#daryl dixon x ftm oc

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes-Chapter 13

Notes: So, long time no post. I'm truly sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I've had some bad bouts of depression pop up and also had a switch of hyperfixations. This chap is actually one I had already written up, I just didn't post until now. I'm hoping this will motivate me to start writing again. Lots of misunderstandings between Daryl and Pheonyx going on right now. It won't last for long though, Pheonyx is very direct but they need to work through this before they can confront each other.

TW/CW: smoking, talks of past drug/alcohol abuse, past child abuse, allusions to past sexual assault, scars from abuse, animal death(possum and woodchuck), gore, blood, body insecurity, depictions of a walker,

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Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

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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. 

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. 

 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. 

Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000 @dixonsboy19 @clairealeehelsing @mrrumplebottom

[headknight-oh]

First time posting Daryl fic i guess

So so so out of order for what I want to map out, but the chittering whispers of the muse would not be silenced until they were appeased, so early Alexandria Daryl x OC fic be upon ye. Still need to do simple mathematics to add those 6 votes from the initial poll to see what this funky little queer will be called, but sex la vie or whatever.

I didn't really attempt to write out his dialect other than dropping a couple of gs at the end of gerunds. I'm not Zora Neale Hurston; dictating dialects is not my specialty.

Also, the quote they say is from Romeo and Juliet is actually from Hamlet. Onto the scene. Enjoy!

He’d been hiding in the tree line for a while now, shifting nervously from foot to foot, debating going in. He was just about to leave, to call the whole thing a waste of time when the rustle of leaves nearby caught his attention. 

“I can hear you,” Daryl said to no one in particular. It didn’t matter who it turned out to be; the drunken cadence of whomever had found him was familiar enough. 

“No you can’t. I’m being super quiet and stealthy actually. I think you might be experiencing auditory hallucinat-“ They were cut off by the crack of dry wood and the rustle of leaves as they fell somewhere close off to his right. 

A snort and a giggle quickly followed. A small smile of his own cracked the harsh line that he’d pressed his mouth into.

He heard them stand back up, and moments later, they stood at his side. He tore his gaze away from the house, from the throngs of people in the window, dressed in their Sunday best or whatever they would call it. They stood next to him, swaying on their feet, staring through the branches above to see the stars. Their face was flush with alcohol and awe as their finger traced constellations with no names. They always looked at the sky the same way, with a sense of wonder and fondness, as if they were seeing it for the first time. Daryl found it endearing, but reasoned that the pleasant tightening in his chest was a gentle amazement that anyone was able to maintain that level of wonder after living through the end of days so long. 

“Yer drunk,” Daryl said plainly, not quite sure what else to say. 

They snorted. “Heh, yeah. Rick is finally watching his own fucking baby. Love that kid, don’t tell her I said that. And I’ve been going drink for drink with good ol’ Abe. Haven’t been this drunk since undergrad.” They swayed a bit. “Came outside to smoke. Saw you. Decided to bother you.” They leaned against a tree as they fumbled in their pockets. They placed a joint between their lips, fiddling with the lighter.

“You doin a good job at that already,” he said, watching them struggle with drunken fingers to hold a flame on the lighter.

They laughed again, failing to light the lighter once more. “Mission accomplished then.” They considered the lighter for a moment. “If I share, will you light this? I fear I’ve lost control of my fine motor functions.”

He huffed a laugh, taking the offered lighter. He held the flame cupped in front of him. They leaned in a little unsteadily, not that their coordination was great to begin with when sober. The soft skin of their cheek grazed against his hand that blocked the wind as they breathed in the first drag, humming pleasantly. Daryl’s fingers felt tingly where they’d made contact with their face. He flexed them to rid himself of the feeling, trading the lighter for the outstretched joint. 

They stood in silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth. “So,” they began, exhaling smoke through their nose, “you gonna come in? I’ve been pissing off rich milktoast democrats all night. It’s quite fun, if I do say so myself.”

He scoffed and shook his head, taking the joint as they passed it to him. “Not my crowd.”

They hummed as they watched him exhale, eyes trailing his profile. “Not mine either.” The two considered each other for a moment. “Glad you came close though. It’s nice to see you trying.”

His eyes narrowed, “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

They shrugged. “You’ve been pissed off and uncomfortable since we got here. It’s a nice change of pace. You’re more fun when you’re not all angsty and brooding.” They kicked his boot playfully, smiling as they took the joint back. They used both hands, fingers grazing both his palm and knuckles in the process. They thought for a moment. “Hot and sexy maybe, but not much fun.”

Daryl felt his face heat. He shook his head. “Yer drunk.”

They laughed. “And high. Figure that out all on your own, hey Sherlock? I’m serious though.” They took one more drag and handed it back over. “Here. You finish this.” They exhaled up into his face as they pushed off the tree they were leaning against. He grumbled, and they chuckled. “Maybe now that you’re getting comfy, you can finally take a shower.”

“Don’t count on it,” he said, feeling a small smile tug at his mouth. 

They hummed again, studying his face. Their expression was the same pensive curiosity they showed when archiving some textbook they found. He could feel a slight fuzziness in his head that he blamed on the weed.

“What?” He looked away, not liking the way his face was heating under their gaze or the way his stomach flipped. 

They started to say something, a single “I” slipping out before they seemingly changed their mind on what to say. “You, Rick, and Carol. What are you guys planning?”

Daryl sighed. Of course they’d noticed. “Don’t worry bout it.”

They chewed at their bottom lip. “I wouldn’t if it were just you and Carol. But Rick,” their voice trailed off. They’d never been the biggest fan of Rick's leadership, something they were very vocal about most times, but this was different. This was worry, concern.

Daryl felt his hand move on its own accord, finding perch on their shoulder. He was briefly aware of how big his hand looked on their short frame, but he shook his head. “Rick’s fine. We’re all fine. Promise”

Their eyes narrowed momentarily. He knew that they’d clocked his uncertainty. But they apparently decided to let it pass. All at once, he saw the alcohol and cannabis creep back over their consciousness, as if they’d allowed it purchase again. Or maybe it had always been at least a little bit of an act.

“Alright, Daryl my dear. Whatever you say.” They patted the hand on their shoulder. “I’m gonna go turn this political fundraiser into an actual party. This music is ass. Or maybe I’ll find Deanna and tell her why I didn’t vote for her last election. That would be fun.” They grabbed his hand and stepped back, bowing. “Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” They pressed a quick kiss onto the back of his hand, close to the still-healing cig burn from a week or so ago. They’d been the only one to notice that too. “That was from Romeo and Juliet I think. Maybe. I don’t know; it’s all a big mess up here right now.” They dropped his hand to tap their forehead. Daryl felt a strange sadness at the loss, knuckles still tingling from where their lips had touched.

He waved them off before he could register the heat spreading from the back of his neck. He listened to them giggle one last time, waving back at him as they made their way back to the party. “G’night, Daryl. I’ll see you back at home. Well, the house. Not quite home.” They stopped to ponder, apparently their brain and their feet unable to operate at the same time. 

Daryl shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Just get in there. Go have another drink or something.”

That seemed to snap them out of it. “Yessir,” they said, hitting a sloppy salute before laughing and waving as they headed back inside.

Daryl stayed in the tree line a little longer, watching them through the back sliding door, then through the window as they stood on a couch and started their show, ever the performer. As the music changed from a polite jazz to whatever rowdy bar song they started, he sighed and turned away. He began walking towards what would hopefully be home. Eventually.

[dragubel]

╰─ - ̗̀♱ About me:

⛧| Name: Ubel

⛧| Nickname: Just call me Whatever 🤍

⛧| Age: 20

⛧| Gender: Male FTM

⛧| Pronouns: He/Him

⛧| Sexuality: Pansexual

⛧| Birthday: March 18th

⛧| Zodiac: Pisces ♓️

⛧| Relationship status: Taken!

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

⛧| Color: Jungle Green

⛧| Songs: Dead -Korn

⛧| Artists: Tobias Forge, Jonathan Davis

⛧| Shows: The Walking Dead, Young Sheldon, Breaking Bad

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

╰─ - ̗̀♱ Interests & More!

⛧| Hobbies: Kandi, Fanfic

⛧| Likes: Ghost, Korn, TWD, Limp Bizkit, Drawing, Writing

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

╰─ - ̗̀♱ What I write

⛧| Korn, The Walking Dead, only. (For now)

⛧| Smut, Fluff, comfort, depression, Self Harm, Angst, gore, death and zombies.

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

╰─ - ̗̀♱ What I won’t write

⛧| (to get more info, message me, can’t say the stuff on here, Lmao, you can ask me anything ❤️)

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

╰─ - ̗̀♱ Master List

⛧| Korn🌽

Jonathan Davis x Sick! Reader

James “Munky” Shaffer + Jonathan Davis x Fem! Reader One Shot

Jonathan Davis x Fem! Reader 18+

James “Munky” Shaffer x Fem! Reader Headcannons 18+

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

⛧| The Walking Dead

Daryl Dixon x reader: incorrect quote #1

Daryl Dixon x reader: incorrect quote #3

Daryl Dixon x reader: incorrect quote #4

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣ ˚☽˚.⋆

⛧| OC

Eugene Porter x OC: incorrect quote #2

[male-reader]

REQUEST INFORMATION

[Basic]

•I only write x male, FtM or genderneutral readers (meaning no she/her pronouns except if it's in the case of someone misgendering a FtM reader)

•No OC's!

I will consider these as suggestions, which means that I will do only those that I like, whether exactly as requested or with some of my own twists and changes to fit what I’d be comfortable with so please keep in mind that there’s a chance that will happen. I have the right to choose what and how I will write.

[Characters I take requests for] - (at the moment)

*- most experience

—

*[Tommy Shelby] - Peaky Blinders

Series watch status [Complete]

Character requests 》[CLOSED]《

X male reader

X FtM reader (please specify transition stage)

X genderneutral reader

With any of these 3 readers the relationship can be romantic or platonic

X younger brother/sibling reader

X child reader

With the Child or Sibling reader Tommy would act as a caretaker, brother figure or a father figure

—

[Daryl Dixon]-The Walking Dead

Series watch status [end of S7]

Character requests 》[CLOSED]《

X male reader

X FtM trans reader (please specify transition stage)

X genderneutral reader

With any of these 3 readers the relationship can be romantic or platonic

X child reader

With the Child reader Daryl would act as a caretaker, brother figure or a father figure

I’ll only be writing this reader if I REALLY like the request idea

—

[Din Djarin] - The Mandalorian

Series watch status [Complete]

Character requests 》[CLOSED]《

X male reader

X FtM trans reader (please specify transition stage)

X genderneutral reader

With any of these 3 readers the relationship can be romantic or platonic

X child reader

With the Child reader Din would act as a caretaker or a father figure

I’ll only be writing this reader if I REALLY like the request idea

[Added note]: I'm only familiar with The Mandalorian series and The Book of Boba Fett and have no major knowledge of the Star Wars universe. I only recently started making my way through the movies, and they're quite confusing for me to understand most of the time so please keep that in mind. But if someone mentions they want something specific in the request they could either help by explaining or I will try looking it up to understand it better

—

[Marc Spector and/or Steven Grant] - Moon Knight

Series watch status [Complete]

Character requests 》[CLOSED]《

[These can be]:

Marc x reader,

Steven x reader,

Jake x reader,

Marc x reader x Steven,

Marc x reader x Jake,

Steven x reader x Jake,

Marc, Steven and Jake x reader

—

x male reader

x FtM reader (please specify transition stage)

x genderneutral reader

With any of these 3 readers the relationship can be romantic or platonic

x child reader

With the Child reader Marc and/or Steven and Jake would act as caretakers or father figures

I’ll only be writing this reader if I REALLY like the request idea

[Added Note]: so far I’m only familiar with the show so please keep all the requests tied to the show, but I am also making my way through various comics I can find online and gathering more information about the characters

—

[Types of things I will write]

Can also be a mix of 2 or all :)

[Fluff]

[Angst] - no explicit self harm/s*icide

[Smut] - nothing (extremely) explicit, no v*ginal intercourse if the reader is FtM

[Lengths I write]

[Drabble] - approx. 0-300-500 words

[Oneshot] - approx. 500-1000-1500 words

This will mostly depend on my motivation/inspiration. You can still say which you’d prefer, but it’s not guaranteed I’ll be able to.

If the request doesn’t have much for me to work with it’ll be harder to write more.

[Request sheet] - (aka what I need to know)

Which character the request is for

Male, FtM or genderneutral reader

How far into transition if the reader is FtM

Relationship w/character

son, brother, love interest, platonic etc.

[Type] - fluff, angst, smut

Basic plot/plot points

If certain things aren't described/lack detail I will interpret it myself so make sure it's clear what you want!

That’s it for now! :)

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes-Chapter 11

Note: Oh gosh, I keep getting deep into these chapters, please note that these chapters are twice as big as the first chapters in this story so it's taking me a bit longer to pop them out. I'm sorry for the delay but I just want to make sure everything is perfect! Thank you @loganlostitall for beta reading!

Banners: @liminal_creations

Dividers: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Chapter CW/TW: Past rape/noncon, past child abuse/neglect, anxiety attack, depression, allusions to child loss, transphobia(Shane), Panic

Prev / Next / Masterlist

By the time Daryl, Kismet, and Pheonyx made it back to the farm, the sky was just starting to turn orange. The blazing heat from earlier had dulled to a barely tolerable simmer. Crickets were starting to sing their evening song and fireflies were beginning to float around the fields surrounding the farmhouse. Sometimes Pheonyx was amazed at how nature could continue on, and could remain so normal, despite the carnage and decay that had taken over the world.

Kismet walked lazily beside them, having worn himself out with all the walking and tracking throughout the day. He didn’t even wiggle when Pheonyx picked him up to lift him over the barbed wire at the outlet of the woods.

The three walked together until they reached the split rail fence that bordered half of the main yard of the house. Kismet ducked under the lowest rail and Pheonyx hopped over the fence with ease. Daryl landed beside him a moment later.

The area where the tents were erected that morning was quiet. Only a few of Daryl’s group were moving around, the majority of them were sitting around a small campfire where a large pot was being stirred by Glenn. Low conversation could be heard from the distance between the men and the group, nothing distinct but it was the sounds of multiple people that had Pheonyx’s muscles tensing. These people seemed okay–Shane excluded–he knew that. But he couldn’t help the instinctual reaction to turn tail and run back to the solace of the woods.

A furry head butted into his hand, forcing him to put his attention on the dog at his side, instead of the people congregating on the property.

Daryl had seen the difference in Pheonyx the moment the sounds of T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Andrea chatting floated over to them. The calm, relaxed man was suddenly stiff as a board and gripping the straps of his backpack with a white knuckle grip. Kismet made a small whine of concern and pushed himself into Pheonyx’s space, moving the man’s attention away from the campfire in the distance. His inked shoulders slumped a small bit, but the tension was still there.

Daryl felt the urge to chew his thumb, unsure of what to do, but both of his hands were occupied. One was gripping the strap of his crossbow. The other held an old beer bottle– he’d found it on the way back to the farm–that he was using as a vase for the Cherokee rose he picked for Carol. The rose Pheonyx had picked, and handed to him as a promise, was currently tucked in between the folds of the map resting in his breast pocket. Daryl didn’t understand why he did it. All he knew was that when he went to put both roses in the bottle for Carol, he couldn’t part with the smaller stemmed one. The way the younger man had handed it to him, offering words of hope, made an impact on him. He’d grown up around people who offered empty promises. Mama who said she’d stop drinking but never did. Pa who said he’d wouldn’t lay a hand on him anymore when he was sober. Merle who made a pact with him to never leave but not even a year later joined the military and left him alone. Social workers who promised to help him if he told the truth but never followed through. He’d learned not to trust promises. They always lead to heartbreak. But the way Pheonyx had looked at him, had spoken softly and told him that they would find Sophia, made Daryl believe him. He knew, even if they didn’t find the girl, Pheonyx would do everything in his power to try. When he was holding Pheonyx’s rose, he knew he couldn’t give it away. So, when Pheonyx wasn’t looking, he’d pulled out the folded map, and stuck the rose between the thin creases. The map-slightly thicker than it had been before- resting against his chest offered a piece of comfort that hadn’t been there before.

“‘M gonna talk to Carol. Tell ‘er what we found. Do ya-”, Daryl paused, not sure of how to ask. “She might like ta hear ‘bout the bag. Give ‘er some hope. Might be better comin’ from ya.”

Pulling his eyes from the campfire in the distance, Pheonyx took a moment to register what Daryl said. He nodded, grateful for the distraction. The older man inclined his head away from the tent area towards the RV his group brought. Thankfully, it was in the opposite direction of the camp. They began to walk over that way, with Kismet trotting on their heels. As they got closer, a figure appeared on the RV. The man with the bucket hat, Dale, was sitting on top of the large vehicle in a beach chair. He had a hunting rifle in his lap and was looking out into the fields with a pair of binoculars. A little bit of the anxiety in his stomach, the kind that constantly gnaws at his gut no matter the circumstances, lifted. Having someone on lookout for shadows, when Pheonyx couldn’t be there, was a huge relief. He worried for his family, especially in their state of denial, but he couldn’t be there 24/7 to watch for dangers.

Dale lowered his binoculars, having heard the trio approaching, and offered them a smile.

“Any sign of her?”, he asked, taking his hat off and wiping some of the sweat off his forehead.

Pheonyx looked to Daryl, waiting for him to answer his group member, but the man simply grunted and nodded, not elaborating. Awkward silence ensued and Pheonyx coughed, dragging Daryl’s attention to him. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the man on top of the RV, silently telling Daryl to talk to Dale.

With a roll of his eyes, Daryl spoke shortly, “The mutt found ‘er trail and led us ta an ole’ house she musta stayed in. Gonna head out early tomorrow ta keep lookin’.”

Pheonyx didn’t think it was possible but Dale’s smile widened. The old man replaced the hat on his head and said, “It’s nice to have some good news after the last few days. Carol’s in the RV. Been trying to keep busy all day. Hopefully, this news will help brighten her day a bit.”

As expected, Daryl simply grunted and opened the RV door to go in. Kismet pushed himself in front of the archer, and slipped inside. Daryl cursed as he stumbled a bit, the dog not knowing his strength knocked him off balance. He caught himself on the door and shook his head before stepping inside.

Pheonyx offered Dale a smile of apology for Daryl’s stand-offish attitude and followed the other two inside.

Both Daryl and Pheonyx noted the smell of household cleaners when they entered the small living space. The counters around the vehicle were practically sparkling; dishes were drying in a rack by the small sink; the windows were streak free and glimmered in the evening sun. The younger man hadn’t seen the inside of the RV before but he guessed that Carol had kept busy by cleaning the space top to bottom. He silently whispered a plea to the Earth that Kismet didn’t completely destroy the place and undo the poor woman’s hard work. The dog was tired but he always managed to cause trouble no matter what level of energy he had.

Kismet trotted into the back of the vehicle and a small giggle let the men know where Carol was. They both took a few steps forward , still managing to keep distance between each other despite the small aisle.

Pheonyx smiled as he looked over Daryl’s shoulder and saw Kismet nuzzling his head into the woman’s lap, the mending she had been doing laying to the side. The dog’s tail was wagging but it was very delicate, as if he could sense that he needed to be gentle around the petite woman in front of him. Carol looked up and striking blue eyes met his own. Despite the short gray hair on her head, she looked young. Hardly any lines marked her face and the smile on her face was bright and girlish. There was an underlying sadness in her eyes. But her daughter was missing. It was understandable to be downhearted.

“I’m sorry about Kismet. I was gonna have him stay outside but he slipped in before I could say anything,” Pheonyx said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, he’s fine.”, Carol said meekly. She rubbed Kismet’s head and scratched his ears, taking comfort from the softness of his fur. “Sophia always wanted to have a dog but Ed, my husband, hated animals.”

Pheonyx responded without thinking, “He sounds like a dick.” Daryl whipped his head to look at the younger man behind him, shocked–but also amused– by his bluntness. Pheonyx’s eyes widened as he realized how callous his words sounded, considering her husband had just recently died. “I’m sorry-”

“He was a dick.” Carol cut in, chuckling. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Carol. Thank you for volunteering to look for my Sophia.”, at the sound of her daughter’s name, tears filled the woman’s eyes and she used the hand not touching Kismet to catch the drops that fell.

Pheonyx felt Daryl tense at the sight of the emotional woman and he understood the feeling. He wanted to run from the RV and go hide in the stables. But he couldn’t do that. If anything he was one of only people on the farm who could empathize with her. So, he sucked in a breath and muttered an apology as he wormed his way around Daryl. The other man flinched, not expecting the movement. Pheonyx sat down on the bed a foot away from the willowy woman and held his hand out in an offer of comfort. Carol gladly took it and encompassed his calloused hands with her small soft one. Brain set aflame with the need to run from the strange touch, Pheonyx swallowed down his fear and gave her fingers a small squeeze. Kismet whined and moved his head to lay in the spot between them.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find her today,” he spoke softly and looked into her sparkling blue eyes. “Kismet was able to find her trail and he led us to one of the abandoned farm houses on the far ends of the property. Daryl found a cabinet that we think she slept in, and the empty cans of food that were still wet, so we're probably not even 24 hours behind her. She has supplies now too-”

“Supplies?” Carol questioned.

“The first month after phone lines went down, I set up bug-out bags on areas around the whole property. Just in case something happened to the farm. One of those was at the house. It has a week's worth of food and water, a pop up tent, and a hunting knife. The bag was gone when we got there and the only tracks in the house were hers. We don’t have to worry about her getting dehydrated or being hungry anymore. We just have to catch up to her,” Pheonyx chose not to mention worrying about shadows. Sophia had a knife now, but that didn’t mean she knew how to use it. They just had to hope she managed to avoid them or learned how to fell the corpses quickly.

A light sniffle came from Carol’s nose and she pulled the entwined fingers up to press a kiss to the back of his hand, right over the skull tattoo. A light blush overtook Pheonyx’s face and he ducked his eyes. It wasn’t physical attraction. Carol was beautiful but the aura she radiated was purely motherly to the young man. The soft kiss had been imbued with such maternal love and tenderness that he felt his chest clench. It was the kind of affection that he had always yearned for from his own mother. After finding out that her first husband was abusing Pheonyx, his mother had distanced herself from her oldest son. She was there to clean his wounds but she wasn’t there to prevent them. She held him at a distance and no matter how much he tried to pull her closer, she always ended up farther away. Pheonyx always thought it was because she felt guilty that she hadn’t noticed or stopped the abuse when it started. He felt like in order to protect herself from the gnawing culpability, she had to create a wall between herself and her son. It wasn’t an excuse. It was simply an explanation. She had stepped up a bit when he was in the hospital six years prior but by then it was too little too late. And now that she was dead, he didn’t think he would ever get to feel what maternal care truly was. But Pheonyx felt it now. Maybe that was why he felt the anxiety bugs– that had been crawling across his skin where Carol touched– disappear. It filled a hole in his heart that time had never managed to fix.

“Thank you. I can’t thank you both enough for doing this. For even believing that she’s okay.” Carol reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a tissue, using it to wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. “Everyone keeps telling me things will be fine. That we’ll find her. But I can tell they don’t believe it.”

“I bel-”, Pheonyx looked to Daryl, who was trying to make himself look smaller to avoid the emotional conversation happening in front of him, and corrected himself. “We believe it. We’ve already decided we’re heading out first thing in the morning to look again.”

There was still a look of doubt on her face, the kind that lingered after losing all hope and Pheonyx cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, trying to think of a way to comfort her that didn’t involve telling one of his biggest losses. But he couldn’t. So, for the first time in 6 years, Pheonyx opened up without saying the words, “You’re feeling alone right now. There’s people surrounding you and you still feel like the only person for miles. They’re there but they don’t understand. A part of you is missing. A piece of your heart. A piece of your soul. They’re able to go on about their life like nothing’s happened. But you’re still trying to figure out how to simply breathe when there’s a hole in your chest where they used to be.” The hand holding his tightened and the look Carol gave him was empathetic. She knew without hearing the words that Pheonyx could understand the type of loss she was dealing with. All signs pointed to Sophia being alive, but that didn’t change the lingering doubt that filled the woman’s mind. Sophia was missing and there was a chance it was too late. So, Carol was filled with grief for a child that could be dead but also hope that they’d find her well and safe. “You’re strong, Carol. We just need you to be strong for a little longer.”

Daryl watched the interaction between Pheonyx and Carol with awe and fear. Fear because he didn’t know how to handle other people’s deep emotions. He hardly knew how to handle his own. Awe because he saw Pheonyx give Carol the hope he’d been trying to offer for the last couple of days. Daryl never considered himself to be a particularly smart man. His Pa always took the time to tell him how stupid he was, at least 2 or 3 times a day when he was around. But he wasn’t blind. He noticed the look of shared grief between Carol and Pheonyx. The way the older woman gripped the younger man’s hand a bit tighter. Had Pheonyx lost a child? He didn’t look much older than his sister, Maggie, or even Beth really. But Daryl also knew that age wasn’t a reliable determinate for having kids. Most of the people he grew up with started having kids around 14. Although that could be attributed to a horrible sex education curriculum and lack of resources for free birth control. The way Pheonyx had spoken though, seemed to leak empathy as opposed to sympathy. Daryl could only conclude that he must have lost a child, whether it be his own or someone close to that. The younger man had mentioned losing his brother and mother early after the world fell, but didn’t mention a kid. Not that he expected the man to bear all his losses to him when they’d only met earlier that morning.

Sniffling a small bit, Pheonyx stood up. He gave Carol’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it. Kismet’s tail began to wag in earnest and the appendage thudded against the wall in a fast rhythm.

“I’m gonna go find Rick and set up a plan for tomorrow.” Pheonyx said before facing Daryl. He had to stop himself from getting lost in the man’s deep blue eyes and averted his gaze to the bottle in his hand. “All yours, Apollo.”

He slid past the other man, being careful not to touch the archer, even though his body screamed at him to do so. Having passed Daryl, Pheonyx recalled Kismet, wanting to give the others their privacy. Also not trusting the dog to not get into trouble without him there. Over Daryl’s shoulder, Pheonyx saw Kismet give Carol’s leg one last nuzzle before shoving his tank of a body between Daryl’s legs. The dog was wholly unaware of his size and Pheonyx had to withhold a snort as Daryl barely managed to catch himself from falling over.

Blue eyes followed Pheonyx’s form out of the trailer, trying not to focus on the curves of his shoulders and the outline of his backside in the dirty jeans hugging sharp hips. A small cough had him jerking his head away from the direction of the RV door towards where Carol was sitting. He was met with a slightly amused gaze and a singular raised eyebrow. Blistering heat trickled up his shoulders and over his neck. Avoiding the questions that surely would follow, Daryl placed the bottle on the table near the bed. Thankfully, the distraction worked and he didn’t have to come up with excuses for why he couldn’t stop staring at the younger man.

It didn’t take Pheonyx long to find Rick. The man was sitting on the steps of the house's wrap-around porch. He was still wearing his Sheriff’s uniform and stuck out like a sore thumb compared to his grungier looking compatriots. His star badge glinted orange, reflecting the light from the setting sun. Seemingly lost in his own head, Rick didn’t even notice Pheonyx until he was right in front of him. Kismet whined happily at seeing the familiar man and pushed his head into Rick’s lap forcefully. Despite the intense look on his face a few moments before, a bright smile crossed over his face. Light blue eyes–that Pheonyx couldn’t help compare to a certain archer’s–glanced up at him.

“How did it go?” Rick asked while scratching Kismet’s ears.

Pheonyx relayed the information that they had gotten during their search, the same things he had told Carol just moments earlier.

“Daryl and I are taking Kismet out at first light to pick up her trail again,” he finished, taking a seat on the porch next to the Sheriff. Kismet wiggled his butt happily and shoved his head into Pheonyx’s lap.

“I can’t tell you how nice it is to have some good news for a change. Knowing she has some supplies is a huge weight off our shoulders. I’m sure Carol is grateful as well,” Rick took a deep breath of relief. “Shane, T-Dog, Glenn, and I are all ready to set up the search grid tomorrow.”

Pheonyx grimaced a little bit, thinking about the complications that came along with more people searching, “I talked with Daryl and he agreed that we should wait to do a full search party for Sophia.”

“Why? Isn’t it better to have more people searching? Cover more ground?” Rick asked in confusion.

“A few reasons. The main being that I worry about others getting lost or hurt. I don’t have enough maps with my traps labeled to hand out to everyone. All it takes is one shadow sneaking up to get someone stuck on a spear or to fall into one of the burn pits. There’s also dangerous terrain that could be difficult for you all to handle,” Rick nodded with his reasoning so Pheonyx continued. “Kismet is still in training, his attention span isn’t always great. I worry that if we have a bunch of people out searching the trail will get messed up or the overlapping scents will confuse him.”

Rick was silent for a moment, thinking about what Pheonyx had said, “All right. I trust you. Is there anything we can do in the mean time?”

“Rick. It’s a farm. We have 50 head of cattle and 4 horses. There is a never ending amount of work. Especially if I’m out searching all day. Taking up my chores would be a huge help,” Pheonyx scrubbed Kismet’s ears and the dog’s tongue rolled out in happiness. “Besides, might be good to show Hershel how useful extra hands on the farm can be.”

“Yeah, he’s already asked us to leave as soon as Carl is better,” There was a note of fear in the older man’s voice and he rubbed his face with hand in frustration. “It’s bad out there, Pheonyx. I don’t know how long we can make it on the road. I can’t take my son back out there. I just can’t.”

“Look, I’m not trying to make excuses for my stepfather. He’s bull-headed on the best of days. But, he’s a good person. I think, with enough time, he will change his mind. I’ll lean on him a bit. For now, help around the farm, follow his rules, let him get to know all of you, and maybe have Carl make puppy eyes at him.”

The joke worked and Rick chuckled lightly. “Speaking of Carl. He’s been asking to talk to you. He’s up now if you want to go see him.”

Before he could answer, Kismet grumbled and turned his head to woof at the Sheriff.

Rolling his eyes, Pheonyx patted the dog’s side. “Mind if I bring Kismet in? He likes kids.”

“Of course. He’d love that. We lost our family dog about a year before all this started. He had spots like Kismet’s so Carl named him Domino,” a wide smile broke across Rick’s face as he reminisced on the old mangy dog that Carl had pulled in the house when he was only 5. He’d held onto the dog’s dirty neck and cried until Lori finally relented on keeping him.

Standing up, Pheonyx left the man to his thoughts and walked around the house to the back door. It would have been easier to go in the front door, which was only a few feet from where he and Rick were sitting, but he wanted to steer clear of Hershel.

Avoidance was fruitless. He knew he would have to talk to him sooner or later. Especially if he was going to put in a good word for the group to stay on the farm. Talk? More like argue, Pheonyx thought with an internal sigh. Ever since his mother and brother’s death, he’d avoided confronting Hershel on his skewed views on the shadows. He walked away when the subject was brought up, and tried to ignore the groaning from the barn. The few times he tried to change Hershel’s mind had ended in shouting matches. Which ultimately led to Pheonyx having a PTSD-induced panic attack in the stables each time. So, he fixed the outside of the barn as much as could, reinforcing rotten boards and surrounding the perimeter with barbed wire. It wasn’t foolproof. Eventually the old wood would splinter and the shadows would be freed. He just hoped it wouldn’t be before his step-father changed his mind about the status of the infected.

Kismet reached the back door before Pheonyx, and started to claw the base of the screen frame, probably eager for dinner. He opened the door for the dog, letting him pass and run into the kitchen. There was a light thud and then the sound of his youngest sister’s giggling filled Pheonyx’s ears. While he wasn’t as close with Beth as he was Maggie, the sound of her voice and happy aura always managed to help alleviate his anxiety. A small smile was already gracing his face before he even crossed the threshold of the door.

Kismet had managed to knock Beth to her knees and was covering her face in slobbery kisses. Hands covered in soapy bubbles and purple shirt soaked with water, she had been in the middle of washing the dishes from dinner when Kismet practically tackled her. Pheonyx waited a moment before stepping around the kitchen island to save his sister from the dog’s assault of love. He grabbed the leather collar around Kismet’s neck and gave a gentle tug.

“Kizzie, leave Beth alone.” Pheonyx scolded lightly. Kismet whined but acquiesced to his owner’s command. He walked off and helped himself to the water dish in the corner.

Pheonyx held out his hand to help Beth up. She smiled widely at him, the sunshine of her soul warming his chest.

“Thank you, Nyx. He’s a big teddy bear,” she said before turning back around to the sink to continue washing the dishes. “We already ate dinner but if you’re hungry, there’s some of that chicken you’ve been marinating. We also got some green beans and potatoes from the garden in the fridge too. I would’ve saved you some of ours but there wasn’t much left after feedin’ Carl. I gave the leftovers to Rick and Lori."

“That’s fine, Bethie. You know I like to cook and they probably need the food more than I do,” Pheonyx leaned against the counter next to the sink.

Beth bent back a bit to look out the kitchen door, checking to see if anyone was listening. She lowered her voice slightly, “I don’t think they have enough food to feed everyone. I heard Rick and Shane talkin’ about it when I went in to give Carl lunch. I told Daddy but he told me not to get into their business.”

The worry and sadness in her voice was evident. Beth had always been the most benevolent one of the family and he knew the idea of people going hungry didn’t sit well with her.

“Hershel is trying to distance himself. Don’t worry. I have some food stored in the barn from my runs into town. I’ll let Rick know he’s welcome to it. Once we find Sophia, I can do some more hunting and we can share that with them too,” Pheonyx placed his hand on her shoulder in comfort and leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple.

She leaned into him and wrapped one arm around his waist to hug him. Pheonyx instinctively flinched but his muscles relaxed when he reminded himself of who it was. When Beth pulled away, he saw the glint of sympathy in her eyes and he avoided her gaze, wanting to avoid any pity. While he knew Beth would never pity him, old habits die hard.

“I wanted to go see Carl,” he coughed, trying to brush off the awkwardness he felt.

“He asked about you earlier so he’ll be happy to see you. I took him some of Shawn’s comics, so he’s been busy readin’ those all day.”

“Thanks, Bethie.”, Pheonyx squeezed her shoulder and patted Kismet’s side as he passed the dog, who had placed himself in the door that led into the dining room. A jingle of the buckle on Kismet’s collar and click of nails on the tiled floor let Pheonyx know that the dog was following behind him.

After dinner, Hershel usually spent an hour or two in his office reading. The past few weeks, his book of choice was mostly his bible. For many people, the rising of the dead dissolved any notions of faith in a higher power. In the beginning of the outbreak the news streamed videos, between images of the dead eating people, of mobs burning churches and piles of bibles in anger. It was something Pheonyx could honestly understand. That anger was something he had felt the majority of his life. How could god, someone who supposedly personifies love and forgiveness, attack his creations so blatantly? And if it was the devil who actually brought the carnage upon the world, how could god just stand by and let it happen? For Hershel though, he found the outbreak and the loss of his family members to be tests of his faith. The atrocities that nature flung at their feet had steadfastly strengthened the old man’s beliefs. Pheonyx took a moment to be appreciative of the older man’s dedication to schedules and his religious upbringing. Simply for the fact that he wouldn’t have to run into his stepfather and engage in another verbal spar.

Before Pheonyx reached the door, he stooped down to Kismet’s level and pointed a finger at the dog’s bulky head.

“Behave,” he said sternly. “I know you love kids but Carl’s hurt. You don’t know your strength most of the time.”

He swore that Kismet rolled his chocolate eyes at him before huffing and trotting into the makeshift hospital room where Carl was staying. Shaking his head, Pheonyx followed behind him and looked in the door.

The room was much cleaner than the day before. Sheets stained with blood were replaced by clean linens and the only medical supplies that could be seen was a tray of clean bandages and alcohol located on the bedside table. In the bed, a small lump was under the blankets but in the place where a head would be was a bright comic book being held up by elfin hands. The sound of Pheonyx’s foot stepping on a squeaky floorboard had a pair of blue eyes, mirror images of Rick’s, popping over the top of the pages. Carl closed the comic book and set it on his lap before smiling widely at him. It took only two seconds for the boy to notice Kismet, who was wiggling his whole body with glee at the sight of the child. Nails clicked as the gentle giant began to tap his toes and he grumbled with impatience.

“Dad told me there was a dog! What’s his name? Can I pet him?”, Carl asked excitedly, trying to sit up more. He groaned in pain though and placed his hand on his side.

Pheonyx moved to the boy’s side quickly, “Careful, bud.”

He clicked his tongue and Kismet trotted to his side. Seeming to sense that the kid was in pain, Kismet gently pushed his head into Carl’s hand offering a lick of comfort.

“This is Kismet. You can pet him all you want. He loves to be touched so you’d be doing him a favor.”

Although it seemed impossible, Carl’s smile got even wider as he scratched Kismet’s head and ears. His hands looked like doll’s hands compared to the dog’s prodigious skull.

“We had a dog that looked like him. I named him Domino because he was covered in spots. He liked to steal our neighbor’s newspapers and chew them up. It made mom so mad. Dad and I thought it was funny though,” Carl’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at him. “Are you Pheonyx? Dad said you had a lot of tattoos. I’ve never seen so many before! They’re so cool. Did they hurt? Which one hurt the worst? If I could get a tattoo, I would get the Batman symbol right across my chest. I think my mom would be mad though,” Carl’s button nose scrunched up at the thought of making his mom angry.

Pheonyx chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm and endless stream of questions, “Tattoos do hurt. More or less depending on where you get them. The ones on my ribs hurt the worst though. And you are right. Your mom would probably be furious if you got a tattoo right now. Wait until you’re 18 and see how you feel then.”

Carl nodded and Pheonyx took a moment to take stock of his appearance. The boy looked much better than he did the day before. Almost 24 hours before, Carl had practically blended in with the white sheets on the bed, skin pale white from blood loss. Today, his skin had pinkened up a bit and the clammy look had been replaced by simple sweat from the humid Georgian air.

“Dad said you’re helping look for Sophia. Thank you. She’s my friend and I’m really worried about her. I wish I could help search. While I was sleeping, I dreamt that she was hiding in a cave and I’m the one who found her.” A sad look passed over his face and he averted his gaze to Kismet, who was drooling from contentment at being rubbed.

Pheonyx sat in the rocking chair next to the bed. “You know I donated blood to you right? Your dad gave more than me but I gave some when you first got here.”, he flipped his hand over and showed his palm to Carl, a small scabbed cut was in the center. He’d cut it when he was sharpening his knife the previous morning, “I also helped hold pressure on your stomach when you got here. That means I got your blood in my cut. Do you know what that means?”

Carl shook his head, not understanding what Pheonyx was trying to say. So the older man continued, “That means we’re blood brothers now.”

“What are blood brothers?,” the confusion was evident in the boy’s voice.

“Well, it’s a pact where two people promise to protect each other and treat each other like real brothers. Most people cut their palms and press their cuts together to share blood. So, ours is a little different. But I think that makes it a lot stronger.”

“So, you’d be like a big brother for me? And I’d be your little brother?”, Carl asked, his eyebrows still scrunched a bit in confusion. When Pheonyx nodded, the boy’s face relaxed and brightened. “I’ve always wanted a brother!”

“As your blood brother, I’m making you a promise that, while you’re healing, Kismet and I will do everything in our power to bring Sophia back since you can’t be out there searching for her yourself. You have to make me a promise in return though.”

Eagerness spread on Carl’s face and he nodded, “Anything!”

“You have to promise to take it easy and to do everything Hershel says so that you can get better. Is that a deal?,” Pheonyx held out his fist to the younger boy, waiting for an answer.

Carl thought for a moment before smiling and bumping his fist against Pheonyx’s. “Deal.”

When Pheonyx told Daryl that he didn’t make promises often, that wasn’t a lie. He tried to avoid them. Because promises often led to disappointment. And as someone who endured a lot of that disappointment growing up, he couldn’t handle the thought of inadvertently giving that feeling to someone else. Despite that, he had made more promises in the last two days than he had in his 28 years of life.

The two of them talked for a little while longer. Carl spoke of his school and how he used to play soccer. Pheonyx told him about his siblings and his work at a tattoo shop. The conversation was normal, all things considered. Kismet had left at some point to beg for dinner from Maggie or Beth. Eventually, the boy’s eyes began to droop, and the sun outside had almost completely disappeared. Pheonyx gave the boy another fist bump and promised to come see him again after searching for Sophia the next day.

He was lost in his thoughts as he turned from the doorway towards the front door. So lost that he ran directly into a wall of muscle and his body immediately tensed when a large hand gripped his bicep tightly, cutting off the supply of blood to his fingers. His heart began to race and he looked into the angry brown eyes of Shane. The man’s eyes were narrowed and his body language was threatening.

“The hell were you doing in there?”, he growled.

Despite the fear flooding his body, Pheonyx held his ground, staring dead in the other man’s eyes, and gritted his teeth. “Talking to Carl. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do. You stay the hell away from that boy. Filling his head with fucked up ideas. You hear me?”, the grip on Pheonyx’s arm tightened. He could practically feel the blood vessels bursting in his skin. The only blessing was that Shane was gripping the arm that had the realism styled tattoo. With the colors and full distribution of ink across his arm, the inevitable bruise wouldn’t be very noticeable. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the meaning behind Shane’s words. The “ideas” that he didn’t want Pheonyx sharing with the boy. Shane didn’t want Carl to know Pheonyx was trans. The reason being, the idea of being trans was seen as something deviant or impure. And that if a child learned about it, they would be tainted in some way. It was a stupid thought–being transgender wasn’t a disease–but it was something that Pheonyx was familiar with. When he came out, several family members from Hershel’s side lamented his braveness for coming out but asked him “politely” to not speak about it in front of their children. The excuses ranged from “they wouldn’t understand” to “they’ll get the wrong ideas”. They feared that if they learned what being trans was, then they might come out too. Or that they might have to have an honest conversation with their child.

“I hear you. But I’m not going to listen to some neanderthal throwing his weight around like he owns the place. Last time I checked, you’re not Carl’s father. The second Lori or Rick say they don’t want me around their son, I’ll oblige but until then I’ll hang out with Carl anytime he wants,” Pheonyx’s tone was lethal. Despite the shivering in his muscles and the screaming in his mind, he wouldn’t back down.

A welcome voice sounded by the door, “Is there a problem here?”

Shane turned his head to look at the person speaking and Pheonyx used the distraction to jerk his arm from the man’s tight grip. Blood rushed back to his fingers and he resisted the urge to massage the area.

Rick stood a short distance from them, eyes narrowed on his best friend.

“No problem here. Just having a chat.”, Shane smiled, acting as if he didn’t just have Pheonyx cornered.

Pheonyx opted to not rock the boat, knowing it would just cause more problems for the group’s standing on the farm. If Hershel knew that Shane had acted like that with his step son, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw them out.

“No problem at all, Rick. Just having a conversation. Man to Man.”, Pheonyx smirked and placed a condescending hand on the taller man’s shoulder. The sharp look Shane gave him was worth the probable consequences of poking the bear. “I was just heading out. I’ll be in the stables if you need anything.”

Without a backward glance, Pheonyx walked around the Sheriff and left through the squeaky screen door. The fresh air hit his face and the adrenaline that had been running rampant through his body disappeared. A lump built in his throat and he had to stop the tears from running down his face. Shane’s hate was bringing up a lot of memories that Pheonyx thought he’d moved past. But there he was, trying not to see the flickering light in the alley as it created shadows, making the men look taller than they were. Trying not to smell the ripe stench of garbage and body odor. Trying not to hear their vile words whispered in his ear. Trying not to feel their fingers digging into his shoulders and tearing at his clothes. Trying not to remember the taste of blood filling his mouth, mixing with the bile that lingered from their attack.

We’re gonna fix you, sweetheart. Just gotta show you how to be a woman.

The voice floated in his brain like ash after a wildfire. No matter the distance from the flame, it still lingered, staining his thoughts black.

Taglist: @dixonsboy19, @edgyboi10000, @yoongibaybee

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes- Chapter 10

Note: Sorry for the wait. This is probably the longest chapter I've written so far. And the next chapter is a bit bigger. More Daryl, Kismet, and Pheonyx interactions. Thank you to @garlic-the-gnome and @loganlostitall for reading my drafts and giving me advice and corrections. I'm super grateful for it. Also, don't be like Daryl. If you think someone is trans and want to ask, don't. If you have to, ask their pronouns. If a trans person wants to reveal themself as trans to you, they will. By asking, you're putting them in a shitty spot. Not only does it imply they don't pass if you have to ask, but some people just don't want to talk about it. Daryl isn't verse in this stuff though. Pheonyx can forgive him for that.

Banners by: @liminal-creations

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Chapter CW/TW: talk of drug-addict/abusive/neglectful parents, shitty childhoods in general, denial of sexuality, anxiety, PTSD, hate crime mentions

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The damn mutt wasn’t as stupid as he looked earlier. As soon as Pheonyx had him sniff Sophia’s shirt and gave him the command, the dog shot off after the little girl’s trail. Originally, Daryl had been skeptical of the pup’s skill. The only word that he could think of to describe Kismet was goofy. His muscled body was all limbs and he crashed through the underbrush and bushes with no regard for noise or tact. It was hard to believe that this dog would be trained to do more than drool and sniff his own butt. The hunting dogs that lived in his trailer park growing up were more refined. They could be noisy, especially once they treed a coon or squirrel, but when they were working in the woods, they were damn near soundless. Still dubious about the dog, he had stopped them a few hundred yards behind  the area where he and Rick had first started tracking Sophia. He wanted to see if Kismet would follow the same path they had when she first got lost. And he did. The dog held his nose to the ground and started following the area they had walked through 2 days ago. Pheonyx watched the dog with a proud look on his face before turning to Daryl and motioning towards the direction Kismet was going. 

“After you, Apollo.”

An abrupt snort left his nose. Apollo. The Greek god of archery. Of all the nicknames he’d ever been called that was probably the nicest by far. It was much preferred to Merle’s nickname for him, “Darlena.” Merle mostly did it to annoy him. But it was also a jab at his manhood. Mostly due to the fact that he didn’t pant after women like some kind of sex fiend but partially because he had a streak of kindness in him that Merle always lacked. Most people didn’t know, it wasn’t something the brothers talked about much, that Merle was Daryl’s half brother. His momma was one of the many junkies that their father went on benders with. Merle spent the first 5 years of his life being shuffled by social workers back and forth between his momma and their Pa. Each of them going through cycles of getting clean and then relapsing shortly after. They didn’t get clean for their son though. It was simply for the welfare check and food stamps that came along with having custody of a child. Right before his 6th birthday, Merle watched his momma OD. He was locked in the tiny apartment with her body for 2 days before the neighbors were able to get the cops to investigate the constant screaming of a child. From there, his brother lived solely with his father. Their Pa got better at playing a sober, loving father and Merle got better at hiding the bruises and lashes. Eventually, social services left them alone. It was just the two of them until Will Dixon married Daryl’s momma in one of his brief moments of sobriety. While she treated Merle like he was her own, the damage to his emotional well-being was already done. His brother spent years all alone. He never had anyone who truly cared for him and the only love he ever received was a facade for social workers and cops that always seemed to be snooping around. Daryl suspected that neglect was why his brother had such a hard time maintaining any sort of relationship. And his obsession with being manly, therefore not weak, was entirely due to the brainwashing their father had instilled in him. So, Daryl couldn’t entirely blame his brother for his constant bullying and name-calling. He would happily take “Apollo” over any of the ones his brother had come up with. Especially if Pheonyx was the one calling him it. The name sounded so sweet coming from his lips, and honestly it made Daryl feel wanted. Aside from his brother, he never had friends growing up. And friends gave each other meaningful nicknames. Was that what this was? Was Pheonyx trying to be friends with him? Or was there something else? He did wink at him earlier. Didn’t he? No. He couldn’t have. He must have had something in his eye. That’s all. There is no possible way that a guy like Pheonyx would be trying to flirt with a guy like Daryl. For one, Daryl was older than him by at least a decade, if not more. Second, Pheonyx was incredibly attractive. Obviously, Daryl wasn’t gay but he could objectively say that the other man was beautiful. Even with the world the way it was, he was attractive enough that he could have anyone he wanted. There was no way he could possibly want someone like Daryl. An old redneck who spent the majority of his life chasing after his older brother. The idea that Pheonyx might, though, made his cheeks and ears turn red. Swamped with embarrassment, he gripped his crossbow tightly, reassuring himself of its comforting presence. 

Daryl ducked his head, hiding the heat of his face from Pheonyx’s eyes, and began to follow after Kismet. Despite the fact that he was out of sight, the dog was easy to trail. He left a path of destruction in his wake that was akin to Godzilla destroying a city. Broken branches, trampled bushes, and large paw prints smushed into the mud were like a line of breadcrumbs that led straight to the fumbling beast. If that wasn’t enough, Kismet sniffed out the trail like he was a pig at the state fair. Each inhale was a long snort and exhaled out with a loud wheeze. The sound was like a homing beacon to the dog’s location. Daryl hoped that the everpresent sound of windchimes around them would confuse walkers enough to keep them from following after the dog, and subsequently the two humans on his trail. 

He followed Kismet’s path for a minute before he realized that Pheonyx wasn’t next to him. Looking over his shoulder, he called out,

“Ya comin’, Firebird?” 

Daryl wasn’t entirely sure where the name had come from. The word slid off his tongue like it was something he had been saying for years.  It could be just a play on the other man’s namesake. Maybe it was the fire he had seen in Pheonyx’s eyes when he was standing up to Shane earlier. Either way, the name fit him well. Since Pheonyx had given Daryl his own nickname, it seemed only fitting to have chosen one for him too. 

They spent almost two hours following after Kismet. The speckled dog was very intent on the trail, only breaking his trance to jog back and smell the shirt hanging off of Pheonyx’s belt. After he reminded himself of the scent he was supposed to be tracking, he would trot back to the area he stopped and correct his direction to follow the scent. Pheonyx knew he was on the right track though, occasionally he would catch glimpses of small footprints in the moist forest floor and broken branches at a height that was equivalent to a 12 year old girl. Daryl must have noticed those things too because he didn’t voice any objections to their pathing. 

The afternoon sun was high in the sky, and even the shade from the forest canopy wasn’t enough to mute the heat from the blazing rays. Sweat was dripping down Pheonyx’s face and creating dark spots on his gray tank top. Daryl didn’t seem to be immune to the heat either, his face was glistening with perspiration, making the dirt on his skin darker and more pronounced. Kismet was also panting heavily. He didn’t break from his job though. In past training sessions, they didn’t usually stop until the dog found the scent he was tracking. This was very different than making Jimmy run around the yard with a squirrel skin dragging behind him though. As much as Pheonyx wanted to find Sophia right away, he needed to advocate for Kismet. The pup needed a breather. 

“We need to take a break,” he said, wiping his hand across his forehead to sop up some of the sweat that was tickling his skin. 

Daryl didn’t pause though. He looked back at the younger man with a frown and a slight glare. “Nah we gotta keep movin’. Wastin’ daylight just standin’ around. Sophia could be jus up ahead.”

“If she is, we’ll find her. 10 minutes. That’s all I ask. Kismet needs water and to relax for a minute. We’re no good to Sophia if we pass out from heat stroke and dehydration,” Pheonyx said, standing his ground.  

The archer was silent for a moment, but he realized the truth in Pheonyx’s words. “Fine,” he muttered in defeat. Once he glanced around the surrounding area and concluded there were no walkers or other dangers lurking, he leaned against the nearest tree and began to bite on the skin around his thumbnail. It was a habit of his from childhood he’d never seemed to break, no matter how much Merle told him it made him look like he was sucking his thumb. 

Pheonyx smiled at him in thanks before whistling to recall Kismet. It only took a few seconds for the Tasmanian Devil to burst through the brush, his tongue hanging out in an attempt to cool his overheated body. Pulling off his backpack, Pheonyx knelt next to him and began to scrub the dog’s neck, whispering to him, “You’re doing so good, handsome. Gotta take a break though. You thirsty?” 

Daryl tried to ignore the way his body shivered at the softness in Pheonyx’s tone. He tried not to watch the small beads of sweat slide down his toned arms, making the images on his skin glisten and come to life. He tried not to notice how the neckline of his gray tank top gaped a bit from the angle the other man was kneeling and he was able to get a glimpse of raven wings across his chest.  Instead, he focused on his movements. Pheonyx pulled out three water bottles and a dog bowl from his bag. The younger man opened one up, emptied the bottle into the bowl, and placed the vessel on the ground for Kismet to drink. 

Half a smile overtook Pheonyx’s face as he watched Kismet go to town on the water. Lapping loudly, more water ended up on his muzzle and the surrounding ground than in his mouth. It was still enough to cool him down a bit though because his panting was less heavy as he sprawled on the ground afterward. Shaking his head at the ditzy dog, Pheonyx stood up and handed one of the water bottles over to Daryl, who took it gratefully. He also pulled out one of the bags of jerky from his pocket and held it out to him. 

Daryl felt a wave of reluctance. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry. He was. The group’s food supply had dwindled over the past few days, and he hadn’t been able to properly hunt since he was busy looking for Sophia. He’d only managed to swallow down a small stale granola bar before they’d made the short drive to the Greene farm. The idea of being indebted to anyone though, didn’t sit right with him. Nothing in life was free. Especially not for him and Merle. That had been a lesson he’d learned early on. Parents were supposed to provide for their children. Food, clothes, love. But Will Dixon was only a parent in the biological sense. Nothing he ever gave the boys had been from the kindness of his heart. At first, his Ma did her best to put food on the table and clothe them. Once her depression took hold though, she couldn’t work and barely managed to get out of bed everyday. He and Merle took care of themselves the majority of the time. Food was swiped from the local grocery store, picked out of the dumpsters behind restaurants, or stolen from the local food bank donation bins around Thanksgiving time. Clothes were appropriated from lost and found bins around town, or purchased from a thrift store using the meager amounts of money the boys were able to make doing chores for the older folks in the trailer park. Despite the world falling, things hadn’t changed so much for Daryl. He still did his part to earn his food and clothing within the group. If he took the food from Pheonyx, he would owe him. Or at least, he felt like he would. The water bottle he had taken without hesitation but that was different. Water was a bit more common to find, especially on a farm that likely had a well. Food was more of a scarcity and therefore more valuable. So, no matter how much his chest was telling him that Pheonyx wasn’t like that, that he wouldn’t hold some jerky over Daryl’s head, his brain was winning the fight.  

Pheonyx could see the apprehension on Daryl’s face. 

“I swear I didn’t poison it,” he said, still holding the bag out. 

“Ain’t that,” Daryl mumbled, ducking his eyes in embarrassment, still trying to win the inner battle with his mind to just accept the damn food. “Don’t want any charity is all.”

Understanding dawned on Pheonyx and he nodded his head. During the first 8 years of his life, his mom had been an insurance agent and the bread-winner of the family. She was traveling 3 weeks out of every month and, even when she was home, her attention was mentally in the office. His biological father was a “stay-at-home dad”. Which meant he stayed home drinking most of the day while Pheonyx did his best to avoid his wrath. Despite this, the family had been middle class in their finances. So, he hadn’t gone without material-wise. While love had been lacking during that time, he always had a full stomach and always had fairly decent clothing. Moving with his mother and brother to live with Hershel, hadn’t changed that. His step-father was more well-to-do than they had been previously. A lot of the money was generational but most was from Hershel’s veterinary practice. Being one of two practices that specialized in large animals, in a farming community like Senoia, brought in quite a bit of money. They lived humbly despite the financial padding. Pheonyx could understand Daryl’s reluctance though. He knew it was hard to accept help, it created a sense of weakness, a feeling of helplessness. After he left Georgia, Pheonyx struggled immensely. Most of it was mental, but the physical results of that night also plagued him. At the time, he didn’t want to ask for help. He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want to owe anyone. By asking for help, his body wouldn’t be his own. It would belong to someone else. Because people didn’t typically do things without expectation of payment. He had already lost ownership of his body that night. He didn’t want to give anyone else the opportunity to take it again. Aaron had been there to help him when his problems became too much but he had been at his breaking point then. There hadn’t been any other option. 

“I promise it’s not charity. And I’m not looking for anything in return. Mom raised me to be a gentleman. And that means sharing when I have the means to. Maggie packed enough for all three of us,” Pheonyx shook the bag a little and raised his eyebrows. 

Again, Daryl hesitated but after a moment he tentatively took the plastic bag of jerky. He waited for Pheonyx to take a bite of his own portion before he popped a small piece of the dehydrated meat into his mouth. Now, Daryl Dixon was no stranger to jerky. Growing up in a house where hunting was as natural as breathing, meant that smoked and dehydrated meat were a staple of his diet. His parent’s money issues meant that fresh, healthy foods weren’t always available. There were days when all Merle and he had to eat was jerky and wild mulberries that grew rampant on the outskirts of the trailer park. The jerky he was currently chewing though, was nothing like the overly salty, yet still bland, meat he was used to making and eating. That meat was a means of survival. This felt like an indulgence. Despite the lack of moisture, the jerky was still tender and almost melted on his tongue, releasing a myriad of flavors. It was sweet and peppery with a hint of smokiness that rounded out the blend of spices. A small bit of gaminess let him know it was rabbit meat, which wasn’t his favorite overall, but if it was prepared anything like what he was chewing on, his opinion was likely to change. 

Apparently he made some sort of face because Pheonyx looked at him questioningly. Daryl averted his eyes, ears turning a flaming red, embarrassed about letting his emotions show. 

“It’s good,” he mumbled. 

The brightness of the forest seemed to increase tenfold with the proud smile Pheonyx gave him and those damn moths fluttered in his gut again. 

“Thanks! I make it myself. When people evacuated they took all their canned goods. But no one thinks to bring the spice cabinet. So, I’ve got an abundance of stuff to create different flavor profiles. My personal motto is that just because the world ended doesn’t mean you can’t have good food. Just have to know how to use what’s at your disposal.” 

At Zombie Ink(an ironic name considering their current circumstances), Pheonyx’s boss held a bi-weekly potluck for the staff, which consisted of many ethnicities and cultures. Every meeting was a blend of new flavors and cooking techniques to be learned. It was one of the few times that Pheonyx felt like he could interact with people, even if it just meant sharing recipes or learning about different cultural nuances, and had helped him make some friends. He had been trying to recreate those flavors and dishes with the monotonous food supplies they had. 

Silence lapsed as the two made quick work of the food. Pheonyx alternated between eating his own and tossing pieces of the unseasoned jerky to Kismet, who ate it enthusiastically. Daryl tried to keep his gaze averted but he kept getting drawn back to the man a few feet from him. His mind was playing through the events of the day up until that point. And he knew he had to ask Pheonyx something. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but he had to make sure. 

Popping the last piece of meat into his mouth, Daryl broached the subject bluntly, “Ya a guy, right?”

Pheonyx dropped the piece of jerky that he had been about to place in his mouth, a choking noise of shock leaving his lips. Kismet dove and caught the meat before it could hit the dirt near his owner’s knees. Fear and anxiety was flitting through Pheonyx’s veins, or else he would have been worried about how the spices would affect Kismet’s stomach. He knew where the conversation was going. It was probably inevitable but the fact he was alone in the woods with the man upped the terror of the situation. While he felt comfortable around Daryl, he couldn’t help the images of the past that floated through his mind. 

“Uh yeah- I mean yes. I am.”

Daryl felt the fear in Pheonyx’s eyes like a knife to the gut. His hands twitched with the need to reach out and soothe his worries. But he didn’t. Something told him that any movements towards the other man would make things worse. So he kept his face blank, and averted his gaze to the surrounding woods. He was starting to think he shouldn’t have started this conversation, based on the other man’s fearful reactions. But there was no going back now. 

“Ya were born a girl, though?” he asked calmly, trying to make his deep voice as un-intimidating as possible. 

Pheonyx considered lying. It would be the safest option. He’d grown up around guys like Daryl. Rough conservative types. And they were usually the ones who reacted violently to anything in the realm of ‘other’. But the archer was so calm. The question had been asked so nonchalantly. As if he were discussing the weather. His words weren’t laced with accusation or scrutinizing countenance. He was just gazing calmly into the woods and fiddling with the now-empty bag that once held their afternoon snack.  

“Yes,” the whispered word slipped through Pheonyx’s mouth before he could stop it. He hoped that he hadn’t heard him, but the archer’s ears had been honed after years of hunting. 

Daryl’s eyes locked with Pheonyx’s and he knew the other man had heard him. Pheonyx flinched, eyes slamming shut, bracing himself for the pain. His heart was slamming against his chest, like the shadows did on the barn door when he walked past. Sweat coated his palms and soaked into his shirt. His breathing picked up a bit and Kismet crawled over to him, whining. The big dog pushed his nose into Pheonyx’s hand and sidled his bulky body up next to his masters. 

Pheonyx waited, barely even noticing Kismet’s attempts at calming him. 1 second, 10 seconds, a minute. He waited for the pain, whether it be vile words or physical hits. But they never came. Instead, there was a crumple of plastic and a deep, “Okay.”

A part of Daryl wanted to offer more words, to say that Pheonyx didn’t have to worry. That he wouldn’t hurt him. Because he knew that was why Pheonyx had reacted that way: sweating, flinching, practically hyperventilating. Someone had hurt him. Badly. Anger filled his body and he wanted to turn around and punch the tree he had been leaning against. That would just cement Pheonyx’s fears though. He tried not to think about why he had such a fierce reaction to the idea of someone hurting the younger man, someone he had only known for a few hours. Instead, he crumpled up the empty bag he had been holding and shoved it in his pocket. 

 Pheonyx’s eyes shot open and he gaped at the other man in shock. “Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”

“Ain’t my business what ya got goin’ on in ya pants. Just didn’ wanna make assumptions,”  the older man said simply. Like he was giving the answer to 2+2. 

It took a moment for his words to soak in. Daryl wasn’t going to hurt him. Daryl wasn’t going to yell. Daryl wasn’t going to break him. Daryl wasn’t going to try to “fix” him. Daryl wasn’t like the demons from the alley. Daryl was different. 

And Pheonyx wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t used to people just accepting him for who he was. Maggie and Aaron had been the only ones who accepted him whole-heartedly, no questions asked. There was always some kind of push back. People asked him if he was sure, or if it was just a phase. Or telling him that god didn’t make mistakes. Or saying they accepted him but continually messing up his pronouns. So, he just cleared his throat, patted Kismet’s head, and stood up. He adjusted the cutlass on his hip, making sure all his other weapons were attached and in place. 

“Are we ready to go?”

The old Miller house had been abandoned for almost 50 years. Originally, it had belonged to Hershel’s great great aunt. She lived there with her husband and two kids. When her kids died from a severe illness, haunting memories caused the married couple to move out of Georgia. After that, the house had occasionally been offered up to farmhands and their families but nothing permanent in going on four decades. For years it stood, withering and decaying, on the far edges of the Greene property. 

The white house had two stories and faded red shutters. Paint was falling off the sides of the structure and the front awning was one wind gust away from caving in. The front door was closed with a red x spray painted across the front. At one point, it was beautiful. Now, it was just an embodiment of memories. 

Pheonyx’s hand gripped onto Kismet’s leather collar tightly. The dog whined and tried to pull them towards the house, indicating that the scent trail led there. 

“Stay, Kismet,” Pheonyx murmured to the pup. A grumble came from Kismet’s barrel chest, indicating his displeasure at being called off the search. To appease him, Pheonyx pulled some unseasoned jerky from his pocket and gave it to the dog. Wet slobber coated his palm as Kismet gobbled it down before flopping onto the ground, much akin to a dead fish. Grimacing, Pheonyx wiped his hand on his pants and looked over at Daryl, who was checking the strings on his crossbow. 

“That yer doin'?” Daryl asked, pointing at the red X on the door. 

“Yeah. I mark all the houses I search and clear. I can tell you right now that someone’s been here. Even without Kismet chomping to follow the scent.”

“How’s tha’?”

“The side door’s open. I always make sure to shut the doors when I’m done with a house. Don’t want any shadows finding their way in there and surprising the next people who make their way through,” Pheonyx explained, shrugging. He unsheathed his cutlass, the sharp edge making a slight zing as it rubbed against the metal supports of the casing. The light weight of the weapon felt comfortable in his hand, and he felt its aura of safety engulf him. 

Daryl led the way towards the house, readying his crossbow when they stepped up onto the porch. He turned his head towards Pheonyx, nodding his head at him, gauging to see if he was ready or not. Pheonyx lifted his cutlass up, slightly above his midline, and jerked his head once back at him. Daryl used that as his cue to kick the front door open. Dust flew up as the rotting wood hit the wall with a resounding bang.  

“The door was unlocked. You could have just opened it, Apollo.” Pheonyx whispered to him, in a slightly scolding tone. 

Daryl rolled his eyes but kept his attention on the house in front of him. That was probably true, but he wouldn’t admit that to the younger man. The place had obviously been abandoned a long time ago, but some furniture and knick knacks still remained. A thick layer of dust coated everything, but he was able to make out small footprints on the weathered wood floors. He wanted to call out for Sophia, his heart pounding at knowing she was, or had been, there. But they hadn’t checked the place for walkers yet. Even though there was no scent of decay, there was still a possibility of one of those geeks popping up. 

“Let’s split up,” he murmured back. 

“Let me guess. It’s not you, it’s me, right?”, Pheonyx joked, still keeping his eye on the quiet house. 

If it was anyone else, Daryl would have snapped at them for fooling around while doing something so serious, but he found himself enjoying the playful side of Pheonyx. Compared to the terrified man he’d seen only a short while ago, he would gladly take the playful one. Daryl wasn’t sure how it was possible, but even more blood rushed to his already overheated face as he thought about the syntax of the joke.  Of being in a relationship with Pheonyx. 

“Stop,” he said weakly. 

A light chuckle sounded next to him. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. The second floor is unstable so I don’t recommend going up there,” Pheonyx motioned with the short sword to the broken wooden stairs. 

Daryl nodded, glancing at the rotted steps across from them. “Ain’t seein’ any tracks up there anyways. She prolly stuck ta the first floor.” 

Pheonyx nodded at him. “I’ll check right.”

With that, they both began to search on their respective sides of the house. Daryl slowly aimed his crossbow right and left as he checked each room, glancing down slightly to track the small shoe prints imprinted on the dusty floor. Light creaking from across the house let him know that Pheonyx was also taking steady steps as he walked through his section of the first floor. Daryl was impressed at how quiet the younger man was. Both in the woods and in the house. Daryl pulled his mind from thoughts of Pheonyx and made his way through what used to be a living room. The only furniture in it was a torn couch, that something had obviously made its home evidenced by the slightly rustling cushions. Next was what he assumed was a dining room, as the only thing left in it was an overturned wooden chair and a broken bar cart. From there, he entered the kitchen area. This had more furniture left than the other parts of the house. Old cupboards lined the wall opposite a wide window, a thin door to the right indicating some sort of pantry. A rickety table was askew in the middle of the space, dirty cutlery scattered on the surface. On the wall across from the door was an old wooden hutch with dirty mason jars and random kitchen utensils. Adjacent to it was an overflowing metal trash can. A heavy fish scent led him over to the bin. Sitting on top of old crumpled newspapers and empty glass bottles, was a can of anchovies that was open and empty. It was newer than the trash it resided on, and the juices in the can hadn’t dried. Holding it towards his nose, he tried to smell any scent of spoiling. There was a slight sourness to it that meant it was just beginning to go bad. It was probably about a day old. The soured fish scent would be heavier if it were any older, especially with the high temperature in the days past. 

Glancing around at the floor, Daryl noted the plethora of tiny shoe prints that stippled the worn panels. Most of them congregated around the pantry so he stepped slowly towards the door. Keeping his crossbow raised, just in case of surprises, he pulled the door open quickly. There wasn’t anybody inside but in the small area, beneath the main shelves, was a tiny nest of blankets. The area was tight and only someone shorter than 5ft would be able to cram themselves in there comfortably. A sense of relief filled Daryl. He was upset that Sophia wasn’t there, but they were on the right track. She had been there. And if the can was any indication, she was there recently. 

A squeak of the floorboards had Daryl whirling around, aiming his crossbow directly at the source of the noise. Instead of a walker’s milky white eyes, he was met with fern green irises. Pheonyx, in the middle of sheathing his cutlass, raised his eyebrows at the other man.

“Calm down, Apollo. Just me. The rest of the house is clear. You find anything?”

Daryl lowered his weapon. He grunted in affirmation and inclined his head towards the nest of blankets at the bottom of the pantry, “We’re ‘bout a day behind her. Found a fresh can in the trash.”

A look of deep concentration came over Pheonyx’s face and he turned to one of the built-in cupboards next to the pantry door. He opened the door to the bottom-most cabinet. It was empty.

Daryl was curious about what the man was looking for but his mind went blank as he watched Pheonyx bend over. His mouth went dry and his grip tightened on the weapon in his hand. He’d never been much of an ass man(hell, he didn’t think he was any type of man before this) but the way Pheonyx’s backside filled out those jeans had him thinking thoughts that were confusing for someone who obviously wasn’t gay. 

A large smile overtook Pheonyx’s face and Daryl pushed away the troubling fantasies he was having. 

“Your girl’s chance of survival just went up.”, there was a slight squeak of excitement in the younger man’s voice that he couldn’t help. 

Daryl narrowed his eyes at the other man in confusion, so Pheonyx explained. “A month ago, I set up twelve supply drops with bug-out bags. Just in case something were to happen at the farm. One of those was here. Each bag has enough supplies to help survive a week, or more if rationed right. MRE’s, pop-up tents, water bottles, water purification tablets, survival blankets, firestarters, maps, compasses. There’s even a hunting knife in each bag. We may not have found her today but her mom should feel a little better knowing she's got some supplies."

The relief that Daryl felt was palpable and Pheonyx was glad he could at least offer him something. 

“I’d say let’s keep going but we need to start heading back now if we want to be at the farm before it gets dark,” Pheonyx said. He noted the flash of anger in Daryl’s eyes and continued softly, “Kismet and I will head out at first light tomorrow.”

The older man grunted in frustration and brought his thumb to his mouth to chew on his nail. His train of thought stopped and focused on the phrasing of the other man’s words. Thinking back he remembered Pheonyx saying they would only work together for the day. While it would probably be better to have more people spread out looking for Sophia, his stomach clenched at the idea of splitting up from Pheonyx. Obviously, because it was safer to work in pairs. Not because he was attracted to the younger man. That would be weird because he obviously wasn’t gay.  “Ya ain’t going out alone, Firebird. Me, you, n’ the mutt can search together. Might need ta talk ta Rick ‘bout his ideas fer tomorrow though.” 

Running his fingers through his sweat soaked hair, Pheonyx nodded. “Yeah, I don’t know how Kismet will do if we have a bunch of other people in the woods searching too. He did good today, but with a bunch of other smells he might get confused. I also worry about other people getting lost. Shadows aren’t the only things in these woods that can hurt you. No offense but the others in your group didn’t look like they had much experience with the outdoors.”

Daryl snorted, “Yer tellin’ me. Buncha city-slickers.”

They both headed out the back door of the house and Pheonyx whistled his three note recall to Kismet. While they waited on the dog, Daryl called out to Sophia. It was a long shot, he knew that. But he had to try. There was no response though. The only sounds he heard were the warbling melody of frogs and the distant burbling of the creek. And the chaotic sounds of a huge dog barreling his way towards them. Both men watched as Kismet, unable to stop his momentum once he reached them, slid into a boxwood bush with a loud crash. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Pheonyx grimaced, “You okay, Kismet?” he called out.

The leaves and branches shook for a moment before Kismet’s speckled face popped out from the green foliage. His tongue was hanging out, panting happily. He shook himself off before trotting over to them. A quick glance over told Pheonyx that, aside from some dirt on his sides, the dog was unscathed.  He turned his head to ask Daryl if he was ready to head out, but the words died on his lips as he watched the man pluck a Cherokee Rose from the thorny plant neighboring the boxwood that Kismet had just slid into. The story of the flower was something he was very familiar with, having learned about the Georgia state flower in elementary school. 

“You getting that for her mom?,” he asked the archer softly, taking a step to run his fingers over one of the roses still on the bush. 

Daryl nodded, “Sophia’s all she’s got left. Lost ‘er husband a week ago. Weren’t no real loss there. Guy was a prick,” he was silent for a moment, “Them girls ain’t deserve none a this shit.”

While that was a true enough statement, he couldn’t tell the truth, the real reason he was so determined to find this little girl. He couldn’t even admit it to himself. He couldn’t admit that when he saw Carol, he saw a reflection of his own mama. That first day in camp, Merle had taken to calling her “Mouse” because of how skittish and meek she was. Her husband had such a tight hold on her, every move she made was followed by a look over her shoulder to make sure Ed wasn’t there to beat her down. He’d seen the same look in his own mama’s eyes many times. By the end, the fear had torn her down so much that she was only a shell. A walker before walkers existed. 

And he certainly couldn’t admit that he saw a bit of his childhood self in Sophia. Sophia was merely a ghost. People would see flashes of her blonde hair out of the corner of their eyes, but she’d be gone by the time they’d turn their head. While Carl was a chatterbox, Sophia was damn near voiceless. Daryl had probably only heard her speak two or three times that he could remember. Just like her mom, looking at Sophia had him staring back into the past. The little boy, he used to be, lived a life of invisibility. The less he was noticed, the less pain he had to endure under his father’s belt. He spent more time hiding in the kitchen cupboards than in his own bed. But unlike him, Sophia’s abuser died. She had a chance at a normal life–as normal as one can be with the dead walking around. He needed to find her. For Carol. For his mama. For that little boy that he used to be. 

Pheonyx wanted to reach out to the man, maybe place a hand on his shoulder, but he stopped himself. Instead he gave him words. “We’ll find her. I don’t like to make promises but I will now. You and me. We’ll find her,” a grumble came from his side and he rolled his eyes, “ Kismet will help too.”

Plucking a rose from the bush, he handed it to Daryl, a physical contract of his words. Calloused hands brushed against his own and blue eyes locked with his green ones. Blood rose on both of their faces and they both looked away at the same time. Nothing more was said. 

The two men walked side by side, with a speckled hound between them, one holding a Cherokee Rose and a promise. 

Taglist: @edgyboi10000 @yoongibaybee @dixonsboy19

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes- Chapter 9

Note: Thank you to my wonderful beta, @garlic-the-gnome, who also made this beautiful edit. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's Pheonyx and Daryl's first time really conversing one on one. Next chapter is a big one, twice the size of my past chapters. Also, can anyone recognize a future TWD character that Pheonyx knows? Honestly one of the first scenes I thought of for this story(way down the line canon wise) involves them.

Chapter CW/TW: past depression/anxiety, allusions to past rape/non-con, past child abuse, transphobia mentions(Shane), anxiety

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Pheonyx's POV

For some people, home is a house. Four walls, a roof, a nice bed. If you ask them to describe their home, they’d probably tell you about the color of paint on the siding, or the flowers planted out front, or maybe the style of the dwelling. Maggie and Beth would give a picturesque description of the farmhouse that they had grown up in. The white exterior, the black window panels, the large wrap around porch, the height marks on the kitchen doorway that go back 4 generations, even the rolling fields bordering the historic home. It was the house where they learned to walk, learned to ride horses, where they had their first loves and subsequent first heartbreaks. It was where they had a loving mother and father who supported them throughout every hardship and shaped them into the kind, strong women they were. While the farmhouse was heaven compared to the house he spent the first 8 years of his life in, Pheonyx could never truly call it home. It was a safe place, yes. He didn’t have to worry about being beaten, burned, or degraded like before, but that didn’t mean he felt like he belonged. 

No, the farmhouse was simply a shelter. A place to rest his head during the night before he would escape to his real home. An acre away from the house, the rich, dense forest was where Pheonyx felt solace. When Pheonyx told Rick that he spent everyday in those woods, he hadn’t been exaggerating. Apart from the years he was in Michigan and a couple cases of the flu during his grade school years, he had spent everyday in the woods on the property. It was an escape from the stresses of bullies, school, and church. An escape from his anxiety, his depression, and his own personal demons that formed from having a monster as a father. In the woods, he was safe. In the woods, he didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself. 

Walking side by side with Daryl Dixon though, Pheonyx had to admit that he was a bit nervous. The safety of the woods had calmed his nerves from the sudden presence of Rick’s group and of Shane’s transphobic comments. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious about working with a man who made his insides turn to mush. 

No words had been spoken in the first thirty minutes of their hike. Even when they went to enter the woods, Pheonyx had only held out a hand in front of Daryl, to stop him before he walked straight into the brush-covered barbed wire that lined the edges of the woods. The man had grunted at him(possibly a thank you?) before stepping over the metal wire. Pheonyx had nodded in return and picked up Kismet, all seventy lbs of wiggling hound, before stepping over himself. The dog practically leapt out of his arms to follow after the archer. Apparently, Kismet was also  enamored by Daryl. 

So they walked in silence, Daryl just a step in the lead with his crossbow held ready in his hands. Pheonyx couldn’t help but watch him. At the farm, Daryl’s muscles were tense, even when he was in the presence of his group, people he had probably been with since the beginning of the outbreak.  His eyes were constantly flitting back and forth, looking for threats of any kind. He looked like a scared deer about to bolt back into the forest. 

But there, in the woods, Daryl was calm, relaxed. His posture displayed a self-confidence that wasn’t apparent at the farm. The steady movements he made were almost majestic. Although he was walking at a normal pace, his steps were careful and silent, evidence of years of hunting and tracking. The woods around the farm had always been dangerous, but even more so now that the dead were walking around. Pheonyx felt at ease knowing he was walking with someone who knew what they were doing

Despite that ease, he was still feeling the inner butterflies that he was wholly unfamiliar with. This attraction wasn’t something Pheonyx was accustomed to. He’d felt romantic attraction to people before and sexual attraction, but not often since his 22nd birthday. He honestly felt like he had lost a part of himself that night all those years ago. That, maybe, those demons had broken him beyond repair. Had stolen not only his innocence but his ability to trust anyone enough to feel any sort of attraction to them. As part of his healing process, he tried having sex with various people. Shawna, River, and Kasey were women he’d made friends with while working at the tattoo parlor. With them, it was more of a hookup situation. He wasn’t really friends with them, but he trusted them enough to attempt a physical relationship with them. Pheonyx was up front with them about his issues, the idea of maybe leading someone on didn’t sit right with him, and they all had been okay with keeping things as a casual encounter. All three were survivors like him and were familiar with how difficult physical intimacy could be after traumatic events. The only other person Pheonyx had had sex with was Aaron. But he didn’t count that as a hookup by any means. While he wasn’t romantically or sexually attracted to him, Aaron was his friend. More than a friend really. The man had saved his life. He’d been barely clinging to life in that alley and the only reason he survived was because Aaron found him. He’d put pressure on his wound and covered him to protect his dignity while they waited for an ambulance. Unlike most strangers would have, Aaron didn’t leave him when he was taken to the hospital. No, he stuck around. Even after Hershel and his mother had arrived, he stuck at his bedside. He held Pheonyx’s hand for days when he was unconscious, and when nurses were taking evidence from his broken body. Even when he was nearly catatonic, Aaron would come in and read to him or even just talk about nothing. The fact that he had stuck with him, had created a bond that a simple word like “friendship” couldn’t even begin to cover. Aaron had even transferred his job to Michigan for a while after Pheonyx moved so that they could still be around each other. A couple years later, after getting drunk and celebrating Aaron’s upcoming trip with his NGO to Niger, inhibitions lowered by alcohol, they had ended up in bed together. It was clumsy and awkward, but it showed Pheonyx that sex–with a cis man in particular– didn’t have to hurt. It wasn’t something to fear anymore.  Afterwards, they both had agreed that they were better as friends. Even Aaron, a man he trusted implicitly and who wasn’t unattractive by any means, didn’t make him feel the way Daryl did. Having barely spent an hour in the man’s presence, Pheonyx was almost willing to throw caution to the wind and try to get closer to the man walking beside him. 

He had barely spoken to Daryl and yet he felt no fear or apprehension in regards to the man hurting him. The only thing he felt was the weight in his chest that one would get when in the presence of their grade school crush. And the feeling of heat in an area of his body that he had actively avoided for a long time.  

Kismet was oblivious to the turmoil in his owner’s head. He ran ahead of them, sniffing trees and chasing birds, occasionally stopping to run back and make sure that Daryl and Pheonyx were still behind him. He would trot alongside them for a moment before running ahead again.  Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Pheonyx could see a slight upturn of Daryl’s lips whenever Kismet would trot back to them. He couldn’t blame him. The dog was adorable and his cuteness was why he got away with any trouble that his speckled paws managed to stumble into. 

The only noises around them were the ambient swaying of leaves in the late-summer breeze, the crunching of debris under Kismet’s large paws, and the occasional whistling of a bird high in the trees. Combined it was one of Pheonyx’s favorite songs. But honestly, he wanted to break the silence and speak to Daryl. Break the ice. Learn everything he could about the man. But what did he say? 

“Hey, so you’re probably straight and could possibly be transphobic, but I think you’re super attractive and you don’t make me feel like I’m dying of anxiety when I’m in your vicinity. So, would you maybe want to hang out sometime?”Pheonyx internally snorted. That would be too forward. So he started small. 

“How long until we get to where Sophia was last seen?” he broached the waters glancing at the man out of the corner of his eye. 

“Ain’t too far. Maybe ‘nother hour on foot. Rick left ‘er at the creek righ’ off the highway, tried to draw away the walkers chasin’er. She was supposta’ go back but somethin’ spooked ‘er.” Daryl responded, his husky voice licking up Pheonyx’s spine like fire. He thought that the silence of the woods was his favorite sound, but Daryl’s voice was easily pushing that out of the running. 

“Not surprising. She just got chased by shadows. Her adrenaline was probably running high. Any noise could have had her running in the opposite direction.” 

Daryl grunted in agreement. Pheonyx didn’t know that a single sound could have so many meanings but the archer could probably have whole conversations using that single guttural noise. 

“Why dya’ call ‘em that?” Daryl asked, his eyes still roaming the woods. 

“Why do you call them walkers?” Pheonyx countered, with his eyebrow raised. 

He swore the corner of Daryl’s lips turned up in a brief smirk. But it was gone as fast as it came. “They walk ‘round. Ain’t too complicated.” His defined shoulders lifted up into a small shrug, making the muscles in his arms clench. Pheonyx physically gulped as he watched the movement and had to avert his eyes before he started drooling. 

Pull yourself together, man. You’re acting like a dog in heat, he thought, clenching his hand on the hilt of the hunting knife at his side. 

“These dead things. They used to be people. They had lives. Families, friends, hopes, fears. Now…. they’re just shells. All those things are gone, and all that’s left is the shadow of the person they once were. They look like them, but all they are are mindless killers now. The light of their lives is gone and all that’s left is the darkness,” as he spoke, Pheonyx’s voice got more somber and he had to hold back tears as his thoughts floated to his mother and younger brother. Just like at Otis’s funeral though, he took a deep breath and swallowed the pain. “That’s why I call them shadows. I guess I just don’t want to ever forget that these used to be people. I won’t let that stop me from protecting my family or myself, but I still want to remember.” 

Once again, there was silence. Pheonyx wasn’t surprised. Daryl didn’t exactly seem like a man intune with his emotions and he’d just laid a whole therapy session's worth of them on the archer. Luckily, the lack of conversation didn’t last for long. Kismet stopped in his tracks ahead, his head tilted and ears perked. The white and black mottled fur on his hackles raised up and Pheonyx unsheathed the knife at his hip when the pup let out a warning growl. Following this, a low groan and hiss sounded to their left along with characteristic tinkle of windchimes. Daryl lifted his crossbow next to him, taking a step towards the sound. 

“Quiet,” Pheonyx told Kismet and the dog immediately stopped growling. Kismet trotted to his owner’s side, keeping close but not close enough to interfere with his movements. 

Taking slow steps, Pheonyx pushed through the thick brush blocking their view of the dead. A few feet away, one shadow was stuck in his trap. At some point, the woman had probably been beautiful. Her light blonde hair was long and framed a face that had once been heartshaped. Now, her skin was gray and blood coated her hands and chest. A large gaping wound on her arm and neck let him know that she had died from being bitten. The sharpened sticks that she had impaled herself on, were keeping her in place. One was through her shoulder, having torn the small strap of the destroyed dress, and the other was straight through her heart. Black glistening blood coated the tips of the sticks that protruded from her decaying body. Luckily, she was a stranger to Pheonyx. It was always harder when he knew the dead that were caught. Not only did he have to put them down and burn them, but he had to keep silent when his family mentioned those people in passing. Often they made comments, usually at mealtimes when conversation strayed from daily chores to memories, “I wonder if Mrs. Overtan is still around?” or “Do you remember Big Jim? He used to have the cotton farm off of Wyatt Rd? He was headed to the Atlanta safe-zone when the reports started coming in. I hope he, Mary, and the kids are okay.” In those cases, he had to keep his mouth shut and focus on eating. He couldn’t tell them that Mrs. Overtan had her neck torn out and that Big Jim was missing an arm when they both had impaled themselves on the sharp sticks spread throughout the woods. He couldn’t tell them that he had taken a sharp knife to their heads, effectively ending their undead lives, and then burned their bodies in a pit. They wouldn’t be able to handle it. To his family, he would be seen as a murderer. Maybe he was. But he would continue to do it to protect them.  

The walker in front of them most likely wasn’t from Senoia. Unless she had moved there while Pheonyx was living in Michigan, but he doubted it. People rarely moved to the small town.   More than likely, she had died in one of the traffic snarls off the highway and the noise from woods had drawn her in once she’d reanimated. Either way, the small niggle of guilt he felt, when he knew who the shadow used to be, was absent. A low breeze made the windchimes above her tinkle louder and another hiss escaped her gaping mouth, revealing teeth coated with black ooze. Her bony, decaying arms reached above her towards the sparkling metal tubes of the chimes.  Pheonyx raised the knife and took a step forward to kill it, but the woosh of Daryl’s crossbow releasing a bolt stopped him. 

Black sludge, what used to be blood, sprayed from the shadow’s head, coating the side of the tree and dripping down onto the forest floor. The body went limp and the arms, that had been stretched above its head, slumped down at its sides. Pheonyx turned his head and gave Daryl a nod of thanks. He approached the corpse, sheathing his knife as he went, and pulled the bolt from between the shadows eyes. More of the sludge splattered onto his hand and the smell of rot intensified. He wiped the blood off the quarrel on the bottom hem of the shadow’s dress, dirtying the yellow fabric even further.  The now-clean bolt in one hand, he used the other and began to check the small pockets on the front of the tattered dress for anything of use. It was morbid, and some might find it disgusting or appalling, but it was necessary. Resources of all kinds were in short supply. And Pheonyx had found that most people had taken to keeping important items on their person. Ammo, matches, lighters, water purification tablets, medicine. All things he had found by searching pockets of the shadows caught in his traps. Plus a boat load of now-useless change and dollar bills. 

In this case, he found an unopened tube of chapstick, several pennies, 3 dollars, a fancy zippo lighter, and a crushed pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights. 

“You smoke?” Pheonyx asked Daryl over his shoulder, noting the slightly disgusted and confused look on the man’s face. Rolling his eyes, he explained, “I’m not trying to cop a feel on it. People don’t take out the important stuff from their pockets when they’re dying. Morals kinda went out the door when all this shit started.”

He lifted the lighter and cigarettes up to prove his point. A look of understanding( and possible sheepishness?) overtook Daryl’s face and he cleared his throat. 

“Yeah, I smoke.”

With that, he tossed the crumbled pack to the man, who caught it expertly and stuffed it into the pockets of his worn jeans. Kismet had placed himself next to Daryl, waiting patiently for Pheonyx to give him a command. Over the last couple of months, Kismet had gotten used to staying to the side while Pheonyx took care of the bodies that ended up in his traps. In the beginning, the pup had gotten underfoot a lot. He couldn’t blame him really. Kismet had always been eager to help, wanting to be included in any action that occurred. But he didn’t want his best friend to accidentally get hurt while he was distracted with cleaning up the woods. So, Pheonyx spent a good couple weeks training Kismet to sit to the side while he was working on traps. Just like teaching the dog to guard, it took a lot of treats and patience but eventually the training clicked. Now, Kismet gave him a wide berth while he was hauling and burning bodies and he didn’t have to worry about the dog getting into trouble. Chocolate eyes stared at him adoringly and the leaves under Kismet’s butt crunched as his tail wagged back and forth. Pheonyx whistled for him to come over and the dog bolted over to him without hesitation. 

“Gentle,” he said while giving the crossbow bolt to the pup, making sure to offer him the clean end. While animals didn’t seem to be affected by the virus or the blood of those infected, he didn’t want his dog ingesting any of the vile fluids.  Kismet’s tail began to wiggle faster in earnest, eager to please. Despite the burst of energy and excitement, he still grabbed the bolt between his sharp teeth delicately. “Take it to Daryl.” 

Kismet grumbled happily at him and pranced over to Daryl. He began doing happy toe taps, proud of himself,  as he dropped the bolt at the man’s feet. The archer raised an eyebrow at the dog and bent over to pick up the quarrel. He inspected the item for any damage and nodded his head approvingly when he didn’t see any cracks or dents on the fragile shaft. Kismet began to grumble at the man, whining a bit, begging for him to offer some kind of attention or praise for doing a good job. Rolling his eyes, Daryl patted Kismet’s blocky head in reward. Tongue rolling out in pleasure, Kismet melted under his affections. 

Fucking hell. Never thought I’d be this jealous of my dog, Pheonyx thought before turning back to the matter at hand. 

Now for the gross part, he thought sadly. Using his arms as leverage under the shadow’s armpits, he lifted the corpse off the sticks. At one point, the woman probably weighed a buck twenty five soaking wet. Now, she barely weighed anymore than Kismet. Pheonyx’s cutlass knocked against his leg as he pulled the body along. Decayed feet dragging on the floor, he hauled the body ten feet over to the burn pit that he dug next to every trap he set.  Unceremoniously, he dropped it into the hole. Using the lighter he had taken from the shadow’s pockets, he lit the dollar bills that accompanied it on fire. The flames burned the tip of his fingers as the dry paper caught. But he held back the pain and stared at the glowing embers for a moment. Then he carefully tossed them into the pit, onto the body. 

For some reason, shadows were incredibly flammable. Maybe it was the dried skin and hair that made the flames catch so easily. Or maybe it was some byproduct of the virus mutating a body's cells.  Either way, it made Pheonyx’s job a lot easier. He didn’t have to worry about finding much kindling or fuel to get rid of the shells that ended up in the traps. The once-pretty woman was engulfed by flames in moments. The red fire licking along her limbs and burning up the destroyed dress. Soon, all that would be left of the person she was before would be a pile of ash and a memory. 

Pheonyx was drawn from his haze when he felt a nudge at his bicep. He turned his head and saw Daryl holding out a red bandana to him. Glancing down at himself, he grimaced when he saw the black blood coating his hands and the splatter of it smeared on his shirt. The bandana Daryl was holding out to him, had seen better days. The red print was faded and streaks of black grease marred the crumpled fabric. But the thought was what counted. 

“Thanks,” he took the rag and began to wipe off the blood from his hands. Until he took a shower, though, his hands would still have the stain of death on them, no matter how hard he rubbed with the bandana. Daryl shook his head when he tried to hand back the cloth. 

“Keep it. Got more in ma’ bag.”

Stuffing the cloth in his back pocket, they continued their trek towards the highway. Kismet took the lead and began to inspect every tree they walked past. Expecting the rest of the walk to be filled with silence, Pheonyx was surprised when Daryl started the conversation again. 

“Ya Pops din’t seem to know ‘bout all the traps ya got set up. Din’t seem too happy about it neither,” he commented. 

A loud snort broke from Pheonyx’s nose. “That’s an understatement,” he gripped the handles of his hunting knife and cutlass, both sheathed at his sides, “Let’s just say Hershel and I have differing views on how to handle the shadows. He thinks that they’re sick. Which, I guess is technically true. But he also thinks they can be cured. He thinks that someone out there is working on a cure and that it’s just a matter of time before things go back to normal. It’s not just him. They’re all in denial.” Images of his younger brother flashed into his head. A primal hunger reflected in his milky orbs as he bit down on their mother’s arm, condemning her to the same fate. Her screams as Shawn chewed on her pale flesh and blood splashing on the white linens. 

“What do ya think?” Daryl asked. His words were softer, seeming to notice the change in Pheonyx’s tone, the lilt of sadness that laced through his words. 

“They’re dead. Plain and simple. My-,” Pheonyx took a deep breath to ease the ache building in his chest, “My younger brother, Shawn, was bitten early on. I was sitting next to him when he took his last breath. We didn’t really know what was happening at that time. We just knew people were getting sick and going crazy. We didn’t realize what they turned into. So, my mom was too close. She was hugging his body one minute and the next he was biting into her arm. Hershel and Otis got him off of her but it was too late. Within 12 hours she was dead. I had my fingers on her pulse when her heart stopped. And it didn’t restart when she woke up. No rhythm. No blood pumping,” he stepped over a broken tree limb, looking down to try to keep Daryl from seeing his eyes getting red. “I can understand the desire to feel like things will be okay. If they don’t, then they have to acknowledge the fact that Shawn and Mom are gone. But I’m too much of a pessimist to think that everything will go back to normal. Even if, by some miracle, someone created a vaccine or a cure, these people are dead and decaying, curing them would just put them in unimaginable pain.”

There was silence again, the only noises coming from the stomping feet of Kismet as he chased a squirrel up a tree. 

“Don’ know if Rick told ya but we were at the CDC ‘fore we came here.” Daryl’s deep voice wrapped around Pheonyx in a comforting blanket. The ache of talking about his mom and Shawn was still there, but it felt like a dull throb as opposed to a fresh wound. “There was only one doc there. Jenner. All the others left or killed themselves. Doc showed us some stuff. Basically said the bite kills ya but it restarts ya brain stem to get ya walkin’ around. Ain’t nothin’ left of the person ya was before though. Ya brain’s dead. He weren’t too sure if anyone else was lookin’ fer a cure. Fucker nearly killed us. He tried ta lock us in ‘fore the whole buildin’ blew. Rick talked’im outta it though. Got out just in time.”, Blue eyes locked on Pheonyx’s green ones. “Yer right ‘bout the walkers. There ain’t no curing them. Cain’t cure death.”

Pheonyx felt a scale of emotions. On one side he felt relief at knowing his dark views on shadows were right. He wasn’t mindlessly killing sick people like Hershel would think. But he also felt sorrow. Because it meant that his mom and Shawn were truly dead. A small part of him had hoped he was wrong. That maybe the military would roll through any day and cure the sick people they had locked in the barn. But now he knew the truth. The shadows in the barn were just that. Shadows. Just the shells of the people he once loved. 

Kismet seemed to sense his inner rollercoaster of emotions because he trotted over and leaned himself against Pheonyx’s leg as they walked. He tangled his fingers in the downy fur on the dog’s head, letting the warmth of Kismet’s body ease the weight on his chest. Whatever pain was left, he pushed back down. Eventually that denial and repression were going to come and bite him in the ass. Eventually he’d break down and be forced to feel the weight of the pain and sorrow that was hidden in his mind. But that was a problem for future Pheonyx. Kismet gave his hand a small lick before bounding off again after a bird.

He knew the man didn’t have to offer those words of comfort. He could even tell it made him feel a bit awkward, with the way he was avoiding eye contact and how his shoulders tensed a bit. So, he smiled at Daryl in appreciation. 

“Thanks.”

Hearing the gratitude in his voice, Daryl turned his head to look at him, making eye contact. And something came over him in that moment, a bit of flirtatiousness that he’d never felt before. So, his body acted without him thinking and he winked at him. Pheonyx Greene winked at Daryl Dixon. He winked at a man, a tough looking redneck, who he wasn’t entirely sure was gay or bisexual. 

Why the fuck did I just do that?, Pheonyx screamed internally and a bit of fear rose in his chest, What if he reacts badly? This is rural fucking Georgia and the man looks like a typical conservative country boy! They don’t take too kindly to other guys flirting with them and assuming they’re not straight. Oh shit, should I run? I can’t end up like that again. 

Thousands of panicked thoughts ran through his mind and he waited for something, some kind of bad reaction from the man next to him. But nothing came. The only thing he noticed was the red flush that crept up Daryl’s neck and over his ears. Daryl quickly averted his eyes from Pheonyx and coughed a bit. 

“We’re here,” his deep voice was a slight bit huskier and, just like Daryl, Pheonyx felt the blood rush to his face. Mostly from attraction(and a small bit of arousal, he wouldn’t lie), but also from embarrassment. He had almost forgotten why they were out there in the first place. Sophia. The lost girl. 

The trickling of the creek off in the distance allowed him to orient himself. They weren’t too far from the highway and, now that he was here, he knew exactly where they were. Pheonyx whistled the three note recall and Kismet came bounding from the bushes a few feet away. He had a feather hanging from the corner of his lips so Pheonyx could only imagine what the dog had been up to. 

“Ready to work, handsome?” he asked Kismet. The dog began to wiggle, happy at the prospect of having a job, but he sat and waited for Pheonyx to give him a command. He pulled the backpack off his shoulder and opened it up. Just like Maggie said, the pack contained three bottles of water, a dog bowl, and several baggies of Pheonyx’s homemade jerky. The three bigger ziploc bags had darker colored jerky. The color was from the blend of seasonings, soy sauce, worcestershire sauce, and honey that he used to marinate the meat before smoking. The smaller bag had lighter colored unseasoned jerky that he used specifically for training Kismet. Pheonyx stuffed the smaller bag in one pocket and two of the bigger bags in his other pocket for him and Daryl to eat later. One of the nice things about men’s pants was that the pockets were absolutely ginormous. 

Seeing the bag of jerky, Kismet’s eyes got wide and his body began to shake in anticipation. Pheonyx closed his bag and slung it back over his shoulders. He could feel Daryl’s eyes on him from the few feet that separated them. He reached for his waistband, where he had Sophia’s small shirt tucked over his belt, and pulled the thin fabric off the leather strap. 

Kneeling down next to Kismet, Pheonyx used his free hand to stroke the dog’s head. Soft fur and chocolate eyes shining with happiness made his chest swell. He scratched the dog's ears and offered the shirt to Kismet to smell. 

“We gotta find someone, okay boy? We’ve only tracked squirrels and ‘coons up until now but I think you’re ready,”  Kismet snuffled his nose along the shirt, deeply inhaling and then snorting like a pig. Once he got a good few whiffs of the shirt, he leaned back on his haunches and waited for Pheonyx to give him his command. 

Pheonyx stood up and tucked the shirt into his belt again, “Find it boy!”

Being released by the command, Kismet placed his nose to the ground and began to follow the trail. His thick paws kicked up dirt as he trotted through the foliage, snuffling and snorting against the ground the whole way.  

Pheonyx turned and briefly took in the visage of the older archer. The sunlight was peaking through the trees and hitting the side of his face, making his blue eyes shine even brighter than before. Dark hair now looked golden from the sun’s rays. His crossbow was loose in his hands and angled towards the ground. The tender hold he held on the weapon was a facade for the lethality he possessed.  Despite the dirt and general scruffiness, he looked almost ethereal. God-like.

With that image in mind, Pheonyx gestured to the direction that Kismet went. 

“After you, Apollo,” he said with a smile. The other man snorted in response to the nickname, but he adjusted his grip on his crossbow and began to follow the hound’s lead. 

He wasn’t quite proud of it, but Pheonyx took a brief moment to watch Daryl walk in front of him. Green eyes were glued to the other man’s backside and he watched as those dirty jeans hugged him in all the right places.  

“Ya comin’, Firebird?” Daryl called over his shoulder, breaking Pheonyx from his less than innocent thoughts. 

I wish, he thought, Wait…. 

“Firebird?” Pheonyx asked in confusion, jogging to catch up with him.

Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000 @loganlostitall @dixonsboy19

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes Chapter 8

Note: I finally finished Chapter 9, I rewrote the ending like 5 times. I no longer have a beta reader so I'm sorry for any mistakes! This includes a small Rick's POV, I probably won't do that much. I have no doubts Rick would be an ally. Shane not so much. Sorry for the Shane lovers out there. Also, I realize that Daryl will be OOC in this story. I'm trying to keep him as close to character as possible. But have you ever met anyone that, despite whatever walls you've built or whatever anxieties you have, you just felt right with them? Like you know you're supposed to have them in your life but you don't know why? That's the kind of relationship I'm trying to portray with them. Daryl is scared of being something he's denied for so long, but he also feels peace with Pheonyx. They have barely spoken but they both just feel a connection that they can't deny.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations​ 

Chapter CW/TW: past child abuse mentions, scars, religious trauma mentions, depression/anxiety, gender dysphoria, transphobia, internal homophobia

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Masterlist

Pheonyx's POV

As everyone began to head back towards the house after Otis’s memorial service, Rick pulled the scruffy attractive man, who he was assuming was the tracker of their group, aside and waved a hand to Pheonyx, beckoning him over to the pair. The dog followed hot on his master’s heels. 

One hand on the bow strong across his chest and the other on the handle of his knife, Pheonyx approached the two men. His disquietude over being around Rick had diminished over the past 24 hours. Pheonyx had always been good at reading people, and he could tell the sheriff was a good man. Maybe a little naïve to the way the world was now but overall he seemed to have a heart of gold. He loved his family, his son especially, and he cared about his people. In all honesty, Pheonyx was slightly jealous of Carl. He would have given anything to have a father that loved him as much as Rick loved his boy. He had Hershel obviously, but there had always been a barrier between the two. In the beginning, Pheonyx didn’t trust the man. How could he? His own father had been abusive. Torn him down and scarred him for life. How could he trust a complete stranger to not do the same thing? His mother insisted that Hershel was different. But he hadn’t believed her at first. Over time he realized she was right. But he still couldn’t find it in himself to let the older man in. And as Pheonyx’s feelings of gender dysphoria–although he didn’t have a word for it at the time–grew, the divide between him and his parents also grew. He didn’t fault them for not understanding what he was going through. He hadn’t even known until he was in his late teens and had access to the internet finally. He did fault them for their refusal to see his pain. Their continued insistence that the depression and wrongness he was feeling was just a phase. Or that he was broken for feeling that way. Forcing him to have bi-weekly therapy sessions with the creepy pastor from their church, where he was forced to dress in “respectable” women’s clothes and recite verses from the bible about being a submissive woman. His mother throwing out all his jeans and replacing them with flowing skirts. Forcing makeup on his face and pushing him to go on dates with boys from the church. It wasn’t until he was in the hospital, his spirit broken, that they finally started to call him Pheonyx. But the fact that he had to almost die in order for them to even try erected a wall in his heart that they could never break down. Hershel had been a father figure to him but not in the way Rick was to Carl. Seeing the man sitting with his son, holding his hand, and whispering stories to the young boy, Pheonyx had felt the rolling of his stomach as he thought of his own father. He felt the round burns on his shoulder tingle and the long scars, that crisscrossed his back, felt like they reopened. It was all psychological. He knew that. But that didn’t stop him from rolling his shoulders to ease the ache. He would have given anything to have a father like Rick growing up. But he also knew that all the pain he endured as a child gave him the fortitude to survive the world as it was now.  It allowed him to protect his family and a small part of him was grateful for that. 

Rick gave him a small smile, which Pheonyx returned. His gaze moved to the man next to him, blue eyes meeting his. As he got closer and stopped in front of the two, he waited for the inevitable feeling of panic and anxiety to flare at the increasing proximity of the strange man. But it never came. The normal tingling of fear that rushed his veins was absent. All he felt was a fluttering in his stomach and his mouth going dry. 

“Pheonyx, this is Daryl Dixon. He’s the tracker I mentioned yesterday. He’s been headin’ up the search for Sophia. Daryl, this is Hershel’s stepson. Both Maggie and Hershel say he is an expert on the property and woods surrounding it. He’s offered his services-” Rick was interrupted by Kismet barking once, begging to be included in the conversation. “And his dog, to help find Sophia. I’d appreciate it if you two would work together to head up the search for her.” 

The man, Daryl, had his arms crossed against his chest and Pheonyx noted the tensing of his muscles at the mention of working with him. His blue eyes were like fire on Pheonyx’s skin and it was almost like the man was seeing all of his secrets written across his already-inked skin. He felt a different kind of fear fill his stomach. Did he know? If he did, would he be okay with Pheonyx? With who he was? What he was? Pheonyx tried not to judge people by their appearances or label them, but it was instinct sometimes. The only word he could think of to call the man in front of him was “redneck”. And unfortunately, his encounters with men of that label never ended well. So why wasn’t he panicking? Internally, his mind was rolling with worry about being outed, but the urge to run, or to fight, didn’t fill him at the sight of this man. That had to mean something, didn’t it? But why did Daryl tense? Was he uncomfortable about being around new people like Pheonyx was? Maybe that was it. 

“Work better alone.”, the older man grunted and Pheonyx’s knees went weak at the sound. It was deep and raspy. The edges of it practically rubbed against his spine and it sent shivers through his body. Pheonyx had opted not to take testosterone when he started transitioning. The major reasoning being that, outside of his breasts, he was comfortable with his body. Genetically, he was lucky. Overall, Pheonyx wasn’t too curvy, his body was lean and with the right clothes, he could pass fairly well. He also didn’t have an issue with growing body hair. The hair on his legs and arms was fairly dark and thick, so testosterone wouldn’t have been much help in that department.  But the low register of Daryl’s voice was one he would kill to have and made him wonder how his own voice would have sounded if he chose to go on T.  Would it sound as raspy as Daryl’s? Would it make the other man feel how he was feeling now? Like the rumbling of his voice was vibrating throughout his body, from his ears to between his legs? Shit, he really had to stop his mind from heading towards the bedroom around this man. The likelihood of Daryl being attracted to him was nearly zero. He was most likely straight and he’d probably be freaked out by another man lusting after him. He had to get his mind back to the matter at hand. The little girl that was lost. 

“So do I. But I spent last night creating a plan for the search. We can split up tomorrow but I need your help at least for today. I’ve been working with Kismet,” Pheonyx inclined his head to the side where the dog sat, “On scent tracking for the last month. I need you to take me to exactly where she and Rick split up. He can follow her trail from there. It hasn’t rained so he shouldn’t have too much trouble.” Noticing Daryl’s blue eyes flicker to Rick, Pheonyx continued, “Rick needs to stay here for Carl and Lori. And Shane fucked up his ankle at the high school. Or else one of them would take me”. Which wasn’t true. Pheonyx refused to go anywhere with Shane. But Daryl didn’t need to know that.  Pheonyx squared his shoulders and crossed his arms across his chest, trying to appear stern and unmoving. 

Daryl raised an eyebrow at the younger man, his eyes moving down to look at the dog next to him. “ That mutt is a scent tracker? He don’t look like he’s got much goin’ on behind those eyes.”

Confused, Pheonyx’s eyebrows pushed together. He glanced down to Kismet and sighed at the sight. The dog was on his back, rolling around, with his back foot in his mouth, chewing on it like it was a chicken drumstick. He heard a small chuckle from Rick and snort from Daryl. Using his boot to gently nudge the dog back to attention, Pheonyx muttered to the pup, “You’re lucky you're cute.”

He held his ground against Daryl though. “Okay, Kismet may not be the brightest crayon in the box, I’ll admit. But when he’s got a job he works hard. Unfortunately, you guys don’t have the luxury of shopping for a certified dog. I stand by him though. We’ve only tracked wildlife so far, but I would bet my life on this ‘mutt’”

Daryl looked him over, seeing the conviction in Pheonyx’s words, he nodded. 

“I want us all to gather up to talk about the plan. You okay with that?” Rick asked while looking at Pheonyx. After receiving an affirmation, Rick continued, “You’ll need something with Sophia’s scent on it, so I’ll ask Carol for something of hers. I’m assuming you have a map we can use?” 

Pheonyx nodded and noted the way Daryl’s hand lifted from across his chest to brush against the pocket on his shirt. “I got one in the stable, I’ll grab it and we can meet up by the cars.” 

Pheonyx, carrying his rolled up county survey map, approached the old station wagon that everyone was crowded around. Aside from Rick and Daryl, Andrea, Shane, Hershel, and Maggie were surrounding the hood of the beaten up car. 

He held up the map and then unrolled the thin paper across the hood. “County survey map. Shows terrain and elevations. And other stuff. As you can see.” His sister placed a rock on one side of the map to hold it down and Shane placed a rock on the other side. All the colored marks and lines stood out against the grays of the printed landscape. Maggie had already seen the map the previous day, so she wasn’t shocked by the extensive key in the corner or all of the handwriting across the parchment. Everyone but Daryl stared at it wide-eyed. Pheonyx flinched as he noticed the dark look that came over Hershel’s face when he realized what the red stars indicated. He knew there would be an argument about this later. Trying to avoid thinking of the inevitable fight, Pheonyx looked for Daryl’s reaction. The tracker’s face was almost blank, but Pheonyx noticed a spark of something as Daryl’s gaze swept over the large paper. His hand went from brushing the corner of the map on the hood, to brushing against the pocket of his shirt again. Intense blue eyes lifted from the paper and ran over Pheonyx’s face like a warm hand. Heat flooded his face and he looked away. 

Rick realized the meaning of the stars the same time Hershel did. “You’re the one who placed the walker traps? We ran into quite a few of them. Weren’t sure what to make of them at first.”

“Walkers?”, Pheonyx asked, slightly confused before realizing what the other man meant. “Oh yeah. I call them Shadows. Walkers is a bit less of a mouthful though.” Avoiding the glare his stepfather was sending him, he kept his eyes trained on Rick. “Yes. The traps were my doing. The tree traps are pretty obvious when you’re walking but you’ll have to be careful of the pits when you’re out there. I placed signs around them as a warning for any living people walking around out there. So be on the lookout for those.”

Andrea looked at him with hard eyes, “Pits? Is that a euphemism or something?”

Pheonyx shook his head. “No, ma’am. They’re, quite literally, pits. Holes I’ve dug with sharp sticks at the bottom. Windchimes right above the hole to draw in any Shadows that are nearby. There aren’t a lot. I only had a chance to dig two so far. ”

A sharp inhale came from where Hershel and Maggie were standing. His body tensed again, an instinct from childhood that crept up on him. He didn’t expect Hershel to hit him or to lash out, but he couldn’t help the fight or flight instincts that popped up whenever the older man was mad. He rolled his shoulder as the phantom pains echoed across his back. 

Noting the tension, Rick spoke up as he glanced between the older man and his stepson. “Well this is perfect, Pheonyx. Thank you. We can finally get this thing organized. It looks like you’ve already gridded the whole area. So, we can start searching in teams.” 

Hershel let out a sound of disapproval. “Not you. Not today. You gave 2 units of blood. You wouldn’t be hiking 5 minutes in this heat before passing out.”, he turned his gaze to Shane, “And your ankle. You push it now, you’ll be laid up a month. No good to anyone.”

“What about Pheonyx? He gave the same amount I did.”, Rick puzzled. 

Hershel shook his head. “Pheonyx hasn’t been on a near-starvation diet for the past couple months and didn’t experience an intense bout of shock yesterday. Your body needs to rest. His doesn’t.” 

Shane let out a huff and shook his head. “His?”, the man’s gaze ran over Pheonyx’s body with disapproval. 

Pheonyx’s eyes narrowed on the man and he squared his shoulders. “Yeah. His. Got a problem with that, Ears?” 

Tension rose in the air. Maggie and Hershel were glaring at Shane along with Pheonyx. Rick was sending his best friend looks of reproach. Andrea shifted uncomfortably. The air of hostility was broken by Daryl, a snort of a laugh clearing the air. The people from his group looked at him incredulously, shocked by the sound. Apparently, he didn’t laugh much. The sharp sound made the corner of Pheonyx’s lip curve up. Something about the noise made his stomach flutter and he decided he’d do anything to hear it again. 

“Just me and Pheonyx then.”, Daryl’s gruff voice saying his name sent shivers up his spine. He tried to hold off the blush that was threatening to overtake his face. He hoped that everyone around him would mistake the redness for the heat. Seeing the smirk on his sister’s face though, he knew that wasn’t likely. Kismet, who had been sitting patiently at Pheonyx’s feet, barked at Daryl, upset at not being included in his statement. Sometimes, Pheonyx swore the dog could understand every word that was being said. The archer looked around Shane to raise his eyebrow at the dog. “And the mutt. I’ll take ‘em back to where her trail started.” 

Pheonyx cleared his throat, trying to break his train of thought away from Daryl.  “From there, I’ll have Kismet start tracking her scent. Did you get something of hers for us to use, Rick?”

Rick pulled out a small t-shirt that had been hanging from his belt. Pheonyx took the shirt from him, nodding his thanks. It was pink with a flowery design on the front and thin from frequent washes. He tried not to think of how small it was. How terrified the girl must be. Not only being lost in the woods but also having to run and hide from the dead. 

“I can still be useful.”, Shane said while placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll drive up to the interstate, see if Sophia wandered back.” Pheonyx couldn’t help but notice how flat the statement was. He could tell Shane didn’t believe that Sophia would be there. He was following a script. Saying what he thought other people would want to hear. The man had already carved Sophia’s name into a tombstone. Pheonyx clenched his fists on the hood of the car, trying to calm himself from the anger in his chest. 

“Alright. Tomorrow then. We’ll start doing things right.”, Rick placed his hands on his hips, mirroring Shane’s stance. 

“That means we can’t have our people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we’ve been promising them.” Shane said. Andrea visibly perked up at the statement. 

Oh no. Hershel is not going to like that, Pheonyx thought. 

Just like he thought, Hershel cut in, “I’d prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We’ve managed so far without turning this into an armed camp.”

A slightly bitter part of Pheonyx’s brain wanted to tell Hershel that they had only managed so far because of his traps and nightly runs in the woods. But he kept his mouth shut. He was already dreading the argument about the traps. It would just make it worse by antagonizing his stepfather. Daryl’s eyes shift from Hershel to him, almost like he knew the Pheonyx was the reason the farm had avoided tragedy up until this point.  

Shane shifted the hat he was carrying in one hand to the other, clenching it in frustration. He glanced from Hershel to Pheonyx “Your boy”, he said the word with a slight tinge of disgust and Pheonyx had to reign in his anger, “here carries one. Plus three other weapons. Don’t sound much like an unarmed camp.”

The look Hershel gave Shane was scathing. “If you must know, my son and I disagree over his use of weapons on the property. Even so, he is my son. You are a group of strangers who I’ve offered shelter to out of the kindness of my heart. You want to stay here, you play by my rules.” His stepfather placed a deep emphasis on the word “son” and Pheonyx could tell this was his way of standing up for him. Hershel wasn’t a confrontational man by any means, so the fact that he was speaking like this to Shane, made Pheonyx feel elated and protected. He’d spent so long having to stand up for himself against his mother and stepfather. Having Hershel stand up for him now was a nice change of pace. 

Rick gave his best friend a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. “Look, Hershel’s right. We’re guests here. This is your property. And we will respect that.”, He looked pointedly at Shane before taking his Colt from his holster and placing it onto the hood of the car. Shane shook his head but placed the Glock, that he had tucked in the back of his pants, onto the hood of the car with a clang. His facade was calm but there was a flame of anger in his eyes that made Pheonyx shiver. 

A look of relief flitted across Rick’s face. “Okay, first thing’s first: set camp, find Sophia.”

“I hate to be the one to ask, but somebody’s got to-”, Shane said, “What happens if we find her and she’s bit? I think we should all be clear on how we handle that.”

From the way he spoke, Pheonyx could easily guess at how Shane would handle that situation. Flashes crossed his mind of sitting next to Shawn’s bedside, wiping the sweat from his younger brother’s forehead. Trying desperately to bring his fever down, even knowing the attempts were futile. Listening as his brother screamed from the pain. Doing the same for his mother when she was bitten after Shawn turned. His gut clenched thinking about a little girl having to endure that suffering. Glancing over at Maggie, Pheonyx could tell the same memories were passing through her mind. 

“You do what has to be done.” Rick said softly, looking at the ground. The pain of having to say those words was written all over his body. 

“And her mother? What do you tell her?”, Maggie asked, shock lacing her voice. 

“The truth.”, Andrea replied. 

Pheonyx watched the look pass between his sister and stepfather. He knew that they were upset by this conversation. To them, the strangers were talking about callously killing a sick little girl. He’d been trying to get his family to realize the truth, that these weren’t people anymore. They were dead. But he knew why they clung so hard to their beliefs. If they admitted that the Shadows were dead, then that would mean admitting that all their friends and neighbors were dead. That his mom and Shawn were dead too. 

Shane’s nasally voice invaded Pheonyx’s train of thought, “I’ll gather and secure all the weapons, make sure no one’s carrying till we’re at a practice range off site. I do request one rifleman on lookout. Dale’s got experience.”, He tilted his head in the direction of the man wearing the bucket hat, who was helping set up tents a few feet away from them. 

Hershel hesitated and Rick jumped in, his voice soothing, “Our people would feel safer. Less inclined to carry a gun.” Pheonyx had to admit, the man had a silver tongue, because Hershel nodded his assent. The Sheriff thanked him, looking relieved. 

Eager to get the search started, and also already drained socially, Pheonyx looked at Daryl, catching his eyes, “You ready to head out?”  

The man grunted and started walking away from the car, so Pheonyx assumed that was a yes. Before he could follow him, Maggie reached down and grabbed a canvas backpack leaning on the side of the car. She tossed it to her brother, which he caught easily. He raised his eyebrow at her in question. 

“Food for you guys, a few bottles of water, a bowl for Kismet, and a baggie of treats. You’re not gettin’ him to do any trackin’ without a bribe. Right, handsome?” Maggie smiled down at Kismet, who was panting at his side. The dog’s tail thumped at the attention he was getting. 

“Thanks”, Pheonyx said. “We should be back around sunset. But don’t wait up for dinner.” 

“Come back in one piece.”, Maggie kissed his cheek and gave Kismet a pat on the head. Lowering her voice, a playful smirk crept onto her face. “Have fun with your archer.”

Hiding the heat that immediately spread on his face, Pheonyx ducked his head. Normally he didn’t carry a bag when he was out in the woods, so he had to configure the weapons on his body to be able to carry it. He ran into a bit of a problem with the quiver and bow across his chest. Since he wasn’t planning on doing any hunting and he also had his cutlass and other weapons, he opted to take both off and replace them with the backpack. 

“Can you put these in the barn for me, please?”, he asked his sister sweetly, and she nodded. 

Pheonyx handed the quiver and bow off to his sister. Patting Kismet’s head and whistling to have the dog follow him, Pheonyx jogged to catch up with Daryl. 

Daryl’s POV 

As soon as Pheonyx asked if he was ready to leave, Daryl grunted and started heading towards the woods. He didn’t even look to see if the younger man and his dog were following him. He needed a moment. So many thoughts and feelings were coursing through his body. He wasn’t used to most of them. 

Anger, yes. That feeling was second nature to him. He was angry at Shane for the dirty looks and snide words that he’d flung at Pheonyx. He’d treated him like he was a freak, and it took everything Daryl had not to beat the shit out of the officer. It was the same way that people had treated him and his brother growing up. People assumed that because they were Dixons, that meant they were trouble. In the beginning both boys tried to avoid acting out, so as not to confirm people’s views of them, but eventually they realized it was pointless. They could be model citizens and the whole of Senoia would still see them as the dirty, trailer-trash, sons of Will Dixon. Daryl had retreated into himself at that point. Why bother making friends if people were just going to make assumptions of his character based on his genetics? Merle, unfortunately, went the opposite route. He decided that if people were going to assume he was bad, he might as well live up to their expectations. And often this led to Daryl following him into fucked up situations. But Pheonyx hadn’t let Shane’s words bring him down. He’d straightened his back, stared at him with intense eyes, and spit his hatred right back at him. Daryl hadn’t been able to contain his snort of a laugh at the name Pheonyx had given the other man. The sound was foreign and the others had looked at him in shock. Not surprising really. He didn’t laugh a lot. It was probably the first time they had heard something other than vitriol from him. 

But aside from the usual feelings of anger, Daryl was confused by the fiery feeling in his ears and cheeks. The fluttering of moths(because he refused to call them butterflies) in his stomach. All in regards to Pheonyx. To be honest, he hadn’t heard much of what Rick and the others were discussing at the meeting. All he could focus on was the map in front of him, a larger version of the one that was sitting in his chest pocket. The one that felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He had suspected that Pheonyx was the one to make the map as soon as he saw him. But this was just confirmation. He’d spent most of the night before just looking at the thin paper. If anyone asked, he would say he was studying it to make a plan for finding Sophia. But in reality, he just kept running his fingers over the handwriting that dotted the paper. Something about it just drew him in. Knowing, now, that Pheonyx was the one who made them, who put all this work into protecting a family who was obviously living in denial about the state of the world, he was confused. What about this man entranced him so much? Why couldn’t he brush off these emotions like he did with everything else? Obviously, he wasn’t sexually attracted to the younger man. That would be wrong. Maybe his body was just pointing him in the direction of a new friend? Aside from Merle, Daryl had never had a true friend before. Maybe he could try being friends with Pheonyx? Even thinking that though, there was a wrongness that flooded his brain. No, what he was feeling wasn’t as simple as friendship. 

When Pheonyx had looked at him, and a light blush had spread across his face, Daryl felt like his soul was leaving his body. Was he feeling these things too? Did Pheonyx feel the same draw to Daryl that Daryl felt to him? Did he have the same voice in his head telling him how wrong these feelings were? Is that why he looked away from him so quickly? 

As he walked, crossbow in his hands, his knees felt weak from the emotional turmoil in his head. There was a hopeful part of him that believed that Pheonyx was also feeling the attraction he was. But another part, a darker part, was telling him that he was a freak, an abomination for feeling what he was for another man. 

Lost in his thoughts, Daryl nearly tripped when Rick’s voice sounded from behind him. He spun around, subconsciously noting that Pheonyx and Kismet were jogging over to the treeline where he was headed.  

“Hey!”, Rick said, his ridiculous sheriff’s hat in hand, “We got a base now. We can get this search properly organized now.”

There was an edge to Rick’s eyes, like he was trying to imply something that Daryl wasn’t picking up. He took a few steps forward, narrowing his eyes. “Ya got a point, or are we just chattin’?”

Rick shuffled his feet, placing his hands on his hips. “My point is, it lets you off the hook. You don’t owe us anything.” 

On one hand, Daryl was slightly pissed that the man assumed he would just leave, even in the midst of a search for a lost girl. He wasn’t that much of an asshole.  On the other hand, he knew that he hadn’t exactly been…. Friendly. He was surly, avoided social situations, and often snapped at other members of the group. Not to mention he tried to kill Rick within 5 minutes of meeting him.  It was no wonder that Rick assumed Daryl was looking for an excuse to leave.  Shaking his head, his eyes landed on Pheonyx, who was standing at the edge of the treeline, petting Kismet, and waiting for Daryl to meet up with them. His eyes were glued to the younger man. He didn’t even think about how it would look to Rick, seeing that Daryl couldn’t pull his gaze away from the man yards away from them. 

The usual edge to his voice gone, the simple sight of Pheonyx placing a haze of calm around his shoulders, Daryl spoke clearly. “My other plans fell through.” 

Without even looking back at Rick, Daryl made his way over to Pheonyx and the mutt. His brain screamed for him to run the other way, but his heart pulled him right to the other man’s side. 

Rick’s POV

Rick watched as Daryl walked towards the treeline,walking beside Pheonyx and Kismet. A slight smile colored the Sheriff’s face. He’d seen the glances that the archer had been throwing the farmer’s stepson. The redness of his ears and cheeks while he looked the younger man up and down. It wasn’t hard to assume that there was something brewing there. Up until that day, he’d seen Daryl as a hot-tempered redneck with a hair thin trigger. Aside from the man’s bout of drunkenness at the CDC, all Rick had encountered from the man was snappy replies and sarcastic remarks. Which was probably deserved considering he handcuffed his brother to a roof. But still, Rick felt like that anger was a front for something else.   When he’d offered Daryl a way out, the man’s eyes had flicked to Pheonyx and stayed there. His response saying his plans fell through, was soft and almost entranced as he watched the tattooed man petting Kismet, waiting at the tree line for the archer. It was the first true bit of emotion that Rick had heard from him. He felt like, in that moment, he finally saw a glimpse of the real Daryl Dixon. 

The thud of the screen door behind him had Rick whirling around. He was greeted by the serious eyes of Hershel Greene. The man slowly made his way down the steps and over towards him. Rick had an idea what this was about and it made his stomach clench. The Greene’s had been extremely hospitable and had saved his son’s life without hesitation. But he also could read the apprehension on Hershel’s face anytime he was around them. The man didn’t want them here. And honestly, he couldn’t blame him. While his group was mostly able-bodied, they were technically more mouths to feed. And the medical issues in the group just kept mounting on top of each other. He wouldn’t be surprised if Hershel had gone through the majority of their first aid supplies on Carl alone. Rick needed to tread lightly. Pushing Hershel wouldn’t be a good idea. The man was kind and godly but also strict and stubborn. 

“We could give you more space. Set up over by the barn.”, Rick offered. His hands were sweating against where they rested on his hips. 

Hershel shook his head. “No. No need for that. Better you stay close to the house.”, the old man looked down and let out a small sigh, “I don’t say this easily, Rick. We don’t normally take in strangers. I can’t have your people thinking this is permanent. Once you find this girl, and your boy’s fit for travel. I expect you’ll move on. We need to be clear on that.” The look Hershel gave him was no nonsense. Arguing with him wouldn’t do anything. He could change his mind but he knew that he needed to ease the man into the idea. So he kept silent, just lowering his gaze. He expected the conversation to end there, but was surprised when Hershel spoke again. 

“And, Rick?”

He looked up at Hershel and the man continued, “If you’re going to be on my property, your people will have respect for my family. Every one of them.”

Rick immediately knew he wasn’t speaking in general about the people in his household. There was a specific person he was hinting at. Pheonyx. Over the past 24 hours, Rick’s only thoughts had been on his son and Sophia. He hadn’t had time to really think about much else. All he knew was that Pheonyx had offered his blood to Carl without hesitation. That he had sat with Carl, held his hand, sang to him despite the fact he was unconscious. Hershel had saved his son’s life, but Pheonyx had nurtured his soul.  So, when Shane made snide comments about Pheonyx’s gender, alluding to him being born a girl, Rick was surprised. Not just because he had never heard such disgust in his best friend’s voice before but mostly because he hadn’t realized or cared. Hershel and Maggie both referred to Pheonyx with male-centric language. Stepson, brother, he, him. So that’s what he thought of him with. And his family would know better than anyone. It wasn’t up to him to police someone else’s identity. The vitriol in Shane’s words had made him sick. Pheonyx had helped save Carl’s life. Shane should at least have the decency to show him respect for that, no matter what his views on trans people were. 

Hershel looked him dead in the eye, his voice was stern, “I don’t care what your personal feelings are or what your personal beliefs may be. Everyone is allowed their own opinions. But you will reign in your people. Shane especially. My son has had to deal with too much in his life to have to deal with hate in his own home. If I hear another malevolent word from any of your people, I will have no qualms kicking you off my property. The boy can stay until he is healed, you and Lori as well, but all the others will have to leave.” 

Rick nodded without hesitation. “I understand. I’ll talk to them. Pheonyx helped save Carl’s life. I won’t tolerate anything but respect for him. You have my word.” 

There was a look of relief in Hershel’s eyes but he just jerked his head in acknowledgment before walking away. The words he spoke to the old man were true. It didn’t matter that Shane was his best friend. He would talk to him. He wouldn’t permit him to speak badly to or about Pheonyx. The younger man helped save his son. He owed him that much, if not more.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes- Chapter 12

Note: Sorry for the lateness. This is a bit more of an intense chapter, you get to see the full picture of Pheonyx's scars and also how it affects Daryl to see them. The after effects of Pheonyx's encounter with Shane are also intense. Both of our boys are dealing with a lot.

Spotify (Songs that remind me of Pheonyx, Pheonyx/Daryl, or just songs that I listen to while I'm writing.) Song: Coal by Dylan Gossett(If you're a fan of Noah Kahan I recommend checking out Dylan's music!)

Dividers: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours Banners: @liminal-creations

Chapter CW/TW: PTSD, Past rape/noncon, past child abuse/neglect, anxiety attack, physical description of abuse scars, intense transphobic internal monologue, vomiting

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The first time Pheonyx had an anxiety attack was the second week after he woke up in the hospital. It would have happened sooner but–up until that point–he was drugged to oblivion and catatonic between bouts of medication-induced slumber. When the doctors started weaning him off the pain meds, he became more aware of what was happening around him and it seemed like every emotion was multiplied to a thousand. He spent a week feeling numb and tired to suddenly being surrounded by lights and sounds that set every synapse in his brain on fire. 

Overall, he was able to keep his calm when feelings were flooding his system, but he broke down when he woke up on the 9th morning and Aaron wasn't there.  Despite the fact that Pheonyx spent the majority of the first week sleeping and staring at a wall, Aaron had stuck by his bedside faithfully. The only times he left were when Pheonyx was unconscious. Even then, it was only to go home, shower, and eat. The curly haired man even slept on the uncomfortable recliner in the corner of the hospital room. Pheonyx was still unsure why the man had chosen to stick by him. Aaron’s duty to him ended the second the ambulance had taken him away. But, according to his nurse, within ten minutes of arriving at the hospital’s ER, Aaron was in the waiting room using all the charm he had to try to get information on how Pheonyx was doing. 

So, when the presence of the man who saved Pheonyx's life–who protected him while he was at his weakest–was nowhere to be seen after a night full of nightmares, his strength shattered. Darkness pooled in the corners of his vision and suddenly every breath was like fighting a dragon that took up residence on his chest. The feeling only got worse when the heart monitor attached to him began to beep incessantly and a small alarm went off above his head. Within a few minutes, the room was suddenly filled with medical personnel. The nurses tried to calm him, talk him through the attack and it started to work, the deep breathing, but when the doctor grabbed his arm to try to administer a sedative, he found himself screaming. The hands, rough even under the rubbery feel of the gloves, felt too familiar. His skin crawled and he had to get away, trying desperately to stop history from repeating itself so soon. Aaron had probably heard his screaming from down the hall, because he ran into the room, face red and eyes frantically scanning the enclosed space. Still trying to avoid the syringe in the doctor's hand, Pheonyx's heart immediately slowed when he saw Aaron pushing past the nurses to get to his side. All that fear and pain finally came to a head and he cried for the first time since he was hurt. Aaron advocated for him when the doctor was insisting on pushing more drugs into his system, chewing them out for being so rough with someone who had been abused so badly only 9 days prior. 

The whole time, Pheonyx held Aaron's hand like it was a lifeline. Like he was floating out at sea, the anxiety and panic, a kraken trying to drag him by his legs under the surface, and the only thing holding his head above water was the warmth coming from the other man's smooth hands. He spent the next 2 hours gripping Aaron's fingers until the feeling of impending pain finally eased. 

Later, his therapist would call it codependency, the fact that he couldn't cope without the other man's presence as a buffer, but to Pheonyx it was comfort. He'd been hurt so many times in his life, and no one had stopped to help him. Not even his own mother. But this complete stranger had taken it upon himself to not only rescue Pheonyx physically from death, but also emotionally from the darkest depths of his mind. 

As time went on, Pheonyx managed to find his comfort in other things. Music, cooking, getting tattoos, reading. And when he found Kismet starving behind the dumpster of Zombie Ink, he found himself being the strength for something suffering from similar abuses. He still had flares of anxiety and panic when he was in large groups, especially around strangers, or when cis men pushed in a little too close to him. But it had been over 2 years since he had a full blown attack. All the progress was ripped open like a scarred wound when Shane had grabbed his arm. It brought up so many antique sorrows from the dusty depths of his mind. That lack of bodily autonomy and those memories of being broken were like a rattlesnake wrapping tight around his brain. Constantly slithering around his mind and coiling up, ready to strike at any moment. Ready to inject its venom of self hatred and consternation. It took 6 years of therapy to bash the snake to death but the ghost of the creature still ruled his thoughts sometimes.

Pheonyx used to have a rhythm for pulling himself out of that dark dimension. But it had been so long that he nearly hyperventilated before he was able to calm his breathing and work through the mental exercises his therapist recommended for him. The sun had completely disappeared from the sky by the time he felt his feet hit the ground again. The moon wasn't even over the trees yet though, so he hadn't been lost for long. By some miracle, no one had come out the front door, or looked over from their campfires on the other side of the main property. He loathed the idea of worrying his family, or having to explain his moment of weakness to one of Rick's group. 

Despite the evening of his heart rate, his stomach rebelled at the abuse his mind threw at him and bile slithered up his throat. Clutching his stomach, Pheonyx only had a moment to get to the side of the house, out of sight, before the meager contents of his stomach came out of his mouth. Having only eaten jerky and some toast earlier in the day, it was mostly acid. Pheonyx grimaced at the taste in his mouth and the burn in his throat. 

He wiped sweat from his forehead and used his booted foot to sweep some dirt over the small amount of vomit on the ground. He didn't want to waste water, or draw attention to himself, by turning on the hose to clean it up.  The grass crunched under his feet as he made his way to the stables, breaking through the sound of crickets and cicadas that rang through the evening air. Though he knew he would benefit from a shower, the water would be heaven on his tired muscles, and the stench of sweat, dirt, and walker blood emanating from his skin was probably horrible. But he knew he needed to go out tonight, taking a shower before getting dirty again just seemed wasteful. The traps needed to be refreshed with fresh offal, and he needed to make sure to burn any bodies that had wandered into the spikes. 

The sound of the porch door being pushed open made Pheonyx glance over his shoulder. Like a spotted ghost, Kismet shoved his way through the flimsy door and  tumbled down the wooden steps towards his owner. A large bully smile was wide on his face as he ran to catch up with Pheonyx. He almost tripped 3 times, his brain unable to fully control the massive paws underneath him. Pheonyx braced himself for impact, as he knew Kismet wouldn't be able to fully stop himself in time, and he was glad he did. The thick skull of his fur baby rammed into his knee and nearly toppled him over. 

"Jesus Christ!", Pheonyx grunted and placed his hand on the dog to settle him. "How have you not killed yourself yet? Or someone else for that matter?", he muttered under his breath. "Come on, bud. Let's feed the horses."

The duo made it to the stables in less than a minute. Kismet immediately left Pheonyx's side, while the man went to turn on the lanterns scattered around the barn, to greet all of the horses. Koda and Nellie, both chestnut quarter horses, stuck their noses down to nuzzle against the enthusiastic dog. Baker was an older roan quarter horse. His fur was based black with a dusting of white across, making him look like he'd rolled in flour. Even more gray covered his nose, indicating his age. Hershel had acquired him before Pheonyx was even born. 

Just like most old men, Baker was craggy and refused to give Kismet the time of day. He snorted and tossed his head when the pup made his way over. Kismet didn't let it phase him though, he hopped up and stole a kiss from the grumpy horse, who let out a whinny in protest. But he left him alone after that, moving to the last horse housed in the stables, Beauty. The beautiful quarter horse was entirely black aside from a white star on his forehead, just like his namesake, Black Beauty. 

Pheonyx watched as the stoic horse tossed his head in delight, his lips rolling up in a ridiculous smile at seeing Kismet making his way over. While Koda and Nellie simply put up with the over enthusiastic dog, and Baker hated the furry beast, Beauty enjoyed the pup's company. 

Turning his attention to the buckets in each stall, Pheonyx sent a thank you to the earth when he noticed the fresh water, hay, and the remains of feed in their individual buckets. Maggie must have taken care of the animals, knowing that he would be gone most of the day. He had no issues feeding the animals, it was pretty much routine after two months, but he was tired. And the idea of measuring feed and vitamins just made his brain feel like mush. Glancing at the analog clock (whose batteries had just been replaced recently) on the wall outside the tack room, Pheonyx sighed when he realized it was close to 10. He had to go out tonight but it was still too early to make his way to the woods. He could see some lights in the house from the stable door, and he didn't want to risk anyone finding out about his nightly routine. Not yet. Running a hand through his thick hair, Pheonyx contemplated the best move. He knew if he fell asleep now, he would be dead to the world for the next 8 hours. 

Deciding to kill some time, Pheonyx unclipped his weapons from his belt, taking care to place them on his cot, and stripped off his dirty tank top. He tossed it into the corner of the stall, making a mental note to wash it later. He grabbed some baby wipes from the same stall and began to wipe away some of the sweat and dirt from the day, grimacing at the black dirt streaked on the soft cloth. It would have to suffice until he was able to take a shower later. After discarding the wipes, he took a moment to run a hand over his flat chest, admiring the feeling that he dreamed of for so long. Underneath the raven wings spread across his collarbone and sternum, two mirrored crimson lines ran under his pectoral muscles, breaking for about an inch in between.  The scars from the surgery were still red and stark even against the tan of his skin. They were a bit raised, mostly from moving too much after surgery and not stretching the skin properly. But he couldn’t help the fact that the world ended while he was in recovery. He couldn’t exactly adhere to his surgeon’s post-surgery care instructions while battling dead people. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have worse scars on his body. At least these scars were ones he felt he could be proud of. Pheonyx ran his hands over the bumpy skin, massaging the tissue a bit, trying to help the nerves reconnect and soften the area like he read about. He did this for a few minutes before going to the tack room to grab some protein bars. His stomach was still rolling from throwing up earlier, but he knew he needed the energy. So, he scarfed down two bars that were labeled as chocolate peanut butter flavored but tasted like neither chocolate nor peanut butter. The burning in his belly calmed a bit, thankfully. Enjoying the air on his exposed chest, the burst of euphoria giving him some extra energy, Pheonyx pulled a haybale to the center of the stable aisle and laid a horse blanket on top to protect his butt from the itchy straw. 

Pheonyx went to the stall with his cot and opted to kick his shoes off, allowing his feet to breathe for a short while, the cool air feeling like heaven on his tired toes. He grabbed his guitar case from the corner and opened it up, pulling out the off brand acoustic that he had gotten at a garage sale for 5 bucks. Despite its nameless brand, the instrument was inlaid with beautiful flowers and dark wood that made it look expensive, almost hand made. Beth had been the one to pick up guitar first, at age 6, learning from an older lady at their church. In her excitement after each lesson, she would walk Pheonyx through everything she learned. With the 12 year difference between them, Pheonyx had always had a hard time connecting with the vivacious blonde. But music allowed him to bridge the gap that their age had brought between them. Video calls had given him the chance to keep up with her progress even when states separated them. He wouldn’t consider himself a guitar prodigy, he couldn’t read sheet music for shit, but he learned chords quickly and had an ear for replicating songs that he heard a few times. Overall, singing and playing were a distraction. Another piece in the complicated puzzle of his recovery. 

Pulling the strap over his shoulders, he relished in the cool feeling of the wood against his bare skin. Kismet got to his feet from his spot that he claimed in front of Beauty’s stall, stretching like a cat, and trotted over to plop himself down in front of the hay bale that Pheonyx was going to sit on. 

Pheonyx maneuvered himself onto the hay bale, tucking his legs in a criss cross pattern and placing the guitar in his lap. He strummed the strings experimentally, sending a thanks to the earth when the notes came out in-tune. The Georgia heat had a tendency to fuck with the wood but his case seemed to be doing a good job of stopping expansion despite the violent temperatures. 

Fingers moving in a practiced pattern against the frets, he tested out some chords, trying to think of what to play. 

“Any suggestions?,” he asked, looking around the stable at each of the animals. The only answers he received from the horses was a glare from Baker and a snort from Nellie. 

“You can request it as much as you want, Nell, but I’m not playing Wonderwall. I’m not that much of a douche.”

Kismet lifted his head from its spot on the cool concrete and gave a little awhoo, a mix between a howl and a whine. Although it wasn’t an actual spoken answer, Pheonyx gathered what the dog was asking for. 

“Dylan Gossett? I’m surprised you’re not sick of him yet. You worked hard today though so you get first pick.” 

The dog’s tail beat against the stable floor, as if he understood every word, before he laid his bulky head down onto his paws with a sigh.  

Calloused fingers moved onto the proper strings, the metal ribbed wire pinched the skin in a familiar pain. He shut his eyes and pictured the song in his head. The chords and the feelings flowing from his brain straight into his fingers. The soft music floated throughout the barn and he started to sing, letting his brain rest from the stress of the world and the demons in his mind. 

Daryl tossed on top of his sleeping bag for the upteenth time in the past hour. It was too hot. That’s what he kept telling himself. The sweat coating his body and the thick air was what was keeping him up. It wasn’t the green eyes that kept flashing in his mind. Or the thick brown hair. Or the colorful art that dotted tanned skin. He wasn’t thinking about how much of that skin was probably covered in tattoos. And he certainly wasn’t thinking about how that skin might feel underneath his fingers. Would it be soft? He felt like it would. Their hands had brushed only for a moment earlier and that small glimpse of sensation was softer than the flannel pillowcase he had for 13 years growing up. Originally a red plaid, the case had been washed so many times that the fabric was dulled to a light pink, and so thin that he could practically poke holes in it with just his fingers. He refused to throw it out though. It was soft and comforting when his life was all sharp edges and pain. During a drunken rage, his father had burned it. Just like every other good thing in his life. 

Sighing, Daryl flipped to his other side, too tired to process the implications of his obsessive ideas. He tried to clear his brain of all thoughts, only focusing on the intake and exhale of his breath. He needed to get some rest. He had gotten barely 2 hours of sleep the night before and if he was going to spend another day in the sweltering woods, he needed to relax. 

When the first whisper-soft notes of sound began to float around him, Daryl thought his mind was simply fucking with him. Playing music to an unknown song while he was trying desperately to sleep. The melody of cicadas and crickets began to blend with the soft notes and Daryl opened his eyes, nose scrunching in confusion. Everyone else was bunked down for the night, aside from Andrea who had the first watch shift. He knew that because he heard the concurrent “good night”s and the accompanying sound of tents being unzipped and zipped again. He’d kept a mental tally. Dale was the first to announce his departure, including Carol in the plans as well since they were both sleeping in the RV. Glenn and T-Dog were next. Then, Shane had kicked dirt over the fire before heading to his own tent. Rick and Lori were sleeping in the same room with Carl. None of the group had music players, and radio was a thing of the past. While the notes were quiet and dampened by the walls of his tent, he didn’t think it was coming from the farmhouse, it wasn’t muted enough for that. The only other sound was the occasional rustle of sleeping bags from the tents in the distance, as Daryl had made sure to set his tent up a fair length away from the main camp. No one else seemed to be disturbed by the sound, which wasn't entirely surprising, the music was barely audible. He doubted any of the people in the group had the heightened sense of situational awareness to hear it. 

Grunting in exasperation, at the weakness of his group members and the fact he wasn't getting sleep anytime soon, Daryl lifted himself up into a sitting position. He wiped a dirty hand over his short hair. The oldest sister, Maggie, stopped him after he was done talking to Carol earlier. She didn't say much, just offered their bathroom up to him so he could shower, with hot water surprisingly.  The idea sounded amazing. He'd taken a brief one at the CDC but all the running and searching made that cleanliness a distant memory. But the idea of stepping into that farmhouse made him nauseous. The idea of tainting the purity of the pristine house with his dirty soul was sickening. He'd take a dip in the creek tomorrow sometime. That's the only place he felt a dirty Dixon like him deserved. Instead of answering, he'd simply grunted a thanks and walked away. He was regretting it now though, the dried sweat and dirt made his skin itch a bit as he crawled out of his tent into the humid air, making sure to grab his bow. Fresh sweat began to pebble on his skin, starting the cycle all over again. Looking around, the only movement he could see was Andrea on the roof of the RV, her head doing a back and forth sweep with a pair of binoculars, checking the fields for signs of walkers. Even the farmhouse was still. The only sign of life was a small oil lantern flickering in one of the second floor windows. Gripping his crossbow tightly, his palms sweaty against the smooth surface of the stock, Daryl started to follow the music. 

Grass crunched under his booted feet as he made his way out of their makeshift camp and got closer to the farmhouse. As he passed the covered porch, the music grew in volume, still barely audible. He walked slowly around the house and stopped when he found the source of the sound. A distance off, soft lantern light poured out of a set of rolling doors on a long building that was much newer than the other structures on the farm. Several small paddocks and water troughs surrounded it leading him to believe it was a stable or barn of sorts. 

Realizing one of the Greenes must be listening to music in the barn, he loosened his tight grip on the bow. The noise was barely noticeable, especially over the summer song of crickets and nightly breeze, so the likelihood of any walkers being drawn towards the farm were slim. As the distance between his feet and the barn decreased, a voice began to become understandable through the lulling chords of guitar strings. 

"-I still keep it with me

Tucked under all the memories

Your voice echoing throughout those trees…”

The song itself sounded folkish with a hint of country quality, a mix of husky voice and rural twang. Daryl was more of an old rock fan, his limited musical library consisting of AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, and Led Zeppelin. That was the typical type of music that played in any of the garages he would work at while Merle was doing stints in whatever prison or court mandated rehab. So, he’d learned to prefer it. But Merle was a fan of old country music, so he did often listen to George Strait, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Dolly Parton. Of course, Merle insisted he only listened to Dolly because she had a good rack but he had seen the older man shed a tear while listening to “Down from Dover”. The song playing had many of the old country-esque qualities that he was familiar with, although the lyrics themselves were a mystery to him. 

“And through unfavorable weather

And holes in the leather

These boots still covered in tar

Well I'm still praying to the heavens

And hoping for them sevens

But hope only gets a man so far…” 

When he was in front of the open stable doors, the heavy scent of hay and horses indicating that the structure was indeed a horse stable, he realized it wasn’t a radio he was hearing, but the dulcet sound of someone singing and playing the guitar. There were 3 lit lanterns spread throughout the aisle, casting shadows and yellow light throughout the space. It took a moment for Daryl’s eyes to adjust to the brightness and the unfamiliar surroundings. His sight was immediately drawn to the figure in the center of the building. Pheonyx was sitting on top of a covered hay bale, calloused fingers expertly plucking and strumming a beautiful dark wood guitar. His head was turned down, focusing on the strings so Daryl couldn’t see the movement of his lips but he watched as the man’s shoulders moved along with every word and how he moved slightly side-to-side with the rhythm of the music. 

“When this game of life plays heavy on my heart and–

Love is tough and loneliness is twice as hard and–

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell am I still coal?…”

Pheonyx's voice was like the campfire from the 4th of July when Daryl was eleven. The comforting tone was like the heat from the flames, surrounding his shoulders and wrapping his body tight. It wasn’t deep, but still husky and dark like the smoke that wafted up into that humid summer night, staining his tattered clothes with a familiar soothing scent. Occasional broken notes were reminiscent of the crackling fire, the popping and hissing of its own song. Despite the roughness of Pheonyx’s voice, it was still soft like the marshmallows that Merle stole from the local Piggly Wiggly. Daryl had stolen the chocolate to pair with the sweet cloudy treat, but neither could fit any graham crackers under their shirts. So, they used their pocket knives to cut holes in the marshmallows, put a piece of chocolate inside, and then roast it over the flame. The outsides of the sugary pillows were charred to hell, and the chocolate barely room temp inside, but it was still perfect. Just like that memory. 2 days later, Merle left for basic training and ultimately left Daryl alone with their abusive father.  Despite that, that 4th was one he looked back on with fondness. It was perfect but also imperfect. Just like Pheonyx’s voice. It wasn't the flawless heavily edited voices that he heard playing on the radio before the turn. It was imperfect and that made it perfect. 

“I've seen heaven without dying

Met the devil without trying and they both seem to wanna talk to me

But I'm all outta luck now and my dreams aren't worth a buck now

It's tough tryna land on my feet…” 

Daryl watched the shadows dance across the younger man’s shoulders as the song picked up in intensity, muscles in his arms clenching and unclenching with every movement. He watched Medusa’s snakes on his shoulder dance with the rhythm of the song, as the tissue and sinew kept up with every note. Eyes trailing up over the smooth skin of his shoulder, he reached the man’s collarbones when his body became acutely aware that Pheonyx wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just as the thought entered his mind, which effectively became foggy, Pheonyx leaned back a bit, lifting his head and giving Daryl a full glimpse of the tattoo imprinted on the man’s chest. Much like the style of the other pieces on his body, a gothic style raven was spread across the hard form of the man’s collarbones. Wings spread in flight, the raven looked like it was decaying, feathers were falling from its open wings and bone could be seen poking through torn skin over the expanse of the bird's body. Mouth drying, Daryl wondered what it would be like to trail his fingers over the skin there. Would it be a beautiful juxtaposition of hardness and softness, the velvety derma laying over dense ossein?

“When this game of life plays heavy on my heart and

Love is tough but loneliness is twice as hard and

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell am I still coal?...”

Before his thoughts could enter even more of a dangerous territory, Daryl was distracted by the little bit of movement that he caught at the corner of his eye. He was sure Pheonyx hadn’t noticed his presence, but the animals in the barn did. The large eyes of 4 horses were drawn to him, but they showed no outward reaction to his existence. In fact, he swore he saw them moving their heads to the rhythm a small bit. Except for the gray horse, he just glared at the archer and flipped his head at him. At Pheonyx’s feet, Kismet had raised his head and was smiling at Daryl. He didn’t get up from his position on the floor but the dog’s tail started to thump faster against the ground. Chocolate brown eyes looked at him in happiness and Daryl would be lying if he said it didn’t make his chest ache a bit. 

The song sped up even more and Pheonyx sat up a bit straighter, exposing more of his torso from behind the guitar. Daryl looked away from the happy dog and his eyes were pulled into the long red scars that ran across Pheonyx’s chest. His heart began to race, mind wandering to all the possible causes for the imperfections. 

“And everyday it's getting colder

Since that day in October

When you told me it was over, so I left

So if you need me, well I told you

I'm on the better side of sober

Tryna find a four-leaf clover to get me out of this mess

This game of life plays heavy on my heart and

Love is tough but loneliness is twice as hard and

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell–”

It took a moment of confusing internal panic for Daryl to figure out the scars, running directly under the raven and parallel to its wings, were from some kind of surgery. Recently, if he had to guess. The scars were still bright and almost angry looking compared to the surrounding skin. Almost imperceptible, evenly spaced dots ran on either side of the angry skin, imprints of stitches long gone. The same dots ran in a circle around his nipples, which almost looked a bit scabbed. 

The voice of his father rang through in his mind, Fuckin’ bitch thinks cuttin’ ‘er tits off will make ‘er a man? Ain’t gonna change the cunt between ‘er legs. Always knew ya were a fuckin’ faggot. Look at ya, boy. Lustin’ after some psycho tranny. Prolly the only pussy ya could ever get. 

Daryl physically shook his head, pushing out the remnants of his father’s hate. The man was dead but still haunted his son’s thoughts. That smoke-roughened voice was ingrained harder in his body than the scars on his back. 

“This game of life plays heavy on my heart and

Love is tough but loneliness is twice as hard and

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell am I still coal?” 

As the last note vibrated through the strings of the guitar, silence enveloped the wide space. Behind him, Daryl noted the sound of crickets increasing, the music no longer drowning them out. Aside from the insects, the only sounds that broke through the space was the slight shuffling of horse hooves and low panting from Kismet. 

“5 bucks to request a song.”, Pheonyx’s voice, slightly scratchy from singing, brought Daryl’s mind back into focus. Despite the archer’s earlier thoughts, Pheonyx knew he had an audience. After spending a full day walking side-by-side with the other man, the sound of Daryl’s soft steps was easily imprinted in his mind. So, he’d heard him the second the man’s boots came within a few feet of the stable. 

Blood rushed to Daryl’s face as he realized he was caught gawking. Embarrassment–and the remnants of his father’s words–sparked a small amount of anger in his chest. “All yer caterwaulin’s gonna bring a herd down on us. The fuck ya think yer doin?”, he snapped, taking a few steps into the stable, “This ain’t fuckin’ American Idol or some shit.”

“No, it’s definitely not. You’re much cuter than Simon Cowell.”, Pheonyx quipped, raising an eyebrow. Men raising their voices was typically an anxiety inducer for him, but something about Daryl’s demeanor made the other man feel more like a hissing kitten as opposed to a feral mountain lion. 

Shocked at Pheonyx’s words, Daryl didn’t know how to respond. Was he joking? Daryl Dixon wasn’t cute. He was an ugly old redneck. No one had ever called him cute before. 

At Daryl’s widened eyes, Pheonyx stood up, and placed the guitar down on the hay bale where he had been sitting. Kismet raised his head and looked between the two of them before huffing and lowering his head to his paws. Within a few seconds, soft snores filled some of the silence. Slightly scared to hear the other man’s response to his flirting, Pheonyx opted to continue. “You don’t have to worry though. The windchimes in the woods help dilute the sounds from the farm. As long as I don’t decide to take up the electric guitar, we’re as safe as we can be.” 

“Still shouldn’ be takin’ any chances,” Daryl grumbled, his eyes narrowed. He briefly glanced down, taking in the full view of Pheonyx’s torso. Under the scars on his right side, a quote was scrawled across his ribs, although Daryl wasn’t close enough to see exactly what it said. On the opposite side, in a fancy cursive font that was larger than the quote’s, was a girl’s name. Daryl didn’t understand the weird rolling in his stomach at the idea of someone else’s name being on Pheonyx’s skin. It wasn’t something he’d ever felt before and he pulled his stare away, hoping to unpack the feeling at a different time. Drifting down, a quarter sized round scar was prominent on the younger man’s stomach. It wasn’t as new as the ones on his chest. This one was older, and less smooth. The scar was brown and sunken into the surrounding skin, almost as if something gouged the flesh out. Almost unnoticeable on his pale skin, several pale jagged lines circled Pheonyx’s belly button, not scars, but stretch marks. They were very light, and Daryl only saw them because the lantern light was hitting the area just right. Those lines led under low slung jeans and Daryl had to stop himself from thinking about what else those jeans were covering. 

“Probably not, but sometimes you have to weigh risk and reward. What is the point of living anymore if you can’t do the small things that make you happy?”, Pheonyx crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t do it much, just needed to let off some steam.” He took in the bedraggled appearance of the other man. Daryl was still wearing the same clothes from earlier but now they looked wrinkled, more wrinkled than before. Short hair was sticking up on the back of his head and he had a look on his face that reminded Pheonyx of Beth when she woke up from her naps as a baby. "Can't sleep?"

The deep grunt from Daryl’s chest was almost a guffaw.  "Was tryin. Heard ya singin. Thought maybe someone left a music player on or somethin’,” He looked at Pheonyx and a wave of shyness came over him. The slight upturn of the other man’s lip was making the moths in his stomach beat against his intestines with the strength of a CAT bulldozer. He had roasted up a squirrel before heading to bed, the meat probably hadn’t sat well with him. Gripping the crossbow strap on his shoulder, he brought his thumb up to his mouth to chew on the corner of his nail. “Yer pretty good”. The words were spoken softly. He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted Pheonyx to hear him. 

Surprised at the compliment, a small squeak escaped Pheonyx’s chest. He covered it quickly with a cough and rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks," He ducked his head as blood rushed to the surface of his skin, heating up his already warmed body. 

Daryl gulped as he watched a red pigment pop up over Pheonyx’s cheeks and slowly spread down his neck, to his chest, to his stomach, and past the waist of his jeans. The only response he could muster was a grunt as he tried not to think about how his own blood was making a similar southward journey. Although this was probably for a much different reason. Daryl averted his eyes to the floor of the stable, suddenly fascinated by a small piece of dried mud that oddly resembled the state of Florida. 

To hide his embarrassment, Pheonyx wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. “So, um- I figured we'd pick up where we left off tomorrow. Sophia seems to be sticking close to the creek. There are a few landmarks along there she could be holed up at-”.

Without thinking, Pheonyx turned around, going to grab one of the three unopened water bottles sitting on the table outside of the tack room. His mouth was suddenly dry so he opened the bottle and took a few hefty swallows to remove the cottony film that had slowly spread over his taste buds. 

At first, Daryl didn’t see them. All he saw was more ink spread across broad shoulders. It was easily the most eye-catching tattoo that he had seen on the man so far. An amalgamated blend of dark reds, deep purples, fiery oranges, and bright yellows in almost paint-like strokes created an image of a phoenix in flight. Both wings reached up towards Pheonyx’s shoulder, the feathered ends were ragged flames that almost seemed to be in perpetual motion. Smoke and ash circled its feet and followed in a cloud behind its body, a nest of history and rebirth. A death left behind.  Small black eyes were galvanizing against the backdrop of smoldering colors. Those little dots told a whole story in and of themselves. The expanse of inked skin was an enchanting piece of artwork that practically flew off the surface it was needled into. 

It was only when Pheonyx lifted his arm to bring a bottle of water to his lips, did the lantern light accentuate the skin that Daryl thought was smooth only moments before. Instead of even flesh, heavy scarring marked almost every inch of skin along his whole back. The type of scarring Daryl was all too familiar with. Long, deep lashes broke the surface of the area. Only slightly thinner than his own. Whip marks. Dozens of them. More than Merle and he had combined. Littered between each mark of rancor were round, sharply-demarcated cigarette burns. Less than the whip marks but still a dozen at least. Daryl had to force down the squirrel that threatened to make a return appearance. Those memories from moments ago–happy memories of campfires, charred redneck s’mores, and brotherly bonding–were quickly replaced by nightmarish flashes of subjugation and brutalization. Red stained leather repeatedly falling down on his back, breaking open the soft skin of his boyhood and replacing it with the tougher, thicker skin of his adulthood. Each lash another brick on the wall he kept around his heart, a testament to his distrust and solitude. He needed to leave. The muscles in his legs were twitching. His brain was sending the signals to his feet to run but they weren't listening. It was like sirens were going off in his head and he was right back at that dirty old trailer, hiding in his tiny closet. Praying to a God his mother had so fiercely believed in. 

To think that Pheonyx had felt something similar, more if the amount of scarring was anything to go by, made him sick. He had to get away. Get away from the reminder of the weakest points of his life. 

Pheonyx turned around, placing the bottle cap back on his water, and stopped his rambling at the ghost standing in the entrance of the stable. Daryl’s bronzed skin was suddenly cadaverous, the blush that had been there moments before was completely bleached from his body. Sweat shined on his forehead and the whites of his eyes were nearly imperceptible against the pallid color of the surrounding flesh. Blue eyes latched on to him and he was nearly floored by the amount of emotion rolling off of them. While something wiggled in his brain that told him he was wrong, Pheonyx identified the emotion as disgust. The way Daryl’s eyebrows pushed together and his mouth pushed into a thin line, made the revulsion evident. He felt a surge of panic when he realized what caused this sudden change in the man across from him. His back. He hadn’t even thought about it. Growing up, he tried not to be ashamed of the scars but it was hard not to be. For so long he had to hide them, from his mother, then from his siblings. His mother wrote notes so he didn’t have to change in the locker rooms at school, ashamed of what his peers would say about their family. When he left Georgia, he made the ultimate decision to leave his hatred for the marks behind as well. The back tattoo had been his ultimate fuck-you to his father’s abuse. The tattoo artist he worked with specialized in scarring, and even used some of the scars to create the lines and color of the fiery bird, incorporating pieces of a broken childhood into a beautiful picture of reclaiming. But that familiar feeling of embarrassment and mortification slipped back into his heart at the look of repugnance on Daryl's face. Feelings that he swore he would never feel again. 

Before Pheonyx could utter a word, Daryl whirled around and disappeared into the darkness of the night. A bubble of sorrow traveled up his throat and the familiar sting of tears began to fog up his vision. He scrubbed his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding his water bottle, refusing to let those little beads of weakness roll down his face. That feeling of sadness was quickly replaced with anger. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? He’s just a guy. I haven’t even known him for a full day. His feelings shouldn’t determine my self worth!, His internal monologue screamed. He was a fighter. He had been broken so many times. Beaten into dust. But he fixed himself. For years, he sat and glued those pieces of himself back into place, replacing the destroyed one with new pieces, learning to live with the holes of ones he couldn’t fix. But he was whole. And he did that. He wasn’t going to let some guy destroy his very essence. In anger, Pheonyx tossed the water bottle at the tack room wall. The plastic caved easily and a spray of water spread over the cement floor. The horses all jumped back in shock, their hooves clipping on their stall floors. 

Having heard the sudden movement of Daryl’s escape and Pheonyx’s outburst, Kismet looked at Pheonyx with worry. He lifted himself off the ground and trotted over to his owner. He pressed himself up against the man’s legs and nudged his head up against calloused fingers. A low whine escaped his barrel chest, a vocalization of his concern. 

Guilt ate at Pheonyx’s chest. He hated scaring the animals. “Sorry, guys.”, he spoke softly to them all, trying to calm himself. 

He thought Daryl was different. Earlier that day–when the man had accepted his identity without any protests or questions– Pheonyx felt like he might have found someone he could connect with. If not on a romantic level, at least as a friend. But he was wrong. The look of horror on the man's face as he backed out of the barn had that familiar feeling of shame filling his stomach. The scars that laced his back like a patchwork quilt of heartbreak and abandonment. Each piece was a square of fabric that told its own story. Daryl was the same as everyone else, seeing only the scars on the surface and judging him for them. 

“Fuck it.”, He refused to sit there and wallow in self-hate. Pheonyx walked with purpose to his stall, grabbing his bag of clothes and digging deep until he found an old clean band t-shirt. He pulled the soft fabric over his head, covering the objects of his discomfiture. Snatching up his cutlass and hunting knife, he quickly hooked the weapons to his belt, the weights of them a blanket of comfort across his skin. Opting to leave his Glock behind, he looked around for his bow and quiver that he had given to Maggie to put up. Both of them were leaned up against the small table by his bed, and he grabbed them. Feeling a bit of an evening breeze, Pheonyx also grabbed his jean jacket. The light blue denim was soft from years of wear and the sewn in red hood made for good protection whenever the Georgia skies opened up.  He shrugged on the jacket, making sure the hood wasn’t tucked inside. Movement was slightly limited with the material but it was better to have his arms covered since he was going out alone.

Pulling the quiver over his shoulders, he gripped the bow in his hand, some anger still running through his veins. He shut off all but one of the lanterns in the stable and made to leave. The clicking of familiar nails on the cement floor made him turn around to the big dog following him. 

“Go to the house, Kismet. You can’t go. You know that.”, another soft whine rumbled through the dog’s chest and Pheonyx felt guilt crawl in his stomach. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’ll be okay. Go on. Go to bed.” He used the bow to point toward the house.

Sad chocolate eyes stared at the man for a moment. Then, Kismet huffed and started trotting towards the farmhouse. 

Rolling his shoulders, Pheonyx pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He walked until he reached the edge of the woods and stepped over the barb wire that encased the wood line. Just like every other night, he pushed into the gloaming of the night and chased after shadows. 

Taglist: @yoongibaybee, @edgyboi10000, @dixonsboy19, @clairealeehelsing

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes- Chapter 5

Notes: Daryl and Pheonyx finally see each other! They don’t talk yet, not until after Daryl’s POV which is next chapter. I really needed to go in depth with their first sights of each other before moving to their interactions. I’m super excited for Daryl’s POV. There’s lots of denial and internal homophobia but it also will give you an idea of Daryl as a person(At least how I view him as). Also, in regards to Pheonyx’s descriptions of himself and how parts of himself cause him to be misgendered, this is just how it has been for me in the past. Flaired hips and stuff like that are not an indicator for Gender!! But unfortunately things like that are how people “decide” what gender to label people as usually. It’s in now way right, but it’s how I as a trans person have to look at myself in order to try to be properly gendered with strangers. 

Taglist: @yoongibaybee​

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours 

Banner by: @liminal-creations​ 

Chapter CW/TW: PTSD, anxiety, self-doubt, internal transphobia, mentions of past abuse/trauma, internal homophobia/biphobia 

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The night was long and Pheonyx was tired. He barely slept most nights anyways, but the stress was what was draining him the most. That and the 2 units of blood he donated the day before.  He was worried about Carl. Although the boy was doing better since his surgery, the risk of infection and complications were still prevalent. Especially considering there was no access to modern medical amenities. He was worried about the Shadows reaching the farm. With the weakness from donating so much blood and the constant anxiety coursing through his veins, going out to clear the woods and traps would have been suicide. He was worried about all the new people coming to the farm. The four men already set him on edge. Lori wasn’t a problem. Women rarely made his fight-or-flight response trigger. Outwardly, the men seemed nice, especially Rick and Glenn, but that didn’t mean anything. The darkest demons always had the bright faces of angels. The one who really worried him was Shane. After informing him of Carl’s successful surgery, Rick had given him the condensed version of what happened at the FEMA center when he walked in the house at sunrise. He said Otis told Shane to run, that he would provide cover, but the shadows had gotten him. Pheonyx knew it was a crock of shit though.  Otis was definitely the type to sacrifice himself to save a boy’s life, but Shane came back with Otis’s gun, he had seen it laid on the counter in the house. How did the older man lay cover fire without his weapon? Shane was lying about something. Pheonyx kept his theories to himself, though. He knew if he told Hershel, his stepfather  would insist on kicking all the new people out. Despite his anxiety with the strangers, his conscience couldn’t handle being the catalyst to throw out a group of people into the world as it was. It would be a death sentence.

He was worried about the little girl that was missing. Those woods were his home and he knew them better than anyone else in the family. Which means he knew how dangerous they could be. A scared little girl running around with no known survival experience? With shadows wandering around waiting to eat any living thing that crosses their path? Her likelihood of survival was small.  If he hadn’t needed to stick around to provide blood for Carl, he would have spent the night searching for her. He wanted to leave at first light, but Rick insisted he wait until the rest of the group got to the farm. Apparently they had a proficient tracker in their group, and the sheriff wanted both of them–and Kismet– to lead the search for the girl. It made sense but that didn’t keep Pheonyx’s skin from itching with the need to leave before more bodies invaded the farm.

His issues with strangers stemmed from many different things. When he was younger, after his mother had removed him from his abusive father’s clutches, he avoided new people like the plague. How could he trust anyone when the person he was supposed to trust most in the world had torn his body and mind apart? It took years for him to open up to anyone outside his family. All the progress he made, in regards to his fear of strangers, was destroyed when he turned 22 and ended up in the hospital, clinging to life and broken inside. 6 years later, even after leaving Georgia and seeking counseling, he hadn’t shaken the fear that coursed through his veins when he had to interact with new people. It wasn’t social anxiety. It was fear of being hurt. Fear of being outed. Fear of someone finding out he was trans and hurting him again. Fear of the invisible dirt that still clung to his skin sometimes. Fear of being used and being helpless. Fear of being destroyed. The world falling apart didn’t help matters. He was even more fearful of other survivors. The will to survive was a powerful motivator and good people rarely made it out on top. People who were willing to destroy, pillage, and hurt were the ones who lived.

Despite his fear, Pheonyx was currently leaning on the railing of the front porch as he waited for the other members of the group to arrive. His eyes were focused on the dirt road that led to the house. Sweat was already forming on his brow, a sign that the day was going to be sweltering. Pheonyx opted to dress coolly, a simple pair of men’s jeans–that were frayed and dirty at the knees from his frequent hunting trips– and a gray tank top. The tank top was for comfort but also to make himself look more masculine to the newcomers. Being misgendered was a huge fear of his. This was rural Georgia, the reactions of people figuring out his gender could be violent. So, he wanted to appear as “manly” as he could. Pheonyx was lean and he couldn’t help the flair of his hips that was often deemed “feminine”. The softness to his jaw and the roundness of his backside were also causes of his being misgendered. But the tank top allowed his muscled arms–covered in intricate art– to be exposed. Farm work and bow-hunting had shaped his tanned biceps perfectly. They weren’t massive but watching the muscles flex and the tattoos on his arm move was very affirming. The flatness of his chest also helped his gender euphoria. He needed the edge of that euphoria to get through this meeting. Along with the masculine clothing, he adorned himself with his weapons. He had his bow and quiver slung across his shoulder. The heavy weight of the cutlass and Glock on his hips provided him a small amount of comfort in the moment. He also had a hunting knife sheathed next to the gun.

Pheonyx wasn’t the only one waiting for the others. While Rick, Lori, and Hershel were inside with Carl, everyone else was outside in the front yard. Glenn and T-Dog were conversing quietly but everyone from the Greene farm was quiet. Most were still in shock over the loss of Otis. He did catch Maggie sending careful glances over to the young Asian man and had to stop himself from smiling a bit. Unlike Shawn, Pheonyx wasn’t the overprotective big brother. He encouraged his sister to date and form connections. Which was slightly hypocritical considering he avoided dating and relationships like the plague. He lied to Maggie about going on dates. He didn’t want her to worry about him, but the pain from 6 years ago still had a deep grip on his heart. And he couldn’t bring himself to trust anyone. He had hookups, only with women, never cis men. But even those were few and far between. Love was something Pheonyx wanted, but the initial hurdle of letting someone behind his barriers was the problem.

Kismet–who had been snoring on the porch next to Pheonyx– was the first to hear the caravan of vehicles. Ears perked, he leapt to his feet and his tail began to wag. Despite the plethora of scars from abuse on his speckled body, the pup loved people. Training him to guard had been a bitch. Anytime Pheonyx had Jimmy attempt to attack him, Kismet had jumped into the fray, thinking it was a cuddle game. Eventually the training had set in, but the dog was still entirely too trusting. While he was happy his dog had recovered from the mental scars he’d endured as a puppy, Pheonyx still worried that his love for people might get him hurt one day. He realized he was projecting his own anxieties on the dog but he couldn’t help but worry.

The loud rumble of a motorcycle drowned out the noise of the other vehicles, a large RV and a silver sedan. T-Dog made his way inside to let Rick, Lori, and Hershel know that the rest of the group had arrived. Pheonyx straightened, body tensing, as he watched the vehicles approach. His eyes were drawn to the motorcycle leading the group through the gates near the house. Even at that distance, his green eyes connected with ones the color of the Georgia sky.

The vehicles all parked and the man on the motorcycle stopped closest to the house. Pheonyx nearly tripped coming down the porch steps as he got a good look at the rider dismounting the bike. The man looked like he hadn’t showered in awhile and his gaze had a hard edge to it, but he was still the hottest man Pheonyx had ever seen. He was definitely older than Pheonyx’s 28yrs, with a few crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Short brown hair, perfectly tousled, surrounded a sharp face. Light stubble lined his jaw and his goatee framed soft-looking, pink lips. There were a few gray hairs speckled through the facial hair.  A small mole at the corner of his upper lips stood out from the light hair surrounding it. Dragging his gaze from the man’s face, his eyes settled on the man’s arms. The sleeves of his plaid shirt had been ripped off, and Pheonyx wanted to thank whatever god there was for that. It should be a sin to cover up arms that look that good. Dirt and sweat helped highlight every ridge and bulge of the firm muscles. They weren’t the kind of muscles that one gained by lifting weights for hours in a gym, these had been formed by hard work and real life strain. The man’s clothes weren’t form-fitting but Pheonyx could still see he was toned all over. Before that moment, Pheonyx had questioned if he was really bisexual. He wondered if his attraction to men was more jealousy, wanting to be them, as opposed to wanting them romantically or sexually. This man answered that question. He was definitely attracted to men. This man in particular. The man grabbed a crossbow from the back of his motorcycle and held it in his rough-looking hands. Masculine energy absolutely poured off of him  and Pheonyx wanted to be on the receiving end of that energy. He wanted the man to press him up against–

Pheonyx nearly jumped out of his skin when Maggie touched his shoulder. She had moved to his side at some point. “I think I found your dark, mysterious archer.”, she whispered in her brother’s ear with a small smile. “Close your mouth, Nyx. You’re practically drooling.”

Pheonyx shut his mouth, his face turning a bright red, and used the back of his hand to check that he didn’t actually have any drool on his face. The man’s eyes had drifted from his when he was dismounting the bike, but they met his again. Pheonyx’s heart, that had been racing from anxiety about the new people, was now racing for a different reason. Heat flushed his whole body and a light throbbing began between his legs. Shame filled his heart and he averted his own eyes from the blue ones that captivated him.

What am I thinking? There’s a little girl missing, Otis is dead, and there are dead people walking around. Now is not the time to be lusting after a guy who is most likely straight, Pheonyx thought. A darker voice, one that he always dreaded hearing, pushed to the forefront of his mind. Even if he wasn’t, why would he want to be with someone like you? You’re just pretending to be a man, just like those demons said–

The dark memories tried to push their way into his head, but he pushed them to the back of his mind. He was drawn from his thoughts when Kismet whined at his side, the dog was practically crawling out of his skin with need to go meet the new people. Pheonyx snapped his fingers to make the dog sit. He wasn’t sure if the people would want a 70lb dog rubbing all over them first thing. Besides the incredibly hot man, there was an older man adorned in a Hawaiian shirt and a bucket fishing hat, a woman with short gray hair, and a younger woman with longer blonde hair. The older man radiated energy that reminded Pheonyx of his Grandpops. That man didn’t have a mean bone in his body and his soul was much too good for the world. The woman with the short gray hair held her arms around her body, as if holding herself together, and he guessed this was the missing girl’s mother. Her eyes glinted with sadness but she held her head high. The younger blonde woman was a bit harder to read but she held her back rigid, trying to appear taller than she was. Pheonyx knew that she was avoiding some kind of pain, putting up a facade of strength.

Lori and Rick came out of the house, Hershel and T-Dog following behind them. The parents were much more relaxed today, and the color had returned to both of their faces. Although, Rick was still a bit pale from donating blood. Approaching the couple first, the man in the fishing hat had a look of concern on his face.

“How is he?”, he addressed Rick.

“He’ll pull through.” Lori smiled lightly and her arm brushed her husband’s, “Thanks to Hershel and his people.”, she looked at each of the Greene family, her eyes stopping on Pheonyx’s form. Gratitude poured from her hazel orbs.

“And Shane”, Rick cut in. “We’d have lost Carl if not for him.”

Everyone looked at the man hanging in the back. His black curls were gone now, shaved to the scalp after he returned with the supplies for Carl. Clothes much too big for his frame hung from him like a blanket. Patricia had obviously loaned some of Otis’s clothes to him, and a roll of anger filled Pheonyx’s stomach. Everyone sent nods and looks of appreciation to the man. Everyone except Pheonyx, of course. He knew the truth. Or suspected it, at least.

“We owe a lot to Pheonyx too. He donated blood. Gave Carl time until Shane could get back with the supplies.”, Rick continued and looked at him. Just like his wife, the sheriff’s eyes leaked waves of thanks.

All eyes turned to Pheonyx, including a pair of icy blue ones, and he had to stop from physically recoiling. He kept his eyes downcast and busied himself with scratching Kismet’s head. The dog was still shaking with excitement and appreciated the touch. Maggie reached out and placed a comforting hand on his back, noticing her brother’s anxiety.

From there, hugs of relief were exchanged in the group. Pheonyx released Kismet from his sit command and warned him not to jump on people. The pup went up to each of the new people, butting their legs with his blocky head in greeting. Smiles lit up dirty faces and Pheonyx felt a sense of pride, knowing that his dog could bring a bit of happiness to people who were experiencing a plethora of hardship. Kismet’s wiggly body went from the young blonde woman, to the woman with short gray hair, to the man in the fishing hat. Each one of them gave him a head scratch and body pat. Lastly, the dog ended up in front of the man with the crossbow. Pheonyx tensed a bit. Yes, the man was incredibly hot. But he also was very gruff and had a hard edge to his energy. Pheonyx didn’t want him to be angered by a rambunctious dog. But his worry was for naught. The man wasn’t as open with his affection for the dog, but there was a whisper of a smile at the edges of his lips. He dropped one of his hands from his crossbow and let Kismet sniff the dirty digits. Taking it as an open invitation, the pup rubbed his head against the man’s large hand. Thick fingers deftly scratched behind his soft, floppy ears and a look of bliss filled Kismet’s chocolate brown eyes. Pheonyx couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous at the attention Kismet was getting from the man. He would kill to have those calloused fingers scratching behind his own ear.

“We’re about to have the service for Otis. If your people would like to attend, they’re welcome to.”, Hershel said to everyone before leading Beth, Jimmy, Patricia, and Maggie towards the copse of trees where they decided to place a marker for the deceased man. With the FEMA center being overrun, there was no chance of getting Otis's body back for a burial. So early that morning, Jimmy and Glenn had started a large rock pile as a memorial for the man who gave his life to save Carl’s.

Everyone gathered around the tribute. Choosing to stand a few feet away from the service, Pheonyx quietly told Kismet to sit and placed his hand on the dog’s head, more for his comfort than Kismet’s. The only sounds around them were the sniffling from Beth and Patricia, and the whistling of the trees as a light breeze blew through the farm.

Hershel pulled out his bible, the one his father had handed down to him, and began to recite some verses. Each person, even those from Rick’s group, took turns placing rocks onto Otis’s memorial. Pheonyx tuned it all out, choosing to stare out into the field, watching the tree line to make sure none of the dead snuck up on them. He was only brought back to reality when Hershel asked Shane to share Otis’s last moments. The man protested, panic filling his brown eyes. But Patricia pleaded with him, wanting him to reassure her that Otis’s death had meaning. Pheonyx had to hand it to the man, he did have a way with words. His voice was very reminiscent of a football coach, giving an inspirational speech before a homecoming game. Pheonyx knew he was lying though. He was too detailed. Focusing on small details too much. People who go through extreme trauma like that don’t remember the small details. He sounded like he was reading from a newspaper article. Feeling his anger rise, Pheonyx sneered and turned his head so no one could see his reaction.

Carl and Sophia, think of them. Pheonyx thought and took a deep breath. If Hershel finds out Shane is lying, he will throw the group off the farm.

The only thing he was grateful for was that Patricia was placated by Shane’s words. She was wiping her tears and smiling as Shane placed a rock on top of the pile. Hershel had everyone bow their head in a brief moment of silence for the deceased man. With everyone’s eyes averted, Pheonyx took that moment to step forward and grab a rock from the wheelbarrow. The dirt from it smeared on his hand. The weight of the rock symbolic of his grief, Pheonyx placed the stone on top of the memorial. Those few seconds were all he allowed himself to feel the pain from losing Otis. He didn’t have enough room in his heart for more and a sense of foreboding told him that this was only the first of a long line of deaths yet to come. 

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[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes Chapter 4

Note: Next chapter Daryl and Pheonyx see each other for the first time. Reviews and reblogs are appreciated! The song is Lost Boy by Ruth B

Dividers by:

@firefly-graphics

&

@omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations 

CW/TW: Anxiety, beginnings of anxiety attack, canon character death, PTSD symptoms. 

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After Maggie left, Hershel came in and told Pheonyx what was happening. Apparently Carl needed surgery, and Shane and Otis were heading to the FEMA center at the local high school to get the needed supplies. The one that was overrun with shadows. When the older man told him their plan, Pheonyx stood up so fast the chair he was in was knocked over. 

“What?!”, he exclaimed. “That place is a deathtrap! Otis has almost no experience with those things, Hershel! How long ago did they leave? Maybe I can catch up with them.”

Hershel sighed and placed a hand on Pheonyx’s shoulder to stop him from rushing out of the room, “I know, Nyx. But he needed to do this. He has the EMT experience so he knows what we need. The likelihood the boy survives surgery without the anesthesia and manual respirator is almost zero. And I need you to stay here, he’s going to need another transfusion in less than an hour. We have to have faith that Otis will make it back to us.”

Faith was something that Pheonyx lost many years ago. But he chose not to say that to Hershel. He hated that his stepfather was right, though. He couldn’t leave. Carl needed him. So, he just nodded and righted the chair that he tipped over. Sitting down, he leaned his elbows on his knees and placed his head into his hands. Hershel patted him on the back and left the two boys alone. 

The chances of Otis making it back were slim. While Pheonyx was never close with the farmhand, he had sworn to protect everyone that lived in the farmhouse. Stomach roiling with guilt and fear, he tried to clear his mind and took a deep breath. 

He grasped the young boy’s hand again, noting how much smaller it was compared to his own. “When I woke up in the hospital, I was pretty much catatonic for a while. Didn’t move or talk to anyone. But there was a nurse there, her name was Meredith, she would come in on her breaks and sing to me. It helped bring me out of the hole I was in. Now, I’m not the best singer in the world, the animals are the only ones I’ve sung for, but maybe it can help you too. If not, you won’t remember any of this so I won’t have to be embarrassed. That’s a bonus.”, a soft chuckle escaped his sun-chapped lips. He took a moment to try to think of an appropriate song to sing to an 11yr old boy. When he had one in mind, he began to sing, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“There was a time when I was alone

Nowhere to go and no place to call home

My only friend was the man in the Moon

And even, sometimes, he would go away, too

Then one night, as I closed my eyes

I saw a shadow flying high

He came to me with the sweetest smile

Told me he wanted to talk for a while

He said, "Peter Pan, that's what they call me

I promise that you'll never be lonely"

And ever since that day”

At some point, Kismet had nosed his way through the shut door, drawn by his owner’s voice. He padded into the room, and sat by Pheonyx’s side. A furry nose pressed into the man’s unoccupied hand.

“I am a Lost Boy from Neverland

Usually hanging out with Peter Pan

And when we're bored, we play in the woods

Always on the run from Captain Hook

"Run, run, Lost Boy", they say to me

"Away from all of reality"

Neverland is home to Lost Boys like me

And Lost Boys like me are free

Neverland is home to Lost Boys like me

And Lost Boys like me are free

He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe

Believe in him and believe in me

Together, we will fly away in a cloud of green

To your beautiful destiny

As we soared above the town that never loved me

I realized I finally had a family

Soon enough, we reached Neverland

Peacefully, my feet hit the sand

And ever since that day”

Occasionally, Pheonyx felt a twitch of the boy’s hand against his fingers. Just a whisper of a movement but it urged him to keep singing. 

“I am a Lost Boy from Neverland

Usually hanging out with Peter Pan

And when we're bored, we play in the woods

Always on the run from Captain Hook

"Run, run, Lost Boy", they say to me

"Away from all of reality"

Neverland is home to Lost Boys like me

And Lost Boys like me are free

Neverland is home to Lost Boys like me

And Lost Boys like me are free–”

A creak of the floorboards had both Kismet and Pheonyx whipping their heads to the doorway. Rick’s tall frame filled the entrance. His hat had been taken off at some point and a bit of color had popped back into his cheeks. Not much, but he no longer looked like he was about to pass out. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” his voice was still rough with tears and shock. The sheriff moved farther into the room, walking around the bed to reach his son’s other side. His hands were settled on his hips, thumbs hooked in the holster belt. “Lori used to read him Peter Pan before bed all the time. We got him so many books but he always wanted to read that one. He went as Peter for Halloween 3 years in a row.”

A small smile played over the man’s face as he stared down at his son, “He started crying at his 6th birthday party because he didn’t want to get older. Said that Peter wouldn’t let him be part of the Lost Boys if he did.” 

The smile on Rick’s face was contagious and Pheonyx felt his lips turning up as well. “Your son has good tastes. It was my favorite story growing up too. My first tattoo was actually a quote from the story.”

Rubbing a hand over his sweaty face, Rick reached down to hold his son’s other hand. His warm blue eyes lifted to look into the younger man’s green ones. “Thank you. I just– Thank you. For giving him blood. Sitting here with him. Talking to him. I can’t thank y’all enough.” 

Pheonyx shook his head. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s the right thing to do. Carl’s strong. I may not know him but I have a gut feeling. He’s going to make it through this.”, there was a brief moment of silence, “Maggie told me there is a little girl missing? I’d like to help find her if that’s okay? I spend every day in those woods and I’ve gotten pretty good at tracking over the past couple of months. I’ve also been working with Kismet on scent tracking. So, anyway we can help, let us know.”

Kismet’s ears perked at his name and he looked over at the sheriff, giving a small woof. Obviously, giving the man his qualifications for tracking. Pheonyx hushed the dog and patted his head. A look of relief filled Rick’s eyes as he processed what was said. 

“Yes please. Any help is appreciated. We have an experienced tracker in our group, Daryl, but we lost her trail earlier. We got held up by a herd yesterday, and Sophia ran into the woods, walkers on her tail. I managed to find her and hide her so I could lead the walkers away. I told her to keep the sun over her left shoulder and head back to the highway. But she got spooked by something and her tracks turned around at some point.”

“We’ll find her, Rick. You just focus on Carl right now. He needs you the most.” 

Rick nodded. Pheonyx glanced out the window and saw Maggie riding Koda towards the house. A skinny brunette woman rode with her arms wrapped around his sister. 

Pheonyx tilted his head to the window, “I think your wife is here.”

The next hours passed slowly. After giving the couple some time alone with Carl, Patricia and Pheonyx came back in to hook him up for a second transfusion. He stayed with the boy while Hershel talked to Rick and Lori in the dining room. Kismet kept him company, which ultimately meant the dog was passed out on the floor, snoring. The rhythmic whistling and fluttering of the dog’s lips was oddly comforting in the silence of the make-shift hospital room. When the parents returned, Lori placed a warm hand on his shoulder and thanked him for donating blood. 

“It’s no problem ma’am.”, Pheonyx said, trying not to flinch when she touched his shoulder. The woman was kind and motherly. He knew she wasn’t going to hurt him, but his body still worked on instinct. Strange touches sent jolts of fire through his pores, made fear flow through his veins, and caused his muscles to tense. She must have noticed the brief flare of panic in his eyes, because she pulled her hand away and gave him a comforting smile. Silence reared its head again. 

Day turned into night and every minute that Shane and Otis were gone just increased the worry floating through the house. Rick tried to insist on going after them but Lori tried to pull him back to earth, reminding him he needed to be with Carl. The sheriff was insistent though. Patricia was about to hook Pheonyx up for a third transfusion but he stopped her. He stood up from the chair and approached the bickering couple. 

“Rick, I’m actually feeling a bit dizzy, maybe you could do this unit?” Pheonyx lied easily, knowing the man’s urge to help his son would override his worry for the two men. The ruse worked and Rick allowed Patricia to insert the IV. 

Lori mouthed her thanks to Pheonyx and he gave a small smile in return. He made his way out the door, needing to get out of the room. The fear and anxiety in the room was stifling. Admittedly, a good portion of it was from him. He hadn’t even realized his hands were trembling. It could have been from the blood loss but more than likely it was the feeling of panic closing in on him. Kismet followed beside him, leaning against the man’s leg as they walked through the house to the porch. The dog was better than any therapist or anti-anxiety meds that Pheonyx ever had. Just the presence of his furry companion was a balm to his soul. The screen door squeaked and shut with a loud thud as the pair walked out into the humid night air. 

“Needed a break?”, Maggie’s voice sounded from beside him, and he jumped slightly. She was seated on a rocking chair, knees to her chest, in the dark corner of the porch. Kismet’s tail began to thump against his leg at the sight of the young woman. 

Pheonyx patted the dog’s head and moved to sit beside his sister on the porch. “Yeah. Too many people. Too many emotions. I was 2 minutes away from an anxiety attack.”, he leaned his head back against the house, letting it hit with a soft bang. Kismet laid beside him, placing his head into his lap. 

“You’re doin’ good. I’m proud of you.”, Maggie reached over and brushed some of Pheonyx’s short brown hair from his forehead. She was one of the only people that he could stomach touching him. He even felt comfort in it. “You goin’ to be okay searchin’ for that girl tomorrow? Rick said he wants you to work with one of his people. I know all these new people are alot for you..”

“I’m not going to let my anxiety get in the way of finding a lost kid. We both know I’m the best person to help these people, anyways. I don’t have much of a choice.” Pheonyx pet Kismet’s head, finding solace in the soft fur on his ears and neck. “I’ll have my boy as a social buffer anyways. Right, Kizzie?”, he spoke in baby talk to the pup, who wagged his tail harder at the attention. 

Maggie knew her brother well enough to know he was trying to change the subject. Before she could point it out, the noise of a car coming up the driveway distracted them. A small bit of hope filled both of their chests before they realized it wasn’t Otis’s truck pulling in. An old station wagon pulled up and two men stepped out. One was a buff African American man who looked as if he’d seen better days. Sweat ran down his face, which looked paler than it should be. The other was a younger asian man, probably close to Maggie’s age. They looked nervous and questioned whether they should knock on the door or not, obviously not seeing the two Greene siblings in the dark corner of the porch. 

“You close the gate when you drove up?”, Pheonyx spoke up and smirked when the two men jumped. Kismet leapt to his feet and wiggled his way over to the new people. He panted happily as the men each scratched his head and smiled at him. 

The younger man’s eyes were locked on Maggie as he answered, “Uh, Hi. Yes, we closed it. Did the latch and everything.”, Pheonyx watched him visibly gulp as he looked over his sister. Maggie noticed the attention and placed her feet on the ground, leaning her elbows on her knees. 

Oh this should be interesting, he thought. 

“Hello, it’s nice to see you again. We, uh, met before, briefly.”, the man rambled, his face getting sweatier than it already was. 

Saving the other man from his embarrassment and also needing to get away from the influx of people, Pheonyx stood up. “Maggs, I’m going to head to the stable, start planning the search for tomorrow. If they need more blood, come get me?”

His sister nodded and stood up to give him a kiss to his cheek. “Of course. Try to get some rest, please? Kismet can stay here, give you some time to yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”, Pheonyx said sarcastically. As he moved to the brick steps, he noticed the bloodied bandage on the pale man’s arm. Instinctively, his hand moved to his cutlass and adrenaline filled his veins. Noticing the movement, the Asian man moved in front of his friend and held up his hands.

“It’s not a bite! He cut himself on some glass.”

Relief filled Pheonyx and his already-tired body felt even more exhausted. He patted Maggie’s shoulder and inclined his head towards her, “Maggie will show you guys inside. Get you something to eat. I’m sure Patricia can help with that arm of yours.” 

With that, he left the men in the capable hands of his sister and headed to the stables on the other side of the house. The building was one of the newer ones on the property. The original stables for the farm had burned down in the early 90’s during a particularly dry summer. No horses had been harmed, thankfully, but the whole building had to be rebuilt. And now, since the world went to shit, Pheonyx considered it his base of operations. All his supplies for hunting, making traps, and killing shadows were stored in one of the empty stables. There was a property map that was centered on the wall where the tack room was located. That one was nearly the same as the one he gave to Maggie to give to the group on the highway, just much larger. Every mark he had made on this map, he made on the other one as well. It paid to have a backup copy if something happened to the one hung up. Every important location was marked on it: shadow traps, safe walking trails, abandoned farmhouses, supply caches he had buried, danger zones, safe drinking water sources, and even areas where game frequented. The map had taken over a month of heavy work and scouting. Not including the time it took to set up the traps themselves. He had several maps of the surrounding towns, each one marked and sectioned with the types of businesses that the area contained. 

Pheonyx’s legs felt heavy as he passed each stall in the dark building, giving each horse a small pet on their fuzzy noses. In order to keep his family in the dark about his work on eliminating shadows, he did all the work in the stables so they wouldn’t see the supplies and maps. Everyday, he fed and watered the horses, made sure they were groomed, and led them to their designated pastures. In turn, he had gotten close with all of them. He knew all their quirks and strengths. Maggie was the only other person who went in the stables, as she often made trips into town. He was pretty certain that, up until earlier when he confirmed it, she chose to remain oblivious to all of the other work regarding shadows that he did.  It was going to come out sooner or later, and he had a feeling that–with the arrival of this new group–Hershel would be the next to find out. It was something he was dreading. Pheonyx hated fighting with his stepfather, but it was inevitable in this case. He walked to the end of the stable and opened up the empty one he had claimed as his own sleeping quarters. It was nothing special, all he did was sweep out all the hay from the floor and place a camping cot in the corner. One of his grandma’s old quilts was crumpled on top of it along with an old pillow. Placed alongside the cot was a small table with a battery operated lantern. He didn’t bother turning it on before crawling onto the cot, which gave a loud creak from the movement. He kicked off his worn Timberland boots, letting them fall to the floor with a thud.

Despite the exhaustion floating over his head, he didn’t fall asleep. He stared at the ceiling of the stables, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness around him. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. He wasn’t too sure. 

The loud sound of Otis’s truck coming up the drive had Pheonyx shooting up from the small bed. He didn’t even bother putting on his boots before he ran out of the stables, stopping right at the front. Even from a distance, he could see only one person exiting the vehicle. A person who was definitely not Otis. Shane exited the truck and handed off the bags of supplies to Hershel. His heart plummeted. It didn’t take a genius to know what happened. Otis was dead. He may not have known the man very well, but he was still a part of the family. There was a sharp stab of grief in his heart, followed by nauseating guilt. It was irrational, he couldn’t have stopped Otis from trying to right his wrongs, even accidental ones. If Pheonyx had gone in his place, he could have been killed instead. Or Rick could have died from donating too much blood in his stead. Which would mean that Carl would have died as well. Rationally, he knew he wasn’t responsible for Otis’s death. It still didn’t stop the darker parts of his mind from placing the blood on his hands.

Pheonyx probably should have gone to comfort his sisters, or Patricia, but he didn’t have the emotional energy to handle it. Kismet was with them, so he knew they at least had someone to cling to. So, he just headed back into the stables.

And just how Pheonyx always dealt with his emotions, he packed away the grief and put all his energy into distracting himself. In this case, it was planning the search for the little girl. He studied the large map, one that showed all the elevations of the property, on the stable wall and scrubbed a hand over his face. Turning on the lamp that hung by the tack room, he sighed and got to work. 

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Taglist: @yoongibaybee​ 

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes Masterlist

Summary: Pheonyx Greene is the oldest of the Greene siblings. He’s always been different than the rest of his family; having endured abuse from his biological father as a kid and growing up as bisexual/transgender in conservative rural Georgia. He finds himself on the family farm recovering from top surgery when the world falls apart. As the dead begin to rise, Pheonyx finds himself becoming the sole protector of the farm as his family lives in denial about the Shadows of loved ones past. His life is changed the day Rick Grimes shows up on the farm, and shortly after a certain gruff archer as well. Daryl is drawn to younger man but how does he deal with the internal prejudices he’s grown up with?

Series CW/TW: Homophobia/transphobia/biphobia, zenophobia/racism/sexism(Merle), age gap romance(11yr difference. Pheonyx is 28, Daryl is 39 ), sexual assault/rape, child molestation, canon character deaths, body mutilation, child abuse, torture, hunting, smut 18+( P in V, unprotected sex(please practice safe sex!), creampie, breeding kink, rough sex, marking/biting, oral sex, sub/dom undertones), animal deaths(NOT KISMET), scars, blood, corpses, depression/anxiety, body dysphoria, religious trauma, menstruation mentions

AO3 FF.net

Playlist (Songs that remind me of Pheonyx/the story, or just songs I listen to while writing in general)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes-Chapter 7

Note:  Note: First off, thank you for your likes and comments. This is a lot later post than I intended it to be. I’m working really hard on Chapter 9 and it’s taking me longer than I thought. That chapter is when Pheonyx and Daryl officially start the search for Sophia.  So, they’re alone and there isn’t a lot of show dialogue for me to bounce off of. I had a couple days of writer's block and I’ve been working slowly on it. I keep rearranging how I want their conversation to go and also rewatching the season over and over to make sure I’m characterizing Daryl correctly. I want it to be believable. Long story short, I don’t want to post chapter 8 until I have 9 done, so it might be a bit until I’ve posted it. I think once I get over this hump, since it’s the first one on one scene with Daryl and Pheonyx(with Kismet as his wingman) that I’ll be able to write faster. Hopefully. Also sorry for how short this is. The last chapter and this one was originally one chapter but I want to keep my chapters around the same length(3-4k) and it ended up over 6k. So I split it up. 

Chapter TW/CW: internal homophobia, transphobia, descriptions of past abuse, denial of sexuality?(Not sure how to describe it), self-deprecating thoughts, parental death.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations​ 

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Masterlist

DARYL'S POV

As Daryl was making his way away from the service, fully intending to head straight into the woods to continue the search for Sophia, Rick caught up to his long strides and cut him off. The cop stood in front of him and Daryl narrowed his eyes at the man. 

“Before you head out, I want to get the group together to make a plan for the search.”, Rick said. 

“Ain’t got time for that, man. Shoulda been out at first light lookin’ for the girl.”, Daryl snapped, annoyed at being held up. 

Rick placed his hands on his hips, one hand hovering on the grip of his Colt Python. “Just listen, please. Hershel’s stepson has offered his help for the search. And I’d like you to partner up with him.” Daryl was about to cut in, but Rick continued,  “He’s an experienced tracker and hunter, and he knows these woods better than any of us do. He says he’s been working with his dog on scent tracking, too. With both of you, and the dog, looking for Sophia, I think we have a better chance of finding her.” 

Daryl shook his head, irritated. He worked better alone. His focus needed to be on finding the girl and he couldn’t do that with someone else following him around. Having the group with him yesterday was bad enough. The woods were his domain, his comfort zone. Some stranger on his coattails, mucking up the trails, and making noise while he was trying to concentrate, wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. Not when a little girl’s life was on the line. 

As if reading his mind, Rick said, “Just talk to him. That’s all I ask. If you don’t want to work with him after that, then fine.” 

Daryl wanted to tell him off, or to just walk away. Before he could, Rick was turning and waving a hand to call over Pheonyx, who had been walking back towards the house from Otis’s tribute. Daryl noticed a slight hesitation and stiffening of the man’s body as he looked between Rick and himself. But it was gone in a blink of an eye. The hound dog followed behind Pheonyx and they both stopped in front of the two men. 

Rick smiled at the younger man. Daryl felt his ears warm as Pheonyx lifted the corners of his mouth in return. The heat spread to his face as the other man’s green eyes met his own. The light shade of green reminded him of the pair of fern plants his momma planted in front of their trailer when he was 7 years old. The old mobile home had been extremely run down. Paint was peeling off the walls and several windows had cracks or were missing from his Pa’s violent outbursts. The small grass patch in front of the trailer was often overgrown and full of weeds. But his momma wanted to fix the place up. Unfortunately they didn’t have a lot of money for paint, or pretty flowers to plant. They didn’t have a lot of money for anything really. Momma worked as a waitress at the local diner but most of the money she made, his Pa stole to use for drugs or alcohol. He remembered the day she brought home those little ferns though. His Pa had been off on a bender for a week, like usual. She carried the tiny plants in with a huge smile on her face. They'd been on clearance at the local hardware store because some of the leaves were dried out but his momma was convinced it just needed a little love and care. That afternoon, Daryl and Merle helped her clean up the yard. Merle borrowed the neighbor’s push mower to mow the small yard and Daryl helped Momma weed the area around the front door. He and Merle dug the small holes on either side of the door for the plants, stopping to throw dirt at each other occasionally. When the ferns were planted, the trio stood, Momma’s arms wrapped around both boys’ shoulders, and looked at the trailer. It was still shitty. The paint was still falling off and there was still cardboard on the windows. But the little plants with dried leaves made it look like home. Over the next couple of years, as his mother’s depression and alcohol problems grew, so did the plants. They grew so big that his Pa forced him to cut part of them down because he kept tripping on the long leaves when he would stumble home at night. Despite that, the plants thrived and every time Daryl saw them, he was reminded of that day with Merle and momma. The look of joy on her face. It was one of the few happy memories he had with her. And it was all destroyed the day the trailer caught fire.

The ferns burned away. Right along with his momma. 

Daryl felt his heart ache at the reminder of his mother. But the green of Pheonyx’s eyes still reminded him of that happy day and he was almost entranced. He barely even registered Rick standing next to him. 

“Pheonyx, this is Daryl Dixon. He’s the tracker I mentioned yesterday. He’s been headin’ up the search for Sophia. Daryl, this is Hershel’s stepson. Both Maggie and Hershel say he is an expert on the property and woods surrounding it. He’s offered his services-”, a loud bark from the mutt sitting at Pheonyx’s side had Rick pausing for a moment. “And his dog, to help find Sophia. I’d appreciate it if you two would work together to head up the search for her.”

The arms he had crossed over his chest tensed. As entranced as he was by the man across from him, he couldn’t work with him. In all honesty, he was slightly scared of the emotions he was feeling. They were unraveling the identity that he had clung to for so long. He hadn’t even spoken to Pheonyx yet and his stomach was already in knots. He had to stay far away from him. Maybe then, the feelings would go away. He wanted to lash out at Rick, at Pheonyx, the emotional turmoil raging in his head. But that wouldn’t do anything besides alienate himself further from this group. It might even put them in jeopardy of being kicked off the farm. And he couldn’t do that to them. 

“Work better alone”, he grunted at the man, not even looking at Rick. 

Pheonyx gave a nod, not taking offense to what he said. “So do I. But I spent last night creating a plan for the search. We can split up tomorrow but I need your help at least for today. I’ve been working with Kismet,” he tilted his head towards the dog at his side, some of his brown hair falling over his forehead. Daryl fought the urge to reach out and brush it back. “, on scent tracking for the last month. I need you to take me to exactly where she and Rick split up. He can follow her trail from there. It hasn’t rained so he shouldn’t have too much trouble.”

The sound of the younger man’s voice was like a soft blanket draping over his sweaty shoulders, it eased the tension in his muscles on contact. The sound wasn’t deep but husky and light. Creeping around his head like smoke from a campfire and easing the ever-present vigilance that Daryl had grown accustomed to. Almost losing his train of thought over the drug-like effect of Pheonyx’s voice, Daryl looked towards the sheriff, wondering why he couldn’t be the one to show the other man where Sophia went missing. As if reading his mind, Pheonyx continued, “Rick needs to stay here for Carl and Lori. And Shane fucked up his ankle at the high school. Or else one of them would take me.”

Pheonyx was right about Rick. Daryl couldn’t, in good conscience, ask the man to leave his son, who had just been at death’s door the day prior. And his stomach clenched at the idea of sending Pheonyx off with Shane. Daryl wasn’t entirely certain about Pheonyx’s gender identity. He could just be a biological male with more feminine features. But he suspected the man was transgender. It was no issue to him, but he had a fair idea that it would be an issue to Deputy Douchebag. Shane wasn’t as openly hateful as Merle was, but he was judgmental and sexist. Merle was a loud hateful person. He screamed and hurled slurs, made threats but he rarely ever reached the point of violence, unless he was high. But Shane, his hate was a simmering cauldron, just on the cusp of boiling. Quiet little bubbles that could easily lead to an exploding pot.   At the Quarry, the man kept camp duties fairly segregated in regards to gender. Women weren’t ever allowed on watch or runs, and were mostly kept to cleaning and cooking duties. Shane made the argument every time that the women weren’t trained and therefore would be liabilities. But he also refused to do gun training for anyone, citing lack of ammo as the reasoning. He didn’t go on long winded rants like Merle did. He chose sly comments and verbal digs as his weapons of choice. Offhand comments about “women’s work” and snorts when Andrea offered help with watches or runs. While Shane had never specifically said anything about LGBT people, Daryl just had a feeling that the man’s views would not be friendly. And with his suspicions regarding Otis’s untimely death, Daryl refused to put Pheonyx in the possible firing lane. Why he cared so much about a man he just met was something he was trying to avoid thinking about. 

Despite his personal preferences of working alone, and avoiding any more contact with Pheonyx to quell the feelings building in his chest, Daryl had to admit that having a scent tracking dog would give them a leg up in finding Sophia. Looking down at the dog, he had to contain a snort. The pup was on his back, body curled around, chewing on his back leg like it was a rawhide. He met Pheonyx’s gaze. 

“That mutt is a tracker? He don’t look like he’s got much goin’ on behind those eyes.” 

Pheonyx’s eyes drew together in confusion and he looked down at Kismet. Daryl noted a blush spreading across his tan cheeks when he realized what the dog was doing. At the sheepish look, he couldn’t contain his snort, and he heard Rick chuckle along beside him. 

The younger man nudged the dog with his boot, causing him to roll over into a regular down position. Daryl heard him mutter something unintelligible. Pheonyx stood firm though, the conviction in his expression settling in Daryl’s chest. 

“Okay, Kismet may not be the brightest crayon in the box, I’ll admit. But when he’s got a job he works hard. Unfortunately, you guys don’t have the luxury of shopping for a certified dog. I stand by him though. We’ve only tracked wildlife so far, but I would bet my life on this ‘mutt’”

Despite the voice in his brain telling him it was a bad idea, Daryl nodded his agreement to work with him and the dog. His heart sped up a bit at the thought of working closely with Pheonyx, but he brushed it off. He’d work with him to find Sophia. Then that was it. He’d back off and these intense feelings would fade. 

He hoped.

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Masterlist

Taglist: @yoongibaybee, @edgyboi10000

[loganlostitall]

Next chapter is heeereeeeee 🫶🏽

From The Ashes-Chapter 11

Note: Oh gosh, I keep getting deep into these chapters, please note that these chapters are twice as big as the first chapters in this story so it's taking me a bit longer to pop them out. I'm sorry for the delay but I just want to make sure everything is perfect! Thank you @loganlostitall for beta reading!

Banners: @liminal_creations

Dividers: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Chapter CW/TW: Past rape/noncon, past child abuse/neglect, anxiety attack, depression, allusions to child loss, transphobia(Shane), Panic

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By the time Daryl, Kismet, and Pheonyx made it back to the farm, the sky was just starting to turn orange. The blazing heat from earlier had dulled to a barely tolerable simmer. Crickets were starting to sing their evening song and fireflies were beginning to float around the fields surrounding the farmhouse. Sometimes Pheonyx was amazed at how nature could continue on, and could remain so normal, despite the carnage and decay that had taken over the world.

Kismet walked lazily beside them, having worn himself out with all the walking and tracking throughout the day. He didn’t even wiggle when Pheonyx picked him up to lift him over the barbed wire at the outlet of the woods.

The three walked together until they reached the split rail fence that bordered half of the main yard of the house. Kismet ducked under the lowest rail and Pheonyx hopped over the fence with ease. Daryl landed beside him a moment later.

The area where the tents were erected that morning was quiet. Only a few of Daryl’s group were moving around, the majority of them were sitting around a small campfire where a large pot was being stirred by Glenn. Low conversation could be heard from the distance between the men and the group, nothing distinct but it was the sounds of multiple people that had Pheonyx’s muscles tensing. These people seemed okay–Shane excluded–he knew that. But he couldn’t help the instinctual reaction to turn tail and run back to the solace of the woods.

A furry head butted into his hand, forcing him to put his attention on the dog at his side, instead of the people congregating on the property.

Daryl had seen the difference in Pheonyx the moment the sounds of T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Andrea chatting floated over to them. The calm, relaxed man was suddenly stiff as a board and gripping the straps of his backpack with a white knuckle grip. Kismet made a small whine of concern and pushed himself into Pheonyx’s space, moving the man’s attention away from the campfire in the distance. His inked shoulders slumped a small bit, but the tension was still there.

Daryl felt the urge to chew his thumb, unsure of what to do, but both of his hands were occupied. One was gripping the strap of his crossbow. The other held an old beer bottle– he’d found it on the way back to the farm–that he was using as a vase for the Cherokee rose he picked for Carol. The rose Pheonyx had picked, and handed to him as a promise, was currently tucked in between the folds of the map resting in his breast pocket. Daryl didn’t understand why he did it. All he knew was that when he went to put both roses in the bottle for Carol, he couldn’t part with the smaller stemmed one. The way the younger man had handed it to him, offering words of hope, made an impact on him. He’d grown up around people who offered empty promises. Mama who said she’d stop drinking but never did. Pa who said he’d wouldn’t lay a hand on him anymore when he was sober. Merle who made a pact with him to never leave but not even a year later joined the military and left him alone. Social workers who promised to help him if he told the truth but never followed through. He’d learned not to trust promises. They always lead to heartbreak. But the way Pheonyx had looked at him, had spoken softly and told him that they would find Sophia, made Daryl believe him. He knew, even if they didn’t find the girl, Pheonyx would do everything in his power to try. When he was holding Pheonyx’s rose, he knew he couldn’t give it away. So, when Pheonyx wasn’t looking, he’d pulled out the folded map, and stuck the rose between the thin creases. The map-slightly thicker than it had been before- resting against his chest offered a piece of comfort that hadn’t been there before.

“‘M gonna talk to Carol. Tell ‘er what we found. Do ya-”, Daryl paused, not sure of how to ask. “She might like ta hear ‘bout the bag. Give ‘er some hope. Might be better comin’ from ya.”

Pulling his eyes from the campfire in the distance, Pheonyx took a moment to register what Daryl said. He nodded, grateful for the distraction. The older man inclined his head away from the tent area towards the RV his group brought. Thankfully, it was in the opposite direction of the camp. They began to walk over that way, with Kismet trotting on their heels. As they got closer, a figure appeared on the RV. The man with the bucket hat, Dale, was sitting on top of the large vehicle in a beach chair. He had a hunting rifle in his lap and was looking out into the fields with a pair of binoculars. A little bit of the anxiety in his stomach, the kind that constantly gnaws at his gut no matter the circumstances, lifted. Having someone on lookout for shadows, when Pheonyx couldn’t be there, was a huge relief. He worried for his family, especially in their state of denial, but he couldn’t be there 24/7 to watch for dangers.

Dale lowered his binoculars, having heard the trio approaching, and offered them a smile.

“Any sign of her?”, he asked, taking his hat off and wiping some of the sweat off his forehead.

Pheonyx looked to Daryl, waiting for him to answer his group member, but the man simply grunted and nodded, not elaborating. Awkward silence ensued and Pheonyx coughed, dragging Daryl’s attention to him. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the man on top of the RV, silently telling Daryl to talk to Dale.

With a roll of his eyes, Daryl spoke shortly, “The mutt found ‘er trail and led us ta an ole’ house she musta stayed in. Gonna head out early tomorrow ta keep lookin’.”

Pheonyx didn’t think it was possible but Dale’s smile widened. The old man replaced the hat on his head and said, “It’s nice to have some good news after the last few days. Carol’s in the RV. Been trying to keep busy all day. Hopefully, this news will help brighten her day a bit.”

As expected, Daryl simply grunted and opened the RV door to go in. Kismet pushed himself in front of the archer, and slipped inside. Daryl cursed as he stumbled a bit, the dog not knowing his strength knocked him off balance. He caught himself on the door and shook his head before stepping inside.

Pheonyx offered Dale a smile of apology for Daryl’s stand-offish attitude and followed the other two inside.

Both Daryl and Pheonyx noted the smell of household cleaners when they entered the small living space. The counters around the vehicle were practically sparkling; dishes were drying in a rack by the small sink; the windows were streak free and glimmered in the evening sun. The younger man hadn’t seen the inside of the RV before but he guessed that Carol had kept busy by cleaning the space top to bottom. He silently whispered a plea to the Earth that Kismet didn’t completely destroy the place and undo the poor woman’s hard work. The dog was tired but he always managed to cause trouble no matter what level of energy he had.

Kismet trotted into the back of the vehicle and a small giggle let the men know where Carol was. They both took a few steps forward , still managing to keep distance between each other despite the small aisle.

Pheonyx smiled as he looked over Daryl’s shoulder and saw Kismet nuzzling his head into the woman’s lap, the mending she had been doing laying to the side. The dog’s tail was wagging but it was very delicate, as if he could sense that he needed to be gentle around the petite woman in front of him. Carol looked up and striking blue eyes met his own. Despite the short gray hair on her head, she looked young. Hardly any lines marked her face and the smile on her face was bright and girlish. There was an underlying sadness in her eyes. But her daughter was missing. It was understandable to be downhearted.

“I’m sorry about Kismet. I was gonna have him stay outside but he slipped in before I could say anything,” Pheonyx said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, he’s fine.”, Carol said meekly. She rubbed Kismet’s head and scratched his ears, taking comfort from the softness of his fur. “Sophia always wanted to have a dog but Ed, my husband, hated animals.”

Pheonyx responded without thinking, “He sounds like a dick.” Daryl whipped his head to look at the younger man behind him, shocked–but also amused– by his bluntness. Pheonyx’s eyes widened as he realized how callous his words sounded, considering her husband had just recently died. “I’m sorry-”

“He was a dick.” Carol cut in, chuckling. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Carol. Thank you for volunteering to look for my Sophia.”, at the sound of her daughter’s name, tears filled the woman’s eyes and she used the hand not touching Kismet to catch the drops that fell.

Pheonyx felt Daryl tense at the sight of the emotional woman and he understood the feeling. He wanted to run from the RV and go hide in the stables. But he couldn’t do that. If anything he was one of only people on the farm who could empathize with her. So, he sucked in a breath and muttered an apology as he wormed his way around Daryl. The other man flinched, not expecting the movement. Pheonyx sat down on the bed a foot away from the willowy woman and held his hand out in an offer of comfort. Carol gladly took it and encompassed his calloused hands with her small soft one. Brain set aflame with the need to run from the strange touch, Pheonyx swallowed down his fear and gave her fingers a small squeeze. Kismet whined and moved his head to lay in the spot between them.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find her today,” he spoke softly and looked into her sparkling blue eyes. “Kismet was able to find her trail and he led us to one of the abandoned farm houses on the far ends of the property. Daryl found a cabinet that we think she slept in, and the empty cans of food that were still wet, so we're probably not even 24 hours behind her. She has supplies now too-”

“Supplies?” Carol questioned.

“The first month after phone lines went down, I set up bug-out bags on areas around the whole property. Just in case something happened to the farm. One of those was at the house. It has a week's worth of food and water, a pop up tent, and a hunting knife. The bag was gone when we got there and the only tracks in the house were hers. We don’t have to worry about her getting dehydrated or being hungry anymore. We just have to catch up to her,” Pheonyx chose not to mention worrying about shadows. Sophia had a knife now, but that didn’t mean she knew how to use it. They just had to hope she managed to avoid them or learned how to fell the corpses quickly.

A light sniffle came from Carol’s nose and she pulled the entwined fingers up to press a kiss to the back of his hand, right over the skull tattoo. A light blush overtook Pheonyx’s face and he ducked his eyes. It wasn’t physical attraction. Carol was beautiful but the aura she radiated was purely motherly to the young man. The soft kiss had been imbued with such maternal love and tenderness that he felt his chest clench. It was the kind of affection that he had always yearned for from his own mother. After finding out that her first husband was abusing Pheonyx, his mother had distanced herself from her oldest son. She was there to clean his wounds but she wasn’t there to prevent them. She held him at a distance and no matter how much he tried to pull her closer, she always ended up farther away. Pheonyx always thought it was because she felt guilty that she hadn’t noticed or stopped the abuse when it started. He felt like in order to protect herself from the gnawing culpability, she had to create a wall between herself and her son. It wasn’t an excuse. It was simply an explanation. She had stepped up a bit when he was in the hospital six years prior but by then it was too little too late. And now that she was dead, he didn’t think he would ever get to feel what maternal care truly was. But Pheonyx felt it now. Maybe that was why he felt the anxiety bugs– that had been crawling across his skin where Carol touched– disappear. It filled a hole in his heart that time had never managed to fix.

“Thank you. I can’t thank you both enough for doing this. For even believing that she’s okay.” Carol reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a tissue, using it to wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. “Everyone keeps telling me things will be fine. That we’ll find her. But I can tell they don’t believe it.”

“I bel-”, Pheonyx looked to Daryl, who was trying to make himself look smaller to avoid the emotional conversation happening in front of him, and corrected himself. “We believe it. We’ve already decided we’re heading out first thing in the morning to look again.”

There was still a look of doubt on her face, the kind that lingered after losing all hope and Pheonyx cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, trying to think of a way to comfort her that didn’t involve telling one of his biggest losses. But he couldn’t. So, for the first time in 6 years, Pheonyx opened up without saying the words, “You’re feeling alone right now. There’s people surrounding you and you still feel like the only person for miles. They’re there but they don’t understand. A part of you is missing. A piece of your heart. A piece of your soul. They’re able to go on about their life like nothing’s happened. But you’re still trying to figure out how to simply breathe when there’s a hole in your chest where they used to be.” The hand holding his tightened and the look Carol gave him was empathetic. She knew without hearing the words that Pheonyx could understand the type of loss she was dealing with. All signs pointed to Sophia being alive, but that didn’t change the lingering doubt that filled the woman’s mind. Sophia was missing and there was a chance it was too late. So, Carol was filled with grief for a child that could be dead but also hope that they’d find her well and safe. “You’re strong, Carol. We just need you to be strong for a little longer.”

Daryl watched the interaction between Pheonyx and Carol with awe and fear. Fear because he didn’t know how to handle other people’s deep emotions. He hardly knew how to handle his own. Awe because he saw Pheonyx give Carol the hope he’d been trying to offer for the last couple of days. Daryl never considered himself to be a particularly smart man. His Pa always took the time to tell him how stupid he was, at least 2 or 3 times a day when he was around. But he wasn’t blind. He noticed the look of shared grief between Carol and Pheonyx. The way the older woman gripped the younger man’s hand a bit tighter. Had Pheonyx lost a child? He didn’t look much older than his sister, Maggie, or even Beth really. But Daryl also knew that age wasn’t a reliable determinate for having kids. Most of the people he grew up with started having kids around 14. Although that could be attributed to a horrible sex education curriculum and lack of resources for free birth control. The way Pheonyx had spoken though, seemed to leak empathy as opposed to sympathy. Daryl could only conclude that he must have lost a child, whether it be his own or someone close to that. The younger man had mentioned losing his brother and mother early after the world fell, but didn’t mention a kid. Not that he expected the man to bear all his losses to him when they’d only met earlier that morning.

Sniffling a small bit, Pheonyx stood up. He gave Carol’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it. Kismet’s tail began to wag in earnest and the appendage thudded against the wall in a fast rhythm.

“I’m gonna go find Rick and set up a plan for tomorrow.” Pheonyx said before facing Daryl. He had to stop himself from getting lost in the man’s deep blue eyes and averted his gaze to the bottle in his hand. “All yours, Apollo.”

He slid past the other man, being careful not to touch the archer, even though his body screamed at him to do so. Having passed Daryl, Pheonyx recalled Kismet, wanting to give the others their privacy. Also not trusting the dog to not get into trouble without him there. Over Daryl’s shoulder, Pheonyx saw Kismet give Carol’s leg one last nuzzle before shoving his tank of a body between Daryl’s legs. The dog was wholly unaware of his size and Pheonyx had to withhold a snort as Daryl barely managed to catch himself from falling over.

Blue eyes followed Pheonyx’s form out of the trailer, trying not to focus on the curves of his shoulders and the outline of his backside in the dirty jeans hugging sharp hips. A small cough had him jerking his head away from the direction of the RV door towards where Carol was sitting. He was met with a slightly amused gaze and a singular raised eyebrow. Blistering heat trickled up his shoulders and over his neck. Avoiding the questions that surely would follow, Daryl placed the bottle on the table near the bed. Thankfully, the distraction worked and he didn’t have to come up with excuses for why he couldn’t stop staring at the younger man.

It didn’t take Pheonyx long to find Rick. The man was sitting on the steps of the house's wrap-around porch. He was still wearing his Sheriff’s uniform and stuck out like a sore thumb compared to his grungier looking compatriots. His star badge glinted orange, reflecting the light from the setting sun. Seemingly lost in his own head, Rick didn’t even notice Pheonyx until he was right in front of him. Kismet whined happily at seeing the familiar man and pushed his head into Rick’s lap forcefully. Despite the intense look on his face a few moments before, a bright smile crossed over his face. Light blue eyes–that Pheonyx couldn’t help compare to a certain archer’s–glanced up at him.

“How did it go?” Rick asked while scratching Kismet’s ears.

Pheonyx relayed the information that they had gotten during their search, the same things he had told Carol just moments earlier.

“Daryl and I are taking Kismet out at first light to pick up her trail again,” he finished, taking a seat on the porch next to the Sheriff. Kismet wiggled his butt happily and shoved his head into Pheonyx’s lap.

“I can’t tell you how nice it is to have some good news for a change. Knowing she has some supplies is a huge weight off our shoulders. I’m sure Carol is grateful as well,” Rick took a deep breath of relief. “Shane, T-Dog, Glenn, and I are all ready to set up the search grid tomorrow.”

Pheonyx grimaced a little bit, thinking about the complications that came along with more people searching, “I talked with Daryl and he agreed that we should wait to do a full search party for Sophia.”

“Why? Isn’t it better to have more people searching? Cover more ground?” Rick asked in confusion.

“A few reasons. The main being that I worry about others getting lost or hurt. I don’t have enough maps with my traps labeled to hand out to everyone. All it takes is one shadow sneaking up to get someone stuck on a spear or to fall into one of the burn pits. There’s also dangerous terrain that could be difficult for you all to handle,” Rick nodded with his reasoning so Pheonyx continued. “Kismet is still in training, his attention span isn’t always great. I worry that if we have a bunch of people out searching the trail will get messed up or the overlapping scents will confuse him.”

Rick was silent for a moment, thinking about what Pheonyx had said, “All right. I trust you. Is there anything we can do in the mean time?”

“Rick. It’s a farm. We have 50 head of cattle and 4 horses. There is a never ending amount of work. Especially if I’m out searching all day. Taking up my chores would be a huge help,” Pheonyx scrubbed Kismet’s ears and the dog’s tongue rolled out in happiness. “Besides, might be good to show Hershel how useful extra hands on the farm can be.”

“Yeah, he’s already asked us to leave as soon as Carl is better,” There was a note of fear in the older man’s voice and he rubbed his face with hand in frustration. “It’s bad out there, Pheonyx. I don’t know how long we can make it on the road. I can’t take my son back out there. I just can’t.”

“Look, I’m not trying to make excuses for my stepfather. He’s bull-headed on the best of days. But, he’s a good person. I think, with enough time, he will change his mind. I’ll lean on him a bit. For now, help around the farm, follow his rules, let him get to know all of you, and maybe have Carl make puppy eyes at him.”

The joke worked and Rick chuckled lightly. “Speaking of Carl. He’s been asking to talk to you. He’s up now if you want to go see him.”

Before he could answer, Kismet grumbled and turned his head to woof at the Sheriff.

Rolling his eyes, Pheonyx patted the dog’s side. “Mind if I bring Kismet in? He likes kids.”

“Of course. He’d love that. We lost our family dog about a year before all this started. He had spots like Kismet’s so Carl named him Domino,” a wide smile broke across Rick’s face as he reminisced on the old mangy dog that Carl had pulled in the house when he was only 5. He’d held onto the dog’s dirty neck and cried until Lori finally relented on keeping him.

Standing up, Pheonyx left the man to his thoughts and walked around the house to the back door. It would have been easier to go in the front door, which was only a few feet from where he and Rick were sitting, but he wanted to steer clear of Hershel.

Avoidance was fruitless. He knew he would have to talk to him sooner or later. Especially if he was going to put in a good word for the group to stay on the farm. Talk? More like argue, Pheonyx thought with an internal sigh. Ever since his mother and brother’s death, he’d avoided confronting Hershel on his skewed views on the shadows. He walked away when the subject was brought up, and tried to ignore the groaning from the barn. The few times he tried to change Hershel’s mind had ended in shouting matches. Which ultimately led to Pheonyx having a PTSD-induced panic attack in the stables each time. So, he fixed the outside of the barn as much as could, reinforcing rotten boards and surrounding the perimeter with barbed wire. It wasn’t foolproof. Eventually the old wood would splinter and the shadows would be freed. He just hoped it wouldn’t be before his step-father changed his mind about the status of the infected.

Kismet reached the back door before Pheonyx, and started to claw the base of the screen frame, probably eager for dinner. He opened the door for the dog, letting him pass and run into the kitchen. There was a light thud and then the sound of his youngest sister’s giggling filled Pheonyx’s ears. While he wasn’t as close with Beth as he was Maggie, the sound of her voice and happy aura always managed to help alleviate his anxiety. A small smile was already gracing his face before he even crossed the threshold of the door.

Kismet had managed to knock Beth to her knees and was covering her face in slobbery kisses. Hands covered in soapy bubbles and purple shirt soaked with water, she had been in the middle of washing the dishes from dinner when Kismet practically tackled her. Pheonyx waited a moment before stepping around the kitchen island to save his sister from the dog’s assault of love. He grabbed the leather collar around Kismet’s neck and gave a gentle tug.

“Kizzie, leave Beth alone.” Pheonyx scolded lightly. Kismet whined but acquiesced to his owner’s command. He walked off and helped himself to the water dish in the corner.

Pheonyx held out his hand to help Beth up. She smiled widely at him, the sunshine of her soul warming his chest.

“Thank you, Nyx. He’s a big teddy bear,” she said before turning back around to the sink to continue washing the dishes. “We already ate dinner but if you’re hungry, there’s some of that chicken you’ve been marinating. We also got some green beans and potatoes from the garden in the fridge too. I would’ve saved you some of ours but there wasn’t much left after feedin’ Carl. I gave the leftovers to Rick and Lori."

“That’s fine, Bethie. You know I like to cook and they probably need the food more than I do,” Pheonyx leaned against the counter next to the sink.

Beth bent back a bit to look out the kitchen door, checking to see if anyone was listening. She lowered her voice slightly, “I don’t think they have enough food to feed everyone. I heard Rick and Shane talkin’ about it when I went in to give Carl lunch. I told Daddy but he told me not to get into their business.”

The worry and sadness in her voice was evident. Beth had always been the most benevolent one of the family and he knew the idea of people going hungry didn’t sit well with her.

“Hershel is trying to distance himself. Don’t worry. I have some food stored in the barn from my runs into town. I’ll let Rick know he’s welcome to it. Once we find Sophia, I can do some more hunting and we can share that with them too,” Pheonyx placed his hand on her shoulder in comfort and leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple.

She leaned into him and wrapped one arm around his waist to hug him. Pheonyx instinctively flinched but his muscles relaxed when he reminded himself of who it was. When Beth pulled away, he saw the glint of sympathy in her eyes and he avoided her gaze, wanting to avoid any pity. While he knew Beth would never pity him, old habits die hard.

“I wanted to go see Carl,” he coughed, trying to brush off the awkwardness he felt.

“He asked about you earlier so he’ll be happy to see you. I took him some of Shawn’s comics, so he’s been busy readin’ those all day.”

“Thanks, Bethie.”, Pheonyx squeezed her shoulder and patted Kismet’s side as he passed the dog, who had placed himself in the door that led into the dining room. A jingle of the buckle on Kismet’s collar and click of nails on the tiled floor let Pheonyx know that the dog was following behind him.

After dinner, Hershel usually spent an hour or two in his office reading. The past few weeks, his book of choice was mostly his bible. For many people, the rising of the dead dissolved any notions of faith in a higher power. In the beginning of the outbreak the news streamed videos, between images of the dead eating people, of mobs burning churches and piles of bibles in anger. It was something Pheonyx could honestly understand. That anger was something he had felt the majority of his life. How could god, someone who supposedly personifies love and forgiveness, attack his creations so blatantly? And if it was the devil who actually brought the carnage upon the world, how could god just stand by and let it happen? For Hershel though, he found the outbreak and the loss of his family members to be tests of his faith. The atrocities that nature flung at their feet had steadfastly strengthened the old man’s beliefs. Pheonyx took a moment to be appreciative of the older man’s dedication to schedules and his religious upbringing. Simply for the fact that he wouldn’t have to run into his stepfather and engage in another verbal spar.

Before Pheonyx reached the door, he stooped down to Kismet’s level and pointed a finger at the dog’s bulky head.

“Behave,” he said sternly. “I know you love kids but Carl’s hurt. You don’t know your strength most of the time.”

He swore that Kismet rolled his chocolate eyes at him before huffing and trotting into the makeshift hospital room where Carl was staying. Shaking his head, Pheonyx followed behind him and looked in the door.

The room was much cleaner than the day before. Sheets stained with blood were replaced by clean linens and the only medical supplies that could be seen was a tray of clean bandages and alcohol located on the bedside table. In the bed, a small lump was under the blankets but in the place where a head would be was a bright comic book being held up by elfin hands. The sound of Pheonyx’s foot stepping on a squeaky floorboard had a pair of blue eyes, mirror images of Rick’s, popping over the top of the pages. Carl closed the comic book and set it on his lap before smiling widely at him. It took only two seconds for the boy to notice Kismet, who was wiggling his whole body with glee at the sight of the child. Nails clicked as the gentle giant began to tap his toes and he grumbled with impatience.

“Dad told me there was a dog! What’s his name? Can I pet him?”, Carl asked excitedly, trying to sit up more. He groaned in pain though and placed his hand on his side.

Pheonyx moved to the boy’s side quickly, “Careful, bud.”

He clicked his tongue and Kismet trotted to his side. Seeming to sense that the kid was in pain, Kismet gently pushed his head into Carl’s hand offering a lick of comfort.

“This is Kismet. You can pet him all you want. He loves to be touched so you’d be doing him a favor.”

Although it seemed impossible, Carl’s smile got even wider as he scratched Kismet’s head and ears. His hands looked like doll’s hands compared to the dog’s prodigious skull.

“We had a dog that looked like him. I named him Domino because he was covered in spots. He liked to steal our neighbor’s newspapers and chew them up. It made mom so mad. Dad and I thought it was funny though,” Carl’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at him. “Are you Pheonyx? Dad said you had a lot of tattoos. I’ve never seen so many before! They’re so cool. Did they hurt? Which one hurt the worst? If I could get a tattoo, I would get the Batman symbol right across my chest. I think my mom would be mad though,” Carl’s button nose scrunched up at the thought of making his mom angry.

Pheonyx chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm and endless stream of questions, “Tattoos do hurt. More or less depending on where you get them. The ones on my ribs hurt the worst though. And you are right. Your mom would probably be furious if you got a tattoo right now. Wait until you’re 18 and see how you feel then.”

Carl nodded and Pheonyx took a moment to take stock of his appearance. The boy looked much better than he did the day before. Almost 24 hours before, Carl had practically blended in with the white sheets on the bed, skin pale white from blood loss. Today, his skin had pinkened up a bit and the clammy look had been replaced by simple sweat from the humid Georgian air.

“Dad said you’re helping look for Sophia. Thank you. She’s my friend and I’m really worried about her. I wish I could help search. While I was sleeping, I dreamt that she was hiding in a cave and I’m the one who found her.” A sad look passed over his face and he averted his gaze to Kismet, who was drooling from contentment at being rubbed.

Pheonyx sat in the rocking chair next to the bed. “You know I donated blood to you right? Your dad gave more than me but I gave some when you first got here.”, he flipped his hand over and showed his palm to Carl, a small scabbed cut was in the center. He’d cut it when he was sharpening his knife the previous morning, “I also helped hold pressure on your stomach when you got here. That means I got your blood in my cut. Do you know what that means?”

Carl shook his head, not understanding what Pheonyx was trying to say. So the older man continued, “That means we’re blood brothers now.”

“What are blood brothers?,” the confusion was evident in the boy’s voice.

“Well, it’s a pact where two people promise to protect each other and treat each other like real brothers. Most people cut their palms and press their cuts together to share blood. So, ours is a little different. But I think that makes it a lot stronger.”

“So, you’d be like a big brother for me? And I’d be your little brother?”, Carl asked, his eyebrows still scrunched a bit in confusion. When Pheonyx nodded, the boy’s face relaxed and brightened. “I’ve always wanted a brother!”

“As your blood brother, I’m making you a promise that, while you’re healing, Kismet and I will do everything in our power to bring Sophia back since you can’t be out there searching for her yourself. You have to make me a promise in return though.”

Eagerness spread on Carl’s face and he nodded, “Anything!”

“You have to promise to take it easy and to do everything Hershel says so that you can get better. Is that a deal?,” Pheonyx held out his fist to the younger boy, waiting for an answer.

Carl thought for a moment before smiling and bumping his fist against Pheonyx’s. “Deal.”

When Pheonyx told Daryl that he didn’t make promises often, that wasn’t a lie. He tried to avoid them. Because promises often led to disappointment. And as someone who endured a lot of that disappointment growing up, he couldn’t handle the thought of inadvertently giving that feeling to someone else. Despite that, he had made more promises in the last two days than he had in his 28 years of life.

The two of them talked for a little while longer. Carl spoke of his school and how he used to play soccer. Pheonyx told him about his siblings and his work at a tattoo shop. The conversation was normal, all things considered. Kismet had left at some point to beg for dinner from Maggie or Beth. Eventually, the boy’s eyes began to droop, and the sun outside had almost completely disappeared. Pheonyx gave the boy another fist bump and promised to come see him again after searching for Sophia the next day.

He was lost in his thoughts as he turned from the doorway towards the front door. So lost that he ran directly into a wall of muscle and his body immediately tensed when a large hand gripped his bicep tightly, cutting off the supply of blood to his fingers. His heart began to race and he looked into the angry brown eyes of Shane. The man’s eyes were narrowed and his body language was threatening.

“The hell were you doing in there?”, he growled.

Despite the fear flooding his body, Pheonyx held his ground, staring dead in the other man’s eyes, and gritted his teeth. “Talking to Carl. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do. You stay the hell away from that boy. Filling his head with fucked up ideas. You hear me?”, the grip on Pheonyx’s arm tightened. He could practically feel the blood vessels bursting in his skin. The only blessing was that Shane was gripping the arm that had the realism styled tattoo. With the colors and full distribution of ink across his arm, the inevitable bruise wouldn’t be very noticeable. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the meaning behind Shane’s words. The “ideas” that he didn’t want Pheonyx sharing with the boy. Shane didn’t want Carl to know Pheonyx was trans. The reason being, the idea of being trans was seen as something deviant or impure. And that if a child learned about it, they would be tainted in some way. It was a stupid thought–being transgender wasn’t a disease–but it was something that Pheonyx was familiar with. When he came out, several family members from Hershel’s side lamented his braveness for coming out but asked him “politely” to not speak about it in front of their children. The excuses ranged from “they wouldn’t understand” to “they’ll get the wrong ideas”. They feared that if they learned what being trans was, then they might come out too. Or that they might have to have an honest conversation with their child.

“I hear you. But I’m not going to listen to some neanderthal throwing his weight around like he owns the place. Last time I checked, you’re not Carl’s father. The second Lori or Rick say they don’t want me around their son, I’ll oblige but until then I’ll hang out with Carl anytime he wants,” Pheonyx’s tone was lethal. Despite the shivering in his muscles and the screaming in his mind, he wouldn’t back down.

A welcome voice sounded by the door, “Is there a problem here?”

Shane turned his head to look at the person speaking and Pheonyx used the distraction to jerk his arm from the man’s tight grip. Blood rushed back to his fingers and he resisted the urge to massage the area.

Rick stood a short distance from them, eyes narrowed on his best friend.

“No problem here. Just having a chat.”, Shane smiled, acting as if he didn’t just have Pheonyx cornered.

Pheonyx opted to not rock the boat, knowing it would just cause more problems for the group’s standing on the farm. If Hershel knew that Shane had acted like that with his step son, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw them out.

“No problem at all, Rick. Just having a conversation. Man to Man.”, Pheonyx smirked and placed a condescending hand on the taller man’s shoulder. The sharp look Shane gave him was worth the probable consequences of poking the bear. “I was just heading out. I’ll be in the stables if you need anything.”

Without a backward glance, Pheonyx walked around the Sheriff and left through the squeaky screen door. The fresh air hit his face and the adrenaline that had been running rampant through his body disappeared. A lump built in his throat and he had to stop the tears from running down his face. Shane’s hate was bringing up a lot of memories that Pheonyx thought he’d moved past. But there he was, trying not to see the flickering light in the alley as it created shadows, making the men look taller than they were. Trying not to smell the ripe stench of garbage and body odor. Trying not to hear their vile words whispered in his ear. Trying not to feel their fingers digging into his shoulders and tearing at his clothes. Trying not to remember the taste of blood filling his mouth, mixing with the bile that lingered from their attack.

We’re gonna fix you, sweetheart. Just gotta show you how to be a woman.

The voice floated in his brain like ash after a wildfire. No matter the distance from the flame, it still lingered, staining his thoughts black.

Taglist: @dixonsboy19, @edgyboi10000, @yoongibaybee

[loganlostitall]

It’s here lovelies 🖤

From The Ashes- Chapter 12

Note: Sorry for the lateness. This is a bit more of an intense chapter, you get to see the full picture of Pheonyx's scars and also how it affects Daryl to see them. The after effects of Pheonyx's encounter with Shane are also intense. Both of our boys are dealing with a lot.

Spotify (Songs that remind me of Pheonyx, Pheonyx/Daryl, or just songs that I listen to while I'm writing.) Song: Coal by Dylan Gossett(If you're a fan of Noah Kahan I recommend checking out Dylan's music!)

Dividers: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours Banners: @liminal-creations

Chapter CW/TW: PTSD, Past rape/noncon, past child abuse/neglect, anxiety attack, physical description of abuse scars, intense transphobic internal monologue, vomiting

Prev / Masterlist

The first time Pheonyx had an anxiety attack was the second week after he woke up in the hospital. It would have happened sooner but–up until that point–he was drugged to oblivion and catatonic between bouts of medication-induced slumber. When the doctors started weaning him off the pain meds, he became more aware of what was happening around him and it seemed like every emotion was multiplied to a thousand. He spent a week feeling numb and tired to suddenly being surrounded by lights and sounds that set every synapse in his brain on fire. 

Overall, he was able to keep his calm when feelings were flooding his system, but he broke down when he woke up on the 9th morning and Aaron wasn't there.  Despite the fact that Pheonyx spent the majority of the first week sleeping and staring at a wall, Aaron had stuck by his bedside faithfully. The only times he left were when Pheonyx was unconscious. Even then, it was only to go home, shower, and eat. The curly haired man even slept on the uncomfortable recliner in the corner of the hospital room. Pheonyx was still unsure why the man had chosen to stick by him. Aaron’s duty to him ended the second the ambulance had taken him away. But, according to his nurse, within ten minutes of arriving at the hospital’s ER, Aaron was in the waiting room using all the charm he had to try to get information on how Pheonyx was doing. 

So, when the presence of the man who saved Pheonyx's life–who protected him while he was at his weakest–was nowhere to be seen after a night full of nightmares, his strength shattered. Darkness pooled in the corners of his vision and suddenly every breath was like fighting a dragon that took up residence on his chest. The feeling only got worse when the heart monitor attached to him began to beep incessantly and a small alarm went off above his head. Within a few minutes, the room was suddenly filled with medical personnel. The nurses tried to calm him, talk him through the attack and it started to work, the deep breathing, but when the doctor grabbed his arm to try to administer a sedative, he found himself screaming. The hands, rough even under the rubbery feel of the gloves, felt too familiar. His skin crawled and he had to get away, trying desperately to stop history from repeating itself so soon. Aaron had probably heard his screaming from down the hall, because he ran into the room, face red and eyes frantically scanning the enclosed space. Still trying to avoid the syringe in the doctor's hand, Pheonyx's heart immediately slowed when he saw Aaron pushing past the nurses to get to his side. All that fear and pain finally came to a head and he cried for the first time since he was hurt. Aaron advocated for him when the doctor was insisting on pushing more drugs into his system, chewing them out for being so rough with someone who had been abused so badly only 9 days prior. 

The whole time, Pheonyx held Aaron's hand like it was a lifeline. Like he was floating out at sea, the anxiety and panic, a kraken trying to drag him by his legs under the surface, and the only thing holding his head above water was the warmth coming from the other man's smooth hands. He spent the next 2 hours gripping Aaron's fingers until the feeling of impending pain finally eased. 

Later, his therapist would call it codependency, the fact that he couldn't cope without the other man's presence as a buffer, but to Pheonyx it was comfort. He'd been hurt so many times in his life, and no one had stopped to help him. Not even his own mother. But this complete stranger had taken it upon himself to not only rescue Pheonyx physically from death, but also emotionally from the darkest depths of his mind. 

As time went on, Pheonyx managed to find his comfort in other things. Music, cooking, getting tattoos, reading. And when he found Kismet starving behind the dumpster of Zombie Ink, he found himself being the strength for something suffering from similar abuses. He still had flares of anxiety and panic when he was in large groups, especially around strangers, or when cis men pushed in a little too close to him. But it had been over 2 years since he had a full blown attack. All the progress was ripped open like a scarred wound when Shane had grabbed his arm. It brought up so many antique sorrows from the dusty depths of his mind. That lack of bodily autonomy and those memories of being broken were like a rattlesnake wrapping tight around his brain. Constantly slithering around his mind and coiling up, ready to strike at any moment. Ready to inject its venom of self hatred and consternation. It took 6 years of therapy to bash the snake to death but the ghost of the creature still ruled his thoughts sometimes.

Pheonyx used to have a rhythm for pulling himself out of that dark dimension. But it had been so long that he nearly hyperventilated before he was able to calm his breathing and work through the mental exercises his therapist recommended for him. The sun had completely disappeared from the sky by the time he felt his feet hit the ground again. The moon wasn't even over the trees yet though, so he hadn't been lost for long. By some miracle, no one had come out the front door, or looked over from their campfires on the other side of the main property. He loathed the idea of worrying his family, or having to explain his moment of weakness to one of Rick's group. 

Despite the evening of his heart rate, his stomach rebelled at the abuse his mind threw at him and bile slithered up his throat. Clutching his stomach, Pheonyx only had a moment to get to the side of the house, out of sight, before the meager contents of his stomach came out of his mouth. Having only eaten jerky and some toast earlier in the day, it was mostly acid. Pheonyx grimaced at the taste in his mouth and the burn in his throat. 

He wiped sweat from his forehead and used his booted foot to sweep some dirt over the small amount of vomit on the ground. He didn't want to waste water, or draw attention to himself, by turning on the hose to clean it up.  The grass crunched under his feet as he made his way to the stables, breaking through the sound of crickets and cicadas that rang through the evening air. Though he knew he would benefit from a shower, the water would be heaven on his tired muscles, and the stench of sweat, dirt, and walker blood emanating from his skin was probably horrible. But he knew he needed to go out tonight, taking a shower before getting dirty again just seemed wasteful. The traps needed to be refreshed with fresh offal, and he needed to make sure to burn any bodies that had wandered into the spikes. 

The sound of the porch door being pushed open made Pheonyx glance over his shoulder. Like a spotted ghost, Kismet shoved his way through the flimsy door and  tumbled down the wooden steps towards his owner. A large bully smile was wide on his face as he ran to catch up with Pheonyx. He almost tripped 3 times, his brain unable to fully control the massive paws underneath him. Pheonyx braced himself for impact, as he knew Kismet wouldn't be able to fully stop himself in time, and he was glad he did. The thick skull of his fur baby rammed into his knee and nearly toppled him over. 

"Jesus Christ!", Pheonyx grunted and placed his hand on the dog to settle him. "How have you not killed yourself yet? Or someone else for that matter?", he muttered under his breath. "Come on, bud. Let's feed the horses."

The duo made it to the stables in less than a minute. Kismet immediately left Pheonyx's side, while the man went to turn on the lanterns scattered around the barn, to greet all of the horses. Koda and Nellie, both chestnut quarter horses, stuck their noses down to nuzzle against the enthusiastic dog. Baker was an older roan quarter horse. His fur was based black with a dusting of white across, making him look like he'd rolled in flour. Even more gray covered his nose, indicating his age. Hershel had acquired him before Pheonyx was even born. 

Just like most old men, Baker was craggy and refused to give Kismet the time of day. He snorted and tossed his head when the pup made his way over. Kismet didn't let it phase him though, he hopped up and stole a kiss from the grumpy horse, who let out a whinny in protest. But he left him alone after that, moving to the last horse housed in the stables, Beauty. The beautiful quarter horse was entirely black aside from a white star on his forehead, just like his namesake, Black Beauty. 

Pheonyx watched as the stoic horse tossed his head in delight, his lips rolling up in a ridiculous smile at seeing Kismet making his way over. While Koda and Nellie simply put up with the over enthusiastic dog, and Baker hated the furry beast, Beauty enjoyed the pup's company. 

Turning his attention to the buckets in each stall, Pheonyx sent a thank you to the earth when he noticed the fresh water, hay, and the remains of feed in their individual buckets. Maggie must have taken care of the animals, knowing that he would be gone most of the day. He had no issues feeding the animals, it was pretty much routine after two months, but he was tired. And the idea of measuring feed and vitamins just made his brain feel like mush. Glancing at the analog clock (whose batteries had just been replaced recently) on the wall outside the tack room, Pheonyx sighed when he realized it was close to 10. He had to go out tonight but it was still too early to make his way to the woods. He could see some lights in the house from the stable door, and he didn't want to risk anyone finding out about his nightly routine. Not yet. Running a hand through his thick hair, Pheonyx contemplated the best move. He knew if he fell asleep now, he would be dead to the world for the next 8 hours. 

Deciding to kill some time, Pheonyx unclipped his weapons from his belt, taking care to place them on his cot, and stripped off his dirty tank top. He tossed it into the corner of the stall, making a mental note to wash it later. He grabbed some baby wipes from the same stall and began to wipe away some of the sweat and dirt from the day, grimacing at the black dirt streaked on the soft cloth. It would have to suffice until he was able to take a shower later. After discarding the wipes, he took a moment to run a hand over his flat chest, admiring the feeling that he dreamed of for so long. Underneath the raven wings spread across his collarbone and sternum, two mirrored crimson lines ran under his pectoral muscles, breaking for about an inch in between.  The scars from the surgery were still red and stark even against the tan of his skin. They were a bit raised, mostly from moving too much after surgery and not stretching the skin properly. But he couldn’t help the fact that the world ended while he was in recovery. He couldn’t exactly adhere to his surgeon’s post-surgery care instructions while battling dead people. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have worse scars on his body. At least these scars were ones he felt he could be proud of. Pheonyx ran his hands over the bumpy skin, massaging the tissue a bit, trying to help the nerves reconnect and soften the area like he read about. He did this for a few minutes before going to the tack room to grab some protein bars. His stomach was still rolling from throwing up earlier, but he knew he needed the energy. So, he scarfed down two bars that were labeled as chocolate peanut butter flavored but tasted like neither chocolate nor peanut butter. The burning in his belly calmed a bit, thankfully. Enjoying the air on his exposed chest, the burst of euphoria giving him some extra energy, Pheonyx pulled a haybale to the center of the stable aisle and laid a horse blanket on top to protect his butt from the itchy straw. 

Pheonyx went to the stall with his cot and opted to kick his shoes off, allowing his feet to breathe for a short while, the cool air feeling like heaven on his tired toes. He grabbed his guitar case from the corner and opened it up, pulling out the off brand acoustic that he had gotten at a garage sale for 5 bucks. Despite its nameless brand, the instrument was inlaid with beautiful flowers and dark wood that made it look expensive, almost hand made. Beth had been the one to pick up guitar first, at age 6, learning from an older lady at their church. In her excitement after each lesson, she would walk Pheonyx through everything she learned. With the 12 year difference between them, Pheonyx had always had a hard time connecting with the vivacious blonde. But music allowed him to bridge the gap that their age had brought between them. Video calls had given him the chance to keep up with her progress even when states separated them. He wouldn’t consider himself a guitar prodigy, he couldn’t read sheet music for shit, but he learned chords quickly and had an ear for replicating songs that he heard a few times. Overall, singing and playing were a distraction. Another piece in the complicated puzzle of his recovery. 

Pulling the strap over his shoulders, he relished in the cool feeling of the wood against his bare skin. Kismet got to his feet from his spot that he claimed in front of Beauty’s stall, stretching like a cat, and trotted over to plop himself down in front of the hay bale that Pheonyx was going to sit on. 

Pheonyx maneuvered himself onto the hay bale, tucking his legs in a criss cross pattern and placing the guitar in his lap. He strummed the strings experimentally, sending a thanks to the earth when the notes came out in-tune. The Georgia heat had a tendency to fuck with the wood but his case seemed to be doing a good job of stopping expansion despite the violent temperatures. 

Fingers moving in a practiced pattern against the frets, he tested out some chords, trying to think of what to play. 

“Any suggestions?,” he asked, looking around the stable at each of the animals. The only answers he received from the horses was a glare from Baker and a snort from Nellie. 

“You can request it as much as you want, Nell, but I’m not playing Wonderwall. I’m not that much of a douche.”

Kismet lifted his head from its spot on the cool concrete and gave a little awhoo, a mix between a howl and a whine. Although it wasn’t an actual spoken answer, Pheonyx gathered what the dog was asking for. 

“Dylan Gossett? I’m surprised you’re not sick of him yet. You worked hard today though so you get first pick.” 

The dog’s tail beat against the stable floor, as if he understood every word, before he laid his bulky head down onto his paws with a sigh.  

Calloused fingers moved onto the proper strings, the metal ribbed wire pinched the skin in a familiar pain. He shut his eyes and pictured the song in his head. The chords and the feelings flowing from his brain straight into his fingers. The soft music floated throughout the barn and he started to sing, letting his brain rest from the stress of the world and the demons in his mind. 

Daryl tossed on top of his sleeping bag for the upteenth time in the past hour. It was too hot. That’s what he kept telling himself. The sweat coating his body and the thick air was what was keeping him up. It wasn’t the green eyes that kept flashing in his mind. Or the thick brown hair. Or the colorful art that dotted tanned skin. He wasn’t thinking about how much of that skin was probably covered in tattoos. And he certainly wasn’t thinking about how that skin might feel underneath his fingers. Would it be soft? He felt like it would. Their hands had brushed only for a moment earlier and that small glimpse of sensation was softer than the flannel pillowcase he had for 13 years growing up. Originally a red plaid, the case had been washed so many times that the fabric was dulled to a light pink, and so thin that he could practically poke holes in it with just his fingers. He refused to throw it out though. It was soft and comforting when his life was all sharp edges and pain. During a drunken rage, his father had burned it. Just like every other good thing in his life. 

Sighing, Daryl flipped to his other side, too tired to process the implications of his obsessive ideas. He tried to clear his brain of all thoughts, only focusing on the intake and exhale of his breath. He needed to get some rest. He had gotten barely 2 hours of sleep the night before and if he was going to spend another day in the sweltering woods, he needed to relax. 

When the first whisper-soft notes of sound began to float around him, Daryl thought his mind was simply fucking with him. Playing music to an unknown song while he was trying desperately to sleep. The melody of cicadas and crickets began to blend with the soft notes and Daryl opened his eyes, nose scrunching in confusion. Everyone else was bunked down for the night, aside from Andrea who had the first watch shift. He knew that because he heard the concurrent “good night”s and the accompanying sound of tents being unzipped and zipped again. He’d kept a mental tally. Dale was the first to announce his departure, including Carol in the plans as well since they were both sleeping in the RV. Glenn and T-Dog were next. Then, Shane had kicked dirt over the fire before heading to his own tent. Rick and Lori were sleeping in the same room with Carl. None of the group had music players, and radio was a thing of the past. While the notes were quiet and dampened by the walls of his tent, he didn’t think it was coming from the farmhouse, it wasn’t muted enough for that. The only other sound was the occasional rustle of sleeping bags from the tents in the distance, as Daryl had made sure to set his tent up a fair length away from the main camp. No one else seemed to be disturbed by the sound, which wasn't entirely surprising, the music was barely audible. He doubted any of the people in the group had the heightened sense of situational awareness to hear it. 

Grunting in exasperation, at the weakness of his group members and the fact he wasn't getting sleep anytime soon, Daryl lifted himself up into a sitting position. He wiped a dirty hand over his short hair. The oldest sister, Maggie, stopped him after he was done talking to Carol earlier. She didn't say much, just offered their bathroom up to him so he could shower, with hot water surprisingly.  The idea sounded amazing. He'd taken a brief one at the CDC but all the running and searching made that cleanliness a distant memory. But the idea of stepping into that farmhouse made him nauseous. The idea of tainting the purity of the pristine house with his dirty soul was sickening. He'd take a dip in the creek tomorrow sometime. That's the only place he felt a dirty Dixon like him deserved. Instead of answering, he'd simply grunted a thanks and walked away. He was regretting it now though, the dried sweat and dirt made his skin itch a bit as he crawled out of his tent into the humid air, making sure to grab his bow. Fresh sweat began to pebble on his skin, starting the cycle all over again. Looking around, the only movement he could see was Andrea on the roof of the RV, her head doing a back and forth sweep with a pair of binoculars, checking the fields for signs of walkers. Even the farmhouse was still. The only sign of life was a small oil lantern flickering in one of the second floor windows. Gripping his crossbow tightly, his palms sweaty against the smooth surface of the stock, Daryl started to follow the music. 

Grass crunched under his booted feet as he made his way out of their makeshift camp and got closer to the farmhouse. As he passed the covered porch, the music grew in volume, still barely audible. He walked slowly around the house and stopped when he found the source of the sound. A distance off, soft lantern light poured out of a set of rolling doors on a long building that was much newer than the other structures on the farm. Several small paddocks and water troughs surrounded it leading him to believe it was a stable or barn of sorts. 

Realizing one of the Greenes must be listening to music in the barn, he loosened his tight grip on the bow. The noise was barely noticeable, especially over the summer song of crickets and nightly breeze, so the likelihood of any walkers being drawn towards the farm were slim. As the distance between his feet and the barn decreased, a voice began to become understandable through the lulling chords of guitar strings. 

"-I still keep it with me

Tucked under all the memories

Your voice echoing throughout those trees…”

The song itself sounded folkish with a hint of country quality, a mix of husky voice and rural twang. Daryl was more of an old rock fan, his limited musical library consisting of AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses, and Led Zeppelin. That was the typical type of music that played in any of the garages he would work at while Merle was doing stints in whatever prison or court mandated rehab. So, he’d learned to prefer it. But Merle was a fan of old country music, so he did often listen to George Strait, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Dolly Parton. Of course, Merle insisted he only listened to Dolly because she had a good rack but he had seen the older man shed a tear while listening to “Down from Dover”. The song playing had many of the old country-esque qualities that he was familiar with, although the lyrics themselves were a mystery to him. 

“And through unfavorable weather

And holes in the leather

These boots still covered in tar

Well I'm still praying to the heavens

And hoping for them sevens

But hope only gets a man so far…” 

When he was in front of the open stable doors, the heavy scent of hay and horses indicating that the structure was indeed a horse stable, he realized it wasn’t a radio he was hearing, but the dulcet sound of someone singing and playing the guitar. There were 3 lit lanterns spread throughout the aisle, casting shadows and yellow light throughout the space. It took a moment for Daryl’s eyes to adjust to the brightness and the unfamiliar surroundings. His sight was immediately drawn to the figure in the center of the building. Pheonyx was sitting on top of a covered hay bale, calloused fingers expertly plucking and strumming a beautiful dark wood guitar. His head was turned down, focusing on the strings so Daryl couldn’t see the movement of his lips but he watched as the man’s shoulders moved along with every word and how he moved slightly side-to-side with the rhythm of the music. 

“When this game of life plays heavy on my heart and–

Love is tough and loneliness is twice as hard and–

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell am I still coal?…”

Pheonyx's voice was like the campfire from the 4th of July when Daryl was eleven. The comforting tone was like the heat from the flames, surrounding his shoulders and wrapping his body tight. It wasn’t deep, but still husky and dark like the smoke that wafted up into that humid summer night, staining his tattered clothes with a familiar soothing scent. Occasional broken notes were reminiscent of the crackling fire, the popping and hissing of its own song. Despite the roughness of Pheonyx’s voice, it was still soft like the marshmallows that Merle stole from the local Piggly Wiggly. Daryl had stolen the chocolate to pair with the sweet cloudy treat, but neither could fit any graham crackers under their shirts. So, they used their pocket knives to cut holes in the marshmallows, put a piece of chocolate inside, and then roast it over the flame. The outsides of the sugary pillows were charred to hell, and the chocolate barely room temp inside, but it was still perfect. Just like that memory. 2 days later, Merle left for basic training and ultimately left Daryl alone with their abusive father.  Despite that, that 4th was one he looked back on with fondness. It was perfect but also imperfect. Just like Pheonyx’s voice. It wasn't the flawless heavily edited voices that he heard playing on the radio before the turn. It was imperfect and that made it perfect. 

“I've seen heaven without dying

Met the devil without trying and they both seem to wanna talk to me

But I'm all outta luck now and my dreams aren't worth a buck now

It's tough tryna land on my feet…” 

Daryl watched the shadows dance across the younger man’s shoulders as the song picked up in intensity, muscles in his arms clenching and unclenching with every movement. He watched Medusa’s snakes on his shoulder dance with the rhythm of the song, as the tissue and sinew kept up with every note. Eyes trailing up over the smooth skin of his shoulder, he reached the man’s collarbones when his body became acutely aware that Pheonyx wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just as the thought entered his mind, which effectively became foggy, Pheonyx leaned back a bit, lifting his head and giving Daryl a full glimpse of the tattoo imprinted on the man’s chest. Much like the style of the other pieces on his body, a gothic style raven was spread across the hard form of the man’s collarbones. Wings spread in flight, the raven looked like it was decaying, feathers were falling from its open wings and bone could be seen poking through torn skin over the expanse of the bird's body. Mouth drying, Daryl wondered what it would be like to trail his fingers over the skin there. Would it be a beautiful juxtaposition of hardness and softness, the velvety derma laying over dense ossein?

“When this game of life plays heavy on my heart and

Love is tough but loneliness is twice as hard and

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell am I still coal?...”

Before his thoughts could enter even more of a dangerous territory, Daryl was distracted by the little bit of movement that he caught at the corner of his eye. He was sure Pheonyx hadn’t noticed his presence, but the animals in the barn did. The large eyes of 4 horses were drawn to him, but they showed no outward reaction to his existence. In fact, he swore he saw them moving their heads to the rhythm a small bit. Except for the gray horse, he just glared at the archer and flipped his head at him. At Pheonyx’s feet, Kismet had raised his head and was smiling at Daryl. He didn’t get up from his position on the floor but the dog’s tail started to thump faster against the ground. Chocolate brown eyes looked at him in happiness and Daryl would be lying if he said it didn’t make his chest ache a bit. 

The song sped up even more and Pheonyx sat up a bit straighter, exposing more of his torso from behind the guitar. Daryl looked away from the happy dog and his eyes were pulled into the long red scars that ran across Pheonyx’s chest. His heart began to race, mind wandering to all the possible causes for the imperfections. 

“And everyday it's getting colder

Since that day in October

When you told me it was over, so I left

So if you need me, well I told you

I'm on the better side of sober

Tryna find a four-leaf clover to get me out of this mess

This game of life plays heavy on my heart and

Love is tough but loneliness is twice as hard and

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell–”

It took a moment of confusing internal panic for Daryl to figure out the scars, running directly under the raven and parallel to its wings, were from some kind of surgery. Recently, if he had to guess. The scars were still bright and almost angry looking compared to the surrounding skin. Almost imperceptible, evenly spaced dots ran on either side of the angry skin, imprints of stitches long gone. The same dots ran in a circle around his nipples, which almost looked a bit scabbed. 

The voice of his father rang through in his mind, Fuckin’ bitch thinks cuttin’ ‘er tits off will make ‘er a man? Ain’t gonna change the cunt between ‘er legs. Always knew ya were a fuckin’ faggot. Look at ya, boy. Lustin’ after some psycho tranny. Prolly the only pussy ya could ever get. 

Daryl physically shook his head, pushing out the remnants of his father’s hate. The man was dead but still haunted his son’s thoughts. That smoke-roughened voice was ingrained harder in his body than the scars on his back. 

“This game of life plays heavy on my heart and

Love is tough but loneliness is twice as hard and

I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go

They say pressure makes diamonds

How the hell am I still coal?” 

As the last note vibrated through the strings of the guitar, silence enveloped the wide space. Behind him, Daryl noted the sound of crickets increasing, the music no longer drowning them out. Aside from the insects, the only sounds that broke through the space was the slight shuffling of horse hooves and low panting from Kismet. 

“5 bucks to request a song.”, Pheonyx’s voice, slightly scratchy from singing, brought Daryl’s mind back into focus. Despite the archer’s earlier thoughts, Pheonyx knew he had an audience. After spending a full day walking side-by-side with the other man, the sound of Daryl’s soft steps was easily imprinted in his mind. So, he’d heard him the second the man’s boots came within a few feet of the stable. 

Blood rushed to Daryl’s face as he realized he was caught gawking. Embarrassment–and the remnants of his father’s words–sparked a small amount of anger in his chest. “All yer caterwaulin’s gonna bring a herd down on us. The fuck ya think yer doin?”, he snapped, taking a few steps into the stable, “This ain’t fuckin’ American Idol or some shit.”

“No, it’s definitely not. You’re much cuter than Simon Cowell.”, Pheonyx quipped, raising an eyebrow. Men raising their voices was typically an anxiety inducer for him, but something about Daryl’s demeanor made the other man feel more like a hissing kitten as opposed to a feral mountain lion. 

Shocked at Pheonyx’s words, Daryl didn’t know how to respond. Was he joking? Daryl Dixon wasn’t cute. He was an ugly old redneck. No one had ever called him cute before. 

At Daryl’s widened eyes, Pheonyx stood up, and placed the guitar down on the hay bale where he had been sitting. Kismet raised his head and looked between the two of them before huffing and lowering his head to his paws. Within a few seconds, soft snores filled some of the silence. Slightly scared to hear the other man’s response to his flirting, Pheonyx opted to continue. “You don’t have to worry though. The windchimes in the woods help dilute the sounds from the farm. As long as I don’t decide to take up the electric guitar, we’re as safe as we can be.” 

“Still shouldn’ be takin’ any chances,” Daryl grumbled, his eyes narrowed. He briefly glanced down, taking in the full view of Pheonyx’s torso. Under the scars on his right side, a quote was scrawled across his ribs, although Daryl wasn’t close enough to see exactly what it said. On the opposite side, in a fancy cursive font that was larger than the quote’s, was a girl’s name. Daryl didn’t understand the weird rolling in his stomach at the idea of someone else’s name being on Pheonyx’s skin. It wasn’t something he’d ever felt before and he pulled his stare away, hoping to unpack the feeling at a different time. Drifting down, a quarter sized round scar was prominent on the younger man’s stomach. It wasn’t as new as the ones on his chest. This one was older, and less smooth. The scar was brown and sunken into the surrounding skin, almost as if something gouged the flesh out. Almost unnoticeable on his pale skin, several pale jagged lines circled Pheonyx’s belly button, not scars, but stretch marks. They were very light, and Daryl only saw them because the lantern light was hitting the area just right. Those lines led under low slung jeans and Daryl had to stop himself from thinking about what else those jeans were covering. 

“Probably not, but sometimes you have to weigh risk and reward. What is the point of living anymore if you can’t do the small things that make you happy?”, Pheonyx crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t do it much, just needed to let off some steam.” He took in the bedraggled appearance of the other man. Daryl was still wearing the same clothes from earlier but now they looked wrinkled, more wrinkled than before. Short hair was sticking up on the back of his head and he had a look on his face that reminded Pheonyx of Beth when she woke up from her naps as a baby. "Can't sleep?"

The deep grunt from Daryl’s chest was almost a guffaw.  "Was tryin. Heard ya singin. Thought maybe someone left a music player on or somethin’,” He looked at Pheonyx and a wave of shyness came over him. The slight upturn of the other man’s lip was making the moths in his stomach beat against his intestines with the strength of a CAT bulldozer. He had roasted up a squirrel before heading to bed, the meat probably hadn’t sat well with him. Gripping the crossbow strap on his shoulder, he brought his thumb up to his mouth to chew on the corner of his nail. “Yer pretty good”. The words were spoken softly. He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted Pheonyx to hear him. 

Surprised at the compliment, a small squeak escaped Pheonyx’s chest. He covered it quickly with a cough and rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks," He ducked his head as blood rushed to the surface of his skin, heating up his already warmed body. 

Daryl gulped as he watched a red pigment pop up over Pheonyx’s cheeks and slowly spread down his neck, to his chest, to his stomach, and past the waist of his jeans. The only response he could muster was a grunt as he tried not to think about how his own blood was making a similar southward journey. Although this was probably for a much different reason. Daryl averted his eyes to the floor of the stable, suddenly fascinated by a small piece of dried mud that oddly resembled the state of Florida. 

To hide his embarrassment, Pheonyx wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. “So, um- I figured we'd pick up where we left off tomorrow. Sophia seems to be sticking close to the creek. There are a few landmarks along there she could be holed up at-”.

Without thinking, Pheonyx turned around, going to grab one of the three unopened water bottles sitting on the table outside of the tack room. His mouth was suddenly dry so he opened the bottle and took a few hefty swallows to remove the cottony film that had slowly spread over his taste buds. 

At first, Daryl didn’t see them. All he saw was more ink spread across broad shoulders. It was easily the most eye-catching tattoo that he had seen on the man so far. An amalgamated blend of dark reds, deep purples, fiery oranges, and bright yellows in almost paint-like strokes created an image of a phoenix in flight. Both wings reached up towards Pheonyx’s shoulder, the feathered ends were ragged flames that almost seemed to be in perpetual motion. Smoke and ash circled its feet and followed in a cloud behind its body, a nest of history and rebirth. A death left behind.  Small black eyes were galvanizing against the backdrop of smoldering colors. Those little dots told a whole story in and of themselves. The expanse of inked skin was an enchanting piece of artwork that practically flew off the surface it was needled into. 

It was only when Pheonyx lifted his arm to bring a bottle of water to his lips, did the lantern light accentuate the skin that Daryl thought was smooth only moments before. Instead of even flesh, heavy scarring marked almost every inch of skin along his whole back. The type of scarring Daryl was all too familiar with. Long, deep lashes broke the surface of the area. Only slightly thinner than his own. Whip marks. Dozens of them. More than Merle and he had combined. Littered between each mark of rancor were round, sharply-demarcated cigarette burns. Less than the whip marks but still a dozen at least. Daryl had to force down the squirrel that threatened to make a return appearance. Those memories from moments ago–happy memories of campfires, charred redneck s’mores, and brotherly bonding–were quickly replaced by nightmarish flashes of subjugation and brutalization. Red stained leather repeatedly falling down on his back, breaking open the soft skin of his boyhood and replacing it with the tougher, thicker skin of his adulthood. Each lash another brick on the wall he kept around his heart, a testament to his distrust and solitude. He needed to leave. The muscles in his legs were twitching. His brain was sending the signals to his feet to run but they weren't listening. It was like sirens were going off in his head and he was right back at that dirty old trailer, hiding in his tiny closet. Praying to a God his mother had so fiercely believed in. 

To think that Pheonyx had felt something similar, more if the amount of scarring was anything to go by, made him sick. He had to get away. Get away from the reminder of the weakest points of his life. 

Pheonyx turned around, placing the bottle cap back on his water, and stopped his rambling at the ghost standing in the entrance of the stable. Daryl’s bronzed skin was suddenly cadaverous, the blush that had been there moments before was completely bleached from his body. Sweat shined on his forehead and the whites of his eyes were nearly imperceptible against the pallid color of the surrounding flesh. Blue eyes latched on to him and he was nearly floored by the amount of emotion rolling off of them. While something wiggled in his brain that told him he was wrong, Pheonyx identified the emotion as disgust. The way Daryl’s eyebrows pushed together and his mouth pushed into a thin line, made the revulsion evident. He felt a surge of panic when he realized what caused this sudden change in the man across from him. His back. He hadn’t even thought about it. Growing up, he tried not to be ashamed of the scars but it was hard not to be. For so long he had to hide them, from his mother, then from his siblings. His mother wrote notes so he didn’t have to change in the locker rooms at school, ashamed of what his peers would say about their family. When he left Georgia, he made the ultimate decision to leave his hatred for the marks behind as well. The back tattoo had been his ultimate fuck-you to his father’s abuse. The tattoo artist he worked with specialized in scarring, and even used some of the scars to create the lines and color of the fiery bird, incorporating pieces of a broken childhood into a beautiful picture of reclaiming. But that familiar feeling of embarrassment and mortification slipped back into his heart at the look of repugnance on Daryl's face. Feelings that he swore he would never feel again. 

Before Pheonyx could utter a word, Daryl whirled around and disappeared into the darkness of the night. A bubble of sorrow traveled up his throat and the familiar sting of tears began to fog up his vision. He scrubbed his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding his water bottle, refusing to let those little beads of weakness roll down his face. That feeling of sadness was quickly replaced with anger. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? He’s just a guy. I haven’t even known him for a full day. His feelings shouldn’t determine my self worth!, His internal monologue screamed. He was a fighter. He had been broken so many times. Beaten into dust. But he fixed himself. For years, he sat and glued those pieces of himself back into place, replacing the destroyed one with new pieces, learning to live with the holes of ones he couldn’t fix. But he was whole. And he did that. He wasn’t going to let some guy destroy his very essence. In anger, Pheonyx tossed the water bottle at the tack room wall. The plastic caved easily and a spray of water spread over the cement floor. The horses all jumped back in shock, their hooves clipping on their stall floors. 

Having heard the sudden movement of Daryl’s escape and Pheonyx’s outburst, Kismet looked at Pheonyx with worry. He lifted himself off the ground and trotted over to his owner. He pressed himself up against the man’s legs and nudged his head up against calloused fingers. A low whine escaped his barrel chest, a vocalization of his concern. 

Guilt ate at Pheonyx’s chest. He hated scaring the animals. “Sorry, guys.”, he spoke softly to them all, trying to calm himself. 

He thought Daryl was different. Earlier that day–when the man had accepted his identity without any protests or questions– Pheonyx felt like he might have found someone he could connect with. If not on a romantic level, at least as a friend. But he was wrong. The look of horror on the man's face as he backed out of the barn had that familiar feeling of shame filling his stomach. The scars that laced his back like a patchwork quilt of heartbreak and abandonment. Each piece was a square of fabric that told its own story. Daryl was the same as everyone else, seeing only the scars on the surface and judging him for them. 

“Fuck it.”, He refused to sit there and wallow in self-hate. Pheonyx walked with purpose to his stall, grabbing his bag of clothes and digging deep until he found an old clean band t-shirt. He pulled the soft fabric over his head, covering the objects of his discomfiture. Snatching up his cutlass and hunting knife, he quickly hooked the weapons to his belt, the weights of them a blanket of comfort across his skin. Opting to leave his Glock behind, he looked around for his bow and quiver that he had given to Maggie to put up. Both of them were leaned up against the small table by his bed, and he grabbed them. Feeling a bit of an evening breeze, Pheonyx also grabbed his jean jacket. The light blue denim was soft from years of wear and the sewn in red hood made for good protection whenever the Georgia skies opened up.  He shrugged on the jacket, making sure the hood wasn’t tucked inside. Movement was slightly limited with the material but it was better to have his arms covered since he was going out alone.

Pulling the quiver over his shoulders, he gripped the bow in his hand, some anger still running through his veins. He shut off all but one of the lanterns in the stable and made to leave. The clicking of familiar nails on the cement floor made him turn around to the big dog following him. 

“Go to the house, Kismet. You can’t go. You know that.”, another soft whine rumbled through the dog’s chest and Pheonyx felt guilt crawl in his stomach. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’ll be okay. Go on. Go to bed.” He used the bow to point toward the house.

Sad chocolate eyes stared at the man for a moment. Then, Kismet huffed and started trotting towards the farmhouse. 

Rolling his shoulders, Pheonyx pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He walked until he reached the edge of the woods and stepped over the barb wire that encased the wood line. Just like every other night, he pushed into the gloaming of the night and chased after shadows. 

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