Note: Daryl's POV of seeing Pheonyx for the first time. I'm excited to give a description of Pheonyx's tattoos and give a fuller description of him. Meanings of them will be described throughout the story. Also, some of Daryl's thoughts are transphobic(thoughts about body shape or features indicating gender, etc), but he also doesn't have experience with trans people outside of just being aware they exist. It will take time for him to relearn what he knows but he will! This chapter was really long so I had to split it in two. Also, the self-deprecation and internal homophobia hurt me to write. Poor Daryl

Chapter CW/TW: internal homophobia, unintentional transphobia, descriptions of past abuse, tattoos, self-deprecating thoughts, denial of sexuality?(not sure how to word that)

DARYL'S POV

When he pulled up in front of the picturesque farm house, he hadn't expected…. Well, he hadn't expected him. The old man, the older woman, the girl who had brought Lori to the farm, and even the two teens. They fit perfectly in front of the white house with the wrap around porch. They looked like the type of people who went to church every weekend with their pristine white clothes and floral dresses. The type of people who would preach love and acceptance but would be spreading hateful rumors during the church potluck. The same people who turned their noses down at him and Merle, when they were kids, just because they were related to Will Dixon. But the man standing on the porch definitely did not fit that profile.

Leaning on the porch railing, a stocky hound mix standing at this side, was a man whose eyes radiated sorrow and hardship despite their steely edge. Both emotions were in ready supply since the world ended but this was different. With most people, their grief could be seen on the surface of their eyes. It was a recent pain for most of them, the ones in his group especially, because they hadn't experienced loss or extreme austerity until a few months ago. This man's pain was soul deep. Only someone who had lived through something terrible had eyes like his. They were haunted. Eyes that had obviously seen darkness in the world, whether it be recently or before the veil of normalcy was lifted when the dead rose. Daryl would know. He saw the same thing whenever he looked in the mirror. He saw it in his brother's eyes as well. It wasn't just the man's gaze that made him noticeable, though. It was his appearance, too.

When Daryl first saw the tattooed man, he had to take a second to appraise him. His mind wanted to say this person was a girl. He had a softness to his curves and his face that hinted at femininity. The gray tank top he wore clung to his sides and silhouetted a slight hourglass shape that most men didn't typically possess. As he started walking down from the porch, though, Daryl threw that notion out the window. This person was all male. There was no sway to his hips, like most girls Daryl had met, and his overall gait just emanated masculinity. His mannerisms reflected this. He placed himself slightly in front of his group, specifically the girl with short brown hair, and had his hand planted on the gun at his side. He was tense, and ready to protect these people with his life. The women Daryl had been around, before and after the world went to shit, didn't stand like that. All of this had him concluding that this person was wholly male.

He looked to be just a couple inches shorter than Daryl's 5 '10 " height with short, thick brown hair that was streaked with blonde from long hours in the sun. His skin reflected this and was tanned to a nice golden tone. The softness of his face made him look like he was no older than 16. But Daryl knew with professional tattoos like the ones adorning his arms, he would have had to be at least eighteen to get them at a tattoo shop. He looked young but Daryl's instincts told him that the man was in his late 20's. The gray tank top he wore was clean but the jeans were worn from work and frequent wear. Knees torn and stained brown from dirt. The other people were all unarmed but this man had several weapons on his person. A curved, thin sword of some type was encased by an obviously homemade sheath. The leather was sewn together with care and looked soft even from a distance. A handgun was holstered on the other hip with a hunting knife next to it. He also had a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. Shoulders that were adorned with beautiful artwork.

These tattoos weren't the type that most of the people he knew had. They weren't shitty pieces done by scratchers in dirty trailers. Hell, even a few of his own were pieces like that. Bad decisions made while drunk, under pressure from his brother, or just plain youthful stupidity. The man's tattoos would have taken dozens of hours of work and months of healing. There was thought put into each, as they blended seamlessly with each other. As Daryl got closer, and the man moved to stand next to the girl that took Lori to the farm, he was able to decipher each one. On one arm, a large medusa was depicted in a gothic style. The snakes of her hair wrapped around his bicep, almost slithering with each movement of his muscles. One trailed up his shoulder and over his neck until the flicking tongue was just under his ear, almost as if the reptile was whispering secrets to him. The once-priestess's eyes were completely black with lightning-like lines spreading from the voids. The only speck of color in the tattoo was the pomegranate that Medusa held in her hands. Blood seeped from the seeds and down into the tattoo on his forearm. The crimson drops trailed down the branches of a lifeless oak tree. The thin branches were all black and cracked, scratchy in style, leading to the twisted trunk that was covered in knots. Dead brown leaves hung loosely on some of the branches. At the base, the roots wrapped around his wrist, like a morbid bracelet. Like the Medusa tattoo, there was only one speck of bright color; a green oak leaf connected to a small acorn that was falling to the ground near the roots. The lines of the roots of the tree lead into the snarling wolf face on his hand, bright blue eyes seeming to glow from his skin.

On his other arm, his hand had a skull that was shaped from smoke, all of the lines wispy and gray. The eye sockets were the same bright blue as the eyes of the wolf on his other hand. The smoke it was created from was coming from a geometric gothic style dragon that wrapped around his forearm like a snake. The scales of the body were made up of triangles and diamond shapes, almost like a creepy dot-to-dot piece. Smoke was leaving its mouth and, along with his hand, the smoke led into the tattoo on his bicep. The muscled upper arm was decorated with a realistic scene fit from a dark storybook. Almost like a scene from the Rapture, red fire and smoke rose from the earth. Dead bodies littered the ground, swords through some, others broken like dolls. Creatures that looked like demons, their eyes an even brighter red than the flames in the background, were feasting on the corpses depicted on his arm. High in the clouds on his upper shoulder, an "angel" was looking down, as if watching the carnage unfold. But, to Daryl, the "angel" looked no better than the creatures on the ground. Its wings were black and broken. The feathers were patchy and some areas were bald. The gown the "angel" wore was torn and looked as if it was blowing in the wind. And the eyes. Its eyes were completely black. Fangs were descended from lips that smirked at the slaughter it was witnessing. Daryl wondered if there was any certain meaning behind the tattoo, because it was eerie. He wondered what emotions or events could inspire such an image. There were more dark lines on his chest that peeked from underneath the collar of the shirt he wore. But Daryl couldn't make out what they were. All of the tattoos on his skin were masterpieces and evoked intense feelings from him. He tried to convince himself that that was the reason his eyes kept traveling over the man's form. It definitely wasn't the lean muscles that roped over his body. Or the way his skin glistened with a small amount of sweat from the blistering heat. Or the way his green eyes reminded Daryl of the woods he always found a home in. Or the way the jeans he was wearing encased perfect thig-

As he was appraising the other man, light green eyes locked with his own and he had to suppress the shiver that went down his spine. A breeze must have been blowing through and cooled the sweat on his skin. That was the only obvious reason for his reaction. He wasn't gay or bisexual or whatever else. True, he found some men attractive, but most men did. Didn't they? And while he rarely felt sexually attracted to women, he still did on occasion feel it. He wasn't a virgin, he had had hookups with women in the past, so he was obviously straight. He hadn't slept with or kissed a guy so he obviously wasn't gay. In truth, Daryl had thought about it though. There were times where he wanted to do those things with other men. In those moments though, he could hear the raging voice of his father in his mind. He knew if Will Dixon had ever suspected that Daryl held carnal feelings for other men, that he wouldn't live to see another day. He suspected the same for his brother. The Dixon brothers cared for each other and would die for one another. But Daryl knew that Merle was more like his father than he wanted to admit. Growing up, Daryl had learned to tune out his father's prejudiced rants–mostly about black people but his father hated anyone who wasn't a white straight male– but Merle had soaked in all the hate. Daryl always suspected it was because his brother wanted to connect with their dad in some way that didn't involve a leather belt. Merle may have hated the man, but inside he was still a little boy that was vying for his father's affections. And as he grew older, Merle used those hateful words their father used, to push people away. It was better to be alone than to have someone in your life that might hurt you in the future. Daryl did the same thing, but in a different way. He just avoided people. It was isolating at times, but usually he had his brother to fill the void of loneliness. When he was angry or wanted to keep people from getting closer, his anger would get the better of him and he would lash out. He always hated himself in those moments. Because it wasn't his words coming out of his mouth, it was his father's. The same cruel rhetoric, that damaged his heart growing up, was a weapon he used when he felt cornered. Like a wounded animal fighting tooth and nail to survive.

Those moments aside, he tried to be everything his father wasn't. So, he tried to avoid the prejudices he grew up with as much as he could. He had no problems with people of other races and he felt that other people's genders/sexualities weren't any of his business. If anyone had bothered to ask, he would have told them that. But often people's views of him were colored by his brother and father. They were racist, homophobic, xenophobic, transphobic, and sexist, so Daryl must be as well. While he missed his brother, part of him hoped that now the group would see him outside of his brother's shadow.

Having been lost in his own thoughts, Daryl almost missed the conversation between Dale, Lori, and Rick. Thankfully, Carl would be okay. A slight bit of relief filled his body. They had one kid missing, they didn't need another to be on his deathbed. Truthfully, he liked the little guy. Of all the kids at the Quarry, Carl was never afraid to greet Daryl and his brother. He would often ask incessant questions about what they were doing and ask them to teach him how to hunt and skin animals. Merle would try to scare the kid away but Carl wasn't easily swayed. Daryl had been tempted to teach the kid some survival skills but his mother's reaction whenever she saw Carl near the Dixons was enough to put that idea to bed. She would immediately drop whatever she was doing and come pull the boy away, muttering apologies for bothering the men. Lori babied the boy and Daryl knew she would never allow the kid anywhere near a knife to skin animals. Let alone spend hours alone in the woods with two rednecks. Otherwise he might have considered it. The kid was smart and he had a fire in his eyes that piqued Daryl's curiosity. The idea of that flame being burnt out made him feel nauseous.

Rick told the group that Shane was responsible for saving the boy's life, and everyone gave him nods of appreciation. Daryl narrowed his eyes though. Something was off about the man now. Baggy clothing and buzzcut aside, something had changed in the man since he last saw him. Shane was a narcissist with a savior complex and normally ate up any praise or gratitude thrown his way. But now, he turned his head and avoided eye contact with everyone. Daryl couldn't help but notice the way the tattooed man's nose scrunched up slightly at the praise being directed towards Shane. He wasn't the only one who noticed Shane's odd behavior.

"We owe a lot to Pheonyx too. He donated blood. Gave Carl time until Shane could get back with the supplies.", Rick said and looked at the man Daryl was captivated by earlier. He saw the man stiffen and drop his gaze to avoid the curious looks from the rest of the group. It was something Daryl often did.

Pheonyx, Daryl thought and ran his gaze over the man again. While Daryl never finished high school, he had been an attentive student when he was able to attend. He vaguely remembered the lessons on Greek mythology from his freshman English class. In the stories, the phoenix was a singular bird, only one existing at a time. Every 500 years, the bird would make itself a nest and die in a burst of flames. From the ashes, a new bird would emerge. While his teacher insisted that the phoenix was a symbol of immortality and resurrection, to Daryl, the bird was a symbol of survival, hope, and rising above death. With eyes traveling over Pheonyx, he concluded that the name suited him. The weapons, his protective stance, the look of emotional scarring in his eyes. Pheonyx was a survivor. Like Daryl, he was made for the world as it was now.

The group exchanged hugs of relief with Rick and Lori. While Daryl was happy that Carl was okay, he simply gave a nod to Rick to show his support. Hugs weren't his thing. Touching in general wasn't his thing to be honest. Growing up, the only touches he ever received were followed by pain. Now it was something he expected. A slight brush as someone walked by and suddenly he was on the floor of their dirty trailer. His shirt torn, blood running down his back, while his father stood over him holding his belt. That same belt that he saw every night in his dreams.

Daryl was pulled from his nightmares by the feeling of a warm, vibrating body pressing into his leg. Looking down, he saw the happy face of the hound mix that was at Pheonyx's side a few moments ago. He had always loved animals, dogs especially. With an abusive father and a –mostly catatonic– alcoholic mother, pets were never in the cards for him though. But he did remember playing with the stray dogs in the neighborhood, sneaking them bits of food, and offering them offal from his hunts when he got older. Hounds were a common find where he grew up. Most men had them for hunting. Daryl guessed this pup was a Bluetick mixed with a Bully breed. His coloring was typical of that type of hound, from his speckled white fur to the lining of brown around the large black spots that encompassed his ears and eyes. Floppy ears aside, the rest of the dog's body was all Bully. He was stocky with thick muscle and a brick-shaped head. The dog had to weigh at least 70 lbs, mostly muscle. Daryl felt his heart hurt as he noticed the old scars littering the hound's body. Patches of fur were missing around old cuts all over his frame and the tips of his ears were ragged from torn skin. Too many injuries to just be from fights with other dogs. Someone had hurt this dog a long time ago. To some, he might seem scary. The scars, his size, and his breed. But Daryl could see a heart of gold in his brown eyes. Despite the obvious pain in his past, the dog had greeted everyone with love and affection. He was a survivor. Just like his owner, if Daryl's instincts were correct.

A small smile wisped over his lips and he dropped a hand down for the dog to sniff. His already-wagging tail began to swish faster and he pressed himself closer to Daryl's leg, making the man vibrate from all the wiggling. A soft blocky head pressed into his calloused fingers and he scratched the dog behind his ears. Feeling eyes on him, Daryl lifted his head and caught Pheonyx's green eyes looking between him and the dog. A plump bottom lip was caught between white teeth and Daryl felt heat rise in his body. Obviously from the ascending temperatures outside. Not from any sort of attraction to the other man. Pheonyx averted his eyes when Daryl's eyes met his, a blush spreading over his cheeks. The younger man was obviously feeling the effects of the Georgia heat too. Because there was no way a man like him could find Daryl attractive. Daryl was…well Daryl. A no-good, old redneck with the emotional range of a can opener. No one would ever want him. His old man made sure to tell him that all the time growing up.

Hershel, the doctor who owned the farm, announced that they were having a service for a man named Otis, who had died helping Shane get the medical supplies to save Carl's life. Daryl watched as Pheonyx called the dog over to him, using a distinct three note whistle. A few steps behind the others, the pair followed the other members of the farm towards a thick patch of trees a distance from the house.

To be honest, Daryl would have preferred to not attend the small service. For one, he needed to be out searching for Sophia. The girl was going on day three of being missing and he was worried about how well she was fairing in the wilderness. He still wholeheartedly believed she was alive, but without water and no food, she would be getting weak. If she did find a water source, it might not be clean. She might eat berries that were poisonous. The possibilities were endless. Secondly, Daryl was uncomfortable around strong emotions like grief. He didn't know how to respond. Especially when people cried.

But this man had sacrificed his life to save Carl's. The least he deserved was the presence of Carl's group at his service. Daryl may have felt like he didn't exactly qualify as part of the group, but he still found himself staring as the strangers placed stones on top of a pile of rocks that was erected as a memorial to Otis. Hershel read from the Bible as everyone took turns placing their stones on the memorial. Daryl stood at the back, facing towards the members of the farmhouse. He would never admit it, but his eyes kept drifting to the face of one certain person. Pheonyx was also distanced from his family. He had his arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps become more defined and the snakes on his upper arm danced at each movement. The other man's eyes, that looked at everything but the service in front of him, radiated grief, but only internally. Outwardly, his body radiated strength and composure. It was a coping mechanism that Daryl was all too familiar with.

Hershel asked Shane to share Otis's last moments, and Daryl saw the cop tense up and mutter something about not being good at speaking. He avoided eye contact with all the Greene's. The older woman, who Daryl assumed was Otis's wife, insisted on Shane speaking. She wanted confirmation that her husband's death had meaning. It took a moment but Shane began to speak, sharing his story of what happened at the FEMA center. As he spoke, Daryl knew why Pheonyx had reacted oddly earlier when Rick praised Shane for saving Carl. He wasn't the best at reading people, he often tended to lean towards the idea that all people were bad, but he did know when people were lying. It was an unfortunate side effect of having a mother, father, and brother that were addicts in some form or another. The story was embellished with the heroics of the dead man but Daryl knew something else had occurred at the school. Something Shane was leaving out. Daryl watched Pheonyx's face scrunch up into a sneer for a brief moment and his fists clenched, making the muscles of his arm tighten. As quick as it came, the look on his face was gone, and he continued to stare out into the field, avoiding the grief radiating from his family. After Shane finished his tall tale, the group bowed their heads for a moment of silence. Daryl followed suit but he kept his eyes up, watching as Pheonyx moved forward to pick up a stone from the wheelbarrow next to the memorial. He gripped it in his hand for a moment, staring at the hard object, before gently placing it onto the memorial. As if he transferred all of his grief into the dirty rock, Pheonyx's muscles lightened at the loss of it in his hand. He stood there for a moment before backing away. Watching the man intently, Daryl would have given anything to know what he was thinking in those moments.