I will be starting to tie chapters together now. For example, this chapter goes with Chapter 3 (of the Present time story), when Alice thinks about the past as she looks at Daryl's wings for the first time.

I remember watching, How Green Was My Valley
Then I was thinking, "How deep was the canyon that you came from?"
Television static was quite overwhelming
Was it because of the cabin, the candles in the wind?

We've done it for fun, we've done it for free
I showed up for you, you showed up for me
We did it for the right reasons
We did it for fun, we did it for free
When I was young 'til eternity
I'll do it for the right reasons

Yosemite by Lana Del Rey

Chapter 34 - Daddy Issues - 1999

From the moment you hear the knocking on your window, a sense of unease washes over you. This isn't the typical sound of a pebble tapping against the glass - but rather the unmistakable sound of someone's hand knocking on the glass. In a rush, you leap out of your bed and hurry to the window, pulling back the curtain to find Daryl's face peering back at you. He has already placed and scaled the ladder propped against the wall of your second-story bedroom, and the sight of his bloodied face causes your heart to leap into your throat as you urgently assist him inside.

"What's the matter?" he inquires, his gaze immediately drawn to the worry etched on your face, but it's as if with just a glance, he can sense that something else is bothering you - something that has been troubling you even before he came to your window.

"Me? What happened to your face?" you ask, instinctively reaching up to cradle his injured cheek. Daryl's eye is swollen, his chin marked with a bruise, and a small cut above his eyebrow is bleeding profusely. "Let me take a look, for heaven's sake," you scold him as he attempts to brush your hand away, inadvertently smearing the blood across his forehead and hairline.

"You tell me first, somethin' troublin' ya?" Daryl counters, his voice insistent yet vulnerable. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he searches your face for answers.

"Are you serious right now?" you ask incredulously, gently sweeping a few strands of hair away from his forehead and lifting his chin to better examine his injuries in the dim bedroom light. "I know you care about him, but I'll be honest, I'm really starting to dislike your brother," you confess softly, your hands returning to his cheeks, tenderly caressing them.

You've lost count of how many bruises you've kissed, or the times when you pretended not to see them when Daryl tried to hide them from you. You burn with frustration and anger every time you see a new bruise or scar. You're tired of the physical fights that Daryl and his brother engage in - the older Dixon often fueled by drugs and alcohol.

You know Daryl seeks solace in your presence whenever he's upset or hurt, regardless of the time, and all you can do is offer him that comfort. But you're almost there, just a few more months. You can't wait for the school year to end, so you can take him as far away as possible.

"It ain't my brother... I saw my old man today," he begins, his voice low. There's a pause as he just looks at your face, his eyes scanning like that's all he wants to see, yet his hands move up and down on your side reassuringly. "He came 'round the trailer lookin' for somethin' or another, reckon tryin' to get some cash from Merle. He tends to do that when he's short on funds, playin' the empty wallet card, and that's when things got heated between us."

Your eyebrow immediately shoots up. "He did this to you?" you ask, the irritation flipping to rage. "Did you fight back, Daryl?" He looks away from you with a sigh and steps out of your grasp, biting his nails.

"He's sick... all them booze and smokin' – two packs a day of them menthols – it's finally takin' its toll on him." he says, pacing around the room, his eyes looking around like he's never been there before. "What kinda man would I be if I went about punchin' on a sick old man?"

You let out a deep sigh, feeling a mix of emotions welling up inside you. You look at Daryl and realize that he's struggling with more than just physical pain. You can hear the sympathy in his voice, despite everything his father has done to him - beating him, neglecting him, and abusing him - there's still a part of him that sees him as his father.

"Daryl, you're not that scared little boy anymore," you whisper, walking toward him and wrapping your arms around his side. "You're not responsible for your father's actions. You have every right to defend yourself, and it's okay to say enough is enough, because if he can throw a punch, then he can take it." You know that your words echo your father's ideal, but you also know that they're true. You've felt the jagged scars on Daryl's back and seen the trauma that he's endured firsthand.

"I want to. I look at him, and all I can think 'bout is givin' his face a good bashin'," he says, and you can see the struggle on his face. "But he's barely holdin' on... I don't want to fuckin' kill him... I ain't lookin' to have that blood on my hands.

The world isn't fair.

Finally, he's at the age to fight back, strong enough to fight back, but here he is unable to do so, and again, he takes the beating from him. "It's alright, sweetheart," you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder where your lips are parallel. "Let me get the first aid kit, and I'll patch you up."

Your hand flexes as you walk to your bathroom and pull out the first aid kit from the cabinet underneath the sink. You know you can't fight his battles. All you can do is kiss his hurts, comfort him, and be that loving presence he never had. With that in mind, you wash your hands, preparing yourself to treat his wounds.

You find Daryl by the golden cage that holds your bird, Scarlet, his fingers sliding between the bars to pet her bright red feathers. "Come on, Dr. Dolittle, let's take care of that pretty face of yours, and then you can feed her treats," you say with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood as you walk over to your bed and place the kit on the nightstand.

Daryl lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes before begrudgingly making his way over to your bed and sitting down beside you. You immediately begin tending to the cut on his brow with a wet wipe in hand. All the while, you can feel the weight of his gaze upon you.

"So, are you gonna tell me what's wrong now, or what?" he asks, breaking the silence between you. You glance up from the cut, meeting his stare.

"It's not important," you reply, deflecting the question and focusing on your task. You don't want to add to his worries, especially when your problem seems so insignificant compared to the struggles he is facing. After all, you are coming from a place of privilege.

As you wipe the alcohol wipe over the cut, he flinches, but his focus remains on you. "It's plain as day written on your face, ya know. It gotchu you poutin' them pretty ass lips of yours," he teases, causing you to laugh despite yourself. As your gaze lands on his eyes, you feel a warmth inside you. You know his face so well, every contour, every curve, every inch of his being. Leaning in closer, you press your 'pouty' lips to his forehead, feeling the warmth of his skin against your lips.

"I got into Colombia - I receive my letter of acceptance today," you announce softly, pulling back and letting your smile grow wider. "It's a big deal for my family, especially for my dad. Being a legacy of Colombia, a second-generation alumnus, it means a lot to him."

Daryl pulls you closer, his eyes reflecting your happiness. "That's great news, ain't it? That's whatcha want?" he asks, seeking clarification.

You nod in agreement, but the joy in your heart is tinged with a hint of sadness. "Colombia is considered one of the best medical schools in the world," you sigh, fiddling with the bandage. "I applied for one of their undergrad internships - a cancer research program. It's highly competitive, and it's tough for fresh meat like me to get picked. They only have 12 seats available, and I got one of them."

Daryl's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and you can tell he isn't expecting that outcome. "Well, I always knew you're one smart cookie, no doubt about it!"" he says, pinching your cheeks playfully as you swat his hand away. "But why ain't you feelin' happy then?"

You bite your lip and apply the bandage to the cut above his eye, lost in thought. "Do you remember when you ask me what I want to do with my life - if I can do anything?" you recall a conversation you had during one of your library days.

Daryl nods, his eyes attentive. "Yeah, I remember. You said you wanna help folks."

You nod slowly, the weight of your father's words heavy on your mind. "But my father said no. Our family has a long-standing legacy of studying law and politics. It's his hope and dream for me to continue that tradition." After all, what are politicians if not modern-day mobsters and thieves?

"We sure do make a peculiar duo, don't we? Both dealin' with our fair share of daddy issues and whatnot." he replies, reaching for your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours, offering a reassuring gesture.

"Tell me about it," you sigh in response. The memory of your father's dismissive words echoes in your mind, but you know that dwelling on it won't change anything. With a resigned sigh, you close the first aid kit and begin tidying up the bloodied pads. You already know, sometimes, even the most exciting news can be overshadowed by the weight of expectations and tradition.

As you head towards the bathroom to put away the first aid kit, you pause by the nightstand and grab the small container that held your bird treats. Without a second thought, you toss it at Daryl as you pass him. He skillfully catches it mid-air, a curious expression on his face as he examines its contents.

Returning to the room, you find him standing in the corner near the golden birdcage hanging from the ceiling. A smile graces your lips as you join him, watching him imitate some sort of bird call, feeding your little red pet bird a peanut through the cage bars.

Lost in thought while observing him, Daryl suddenly speaks up. "No matter what he's sayin', I still think you should do it," he says, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to convey the importance of his words. "You can't go on livin' your life for other people. You gotta do what's right by you, even if it means hurtin' the people you love."

You smiled ruefully, understanding his sentiment all too well. "Are you going to take your own advice?" you tease gently.

Daryl's gaze drops to the floor as he fiddles with the peanut between his fingers. "You and I ain't the same," he whispers quietly. "You're like this bird," he gestures towards Scarlet in her cage, "with wings to take on the world, only to be trapped in a cage. I'm nobody... I ain't never had no wings."

A pang of sadness tugs at your chest as you look at your little bird, realizing that in some ways, she symbolizes you—a world full of possibilities outside, yet here she is, chirping away in her cage day after day. Stepping closer to Daryl, you wrap your arms around his waist.

"Someday," you whisper softly, "it will just be you and me. No one else will have a say in our lives, and you'll have your wings, and we can fly wherever we please. Just you and me."

You rise onto your tiptoes, closing the distance between you, and press your lips against his. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as he blindly places the treat container behind him, deepening the kiss. "I love you," he mumbles against your lips, one hand in your hair and the other firmly grasping your ass.

"Oh, really?" you tease, pulling back slightly. "How about I do that thing you like, but you have to make sure to stay quiet." You bite your lip, trying to stifle your laughter.

Daryl scoffs at your comment, shaking his head in disbelief. "Me? I gotta keep quiet 'cause I'm the loud one? You must be outta of your goddamn mind," he retorts, a playful glint in his eye. Unable to contain your laughter, you playfully push him back onto the bed, and he lands in a seated position. Both of you know well that you are the only noisy lover.

"Let's put that to the test then, hah," you challenge him, mischief shining in your own eyes. Kicking his legs apart, you give him a sultry look from under your lashes, pulling your hair back into a tighter ponytail as you slowly get onto your knees.

"Quiet as a mouse, understand?" you whisper, running your fingers up and down his thighs. He looks at you, his chest raising, his eyes trailing down to the low cut of your pajamas where a glimpse of your nipples pokes out. Leaning back, he grips the comforter tightly as you oh-so-slowly unbutton his jeans. The zipper comes undone with agonizing slowness, and you can feel his breath catch in his throat as you inch closer and closer to his growing arousal.

"You know, I used to fantasize about you right here in this bed, and I would touch myself," you whisper, wetting your lips as you pull him out of his pants. Your breath runs over his hardness, making him twitch with anticipation. "I would come right on my fingers, imagining your cock inside me," you continue, your words casting a spell that sends a rush of blood to his head, and his cock throbs in your hand.

He groans as you stroke him, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged. "You like that?" you ask, your voice husky. "You like knowing that I've been thinking about you like this? Knowing that almost every night I had my fingers buried inside me, dripping wet, just for you." You keep stroking him, relishing in how he responds to your touch, how pliant he is in your hands.

He nods, his eyes still closed. "Fuck," he whispers. "I came thinkin' of you long before you ever kissed me." His confession makes your heart skip a beat, your mind vividly picturing him pleasuring himself.

"Oh yeah? Then let me show you just how much I've been thinking about you," you say, your voice dripping with longing. "When I'm done, I want you to fuck me right here in this bed, just like how you imagined. I'll come around your cock, just like in my dreams."

With those words, you lean in closer and run your tongue over the head of his cock, making him gasp and arch his back. Then you take him into your mouth, sliding your lips up and down his length. He moans and thrusts his hips, and you revel in the knowledge that you are getting better at pleasuring him like this, unlike the first time.

Nightmares are often created in the depths of sleep, or so you believe. But for you, the nightmare begins the moment you are awakened. The last thing you remember is feeling warm and comfortable, nestled in the cocoon of your bed covers. Suddenly, a loud bang reverberates through the room as if something crashes onto the hard wooden floor. Your eyes snap open, and grogginess dissipates instantly as you jerk upright in bed, your heart pounding wildly.

As your eyes adjust to the bright morning light streaming through your window, you realize that your mother is standing in front of your door, staring at you with a mix of shock and horror. Following her gaze, you discover with a sinking feeling that Daryl is lying beside you in bed, gazing up at your mother with the same bewildered expression.

In this moment, it all comes crashing down upon you: Daryl hasn't made it out of your bed, even though he usually slips away before sunrise, but last night, you both stayed up, locked in each other's arms, doing filthy things to each other.

Before you can process this revelation, your mother's piercing scream shatters the stillness, slicing through the air like a gunshot.

"DAVE!" your mother screams at the top of her lungs. "DAVE!"

A surge of adrenaline courses through your veins as your body trembles uncontrollably. You scramble out of bed, but your feet get entangled in the sheets, causing you to tumble to the ground. In that split second, you realize that your mother is here for your monthly weigh-in, the bathroom scale on the ground by her feet confirms it.

"Mom, Mom, it's not what you think," you plead, grateful that you have at least put on your pajama top, even though you are still in your underwear. "Please, Mom, it's not what you think."

"Who the hell are you?!" your mother screams at Daryl, attempting to drag you out of the room. Panic is etched on her face, and you know her mind has wandered to some dark, terrible place. She is probably imagining the worst-case scenario, like someone breaking into your room at night. You fight against her, trying to cover her mouth to stifle the noise and prevent her from making a scene.

In your peripheral vision, you can see Daryl scrambling to put on his shirt and pants, which are strewn somewhere on the floor.

"DAVE!" You hear your mother's voice echoing in the hallway as she scrambles out of the room in fear, pulling you along in the process. Breaking free from her grasp with a forceful tug, you dash toward Daryl, grabbing him by the back of his shirt to stop him from escaping through the window he has entered.

"No, no, no, you can't go back out that way," you urgently tell him. "You have to go through the front door, or my father will shoot you. If you go out that way, you'll be confirming that you broke in." You know that Daryl doesn't know much about your father beyond surface-level knowledge and some of your personal feelings. Your hand trembles as you hold his cheeks, your eyes wide with fear.

"Listen, whatever happens out there, just stay quiet, understand?" you plead, your words leaving your mouth in gasps. "Don't look him in the eye and do as he says, okay? Please, Daryl, I'm begging you, do NOT provoke him."

The sound of a shotgun being cocked echoes through the house, and your heart skips a beat. Trying to remain calm is difficult when faced with the prospect of your father's temper. You know things can escalate quickly, but nonetheless, you put on your pajama pants swiftly and ready yourself.

With Daryl's hand in yours, you step out of the room. Your mother stands in the hallway, her eyes red and her breathing shallow. She watches as you lead Daryl out, and you can see the way she looks at him—as if he were some sort of degenerate who has violated her home.

You know this is your fault.

You have allowed him to visit repeatedly, until it became a habit. Why didn't you stop it? You knew there was a possibility he could get caught. You had warned him about it the first time he stayed. You knew the consequences, but he didn't—not like you did, anyway.

"What's going on?!" your father's booming voice echoes through the house as he calls out, rushing up the stairs two steps at a time. Your mother's hand reaches out for you again, grasping your shirt and pulling you forward toward her. You try to break free, but you can feel the tension building as your father's footsteps grow louder.

Then there he is, his face wild as he scans his wife to make sure she is alright. Then he turns—David Hart is face to face with Daryl Dixon.

"Who are you?" David demands, his deep voice rumbling, his eyes locking onto Daryl. He scrutinizes him slowly, taking in every detail, from the bruises and cuts on his face to his well-worn clothes. The tension in the room feels palpable, like a physical touch, and the hair on your arms stands on end.

"Dave, he was in her room," your mother accuses, pointing her finger at Daryl. "God, he was in there with my little girl," she cries out, her voice shrilling with panic.

As the tension in the room intensifies, you realize that you must intervene before the situation escalates. You swallow hard, taking a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, and step forward to explain the situation to your father.

"Dad, please listen to me. It's not what you think, really—" you begin, but your father cuts you off with a raised finger. He moves that same finger in a slow shooing manner, but his unflinching gaze remains fixed on Daryl.

"Do NOT make me repeat myself," he says to Daryl in a cold, calculated tone, enunciating each word with precision.

Your father's voice seems to incite something in Daryl, as he raises his eyes that he has been keeping low to the ground. "Daryl," he whispers, his voice rough, as he looks your father dead in the eyes.

It feels like a challenge your father takes with ease. He lowers the gun and takes slow steps forward, invading Daryl's personal space. Your father's tall stature towers over him, as he does with everyone else.

As David's hand moves, you brace yourself for a blow, but instead, he pats Daryl down. Daryl doesn't flinch or move, his eyes just follow your father's every movement. He reaches into Daryl's pocket, pulling out his Velcro wallet.

He studies the wallet for a moment, opening it and scrutinizing its contents carefully. "Daryl Dixon, 18 years old," he mutters as he reads the ID. "Did you break into my house, boy?" Your father's voice softens, but it sends chills down your spine. "Do you even have the slightest inkling of whose house this is?"

"Dad, please believe me, I swear he didn't break in," you speak up, your voice cracking, as you step forward, trying to defend Daryl. You can feel your mother's nails digging into you, trying to hold you back. "I swear, I let him in. I invited him here."

"Then why is he in your bed naked?" your mother interjects. "Dave, he was in her bed with barely any clothes on."

You stare at your mother, wide-eyed and bewildered. You shake your head feverishly as it dawns on you—she thinks that Daryl has forced himself on you or tricked you in some way. She sees you as her innocent daughter who still sleeps in her pink bedroom and needs the protection of your father.

The atmosphere in the room shifts almost instantly. "You let him..." your father begins, but your mother's words seem to register with him. You can see the change in him, realizing that perhaps it was a scared tactic before, but it is no longer the case now. "Did you touch my daughter?! DID YOU TOUCH MY DAUGHTER?!" he bellows, raising the gun back with the barrel of the shotgun aimed squarely at Daryl's head, pushing into him.

A surge of panic and desperation overwhelms you as you throw yourself forward, slapping the gun away, positioning yourself between Daryl and David. Tears start to fall as you stare at the blurry vision of your father. "Please, Dad, I love him!" you plead, your voice loud but breaking. "Yes, he was in my bed! But he is my boyfriend, Dad, and I love him, I really love him!"

Your words hang in the air, as well as the moment. Your father's expression flickers, a mix of surprise and anger contorting his face, before morphing into a glare woven into rage and disappointment in a way you have never seen before.

"Lo and behold, the sheer audacity of my daughter to stand here and tell me that you willingly allowed some lowly redneck to touch you, in my home, under MY roof?!" he roars at you, while your mother stares at you in shock. You can do nothing but stare back, the tears streaming down your chin like rain, realizing how disrespected he must be feeling.

A brief moment of stillness fills the space, the tension akin to a storm on the verge of unleashing its lightning strike. And then it happens—a whoosh—as your father's hand connects with your cheek, the force of the slap leaving you reeling and your ears burning.

As you stumble to the side, Daryl catches you. It's almost an instinctive reaction as he steps up towards your father with a menacing growl. You don't think he would actually swing at him, but the intention is there. "Daryl, no!" you plead, desperation in your voice, gripping onto his shirt. Your ears still ring from the shock of the slap, and you can feel your father's anger radiating from him like heat.

"Did my senses deceive me, or did you dare step up to me?" he demands, his words dripping with malice. His question lingers in the air, challenging Daryl to defy him. The hallway falls silent, your father's expression turning dark and dangerous as he firmly grips the weighty threat of the gun in his hand. "What exactly do you intend to do? Come on then, proceed," he taunts. The weight of his question presses against your chest, the surroundings seemingly closing in around you.

You are aware that Daryl doesn't scare easily; and his voice remains firm as he pushes you further out of harm's way, his clenched fist showing his restraint. "Don't do that," he warns your father, speaking up for the first time. "If you wanna punch someone, then go right ahead and swing it at me. If blood's what you're after, you can get that from me too. But you ain't gonna touch her."

Your head spins, and a wave of dizziness threatens to overcome you as the two men lock eyes. You know your father doesn't take kindly to threats. Suddenly, your father flicks his hand, and there is a deafening BOOM. Both you and your mother jump in startle as your father fires a shot into the ceiling, sending debris raining down from above. The stress weighs heavily on your stomach, and you fight back the urge to vomit.

"I believe it's time for a crucial lesson, boy," David begins, the lawyer in him speaking up, as he presses the gun against Daryl's head and shoving him until his back hits the wall. "Let me educate you on the legal creed known as the Castle Doctrine. It grants individuals the right to use deadly force to defend their domain. And this means - MY house, MY underage daughter, and My gun - I have every right to blow your head off, right here, right now."

You know your father almost as well as you know yourself, and the person standing there is David the conqueror. Every nuance of his body language and the icy, menacing tone of his voice confirms that he means what he says. "You're in my city, and you are inconsequential, a contemptible insect scurrying beneath my feet. No one will bat an eye when I wipe your brain off this marble floor. No one."

"Dad, please!" you beg, your voice choked with tears. "You have to stop this."

Even your mother must have sensed or noticed something in his physical response. "Dave," she warns. "Put the gun away. Don't do something you'll regret later." She reaches out to gently pull at his arm. "Dave, that's enough. Please, don't do this." At her words, he steps back, contemplating his next move.

One thing you are certain of is the power your mother holds over your father. Despite his influence in the world around him, she is the only one who can truly sway him, the only one whose words have a genuine impact. The complexities of their dynamic are lost on you, as your mother's influence seems confined solely to their relationship, where she wields it at her discretion.

"Consider yourself fortunate for the mercy granted by my wife, for she has just saved your life," David states, lowering the gun. "However, heed my warning, Daryl Dixon. If I see you near my daughter again, if your eyes so much as glance in her direction, if you dare to breathe the same air as her, then not even God will be able to save you from me."

Daryl looks towards you, and you nod rapidly, signaling for him to leave unharmed, to count his blessing. He holds your gaze for a moment and gives your father a slight nod.

"Now, get the hell out of my house," your father commands, stepping aside to let Daryl pass. You stand there, relief flooding your system, as you watch Daryl walk away. Soon, you hear the front door open and close.

"Let it be known that from this moment forward, you are grounded until the end of the year. School and straight home, nowhere else," your father declares, his gaze fixed on you. "Do I make myself perfectly clear, or do you require further clarification?"

You shake your head, your legs trembling as you hurry back to your bedroom, the door slamming shut behind you. You make your way straight to the bathroom, where the events that have just unfolded leave you feeling shaken to your core. You plant your face to the toilet, emptying the contents of last night's dinner, overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation.