Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about Daryl – the reason why the group just couldn’t figure him out – was that all his social skills were born out of a need to hide.

Hide in plain sight when his father was toying the line between beer and whisky in front of their staticky TV, and could very easily slip from mellow to raging at the drop of a pin. Hide the worst of his bruises from Merle every time he came back from juvie a little more broken down, something gloomy and acidic growing in the blue of his eyes. Hide money from his mom so that she couldn’t buy that extra bottle of red wine and maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be too hungover the next morning to scrounge up some breakfast and kiss his purpling right cheekbone before sending him off to third grade classes. Hide the same purpling cheekbone from nosy teachers, and then hide his split lip the following day, and hide the way he couldn’t wear his backpack for a week the next time hid father decided to use the belt. Hide the grumbling of his hungry stomach, so that the supermarket clerk wouldn’t have any excuse to look at him twice as he hid a peanut butter jar in the folds of Merle’s hand-me-down oversized hoodie. Hide his fear and anxiety behind a scowl, hide the shame behind fake bravado, and especially hide whatever soft parts still existed in his heart so that the world could not chew them up and spit them out like it’d done with every decent thing he’d ever dared to call his.

He’d never had any time or energy to waste learning how to be friendly, how to be likeable, how to be known, when everything he’d ever needed was to disappear.

So really, it wasn’t a surprise that the group from the quarry couldn’t get a good read of him. They disliked him, could barely look at him without seeing the shadow of his brother, but they hated him in a distant kind of way, like one would hate the city major or an uncle that lives out of town. They hated the shape of him, the outline of an idea – volatile redneck white trash, prejudiced piece of shit, useless lazy waste of their already meagre resources – but they didn’t actually see him, flesh and bone sleeping in the tent next to theirs. He took good care that they didn’t.

They would tolerate him because he was quick with his crossbow and could hunt better than all of them combined, but even then, he was not sure if it was a conscious decision. If they really sat down and thought about it, Rick with his growing family, Glenn and Maggie, and fuck, T-Dog, and Hershel… They might find out that a few rabbits were not worth the hassle of mingling with lowlife like Daryl. The man who’d wanted to put a pickaxe through poor Jim’s head, the man who hadn’t even hesitated to shoot Dale, the man who would’ve abandoned Glenn to the Vatos back in Atlanta, the man who’d made Carol flinch, the man who prided himself to be a good tracker and couldn’t even find a scared little girl… He knew he didn’t deserve their forgiveness and was not waiting for absolution.

He just needed to stay out of their way as much as possible, because maybe, and just maybe, if no one had to hear or see him, if he swallowed his short temper instead of exploding outwards, if he could keep himself from being a bother… maybe they’d let him stay, and he wouldn’t have to face the reality that without Merle he was alone for good. He wouldn’t have to face the reality that he was scared shitless of having to make it though this life on his own.

So, he worked. Unless they had something specific planned, like a supply run, he tried to go hunting every single day. With their camp moving as often as it did, constantly running away from herds and hopefully running towards new resources, he couldn’t really take the time to organize one of his longer hunting expeditions, the ones that were sure to award him with larger pray. Sombrely accepting that he wasn’t going to bring back a lot of whitetails, and daydreaming of the day he’d have a shot at a fat feral hog, he tried his best to keep them all fed with a steady mix of small game, squirrels and rabbits with the occasional bird thrown in. He hadn’t kept count of the months, but looking at the forest around him he could guess they were right in the middle of dove hunting season. He couldn’t wait for turkey season to start, so that all the plucking would at least grant them a good roast. Sure, dove could be delicious, but he was certain that Baby Shane in Lori’s belly would barely consider it a snack.

He spent the quietest night hours on watch, staring into the darkness and anxiously rolling the numbers around in his head, forcing the math to work in a way that he’d never been able to in the classroom. How many people, how many calories they’d need to keep running, how many squirrels he’d brought back, how many cups of stew Carol could squeeze out of them, how many cans of sweet corn and baby carrots Hershel was carrying in his pack, how many miles before the next town they could loot… The answer was unsurprisingly always the same: they had too little and needed more, needed too much for a merciless world.

It was with this knowledge that Daryl would wake up one of the other men at first light, whoever hadn’t taken shift yet, and then silently disappeared into the trees, crossbow already cocked and ready to shoot. His mind always quieted in the forest, thoughts slowing down until the only things that mattered were the rustling of bushes, the traitorous dry sticks under his boots that he had to be careful to avoid, and the barely-there signs of wildlife that he could read like a book, page after page, muddy print after disturbed foliage. He lost himself in the chase and almost lost track of time, too – but not for real, not when he knew that people were waiting for him to be back before dusk. Or, well, they were waiting for meat before dusk, and anyways Rick’s ground rules clearly stated that everyone had to be at camp after dark, “no exceptions, Glenn, you have the same parts that I do, don’t need to go over the perimeter to take a piss”.

So by early afternoon Daryl always started his trek back, body sore and tired to the bone, but also calm and centred in himself like only open spaces and fresh air could make him, even with the hovering threat of walkers. Only the prospect of impending social interaction managed to bring a slight hunch back to his shoulders.

Back at camp, the meat needed to be processed as quickly as possible as not to spoil anything. He always removed the entrails while he was still out, but he preferred skinning and cutting with someone watching his back for walkers, so that he could take good care and avoid ruining their dinner. He hadn’t been too concerned about uptight safety regulations and cross contamination, back when it was just him and Merle; not when, before they really got the knack of this hunting thing, they’d both eaten out of trash cans more times than he was comfortable admitting. This was different, though. They had a pregnant woman, and an old man, and skinny girls who probably couldn’t afford to throw up even once if they wanted to keep weight on them. Daryl wouldn’t let his stupid mistakes bring them harm, he swore to himself as his cleanest knife slid smoothly across the grain of meat.

When their soon-to-be food was finally ready to be cooked, he could pass it over to Carol, who was brilliant in making a meal out of anything. Daryl might’ve loved her just a tiny bit, for always transforming whatever he brought back into dishes that even city slickers could moan over.

Before dinner, though, he usually still had a bit of free time. He could feel the firepit calling out to him in the chill of early evening, but that was usually the most crowded location in the camp, so he only allowed himself to mingle with the others when he knew he’d brought back a particularly plentiful bounty. That usually meant they tolerated him a bit more, just for the one evening, Rick even going as far as giving him a soft slap on the back or a nod from the other side of the flames.

Otherwise, his time was spent taking care of weapons, sharpening knives and trying to understand what he could make-do as lubricant for his crossbow’s strings and cables that week. He also helped to gather wood for the fire, if necessary, and took the chance to select some pieces that he could carve into arrows. Call him paranoid, but he would never feel like he had enough ammo.

Sometimes, when he finished all his other tasks before sundown, he was also called to check out some vehicle they’d found, either for spare parts or to get it running. Having been the one to ultimately kill Dale, their best mechanic, Daryl had felt compelled to admit that he also knew his way around an engine, and was willing to fix whatever needed to be fixed to the best of his abilities.

Mostly, this happened under Glenn’s watchful eyes. He was not sure if the kid was checking on him to make sure he wouldn’t slack off, or if he was still attempting to learn so that he could take his place in case Daryl got himself killed out there or the group decided to cast him out. It didn’t matter, really, as long as Daryl could swallow his nerves at being watched and avoided any missteps, so he never really called attention to it, except to quietly ask Glenn to pass him a torque wrench or pliers. The kid was at least eager to help out.

Dinner time arrived always too early and never early enough. As soon as the delicious smell of Carol’s concoctions hit his nose, Daryl wrapped up the last of his daily tasks and quietly, oh so quietly, vanished behind the treeline to perform one last perimeter sweep before night. If he had to guess, the group probably didn’t notice he was gone. He usually walked the perimeter of their camp once or twice, just keeping an eye out for unexpected walker activity, double knotting the rope adorned with empty cans that would alert them of incoming danger. Then, when he gauged that enough time had passed, he made his way back to the firepit.

That handful of minutes, the slow track back to the group, was the hardest part of his day. And not because his body ached something fierce, and he could feel exhaustion weighting him down, muddling his thoughts until it was by instinct alone that he managed to find the well-worn path back. That was just the natural consequence of a hard day’s work. What killed him were the hunger pains that gripped his insides and almost left him doubled over, and the fact that he didn’t know if there would be anything left to eat that night. Not knowing, that was the catch. Hunger he could deal with, any day, but the anticipation…

He knew they didn’t do it on purpose. He accepted, rationally, that if he chose to remain by the fire when food was portioned out, they would never deny him a plate. Would offer it to him, even. But Daryl also knew, could see in their eyes, how desperate they all were for each other to pull through, and how much they would resent him if he made it while Lori, or Carl, or Beth, didn’t.

So Daryl made it easier on them, blended with the shadows and disappeared at mealtimes, like clockwork. On good days, when he brought back plenty of game, when Carol gathered berries and herbs and Lori could get the two or three helpings that she needed to sustain Baby Shane in her swollen belly, then Daryl would come back from his perimeter check and still find stew at the bottom of the pot. Those were leftovers that he could shamelessly claim as his, without feeling like he was stealing, without fear that someone would get on his case about taking more resources than he was worth. On bad days, days when they just didn’t have enough, it made sense to allow the group to forget about another mouth to feed, and he would walk back to camp to find the pot already scrubbed clean. Those were the days when he told his body to fucking deal with it, he had gone without for longer as a kid without making such a fuss. The hunger pangs would eventually fade into a cavernous emptiness inside of him that he could fill with water or simply ignore, and he had a long way to go before light-headedness made his hands shake around his crossbow.

Going to sleep, at that point, was both a necessity and a welcomed distraction. It was the only hitch in his plan, because the group always saw him retreat to his tent early, without ever offering to take first watch, like the lazy motherfucker they knew he was. Hell, sometimes he got into his sleeping bag before the little boy had been put to bed, and damn if it didn’t make shame coil in his gut. But he needed it, needed the few hours of rest to convince his tired body not to give up on him, not yet.

And after all, he knew most of them didn’t actually mind taking first watch. Glenn and Maggie often took it as an opportunity to get some private time together, even though they swore over and over again that they wouldn’t let their guard down for a few smooches. And Rick could rarely fall asleep before the moon was high and he'd had a chance to wind down from the stress of the day, the responsibility of having so many people look up to him, the worry about what was to come. Daryl could see it in the tight line of his shoulders, in the crease etched between his eyebrows, in the red rim of his eyes: their fierce leader was holding it together for their sake, but the confidence in his voice was playacting, shaky posturing that kept the men in line and the women steady.

Daryl couldn’t really fault him for that. Anyone so arrogant to believe they had the Apocalypse figured out wouldn’t have survived a day out there.

But point was, many people were more than willingly to take first shift, be it for brooding or for a bit of alone time. Less people were amenable to take the loathed second shift, the one that covered witching hour all the way to sunrise. That was the shift that Daryl would claim most nights.

He didn’t mind the sounds of the forest, the stillness, the eerie feeling of staring into darkness and feeling the darkness stare back. He knew the others were unnerved by it, some of them even frightened if they had to be honest, but he’d been raised to believe he was much safer out there than between walls, and he guessed it was too late to grow out of it. And so he kept his eyes open and let his mind wander, the numbers bubbling up again – how many people, how many calories, how many squirrels, how many cans of sweet corn – actually, there was no more sweet corn, but they’d found a tiny abandoned cabin with canned green beans and condensed milk – how many jugs of water, cause they were straying a bit further from waterways than he was comfortable with, how many miles to go back to that river they’d passed, how many miles to the next town, how many…

As soon as it was light enough that he could see his own hands in shades of grey, he woke up someone to take over on watch and tiptoed his way to his next hunting trip.

And sure, he distantly recognized that he couldn’t go on like this forever. Sure, sometimes he felt so tired that his legs could barely support him, and even breathing felt like a chore. Sure, it’d only been a few weeks and he’s already had to add an extra hole to his belt, and sometimes, when he moved too fast, black spots mockingly danced in front of his vision. But for now, this was the way it needed to be. This was the price to pay to maybe, maybe, maybe one day be accepted as part of the group. He just had to show them that he could be useful, he could be good. He could rise above the curse of being a Dixon, he could make them forget the unpleasantness that stuck to his skin more stubbornly than dirt. If he tried hard enough, maybe they could stop thinking about how stupid and rash and undeserving he was. And even if they couldn’t, maybe they could simply overlook it, overlook him, forget that they were supposed to have an opinion on him in the first place. He would never give them another reason to cast him out.

Then, he could stay.

Chapter Text

For a while, Daryl could see his plan working. The days passed, everyone alive and (somewhat) fed. Things weren’t easy, especially as temperatures started to drop, but they managed. They hadn’t even had a serious walker accident in weeks, except for that morning when Beth had gone to collect water on her own – but they didn’t talk about that. Maggie had gotten to her in time.

The group barely even scowled in Daryl’s direction when he quietly moved around camp. He could tell that folks were starting to associate his appearance with the arrival of fresh provisions, and the polite nods he got whenever he came back from hunting made every single thing worth it. Sometimes, when he was busy sharpening knives, Rick would sit next to him, so close that their shoulders almost brushed, and made quiet conversation as he started polishing their guns. The Sheriff filled him in on what’d happened while he was in the woods, asked his opinion about where they should go next, or simply grumbled about how low they were on ammo, never seeming put off when Daryl could only scrounge up a few gruff words in reply. Glenn had started wishing him goodnight when he retreated to his tent, sending a little wave in his direction and then smirking to Maggie when Daryl only stared back in wide eyed confusion. Even Lori, who’d kept hugging Carl to her body whenever Daryl was nearby for the entirety of their stay at the farm, seemed to be relaxing around him.

So Daryl doubled down. He tried his very best to be the man they needed him to be. He spent hours with Rick poring over maps, walker herds highlighted in different colors as they shifted and merged and encroached on their territory. Whenever they moved camps he silently helped the others to take down their tents in a few quick moves, then surreptitiously grabbed Carol’s pack on top of his own, carried Hershel’s medical kit, Lori’s folding chair. He carved a little scruffy dog out of wood for Carl, trying to cheer up the traumatized kid, give him something else to hold that wasn’t a gun. And above everything else, he gave his all to hunting, refusing to show his face until he caught enough game out there.

He should’ve probably known it couldn’t last. He should’ve definitely, undoubtedly known that winter would come.

-

The first time it happened it was a morning like any other, maybe just a bit chiller than he’d grown to expect. At dawn, Daryl scrolled the dew from his poncho like a wet dog and woke up Hershel to take watch, then made his way to the forest. He hiked east for a few hours, huffed, circled back and tried walking north, sighed, walked a bit further out. Nothing was fucking moving. And it made sense, really, it did, what with the air smelling like impending snow. Game was bound to become scarcer in winter, he was not a child, he knew. It wasn’t like he’d never had an unsuccessful hunt before the Apocalypse.

But this was different. The sun was already high in the sky and Daryl’s chest kept tightening until he couldn’t feel his fingertips anymore. His hands were miles away from his body, and he was vaguely aware that he was shaking. Fucking fuck. Just last year, a failed hunt would’ve meant a disgruntled Merle and a meagre dinner of cheap microwaved shit, or a skipped meal at worst. A failed hunt, now? It meant things he was too afraid to even think.

How could he go back to the group empty-handed? Would they even allow him back? Or would they question what exactly he’d been doing for hours on end, wasting time that he could’ve spent protecting the camp, boiling water, scavenging, chopping wood? Would the group finally realise that they couldn’t depend on him, couldn’t trust him to keep them safe?

His breathing was coming too quickly, eyes squeezing shut as numbers once more invaded his brain. How many people, how many calories, no fucking squirrels, but at least four cans of garbanzo beans from their last run, and they could make another run that same day if it ended up not being enough, there was a town just ten miles ahead that they were supposed to check out the next day, but really if he went back, if he moved fast, he could never make it back before sundown but maybe before nighttime, maybe he could…

The disgusting sound of gurgling breaths dragged him back, and he looked up just in time to see three walkers making a grab at him. In less than a breath he had his crossbow up, just instincts and quick fingers and the first walker collapsed, one last undignified moan before it fell silent. Daryl thought about reloading but there wasn’t time, the second walker already on him, deathly frigid fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt. Were they getting faster or was he the one slowing down?

He quickly evaluated the two remaining corpses. They were not particularly big, and no matter what, Daryl was not about to die out there. He just needed to take out his knife before they managed to take out a chunk of his arm. Grappling with the second body, he tried to at least slow the third down with a kick. Missed once, twice, and let out a curse when he realized he couldn’t even see exactly where the walker was, his field of view filled with snarling teeth. The third kick landed, tough, and the sickening crunch of a knee was followed by the heavy thud of the corpse hitting the ground. He barely had time to rejoice before he also lost his balance and ended up on his back, the second walker eagerly following him down and diving straight for his throat.

Later, he would never tell anyone this, but his fighting instincts won over his common sense and he headbutted the fucking thing, getting his whole face closer to snapping jaws than he’d ever wanted it to be. It was just sheer luck that the walker didn’t just bite off his nose. But he’d said, he’d decided, he wasn’t going to die out there; so he did headbutt the thing, and then used the few inches of space the action had granted him to desperately grab for his knife, draw it and then blindly stab the skull diving for him once more. Then, with a liberatory curse, he rolled around and reached for the third walker that was still dragging itself towards him, gripped it by the hair and put an end to its pitiful second-non-life.

For a moment he just laid there, panting, trying to calm his racing heart. He closed his eyes and then snapped them open again, outraged. Fucking hell, he almost got himself killed because he was enough of a pussy to get panicked and distracted in the goddamned woods. He could barely believe himself. If Merle had been there, he would’ve never let him live it down. How could he ask the group to put faith in him when he was so freaking dumb?

With a grunt of pain he got up, picked up his discarded crossbow, and gave one last kick to the walker that’d gotten closest to snacking on him, spitting on the corpse before limping away. He looked up, and felt his chest tighten again when he realized it was way past midday. It was time to go back, with or without prey, and he almost wanted to smash his fist into a tree when he felt fear coiling low in his gut. Look at you, Darleena. Shaking in your panties like a bitch. You my little sister now? Merle’s hoarse laugh echoed in his brain. Shut up! He told the trees. He had to pull himself together, stop being such a whiny coward and face the consequences of his actions.

But no matter how many times he repeated the words to himself, it didn’t make the walk back to camp any easier.

-

As soon as he stepped in the clearing they were camping at, T-Dog and Rick were immediately on him.

“What the hell happened, man?” The Sheriff demanded, his eyes widening as his hand instinctively moved to his hip, closer to his gun. And uh, out of all the outcomes he’d stressed over, Daryl hadn’t even considered that coming back empty handed might’ve gotten a weapon drawn on him. He’d hoped they’d give him a second chance to prove himself, but honestly, how many chances had they already given him before they even made it to the Greene farm? How many chances after? It was no surprise that they were fed up.

He obviously took too long to react, because T-Dog stepped closer to him, looking agitated as he gawked behind Daryl’s shoulder. “Snap out of it, man, are there more coming?” He questioned. And that really threw Daryl for a loop.

“Daryl, hey. You good? You- fuck, are you bit?” Rick insisted, somehow managing to sound even more frazzled. He stepped right into Daryl’s personal space and made a grab for his shoulder, before stopping abruptly with his hand awkwardly hovering between their bodies, and fuck, Daryl had flinched and hadn’t meant to, really hadn’t meant to.

He shook his head, desperately tried to reign his emotions in before he made an even bigger fool of himself. “I ain't bit, the hell you talking about?” He grunted, finally catching up to what they’d been telling him.

“Man, you’re covered in blood, and your shirt looks like it ended up a walker’s chew toy. Are you hurt? Any more coming after you?” Rick urged. And, oh. That… made sense.

“No, I killed ‘em sons of bitches far from here”, he finally explained. “Ain’t no one coming. But, listen, Rick…” He took a deep breath, needing to just rip the band-aid off. “Ain’t got no game today. Woods were deader than ‘em fuckers”.

He looked up as he spoke, too, cause whatever punishment was coming, he could meet it with his chin held high. That was the only reason why he caught the flash of confusion in Rick’s eyes, before T-Dog got tired of their chit-chatting and roughly grabbed him by the elbow.

“To hell with the meat, Dixon, y’all can stare into each other’s eyes after Hershel has patched you up, cause that gash on your head is pouring enough blood to call geeks all the way from Atlanta”, the man huffed, basically dragging Daryl to where the medic was filtering their drinking water.

“Get off me, I ain’t even hurt!” Daryl protested, pulling his elbow free and taking several steps back. To be fair, he had not really noticed the pounding of his head until T-Dog brought attention to it. He didn’t even know if he’d taken a hit while falling or if he’d gotten cut in his brilliant headbutting attempt. Nevertheless, he’d already made it back to camp, no skin off his back, so he doubted it could be anything major.

It was too late, though, because Hershel had already seen them coming, and was responding to Daryl’s glare with a bemused smile that only made the younger man bristle more. “If it isn’t my favorite patient!” Hershel teased, before adopting a softer tone. “Come sit, son, we just need to clean that gash before you get an infection. Promise I won’t keep you long”.

“I ain’t your son, old man”, Daryl grumbled, the fight draining out of him. “And I can handle it myself”.

“Might as well be, you’re every bit as stubborn as Maggie”, Hershel sighed. “Just sit down, Daryl, it’s only going to be a minute. Longer if you make an argument out of it”.

And damn, the vet was trying his best to be patient, but Daryl knew how infuriating it had to be, dealing with someone like him. He was trying, he reminded himself, he was trying and he was already on thin ice with how much of a let-down he’d already been that day. He groaned, dejected, lowering himself to the ground while Hershel went to find a clean cloth. They’d ran out of sterile gauze, so at least Daryl didn’t have to argue against wasting any on him.

Just out of earshot, he could see Rick worriedly talking to T-Dog, his hands moving in short, clipped movements, and T-Dog somewhat trying to placate him, shaking his head and slowly gripping their leader’s wrists. Rick was probably anxious about their lack of food, Daryl guessed, guiltily starting to chew on his thumb. Maybe he should really take initiative and scout ahead in the afternoon. He could get some supplies and then camp out during the night, make it back by morning. At least everyone could have some breakfast then.

“They just worry, you know”, Hershel said, making Daryl jump. When had he come back? He couldn’t afford to be this unaware, to be caught staring. But Hershel didn’t seem bothered, just started dabbing at his wound, gentle enough not to make him wince but firm enough that he didn’t feel babied.

“We all worry, when you’re out there alone”, the older man continued, steady as he wrapped another clean cloth around Daryl’s head to stop the bleeding.

And damn, this was bad, if Hershel felt the need to let him know. Of course Daryl suspected they worried, they would’ve been naïve not to – they might’ve trusted him to hunt for them and kill for them, but they did not trust him, not in a way that mattered. He’d proved himself volatile and unreliable, over and over again, so clearly they couldn’t be completely comfortable putting their faith in him out there, without anyone to keep an eye out. But stupidly, he’d though… he’d thought that after months of this, he’d maybe inched a bit closer to being out of probation. Obviously, he’d been deluded, if Hershel was giving him a talking to.

“Quit your fretting. I’ll do better, swear”, Daryl grunted, swatting away the vet’s hands now that the bandage was in place. “Thanks for patching me up”, he added, almost an afterthought as he hastily made his way to his tent.

No more slip ups, he promised himself as he rummaged through his pack for some rope. With how the day was going, he might as well work on setting up some snares.