Title: "Worst Enemy"
Status: OneShot; complete
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Daryl Dixon, Rick Grimes, OC Prisoners
Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to AMC and Robert Kirkman; not mine, no money.
Rating: M
Genre: AU, Season 3, (almost) spoiler-free, friendship
Warnings: unbeta'ed, non-con, swearing
Summary: A close call in a prison cell. Walkers all around, and yet humans are each other's worst enemies...
Note: twd_kinkmeme fill for this prompt ( twd-kinkmeme. livejournal 4284 . html ? thread = 4775100 # t 4775100)
Worst Enemy
Daryl watched over the crossbow's sight bridge as the last guy of the bunch was shoved into the cell. The prisoner stumbled over the blue tatters of his jumpsuit, but with five of them crammed into space meant for two, he had nowhere to fall.
"Watch it man!"
The others pushed him back, snarling like animals, a wild mass of flailing limbs, cursing and fighting to reach the door despite the weapons trained on them. They were almost as mindless as the geeks, half-starved and vicious. The scuffle lasted long enough for Rick to turn the key in the lock and step away, avoiding the dirty hands reaching between the bars to grab him.
"You two can go," Rick said, nodding towards where T and Glenn stood; their weapons lowered. "Glenn, go and catch some sleep. You can take the second shift up on the tower."
Glenn, sporting a nice shiner and looking ready to keel over, only managed a mumble that slipped into a jaw cracking yawn.
"Right." One hand fisted into Glenn's shirt, T pulled the Korean forward, "Come on, man."
They went back down the corridor, steps shuffling through the garbage strewn about, letting the heavy steel door fall shut gently behind them.
Daryl approved of the display of common sense, it still gave him the creeps, remembering how they had stomped about in the Atlanta camp like a horde of elephants with no care in the world.
The threat dealt with Daryl allowed himself to lower the crossbow to rotate his shoulder, loosening sore muscles. The Horton was light and reliable, but being on edge 24/7 took it's toll, hunter or not.
"Daryl."
Looking up Daryl caught the downward arc of glinting steel and fished the keys out of the air with his free hand.
"You'll handle this."
It wasn't a question, but Daryl answered anyway, "Got it covered."
Still felt the fuck weird, Rick Grimes trusting him, the same guy who had held a gun to Daryl's head with every intent to use it, the same guy who had learned a hard lesson with Shane. Worse, Daryl suspected it had become a mutual thing; he expected to turn and find Rick at his shoulder when they secured a place for the night or fought off geeks.
Rick nodded, rubbing his temple where the drying blood must be itching, "I'll be back after checking the storeroom."
Daryl didn't comment, knowing full well that the canned food they had found was way down Rick's priority list after the recent shit the group had gone through. He would make sure that the women were okay, and Carl, old Hershel, T-Dog and Glenn, running himself ragged in circles. The man was obsessed with keeping everyone safe – not that Daryl blamed him. Hell, this was the kind of leader they needed out here, 'cause selfishness would only last you so long.
"Hey, gringo, what will ya do with us, eh?"
"We're innocent!"
"Yeah, we didn't do nothing!"
Rick, probably having heard the same old song once too often in his deputy days, grimaced in disgust and walked away.
Wasn't much of a comfort to know that humans being their own worst enemies hadn't changed, not even in their fucked up little corner of the USA.
"Hey, wait. Let us go! Damn you!"
The rats in their cage babbled on, but Daryl ignored them. Instead he listened for the retreating footsteps until they had faded away, then brought the crossbow's stock back up to his shoulder.
"We're innocent, ya hear that?!"
Daryl was tempted to waste an arrow after all. Didn't matter to anyone what that miserable bunch had done to land themselves in prison. In the new world order they'd committed the worst of all crimes: attacking the women of Rick's ragtag group in the hope of a quick fuck.
Being low on ammo as they were after clearing out a cell block for shelter – Lori would soon pop, they needed to stay put until after - was the only reason this garbage was still able to make such a damn ruckus.
A distraction.
He should have known these bastards were up to something, they were too calm, too confident in their cage; too loud. He should have heard something, seen a movement out of the corner of his eye - instead, the blow to his head came out of nowhere.
Daryl lost his grip on the crossbow, it clattered to the ground with an explosion of sound, rattling his skull, the blood rushing in his ringing ears. The world tilted and he tried to roll with it, to get back on his feet instead of going down. A kick in the ribs stopped the movement short, letting the darkness creep in at the edges of his vision.
XXX
Daryl snapped back to consciousness as a heavy weight plopped down on his back, driving the air out of his lungs. Disoriented and in pain, he went with the instinct to buck and dislodge his attacker, but only succeeded in making his head throb and his audience laugh.
Sweat sticky hands crept under his shirt, pulling it out of his jeans, and then fingers traced coiled muscles and the scars Dad's belt had left when Daryl was nine.
Daryl growled and thrashed around but found no purchase to roll them over. His eyes stung, but it couldn't have been shame or helplessness, not when he felt the haze of pain being burned away by his rage.
Tired of being tossed about, the man's hand slammed Daryl's head nose first into the concrete. There was no audible crunch, but hot blood gushed out, drenching his hair and collar, making him choke and sputter.
"Fuck!"
Another round of laughter, from high-pitched nervous to low and cold, and the other five men came closer to help, grabbing Daryl's arms and legs. Daryl knew what these sick bastards would do to him and he swallowed the rising bile together with his sudden panic. He gritted his teeth, unwilling to admit defeat.
Hot stinking breath and oily hair fanned Daryl's face as the man on his back leaned forward, "'Fuck'? Smart kid. No luck with the women, so we'll have to make do with you."
"John, stop wasting time!" One guy started pacing up and down, his steps narrowly missing Daryl's head. "We need to get going, his friends could come back any moment! - I didn't risk my ass knocking him out for a quickie."
"Right," John said, pulling Daryl's jeans down to reveal his ass. "Let me just - "
A shot rang out.
The hands spreading Daryl open jerked and John's full weight landed on top of him; something soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky. Dizzy with adrenaline and relief, Daryl lost track of his surroundings. Men tried to run away, screamed and fell – chaos all around.
He only noticed the sudden silence because his own panting sounded too loud in his ears, but then footsteps came closer and Rick was there, pale and shaking almost as much as Daryl himself, and pulled the corpse off of him.
"Daryl - "
Daryl snarled and shoved him back, "Don't fucking touch me!"
He tried to crawl away but the ground was slick and full of corpses, so he gave up and quickly fixed his clothes. A look around and he had spotted the whole bunch, not one had made it farther than a couple of steps before Rick's bullets had hit them, spilling their brains everywhere.
Good. Only pity was Daryl's fingers itched to tear them apart, bit by bit until nothing was left, those sick fucks, trying to keep him down, trying to -
"Daryl."
It sounded like a warning, sharp edged and hard, forceful enough that Daryl remembered how to breathe, that this was over, that this was no time to lose it. With that he began to feel the pounding in his head, his exhaustion, and the blank nothing in his mind that meant he would deal with this later or never at all.
He pulled his sprawled legs up to sit more steady and forced himself to meet that blue gaze, "'M fine."
Rick's look spoke volumes but he was smart enough not to push it or offer platitudes and hugs, like a woman would. He just nodded and crouched down in front of Daryl, waiting for his grudging permission before he did a quick checkup. His hands were gentle as they slipped through blood slick hair, searching for and finding two swollen bumps on the back of Daryl's head.
He put up with it for a minute. The calluses on Rick's strong hands and their warmth were familiar by now, and while he didn't like the touchy-feely attention at all, he bore with it, knowing that Rick needed to reassure himself that he hadn't lost another member of their little gang.
Truth told, it didn't really feel that bad.
Rick sat back, "You've got a concussion."
Daryl slapped his hands away and rolled his eyes, uncaring that it hurt, "No shit, smartass."
He stood, satisfied that the world stayed steady under his feet and went to collect his crossbow. He looked the Horton over: quiver and stock had taken a hit, but anything else seemed fine. He would test the latch mechanism and retention spring later.
Rick watched for a moment, clearly torn between keeping his silence or speaking up, but in the end all he said was, "Let's go back to the others."
"Rick."
"Yes?"
Daryl opened his mouth, closed it, didn't know how to ask for what he needed. He looked roughed up and bloody, like someone who had been in a fight gone bad, nothing more. It was just his imagination that what really – almost – had happened stood written on his face, but...
Rick seemed to understand: "One of them had hidden in the ventilation shaft, sneaked up on you and got the keys; freed the others. I showed up in time and we killed them. End of story."
Daryl's gaze flickered to the ceiling, noticing for the first time that one of the covers had been removed; from there it must have been easy to drop down and catch him off-guard.
"Right."
He followed Rick through the prison's corridors. Leaving cell block D behind they crossed the yard to enter block C, where they had set up camp.
He gripped Rick's sleeve before he could open the last door; Daryl could hear Carl shouting for his dad, having seen them coming from the perch.
"Thanks."
Rick smiled crookedly, like someone out of practice, and Daryl couldn't help but notice how the expression smoothed out some of his worry lines.
"Sure."
And that was that.
The End
R & R