Chapter Text
It's only been a couple of days since he's been with these men. Up til tonight he's been numb about what happened. Losing Beth was the last straw. The last remaining tie to the man he'd become, the one who'd fought and struggled alongside Rick, who'd become a man who would risk his own life to save some strangers on a bridge even as Merle scoffed at him for it. It only took hours of being truly alone to strip that all away and leave him clinging to something recognizable, familiar.
These men were scum, he knew it as soon as he laid eyes on them, but they weren't unlike the men who ran with Merle, or his dad's old drinking buddies. Before Rick, he would've counted himself among their kind.
Now he's drank too much moonshine on an empty stomach and it's just him and Joe still awake, sitting a little ways back from the small campfire. Drunk and grieving, he can't find the words to answer the other man's questions about where he's been, and just hunches over his bent knees and puts his head in his hands. Joe starts out with just a hand on his back, offering some manly comfort, and Daryl hasn't felt this small since he fell to the ground in pieces facing the dead shell of his big brother.
Somehow, he finds himself giving in to the man, letting him run a hand over the back of his head to settle on the base of his neck where it rests, rough fingers applying gentle pressure. It takes a while longer for it to turn into something else. He supposes Joe needs to be sure they won't be disturbed by the others, waits until he can hear snoring from one, even breathing from another.
Then the hand that had been stroking the back of his neck slips between his legs and instead of going to break the man's jaw, he's getting hard beneath the steady rubbing and its all feeling too familiar. The burst of anger Joe displayed that resulted in Len's death, and then the calm after, was so like home. The other guys gave Joe a wide berth after that, but Joe let Daryl know by his special attention that he was favoring him, even though he was new to the group, even though his hunting skills weren't so unique here as they were at the prison. Joe has at least twenty years of hunting on him, with all the same weapons, and when he gives an order these rough men obey like they're his kids, and that leaves an impression on him too. His voice is gruff, same back country accent as his old man, same take-no-bullshit attitude.
The hand dips into the waistband of his jeans, and hesitates there just a second or two, not so much asking permission but checking for any resistance. Daryl doesn't offer any, and the warm calloused fingers find their way to his hardening cock, thumb brushing over the slit in a way that makes his breath catch harshly. Beside him he hears Joe chuckle softly, just a low rumble in his throat.
"Been too long for you, ain't it boy ?" he murmurs, and Daryl swears he hears his daddy clear as day. Joe's built a lot like him too, and nearly the right age.
He hasn't been with another human being sober since he'd finally found the balls to get away. There were a couple of men, and a few more women, but none with a clear head or conscience, and it's no different now. He wishes it had been Rick. He could've almost imagined it. But Rick is gone and thinking about it brings a lump to his throat even as he starts to feel a familiar throb down there.
Daryl tenses up, trying to come to his senses enough to shove this bastard off and hit the road alone, even though it's dark, but truth be told, going out on his own now is really the last thing he wants to do. For the first time the thought of being alone feels worse than dead ever could. Alone all he'd have was his memories, of everything he'd lost. He remembers Bob out of the blue, and how the man defended taking that liquor for himself when they went to bring back those meds. "I just need it for the quiet," he said, and Daryl had felt contempt for his weakness.
But here he was, letting this man get him sloppy drunk, letting him open a door that had been shut for a long time, just to not have to think about how he'd given up hunting the Governor with Michonne because he'd started to feel like the prison was home, and how that bit of laziness, and selfishness , might have been what destroyed everything. It was either that or he'd be remembering how he let his guard down for a fucking dog and lost Beth in the process. He really was just as worthless as his old man had said he was.
Joe seems to sense his unease and reassures him.
"Ain't askin' for nothin' in return now, just relax. " His tone is coaxing, paternal even, and he's sickened by how that makes it feel better. Joe comes up to sit closer beside him, close enough to get the angle right to start gently pulling on his cock. He's not sure what the hell he's supposed to be doing in return so he just sits there, his knees bent as the older man keeps fondling him. The alcohol makes him slump to one side, he's off balance even sitting on his ass, and Joe laughs and just pushes him back so he's leaning on his elbows now. Slides up next to him so that his front is close against Daryl's side, and the warmth feels good in the chill night air.
"I'm gonna take care of you right now, and then at a later date, you're gonna take care of me. That's how this is gonna work, ok ?" The older man's voice is calm and smooth. He's not nearly as drunk as Daryl is and after a few more seconds Daryl's collapsed fully onto his back and Joe's just stroking him, rhythm steady and firm, but gentle.
Daryl wants to pull away, he really does, but he's already let it go this far and it would just look even weaker to try and stop it now , so he closes his eyes and tries to keep his mind in the here and now and not drifting back to how his daddy's hands felt on him. Its been so long but right now it doesn't seem like it, and he can almost hear the drunken slur in the old man's voice telling him he only did this because this was what he was good for, that he was nothing but a sick little faggot that he could come like this, that if he were normal he wouldn't be doing this to him. He wouldn't use his belt on him during those times, but sometimes Daryl would have preferred it to hearing those words. His body recovered from a whipping a lot faster than his head could after that.
But now he's just concentrating on the warm hand wrapped around his cock, trying to filter out the other foulness, realizing once he comes it can stop and he can roll away and pass out and worry about that later date Joe mentioned after. He feels himself going soft though, and starts to feel a little nauseous, about ready to roll away anyway so he doesn't puke all over himself.
"You gotta take pleasure where you can find it, boy," Joe murmurs softly. He obviously feels Daryl softening and seems to want to help. "No shame in how good it feels to have a hand on your cock that ain't your own. " His voice is deep and gravelly, but it's reassuring and and brings Daryl's mind fully back to the present. "If I didn't think you were worth the trouble I wouldn't be doin' this," the voice continues, "I can tell you're a good boy, not like the rest of them. Gonna make sure you enjoy this..."
Daryl starts to relax, stomach settling down, cock growing hard again from the sound of Joe's soothing tone.
"See now, that's better, " he whispers, taking up a slower rhythm. Daryl's eyes are still closed so he's surprised by Joe's other hand sliding into his jeans. He tenses as he feels it slip underneath his balls. He panics for a second , thinking he's gonna try and stick a finger in him dry, but instead Joe presses his fingers up against his taint and starts to slowly massage there. Daryl lets out a small whimper before he can help it as the sensation hits his prostate unexpectedly, and Joe laughs softly.
"Easy, boy, we ain't alone here, " he whispers. "Gonna need to be quiet."
Daryl swallows hard, feeling stupid, biting down on his lips to keep from slipping up again.
"It's alright, everyone's still asleep, " he tells him, because Daryl still can't open his eyes. The shame he's feeling is starting to overwhelm him again, and suddenly it's Rick, not his daddy , that pops into his mind. What would Rick think of him like this ? He starts to struggle up off his back, fighting against the drunkenness, but Joe frees his hands from Daryl's pants and moves to press him back down.
"Hey, hey, just relax, " the man coaxes him softly. " You want me to stop, I will."
Daryl stays down then, covering his face with his hands. He feels lost and confused but fuck, he's still hard and Joe's hands on him felt sure and safe, and that kind of closeness, as shameful as it was, was better than nothing. It's a pale shadow of what he had with Rick even though they'd barely touched eachother, but he's desperate to feel connected to someone. After a lifetime of being alone, he let himself get too used to being surrounded by people who actually seemed to give a damn about him, and without them, without Rick, he can't even imagine going on if it has to be like it was before.
After a minute, Joe's hands are back into his unzipped jeans, caressing him with a gentleness his old man never had until he's starting to ache, and then those fingers move to press up into that spot under his balls again and he's shuddering uncontrollably and it's taking over all his senses and that's exactly what he needs right now. For someone to take control and make everything simple, so he doesn't have to think about the past or the future. Because right now they may as well not even exist.
"Wanna see you come for me, boy, " the older man drawls next to his ear. Daryl isn't even pissed that the man keeps calling him that. Merle did, his daddy did. And with Joe too, he can hear that little bit of affection in it that makes him able to let go as the man finds the right rhythm, losing himself in that voice murmuring encouragement as he feels himself start to build. "That's it, that's it, just let it happen, " the man croons in his ear as he feels his hips start to jerk erratically. Joe knows just where to put the right pressure to make him start losing control and it doesn't take that long at all before he's coming hard and Joe's been considerate enough that there's some sort of cloth or towel down there now so he's not just coming all over himself and he's grateful for that as he thrusts into the man's palm and grits his teeth to keep from making any noise.
After, he still can't open his eyes, can't say a word. Now that it's over, he tenses up. This was when it got bad, back in the day. His old man would be sickened by him, even though he'd just gotten off himself. There were times when afterwards he'd be drunk enough that he'd pull Daryl against him and pass out, and those times were not the usual but they were the only times he could think the old man cared about him, even if it was in a fucked up way. What else could someone like him expect anyway ? No one normal would ever want him, not if they knew what he was. He knew that much.
His finally brings himself to open his eyes a crack and Joe is sitting up and grinning down at him, starting to clean him off and put his dick away. He takes a water bottle out of his own pack and puts a hand under the back of Daryl's head, lifting it up a bit. He brings the bottle to his mouth.
" C'mon, drink," he orders, and Daryl obediently parts his lips and takes some of the cool water, thirsty as hell from the alcohol, his head spinning a little. "A little more, " he coaxes, tipping the bottle into his mouth, making Daryl swallow another few gulps so the water doesn't run all down his chin. "You'll have a bitch of a headache if you dehydrate." Daryl chokes a bit, unable to swallow easily from his position, but he gets it down and it doesn't feel bad that the man is still being friendly, and not even trying for any action himself.
"Now don't you feel better ?" Joe asks good-naturedly, and Daryl can't bring himself to answer that at all, because he doesn't really know right now, if this is better or worse. He shuts his eyes again and covers his face with an arm, and Joe chuckles a little at that and Daryl doesn't know why the hell he seems amused but he doesn't really seem to be mocking him so he doesn't think much on it.
"You got a place here if you want it, Daryl," he says soothingly, patting his thigh before turning over to settle onto his own bedroll. "You'll be alright. "
Daryl doesn't believe that for a second, but for now he knows it's the best he can do. Rolling over onto his side, he curls up as tight as he can against the chill, which the alcohol has only made worse. With his eyes shut tight, he tries not to hear the clanging of the prison cell doors closing, the footsteps echoing in the concrete corridors. The familiar sounds of home, everyone settling into Cell Block C for the night. It's always harder to contain his emotions when he's drunk, and he's fighting back tears again all of a sudden. The last thing he needs is for any of these ruthless sons of bitches to see him that weak.
He feels something land on his body and he flinches, startled. It takes a second for him to register that Joe's tossed a blanket over him, probably a spare he had tucked in his pack. He doesn't thank him, he doesn't trust that his voice won't crack and give him away anyway, he just pulls it tight around his shoulders and hopes he has enough moonshine in him to let him pass out before he has a chance to start thinking clearly again.