Daryl Dixon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
weaintashes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-08-02 03:55 pm
weaintashes) wrote in thecapitol2015-08-02 03:55 pm
Entry tags:
Always darkest before the dawn
Who| (child!)Daryl and Rick, (child!)Daryl and Merle, Daryl and Aaron.
What| Brotherly bonding, his future helping him with his past, both distant and recent.
Where| Dreamscapes.
When| Throughout the week of dreaming.
Warnings/Notes| Descriptions of child abuse, violence, gore, cannibalism. Possible mentions of bigotry of all sorts courtesy of Merle.
Rick:
Shadows like black voids crept behind darkened, broken windows of a run-down trailer home, with remnants of a dirt road before it and woods rising up behind, set against a sky in perpetual murky dusk. The dimensions of the trailer seemed to be in constant flux, shifting like muscle beneath skin, as though the flimsy paneling could barely contain the monstrosities within. While also dark, the woods were more vibrant and alive, less ominous. They were the little boy's sanctuary.
But no matter how hard he tried to run, to escape into them, the trailer and its horrors remained always at his back, too near and somehow dragging him closer. It felt like running through tar and he was steadily sinking. With his strength waning and an unnatural exhaustion setting in, he fell to his hands and knees in the dirt, shivering with animal instinct, knowing he was trapped. Terrified beyond reason. He struggled to hold back his shameful tears, thin shoulders shaking with the effort, but he was soon choking on his sobs, trying not to make any noise.
He had to be quiet, and still. The beatings were always so much worse whenever he fought back or cried, whenever he made any sounds at all, even the ones involuntarily torn from him would aggravate his tormentor and drive him to new heights of violence. If Daryl couldn't endure the pain in silence like a man, he deserved everything he got. That was what he'd been told.
Without looking up, he became aware, as one did in dreams, that he wasn't alone. His mind hadn't conjured up this trespasser, he knew that with the same certainty he knew exactly what awaited him in that trailer — and he had to warn the stranger. Nobody should be here.
"Don't you go in there," he whispered in a voice that had already been hoarse before the tears came. There was telling deep bruising around his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his ratty t-shirt, and one side of his downturned face was discoloured with a matching set. A traitorous sniffle escaped him, and he raised a dirty forearm to wipe his eyes.
"Just leave."
Before the stranger could get trapped too.
Merle:
He didn't care much for the old motorcycle helmet that Merle would strap on him — while going without one himself — it was bulky and too big for a child, narrowing Daryl's field of vision annoyingly, and he wished he could feel the wind in his hair. But he didn't complain. These motorcycle rides with his older brother were like his birthday and every holiday all in one — and might as well have been, considering none of those were celebrated by the Dixons. He didn't take anything for granted, and wanted to make the most of it, because there was no telling whether it would be the last trip for a while, or the last one period. Merle came around so infrequently these days, it was likely only a matter of time until he stopped coming back for Daryl at all.
(Deep down, his subconscious mind knew it had already happened.)
Once they were past the pitted dirt roads and onto paved streets, the ride smoothed out and they picked up speed. Daryl liked to throw his arms out then, to feel the wind against his hands in lieu of his hair, able to keep his balance with practised ease. Seated in front of his older brother like he was, losing his balance wouldn't have posed much of a risk, regardless; it would've just annoyed Merle.
Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that they'd never stop. That Merle would simply take him with him, leave this shitty dead-end town, and not look back. It didn't matter where they might end up, anywhere was better than having to return to their father.
His heart sank when they eventually pulled into one of Merle's usual haunts, a dingy dive bar. Meant it was going to be one of those days, where he'd probably be left to his own devices while his brother did whatever he did at places like this. Still, it felt nice just to be included, to be away from their father; he kept his disappointment to himself. Some must have shown on his face as he was pulling off the helmet, however, and he used it to block Merle's swat at him before leaving it on the bike and following his brother inside.
As expected, after Merle got him situated at the bar with a Coke and some food, he vanished to take care of whatever business he had there. Daryl sipped from his drink with a straw and glanced around, finding the faces of the other patrons were indistinct, with only Merle's having had absolute clarity, but he didn't think much of it. A few of the adults tried talking to him, and he shrank away from any attempts to touch him or ruffle his hair, no matter how well-intentioned they might seem. Place like this, it wasn't exactly child-friendly and even he sensed that.
He couldn't say how much time had passed, but it felt like hours. Swiveling his stool around, he looked for his brother with the beginnings of a glower on his face.
Aaron:
[Coming soon.]
What| Brotherly bonding, his future helping him with his past, both distant and recent.
Where| Dreamscapes.
When| Throughout the week of dreaming.
Warnings/Notes| Descriptions of child abuse, violence, gore, cannibalism. Possible mentions of bigotry of all sorts courtesy of Merle.
Rick:
Shadows like black voids crept behind darkened, broken windows of a run-down trailer home, with remnants of a dirt road before it and woods rising up behind, set against a sky in perpetual murky dusk. The dimensions of the trailer seemed to be in constant flux, shifting like muscle beneath skin, as though the flimsy paneling could barely contain the monstrosities within. While also dark, the woods were more vibrant and alive, less ominous. They were the little boy's sanctuary.
But no matter how hard he tried to run, to escape into them, the trailer and its horrors remained always at his back, too near and somehow dragging him closer. It felt like running through tar and he was steadily sinking. With his strength waning and an unnatural exhaustion setting in, he fell to his hands and knees in the dirt, shivering with animal instinct, knowing he was trapped. Terrified beyond reason. He struggled to hold back his shameful tears, thin shoulders shaking with the effort, but he was soon choking on his sobs, trying not to make any noise.
He had to be quiet, and still. The beatings were always so much worse whenever he fought back or cried, whenever he made any sounds at all, even the ones involuntarily torn from him would aggravate his tormentor and drive him to new heights of violence. If Daryl couldn't endure the pain in silence like a man, he deserved everything he got. That was what he'd been told.
Without looking up, he became aware, as one did in dreams, that he wasn't alone. His mind hadn't conjured up this trespasser, he knew that with the same certainty he knew exactly what awaited him in that trailer — and he had to warn the stranger. Nobody should be here.
"Don't you go in there," he whispered in a voice that had already been hoarse before the tears came. There was telling deep bruising around his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his ratty t-shirt, and one side of his downturned face was discoloured with a matching set. A traitorous sniffle escaped him, and he raised a dirty forearm to wipe his eyes.
"Just leave."
Before the stranger could get trapped too.
Merle:
He didn't care much for the old motorcycle helmet that Merle would strap on him — while going without one himself — it was bulky and too big for a child, narrowing Daryl's field of vision annoyingly, and he wished he could feel the wind in his hair. But he didn't complain. These motorcycle rides with his older brother were like his birthday and every holiday all in one — and might as well have been, considering none of those were celebrated by the Dixons. He didn't take anything for granted, and wanted to make the most of it, because there was no telling whether it would be the last trip for a while, or the last one period. Merle came around so infrequently these days, it was likely only a matter of time until he stopped coming back for Daryl at all.
(Deep down, his subconscious mind knew it had already happened.)
Once they were past the pitted dirt roads and onto paved streets, the ride smoothed out and they picked up speed. Daryl liked to throw his arms out then, to feel the wind against his hands in lieu of his hair, able to keep his balance with practised ease. Seated in front of his older brother like he was, losing his balance wouldn't have posed much of a risk, regardless; it would've just annoyed Merle.
Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that they'd never stop. That Merle would simply take him with him, leave this shitty dead-end town, and not look back. It didn't matter where they might end up, anywhere was better than having to return to their father.
His heart sank when they eventually pulled into one of Merle's usual haunts, a dingy dive bar. Meant it was going to be one of those days, where he'd probably be left to his own devices while his brother did whatever he did at places like this. Still, it felt nice just to be included, to be away from their father; he kept his disappointment to himself. Some must have shown on his face as he was pulling off the helmet, however, and he used it to block Merle's swat at him before leaving it on the bike and following his brother inside.
As expected, after Merle got him situated at the bar with a Coke and some food, he vanished to take care of whatever business he had there. Daryl sipped from his drink with a straw and glanced around, finding the faces of the other patrons were indistinct, with only Merle's having had absolute clarity, but he didn't think much of it. A few of the adults tried talking to him, and he shrank away from any attempts to touch him or ruffle his hair, no matter how well-intentioned they might seem. Place like this, it wasn't exactly child-friendly and even he sensed that.
He couldn't say how much time had passed, but it felt like hours. Swiveling his stool around, he looked for his brother with the beginnings of a glower on his face.
Aaron:
[Coming soon.]
no subject
And so, the shift in atmosphere had been lost on him, the Capitol striking upon a weakness he wasn't fully aware that he'd had. It hadn't occurred to him to question it, or where he'd been before his point. Set against the wooded backdrop, it was easy to overlook the way the paths all moved in the same direction, herding him to its intended destination.
Even his own appearance had been skewed, twisted by his own conflicted sense of identity. He was better kempt than he had been in a long while, facial hair trimmed back to the way it had been before the prison fell - Back to when they'd still had mirrors, and Rick could almost recognize the man looking back at him. The stolen shearling jacket was back, mostly hiding the discoloured sheriff uniform shirt beneath, and his usual duty belt was slung low on his hips. The entire ensemble was mismatched and spliced together, elements of both the family man and hardened survivor clashing in a very visual way.
He hadn't needed to see the child cowering to know this was where he was meant to be. The weight that settled itself in the pit of his stomach cemented it, his throat tightening as he squinted at the filthy windows, not quite able to parse the seething shadows beyond. Hell, he didn't have to - A quick look alone was enough to tell him that whatever lay inside the trailer, neither one of them wanted to see it.
His pace slowed as he drew nearer, the crunch of his footsteps announcing his arrival before he'd said a word - but he'd been spotted long before that point.
He always notices me first, even if I am trying to be quiet.
"It's alright."
His tone is steady, measured, even as his expression fell at the child's tone. That unfamiliar waver in his voice that never should have been there. Rick raised his hands to reveal them as empty, a signal of his own peaceful intent.
"I'm not looking for trouble, and... I'm guessing you aren't either."
Rick didn't have an explanation for it, but a part of him knew the boy, recognized him beneath the mask of the age difference. He couldn't put his finger on it, but... he just knew... And it made his heart ache to see him this way.
"My name is Rick Grimes. I..." There was a moment's hesitation, the first words that came to mind not the right ones. "I... was a sheriff. I just want to help."
no subject
It wasn't as though he could've justified dragging the kid around with him. There were times, he'd thought about it. Together on the bike. Out hunting, just the two of them. But with the shit he got himself into, the sheer number of times he'd found himself behind bars - It was dangerously close to being responsible, knowing that he couldn't take Daryl. Hell, Merle preferred to claim it was purely selfish, railing on about how hard it as to get laid with an underage tagalong.
Lowered expectations and all that. He played at it long enough, maybe it'd start to stick.
In the end, better that the kid have a place to rest his head, even if it would never be 'home'. Shit, people like them - They could live their whole lives without ever having a real home. It was just another comfort, padding against the harsher edges of reality that they'd never been able to afford. Best he learn that early.
... Like he said. Lowered expectations.
He was already working on a pleasant buzz by the time he'd sauntered back into the dimly lit main room, a recently emptied glass in one hand. It wasn't as though either of them had much to worry about; his reputation was known well enough by anyone who frequented the bar, which meant they knew well enough to keep their hands to themselves. Broken down and dingy as it was, it didn't tend to attract a whole lot of new clientele, which suited him just fine. Merle had probably fucked the majority of the female staff at one point or another, and they usually welcomed the change of keeping an eye on his quieter sibling.
"Why the long face, Darlina?" he drawled, perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary. He kicked one of the chairs out of the way, the screech of the feet against the wood floor earning an exasperated glare from the woman behind the counter; he didn't remember her name, but she was decent with her mouth. Better with her-
"That any way to look after I went and bought you dinner?"
no subject
"This ain't no place for you. Trouble's all you're gonna get," he rasped into his chest. "Cops don't help." It was said with all the conviction of someone who had slipped through the cracks of society, who wasn't just parroting his older brother's beliefs. From neighbours, to teachers, to the local police, they'd all failed the youngest Dixon in their own fashion, and he didn't need old Merle telling him so to know the truth.
After a long moment he looked up at the trespasser with tear-reddened eyes, his expression wary without being hostile. There were unmistakable indications of what the boy would look like as an adult, though this face was different in ways that had nothing to do with age. In a few years, the coup de grâce of his father's temper would land Daryl in the hospital for several months, while doctors pieced his body and face back together. He'd be lucky, relatively speaking — not disfigured, but the landscape of his face would be forever altered, his features made asymmetrical. He'd develop a permanent squint and would bear a slew of new scars, some surgical, most not.
People would later assume his battered mug was the result of one too many bar fights, and he wouldn't be keen on correcting them.
"You left my brother," he said in sudden understanding as a look of somber recognition crossed his face, his brow creased with concern. As could only happen in a dream, it was his adult knowledge filtered through a child's mind and limited perception. "Sorry I got so mad and threw squirrels at you. I was scared," he admitted haltingly in a small voice, as though he were working it out for himself for the first time. "Shouldna been. I've always been alone, even when he was with me... Wasn't your fault."