Best read while listening to Apocalyptica – Not Strong Enough. As always, illustrations in my description.
He's wiping the snot running down his nose with the back of his hand, smearing it all over the skin and squinting his eyes in an angry glare directed towards the wall. He ain't no fucking pussy to cry, but the damn moisture spills out of the corners of his eyes and his throat constricts with muscle spasms from the effort of keeping a reign on himself. His body, however, seems to take none of his bullshit, all of the emotions bottled up deep inside fighting to emerge onto the surface. Another angry sniff echoes off the walls of the room as Daryl shifts on the sofa. His head is fucked up. He's always been the guy who lives in the present, because what's the use of dwelling on things or worrying about what the fuck's gonna happen? No, living in the moment is the safest, helthiest thing as far as Daryl's concerned. So what the fuck's he doin' in this small dark apartment, with a bottle full of Johny Walker and so distraught over something that should've clearly stayed in the past?
He swallows the cold night air with the salt, wipes his face again, getting angry cause the damn tears won't stop, and rapidly blinks at the vibrating phone thrown on the table.
He well damn knew there was something off with the goddamned man the second he walked into that shop. A gut feeling, a primeval instinct saying to stay the fuck away. The same thing that runs over and over through his head, screaming to run as far as possible and never look back.
Well shit, that's exactly what he would do.
Except, this time he can't. There's a huge tangle of boiling thoughts in his head and a throbbing, flesh-eating heartache he ain't willing to acknowledge.
Daryl doesn't know how to deal with it.
So he does what he does best - he holes up and drinks, pretending nothing's happened. Pretending there ain't any feelings involved or to be discussed. Not picking up the goddamned ringing phone.
Life's a bitch with a shitty sense of humor, Daryl thinks. Just when everything was starting to get back to normal, when he thought, heck, that he could adjust to this new life, find his own little niche an' be content, life fucks him over. Cause Dixons never get it easy, do they?
It took half a year for the fucker to spill his beans. For Daryl to silently sit and listen as that motherless bastard told him about the jump from the other world, told him that he is the cause that reversed the apocalypse, the zombie-infestation in this world.
In Daryl's mind, that told him if the bastard decided to jump earlier, his brother would still be alive. He asked the date, he asked the godforsaken date, and he got it. Just a couple of lousy months, that's all it would've taken - just a couple of months earlier, and this whole shit-fest of an apocalypse would've been halted, reversed, cured. And Merle would've lived. He'd never have to go on that suicide-trip for the Governor. He..
His shoulders shake and a strangled sound makes its way out of Daryl's throat. He can't deal with this shit, not now, not ever. Knowing that a flicker of some dumb luck could've saved his brother, his family. Deep inside Daryl understands that it's stupid and pointless, that no-one could've predicted the timing, or even the jump itself, but what's with the damn coincidence of him meeting the man?!
Life's fucked up. He feels cornered, betrayed, and he wants to scream and tear down the whole place, maybe Gold's too. Then there's another little flicker that longs to be held tightly and whispered to, that wants to give up everything and let go, allowing the other to ease his body and mind, take control and direct his anguish and anger.
He fucking hates that man, and at the same time he can't cut himself loose. Whatever keeps on happening, he finds himself unable to get free, to stay away.
He doesn't want to leave, and he doesn't want to fucking stay either. His head is throbbing with all the tiny voices screaming.
Stay. Walk away. Pleasure. Pain. Run away. Run back.
He doesn't have any respect for himself right now. Fucking, stupid, lovesick sissy.
BAM!
A furious scream tears from his lungs as Daryl overthrows the table, the bottle, phone and remotes skittering all over the tiled floor. His back and shoulders move with every heavy breath he takes, cold sweat collecting between his shoulder blades and at the hollow of his throat from pure emotional turmoil and exertion.
— STOP RINGING, — he yells at the stupid phone that keeps on giving off vibrations on the floor. — I DON'T WANNA TALK TO YE!
Except he does, so very much. He can't control himself, he needs someone to take it, to bend him and push him, to tell him what to do. Someone who Daryl can respect, someone whom he trusts, someone strong enough.
He can deal with a lot of shit, but once it starts involving emotions, it becomes a shitstorm.
His Da, and then Merle used to tell him to calm the fuck down and shut up, to stop acting and whining like a little girl and get to work. They told him what to do, they put him to use and he burned out all his anger on the tasks given.
He didn't respect any of 'em though.
He came to respect another man. Rick.
Rick did the same — he guided Daryl, directed him, handed out jobs to complete and shot him down with sharp words when Dixon got a stupid idea in his head or tried to take down one of the living. He kept Daryl level-headed and in-check, deeming him safe for the group.
Now with everyone parting ways and having separate lives, Daryl is left without a head collar.
Rumple— Gold, is a completely different story. He isn't concerned about Dixon's lash-outs like Rick was, he doesn't try to quench every single one of them. Somehow, the man knows just when he needs to put a foot down on Daryl's throat and say stop, and when he needs to let him steam-out. He doesn't dehumanize and insult him like Merle and Da did, and he doesn't always give him a task to complete.
He just takes him, shoves him rough and hard, grabs him, leaving dark bruises on Daryl's skin, and yanks his head up by the hair at the nape of his neck. And then he inflicts pain, one stinging bite after another, letting Daryl growl and clutch at the surface all he wants and taking full control over his body, making his boiling thoughts go numb and focus on the pain. In those moments Daryl doesn't need to decide, doesn't need to think nor act, doesn't need to feel. He can let himself go without fear, entrusting the man bearing down hits on his back with his life.
The dried tears pull taut at the skin of his cheeks, but it's a mild irritation. After another sniff he takes a step forward and slowly gets down on his haunches. The stupid phone isn't vibrating anymore, but the screen is blinking with missed calls.
— Five, huh? That desperate? — His voice is fucked up from holding in the sobs and the screams, but he doesn't give a damn. Seems like everything about him is fucked up these days.
Actually, the only times he can recall when he's o'k is whenever the stupid prick's around.
He's almost scared of picking the phone up off the floor, like it's gonna burn him, or eat him alive.
He doesn't want to talk about his feelings. He can't. He doesn't know how, so this stupid machinery is useless.
Daryl steels himself and lets out a sigh.
He's got to stop running someday. Maybe, just maybe — now is exactly the time to start. What's he to say?
— Fuck..
Swallowing the thickness on his tongue, Dixon closes his pale blues and exhales.
All he's gotta do is call. Tell him where he is, yeah?
And then Gold will take it from there. Everything following the call — the likely screaming, the door banging and yelling of "Daryl, let me in" — everything will be entrusted into the hands of that man. Everything will be released in exact measures, bent, contained, fixed by the man. Everything will be scripted to make the emotional pain go away, to make him feel better.
All Daryl's gotta do is pick up the phone and call. He can stop running in both directions. He can give in and give up his decision into the other's hands. He can let himself be guided. Directed.
All he's gotta do is call.
Without thinking, Daryl presses the speed-dial and watches as "Old creep" flashes across the screen before he hears the dial-up tone.
On the count of two he hears "Daryl?", and lets go