Chapter Text
*
Rick and Daryl met because of Merle.
Daryl hadn’t made a good first impression, yelling and swearing in the lockup until the deputy came around to see what was up. The deputy said he was Rick Grimes and that he had been the one to arrest Merle.
Daryl almost punched him, but he didn’t. Another deputy got him in a chokehold—illegal, Daryl said—then Rick told him to keep a level head.
Daryl said fuck you but he’d stopped fighting. Needed to get out of there before he started crying like some sort of pussy. It was just jail. Merle probably deserved it. Daryl would come up with a way to pay for everything, even if Merle had just blown the whole two thousand dollars he’d saved up on fucking meth. Which then had been confiscated by the police. Not even good for resale.
Next time Daryl met Rick was one month later, over a little girl named Sophia Peletier.
Daryl was hunting in the woods—illegally, as it was private property, even if they didn’t mark it too well—when he heard the yelling. Hadn’t wanted to get involved, on account of whoever was doing said yelling had scared off the deer he’d been hunting. Must be either more hunters or a camp nearby. Some idiot was crashing through the brush, calling, “Sophia! Sophia!”
Forty-five minutes later the yelling was still going on. The woman’s voice was getting hoarse, and it finally occurred to Daryl that it might not just be a bunch of loudmouth idiots. Might actually be something wrong.
He followed the voice, easily tracking through the woods. Came up behind the woman and said, “All that hollering gonna wake the dead.”
Lady whipped around. Thin, pretty, older, gray. Short-cropped hair and a delicacy to her face that put him in mind of a painting, not that he thought about such things. “Who the hell are you?” she asked him.
“The fuck were you yelling for?” he asked her.
The look on the woman’s face quickly morphed from surprise into extreme distress. “Sophia. My daughter—she’s only twelve. We were . . . she wandered off.”
“Maybe if you’d put a leash on her,” Daryl said.
“Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?” Lady started coming toward him then seemed to finally see the crossbow, loose at his side. Eyes darted up to his and fear filled her up again.
“Chill out,” Dary said, hefting the crossbow over his shoulder. “Where’d you last see her?”
Lady had begun backing up. “Who—who are you?”
Daryl rolled his eyes. “I said chill out. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Lady drew herself up. “Who are you?”
“Daryl.” He started walking, gesturing off in a slightly different direction than before. “Your car out that way? Maybe she tried to get back to the road.” He stopped, looked back. “You coming?”
She looked around. Then she started to follow.
Brave, he realized, once he understood that she probably thought he was a serial killer and had buried her daughter in a cave somewhere. As they walked, she reached out to hold some branches back and he caught sight of the bruises circling her wrist, a dusky bracelet.
“You with your man?” he heard himself say suddenly. Wasn’t much for talking but here he was striking up a conversation. Go figure.
“My man?” She glanced up coyly. “What is this, 1950s?”
A liar, then. Side-stepping. “He looking too?” Daryl persisted.
Lady glanced nervously back over her shoulder. “He’s at the camp,” she said, then seemed to realize how that sounded. “In case Sophia comes back.” She glanced up at him—still sure he was a serial killer, but less nervous of him than what was back there. Daryl understood how that could be. “I’m Carol,” she said.
She was still walking strong, slim shoulders back. “I was out hunting,” he said, wanting to give her something, reassure her somehow.
She eyed his crossbow. “With that?”
“Quieter than a gun.”
“Who are you hiding from?”
“Man, what you think? Deer.” He held some branches back for her. “Vicious creatures.” She brushed past him and he let the branches go.
*
Three hours later, they still hadn’t found the little girl.
At first, Carol had talked, telling Daryl that she, her husband, and daughter had been camping—not a vacation, she’d clarified. Her husband just hadn’t wanted to pay for a motel. Sounded like a real piece of work. Over the last two hours she’d grown quieter and quieter, but Daryl’s eyes kept sliding over toward her, unable to stop looking at that bracelet of bruises.
Delicate skin. Fragile wrists. Pretty bones, those lilac smudges soft as flower petals.
The last hour, she stopped talking altogether. Once when Daryl’s eyes slid over to her he saw the shine in her eyes, but she quickly dashed away tears with the back of her hand, not even aware Daryl had seen. She didn’t make a sound.
She made his hands itch. He wasn’t really the sort to help people, but he knew the woods. He was good at this, useful for once—except for the fact he couldn’t find the trail. He moved ahead to hold some branches for her again, and that was when he saw it.
The season was late for them to bloom. Stooping, he bent the stem, pulled it off.
She looked at him, down at his hand, back up, confused. “A flower?”
“It’s a Cherokee Rose.”
She didn’t know the story, so he told it to her.
Lips pressed together, Carol took the rose.
*
After three hours they went back to the camp, where Daryl met Ed. Kinda felt like punching him in the eye, but didn’t bother. They were out of cell phone range and missing a little girl, only had the three of them adults to look for her. The month was October—still temperate in Georgia, but could get down into the fifties at night.
Ed said Carol should take the car up the road some and try to make a call; Daryl thought she shouldn’t go alone but didn’t want to argue with Ed. That would make it worse for her, and what if Ed was the one that done something to Sophia? Daryl wouldn’t put it past this fuckwad. Best if Daryl was here to deal with Ed and Carol was far away as possible, so Daryl said he and Ed could search while Carol left.
She didn’t want to do it but was afraid to argue. Meanwhile Ed obviously didn’t want Daryl helping them, but there weren’t much he could do. They split up to search the woods, Daryl along the creek and Ed along the road. Daryl did think the creek was a good option, but nevertheless he circled back to the road a few times to track Ed, just in case.
Later on he picked up a trail, which provided some good evidence that at least it weren’t Ed who’d hid the girl away or beat or killed her. Followed it along a bit until he found a doll, freshly dropped in the creek and down a bluff. By then it was too dark to carry on and he hadn’t brought a flashlight, so he headed back to camp.
The camp, however, was bright white with floodlights. Police were everywhere—three squad cars, and who should be in the thick of it but that fucker who’d put Merle away, Deputy Rick fucking Grimes.
“You,” Rick said, seeing him first, and another cop rushed him.
“The fuck,” said Daryl, as the cop grabbed him.
“Shane,” said Rick.
Deputy Walsh—the one who got him in that chokehold last time.
“Step off, man,” Daryl told Shane, trying to twist out of his grasp, but Shane was fast and strong.
The doll went down in the scuffle.
“Shane,” Rick said. Ran up toward them, picked up the doll, pulled Shane back. “Lay off.”
“You know this asshole?” said Shane, gripping Daryl’s arm.
“It’s Dixon, right?” asked Rick.
Daryl glared.
Rick looked back at Shane. “Mrs. Peletier said a man named Daryl was helping them.” He nodded at Daryl. “This is Daryl Dixon. Remember Merle Dixon? Put him away a few weeks back.”
Shane didn’t let go. “You think this fucker’s helping? Coming out of the woods all methed out with a buck knife?”
Rick held up the doll. “Where did you find this?” he asked Daryl. When Daryl didn’t answer, Rick looked back at Shane again. “Let him go.”
“Rick,” said Shane.
“Where’d you find this?” Rick asked again, and Shane let him go.
Interesting. Rick was a lot smaller than Shane, more compact. Lean and whipcord rather than big and brawny. But there was something of command in Rick’s face, in his voice, and Shane obviously responded to it too.
Daryl made a show of rubbing his arm where Shane had gripped it.
“Where’d you find it?” Rick said again, tilting his head, a bit more up in Daryl’s face.
“In the woods,” Daryl spat. Still rubbing his arm, Daryl looked around. Goddamn police were everywhere. Sure, if Sophia were just lost, they’d find her. But if there were some kinda freak out there in the woods—if Ed had done something to her—they might never get her, the ruckus they were making. Broadcasting their moves from miles away.
But then Daryl saw Carol—goddamn cop trying to put a blanket over her shoulders and she wasn’t having any of it, wringing her hands and desperate-looking. She wanted to go out into the woods, be out searching, and Daryl knew exactly how she felt. They were both trapped here.
“Daryl,” she shouted, rushing over to him, cops on her heels.
“Found that.” He nodded at the doll.
Carol took it from Rick. “Where?” she asked breathlessly.
Daryl glanced at Rick, paused, then jerked his head back the way he’d come. “Up there a ways. By the creek. Looks like she followed it a while.”
“Show me,” said Rick.
Daryl looked at Rick suspiciously. “Ain’t you got hounds?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Shane. “Let’s take this guy into custody. He obviously knows where she is, had something to do with the kidnapping—”
“We don’t know if she’s been kidnapped,” Rick said, his voice firm and steady, arm shooting out to steady Carol, who had gasped. “Daryl, you said it looked like she followed the creek a while. How could you tell?”
Held a séance, Daryl wanted to snap, but then looked at Carol. Looked reluctantly back at Rick. “I can hunt. A little. Usually deer.”
“You do that here?” Rick asked.
Daryl shrugged.
“This is private property,” said Shane.
“Take us there,” said Rick.
Loud cops with their flashing lights were the last thing Daryl wanted to take after some little girl, not if she’d been carried off by some serial killer rapist. But Daryl hadn’t seen signs of two people, just one little one, and light and noise were the best way to find her if she really was just lost. And there was no way he was getting out of this anyway, so finally he agreed to it.
Rick and Shane came along with four other cops, Shane eyeing Daryl suspiciously the whole way. They made Carol stay back at the camp—in case Sophia came back, they said, but really they just didn’t want to keep track of her too. Ed must be back there somewhere, hell knew if he cared.
Daryl showed them the spot he’d found the doll, and Rick asked him to point out the trail. Kept that same high intensity and low voice he’d had back at the camp—and back when he’d talked down Daryl at the lockup too, something steady and fierce about him that almost reluctantly made Daryl trust him.
What was even worse about it was how trim his hips were, slim everywhere but a flare to his shoulders that was just enough. Daryl noticed it even in the darkness of the woods, and hated that he noticed it.
He knew he was gay. Had a boyfriend, even. Kind of. Anyway got fucked by a man on a fairly regular basis and had sucked enough cock that he couldn’t claim otherwise. But he didn’t talk about it, not even to his boyfriend really, and certainly never to anyone else. Didn’t even like to admit it, and still hated the part of himself that was that way. Hated the part of himself that was noticing the stretch of a fucking cop uniform over a fucking cop’s shoulders, the way it was neat and clean-cut and went down smooth to Rick’s narrow waist and gorgeous fucking hips; it wasn’t right.
Jesus.
When they found Sophia, she was unconscious. Had hit her head on a rock and tumbled down into a little lee where it would’ve been tough to find her, hidden behind some brambles as she was, if Daryl hadn’t known how to follow a lead. Certainly the cops were useless.
They didn’t want to move her in case of spinal injury, so they got the paramedics out there and the whole shebang. Finally allowed Carol to go out to where she’d fallen, but couldn’t get an ambulance close enough and had to carry Sophia out on a stretcher. She woke up during the whole process which was a good sign, but she hadn’t been able to say much before going out again so they didn’t know if she was concussed or what; they’d figure it out at a hospital.
An hour into it a man with a white beard appeared on the scene—not a cop. “Bystander” was the way he registered, but the way the cops were talking with him, seemed he might have something to do with it. Another forty-five minutes passed before Daryl learned that the man was Hershel Greene—the farmer who owned this land. Likely the cops were talking to him about the trespassing; who knew what the guy thought of it.
Getting the girl out was a rigmarole that lasted three hours all-told before the girl and her parents went into the ambulance. Through it all Daryl kept thinking about the bruises on Carol’s wrist, and her little girl running off. Probably weren’t a coincidence. Probably girl ran off because her daddy was mean, and something worse was gonna happen if no one did nothing.
But no one did do anything, and just before she got in the ambulance Carol hugged him. Said, “You saved my baby girl. Did more for her than—than most people would have.”
“It weren’t nothing,” Daryl said gruffly, uncomfortable because women didn’t hug him, not ladies like her anyway.
“It was everything,” she said. Held on a little longer, then began to pull away.
“Hold up,” he said. Held onto her arms and didn’t know what he was doing for a second, with her looking so pretty and grateful but still so sad, too delicate. “You,” he started to say, then had to start again. “I gotta give you my phone number,” he said instead.
She pulled away, fear flashing across her face.
“For if you . . . so you can tell me how Sophia is,” Daryl said.
“Oh,” said Carol, looking uncertain.
“I won’t be no trouble,” Daryl said quickly. Then added, “Not if you don’t want me to be.”
For a moment she stared at him, not seeming to understand. Then she reached out, squeezed his arm. “You’re a good man.”
Daryl looked around, uncomfortable. He didn’t have a pen or nothing to write his number down on, and what if Ed saw it; that would be a mess.
“I don’t need you protecting me,” said Carol.
“I’ll find you,” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
Then she walked off into the lights, open ambulance white like the pearly gates with her daughter inside.
Husband waiting like the devil.
*
After that, police came to take Daryl’s statement about the incident. Officer asking questions told him to wait there, and Daryl guessed this was when the shit would hit the fan—he’d been hunting on private property after all, didn’t matter that Hershel Greene owned half the county and didn’t tend these parts. They’d bring him up on charges and that would be that. At least it’d make Deputy Walsh happy.
Daryl stood there shifting foot to foot and Rick came up through the light, looking like a goddamn hero. Daryl still hated himself that the fucking cop could look so good after this whole night’s worth of shit. Daryl didn’t have to be here at all, should’ve just kept going despite the hollering, but because of him they’d found the girl, and Rick had asked him for his help. Rick had trusted him, and Daryl hated how it made him feel because God, the stupid motherfucker looked so good, striding up through the camp bowlegs and all.
“How you doing?” Rick said, like it was Daryl’s daughter that had gone missing.
Daryl scowled.
Rick just nodded, as though he hadn’t expected any answer. Looked off in the direction the ambulance had gone, almost an hour ago now, and said, “Strange that little girl ran off that way,” he said, turning back to Daryl. “I mean that far. Got any idea why she’d do a thing like that?”
Daryl’s scowl deepened. “Ain’t none of my business.”
“Uh-huh.” Rick nodded, like he’d expected this too. “You didn’t hear anything, before they got split up?”
“Man, I told your officer. Never laid eyes on them before I heard her hollering.”
“Right,” said Rick. “And after you met Mrs. Peletier. You didn’t notice anything?”
“The fuck you talking about?”
“What about Mr. Peletier? You notice anything about him?”
Daryl looked at him warily. Could be just a stupid fucking cop asking questions. However, could also be . . . there was a minimal chance Rick had noticed Carol’s wrist as well. There was a tiny, infinitesimal possibility he was trying to help, and in that case . . . “What about him?” Daryl asked suspiciously.
“I dunno. Anything.” Rick shrugged. “Anything that maybe would cause a little girl to want to get away.”
Daryl glowered again. “Why you asking me?”
Rick was quiet for a moment, eyes running Daryl up and down. It made Daryl uncomfortable—he knew Rick wasn’t looking at him like that, but Rick’s gaze was steady and firm, his jaw set hard even though his mouth looked soft, and Daryl burned with shame. He was the one looking at Rick like that, and now was not the time. There was never a time for that; he didn’t even know how he could think like that about a fucking cop.
“You helped them,” Rick said. “You didn’t have to, could’ve walked away. Why didn’t you?”
Daryl shifted, uncomfortable all over again.
“You wanted to help Carol Peletier,” Rick said, his voice quite low. “I want to help her too.”
“Can I get her address?” Daryl blurted.
Rick blinked. “What?”
“I can check in. At least make sure she’s safe.”
Rick started shaking his head. “I can’t disclose a citizen’s private address. Not if she doesn’t want to give it to you—”
“She ain’t safe.”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you fucking arrest him?”
Rick just stood there.
“Fucking cops,” Daryl said, turning away.
“Daryl.”
Then Rick was closer to him, smelling like the woods and sweat and maybe a little of cologne, the heat of him and the rough brush of his shirt against Daryl’s arm, the hot skin of Rick’s hand on Daryl’s wrist. Daryl twisted out of his grasp. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“I can get her your number,” Rick said. “Try to convince her to call you.”
It was more than Daryl had expected, even if it still wasn’t enough.
“You know I can’t arrest him,” said Rick. “She’d have to report it, and even then I’d need probable cause. My hands are tied. But yours aren’t. You’re what I’ve got in this situation.”
Show me, Rick had said, asking Daryl to take him to where he’d found the doll. Asking for help while Deputy Walsh had wanted him arrested. Trusting him when not many people would have.
On Carol that trust had meant she had a fuck-ton of courage and a whiff of desperation. On Rick Daryl didn’t know what it meant. That Rick was stupid, maybe.
Daryl couldn’t help it; that trust filled him up, just like Carol’s had. He wanted to do something and there were two people in the world who thought he could.
He would try.