A/N: Walking Saints has to be my favorite fandom ever!

Summary: After a job gone wrong, Murphy finds himself separated from his brother and his father. He is found by Merle and taken in as his 'brother' under the name Daryl Dixon. Now six years later, the world has gone to hell in a handbasket and the MacManus brothers meet again for the first time since their separation. Murphy has changed alot from the person his family members remember, but how much? And why?

Warnings: Twin-Telepathy; Empath! Murphy; AU! S3; Sharyl or Rickyl; Torture; Violence; Past-Noncon; OOC!ness; Mama! Daryl;

Note: I have about four different versions of this story in mind so I might write them all.

Chapter One

Run.

Find Cover.

Don't look back.

Murphy panted heavily as he ran, a white hot pain racing up his spine from a bullet wound in his side. Behind him were heavy footsteps, but he couldn't tell if it was Conner and their Da, or their pursuers. He didn't dare turn to find out. They'd been on one of their tougher jobs sent by one of Da's more obscure friends but the man had sold them out. Their targets had captured them but they'd managed to escape and he'd ended up getting separated from his family.

There was a shout from behind him and he forced himself to move faster, ignoring the black spots slowly clouding his vision. Then a gunshot sounded and he felt a brief burst of excruciating pain before he fell to the ground unconscious.

Connor wrung his hands worriedly as he paced in front of the twin beds in their motel room. Three hours had passed since their escape from the hands of the Mazurka mob and since Murphy had been separated from them and they had no idea what had happened to their youngest family member. They'd tried to go back for him an hour later but they'd had no luck.

He was gone.

He even tried to reach him through their link Murphy's side of the link had been silent, almost as if he were- no! He couldn't bear to think that. Murphy wasn't dead, he couldn't be. He refused to believe anything like that.

"What are we gonna do?" He asked his Da, who was sitting on the bed in front him with a blank expression. To anyone else it would look like he didn't care, but Connor knew it was just his father's way of dealing with things, especially emotional things. Murphy was closer to the man than he was and he knew that losing Murphy after only nine years of having them hurt him deeply. His Da looked up with the most heart breaking expression he'd ever seen on anyone other than his twin.

"I don't know."

Merle Dixon would be the first person to tell you that he was not a nice man. He wasn't kind, or caring in any shape, form, or fashion. He wasn't the kind of man to care about anyone, not with his upbringing. His father had been a very harsh man, cruel and abrasive and he had a multitude of scars attesting to this fact. However as soon as he laid eyes on the small kid being held captive by the Mazurka gang something in his heart awakened and he felt a wave of protective fury wash over him.

The boy was young, only in his late twenties or early thirties, and was chained to a pole in the corner of the room. His hair was matted down by blood and his naked frame was covered in many bruises and lacerations of different ages. On his back was a tattoo of Jesus' feet crucified and on his one visible forearm was a Celtic cross. The boy shivered violently where he lay, one hand clutching a black rosary in a white knuckled grip and eyes clenched shut.

Merle scowled and looked at Joseph Mazurka, the Don of the mob. He'd been working for the man for almost five years and he hated it. His father had owed Mazurka money and instead of paying he'd skipped town with some waitress he'd met in a bar leaving Merle to pay for his mistakes. It wasn't a job he enjoyed but it helped him get his shit free when he needed it so he stayed even after paying off his father's debt. Now, however his gut was telling him that his time serving Mazurka was over, and it was all because of that kid in the corner.

Mazurka, followed his gaze, glancing over at the boy with a smirk.

"Like him?"

"Who is he?"

"I believe he may be one of the Saints. One of my contacts set him and his partners up. We managed to catch them but they escaped. We only caught this one after we shot him. No matter what we do he just yells and curses at us. He refuses to talk."

Merle raised an eyebrow and looked over at the battered kid incredulously. This kid couldn't be one of the Saints of Boston. He was too frail, too innocent looking. One of the boy's eyes slid open and he found himself looking into a shockingly clear storm blue eye. A slow smile crossed those bloodless lips and he tilted his head slightly in Mazurka's direction. Merle's eyebrow rose higher and he hid a smile turning back to the Don in front of him, who was still talking.

"When he isn't yelling, he's praying or murmuring to himself. The bitch didn't even break when Tyson got him."

He shuddered at his words, stomach churning as he realized just where the blood on the kid's thighs came from.

Behind Joseph the kid slowly shifted into a sitting position, blood running freely down his wrists as he forced his hand from his handcuffs. Then in shaky movements he got to his feet and stumbled over to them, grabbing a gun from the Don's desk. Then, silent as a ghost he aimed the gun and shot him in the back of the head. Once he finished, he turned to Merle, gun raised defensively.

"Whoa, whoa kid. Names Merle, c'mon lower the gun. I 'on mean ya no harm."

The boy wavered on his feet, shivering with the cold but his eyes remained clear.

"M-Murphy." He responded. "Need ta find my brother n' my Da."

Merle nodded and held out his hand for the gun frowning when the kid flinched back violently, nearly falling on his ass.

"Calm down, Kid! Fucking Christ, ya act like I'm a kill ya or somethin'."

Tears welled in the boy's eyes and his grip on the gun tighten.

"Gotta find my brother! Gotta find Connor!" He screamed and the red-neck nodded slowly.

"Alright, Kid. Find yer brother, got it."

The younger man swayed for a moment, eyes going unfocused. Then with no warning he pitched forward, unconscious.

Merle caught him and removed the gun from his grip, heart clenching when he felt how light the brat was. He wrapped him in his over shirt and picked him up bridal style with a sigh.

What the hell did he sign up for?

He hurt.

He hurt all over.

His body throbbed and ached and there was a sharp pain in his backside from the five months he'd spent in the hands of Mazurka and his men, however from what he could feel his limbs were free. The cuffs that had been his constant companion during his captivity were gone. He groaned softly, shivering at the feel of a bed at his back and a warm, yet worn blanket wrapped around him snuggly.

He frowned, storm colored eyes fluttering open to meet a dirty white ceiling and worried grey-green eyes. He flinched and cowered back, taking stock of the man leaning over him.

He was an older man in his late forties or early fifties with stern roguish features and a large bulky muscled frame. He was tall, standing at least a head taller than Murphy's own slender 5'11 but from what he could feel from the man, he didn't want to hurt him. In fact, the man's emotions radiated warmth, concern and protective intent just like Connor. He blinked and gave him a tiny apologetic smile.

"Sorry."

The man shrugged. "Pro'ly shoulda guessed that ya woulda reacted that way, Tyson is a nasty sumbitch."

He flinched and sat up, not heeding his body's protests and looked at his new companion.

"Where's my brother n' my Da?"

The man, Merle, if his memory was correct, shifted uncomfortably and his emotions darkened into sympathy and dread. Panic rushed through him, his heart speeding up to nearly dangerous levels.

"Where are they?!" He screamed and Merle sighed.

"Kid...I found Mazurka's files and 'is contracts. Yer brother and yer Pa are dead."

Before he even managed to finish his sentence Murphy was shaking his head and struggling to get out of the bed. The older male grabbed his shoulders and forced him to lay back down, heart breaking as he felt the tremors wracking his slim frame.

"No." Murphy whispered, his voice broken. "They aren't- they can't be- no." Tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks and Merle sighed, pulling the younger man into his arms.

"Shit Kid, I'm sorry. I 'on know how ta help ya."

Wet storm colored eyes looked up at him, desperate and full of pain.

"What am I gonna do? They were all I had left."

The red-neck shifted, an idea slipping into his mind.

"How well can ya blend in?"

"Well enough ta get by." He responded his Irish accent gone and replaced by Merle's own southern drawl.

"People 'round here don' take too well to foreigners. If ya stay I'mma have ta change yer name. You c'n be my brother or sumthin'."

The man nodded slowly, running a finger over the tattoo on his right index finger.

"Okay."

"Alright then. From now on, yer Daryl. Daryl Dixon. Welcome to the family, lil brother."

The newly named Daryl Dixon stared at him for a moment, reeling from the turn of events...then he gave tiny smile.

Why did he have a feeling his life was about to get alot more interesting?

TBC...