A/N: So sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I've been dealing with bad depression and also had a switch of hyperfixations that make it hard for me to get back into the world of TWD. This is a chapter I had already pre-written so I'm hoping that posting it will give me the motivation to actually get back into writing again.
CW/TW: smoking, past child abuse, allusions to past sexual assault, animal death(possum and woodchuck), scars from abuse, body insecurity, past alcohol and drug abuse, gore, blood, injury, mild violence
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In his 39 years of life, Daryl was more than familiar with the concept of losing time. He had his first sip of alcohol when he was 11 and 13 when he first got blackout drunk. Alcohol was something that had always been a constant in his life, although not as much in the recent years. After a while, his forms of escapism were molded by Merle's. When he first started following his older brother around, he was immediately introduced to a world of doing and dealing drugs. For years, he'd watched his father shoot up and snort shit on a regular basis. So the idea of getting high was something he avoided for as long as possible. But his brother had a way of getting into his head and making him do things he wouldn't typically do. It wasn't long before he was dabbling in various illicit substances. Mostly weed, but he tried almost everything else. His limits being fentanyl and smack. He'd seen too many good people fall into those traps and he couldn't bring himself to fully destroy his body, no matter how much he hated himself. Daryl was aware of his family's inclination for addiction, his mother being an alcoholic, his dad being both an alcoholic and a drug addict. Because of that, he refused to allow himself to follow fully in his family's footsteps. Despite his urges to do more, get high more, he held his ground. Which ultimately led to a knock out fight between him and Merle. The older Dixon had goaded Daryl, calling him a pussy and asked Daryl if he thought he was better than him. But Daryl knew the anger his brother was spewing wasn't pointed directly at him. It was a manifestation of Merle's internal demons, ones that hated that he couldn't cope without some sort of substance coursing through his bloodstream. So, he let his brother lay into him a few times before he ended the fight. One well-placed right hook and his inebriated sibling was laid out on the stained carpet of the trailer they were renting.
After that fight, he cut back on the hard drugs, sticking mainly with weed and alcohol as his vices. Lots of alcohol. Looking back, he could admit that he'd avoided one addiction by picking up another one, but in his mind, being a drunk was a better option. A slower death, riddled with lost time and moments of fleeting happiness and contentment. The walk back to his tent after seeing the scars that covered Pheonyx's back, was probably the first amount of lost time that didn't result from some sort of vice. All he knew was the feeling of shock, the itch to run, and suddenly his ass was planted on the grass in front of his tent.
Shaking hands patted his pockets, searching for the packet of cigarettes that Pheonyx had given him earlier in the day. He pulled them out, fingers almost numb, and pulled a lighter from his other pocket. Placing one of the smokes between his lips, he flicked the lighter four times before his tingling fingers finally managed to get a flame to stick. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply and allowed the smoke to permeate his lungs. It had been almost a week since his last hit of nicotine and the rush of it pulsing through his veins helped to calm his frazzled nerves. Hands still shaking with the remnants of haunted memories personified, Daryl ran trembling fingers through his short hair.
The only words going through his mind were four lettered words and one resounding question: How? How did Pheonyx get those scars? Was this all a mistake? Did Daryl misinterpret the long lines and rounded imperfections? Was it the product of some freak accident and not what he had assumed? If it wasn't an accident, who would have done it? The scars were old, the coloring of the ones not covered in ink were a big indicator. They were most likely from childhood. If it wasn't an accident, like his gut was telling him, then who could have done it? Was it Pheonyx's stepdad, Hershel? No. Daryl didn't think so. While Pheonyx had seemed uncomfortable earlier when his stepdad was around, it seemed to be more about the old man and his stupid beliefs on the walkers sentience. There wasn't any fear in those fern green eyes. Not like the kind his own eyes held for his Pa. It could have been Pheonyx's mom but he only seemed sad when he mentioned her death earlier. There wasn't any relief to be found in his words. Briefly, Daryl wondered why he cared so much. They were scars, similar to his own, but they were on someone he had known for less than 24 hours. Why did it matter?
Taking another deep drag from the quickly burning cigarette, Daryl knew the answer was complicated. He'd only known the other man for a short time, but there was something there. A spark of something. Something he was unfamiliar with. Something that scared the shit out of him. So even if he had only known Pheonyx for a day or even just 5 minutes, he felt like he would still care. He wanted to know who had hurt the younger man. Maybe just so he would have somewhere to direct his anger. Because he was angry. Pissed. Furious. And every synonym in between. Those scars had him seeing images of his own past but also images of a tiny Pheonyx, being broken in the way he had been all those years ago. Was that why he had panicked earlier when Daryl asked about his gender?
"Fuck!", Daryl cursed, dropping the cigarette nub to the ground. Instinctively he pulled the side of his index finger to his mouth, soothing the small burn with his cool saliva. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed it burning down right to the filter, where his dirty fingers were clenching the little stick tightly. The slight wound wasn't really painful, more of a shock to his already frazzled brain. Shaking his head in frustration at his foggy mind, he used the heel of his boot to put out the tiny stub, red embers fading into the grass, and unzipped the tent behind him. He crawled into the small space, barely remembering to turn around and zip the polyester flap closed. Before he flopped down onto his sleeping bag, he made sure to place his bow within reaching distance.
In the span of less than half an hour, Daryl went from being wide awake to dog tired. The scratchy pillow under his head suddenly felt like a pile of cashmere. His eyes felt heavy and he covered them by flinging his arm over his face.
He was so lost in a haze of sleep, he didn't even notice the shuffling outside his tent, followed by the slow unzipping of the entryway.
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Pheonyx fucked up. Really fucked up.
When he'd first walked out into the woods, he fell into a familiar rhythm. There was no trouble. Just the whispering of the trees and the resounding answers of wind chimes in every direction. With his bow raised, he walked with purpose, keeping his ears open for the sounds of nocturnal critters. It wasn't long before one of his arrows was piercing through the night air and impaling a possum through the eye. Leaves crunching under his feet, Pheonyx walked towards his kill and knelt down next to the small animal's body. This was one of the worst parts of his nights. He had to find fresh meat to bait his traps. The windchimes worked wonders to draw in the shadows to the stakes of his traps, but it usually wasn't enough to entice the creatures to push themselves deep onto the spikes. That's why he needed the meat as a final nail in their proverbial coffin. The shadows prefer fresh, breathing meat but if no other options were around, they would indulge on already butchered flesh. 1-2 days dead at most. A few weeks after the world fell, Pheonyx had found the body of a woodchuck, killed by a long forgotten bear trap closing on its foot. He'd taken the bear trap but left the body(after recalling Kismet to stop him from rolling in the dead animal), with full intentions to come back the next day and give it a proper burial. Instead, the next day, he stumbled on the walking corpse of his high school English teacher chowing down on the slightly decomposed body. This knowledge had helped him complete the plans for protecting his home. He had originally thought about rigging up small cages to the trees to house small animals as bait for the shadows. But the idea of putting an innocent creature in a box and emotionally torturing it just didn't sit well in his stomach. Killing them still made him feel horrible, but at least it didn't prolong their suffering.
When prepping kills to eat, a hunter would normally slit an animal's throat to allow the blood to drain from the body. Pheonyx didn't do that now. The blood was what drew in the shadows. He picked up the animal, gently petted its soft creamy fur, and sent an internal thank you to its soul. Opting to leave the arrow in, to prevent anymore blood loss from the small body, he slung his bow over his shoulder. One would be enough for at least 5 traps, so he wanted his other hand–the one not holding the dead animal–to be free if he needed to grab his cutlass. Most nights, he would spend 8 hours clearing and checking each trap in the woods, but he didn't have the time or energy to do that. His ultimate plan was to hit the ones, about half of them, that were closest to the farm, on the right side of the creek. Sophia seemed to be sticking to the left side of the water, which meant he would be able to check some of the others during the search the next day. He wouldn't be able to check all of them, doing so would put them off course and be detrimental to finding the girl. But some were better than none.
So far, he'd been lucky. The amount of shadows that wound up in the traps was manageable for one person running on little sleep and high levels of stress. Pheonyx wasn't dumb. He knew that eventually he would crash emotionally or get hurt. He needed help and Rick's group was a beacon of hope for him in regards to his family's safety. Not only were they experienced with the dead, but they also were motivated to stay and protect the haven of the farm.
It was that train of thought that ultimately led to Pheonyx's fuck up. His body moved on muscle memory to check the first four traps. While his body was working on protecting his family, his mind was back at the farm, back in the stables. As he was pulling off the rotted flesh from the trees, tossing it into the burn pit and replacing it with a chunk of the dead possum, his mind kept flashing back to the paleness of Daryl's skin and the look on his face before he ran away. Pheonyx's internal demons reared up, their raspy voices grating across his ear drums.
He's disgusted by you.
You're so weak and broken.
Why didn't you fight back?
Why would he want you?
Shaking his head, Pheonyx tried to pull himself from the darkness. If he allowed himself, he could easily fall back into old habits. Self-destructive ones. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he dabbled in drugs and drank way too much in the past. Sometimes it was easier to find solace in the bottom of a bottle than to actually face his problems. If it wasn't substances, his mind had its own ways of destroying itself. Constant self-berating and internal insults could make him physically ill sometimes. The end of the world wasn't the time to be getting drunk or allowing his internal demons to claw the walls inside his body until the blood seeps from open wounds.
Pheonyx finished refreshing the fifth trap, stabbing the leg of the possum onto the railroad spike that was already impaled into the old oak. He had tossed the head of the possum, the last piece of the animal's body, to the side near his bow and quiver. Looking at his hands, he saw clotted blood soaked his fingers and stained his fingernails, the red color turning more brown as it dried in the evening air. Copper fragrance permeated his nostrils and he suppressed the gag from crawling up his throat. Pheonyx went to wipe his hands on the back of his jeans, as they needed to be washed anyways, but stopped when his hands met a soft fabric hanging from his back pocket.
Pulling out the red rag, he noted the walker blood from earlier had dried and stained the cherry colored fabric. He could already see the possum blood soaking into the area where his fingers were. It blended more seamlessly than the black sludge from the shadow. Something about the idea of letting the threadbare cloth get even more dirty didn't sit right with him, so he wiped one hand on the back of his jeans and then the other, moving the rag to the other hand in between. Although he didn't want to admit it, he knew the rise of sentimentality surrounding the simple object was due to who it had belonged to originally. But the ultimate question was why? Why did he care about Daryl Dixon or what he thought? Growing up, he'd cared what everyone thought about him, ashamed of not fitting into their boxes and trying so hard to himself small enough to fit in them. After he came out, he'd learned to think less about it, and to follow his heart as opposed to chasing after the elusive judgements that people bestowed on him. That night had derailed him severely from his progress in those regards, but moving away had helped him become more independent when it came to freeing himself from the binds of society's rigid standards. So, why Daryl Dixon? What about the older man made him want his acceptance so much? It wasn't even really acceptance, Pheonyx wanted him. There had been flirting in the past. Brief glances of possible futures with girls and some guys, plenty of people he could have opened his heart to, to fall in love with, but he never had the urge to. Until him.
That was where he messed up. While he was lost in his head, hand still rubbing the softened red rag, it snuck up on him.
He smelled the shadow before he saw it. The scent of decay from the walking corpses was even more distinct than that of a dead animal or even a normal dead human. It was that sickly, rancid smell that filled his lungs. From experience, no amount of coughing or gagging could clear it away. Dark miasma coated his inner nostrils and flowed down the back of his throat, like the nasty cough medicine his mom would make him take when he was sick as a kid. Fear and adrenaline began to pulse through his veins and Pheonyx whirled around just as the sound of hissing and groaning reached his ears.
The shadow was much too close to him, he could practically feel the fetid air escaping its lungs as it raised its hands to grab at his shoulders. Pheonyx barely had a second to sidestep the gnarled fingers, gray flesh hanging from under its fingernails. If he hadn't moved, the monster would have pushed him directly into the spikes of his own trap.
Heart slamming against his chest, Pheonyx grappled at his waist for the handle of his cutlass, but the shadow turned around. Instinctively, he took another step back and felt the air come out from under him as his foot slipped on a loose stone. He fell back onto the damp forest floor, a sharp pain ripping through his ribs, causing his lungs to constrict and his eyes to water from the pain.
Before his senses could come back to him, the spongy weight of the decaying corpse fell directly on top of Pheonyx. Gasping loudly, not only for air but out of shock, he pushed against the shadow's skinny collarbone with his right hand. His fingers practically melted into the mushy flesh, and black blood trickled between his digits and down onto his shirt. Midnight stained teeth snapped in front of his face and he had to breathe only from his mouth to avoid the rancid scent of blood and pus coming from the orifice. He pushed hard against the creature's shoulder but despite its putrefying muscles, it was still incredibly strong. The hunger and need for flesh intensifying its strength. With his left hand, Pheonyx tried to search along his waist for the handle of his hunting knife, but he couldn't reach it on the other side of his body. The walker's hands dug into his own chest, trying desperately to gain any purchase. He threw his arm out, searching along the forest floor for any sort of weapon. Just as the tips of his fingers brushed against something soft, the hold that Pheonyx had on the shadow's collar bone slipped. His fingers slid into soggy flesh and more black blood poured from the area his nails just slipped into, dripping onto his neck and chin. The texture of the decaying flesh was like chunky mud against his hand. This slip gave the creature all the leverage it needed to lean down and clamp its teeth into the sharp bone where Pheonyx's shoulder met his neck.
Letting out a cry of pain, Pheonyx grasped onto the furry object that his fingers brushed against and used a burst of strength to push the heavy body up, breaking the seal its mouth had on his body. Teeth snapped in his face, barely missing the tip of his nose, and Pheonyx instinctively shoved the unknown object into its muzzle. Now in his sight, he could see that the object in question was the possum head that he had tossed aside earlier. The monster's teeth tore into the skull, crushing the bone with inhuman strength, causing fresh, red blood to pour onto Pheonyx's face. Smacking and sucking noises as it chewed were sickening. The smell of copper filled his nose and the metallic zing of the fluid flooded his mouth.
The distraction of the meat in the shadow's mouth was enough for Pheonyx to gain the energy to push it back with one hand and reach around his body with the other hand to grab his hunting knife. The familiar textured hilt felt like heaven on his tired fingers. Pulling out the sharp blade, he pushed the chewing creature back and raised the knife up, bringing the weapon down into its skull. The soft bone caved under the pressure of his stab and more black sludge trickled down onto his already coated hand.
Frantic movements ceasing, the shadow went slack against Pheonyx's body and the partially macerated possum head fell directly onto his face. Suppressing the retch that his brain finally sent the signal for, Pheonyx shoved the body off of him, inhaling the fresh air deeply. There was still a remnant of decay in the air, and the lingering scent of copper from the blood that coated his body, but it was better than the acrid smell of the creature's mouth inches from his face.
Pheonyx laid there for a moment, his side and shoulder throbbing in tune to his still accelerated heart rate. That was the closest encounter he had ever had with a shadow that didn't involve one of his traps. The closest he had been to death in almost 5 years. And he still could die. The pain in his shoulder was a reminder of that. He turned his head to look at the area, his hands beginning to shake as he thought of what happened when his brother and mother were bitten. The pain of watching them slowly die was excruciating. He wouldn't put that on his family. If he was bitten, he would take the hunting knife from the monster's head and push it into own skull before he allowed his sisters to see him slip from the world.
In the darkness of the night, he couldn't see much on his denim jacket besides blood. Black and red blood was splattered all across the chest like a morbid Jackson Pollock painting. He grabbed the fabric near his neck and pulled down to see a perfect black outline of the shadow's teeth imprinted into the thick material. Each tooth mark a testament to how close he came to becoming one of the walking dead. While it didn't look like it had torn through the jacket, he had to be sure. He pushed his hand under the collar of his t-shirt and used his fingers to prod the painful area. There was pain but he didn't feel any scratches or broken skin.
Pheonyx let out a deep breath of relief. He got up slowly, careful not to jostle his side, and began to gather his stuff. The few minutes before let him know that he wasn't in the right state to be out. A flash of red on the ground next to the walker's body stopped him mid step. He bent down to retrieve Daryl's bandana he dropped when the creature attacked him. The cloth had been dirty before, a mixture of oil stains and blood. Now it was coated with more of the latter. At some point during the struggle, it must have gotten caught on a root or rock because there was a large tear through the center, nearly splitting the square in half. Red threads hung limply from the perforation and Pheonyx couldn't help but feel a bit saddened. The shadow hadn't gotten him but it did break something important. A normal person would have simply tossed the bandana, but Pheonyx had never been normal. His feelings about Daryl might have been full of confusion, and some anger from his earlier actions, but he couldn't find it in him to part with the cloth that had seen better days. Maybe he saw a bit of himself in the insignificant object. Torn and stained by past events but there was still some life left in the old bones of thread. He gently folded the bandana and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He had an idea of what to do with it but that would have to be done later.
Weapons in hand, and in sheaths, he began the trek back home. It was slower going due to the pain in his side and just general tiredness. The adrenaline had faded and now he needed to sleep. But a shower was needed first.
By the time he made it to the farm, Pheonyx guessed it was around two in the morning, based on the position of the moon. He stopped briefly into the stable to drop his weapons off near his pallet. The horses were all asleep. Baker did wake when Pheonyx dropped his bow and quiver onto the ground. The old horse gave a snort that roughly translated to "Shut the fuck up, I'm trying to sleep." before flicking his tail and turning the other way.
Grabbing some clean clothes from his bag, Pheonyx headed out of the stables towards the farm house. The yellow aura from the moon hit the old glass windows, reflecting the luminescence like a lighthouse, sending a beacon to let him know the way home.
Carefully, Pheonyx walked across the porch and slowly opened the door, wincing a small bit when it let out a loud squeak. He really needed to fix that. The journey through the living room and up the stairs was filled with more squeaks and winces. Each sound a memory of Shawn or Maggie getting caught sneaking out in the middle of the night. Pheonyx never had that problem. He didn't have any reason to be sneaking out like his siblings did. Friends and dating were not part of his teenage years. He could barely handle his own internal problems, adding anyone else to the mix just seemed like a recipe for disaster.
The sounds of Hershel and Maggie snoring greeted him at the top of the steps. And yes. Maggie snored. No matter how much she denied it, she was louder than a New York construction site. Pheonyx made his way into the bathroom, making sure to avoid the third floorboard after the stairs because it was the loudest, and carefully shut the door. He flipped the lock and reached to turn on the bright camping lantern that was resting on the white countertop. While the Greene farm did have a generator, they only ran it for a few hours each morning and evening. Just enough to keep the fridge cold, to make meals, and to take hot showers. Taking his showers in the early hours before the generator was on, meant that Pheonyx wasn't benefiting from the last reason. Luckily, with the Georgia heat being prevalent even through the night, the showers were bordering on lukewarm rather than cold. The pristine bathroom glowed for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light.
Unbuttoning his jeans mechanically, Pheonyx's thoughts trailed back to his fuck up earlier. This wasn't the old world. He couldn't afford to lose himself like that. He needed to have his whole focus on this farm. On his family. Protecting them and making sure they didn't have to deal with the darker side of this world. The one that had always existed but had fully unmasked itself when the dead began to walk. His boots were heavy on his feet and the relief of feeling the cool air on his sweat soaked socks ripped a small groan from his mouth. Tossing the socks into the hamper by the toilet, he hooked his thumb under the waistline of his jeans and boxers and pushed them down, his blood crusted fingers brushing against the thick hair on his legs. Kicking the bundle of clothing by the door (he couldn't have his sisters or Patricia cleaning out walker blood from his clothes), he pulled his arms out of his jacket and took a moment to run his thumb over the black bite mark imprinted into the thick material. Again, he was reminded of how close to dying he had come. If he hadn't been wearing the jacket, he would be a shell walking in the woods. Probably would be caught up in one of his own traps before the morning sun made its way over the horizon. Before he pitched the jacket to the side, he pulled out the dirty and torn bandana and set it onto the sink for safe keeping. He reached over his head to tug the collar of his shirt–the band logo on the front was completely disfigured by the carnage on it– over his head. The stretch of his skin over his ribs hurt, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been earlier. The threadbare fabric stuck to his skin, the blood still wet in spots. Tossing the shirt onto the pile with his jeans and boxers, he reluctantly looked in the mirror to take stock of the damage to his body.
The first thing that stood out was the large black bruise on his shoulder, bisecting the snake that trailed up his shoulder and over his neck. He gently prodded the skin, leaning into the mirror, to make sure there weren't any perforations. Even the slightest cut by a shadow's teeth was a death sentence. Despite the deep pain, the skin was unbroken. If he hadn't lost his faith so long ago, he might have believed it was a miracle as opposed to pure luck. The bruise covered a good portion of his shoulder, but with the right shirt choice, he could easily cover it. He knew if Maggie saw it, she would freak out. And he wanted to avoid upsetting his sister as much as possible.
His hands roved down to his ribs and probed the darkened skin over the quote inked into the skin there. The bruise wasn't as prominent as the one on his shoulder and thankfully didn't seem to penetrate too deep, a superficial bruise. Nor did it seem like one of his ribs was broken. Another stroke of good fortune it seemed. At this point he was just jacking off luck. Eventually it would all come to an explosive deadly end but for now he could just be happy that it was just an awkward metaphorical handjob.
Pheonyx turned the water on and listened to the soothing sound of it beating down onto the shower floor. He ducked his head and body under the flow, letting the individual drops massage his back. The scarred skin was a myriad of sensations. Some scars were completely numb, others tingled, and a select few made any sensation painful. His doctor said it was due to varying degrees of nerve damage. Aside from pain medication and experimental treatments, there wasn't much to be done. So, he simply learned to deal with the feeling. 20 years later and his dad was still getting his lashes in it seemed. Pheonyx grabbed the bar of soap on the shelf by his knees and began to scrub his skin.
Blood and dirt swirled around his feet, the lukewarm water and cheap soap baptizing him from the day's sins. He washed his hair using Maggie's shampoo and conditioner. The products made his hair softer than the cheap products he brought with him from his apartment so he allowed himself the small indulgence of stealing some of his sibling's stuff. Maggie often stole his flannels and hoodies, so it was only fair.
As the water ran clear and his skin metaphorically sighed from the feeling of being cleaned, he took a moment to just indulge in the simplicity and luxury of the water trickling down his arms, legs, and chest. It was a small reprieve from the outside world. Just a small one. After a few seconds, he pushed the wet hair off his face and shut the water off. Cool air immediately made goosebumps appear on his arms.
Because the water had been room temperature, the mirror wasn't fogged and he was greeted by his own reflection in the glass. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he began to dry off. Scrubbing at his hair with the towel, his eyes fell down to the red bandana sitting on the edge of the sink. Shadows casting onto the stained fabric from the lantern in the corner. Tossing the now damp towel into the hamper, Pheonyx used one hand to run through his hair, smoothing the spiky mess, and the other to grab the cloth. He plugged the sink and filled it with a small bit of water from the faucet, enough to begin cleaning the bandana.
It took a while but he was able to get most of the blood stains out of the red fabric. Or at least enough of it to be able to blend in with the already red dye. Unplugging the drain and wringing out the water, he laid it onto the edge of the sink to dry while he got dressed. He slipped into the clean boxers and jeans that he brought. Sitting on the toilet, he slipped on a pair of clean socks and pulled his worn boots back onto his still aching feet.
"Fuck," Pheonyx said as he picked up the shirt he brought. He thought he grabbed a t-shirt, which would hide the bruise on his shoulder, but he had accidentally taken one of his gray undershirts, the straps of which would cover only a quarter of the baseball sized bruise.
It's 3AM. No one is awake right now. I'll be fine, Pheonyx thought while slipping the clean tank over his head.
Within 3 minutes he was eating those words. As he walked downstairs, dirty clothes in hand and the red rag tucked into the belt loop on his side, he slammed into someone walking out of the kitchen. Instinctively, Pheonyx dropped the items in his hands and reached for the hunting knife at his side. The knife that he had left in the stable.
"I'm so sorry, Pheonyx.", a whispered familiar voice eased the tension in his muscles and he backed up to get a better look in the dark at the person. Straight brown hair and brown eyes glittered in the moonlight that poked through the windows behind him. Lori. He let out a breath of relief and smiled softly at her.
The corners of her lips lifted, attempting to smile back, before her eyes darted to his shoulder, drawn to the dark contusion that was peeking from behind the strip of his tank top. Concern filled her gaze as she looked at him, "What happened? Do I need to get Hershel?"
Pheonyx hurried to reassure her, almost rambling with the need to not worry her. "I'm okay. I swear. I messed up and had a run in with a walker. But I was wearing a jacket, so it's just bruised. It didn't break the skin.", he kept his voice low, not wanting to wake anyone in the house. "I go out at night to make sure the woods are cleared of the dead."
Lori's lips turned down in a concerned frown.
"Please don't tell anyone," he pleaded. "I don't want to worry my sisters. And Hershel is already mad at me for putting up the traps in the woods. This would just set him off even more."
Sighing, she placed her hands on her hips but nodded. "I won't tell them, but you can't keep doing this. Going out alone? In the middle of the night? You're going to get hurt. Or killed."
He knew that. Those were constant worries that floated around in his mind. But to hear them out loud made his chest hurt. "I know. I just- I have to protect them."
Lori didn't even need to ask who Pheonyx was referring to. Rick and she had talked about the man in front of her. Her husband told her all about the traps in the woods(she had seen them for herself the day before but Rick explained how Pheonyx used them to protect the farm), and also how the other Greenes seemed to be in a separate world. One where the dead were simply people who had the sniffles. Pheonyx had taken up the helm of family protector. At the Quarry, all the men had taken on the task of protecting the camp. Making schedules for watches and runs. And even with 10 men working hard to protect the rest of the group, they had been attacked and decimated by the dead. The Greene son was taking on an almost impossible job. A job that one man couldn't possibly handle alone. Not for much longer anyway. Even in the darkness of the room, the moon being her only source of light, she could see the bags under his eyes. His shoulders were slumped and he just seemed exhausted.
"You have. And you protected my son too. Now it's our turn to help you.", she reached out and took his calloused hand, not noticing the subtle flinch at the contact of her skin. "Rick and the other men are going to be doing some chores around the farm, but we'll talk to them about making a schedule for checking the woods too."
Pheonyx didn't know how to respond. One part of him was entirely focused on her hand touching his and how it made his skin crawl from unfamiliarity. The other part was resigned, yet still relieved, to accept help from the strangers on the property. Instead of a verbal response, he opted to nod and slowly pull his hand from hers, as not to offend her.
Lori smiled at him and glanced at the bundle of dirty clothes that he still held in his other hand. "Carol and I are going to work on laundry tomorrow, your family's and ours. I can take those for you and make sure to wash them before your sisters or Hershel sees."
The older woman held her hand out to take the clothes from him and Pheonyx handed them over readily. That was another thing off his list to worry about and he could physically feel the weight on his shoulders lifting a small bit. He whispered his thanks to her and they bid each other good night afterwards.
The warm fingers of night air threaded through Pheonyx's still damp locks, both cooling and heating his skin. He could feel the slight breeze rustling the rag hanging off his waistband as he made the walk back to the stables.
Once again, the only animal to acknowledge his presence was Baker, who snorted and released a sound of flatulence that Pheonyx was absolutely convinced was directed at him. Petulantly, he stuck his tongue out at the horse before walking into his personal stall. He stripped off the tank top, tossing it back into his bag of clean clothes because he'd only worn it for a short time, and pulled out an actual t-shirt from the bag. He didn't want Maggie to come in early and catch him before he could change. After slipping on the old shirt, Pheonyx fell back onto his cot and stared up at the ceiling. His fingers found their way down to the red bandana at his side and he twisted it around in his hand, the fabric was still damp and felt clammy against his fingertips.
The image of Daryl's face flashed through his mind again and Pheonyx had to swallow a swell of embarrassment and sadness. He had truly been hopeful that the archer would be different. He hadn't seemed to care about the fact that Pheonyx was trans. But when faced with the scars that lingered on his back, the man had fled, a look on his face that Pheonyx could only guess was disgust.
Steeling himself, Pheonyx decided it didn't matter. He'd work with Daryl to find the girl. They didn't have to be friends. Hell, they didn't even have to talk to each other. Once they found Sophia, they could go their separate ways. It's not like Pheonyx could change the fact that his back looked like minced meat. Even if he could, he wouldn't, the scars were a testament to his survival. Especially not for a man he had just met. Even if the man did make his stomach feel like tv static.
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The morning breeze and chirping birds were nature's alarm clock, and one that Daryl had learned to abide by in order to become an expert tracker and hunter. Most animals were early risers, so if he wanted to keep a steady pace on their trail, he needed to work on their schedule. Daryl was used to waking with the morning sun. Sometimes he even woke before the moon had finished its descent into the horizon.
The morning after his jarring interaction with Pheonyx was no different. He had slept deeply after crashing into his tent but nightmares had infected his mind. Ones that involved his father and the things he had done to him as a boy. Those kinds of dreams weren't unusual for him. In truth, he had grown accustomed to them. To the point that he didn't even wake up screaming anymore. They were inevitable really. But that night had been different. Instead of Daryl being on the floor of the trailer, his back torn up like an eviction notice, it was Pheonyx. Those green eyes locked onto his, begging him for help as Will Dixon brought his belt down onto the fiery bird on the younger man's shoulders. But Daryl couldn't do anything. He screamed at his father to stop but Pa just smiled and brought the belt down harder. He tried to shove the man away but each time he ran into a wall. So Daryl was forced to watch. Over and over the belt smacked into Pheonyx's skin, until the green of his eyes faded to a milky white. Despite the torturous images, Daryl had a hard time waking up.
His body was so entrenched in sleep that his brain came into wakefulness before the rest of him did. The dewy morning air was sharp, even in the tight space of his tent, and made his lungs ache from the slight chill. His ears perked at the sounds of birds trilling in the distance and he made out the low murmurs of Glenn and T-Dog divvying up chores for the day.
A musty scent reached his nose. His eyes still closed, Daryl's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. Over the past couple of months, he had become accustomed to the smell of his own body odor and this smell wasn't that. He peeled his sleep-crusted eyes open, his vision swimming before becoming clear again.
In front of him, he was met with the sight of….
Balls?
More specifically, Daryl woke to the blinding sight of a dog's rear end. Asshole, neutered sac, the whole nine yards. The only thing that broke through his fog of shock was the tail attached to said rear end. It began to thump against the ground and ended up whacking into the archer's forehead.
Daryl shot up and fell back on his hands, "What the fuck?!"
Having realized his human companion was awake, Kismet rolled from his side position onto his belly. He lifted his head up lazily, eyes droopy and a small string of drool hanging from his mouth. His upper lips were stuck on his teeth, showcasing his pearly white fangs. Out of context, and without the dopey look in his eyes, one might assume the dog was mid-snarl. Still half-asleep and teeth still exposed, Kismet cocked his head to the side in confusion at the look of distress in Daryl's eyes. Obviously deciding it wasn't his problem, the dog stood up, arching and stretching his legs out in front of him, making the muscles in his body bulge out even more than usual. He let out a big yawn and then shook himself, the metal pieces on his collar making a clinking noise with each movement.
A faint whistle sounded from the direction of the house. Despite the tent flap blocking their vision, both man and dog turned their heads in that direction.
"Kismet! Breakfast!", a female voice called.
Kismet's eyes widened and he didn't need to be told twice before he dove out of the small opening from the tent's zipper that he had nosed open the night before. The dog moved so fast he didn't even realize his back leg had kicked out, subsequently knocking the archer's crossbow into his thigh. Daryl cursed again at the sharp pain and rubbed the area.
Daryl had always loved dogs, but he was starting to think he needed to make an exception for this particular one.