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hopefulatrocity · 9 months

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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.

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hopefulatrocity · 8 months

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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

#daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl x oc #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x omc #daryl x omc #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x ftm oc #daryl x ftm oc #daryl dixon x trans!oc #daryl x trans!oc #daryl x male oc #daryl dixon x male oc

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hopefulatrocity · 9 months

Text

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

#daryl dixon #daryl x oc #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x omc #daryl x ftm oc #daryl dixon x ftm oc #daryl x male oc #daryl dixon x trans!oc #daryl x omc #daryl x trans!oc #from the ashes twd #the walking dead #daryl dixon x male oc

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hopefulatrocity · 11 months

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From The Ashes Chapter 6

Note: Daryl's POV of his first sights of Pheonyx. I'm excited to give a description of Pheonyx's tattoos. Meanings will be explained throughout the whole story. This chapter ended up running longer than I intended so I split it in two. Also, some of Daryl's thoughts are transphobic(thoughts about body shape indicating gender, etc) but he also doesn't have experience with trans people outside of just being aware they exist. It will take time for Daryl to relearn what he knows but it will happen. Also the internal denial and homophobia makes me so sad for Daryl.

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

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations

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DARYL'S POV

When he pulled up in front of the picturesque farm house, he hadn’t expected…. Well, he hadn’t expected him. The old man, the older woman, the girl who had brought Lori to the farm, and even the two teens. They fit perfectly in front of the white house with the wrap around porch. They looked like the type of people who went to church every weekend with their pristine white clothes and floral dresses. The type of people who would preach love and acceptance but would be spreading hateful rumors during the church potluck. The same people who turned their noses down at him and Merle, when they were kids, just because they were related to Will Dixon. But the man standing on the porch definitely did not fit that profile.

Leaning on the porch railing, a stocky hound mix standing at this side, was a man whose eyes radiated sorrow and hardship despite their steely edge. Both emotions were in ready supply since the world ended but this was different. With most people, their grief could be seen on the surface of their eyes. It was a recent pain for most of them, the ones in his group especially, because they hadn’t experienced loss or extreme austerity until a few months ago. This man’s pain was soul deep. Only someone who had lived through something terrible had eyes like his. They were haunted. Eyes that had obviously seen darkness in the world, whether it be recently or before the veil of normalcy was lifted when the dead rose. Daryl would know. He saw the same thing whenever he looked in the mirror. He saw it in his brother’s eyes as well. It wasn’t just the man’s gaze that made him noticeable, though. It was his appearance, too.

When Daryl first saw the tattooed man, he had to take a second to appraise him. His mind wanted to say this person was a girl. He had a softness to his curves and his face that hinted at femininity. The gray tank top he wore clung to his sides and silhouetted a slight hourglass shape that most men didn’t typically possess. As he started walking down from the porch, though, Daryl threw that notion out the window. This person was all male. There was no sway to his hips, like most girls Daryl had met, and his overall gait just emanated masculinity. His mannerisms reflected this. He placed himself slightly in front of his group, specifically the girl with short brown hair, and had his hand planted on the gun at his side. He was tense, and ready to protect these people with his life. The women Daryl had been around, before and after the world went to shit, didn’t stand like that. All of this had him concluding that this person was wholly male.

He looked to be just a couple inches shorter than Daryl’s 5 '10 " height with short, thick brown hair that was streaked with blonde from long hours in the sun. His skin reflected this and was tanned to a nice golden tone. The softness of his face made him look like he was no older than 16. But Daryl knew with professional tattoos like the ones adorning his arms, he would have had to be at least eighteen to get them at a tattoo shop. He looked young but Daryl’s instincts told him that the man was in his late 20’s. The gray tank top he wore was clean but the jeans were worn from work and frequent wear. Knees torn and stained brown from dirt. The other people were all unarmed but this man had several weapons on his person. A curved, thin sword of some type was encased by an obviously homemade sheath. The leather was sewn together with care and looked soft even from a distance. A handgun was holstered on the other hip with a hunting knife next to it. He also had a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders. Shoulders that were adorned with beautiful artwork.

These tattoos weren’t the type that most of the people he knew had. They weren’t shitty pieces done by scratchers in dirty trailers. Hell, even a few of his own were pieces like that. Bad decisions made while drunk, under pressure from his brother, or just plain youthful stupidity. The man’s tattoos would have taken dozens of hours of work and months of healing. There was thought put into each, as they blended seamlessly with each other. As Daryl got closer, and the man moved to stand next to the girl that took Lori to the farm, he was able to decipher each one. On one arm, a large medusa was depicted in a gothic style. The snakes of her hair wrapped around his bicep, almost slithering with each movement of his muscles. One trailed up his shoulder and over his neck until the flicking tongue was just under his ear, almost as if the reptile was whispering secrets to him. The once-priestess’s eyes were completely black with lightning-like lines spreading from the voids. The only speck of color in the tattoo was the pomegranate that Medusa held in her hands. Blood seeped from the seeds and down into the tattoo on his forearm. The crimson drops trailed down the branches of a lifeless oak tree. The thin branches were all black and cracked, scratchy in style, leading to the twisted trunk that was covered in knots. Dead brown leaves hung loosely on some of the branches. At the base, the roots wrapped around his wrist, like a morbid bracelet. Like the Medusa tattoo, there was only one speck of bright color; a green oak leaf connected to a small acorn that was falling to the ground near the roots. The lines of the roots of the tree lead into the snarling wolf face on his hand, bright blue eyes seeming to glow from his skin.

On his other arm, his hand had a skull that was shaped from smoke, all of the lines wispy and gray. The eye sockets were the same bright blue as the eyes of the wolf on his other hand. The smoke it was created from was coming from a geometric gothic style dragon that wrapped around his forearm like a snake. The scales of the body were made up of triangles and diamond shapes, almost like a creepy dot-to-dot piece. Smoke was leaving its mouth and, along with his hand, the smoke led into the tattoo on his bicep. The muscled upper arm was decorated with a realistic scene fit from a dark storybook. Almost like a scene from the Rapture, red fire and smoke rose from the earth. Dead bodies littered the ground, swords through some, others broken like dolls. Creatures that looked like demons, their eyes an even brighter red than the flames in the background, were feasting on the corpses depicted on his arm. High in the clouds on his upper shoulder, an “angel” was looking down, as if watching the carnage unfold. But, to Daryl, the “angel” looked no better than the creatures on the ground. Its wings were black and broken. The feathers were patchy and some areas were bald. The gown the “angel” wore was torn and looked as if it was blowing in the wind. And the eyes. Its eyes were completely black. Fangs were descended from lips that smirked at the slaughter it was witnessing. Daryl wondered if there was any certain meaning behind the tattoo, because it was eerie. He wondered what emotions or events could inspire such an image. There were more dark lines on his chest that peeked from underneath the collar of the shirt he wore. But Daryl couldn’t make out what they were. All of the tattoos on his skin were masterpieces and evoked intense feelings from him. He tried to convince himself that that was the reason his eyes kept traveling over the man’s form. It definitely wasn’t the lean muscles that roped over his body. Or the way his skin glistened with a small amount of sweat from the blistering heat. Or the way his green eyes reminded Daryl of the woods he always found a home in. Or the way the jeans he was wearing encased perfect thig-

As he was appraising the other man, light green eyes locked with his own and he had to suppress the shiver that went down his spine. A breeze must have been blowing through and cooled the sweat on his skin. That was the only obvious reason for his reaction. He wasn’t gay or bisexual or whatever else. True, he found some men attractive, but most men did. Didn’t they? And while he rarely felt sexually attracted to women, he still did on occasion feel it. He wasn’t a virgin, he had had hookups with women in the past, so he was obviously straight. He hadn’t slept with or kissed a guy so he obviously wasn’t gay. In truth, Daryl had thought about it though. There were times where he wanted to do those things with other men. In those moments though, he could hear the raging voice of his father in his mind. He knew if Will Dixon had ever suspected that Daryl held carnal feelings for other men, that he wouldn’t live to see another day. He suspected the same for his brother. The Dixon brothers cared for each other and would die for one another. But Daryl knew that Merle was more like his father than he wanted to admit. Growing up, Daryl had learned to tune out his father’s prejudiced rants–mostly about black people but his father hated anyone who wasn’t a white straight male– but Merle had soaked in all the hate. Daryl always suspected it was because his brother wanted to connect with their dad in some way that didn’t involve a leather belt. Merle may have hated the man, but inside he was still a little boy that was vying for his father’s affections. And as he grew older, Merle used those hateful words their father used, to push people away. It was better to be alone than to have someone in your life that might hurt you in the future. Daryl did the same thing, but in a different way. He just avoided people. It was isolating at times, but usually he had his brother to fill the void of loneliness. When he was angry or wanted to keep people from getting closer, his anger would get the better of him and he would lash out. He always hated himself in those moments. Because it wasn’t his words coming out of his mouth, it was his father’s. The same cruel rhetoric, that damaged his heart growing up, was a weapon he used when he felt cornered. Like a wounded animal fighting tooth and nail to survive.

Those moments aside, he tried to be everything his father wasn’t. So, he tried to avoid the prejudices he grew up with as much as he could. He had no problems with people of other races and he felt that other people’s genders/sexualities weren’t any of his business. If anyone had bothered to ask, he would have told them that. But often people’s views of him were colored by his brother and father. They were racist, homophobic, xenophobic, transphobic, and sexist, so Daryl must be as well. While he missed his brother, part of him hoped that now the group would see him outside of his brother’s shadow.

Having been lost in his own thoughts, Daryl almost missed the conversation between Dale, Lori, and Rick. Thankfully, Carl would be okay. A slight bit of relief filled his body. They had one kid missing, they didn’t need another to be on his deathbed. Truthfully, he liked the little guy. Of all the kids at the Quarry, Carl was never afraid to greet Daryl and his brother. He would often ask incessant questions about what they were doing and ask them to teach him how to hunt and skin animals. Merle would try to scare the kid away but Carl wasn’t easily swayed. Daryl had been tempted to teach the kid some survival skills but his mother’s reaction whenever she saw Carl near the Dixons was enough to put that idea to bed. She would immediately drop whatever she was doing and come pull the boy away, muttering apologies for bothering the men. Lori babied the boy and Daryl knew she would never allow the kid anywhere near a knife to skin animals. Let alone spend hours alone in the woods with two rednecks. Otherwise he might have considered it. The kid was smart and he had a fire in his eyes that piqued Daryl’s curiosity. The idea of that flame being burnt out made him feel nauseous.

Rick told the group that Shane was responsible for saving the boy’s life, and everyone gave him nods of appreciation. Daryl narrowed his eyes though. Something was off about the man now. Baggy clothing and buzzcut aside, something had changed in the man since he last saw him. Shane was a narcissist with a savior complex and normally ate up any praise or gratitude thrown his way. But now, he turned his head and avoided eye contact with everyone. Daryl couldn’t help but notice the way the tattooed man’s nose scrunched up slightly at the praise being directed towards Shane. He wasn’t the only one who noticed Shane’s odd behavior.

“We owe a lot to Pheonyx too. He donated blood. Gave Carl time until Shane could get back with the supplies.”, Rick said and looked at the man Daryl was captivated by earlier. He saw the man stiffen and drop his gaze to avoid the curious looks from the rest of the group. It was something Daryl often did.

Pheonyx, Daryl thought and ran his gaze over the man again. While Daryl never finished high school, he had been an attentive student when he was able to attend. He vaguely remembered the lessons on Greek mythology from his freshman English class. In the stories, the phoenix was a singular bird, only one existing at a time. Every 500 years, the bird would make itself a nest and die in a burst of flames. From the ashes, a new bird would emerge. While his teacher insisted that the phoenix was a symbol of immortality and resurrection, to Daryl, the bird was a symbol of survival, hope, and rising above death. With eyes traveling over Pheonyx, he concluded that the name suited him. The weapons, his protective stance, the look of emotional scarring in his eyes. Pheonyx was a survivor. Like Daryl, he was made for the world as it was now.

The group exchanged hugs of relief with Rick and Lori. While Daryl was happy that Carl was okay, he simply gave a nod to Rick to show his support. Hugs weren’t his thing. Touching in general wasn’t his thing to be honest. Growing up, the only touches he ever received were followed by pain. Now it was something he expected. A slight brush as someone walked by and suddenly he was on the floor of their dirty trailer. His shirt torn, blood running down his back, while his father stood over him holding his belt. That same belt that he saw every night in his dreams.

Daryl was pulled from his nightmares by the feeling of a warm, vibrating body pressing into his leg. Looking down, he saw the happy face of the hound mix that was at Pheonyx’s side a few moments ago. He had always loved animals, dogs especially. With an abusive father and a –mostly catatonic– alcoholic mother, pets were never in the cards for him though. But he did remember playing with the stray dogs in the neighborhood, sneaking them bits of food, and offering them offal from his hunts when he got older. Hounds were a common find where he grew up. Most men had them for hunting. Daryl guessed this pup was a Bluetick mixed with a Bully breed. His coloring was typical of that type of hound, from his speckled white fur to the lining of brown around the large black spots that encompassed his ears and eyes. Floppy ears aside, the rest of the dog’s body was all Bully. He was stocky with thick muscle and a brick-shaped head. The dog had to weigh at least 70 lbs, mostly muscle. Daryl felt his heart hurt as he noticed the old scars littering the hound’s body. Patches of fur were missing around old cuts all over his frame and the tips of his ears were ragged from torn skin. Too many injuries to just be from fights with other dogs. Someone had hurt this dog a long time ago. To some, he might seem scary. The scars, his size, and his breed. But Daryl could see a heart of gold in his brown eyes. Despite the obvious pain in his past, the dog had greeted everyone with love and affection. He was a survivor. Just like his owner, if Daryl’s instincts were correct.

A small smile wisped over his lips and he dropped a hand down for the dog to sniff. His already-wagging tail began to swish faster and he pressed himself closer to Daryl’s leg, making the man vibrate from all the wiggling. A soft blocky head pressed into his calloused fingers and he scratched the dog behind his ears. Feeling eyes on him, Daryl lifted his head and caught Pheonyx’s green eyes looking between him and the dog. A plump bottom lip was caught between white teeth and Daryl felt heat rise in his body. Obviously from the ascending temperatures outside. Not from any sort of attraction to the other man. Pheonyx averted his eyes when Daryl’s eyes met his, a blush spreading over his cheeks. The younger man was obviously feeling the effects of the Georgia heat too. Because there was no way a man like him could find Daryl attractive. Daryl was…well Daryl. A no-good, old redneck with the emotional range of a can opener. No one would ever want him. His old man made sure to tell him that all the time growing up.

Hershel, the doctor who owned the farm, announced that they were having a service for a man named Otis, who had died helping Shane get the medical supplies to save Carl’s life. Daryl watched as Pheonyx called the dog over to him, using a distinct three note whistle. A few steps behind the others, the pair followed the other members of the farm towards a thick patch of trees a distance from the house.

To be honest, Daryl would have preferred to not attend the small service. For one, he needed to be out searching for Sophia. The girl was going on day three of being missing and he was worried about how well she was fairing in the wilderness. He still wholeheartedly believed she was alive, but without water and no food, she would be getting weak. If she did find a water source, it might not be clean. She might eat berries that were poisonous. The possibilities were endless. Secondly, Daryl was uncomfortable around strong emotions like grief. He didn’t know how to respond. Especially when people cried.

But this man had sacrificed his life to save Carl’s. The least he deserved was the presence of Carl’s group at his service. Daryl may have felt like he didn’t exactly qualify as part of the group, but he still found himself staring as the strangers placed stones on top of a pile of rocks that was erected as a memorial to Otis. Hershel read from the Bible as everyone took turns placing their stones on the memorial. Daryl stood at the back, facing towards the members of the farmhouse. He would never admit it, but his eyes kept drifting to the face of one certain person. Pheonyx was also distanced from his family. He had his arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps become more defined and the snakes on his upper arm danced at each movement. The other man’s eyes, that looked at everything but the service in front of him, radiated grief, but only internally. Outwardly, his body radiated strength and composure. It was a coping mechanism that Daryl was all too familiar with.

Hershel asked Shane to share Otis’s last moments, and Daryl saw the cop tense up and mutter something about not being good at speaking. He avoided eye contact with all the Greene’s. The older woman, who Daryl assumed was Otis’s wife, insisted on Shane speaking. She wanted confirmation that her husband’s death had meaning. It took a moment but Shane began to speak, sharing his story of what happened at the FEMA center. As he spoke, Daryl knew why Pheonyx had reacted oddly earlier when Rick praised Shane for saving Carl. He wasn’t the best at reading people, he often tended to lean towards the idea that all people were bad, but he did know when people were lying. It was an unfortunate side effect of having a mother, father, and brother that were addicts in some form or another. The story was embellished with the heroics of the dead man but Daryl knew something else had occurred at the school. Something Shane was leaving out. Daryl watched Pheonyx’s face scrunch up into a sneer for a brief moment and his fists clenched, making the muscles of his arm tighten. As quick as it came, the look on his face was gone, and he continued to stare out into the field, avoiding the grief radiating from his family. After Shane finished his tall tale, the group bowed their heads for a moment of silence. Daryl followed suit but he kept his eyes up, watching as Pheonyx moved forward to pick up a stone from the wheelbarrow next to the memorial. He gripped it in his hand for a moment, staring at the hard object, before gently placing it onto the memorial. As if he transferred all of his grief into the dirty rock, Pheonyx’s muscles lightened at the loss of it in his hand. He stood there for a moment before backing away. Watching the man intently, Daryl would have given anything to know what he was thinking in those moments.

Taglist: @yoongibaybee

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#daryl dixon #twd fanfiction #daryl x oc #twd daryl #daryl dixon x trans!reader #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x male oc #daryl x omc #daryl dixon x omc #fanfiction

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hopefulatrocity · 6 months

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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

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hopefulatrocity · 10 months

Text

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

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.

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Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000

#daryl dixon #fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl x oc #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x oc #the walking dead #daryl twd #daryl x omc #daryl dixon x omc #daryl x ftm oc #daryl dixon x ftm oc #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x trans!oc #daryl dixon x male oc #daryl x male oc #daryl x trans!oc

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hopefulatrocity · 1 year

Text

From The Ashes Prologue

Gif credit: hellodollfac3.tumblr.com

Note: This prologue hasn’t been proofread, if you find any mistakes let me know please! I’m looking for someone who might be willing to beta read the story if at all possible. Also, this story is going along with my experiences as a trans guy. Everyone’s transition is different. For me, I have little bottom dysphoria, so I use typical terms for AFAB genitalia when writing smut between my oc and Daryl. I also chose not to use HRT, which is how I wrote Pheonyx as well. In regards to passing, I write sometimes about Nyx having some more “feminine” aspects to his appearance, because this is an issue I have with passing in public. If any of these things are a trigger for you, please proceed at your own risk. Take care of yourselves, lovelies! Remember, every trans person transitions differently and I’m simply trying to portray my experiences as a trans guy.

If you would like to be added to a taglist for this story, please let me know!

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 loves his family but the past has made him weary of strangers and love. 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? As the search for Sophia ensues, Daryl is forced to group up with Pheonyx. Will he push him away? Or will Daryl allow himself to put the past aside and let Pheonyx in?

Series Trigger/content warning: 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, scars, blood, corpses, depression/anxiety, body dysphoria, religious trauma, menstruation mentions

Chapter Content Warnings: Transphobia/biphobia, religious trauma, child abuse, depression/anxiety, childhood molestation, self harm/suicidal thoughts, puberty, bullying, menstruation talk, body dysphoria, sexism

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Pheonyx Greene spent the majority of his childhood hiding. So much so, it became second nature to him.

From the day he was born to the age of 8, he hid from his father’s fists and hateful words that he didn’t understand. Words he wouldn’t understand for years to come. Bruises and lashes were concealed behind baggy clothes. Practiced smiles and rigorous play with neighborhood kids disguising the pain of every movement. His mother, Annette, would stare at him with guilt. Guilt for not having seen the abuse for 5 years, not wanting to see what was going on when she wasn’t home. Guilt for not noticing the flinches at innocent touch. And guilt for letting it continue as she worked to pull away from the monster that held them under his thumb. She never spoke of it to Pheonyx. Simply holding him after each “punishment”, silently cleaning his wounds and wiping his tears. That silence hurt worse than the switch on his back. His eyes begged for just a word from his mother. Something to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That she was there for him or that she was going to do something to protect him. But those words never came. Annette gave birth to his brother, Shawn, when he was 6. 2 years later, they finally escape Pheonyx’s hell. The scars littering his body and the night terrors were always a reminder that he never fully escaped, though.

At 8, Pheonyx no longer had to hide from his father, but he had to hide from other things. Schoolyard bullies tormented him. They asked him why he only wore jeans and long sleeves? Why did he play with boys instead of the “other girls��? Why did he cut his hair short using the scissors in art class? Why did he roll around in the mud while the girls were playing House on the other side of the playground? They would pull his pants down in the cafeteria, laughing about checking to see if he was a boy or a girl. It confused him. Why did it matter? Couldn’t he just be himself? But apparently it did matter. He would spend his entire schooling years, hiding from those bullies.

At 9, his mother married his stepfather, Hershel. He was a nice man. Much older than his mom, but he accepted and adopted, both Pheonyx and Shawn. He had a daughter, only a year younger than Shawn who had just turned three, named Maggie. Her mother died shortly after giving birth to her. While devastated about the death of his late wife, Hershel was strong and took on the role of a single father. He and Annette met at the local grocery store. A wailing Maggie in his arms, Hershel was trying to find the right formula product for his growing daughter. Annette was a godsend, taking Maggie and calming her before helping the man find the correct food for his daughter. They exchanged numbers and were married not many months later. The way Pheonyx’s stepfather tells the story, the older man fell for Annette the second she held Maggie in her arms.

Hershel was a good father to both Maggie and his stepsons. But Pheonyx was weary of the man at first. His only father figure was a devil of a man and the young boy waited for months for the other shoe to drop. It never did though. He would purposely break dishes or get bad grades at school, just trying to see what would be the final straw before his step father finally punished him. But aside from a small scolding and increased chores for his bad grades, Pheonyx was left unharmed. Hershel was kind and he treated his step children as if they were his own. He would often take the boys on house calls with him, whether it be helping birth a newborn calf or checking a swollen ankle on a neighbor’s gelding. Pheonyx loved the animals and looked forward to any time he could spend helping Hershel with his duties as a veterinarian. The only thing Pheonyx hated about the man was how devout Hershel was. Pheonyx went from never going to church, to going every Sunday and Wednesday. Plus attending all holiday functions, youth group trips, and bible camps. He had lived in true hell for 8 years. The Christian version seemed like child's play compared to his father’s belt. It was at the church he also had to hide. Hide from the side eyed glances of older neighbors. Hide from the whispers wondering why he refused to wear a dress or why he didn’t act like a “proper young lady”. He had to lie when his mother asked why he didn’t want to attend Sunday School with Shawn and Maggie. He couldn’t explain that the teacher looked at him with evil eyes. That the man’s hands were cold as he slipped them under Pheonyx’s button up blouse. That the touches made him feel worse than when his father would make him kneel and count the lashes.

When Pheonyx hit puberty, around the time his half sister(Beth) was born, he began to hide within himself. How did he explain to his mother and stepfather that the sight of his budding breasts made him want to claw his own skin off? How did he explain that when he got his first period, he contemplated taking all of his mother’s antidepressants and putting an end to the feeling of wrongness in his body? How did he explain that everytime someone called him “miss”, “sweetheart”, or “girl”, he felt physically sick? What would he say when his mom knew that he kissed Caroline Allen under the maple tree at school? That same week he also kissed Jeremy Mason by the soccer field. Both of those kisses made his stomach flutter in ways it only should with a boy. The preacher that previous Sunday had told them that any desire for people of the same sex was the ultimate sin. How did he explain to his mother and stepfather that, in their beliefs, he was destined to go to hell? He couldn’t. So he hid everything. The depression from not feeling at home in his body and from not being able to be himself at home. The anxiety of not fitting in with southern conservative values. The disgust with his own appearance as he let his hair grow and wore dresses to get his mom to smile. The weight of it all became too much.

Maggie found him one day, crying in the barn, a razor held to his wrist. The 20 yr old thought Maggie would be mad, but she wasn’t. At just 13, the girl was wiser than most adults. She had seen her sibling struggling. She didn’t understand it, but she listened as Pheonyx explained what was wrong. Maggie held him as he cried and led him to the house. There, she helped Pheonyx cut his hair. The cut was jagged and patchy, as all they had were some dull kitchen scissors, but he loved it. She called him her brother and it felt like the cloud of depression and anxiety disappeared for a short amount of time. It was the first time Pheonyx felt truly accepted. That night, Maggie held Pheonyx’s hand as he told their parents and siblings everything. Beth was mostly too young to understand and Shawn was just confused. As were Annette and Hershel. They tried to tell him it was just a phase and that it was normal to be confused at such a young age. They refused to even consider the possibility of him being a boy. Of God having made a mistake when he was forming the child’s body. Despite their non acceptance, Pheonyx felt freer than he ever had. He had been working for 5 years at local horse stables and also as an assistant for Hershel at his clinic, so he used his savings to buy more masculine clothing. Maggie was the one who suggested the name “Pheonyx”. The meaning behind it felt right to him. From that day forward, he went by Pheonyx Archer Greene.

The years following were rough. Maggie accepted him, never once misgendering or dead-naming him. But the rest of his family continued to have issues with it. Shawn and Beth picked it up faster than his parents. It took 3 years before the older couple even began to come around to the idea of Pheonyx being trans. They consistently pushed him to go to Church, to repent, or to go to “counseling” with the local preacher. This created a divide between the family and Pheonyx, one that still existed even after his parents began gendering and naming him correctly 75% of the time.

He lost his innocence the day he turned 22. His body, that he had finally begun to love, became a broken shell. A layer of grime covering his already marred skin. No matter how hard he cleaned or tore at his skin, the filth never disappeared. The state of Georgia was suddenly a prison. The rolling pastures and never-ending forests that were once home suddenly held memories he needed to escape.

Once his physical body healed, Pheonyx took the first flight out of the Bible Belt and landed in Michigan. He took shitty jobs just to get by at first. Long hours with little sleep just to avoid the memories that haunted him at night. Solace came in the form of a friend, another trans guy that frequented the diner Pheonyx bused tables for. Small talk became long conversations over burnt coffee. The other man offered him a job at his tattoo shop, Zombie Ink, as a receptionist/custodian. From there, he healed. Slowly. He had more nightmares and more scars than before but his skin finally felt clean.

He kept in touch with his family, but he avoided visiting. The memories were still painful. It took 6 years for the man to finally gain the courage to go back to his home state. His impending top surgery being the motivation to finally put his demons to rest. He would need some help after his surgery, and truth be told, he missed his siblings. Even his parents. So, he opted for a surgeon closer to his hometown. Afterwards, he would spend the next month healing on the family farm. Pheonyx didn’t realize that by making the decision to put his nightmares to bed, he was changing the whole course of his life.

Maybe it was fate that brought him back home just shortly before the world collapsed. Or maybe it was just shitty luck. Pheonyx wasn’t sure. All he knew was that everything changed.

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#daryl dixon #daryl x oc #daryl dixon smut #twd daryl #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd fanfiction #twd x oc #The Walking Dead #daryl dixon x trans!reader #transgender OC #dary x omc #daryl dixon x omc #twd mxm #daryl dixon x oc

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hopefulatrocity · 1 year

Text

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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#daryl dixon #Daryl DIxon fic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x oc #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl dixon x trans!reader #daryl dixon x male oc #daryl dixon x omc #daryl dixon x ftm OC #daryl dixon x trans!OC #daryl x ftm oc #daryl x omc #daryl x male OC

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hopefulatrocity · 1 year

Text

From The Ashes Chapter 3

Notes: Small Daryl POV this chapter! They will officially meet not the next chapter, but the one after, I promise. I’m already halfway done with it. I like to be at least one chapter ahead of my posts.

If you want to be added to a taglist, leave a comment or message me

CW/TW: Anxiety, beginnings of anxiety attack, allusions to past trauma/transphobia

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations

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As soon as Pheonyx turned 18, he started donating blood. As a universal donor, he felt a sense of obligation to help in some way. Every few months, he found himself sitting in a sterile office, his hand gripping a stress ball, while a tube drained a unit of his blood into a bag. Blood that would likely save someone’s life in the future. So, when Patricia hooked him up to Hershel’s antique transfusion set–one needle in his arm and the other in Carl’s– Pheonyx felt like a piece of the world from before had been handed to him. It was small but–when the world was being taken over by walking corpses–any bit of familiarity helped ease the constant anxiety. The new world always sneaks back up though.

The chair beneath him was uncomfortable and he felt vulnerable with the tube sticking out of his dominant arm. If shadows were to show up, he would be exposed. He wouldn’t have much time to disconnect himself and then reach for his cutlass. He tried to ease his anxiety, by going through all the precautions he had placed in the woods and around the property. He would know before the shadows showed up. There would be enough time to prepare himself if the farm was attacked. To distract his thoughts, Pheonyx stared at the clammy face of the boy, who Rick said was named Carl. Hershel sat on the other side of the bed and took his blood pressure. The light hissing of the pressure cuff, filling the silence. Rick and the other man, Shane, had left a short while ago. Likely to discuss how to get word to the kid’s mother about his condition.

“Do you think he can hear us?”, Pheonyx asked, not taking his eyes from the boy.

Hershel was quiet for a moment while he undid the cuff around Carl’s small arm. “I’m not sure, honestly. Research has suggested that we’re able to understand auditory stimulation while in unconscious states. But I doubt we will ever truly know. I’m sure he would appreciate you talking to him, even if he can’t hear you.”, he answered honestly.

Pheonyx nodded and leaned his head back against the rickety wood chair. Another question bubbled in his mind, “When-When I was in the hospital, did I look like him?”

His stepfather was shocked by the inquiry. In the past 6 years, his stepson hadn’t mentioned anything in relation to the events that led to his need to move states. Those times were dark in every member of the Greene family’s minds. For weeks, Pheonyx’s life had hung in the balance. Every bit of prejudice and confusion that had still resided in his parent’s minds was forgotten and it made them take stock of their treatment in regards to their son’s gender identity. The world was already fighting against him, his injuries and trauma being evidence of that. Did they really want to spend their time stuck in their narrow minded ways, or did they put forth the effort to understand and love their son? It was an easy decision for them. They refused to be another bully in the schoolyard of Pheonyx’s life. Hershel only wished it hadn’t taken almost losing him, to truly appreciate his stepson and to find understanding in the Bible’s command to love without bias.

“Yes, son.” he answered softly, his mind drifting in a sea of darkness from the past. “When your mom and I first walked into your room, we thought you had already passed. You were so pale, you almost blended in with the sheets you were laying on, and you were so still. Your mother is a strong woman. Hardly ever cried. I’m sure you know that. Aside from Bethie’s birth and your Grandpops dying, that was the only time I ever saw Annette shed tears…”

Hershel trailed off, the pain from those days and the mention of his wife making his gut clench. He stood and placed the blood pressure cuff on the nightstand.

“You know how to remove the needles?”, he asked. When Pheonyx nodded, he continued. “You can go ahead and do that. We might need another unit in a bit, so I would like you to stay here. I need to talk to the boy’s father.”

Pheonyx began clamping both of the tubes connected to his and Carl’s arm, “Okay. If Maggie is going out to find his mother, tell her to come see me beforehand, please?”

Hershel assented and left the room, shutting the door most of the way. Pulling the needle from the ditch in his arm, Pheonyx reached over to the first aid kit that was sitting on the end of the bed. He grabbed some alcohol wipes and two bandaids. With those, he cleaned his own arm, placed a bandage on the tiny mark, and moved to do the same for Carl. It seemed slightly pointless to be cleaning the small puncture when the boy currently had a gaping wound in his abdomen. But it wasn't like they could take him to the doctor for an infection. If they had the means to clean a wound properly, they should. Plus, it kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to wander to those days in the hospital.

“I know you don’t know me. You probably can’t even hear me. But on the off chance you can… You’re going to make it through this. I just met you. Heck, I haven't even talked to you, but I can already tell you’re a strong kid. I guess you have to be, to survive in the world right now.” Pheonyx pulled his chair a bit closer and took a seat. Hesitantly, he took Carl’s hand and squeezed softly. Maybe it was to comfort the boy. Maybe it was more to comfort himself from the memories that haunted his mind. He remembered waking up in the hospital with a gunshot to his stomach–in almost the exact same place as Carl’s– and the pain from the wound was minor compared to the agony in his mind.

“Daddy said you needed to see me?”, the calming voice of his sister had him dragging his eyes away from the bed. Discreetly, he wiped the tears that had been forming in his eyes.

“Uh, yeah. Are you taking a horse to find his mom?”

Maggie nodded, “Rick says a little girl got separated from their group yesterday. They were up at the traffic snarl on the highway. He says they split up and his wife is with the rest of the group, headin’ back that way.”

Pheonyx mentally mapped the route in his head. “ Check the map I have hung up in the stable. The green lines are safe routes through the woods. Avoid the red areas, I haven’t cleared those yet. Red stars are the traps. I’ve been taking Koda out when I place them. If you take him, he should take the safest route around them even if he’s going full speed.”

Maggie stiffened, “Nyx, if Daddy knew about what you’ve been doin’-”

“We can argue about it later. The boy needs his mom.”, His voice hardened, “There’s a copy of the map I made, on top of the table by the tack room. Give it to the rest of their group. It might help them while they look for the girl and keep them from getting hurt on any of the traps. I’ll help them more whenever they get here.”

Running a hand through her short brown hair, his sister sighed but relented. “Alrigh’. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, tell them to be careful of the barbed wire on the edge of the property.”

DARYL POV

Daryl Dixon had spent the majority of his life in the woods. Even more so since the dead started rising. When Sophia ran into the woods and went missing, he was the obvious choice to lead up the search. Rick and he had followed her trail as long as they could the day before but they lost the light and had to stop for the night. The little girl’s tracks had disappeared a while ago. She was light footed and he was having a hard time picking up her route. The whole group had searched most of the day. Rick, Shane, and Carl had split up to look for a while more while Daryl led the rest of the group back to the highway. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of splitting the group up. The more people searching for Sophia increased the likelihood of her being found. Being sent off to play tour guide to the rest of them–when he could be following the girl’s trail–just pissed him off. He was the only one in the group with a lick of sense in regards to surviving in the woods. Why did he have to play babysitter to a bunch of housewives, an uppity blonde, and Glenn? He should be the one searching for the girl, not Deputy Douchebag, Officer Friendly, and an 11yr old boy. Especially considering the state of the forest they were searching.

From the moment they started the search that morning, his mind had noticed something off about the woods around them. The distinct lack of shambling corpses was the big thing. The few walkers that they had come across were dead, their heads cut in half or arrow holes right between the eyes. Several along their path had met the same fate. Another odd thing were the traps scattered through the woods. During the first search, he had heard the tinkling of metal, but he had been so focused on finding Sophia and listening for the groans of walkers, that he had brushed it off. But not even an hour into the group’s search on the second day, they had found the first trap. A large tree was surrounded by sharpened sticks, stuck in the ground at a 45 degree angle. Dried blood covered the majority of the pointed ends. In the branches above the sticks, were wind chimes. Some were handmade, constructed of small bones or bits of scrap metal, others were the kind you could find at most stores. Nailed on the tree, blood dripping down the bark like trails of tears, was fresh offal. Possum and Raccoon by his best guess. Off to the side of the tree, a small 7x7 hole was dug. Only a few feet deep, the inside was scorched with the remains of burned walkers at the bottom.

Carol started hyperventilating at the sight of the bodies, thinking the worst had happened to her daughter. Lori moved Carl behind her while the others stared at the tree.

“What is this?”, Glenn finally asked, breaking the silence.

Daryl moved forward, crossbow at the ready, “Looks like a walker trap. Sound from the chimes draws ‘em in. Smell a’ the blood and flesh keeps their ‘ttention and lures ‘em onto the spikes. Hole’s for burnin’ them. Someone’s keepin’ the woods clear. ‘Splains all the dead ones we’ve found.”

Rick and Shane made sure their weapons were drawn, glancing around the area. The sheriff kept his voice low, “Someone’s livin’ around here. Everybody be on guard. We don’t know if they’re friendly.”

The gray-haired woman let out a small sob, “Oh god, they might have my baby. Or she could be caught in one of these traps somewhere. They could be burning her right now!” Andrea moved forward to comfort the older woman, speaking calming words and assurances.

After that, they walked quieter, avoiding unnecessary chatter. They passed 7 of those traps along the way, checking the hole at each one for a body of Sophia’s size. Some of them had walkers impaled on them, all grasping for the flesh nailed to the wood in front of them.

The ringing of bells had them all running towards a church, hopeful that maybe the little girl had found a way to signal the group. But all they found was speakers set up to a timer and a perimeter of barbed wire and spikes that surrounded the abandoned building. Several walkers were impaled on the spikes, slowly grabbing for the building when the bells sounded. Daryl quickly dispatched one with his bow, while Glenn and Rick killed the other 3 with hunting knives. The doors to the church were open, blocked by barbed wire and sticks, but the inside was empty. The only signs of life were the dead walkers on the ground, killed in the same way as the others they found. By that point, it was mid afternoon and they needed to turn back in order to make it to the highway before sundown. Daryl had intended to point the rest of the group in the right direction and keep searching, but Rick wanted to keep up the search himself. Shane and Carl opted to tag along with them. Honestly, he was surprised Lori cut the cord and allowed the boy out of her sight for more than a minute.

That’s how he ended up leading the others through the woods, holding in his anger at the talk behind him. They spoke like Sophia was already dead. Yeah, the girl was a bit weak. She was terrified of everything and had little knowledge of surviving in the wild. But she also had Ed as a father. A bastard who enjoyed putting his hands on his wife and child. As someone who grew up with a parent like that, Daryl knew that surviving those experiences formed a strength and determination to live in most people. He felt it in his bones that Sophia was one of those people. She was physically weak but she was whip-smart and had good instincts. Those things trump brute strength most of the time.

In anger, he snapped at the group, insisting they would find Sophia. The looks on their faces had old insecurities rising in his chest. The hesitant looks of people waiting for the dirty redneck to blow up. Granted, Merle’s explosive behaviors had certainly colored their views of him by association. And his violent reaction to finding out his brother was left in Atlanta didn’t help matters. Despite his efforts to prove himself to this group, his mind still insisted that he was useless and they’d turn against him eventually. The old voice of his father still haunted the back of his mind. Telling him that he was no good, that no one could ever care for him. Physically avoiding the memory of his father and the subsequent tingling on his back, Daryl turned away from the group and kept moving forward. His grip on his crossbow, white knuckled.

At some point they heard a gunshot. Only one. He tried to reassure Lori that Rick had probably just killed a walker, but even he knew that was a lie. Rick may be a bit naive to the world now, but he wasn’t stupid. Neither was Shane. They wouldn’t waste ammo or risk noise just for one walker. They continued to walk. About 100 yards from the highway, Andrea’s screams had them running. She had distanced herself at some point during their trek and a walker had snuck up on her. Before Daryl had a chance to put an arrow in the ugly bastard’s head, the sounds of hoofbeats preceded the entrance of a girl on horseback. Bat raised in the air, she brought it down and knocked the walker a few feet away from Andrea.

“Lori? Lori Grimes?”, she pulled up on the reins, halting the horse's momentum. Sweat was dripping down her face, making her short brown hair stick to her cheeks. The girl looked between all of them, waiting for an answer.

Lori moved forward, “I’m Lori.”

“Rick sent me. You got to come now.”, the stranger began to pull out some folded paper from her pocket.

Daryl, still slightly shocked at the sight of the woman riding in like some kind of superhero, saw Lori’s back tense. “What?”, she asked, her mind obviously snapping to the sound of the gunshot they had heard earlier.

“There’s been an accident. Carl’s been shot. He’s still alive but you’ve gotta come now.”, at Lori’s lack of response, the girl spoke firmer. “Rick needs you. Just come!”

As Lori tossed her backpack to the ground, Daryl moved forward to try to stop her, “Whoa-Whoa-Whoa! We don’t know this girl! You can’t get on that horse!”

His warnings fell on deaf ears though, the only thing on Lori’s mind was her son. She deftly jumped on the horse, settling behind the strange woman.

“Rick said you had others on the highway, that big traffic snarl?”, the woman asked.

Glenn stared at her, his eyes starstruck, “Uh-huh.” he said dumbly.

Tossing the paper she had pulled from her pocket, Daryl caught it, being the closest one. A quick glance told him it was some kind of map. He could see colored ink marked onto the printed chart.

“Backtrack to Fairburn road. Two miles down is our farm. You'll see the mailbox-- Name's Greene–”, she glanced between all of them, stopping to linger on him and the crossbow in his hands. Almost as if she knew something he didn’t, a ghost of a smile curved her lips, one that was gone before it could even register for most of the group. “Key’s on the bottom of the map. Be careful of the barbed wire around the edges of the property.” With a flick of the reins pushing the horse into motion, the woman and Lori disappeared into the depths of the forest.

They all stared after the pair riding the horse. Daryl was angry Lori hadn’t listened to him but was also worried about Carl, if what the woman said was true. If god was real, he sure had a sick sense of humor. They’d almost been blown up a couple days ago, Sophia had gone missing the day before, now Carl was shot? You’d think that their quota of shit to deal with would have been met a long time ago, but apparently not.

A groan had the group turning their head to the walker that the strange woman had hit moments before. Map in one hand, Daryl used the other to lift his crossbow and shoot the geek between the eyes.

“Shut up.”, he snapped, needing an outlet for his frustration. Hooking his crossbow over his shoulder, Daryl began to unfold the map. He briefly recognized the layout of the woods around them but his attention was drawn to the detailed marks around it. The whole area was organized into a color coded grid. Some blocks were marked green for safe, the others red for dangerous zones. At least a dozen dark green lines indicated safe trails leading to a property a few miles from the highway. He assumed it was the farm the girl was talking about. Red stars were dotted along the forest and the locations of a few stood out. They stood for the traps the group had found. He counted at least 20 of them throughout the few miles of woodlands. Other marks indicated hunting cabins, farmhouses, old barns, and clean water sources. The hours of hard work and surveying that had gone into this map was evident. Daryl lightly traced the script at the bottom of the map, where the key was located, with his thumb. The scribble was slightly sloppy but still legible. It didn’t look like a girl’s handwriting, but also wasn’t the chicken scratch that most men he knew had. He was oddly fascinated by it, the writing and the map. Glenn and Carol tried to look at it over his shoulder, but Daryl quickly–yet carefully– folded up the thin paper and stuck it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Grunting in a typical Dixon fashion, he walked over and grabbed his bolt from the walker on the ground. “Come on. Need ta get back ‘fore it gets dark. Don’ want the ole’ man to have a heart attack.”

With that, the group made their way back to the highway. No one noticed that Daryl’s hand kept drifting towards the pocket near his heart, brushing against the folded paper through the dirty fabric.

#daryl dixon #Daryl DIxon fic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x trans!reader #daryl dixon x trans!OC #daryl dixon x omc #daryl x omc #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd rick #twd

22 notes · View notes

hopefulatrocity · 1 year

Text

From The Ashes Chapter 2

Note: First full length part. I’m still looking for a beta reader if anyone is interested. No Daryl this part, but next part has his POV included. He and Pheonyx will meet in the part afterwards.

If you want to be added to a taglist, leave a comment or message me

CW/TW: Anxiety, beginnings of anxiety attack, hunting, allusions to past trauma

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations

Prologue Part 1 Next

The world became very repetitious once the dead began to rise. Sure, there was always the risk of being bitten or attacked by hordes of the undead. But the motions of living continued to be the same every day. Find food, find water, find shelter, avoid the dead, rinse, repeat. Pheonyx didn’t have to worry about shelter or water, being on the Greene farm, but the monotony was still there. Wake up, hunt, tend to the animals and crops, train Kismet, eat dinner, sneak off to kill the shadows in the woods, sleep. It’d been that way for almost two months.

Everything changed the day Rick Grimes showed up on their property: a shot boy in his arms and eyes full of pleading hope.

*66 days post outbreak*

Pheonyx knocked his arrow, breathing slowly and focusing on his target: a fat, ball of brown fur that was currently chewing on an acorn. The woods around him were loud with the whistling of the breeze and the tweeting birds. He drowned it all out though, the only thing on his mind was hitting the small animal. Fingers releasing, fletching brushing his cheek, the string vibrated against his fingertips, his arrow flew true and hit the squirrel between the eyes. When the squirrel fell from its spot in the tree, he felt the thump of a bony tail against his leg and he looked down. Kismet looked up at him with a stereotypical Bully smile, tapping his toes in excitement. Despite the death and carnage that had happened in the past couple of months, the dog still had the power to make the young man smile.

“Go get it, Kizzie.”

The dog took off, practically tripping over his own feet to grab the small rodent. Another smirk lifted Pheonyx’s lips. His pup was anything but graceful when he was excited. Despite this, he was a natural when it came to hunting and scent tracking. The hound in his blood was very prominent. Kismet was eager to please and excitable, but he also was serious when given a job. So when the need to hunt for food became a necessity, Pheonyx began training the dog to retrieve and follow scents. He waited patiently for the animal. Without thinking, his hand pressed to his, now flat, chest through the thin flannel shirt he wore. It was still a shock sometimes when his hand met smooth muscle instead of mounds of dysphoria-inducing flesh. The area was still a mixture of sensitive and numb. The scars were healing nicely, as were the nipple grafts. Both tingled most of the time, but still didn’t have much sensation when it came to touch. He’d managed to get his surgery done one week before the world ended. At least now he didn’t have to worry about paying back the credit card he used to fund the surgery. Technically, he got a 10k surgery for free. That was probably the only upside to the deadly global pandemic.

A blur of dappled fur trampled the forest floor, only stopping to grab up the small corpse with the arrow sticking out of it. Kismet gave it a small shake and trotted back to his owner.

He took the animal and removed the arrow from its head. Luckily, Kismet hadn’t broken the arrow this time. They were still working on gentle handling when it came to Pheonyx’s precious supply of arrows. He could always make more, but it was a bitch and half to do.

A gunshot sounded through the air while he was tying the animal alongside his other catches on his waist.

Otis must have found the deer he was tracking, Pheonyx thought.

While he didn’t approve of the older man using a loud rifle to hunt, the farm was running low on protein options and Otis had offered to go find some bigger game. Pheonyx’s catches of squirrels, raccoons, and opossums only went so far when trying to feed 7 people. Especially since his stepfather kept sacrificing their chickens to the dead that were in the family barn.

The thought of what, who, was in the barn made his heart clench. His mother and his brother were currently rotting away next to their neighbors. Hershel believed that a cure was going to come. That the government or some research facility would come out with some kind of medicine that would right the world. But Pheonyx knew better. He was there when his brother died. He saw him stop breathing. Saw him open his eyes, the bright green that used to be was replaced by milky white, and launch at their mother. Pheonyx watched his brother tear into their mother’s arm, sentencing her to the same fate. A day later, he held onto his mom as she died. His fingers on her pulse, the rhythm disappearing under his fingers before she turned, just like Shawn had. They were dead. Walking and ravenous, but still dead. Since then, Hershel and Otis had been taking the Shadows they found and putting them in the barn. His stepfather was stubborn and refused to believe that these people were dead.

Everyone except for Pheonyx was in denial. He could tell Maggie was losing her faith though. Every trip into town, every encounter with the shadows, was breaking her resolve. She still held out hope though that everything would be okay again. He couldn’t though. He knew this world. He’d seen the darkest parts of it and, unfortunately, he knew that bad things rarely got better. They just continued to fester and bleed.

Which was why Pheonyx had to be the strong one and protect the farm. Every night, he went into the woods and cleared any dead that crossed his path. He’d wait until everyone was asleep then slip out with his primary weapon, a Civil War era Navy cutlass sword, that he nicked from the antique store in town. It was light weight and more aerodynamic than a machete. And the guard allowed him to push the dead away without worrying about his fingers being bitten. He’s spent the better part of a week tanning squirrel hides and sewing the leather to create a sheath to holster the sword at his hip. Sleep was a rarity now, as he walked through the farmhouse door just before dawn most days. Giving him just enough time to change out of his bloody clothes and slip into the shower to clean the gore off of his tanned skin.

Pheonyx was brought out of his thoughts as Kismet nosed at the squirrels hanging off his waist. He pushed the pup’s wide snout away from the corpses.

“You’ll get your fair share. Don’t worry. We should probably head back. If Otis caught that deer, this should be enough to last us for the week.”

The two began making the lengthy trek through the woods. These woods were second nature to Pheonyx, so finding the way back was easy. Kismet stopped to pee on several trees, making the trip longer than it usually was. Before long, they were stepping out into the cleared land near the farmhouse. In the distance, He could see Maggie sitting on the front porch with a book in her lap. He and the dog jogged up to the house, grass crunching under their feet. As they got closer, Kismet sped up upon seeing one of his favorite people.

“Incoming!”, Pheonyx yelled in warning.

Maggie had only a second before the thick-muscled dog was running up the steps and launching himself into her lap. The dog was easily 70 lbs of muscle, but he still thought he was a lap dog. She was slightly shocked but she dropped her book to begin scrubbing the wiggly boy.

“How is my favorite boy?”, she cooed. Kismet licked her face happily and his tail thumped on her leg.

Pheonyx caught up and stepped up onto the porch next to them. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and removed his bow and quiver from over his shoulder. He placed them gently against the side of the house. “I feel like I should be offended at that. I’ve known you for nearly 21 years and this mutt is your favorite?”

Maggie feigned shock and covered the dog’s ears, “Don’t talk about my boy that way, Pheonyx Archer Greene. I’ll let you do your own washin’ from now on.”

Chuckling, he reached out and ruffled his sister’s short brown hair. “You know I don’t mean it. He’s my boy too. Really glad I decided to bring him along instead of boarding him. Don’t know what I would do without his goofy ass.”

Kismet’s ears perked and he stared out into the distance. The two Greene siblings turned to look out into the field, expecting to see Otis with a deer slung over shoulders, but were met with the sight of a man in a Sheriff’s uniform running towards the house. He was carrying a kid in his arms, blood coating the khaki colored shirt he wore.

Maggie picked up the binoculars from the table beside her and used them to get a better look. Pheonyx grabbed Kismet’s collar and pulled him off his sister’s lap.

“Kismet, stay.” The pup whined but laid down on the porch, his butt wiggling at the prospect of a new friend approaching the house. He was much more trusting than Pheonyx would have liked.

His sister called out for Hershel, “DAD!”

Pheonyx grabbed the Glock 19 from the holster at his right hip, his sword being on the left. He deftly untied the squirrels from his hip, letting them fall to the porch next to his bow and quiver. Flipping the safety and making sure a round was chambered, he jogged to meet the man halfway.

“Was he bit?”, he asked, pointing the gun at the man. Unlike his family, Nyx knew that there were bad people in this world. As much as he wanted to help the pale, bleeding child in the man’s arms, he also had a family to protect. Whether the child was bit or the man had bad intentions, he couldn’t be sure. So he needed to be cautious.

The Sheriff was panting, sweat dripping down his face. “Shot. By your man. He said to find Hershel. Is that you? Please. Help me. Help my boy.”

The look of pure desperation in his sky blue eyes, had Pheonyx lowering, putting the safety back on, and holstering his weapon. He figured if he knew Otis’s name, this probably wasn't a trap.

“Not me. My step dad.”, Pheonyx heard the loud screen door behind him and the sound of his stepfather’s hurried steps approaching. “Come on, let’s get him inside.”

Before Hershel could ask, he filled him in, “He’s been shot. Said it was Otis, and that he told him to bring the boy here.”

Hershel nodded and led the sheriff into the house, past the rest of his family that had gathered outside at the commotion. The vet began to fire off commands, asking Patricia to get his kit and ordering Maggie to get painkillers, coagulates, alcohol and clean linens. Pheonyx ushered Beth and Jimmy away from the guest room off the main living area.

“I need you guys to go out front. Otis should be back soon too. Command Kismet to be on guard. He’s gonna growl if someone comes up but he won’t attack until you tell him to. Wait for Otis, the less people in here the better. Jimmy, take my gun,” he pulled the gun from his holster and handed it to the teen, “Remember what we talked about?”

Jimmy nodded, checking the safety and checking the magazine for rounds. While Hershel was against gun use on the farm, Pheonyx refused to walk around without one. It had been the source of many arguments between them. He had taken Jimmy, Beth, and Maggie out for lessons shortly after the outbreak began. Guns were a last resort for the dead, but if the Sheriff had a group that wanted to attack them, a gun was more threatening to humans. Jimmy and Maggie were naturals with firearms but Beth was still hesitant and very innocent. She believed, wholeheartedly, that the shadows could be cured, like their father did. She also only saw the best in people. The idea that someone would try to hurt the family was something she refused to believe. Which was why Pheonyx gave the gun to Jimmy. The boy had only been dating Beth for a few months, but he was visibly head over heels for her. Pheonyx knew he would protect his little sister no matter what.

Beth looked hesitant but pulled Jimmy out to the front porch. Nyx rolled his sleeves up and moved into the guest room, where Maggie and Patricia had returned with the items Hershel asked for.

“Is-Is he alive?”, the Sheriff asked desperately, his voice shaking with emotion. Sweat was dripping down his pale face, and he was shaking. Shock, Pheonyx thought. He honestly didn’t look much better than the injured boy on the bed. Both had a deathly pallor to their already pale skin.

Hershel unbuckled the belt that was used as a tourniquet from around the boy’s chest, “Pillowcase. Quickly.”

The man was still standing in shock so Pheonyx jumped into the fray. He grabbed one of the pristine white pillows from the bed and pulled the case off of it. Folding the pillowcase into a thick pad, he pressed the cloth against the boy’s stomach. Warmth from his blood soaked into Pheonyx’s hands. This wasn’t the first gunshot he’d helped treat. The others had been farm animals but the same principles applied. His stepfather pulled out his stethoscope and began to check for a pulse.

“I’ve got a heartbeat. It’s faint.”

The sheriff let out a small breath of relief but his body still radiated tension and despair. Maggie and Patricia were moving at the end of the bed, pulling out all the tools Hershel would need to treat the boy. The older woman moved to Pheonyx’s side of the bed, “I got it, Nyx. We need room, take him please”, she inclined her head towards the boy’s father. Pheonyx nodded and moved around the bed until he was standing next to the man.

“Hey, we need to give them some room. What’s your name?”, he placed his hand gently on the man's arm. There was a fog over the man’s blue eyes and it took him a moment to respond.

“R-Rick. I’m-I’m Rick.”, he stuttered and nodded to himself, as if assuring himself that that was really his name. At that moment, Pheonyx was surprised that he could even answer that.

He kept his tone calm, as if he were talking to a scared animal. “Rick, Hershel is a great doctor. He’s going to do everything he can for your boy. But we need to give them space.” He squeezed Rick’s arm and gently steered him out of the room. They both watched as Maggie began to set up an IV for the boy.

“Move!”, an unfamiliar voice floated in from the side window. Rick and he looked out and saw two men running towards the house. The large frame of Otis was struggling to keep up with a taller man with curly black hair and an impressive amount of muscle. Pheonyx’s eyes were locked on the shotgun in his hands. The man didn’t have it pointed at Otis or the house, but it still set him on edge.

Pheonyx and Rick both walked out the front door. The sheriff was still in a daze, but Pheonyx walked with purpose. Outside, Beth and Jimmy were standing with Kismet growling at their side. The teen boy had the gun in his hands, finger off the trigger like he had been taught.

“Jimmy, give me the gun. Take Beth upstairs, please. Kismet, stand down.”

Jimmy glanced at Pheonyx out of the corner of his eye, hesitant to let up his stance, but he still handed the gun over to the older man. The boy led Beth into the house, the porch door slamming shut behind them. Kismet grumbled but stopped growling at the approaching men. He trotted over to his owner, leaning against his side with his tail wagging. Pheonyx pulled out a bit of squirrel jerky from his pocket and handed it to the dog, rewarding him for standing guard. Otis and the unknown man had made it to the porch by then. Pheonyx guided Otis inside, Kismet on their heels, wanting to give Rick a moment with the other man. He was still leery of the newcomer, but he also knew that they wouldn’t try anything while the boy was being tended to by his stepfather.

“He’s alive? Is he still alive?”, Otis asked, his voice cracking.

Pheonyx nodded, “Yeah. Hershel is working on him now. What happened, Otis?”

The older man was on the brink of tears, “I should have listened to you. Shouldn’t have used the gun…”, He sniffled and wiped the sleeve of his army green shirt over his eyes. Otis was a large man. Tall and wide set. The appearance made him look more gruff than he truly was. He was a soft man at heart.

Pheonyx pulled him in for a hug, “It’s not your fault, Otis. I know you would never shoot a kid intentionally.” They separated and Otis nodded. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. The younger man truly didn’t blame Otis. When they discussed the use of firearms, Pheonyx’s only thoughts had been on the noise. Shadows were drawn by sound and nothing was louder than a rifle going off in the middle of the woods. “Patricia and Maggie are helping Hershel. He might want to ask you some questions about what happened though.”

Rick and the other man walked in. The sheriff was still in shock, walking as if in a cloud. The other man was holding himself together well. But his posture was stiff with fear and probably a bit of suspicion. Unfortunately, the end of the world left everyone with a plethora of the latter. You can’t trust anyone, no matter how good their intentions seem. Pheonyx had learned that earlier than most. (Heck, he had the damn phrase “The road to hell is paved with good intentions”, tattooed on his ribs. One of many tattoos that graced his skin). Maybe that distrust was what aided him in surviving this long.

Kismet jumped up on the couch right near Otis and Pheonyx, no doubt looking for a comfortable spot to nap since he was relieved of his 10 minutes of guard duty. Pheonyx gave him a head pat and another piece of jerky from his pocket. Normally by now, the dog would be chowing down on the innards of their morning hunt, but with the chaos he was reluctant to leave his family alone with the strangers. While he was 90% certain these men wouldn’t try anything while the boy was being helped, he couldn’t let his guard down. The two strangers walked into the room where Hershel was working on the boy, and Pheonyx walked with Otis to stand in the doorway.

Hershel was keeping pressure on the boy’s wound while Maggie held up the IV attached to his small arm.

“You know his blood type?”, the old man asked gruffly.

Rick nodded, “A-positive. Same as mine.”

There was a flicker of relief that flashed through Hershel’s eyes. “That’s fortunate. Don’t wander far. I’m gonna need you.”

Pheonyx took a small step forward towards the boy’s right side, arms crossed over his chest. It was instinctual. A way of creating a barricade without hiding behind a physical barrier. “Hershel, I’m O negative. Might be better to draw from me first if he needs blood.”, he glanced at the two men on the other side of the bed and took in their haggard appearances. It was more than shock and stress from the situation. Their faces were lean from lack of food, and they radiated a bone-tiredness that one could only acquire after falling on hard times. “No offense but you guys look like you haven’t eaten a good meal in a while and you’re both in shock. Taking blood could put you right next to him in that bed, Rick.” He may have been wary of the strangers, but it was an injured boy. Not offering to lower his guard and donate blood was something he wasn’t willing to do.

Rick muttered his thanks, wiping at tears that spilled over his lower lids. The other man inclined his head in a respectful nod. Hershel grunted in agreement.

“He’s right. We’ll take yours, Rick, as a last resort. Otis, what happened?”

Otis hadn’t stopped looking at the pale boy since they entered the room and he didn’t move his eyes even as he spoke, “I was tracking a buck. Bullet went through it”, his voice wavered and cracked. “Went clean through.” He made his way around the bed to Patricia, seeking comfort from his wife.

“The deer slowed the bullet down, which certainly saved his life, but it did not go through clean. It broke up into pieces. If I can get the bullet fragments out…”, Hershel trailed off while lifting the pillowcase from the boy's wound and looking into the bleeding hole.

Rick’s breathing increased a bit and the fog in his eyes cleared a little. “Lori doesn’t know. My wife doesn’t know–”, a sob wracked his body and the other man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “My wife doesn’t know.”

Hershel glanced at Pheonyx and inclined his head at the men. Wordlessly telling him to get them out of the room. He followed his stepfather’s silent command. “Why don’t you guys come with me into the living room? Hershel needs room to work.”, they both looked at him reluctant to leave the boy’s side. “We can talk about how to get word to your wife. One of us can probably ride out and find her but I’ll need you to pinpoint where she is on a map.”

This seemed to motivate the Sheriff and he nodded. They both followed Pheonyx into the living room farthest from the guest room and settled onto the couch. Kismet was still sleeping in the other room, snoring away and unaware of the tension occurring around him. There was a small writing desk in the corner of the room where they kept the majority of the local maps, some were hung up in the stables where Pheonyx used them for planning runs and plotting shadow trap locations. He went and pulled out one of the simpler maps, one that showed roads but not altitude. Grabbing a marker, he quickly starred the area where the farm was and marked the way which Rick had come from. “I’ve marked where the farm is on this map. The arrow is the direction you guys came from to get here. Try and mark where you think your wife is at. Maggie knows these woods about as good as me. So, if you can mark a general area where she might be, she should be able to catch up to her.”

The other man took the map and marker, even though Pheonyx had held it towards Rick. The man was still dazed though.

“I’m gonna grab you both some water.”

Pheonyx took a little bit of time walking to the kitchen. He was antsy. Strangers were a trigger for him. Strange men especially. The commotion of the injured boy had had his mind occupied and his anxiety had been diminished. But now that he was alone in the open kitchen, those nerves flared. Six years and his demons still held a grip on his heart. His hands shook as he opened the fridge and took out three water bottles. Setting them on the counter, he breathed deeply and opened one of the bottles. Taking tiny sips, he felt his body begin to settle down.

Gotta be strong for them. Beth, Maggie, Hershel, Otis, Patricia, Jimmy, He repeated the names three times before his heart reached a normal pace.

Pheonyx left his bottle on the counter, grabbing the other two bottles, and walked back into the living room. He could hear Rick and the other man talking.

“ A little girl goes missing… You look for her. Plain and simple.”, Rick said, his voice determined.

A little girl was missing? Before Pheonyx could ask any questions, the door to the guest room opened and Maggie stepped out. She glanced around and caught her brother’s eyes. “Pheonyx! He needs blood.”

He tossed the bottles of water onto the couch next to the men and hurried after his sister into the room. The pained cries of the boy reached his ears, breaking his heart. It was like a time machine sucked him back to the past. The noises were reminiscent of the sounds he made on many occasions as a small boy. The scars on his back burned, almost as if the lashes were being whipped into his skin for a second time. Determination filled him, an internal promise to himself that this boy would live. No matter what. He stripped off his flannel shirt, letting the clothing item fall to the ground, leaving himself only in his gray wife beater. Patricia grabbed his arm and began to sterilize the ditch of his arm.

He felt eyes on him, and he caught the stare of the strange man. It was a look that Pheonyx was very familiar with. One of contemplation, confusion, and a slight bit of disgust. More than likely, the man was trying to figure out “what” the tattooed man was. Was he a feminine framed guy? A trans man? Or a butch woman? He had a feeling that the strange man wouldn’t take kindly to him being any of those. The ability to pick out transphobes and homophobes had become a sixth sense of his. And this man was setting off every one of his warning bells. Trying not to think of it, Pheonyx averted his eyes to the boy, his brain not comprehending the frantic talking around him. He watched as the unknown man stepped forward and held the flailing boy down, allowing Hershel to dig into the wound for one of the fragments. The boy's screams rang in his ears, blocking out the feeling of the needle entering his vein.

“YOU’RE KILLING HIM!”, Rick screamed, tears running down his face. He moved to try to push Hershel away but Pheonyx reached out and grabbed his clammy hand with the arm that Patricia wasn’t working on.

“Don’t, Rick. He’s trying to get the shrapnel out. We don’t have any sedatives so he’s feeling everything right now. But Hershel has to do this.”

He squeezed the man’s hand, trying to offer him some kind of comfort, before pushing him back gently.

The boy’s cries stopped suddenly and the air in the room chilled, everyone’s hearts skipping in fear. The man holding him down pulled away, his face paling and he stuttered while looking at Hershel for reassurance.

The older man spoke softly but firmly, “He just passed out.”

He pulled the forceps out of the boy’s wound, the bloody instrument holding a piece of bullet in its metallic grip.

“One down. Five to go.”, Hershel muttered.

Prologue Part 1 Next

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