Kadge Rose-Feather
2015
What the Fuck is Going On?!
Daryl woke up, his head pounding. This wasn't unusual for him. He groaned and mashed his palms into his throbbing eyes, trying to think of the last thing he remembered.
He was out hunting, in the forests near his house. He had slipped, fallen, hit his head on something hard.
His fingers branched out to touch the back of his skull on instinct, checking for any major damage. He didn't find any lumps or scratches.
Hang on though, that couldn't be right. He groaned and forced open his eyes, swimming in the light that assaulted him.
He was… In a bed. Warm and soft; with sheets, blankets and a pillow. Not his normal resting spot, just a tattered old mattress or a sleeping bag in the woods.
Slightly panicked, but in too much pain to really care, Daryl leant over groaning as a particularly bad wave of nausea hit him right in the stomach.
God, he felt like he had a killer hangover. He brought his fingers yet again to the back of his head, expecting to draw them back with blood.
The place he was in wasn't much of an upgrade from his usual surroundings. Derelict floors, peeling walls, sparing amount of furniture. He wondered vaguely if his current whereabouts had something to do with Merle.
He hadn't seen his brother in over three years but if anyone was going to find him and drag him off to someplace new without his consent it'd be Merle.
Suddenly, a cheery Irish voice called out from the other room, making Daryl freeze.
"Hey, Murph, you finally up now?"
Daryl waited silently for 'Murph' to give this guy an answer.
God, what if he'd been picked up by some random stranger? How had this guy been so far out in the woods if that was the case? How would he have just randomly found Daryl?
Footsteps, and then the blonde man strolled right through the doorway.
"Ey, Murph, I'm talking to you." He said, looking expectantly at Daryl, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. He spared a quick glance around, but sure enough, it was only him and the Irishman in the room.
"You talkin' ta me?" He muttered gruffly, but was surprised by his accent. It nearly matched the leprechauns exactly. What the hell was up with that?
"Yer the only Murphy here, aren'tcha?" The Irishman teased with an easy laugh, but Daryl didn't see what was so funny.
"Yer crazy." Daryl mumbled, not daring to speak too loudly for fear of his voice betraying him again. He pushed himself up off of the bed but didn't take another step forwards once the room around him began to spin.
"Murphy-" The leprechaun, looking worried now, held out a hand to steady him but Daryl just recoiled like he'd been slapped, swaying slightly on his feet.
"Don't touch me ye batshit mick!" He screeched. After a couple moments of tense silence he lowered his voice, but spoke again. "What'd ye fucking do, drug me? Ye a fuckin' perv as well as a psycho, aye?" The accent still freaked him out – I'm no goddamned leprechaun! – but he tried to ignore it for now. Shit, his head was pounding.
A look of hurt flashed across the other man's face, and he looked so damn sad that it almost made Daryl forget his anger. But then the mick tried to lay a hand on him again. This time Daryl shoved him away roughly, and the other man dared to look hurt again before he lunged at Daryl and easily pinned him in a headlock.
"Drugged ye? I couldn'ta pried the alcohol away from ye if I'd have tried, dear brother, and god knows it. Now what's all this nonsense yer spouting? Tryin' ta play some trick on yer twin, ay?"
Daryl took a shaky breath, trying to calm himself down despite the panic rising in him. This guy really was crazy, and right now Daryl was in a very compromised position. He tried to remain level-headed. After all, out of everyone in his family he'd always been the best at that.
"Look, I'm sorry, I don't know who ye think I might be, but I'm not yer goddamned brother and we certainly ain't twins, a'ight? My name's Daryl Dixon. I'm from Georgia, not Ireland, and I don't know what I'm doin' 'ere. Now, can you please let me go? I got stuff I got'ta do." He muttered, and the other man let him go swiftly.
Daryl was relieved but it only lasted a moment as the mick took his face in his hands and slapped him, hard.
When Daryl looked back up at him to spit out some scathing insults, the man was searching his eyes with a concentration that made Daryl stop short.
"It's me, Murphy: Connor. I'm yer fucking brother and 'tis isn't fucking funny. Ye want a cigarette? Some fuckin' eggs? 'Cause I'll get ya whatcha want but you gotta stop fuckin' around here, aye." Connor sounded as desperate and scared as Daryl felt, but the Georgian didn't care, pushing him away again as he massaged his cheek.
"Would ye fuckin' stop it? I told ye, my name's Daryl, not fuckin' Murphy or whatever." He started towards the door as fast as he could, pushing down the sickness in his stomach and the pounding in his head: all he knew was that he had to get away from this nutjob as soon as possible.
"Ay, where the fuck do ye think yer going?" Connor shouted, angry now.
"Wherever te fuck I want, ye don't even know me you stupid leprechaun!" Daryl shouted back, walking past the other man who, surprisingly, didn't stop him.
Daryl didn't bother to look back though as he headed past the kitchen and to the front door. He left the apartment and flew down the stairs until he was on the street.
Looking around, he realised he had no idea where he was, only that he was probably nowhere near Georgia.
He'd never seen so many cars and people in his life, and it certainly didn't make his feelings of sickness go away. Begrudgingly, he thought about how far away he might be, and that he didn't have anything on him.
No money, food, identification.
It would be a stupid idea to try and – what? Fend for himself out here? Ask strangers in this big, apathetic city if they could give him a ride back to Georgia? How the hell had he ended up wherever this was anyway?
He felt a hand clamp itself down on his shoulder, and he knew who it was before he'd even turned around but he cringed all the same when faced with the mick.
"It's fuckin' Boston, Brother, now let's get you back inside." Connor said, having been watching Daryl look around at the buildings and cars in confusion and fear.
"What do you 'tink, Murphy, do ye reckon it's alcohol poisoning? I never would have thought something like that could happen to ma own brother. The amount you can hold, thought never crossed ma damn mind. I s'appose tis is my fault then, ay." The Irishman droned on morosely, boring Daryl. He wasn't this guys goddamned brother, when was the mick gonna get that through his thick skull? But then there wasn't much else Daryl could do at the moment, no way to get where he wanted to go, and hey, the man was cooking him breakfast.
So Daryl grit his teeth and kept his mouth shut.
"I mean, if this was some elaborate prank, which I doubt your small mind could even come up wit'," Connor prattled on, pausing to see if he could get a rise out of his brother, who just remained sitting at the bench stony-faced. "Ye'd 'ave let me in on it by now." He finished with a sigh, stirring the eggs on the pan.
When they were done and he dished a plate for Daryl and joined him at the bench, lighting up a cigarette to try and calm his frayed nerves.
He was completely shocked when the man pushed him off of the barstool abruptly, sending them both crashing to the floor, the cigarette falling to the wayside.
His deluded brother held up his right hand for Connor to see his "AEQUITAS" tattoo, practically shoving it into his twin's face.
"You fuckin' tattooed me?!" He screeched manically, the fear evident all over his face.
'Jesus, I can't just ignore this. He's fuckin' sick in the head, it's worse than I bloody imagined.' Connor thought, grimacing at the confusion on his dear brother's face. He raised his hands to try and get Murphy to settle down, but this only seemed to freak the other man out more as he stared at Connor's own matching tattoo.
Murphy tried to bring his fist down on his face, but Connor was too fast and used the momentum to reverse their positions, so that he was now straddling his twin.
"Fuck, Murph, calm down!" He screamed, but his brother would not listen, writhing, seething and swearing underneath him.
He didn't fucking know what to do.
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