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Current Episode: 2.9 Triggerfinger, in which Daryl decides he's done looking for people.
Don't Cross the Road if You Can't Get Out of the Kitchen
By: Syntyche
Triggerfinger
When Shane found out from Carol that Daryl had let Lori go off searching for Rick alone, he knew it was time to pay that stupid redneck fucker another visit. After he'd had to lie to Lori to get her back to the farm, and then made the horrible mistake of mentioning the baby in front of Carl, Shane's anger was boiling over, and the second Dale and Andrea had led a faltering Lori into the house, Shane headed out back, out to the old crumbling brick chimney and the place Daryl had made for himself there away from the others.
The fact that Daryl was probably still smarting from their last private encounter did little to dissuade Shane; in fact, it angered him even more. Stupid fucking redneck needed to fucking stay in line and quit being such a pain in the ass: between his riling up people into believing Sophia was still alive, and then moving off to camp out here alone like a little sulking baby once they'd discovered that Sophia was most certainly not alive, it was all Shane could do to keep himself from lining Daryl up right next to Rick and taking them both out.
Goddamn, he wished he hadn't taken those days at the quarry for granted: no Rick, and Merle at least had kept his little brother in line. Shit, Shane had had it fucking easy and he hadn't even realized it.
Daryl's stupid little camp pissed him off. His stupid clothesline and his stupid squirrels and those stupid goddamn Walker ears he'd been wearing that day he should have died from the fall into the ravine or the almost impossible climb back out - but instead had staggered back to camp where he should have died from Andrea's bullet - and Shane cursed Andrea's inability to make a decent headshot; somehow the fact that she'd clipped the guy was even worse than not hitting him at all - but, no, Shane had seen Daryl's scars that day and knew immediately that Daryl Dixon was a survivor, and indeed had continued to survive his way into being the biggest pain in Shane's ass the former cop had ever had to deal with.
Fucking redneck.
Even in the low light of the fire Shane could see the blank, almost hollow look on Daryl's face; the look of someone so utterly lost didn't suit the brash hunter, but Shane didn't particularly care. He'd barely had time to duck behind a tree to avoid Carol as she'd stumbled back toward their camp, hand pressed against her mouth and eyes red and damp. Why the hell she bothered to try and reach someone as angry and foul as Dixon Shane couldn't begin to guess: by all rights she should despise everything about the man, not in the least the childish naïve hope he'd buoyed her up with while he'd kept up his pointless waste of searching for her lost daughter and hadn't even had the decency to get himself killed while doing it.
The fact that he'd been riling Carol up, pissed Shane off even more, if possible.
A hundred things to say all on the tip of his tongue, and he found himself staring silently down at the hunter as the other man poked at the dying fire. He knew that Dixon knew he was there so he waited, and sure enough, Daryl glanced up at him, raised an eyebrow mockingly, and looked back into the fire.
"Anything you want to say in your defense?" Shane finally asked, and he locked a grim smile behind his teeth as he moved to tower over the seated man and Daryl flinched back reflexively. Shane didn't know what had happened between Carol and Daryl, but whatever it was had clearly unhinged Dixon a little and Shane was glad for the edge.
Daryl snorted softly, fists clenching and unclenching, breathing picking up speed as he shifted restlessly in an attempt to cover his shying away, but it was too late; Shane had already locked onto his unease and was fully prepared to exploit it to his advantage. "I don't owe you or anyone anything," Daryl said, and there might have been an attempt to sound angry but in truth the man just sounded exhausted; Carol must have really run his stunted emotions through the ringer. Shane was viciously glad for it, hoped Carol had torn him to shreds because Shane certainly wasn't above stomping out here and tramping on the redneck's tattered remains.
Shane glared pointedly at Daryl, his hands going to his belt as he slowly worked the heavy buckle. Daryl's eyes tracked his movements, and he couldn't stop the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes or the sudden choke of fear that hitched his breath. Shane knew where the ropy scars hidden by Daryl's sleeveless shirt had come from, and his belt felt weighted in his hands as he slid it from his belt loops, folded it over, gave a snap! that sounded way too loud in the very still air.
Daryl glared at him defiantly, and Shane relished the fear there; Dixon was a fighter, yeah, but he was still wounded, still battered, and still no match for Shane even on a good day. "I didn' tell her to go off on her own, that was her own stupid fault," Daryl snarled, a near-frantic whine in his undertone, and Shane saw red. Not only because Dixon was right, but because Lori had gone to Daryl, hadn't come to him, didn't trust him, didn't want his help. Hell, he'd had to lie to her to get her back and now she hated him even more for that.
And that was before he'd let slip about the baby.
He saw Daryl tense up, knew he was expecting the blow.
Knew Daryl wouldn't fight him because they both knew he deserved it.
"You're so fucking lucky she's okay," Shane spat, "or I would have killed you right here."
"You could try," Daryl growled, but there was no spark in his eyes, no fire left. There hadn't been since Sophia had walked out of that barn.
Shane's hands were around Daryl's neck before even either of them really knew it, applying pressure, squeezing just right. Daryl's eyes widened, his own hands automatically lifting to Shane's arms to pry them away but the attempt was half-hearted - the redneck's instinct to live hadn't kicked in yet - but Shane batted him away, pinioning his wrists with one hand tightly while keeping his grip locked around Daryl's throat. Daryl was strong, wiry, but his injuries and the walloping Shane had given him before had taken a toll and he didn't much have the energy to do a whole lot of fighting back.
"I could kill you right now," Shane hissed, almost nose-to-nose with the gasping redneck. Spit from his angry words peppered Daryl's face. "End your useless life right now and save us all from your fucking stupidity."
"Then fuckin' do it," Daryl spat back at him, writhing and squirming. "Gotta keep your murder streak alive, I guess, if'n you can't get ahold of Rick next,"
Shane smashed his teeth together with a crack as he went cold with fury; he pulled Daryl forward and then slammed him back against the crumbling stone chimney, once, twice, again and again until Daryl's head lolled against his chest or snapped back with each impact. The man's lips were turning blue by this point and fresh spots of red dotted the back of his shirt where jagged rocks had cut into the raised flesh of his back, and he wasn't fighting back at all much any more.
"You don't know shit," Shane bit out feverishly, shaking the limp man like a rag doll. "You're just a stupid, worthless redneck who should have moved on a long time ago." He was a little disappointed by the lack of fight Daryl put up, but he knew the man's self esteem was so low he probably believed every word Shane said. Shane twisted the knife a little deeper, pouring his rage, his anger, his frustration into each word. His belt was in the dirt and he snatched it up, dragged it down the side of Daryl's face, twitched it just under a small scar that marred Daryl's cheek. "You just Lori go off on her own, to face walkers and whatever else? Her life is worth ten - a hundred times what yours is, and you just let her go?" Shane shook his head slowly, a disappointed parent, a punishing father, disbelief washing over him in cold waves. "Well, let me tell you something, you fucking son of a bitch: Lori is pregnant, you asshole, and if anything happens to that baby because of you, I'll do worse than kill you, I swear."
A brief flash of emotion stabbed through Daryl's eyes - panic, regret, shame - but then the icy blue eyes unfocused, rolling in their sockets and Shane realized he'd increased the pressure more than he'd intended and the redneck was about to pass out. He eased his grip a fraction and Daryl drew in a few harsh, grating breaths on instinct that were painful to hear, like glass grinding out from his bruised throat.
"What do you want from me?" Daryl finally rasped out, panting and limp and near as defeated as Shane had ever seen him. "If you're gonna kill me, jus' do it."
Shane clicked his tongue, frowned as his mind raced ahead to the implications of actually murdering Dixon before he decided it was too much of a risk. "Too good to sully my hands on your dirty blood," he murmured. He finally released Daryl's throat but leaned back so his weight rested on the other man's outstretched legs, keeping him pinned - not that Daryl was struggling, he seemed to be having enough trouble just getting his breath back - toying with the thick leather belt in his hands. Daryl, he noticed, couldn't keep his widened eyes off of it though he glared at Shane fiercely, ignoring the discomfort of freshly opened wounds trickling weaving drops of crimson down his back, ignoring the disconcerting feeling of the droplets sliding down his scars like a trench.
"You think you're too good to be an errand boy?" Shane finally said lowly, "Well, that's exactly what you're going to be. I need something, you do it. Lori wants anything from you, you do it. Without question."
"Sure," Daryl snarked sarcastically. "You think I'm gonna roll over for you, you got another think coming,"
Shane thrust forward so his lips brushed Daryl's ear, his weight bearing down and trapping the scrabbling man's hips in the dirt. "You don't, and I'll roll you over myself. I'm sure you miss the feeling now that Merle's gone."
"You don' know what the fuck you're talking about," Daryl's stuttering gasp was all the confirmation he needed and Shane felt a swell of triumph that once might have been shame at what he was suggesting; now it only fed his desire to retain more of the control that had slipped away from him more every day since Rick had set foot in their camp in the quarry. He moved a hand to Daryl's chest, palm splayed against the redneck's sweaty skin, sneering at the vicious flinch from the man below him, the racing of his heart beneath Shane's fingers. The man was terrified, and it made Shane smile.
"Do we understand each other?" he asked softly and Daryl couldn't bring himself to meet the other man's eyes, the heels of his boots digging jerkily in the dirt as he struggled and panicked. Shane's free hand immediately wrapped itself Daryl's hair and he forced the man to look at him; he knocked Daryl's head against the stone chimney and the rest of the fight went out of the hunter but Shane's fists still itched, his anger still too at the forefront to be finished here just yet.
"I said, do we understand each other? We're going to look for Rick in the morning; I want you ready to go, no problems."
He left the redneck in a puddle of his own blood, painting the dirty ground red. He'd kept his face untouched; he knew Daryl wouldn't volunteer anything and he didn't want to give the others a reason to ask the recluse anything. His belt felt heavy in his hands, sticky with blood, and he made a mental note to clean it before morning.
When Daryl showed up at the house the next day wearing a long sleeved jacket to cover the new bruises, his attitude cautiously submissive toward Shane, Shane nodded in satisfaction.
Maybe the man wasn't completely worthless, after all.
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Next: Hershel patches Daryl up and gives him some advice Daryl isn't too keen on following.