farfromthesea | (no subject)

Entry tags:

daryl

(no subject)

Theon wakes up behind an ordinary looking house in East Hallow, a slow and painful grind toward consciousness. For one blissfully ignorant moment, he's just confused.

And then he feels the throb in his head, sticky blood on his face, the sudden rush of knowledge-- not much knowledge, not enough to explain why his wrists and ankles are bound with a loop of thing, too strong plastic. Not enough to explain the fucking chain around his neck, attached to the house like it just belongs there.

He's not gagged, and he can't tell if it's just because they knew, whoever the fuck they are, that he knows better to scream, that he's been taught better.

"See there?" says a voice, and if the tone, the accent are wrong, there's something else that's exact in it. "Knew you were smart enough to keep your mouth shut. You keep your ears open too. You're about to be part of something spectacular."

Theon cranes his head to find the man, and he recognizes the hard blue eyes that had watched him move through the marketplace as it became more and more frenetic. Thank fuck, that color doesn't freeze him anymore. Instead, he's thrashing, writhing, shouting, trying to get free, until the man with the blue eyes is a heavy weight on top of him, sitting on Theon's thighs with a blade to his neck.

"I think you're going to shut the fuck up now," his captor says, and Theon stills, gasping careful breaths as he tries to figure his way out of this.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Daryl intended to stay home.

It had been so damn long that anyone'd had a reason to celebrate Halloween, he'd honestly almost forgotten it was even a thing. Before the dead, Daryl had only ever screwed around with his brother, smashing pumpkins and tee-peeing bushes when they were kids, and later, occasionally breaking into empty homes so Merle could steal shit from folks off partying.

The last Halloween he remembered with any clarity at all, he'd spent drunk at home watching shitty slasher movies on an old box TV.

But that evening, something... something didn't feel right. By the time sun set, he'd started to hear rumors, and reluctantly leaving Dog at home, he'd taken off on his bike to find this East Hallow place everybody talked about.

Shouldering his crossbow, he carried a knife and a pistol on his hip. As he walked down the main drag, people shouted and ran past him, warning him to leave.

"These people are fucking crazy!" A young girl shrieked, blood congealing near her hairline. Part of him wanted it all to be an elaborate joke, but he knew better.

Dragging a couple of weirdos off a pair of crying kids, he shouted at them both to get the hell home, his adrenaline pumping hard as he kept an eye out for familiar faces.

When he first came upon the guy hunched over someone in the dirt, he didn't realize it was anyone he knew. Rushing forward with his crossbow raised to the guy's throat, he barked out, "Drop the damn knife."

His eyes fell to the person laying prone beneath the press of that knife, and Daryl's blood ran cold. "I said, drop the fucking knife," he warned again, taking a step forward.

Theon's not sure he could dream a better fucking thing than hearing the low, intense rumble of that warning, unless it somehow included his sister with a whole contingent of pikemen. He thinks he might be a little hysterical, but there's really only the one time he's been successfully rescued from anything, and he was too busy bleeding out on Neil to appreciate it.

His assailant freezes, but he doesn't move, a poorly concealed look of calculation crossing his features. Probably deciding whether to just press in the with blade and take the chance, Theon thinks, his pulse jumping against the cold metal.

"You get your own sacrifice," the man finally says. "This one's mine. No need to steal, they're all over the fucking place."

Theon holds still, fixing his eyes on Daryl, and trusts.

How many walkers have you killed...

If he pressed, if he asked again, Daryl knew the chances of the guy backing off were pretty high, but that'd leave him free to run off and find someone else. Someone else to terrorize, to kill, and for what?

How many people have you killed?

Judith would've wanted to take the time to reason with him. Everyone can change, she'd have said, her eyes wide and reminding him so damn much of Beth. Of Hershel. Of Glenn. Of all the folks willing to find the best in strangers, even at the risk of their own lives.

The decision was made so quick, weighing the pros and cons of a murder's life. A stranger, willing to kill indiscriminately. He raised the crossbow an inch, and squeezed the trigger. The arrow embedded through the back of the man's skull, the arrowhead protruding through his cheek, right beneath his eye. His expression was frozen in shock for one still, silent moment, before Daryl shoved him off of Theon into a heap in the dirt.

"We gotta move," he said, shouldering the bow and pulling the knife from his hip as he dropped into a crouch at Theon's side. He cut the zip ties around his wrists, the ones around his ankles, hands making quick work of checking for injuries.

"Can you walk?"

Maybe it's some sick part of him that ought to be discussed with his therapist, a place Theon still goes even now, but the relief feels different, feels better, when his attacker tumbles over dead. He's never seen it, or felt it, really, that level of protection.

Theon's never wanted so badly to touch someone, to have his arms around Daryl and feel his breathing like when he'd ridden behind him on the bike. He knows damn well it's not the time, and not something Daryl would probably even welcome, so he settles for the way he's checked over for injuries.

"Aye," he says roughly. "I can walk. Little dizzy, nothing I can't handle." If they hurry, he won't even think about it, how much the man had looked like hum, how loud the roar at the back of his head is.

Daryl's touch grazed Theon's face, fleeting and jacked up on adrenaline, calloused hands in fingerless gloves. A splatter of blood smeared under the pad of his thumb, streaking rust across Theon's cheek.

"You're alright," he murmured, quiet enough to be meant only for himself, his forehead dropping briefly to rest against Theon's as he let out a shaky breath.

"Come on," he said, gripping Theon's hand and hauling him up. "We're going."

Now Theon's pulse is hammering for an entirely different reason.

Since coming to Darrow, he's had moments of wanting someone, usually tangled up in the two people most important to him in all the worlds, usually slow and achy desires that he'd pushed to the side because he didn't see a better choice. But this hits him like a bolt from the sky, and with Daryl touching his face, bringing their foreheads together, he nearly surges forward to fit their mouths together.

A scream echoes in the distance, and then Daryl's helping him up.

"I can fight if you give me a few moments," he says.

Daryl gave a short nod, flipping his knife over and passing it to Theon.

"We'll clear what we can, on our way outta town, but we ain't sticking around," he said, gesturing to the blood drying in Theon's hair. Most likely, Theon had a mild concussion, and while Daryl himself had been in harder fights with worse injuries, he wasn't going to risk it.

Considering Theon had been seconds away from becoming a blood sacrifice, he's feeling a number of surprisingly deep and soft things-- at the rescue, at the touch he wants more of, at the notion they'll leave because Theon's hurt.

He takes the knife with a nod, and then glances over at where he's pretty sure magic might be happening, something catching a peculiar purple fire.

"Good call," he says, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly. As for finding their way out, he'll defer to Daryl at this moment.

"Left the bike just off the main road," he said, his hand lingering at Theon's elbow as he steered them in that direction.

Someone in a long robe charged at them, shouting his arrival, a long, curved knife raised. Daryl motioned for Theon to stay where he was and strode forward, catching the guy by the wrist and using his momentum, and a kick to the shin, to knock him to the ground.

Pinning the guy's wrist to the dirt with one grimy boot, Daryl pried the knife from his hand, then delivered a swift kick to the prick's face.

Hefting the knife, which was a little fancier than he'd like, he turned to Theon and asked, "You want this one?"

Some stupid, exhausted part of him struggles not to just turn his face into Daryl's neck, let himself take comfort there. Luckily, for this moment, the rest of him wins out, and he just stays close, as alert as the strange combination of tonight's close call and old memories will allow him to be.

Watching Daryl kick a fucker's face in, that helps.

He takes the knife and examines it, says, "It'll do until we're out, but something like this is too cursed for me."

And he gets a chance to use it only a moment later, as a pair of cloaked figures rush at them, and there's nothing to do for it but let the blade find its way into some stranger's guts.

How many people have you killed?

He added another to the list. Sometimes, he was sure of the number. Others, the exact tally eluded him. Too many to ever make amends for. But he'd fought in two wars, and survived in a hellscape in between. He had to keep reminding himself of that. That death was sometimes the consequence of protecting the ones you wanted to live most.

His bowie knife went into the woman's belly, neat and clean, dragging from navel to sternum. It wouldn't be a be a quick death, and out of habit, he pulled the blade from the her gut and pressed it again just behind her ear, putting her down for good. She stared up at him, glassy eyed, as he let her slide into a heap at his feet.

Shaking his head, Daryl took a step back. Choking back a sour wave of nausea, he gripped Theon's sleeve and said, "Come on."

Dragging them both towards the road out of town, he grabbed a young kid by the collar and steered him along, too. "That's my sister!" The kid cried, pointing to a girl standing alone just a few yards away.

"Get her and get the hell outta here. You got it?" He said gruffly, giving the kid an encouraging shove. He kept his eye on the pair as they all made their way out, breathing out a sigh of relief as the kids joined a bigger group of adults.

Slowing his stride a bit, he cut a look at Theon, saying, "It's this way," as he led them both into the ravine where he'd stashed the bike.

Edited 2020-11-07 02:58 (UTC)

The way the body sounds when it hits the ground, Theon's already trying hard enough to compartmentalize what's happening that it slides, for better or worse, into the neat little space kept for casualties of battle.

And at any rate, he's far more concerned about the way Daryl steps back from the other one. He catches the hand on his sleeve and grips it tightly, not sure if he can trust his voice-- or his ability to find words.

Thank fuck when they make it out.

Theon pulls in huge gulps of air, like it tastes different away from the town, and it does, if only because he can't smell fresh blood. "Okay," he murmurs, as Daryl directs him, reaching for his forearm, not sure which of them he's doing it for, and breathes. "Okay."

Sliding his knife back into its sheath, Daryl pulled back the branch he'd hastily thrown across the bike and walked it up closer to the edge of the road. Propping it back onto the kickstand, he secured his crossbow to the back, then paced a few anxious steps away, scrubbing a tired hand across his face.

The road was already clogged with traffic making its way out of the city, in cars and on foot. They needed to move, before some poor bastard got it in their head to try and hitch a ride, or worse, to try and steal the bike.

Instead, he turned abruptly on his heel, striding the few steps between himself and Theon, and drew him into a fierce hug, his face tucked into the crook of Theon's shoulder.

Theon's busy steeling himself to get the fuck out of there for good, to head back to the shore where the most evil thing is that fucking seagull. This part is easy, this part should be easy.

To say he's surprised to suddenly have Daryl wrapped around him, to feel his breath against his throat, seems like the dimmest of words. A gasp punches out of him and then he's clinging, an arm curling around Daryl's middle and the other around his shoulders, a hand at the back of his neck, the back of his head.

"Aye," he murmurs. "Aye, I've got you. And you've got me." He doesn't want to give this up, not for a damn second, but he has to say, "Let's get back to my place, yeah?"

Daryl grunted in agreement, extracting himself and jerking his head in a sheepish nod, his eyes cast downward.

His jaw worked as he chewed at the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit he'd had since he was a kid, but hardly seemed to notice himself doing.

"Yeah, alright," he mumbled, busying himself with sitting astride the bike. The engine growled, and he flipped on the bright headlamp, waiting for Theon to get secure on the seat behind him before heading off down the road.

It's his turn to wrap himself around Daryl now, as he climbs up behind him, and he allows himself the complete comfort of nearly plastering himself to the other man's back, pressing his face to the curve and plane of Daryl's shoulder.

He can't wait to get the fuck out of here, to try and forget that man's eyes, to get the blood off of him.

"I'm good," he says, his voice low, knees nudging forward. "Go."

The ride back to Theon's was quiet and uneventful, Daryl weaving through the scarce traffic of the city, before turning off onto the rarely traveled road leading out to his small strip of beach.

Dog wasn't there to greet them, and Daryl felt a slight pang of guilt at having left him back at the apartment, but he knew that the old mutt would be fine.

Killing the engine, he waited for Theon to get to his feet before slipping off the bike himself.

"Come on," he muttered, on his way up to Theon's front door. "We'll get you cleaned up."

The wind against his skin, the easy ride back-- Theon's as grateful for all that as he is for the extended opportunity to hold onto Daryl, tightly, to tip his face down until it's between Daryl's shoulders and just breathe. Somehow it all comes together to make him feel safe in a way he's not sure he could have said he'd known before.

Dog might not be there to greet them, but there's a dark shadow sitting in the window, watchful and somewhat irritated. Theon catches himself smiling at the cat like it might calm her, relieved enough to be home that he almost misses Daryl's words.

It's stupid, maybe, but the promise of Daryl continuing to take care of him somehow loosens that tight feeling in his chest and replaces it with something warm and just as unsure. "Aye," he says quietly. "I could use it." He strides ahead just enough to get the door unlocked and let them into the little house.

Edited 2020-11-12 05:06 (UTC)

Daryl followed Theon inside, propping his crossbow up by the door and stripping out of his vest. Stooping to untie his boots, he toed them off just inside, to keep from tracking anything onto the floors he'd spent days sanding and repairing.

"Come on," he said, gesturing for Theon to follow him into the bathroom and flipping on the bulb. "Sit your ass down," he said, flipping the toilet lid closed, a faint smirk on his face.

In the stark florescent of the bulb he'd hung up in this room, he could see the gash on Theon's forehead more clearly. Like head wounds tended to do, it had bled a lot, but it didn't look too deep.

The relief surges up so great at all of it, the way he kicks off his own boots to join Daryl's, the way the cool darkness in the little house wraps around him in an entirely different way that the darkness outside, the surety of Daryl's instructions. Catching sight of the sheer amount of blood on his shirt, he pulls it up and off, just a bit gingerly.

It's so quiet, his windows open just enough that there's the soft, comforting roar of the sea.

He thinks he'll be tired, very soon, but he feels almost serene as he sits down on the toilet lid, tipping his head for Daryl to see properly. Could also be the head wound, though. "Think it needs stitches?" he murmurs, not really wanting to disrupt the strange sense of peace.

In his world, there was a lot of hasty sterilization with alcohol and hoping for the best, but he was able to wash his hands in the sink, to rummage around for the first aid kit stowed in the cabinet. He wet a washcloth with warm water, and standing over Theon, one hand braced on his shoulder, Daryl blotted carefully at the wound.

"Looks shallow enough," he murmured, prodding gingerly at the deepest part, split near his hairline. Theon's eyes were heavy-lidded, but he didn't look worryingly disoriented. "Feeling woozy?" He asked, knocking bits of gravel gently from Theon's hair.

"Just-- relieved, I think," Theon admits, doing what he thinks is an excellent job not overly leaning into the hand on his shoulder. "Maybe a little dizzy." He does manage to keep his eyes open a bit wider, watching Daryl clean a wound that hardly hurts anymore. They'd told him a lot about adrenaline and how other shit like that could make him feel ways, at the hospital, but he'd like to think his threshold for pain is high by now.

Maybe more than a little dizzy, he realizes, as he reaches to steady himself with a hand on Daryl's side.

"I should have said," Theon murmurs, "that this place's holidays get weird."

"Lucky you stayed on the bike," he muttered gruffly, frowning at himself for risking something so dangerous.

Leaning over to rinse out the washcloth, he said, "I figured it out myself. Starting hearing shit, in town. Why the hell'd you think I came? It wasn't for the damn cider."

"I wouldn't have fallen off," Theon answers, "not then. It's because we're safe now. They told me about it, when I was in the hospital." He hadn't really understood it until later, all of it too far removed and out of his experiences.

The corners of his mouth tick up, and his expression unguarded, warm as he watches Daryl.

"You came to help people," he agrees. "I would have--" He doesn't want to say it, not now.

"Came looking for you," Daryl said, frowning. "You and those damn kids."

Maeve, he knew, was all right, but there were others he'd need to check up on. Others he gave a damn about. But he'd gotten Theon on his bike and hauled ass without much of a second thought.

Without meaning to, he thought about Carol. About her arms around him on the bike, the two of them making promises to each other that neither of them could really keep.

Blotting the last of the blood away from Theon's hairline, Daryl left the washcloth in the sink as he fumbled around for a couple of those little butterfly bandages.

Theon lets his hand drop from Daryl's side as he moves, far too distracted by the idea of Daryl going to look for him, among others, making that same connection-- how they'd just left. And he doesn't feel guilty, even if for a moment he wants to, thinks he should. No, all he can think about in that next moment is what it would feel like to kiss Daryl, pull him down and kiss him.

It's such a clear, strong picture that he's not sure what to do with it. Up until now, it had been stupid yearning that stayed much more vague.

"Thank you," he says, his voice slightly hoarse.

"It's nothin'," he muttered gruffly, even though it very clearly was more than nothing.

His hands fiddled with the wrapper on the bandages, worrying at the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he carefully peeled the backing from them and pinched the wound gently closed as he stuck the bandages down.

"This oughta hold," he said, "Long as you don't go picking at 'em."

Edited 2020-11-19 04:53 (UTC)

"It's not nothing to me," says Theon, and when he hears his voice, he thinks it gives too much away, like saying I would have taken you all the way to the Wall, like if you'll have me. "It means something to me."

And that's all he can really make himself say, letting Daryl put the last of the bandages on, letting exhaustion start to slump him over.

"Don't worry," he says softly, smiling. "I've had practice."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only