment, then he approached the Dixon brother.
"Ya need to go an' see yer wife; I heard ya deputy talkin' bout you not been ta see her since the chicken lain' eggs. Now see here: if ya wrong bout her ya gone' feel shitty."
Rick liked how talkative Daryl became when he was intoxicated, "I'm not wrong, I walked in on them in my bed."
"Shittttt~," he reached for another Corona and Rick approached his front, "Ya got a dirty bitch."
"Yeah..."
Daryl smelled like grass and dirt, faintly of cigarettes from earlier and a sticky sweet fragrance, like pie.
"Off-is-sa..." He cooed, "Ya need to back up, ya too close."
"How drunk are you really, Daryl?"
"If there was a girl right here'n she said geta-way redneck, I'd back the fuck down right then."
Rick had backed Daryl up against the wall of the patio, he stared into the younger boy's light eyes for a moment before leaning down and letting their faces get close enough to insinuate a further action.
"Baby Dixon," he whispered, his lips lightly grazing Daryl's,
"You on' gotta be drunk ta kiss me, cop." Daryl said, quietly,
"...yeah?" Rick teased before pushing his face into Daryl's.
The kiss was soft, doting and curious. Rick moved his mouth against Daryl's, the redneck held awkwardly still at first, but then pursued the motion as well.
Daryl Dixon was a terrible kisser.
Rick took his jaw in his hand to take control, Daryl would eventually get better, the younger man's hands slowly creeped up Rick's back, resting in his hair when Rick pushed himself onto Daryl and squished him against the walk.
"Rick," he whispered, so ghostly it was almost inaudible.
Daryl was smaller than Rick, he had to reach up on his toes to reach the sheriff's head and Rick had to lean down to snake his arms around Daryl's waist. Rick rutted experimentally against Daryl, he was surprised when the young man mewled into his mouth and gripped him tighter.
Daryl wasn't quite sure if he was still traumatized from Merle's assault; normally he'd heal on his own and disappear somewhere out in the country, Rick was different from the other cops, he gave Daryl and awkward sense of protection.
Maybe it was because he stayed in the hospital with him?
Daryl pulled Rick close by his neck, he wasn't sure about his actions, he'd never been intimately involved in anything.
The cop had taken his first kiss.
"Wait..." Daryl groaned,
"No,"
"Rick, wait!" Daryl tore himself away from the sheriff, "Don' get ahead a ya'self!"
Rick was wide eyed; Daryl's face was beet red, "Why pull away now?"
"Ya gotta wife,"
"I left her."
"Don' matter; yew drunk, married and I'm no damn faggot."
Rick didn't care. He knew Daryl felt some type of way; the man cursed strangers and glared at familiars, he only smiled at Rick.
He only laughed around Rick.
He only let his body rest around Rick.
He didn't care that was his infatuation or that Daryl was a man.
He pulled Baby Dixon's hand, dragging him inside and to Rick's bedroom,
"Fuck yew- tha fuck off'a me!"
Daryl managed to wriggle free, kicking Rick as he was thrown onto the bed, Rick straddled him, pinning Daryl to the mattress,
"Maybe you let me too close Daryl," he began, "all I know is that you're here, and I want you."
"Ain't nothin' here to want, dick."
He punched Rick in the face, sending him reeling backwards, "Keep ya goddamn hands off'a me."
He was too drunk to get up, and Daryl stalked off into the light of the hallway. Rick ambled about on the floor and eventually fell asleep.
He listened silently as thunder roared outside.
A storm was coming.
Honestly I'm so unsure about this story, please let me know if it's on point.