Every Scar Has a Story

Summary:

She was a fighter, a rebel, an individual in every way the word means. She became his best, and only, friend. She understood him without asking questions and knew him better than his own brother. Every scar they earned had a story behind it, a story of how they grew together and their relationship became something undefined. They were friends. They were family. Yet, they were so much more. They were simply themselves; Daryl Dixon, a member of the town's most troubled family, and Rayne Michaels, a rebel with the heart of gold.

This is their story.

Author's Note:

This story starts out before the outbreak of Walkers. I want to give the readers an understanding of how Daryl and Rayne grow together before shit hit the fan. Their story is told through each scar they earn, most of them Rayne's as she tends to get into a lot of difficult situations. This will be told in Daryl's third person point of view as he tries to struggle with understanding his new, odd friend. Leave reviews and let me know what you think.

Chapter One
Outcasts Stick Together

Daryl could recite their first meeting by heart. It wasn't exactly the type of meeting a person could forget. He hadn't expected it. It had been just a normal day in Northern Georgia, the cool temperature marking the turning point of Winter meeting Spring. He had been out, getting supplies for his upcoming hunt with his brother when he spotted the beginnings of a scuffle out of the corner of his eye. He snorted, seeing the Letterman jackets, and had been close to brushing it off as school-age dramatics.

That had been until he caught sight of vibrant, black-cherry red curls bouncing as a petite girl stumbles back from the punch, her head snapped to the side. His eyes widen, fingers clenching the steering wheel as he fights the urge to stop the guys from beating up some girl. Men don't hit women. His dark blue eyes watch, his inner conflicts flickering through his gaze as the girl turns her gaze on the guys, her fingers brushing along the cut under her left eye, just along the curve of her cheekbone. Surprise fills him as the tiny girl dressed in denim, leather and chains drops her single-strapped messenger bag to the ground before launching herself at the boy that hit her. It was when the two other guys joined in the fight that Daryl finds himself getting out of his truck.

"The fuck ya' think yer doin'?" Daryl sneers as he yanks back one of the kids, pulling his head back to dodge the punch thrown at him.

Lost in a tangle of limbs and punches being thrown, Daryl grunts as he slams one of them into the side of the truck the guys must have been driving. Turning back around, his dark blue gaze lands on the brown-haired kid pressing the girl against the brick wall, her face growing red as his thick forearm presses against her throat, cutting off her air supply. Not thinking of anything other than a guy twice the size of a woman assaulting her in such a fashion, Daryl grabs the kid by his shoulder, yanking him around only to slam his fist into the kid's temple. Seeing him laid out, Daryl takes in a deep breath before turning to the girl on the ground.

Damn, he muses as he sees the blood trickling down her bruised cheek. Her eyes shut and her chest heaved heavily for air, the front of her black Pantera t-shirt torn at the collar, causing it to hang over her shoulder loosely. Kneeling down in front of her, he looks over her pale, bruised and bloody face, watching her tongue trace over her bottom lip, causing the silver hoop pierced through her bottom lip to shift slightly.

"Ya' alright, girl?"

His gruff voice seems to cause her to jolt out of her thoughts, her eyelids sliding apart to reveal startlingly and impossibly bright green-grey eyes. He had never seen a pair of eyes like these. He can feel his own eyes widen from the shock, watching her own widen as if surprised someone had stopped to help her. He leans back as she moves to her feet, her hands brushing off her clothes before coming to the rip in her shirt. Fierce anger and dismay fills her eyes before she turns to the unconscious teen, her boot-clad foot slamming into his unprotected side.

"Asshole! Ripped my fuckin' shirt."

A shiver travels up his spine, a curious reaction. Her voice lacked the prominent southern drawl, her words articulated and well-cultured. Her voice, naturally huskier than most women he knew. As if she had swallowed a spoonful of honey and her words continued to get caught along her throat.

"Prolly just get a new one," he remarks, causing her to turn her striking gaze back to him.

She glances down, fingering the tear before her shoulders shrug, "Probably just wear it as is. Shirt belonged to a good friend of mine. Kind of sentiment value." Daryl nods, unsure of what to say next as he watches her gather her bag from the ground, watching her hand dig around before she pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Surprised as she offers him one, he gingerly takes one from the pack, watching as she inhales deeply, "Well, uh, thanks for helping, I guess."

She turns on heel and again, he finds his gaze following her as she walks off. Well, limps off is more like it. He wonders how long she can keep up walking when her leg seems to be giving her problems. Nibbling on his thumbnail for a moment, he groans inwardly.

"Ya' need a ride, er sumthin'?" he asks, dropping his thumb from his mouth as she turns to him again.

"Wouldn't be smart of me if I get in a vehicle with a stranger, now would it?" she questions, a curious gleam in her gaze that makes him shift before he nods, turning on his heel to walk off. He barely gets a few feet away before her voice calls out, "Rayne," Ray-knee? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Half turning, he catches her gaze again, seeing an amused smirk tug at her lips, "My name is Rayne Michaels."

Blinking in surprise, he finds himself introducing himself before he can stop, "Daryl Dixon."

"Well, now that we're not strangers, can I take up that offer of a ride?" she questions.

Realizing that she had been yanking his chain, Daryl smothers a smirk, motioning for her to follow him. Waiting for her to climb into his truck, he pulls off of the side of the road and follows her directions. Occasionally he glances over at her, catching sight of her rubbing at her knee, or her fingers tapping against her thigh. She's not like any girl he's ever seen.

"Where ya' from?" His question pulls her gaze from staring out of the window, her eyebrow cocking curiously, "Ain't ever heard an accent like yers. Ain't ever seen sumone like yerself around here neither."

"Oh," she hums out thoughtfully, "I was born and raised in New England territory. New Hampshire to be exact. Old family made up of old traditions and even older money," He tilts his head curiously as her voice grows darker with annoyance, "Where the women gossip over tea and the men talk business over a glass of scotch. Where expectations are high and zero tolerance for rebellion is found."

"Why are ya' here o'all places?" he asks, not particularly liking the empty tone in her voice.

"Parents sent me here to live with my Aunt Nicole. Didn't want me and my rebellious streak to taint the family image," she scoffs, rolling her eyes, "Never really understood it. It's not like I do drugs, or go out causing trouble. Just a couple of crazy friends, going to concerts and underground clubs."

A realization falls over Daryl, causing him to grow quiet. She was like him. Different. Labeled. Outcast. Hated for who she is. He can see the loner, anti-social gleam in her eye. The way she charged into the fight without a second thought, quick to defend herself. She was used to being beat on. She was used to being looked at differently, glared and sneered at. Being hated for who you are, judged by association.

Pulling up to the driveway of a two-story blue house, Rayne gathers her things and flashes him a small smile, "Well, thanks again. It's not really my style to owe someone, so if you ever need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask." Daryl blinks, surprised by the offer, "Hey, I pay my dues. Not many people selflessly stand to defend someone like me, so...I owe you."

Watching her as she hops out of the truck and slips inside the house, he muses over why he would ever need her help? He can take care of himself.

He ignores the pain, favoring the cold, numb feeling flooding over him as the rain pours down, soaking him to his bones. He can feel the aches and pains along his body, inwardly cursing his old man. He curses his brother for being a fucking idiot and leaving him alone with the sadistic, alcoholic. He curses his life, wondering why God, if there is one, stuck him in Hell. Stumbling across the backyard of a familiar blue house, he pauses, musing over whether or not he should even bother her.

He didn't know why, but after the fight, he found himself giving her a lift home every day. She only ever spoken when he did, and it took awhile for him to realize she didn't want to be a bother to him. He didn't understand who put the thought into her head. Whenever they did talk, he found her amusing, almost morbid sense of humor, not so different than his own outlook. She was smart, hell of a lot smarter than him. Despite her appearance, she cares a lot about her schooling, never missing a day of school, or getting any marks below perfect. She wanted to be an artist, from what she said, a sketch artist or photography. It had only been a few months since the fight and he could tell people whispered about their timidly growing friendship, frowning upon it. Her Aunt Nicole didn't mind him, surprisingly. The raven-haired older woman had simply accepted that they were friends, not bothered by his family name, nor the five year age difference between him and her sixteen-year-old niece.

Feeling a tremor of pain and cold flow through his body, he achingly pulls himself up the side of the house, using the over-hanging ceiling of the back porch to stand on as he peers into the dimly lit bedroom. It was late, he knew, but he is only mildly surprised to see his friend walking around her bedroom in a pair of cotton shorts and a long-sleeved thermal shirt, sporting another logo of yet another band. Knocking on her window, he watches as she turns on point before cautiously approaching the window. Her bright gaze widens in horror and shock before the window slides up, slamming against the top frame. A surprised gasp leaves his lips as her hands grab onto the front of his drenched t-shirt and he is forcefully yanked into the room. Groaning at the pain in his body, he shudders as a warm hand presses against the back of his neck, the red-head kneeling next to him. Nothing is said as she gathers his hands in her smaller ones, pulling him to his feet. Her hands work quick and without pause, a hot flush decorating his cheeks as she strips off his wet clothing, leaving him in a pair of boxers. She walks away for a moment, digging around in her closet before she pulls out a pair of sweatpants that were obviously not her own.

"Here. Put these on. I'm going to be right back."

His gaze follows her as she gathers his wet clothing before disappearing from the room. She isn't asking any questions. Slipping into the warm sweatpants, feeling them hang along his hips, he wonders why she doesn't seem to be bothered by his arrival. Why does she keep men's clothing in her closet? Lost in his thoughts, he jumps when a warm, dry towel is placed over his head, nimble fingers rubbing into his scalp, drying his hair. As the towel drops from his head, he finds himself staring into her unique eyes, focus and determination darkening them only slightly as she works to wipe away the rain, blood and dirt from his face, slowly moving to his bruised torso. He remains silent as she digs into a first aid kit at her side, working to disinfect the cuts along his face and torso, her eyebrows knitting as she comes across the long cut along the right side of his chest. He flinches as she pour the disinfectant over the long cut, turning her attention to the first aid kit and he feels himself tense as she pulls out a needle and thread. Her calm gaze meets his briefly, urging him to let her do it, and he nods wordlessly, watching her as she carefully begins to stitch the cut. As the gauze is taped over the cut, her fingers smoothing the tape along the edges, she falls back to her haunches as begins to pack away the first aid kit. Unsure of what to do as she slips out of the room again, he drops his gaze to the bandage along his chest. He had never had someone take care of him. It was a weakness to allow someone to see you vulnerable. He knew that. Yet, this young girl said nothing, asked no questions, only offered her help.

A warm hand grabs his and he looks up again as she pulls him to his feet, tugging him to the bed. He swallows thickly as she wordlessly instructs him to lay down, a comforter pulled over him and he feels the subtle pressure of more blankets piling on top. He hadn't even realized he had been shivering until the warmth wrapped around him. An additional pressure presses down on the bed and his body tenses as a new, fresh warmth presses against his back, a lean arm wrapping around his chest, careful of his injury. He shudders, unfamiliar with such blatant compassion, another tremor racing up his spine as her gentle breath brushing along his bare back. Sinking into the warmth provided by the body pressed against him, Daryl Dixon allows himself to drift into a dreamless sleep.

A ray of sunlight causes him to stir from his slumber, his chest rumbling as he inwardly grumbles. He didn't want to leave the warmth wrapped around him. He can't remember a time where he had ever slept so well before. Slowly blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he finds his face only inches from a familiar pale face framed by black-cherry red curls. Glancing down, he finds his arm thrown over her side, his fingers splayed out and palm flat against the smooth skin of her back. Her own hand pressed against his chest, right over his heart, her fingers curled only slightly that he figured if he had been wearing a shirt, it would be clenched in her fingers, her head nestled comfortably against his left shoulder. As his gaze moves back up to her chest, his eyes settles on the small, thin white scar along the top of her cheekbone. Without thinking, his hand moves from her back as he reaches up, his thumb carefully tracing over the scar. The only thing that marks a constant reminder that she was real, that she was a part of his life. He marvels inwardly at the small raised skin of her scar, the contrast it provides against her smooth features. She isn't a conventional beauty. People would have to look past the piercings, the dark make-up she sometimes wears, and the outlandish clothing she wears. His hand twitches, as if burned, as her eyes snap open, the alert gleam in her eyes softening.

Licking his chapped lips, ignoring the odd feeling in his chest, he murmurs, "G'mornin'."

A soft smile tugs at her lips, "Mornin'. Everything okay?"

"I..." he pauses, trying to figure out what to say. Swallowing needlessly, staring into her soft gaze, the words leave his lips before he can stop them, "Why? Why'd ya do it?" He continues, seeing the cocked eyebrow, "Ya' didn't ask 'bout it. Why?"

A warm hand gently cups his cheek, his eyes widening at the unfamiliar touch, "Those of us cast out of society only ever rely on ourselves. In my mind, us outcasts have to stick together." She drops her hand, shrugging slightly, "I didn't ask because I figured you'd talk about it if you needed to. I'm not going to push for answers. You're not the type for heart-to-heart conversations."

He snorts in amusement, earning a small, light chuckle from the girl, who sits up, stretching her arms over her head, "Well, come on. Let's get some breakfast."

He watches her as she moves around the kitchen, whipping up a warm, hearty breakfast. Stick together, huh? He muses over her words and finds a small smile tugging along his lips. She might be unconventional, but he knew, at that moment as he watched her dance her way around the kitchen, he was just as much hers as she was his.

Author's Note: I know it seems like a softer side of Daryl, but he doesn't really come off as someone who has ever really been taken care of, or been on the receiving end of compassion. Rayne is quiet, but insightful, and I figured Daryl would be more welcoming to someone that doesn't demand answers, but instead just takes action and does what needs to be done, someone that doesn't have expectations, but instead just accepts things for what they are. Let me know what you guys think. I've read so many stories where Daryl is difficult to be around, or argumentative, but those are based off of how we, the fans, first see Daryl, which he had just learned his brother had been left on a rooftop, I wanted to try and get into the head of the Daryl we know now. I'm not very familiar with the Southern Drawl, so I'm trying to write his speech as best as possible.

Thanks for reading. Leave a review.