A/N: I decided to check out the kinkmeme on the off chance that something would catch my eye. Well this did not just catch my eye, but wiggled its way into my brain, and has now taken control. I've outlined the whole fic, and have written the first sections. I will post as I get them finished. This will be Rick/Daryl pre-Slash; how far along this particular aspect goes, I still am not sure.
Warnings: non-con (this is not explicitly depicted, but the scenes leading up are triggering, and the rest of the fic involves constant reminders of the event; please take care of yourself and don't read if this will trigger you), violence, language (including misogynistic slurs), and detailed depictions of PTSD (including anxiety attacks, intrusive memories, hyperarousal, and self-blame). If anything else comes up I will warn. If you notice something that I've forgotten to warn about, please drop a note. I hate triggering people by accident.
The halls of the prison are quiet when Daryl packs a bag for a day out hunting. Not many people are up this early, even those who rise with the sun to get to work on chores, but Daryl knows one man who'll be awake.
Stopping outside of Rick's cell, Daryl sees that Judith is still in her playpen sleeping away. Her face is peaceful, hands curled into her chest with her breath puffing out of her open mouth. If he wasn't on his way out, Daryl would wait for her to wake, pick her up and feed her breakfast before anyone else could get the chance. He treasures the moments he is able to have with the youngest of them; between everything else, the constant movement of a life just on the edge of survival, she is a breath of relief. A glimmer of hope and joy greater than any other he can see.
"G'mornin'," says Rick.
Daryl looks up and sees Rick sitting on the edge of his bed, tugging his boots on over his socked feet. Rick is grinning at him, the thick curls of his hair hanging forward into his eyes just a bit.
Daryl nods shortly, then motions behind himself with his crossbow in hand. "I'm headin' out. Be back before dark."
Rick licks his lips. Stands up and runs a hand through his hair to push the strands away from his forehead. "Which way?"
"To the northwest, toward the river. If there ain't nothin' that way, I'll check the snares and come back." Daryl shifts from foot to foot, trying not to stare at the way Rick's lips shine in the dim light from where he had traced his tongue.
Rick's head dips in acknowledgement. "Alright then. Be careful out there."
Daryl's lips quirk and he snorts quietly. "Always am." And then with one last look down at Judith, he leaves.
Being outside the walls of the prison is a breath of fresh air. Just stepping out of them has his muscles relaxing and shoulders loosening. The cool morning air tastes sweet on his tongue, and he sucks it in deep just to feel it fill his lungs.
Daryl is in his element in the woods. Has been for most of his life. The dead rising hasn't changed that.
Hours later the sun is nearing its zenith in the sky, the rays streaking down between tree branches and painting the forest floor in patches of shimmering golden green. Daryl enjoys the warm summer breeze, the scent of wild flowers heady in the air. Bird song is the only noise to disrupt the peace, and Daryl closes his eyes and breathes deep, luxuriating in the freedom.
The walls of the prison, for all their safety and security, are still walls. He can only be within them for so long before he feels them start to close in, becoming stifling, and he needs to get out. If he doesn't, if he stays put, his back gets tense, his hair stands on end, and every sound and movement makes him twitch. Before long he's pacing the walkways, circling the fences, and practically growling at anyone who tries to come near.
These hunts, they are the only thing that keeps him from going off the wall. And it ain't like anyone is going to complain because he goes out more than he needs to, goes further, longer, and brings back more. Between tracking animals and tracking the governor he's found a balance that he can live with.
He's been tracking the same doe for two miles, stopping and listening for any rustling in the grass, watching for the fresh tracks in the muddy ground. He knows he's getting close, so he's moving slow, stopping to lean up against every couple of trees to watch and wait. It wouldn't do him any good to spook the animal.
Leaned up against a tree with his face pointed to the sun, Daryl takes a moment to just enjoy where he is.
When he gets back to the prison, with or without a deer slung over his shoulders, there will be familiar faces to greet him. They won't overwhelm him with questions, and instead will smile and pat his shoulder in greeting. Of course the smiles are always a little brighter when he comes back packing a deer, or a brace of swamp hares, and he finds himself pushing a little harder just to see that.
There is also something about knowing so many of the group so well that puts him at ease. He's never had that before, never been able to return to a physical place and know of his unconditional welcome.
With those thoughts in mind, Daryl twitches when he hears the soft crack of a twig breaking somewhere ahead. His eyes snap open and he immediately has his crossbow up, scanning the area around him for movement. He can't see anything, and after a few minutes of looking around, he lets his arms relax, swinging his crossbow over his shoulder again.
With a sigh, he moves forward to continue on his way, but then swings back around as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It feels like there are eyes on him, more than one pair. But he doesn't see anyone, and nothing else seems out of place.
With one last squint around, Daryl shrugs and keeps going. Probably a damn squirrel.
About ten minutes later, and he is at the bottom of a densely wooded slope, feet moving toe-to-heel as he makes his way around to the other side. As he moves past the next stand of trees, he is greeting with the sight of the doe standing about a hundred feet ahead, just barely visible between all of the trees.
Creeping forward, eyes not moving from his prey, Daryl pauses for only a few seconds to draw and load a bolt into his crossbow. His arm muscles flex as he moves slowly but steadily ahead.
He gets close enough that he knows he can make the shot, then kneels down and lines up his crosshairs. His finger curls slowly around the trigger, begins to squeeze, and then the whitetail's ears prick up, and her head swivels around fast to look in his direction.
And before he can re-align the shot, she's off, bounding through the trees and bleating loud enough that her yells echo all around. Everything nearby would have heard that.
"Goddamnit," he says, shaking his head. He's not going to have time to track her down again and make it back before nightfall, and the last time he miss-calculated and got back late, a whole search party was being amassed. No way in hell is he going to kick up a fuss like that again. He may be able to take care of himself out here, but some of those people, especially the ones who have been behind walls since almost the start of this thing, wouldn't stand a chance if something went wrong. He won't have that shit on him.
Especially if they don't stick to the protocol they'd hashed out after Daryl had called them out for even thinking of heading out that close to dark.
With a deep inhale, which he blows out hard, Daryl stands back up and wipes a hand over his forehead, then down over his eyes. He spins to move in the other direction and steps right into the butt of a gun.
Bursts of light take over his sight and a high-pitched ringing sounds loudly in his ears. The world dissolves for a time, and Daryl feels like he's floating about in nothing at all. And then, with a snap, it all comes back, and he hits the ground.
His crossbow is pulled roughly from his hands and a boot collides with his ribs, tumbling him to his side in a heap. The second he starts to get his arms under him, head shaking to get the world to stop tilting, a foot stomps down in the middle of his back, hard, and knocks the breath from his lungs like it was never there in the first place.
Struggling for all he is worth, grunts pushing past his lips, Daryl gets enough leverage so that he can look up, straining his neck. There are three men standing around him; the two that he can clearly see have a gun and a bow drawn on him.
The third, whose foot digs into his back like he's stomping out a cigarette butt, leans down so that he's looking Daryl in the face, and says, "Claimed."
One of the other men snorts. "You'd claim anything, man. Neither of us want some dirty redneck; he's probably got fleas."
"C'mon, you know Dan would fuck anything warm." The third man grins down at Daryl and bends, pulling the knife from the sheath at Daryl's hip, then stands again and pushes the toe of his boot against Daryl's shoulder to flip him onto his back. "This one is kinda pretty, though. If it weren't for the filth I'd have a mind to claim him myself."
"Back off," says the one that Daryl can now see has long hair and a sagging belly. "I claimed him; he's mine."
"Whatever, man."
With that two of the men step back a little, leaving the third standing next to Daryl. Seeing an opportunity, Daryl kicks out and hits the back of one the man's knees, knocking him to the ground. If he can only get to his crossbow, which he can see dangling from the fingers of the man wielding the bow, or to a knife he has a chance to take these fuckers out. Scrambling, Daryl is able to get his feet under him and is up on all fours before the man, who he heard the others call 'Dan', literally jumps on his back, pushing him into the ground with the weight of his entire body.
"You're a feisty little bitch, huh?"
The words are said against the side of Daryl's head, the man's fetid breath bad enough that Daryl gags. "Ain't no bitch. Let me up or I'll rip your fuckin' balls off and feed them to you."
"Awe you havin' trouble controllin' your little plaything there?" One of the other men calls this out, a leer in his tone.
Dan, the man who is trying with all of his might to hold Daryl down, gets in a few sharp jabs with his fists against Daryl's ribs. Daryl instinctively tries to curl away from it, to protect himself, then is overwhelmed by anger and shame. He ain't no little kid no more; he should be able to work through the pain to fight back properly.
With the flash of anger comes a hit of adrenaline that allows Daryl the strength to jerk away from the grabbing hands and drag his body out from under the other man. But his head is spinning from the hit he's taken, and his ribs are protesting something fierce. Yet again he doesn't make it far before he's tripped up.
"Fuckin' stay still," Dan says. Then, with a rough backhand that cracks Daryl's face to the side, he calls out to his companions. "Give me a hand here!"
Daryl is cursing up a storm, thrashing, when the other two get back within arm's reach. One of them leans down with one fast movement, his hand latching onto Daryl's hair and jerking his head back to expose his throat.
Daryl snarls viciously, pulling his head away, but the grip is too tight and all that he achieves is to rip a chunk of hair from his scalp. He feels exposed, vulnerable, and that makes him seethe with anger.
"Get him up," says Dan. "Against that tree."
And suddenly he's pulled to his feet and the hand in his hair drags him forward; a pressure on his back keeps him moving even as he struggles. He collides face-first with rough bark, and then his arms are pulled forward and tied tightly so that he is hugging the tree. There is almost no slack between his wrists, so that even as he tries to drag the material of his bonds against the bark his skin catches too.
Within moments Daryl has pulled so viciously at the bonds that he can feel his skin tearing, scuffing away. But they don't budge an inch, and throughout his struggles he can hear the men laughing.
"Yeah, squirm you little bitch," says Dan. He emphasizes 'bitch' so it sounds even dirtier, more derogatory. "Makes it even better."
When Dan presses up against him, hands on his ass through the material of his jeans, and disgusting breath puffing over his neck, Daryl's stomach curdles, churning, and anger, helplessness, and a plethora of other unnamed emotions are stealing the air from his lungs. He throws his head back in desperation, baring his teeth in some parody of a smile when he impacts solidly with a wet 'crack'.
"Fuckin' piece of shit," says Dan, his consonants blurred.
Daryl feels a flash of triumph when the body touching his disappears, and he wants to laugh at the sputtering man behind him. And then there is a hand around his throat, fingers slick with fresh blood, pinching hard over his airway, stopping the blood from reaching his head. Black spots begin cropping up around the edges of his sight, and his face feels hot and flushed. His heart is beating a fast staccato in his ears like a herd of horses pounding through his skull, deafening him.
Daryl starts to buck wildly when the pressure doesn't let up, twisting and turning. Just before everything goes dark his head is knocked forward into the tree, and at the same time the hand at his throat disappears.
The world is a blur as Daryl sucks in breath after breath. His mind, between the bashing his skull has taken and the lack of oxygen, is blinking in and out of awareness. When he finally is able to focus again he can feel that his jeans are pooled somewhere around his knees. He is exposed, bound. Trapped. Weak.
The next thing he hears, beyond the rush of blood in his veins, is the clinking of a belt buckle.