What Happened To Daryl Dixon

After Andrea loses sight of Daryl Dixon, he takes matters in Woodbury into his own hands. Somebody loses his head.

Woodbury Prison - Streets


"Your friend Andrea is one of us now!" the Governor's grasp tightens around Daryl's trachea. It tightens even further. "Get it through your goddamned brain— you're not winning this one— give up the rest of your motley crew, or reap the consequences," his lips curve wolfishly upwards in a rage-smile combo.

Oxygen's what's not getting through to Daryl's brain and though he snorts, wheezes defiantly — shows it in the heat of his glaring eyes — there's a panic that builds; it's only human; he's only human. Muscles twitch in the spirit of living, and wanting to keep living and the newly refreshed ties cut new marks onto his bared skin while the skimpy mess of made of his shirt crumbles at his shifting elbows. What thoughts do fight their way into his mind circle around: this is stupid! It's the freakin' apocalypse and you're gonna get choked out by some power-hungry pervert in his torture shed.

Are they really his thoughts? They must be. But they don't sound like his voice.

Over the Governor's shoulder — though it's difficult to find a speck of something else to concentrate on — Daryl's periphery catches another figure, lounging against the wall, watching them with scathing bemusement. This it, little brother? Gonna get fondled to death? That ain't no brother of mine.

"Nnnggh— " Daryl complains, indistinctly to the man systematically choking the life out of him or the imaginary one berating him for it. He kicks, swaying stiffly back and forth in secure bonds, bruised knuckles clotted from their first trial escape.

He can see the manic lust in the fucking Governor's remaining eye, getting hot off of holding someone's life so intensely. He kicks.

White creeps shyly into the edges of his vision even as the grip barely loosens to let the man reach over and pick up, with a menacing clink, what looks to be the oldest pliers in the history of the town. Choking fingers slide up, pinching Daryl's jaw on either side and starting to force it down—

Thud bump. With the force of being opened, the door's hit the other side of the rickety metal wall. "Governor— " The interruption pauses when he sees his illustrious leader stiffen in what appears to be irritation that melts off of him a second later like hot butter. Straightening, the pliers clattering as they are replaced on the table, he addresses the problem. Some kind of… something— disturbance… Hearing is blurry to Daryl as his head rolls and he sucks in several pathetic breaths. Merle's image clucks his tongue judgmentally and Daryl chooses to ignore him, instead glaring with his bruise-darkened eyes at the muttering figures. It's not the terrorists… that's what he does manage to hear. It's not. Nobody. Nobody's coming.

The Governor glances back with a glint of one-eyed appreciation for what he'll return to before the door slams shut.

It opens again half a minute later to introduce the interrupting man who casts a furtive look over his shoulder before entering, licking his lips. Approaching the chair, he gives Daryl the once-over. "Heard there was a sack'a meat in here."

"Yeah, fuck you." Overused but endlessly expressive, even though Daryl's tired, and annoyed, and contemplating the truth he should have always been prepared for — was, really: he's alone.

"Nobody ain't gonna ever love you," cajoles Merle like he's singing his little brother a bedtime song. Somebody else's mouth is moving, but it's drowned out by off-key redneck lullabies. "Ain't nobody in the world but Dixons."

"Hmph…" Daryl snorts and suddenly finds himself the receiver of a back-handed slap.

"What did you say?"

"Nothin'!" It's familiar: being accused for what he ain't done on account of his home and upbringing and, hell, everything. He weren't even paying half attention to this asshole and his peeping tom creepiness. Daryl's fingers flex in stiffness and pain, "But now I gotta point out hows you slap like a dollar hooker."

The next punch is to an eye too swollen to do much more about it and rattles the chair. Daryl murmurs a follow-up he doesn't even think about — doesn't remember while he's saying it; he can hear Merle coaching him. Punch. Telling him what to say by calling him names first. Rattle. Shake.


Fingers curled, more than makes a proper fist as Daryl notes, the man swings and abruptly his hand is caught in the twisted wire Daryl's holding that once made up his reinforced bindings. Burns from the secondary rope he's entangled in go ignored as he loops the wire and hand around the man's neck and rockets him to him, tightening ruthlessly as the muscular townsman kicks and bucks. Bleeding, elbowed in cuts that make him grimace in wordless agony, Daryl holds firm — pulls firm. Merle's urging him on. Telling him what a little girl he is, waiting for his sugar daddy to come back and touch him again, please, thank you, sir.

Daryl imagines the Governor's wicked face and the wire breaks through skin and through muscle; something pops like a sick geyser and blood's splashing out onto his hands and shoulders as, with a lazy, half-arsed roll, the man's head tips gently over and thumps to the floor. Springing up, Daryl twists and drops the body in the chair. He sniffs quickly, shedding off the wreck of his shirt to wipe across his face and torso where he drips onto the concrete in continued earnest for the exertion. Breathing hard — heartbeats pumping out more to the floor. The shirt's tossed idly onto the top of the body slumped over in the chair; he kicks the head as he passes by, dropping the pliers he'd filched and picking up one of several knives stained with his own blood.

"They opened you up and saw what y'were made of," observes Merle, "And it weren't the kind of goodie-goodie fucks that Rick and his crew got. That ain't you, little brother. And they know. That's why they ain't comin' for you. You were just a dog to them, and now you've got the usefulness beat outta ya."

"Shut it!"

A shotgun blast rockets out with his words, startling him. Fuck! Somebody's comin'— there's a partially concealed back-door, no better than a slight break in the corrugated walls, and Daryl breaks for it, squeezing through— he's stumbling out into the breaking chaos of Woodbury as the person inside opens the door.

Hah. Won't they be in for a nice surprise.

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