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Daryl didn't even wonder why he had done it, not once. It was not like that he hadn't known all the Dixons were nuts, that their brains had been messed up utterly. His good-for-nothing asshole of a father had demolished and ruined everything within reach, his mother had let herself die in a fireーhe sure as hell knew thatー, and his brother had let drugs destroy his life and surroundings. There was no wonder that Daryl inherited a predisposition to destruction.
He just needed it. Occasionally emotions he had to handle were too overwhelming and he didn't know how to ease them without pressing a lit cigarette butt or the icy edge of his knife on his skin. Sometimes on his palm, sometimes on his inner elbow. It was easier than crying for help. Besides, crying would be taken as a sign of weakness and earn more beatings and burns from the bastard. Nobody would bother to give a shit about him anyway. When things got too much, he would just sit and watch a butt burning his skin, feeling the foul smell stronger than the pain. It helped, even though the relief would be momentary and everything would be as bad as ever.
He didn't deem that the habit would be his undoing. He didn't think about it that much, either. Until there was a hand reaching out for him. It was Rick's hand, covering his, the grip firm. He lifted his gaze up to the ex-officer, and realized what he had caught. His fingers were lightly and carefully touching the burn on Daryl's hand, in an almost timid way, and there was genuine concern in his eyes looking into Daryl's. He even looked hurt. Without saying a single word Rick just stared at Daryl intently despite the situation, walkers crowding around the door, thunder flashing and rumbling madly. Rick just gave him a long, mournful stare and his hand a slight squeeze in silence.
******
Rick knew that. He had known it for a long time, remembering the first time he had noticed it.
After the girl limped out of the barn Daryl isolated himself from the group and stayed alone on the outskirts of the farm, so it had been a while since Rick saw him last. They were working together to enhance security around the farm, Daryl on the roof of Hershel's house hammering nails into the upstairs window frames, Rick on the balcony passing tools to him. And it was a natural act for Rick to offer his hand to Daryl who was about to cross the roof after finishing. There was a brief pause before he took hold of the extended hand gingerly. Rick clutched Daryl's, pulling the hunter to the balcony and that was when he felt it. His palm covering Daryl's hand picked up on it, the feeling of the oddly rigid shreds of skin.
As soon as Daryl climbed over the railing into the balcony, Rick seized his wrist to have a good look at what had caught his attention before the hunter disengaged his hand. "You got burned?"
"What?" Daryl frowned, his narrow eyes glaring at Rick's face, then falling on what Rick was staring at. There was a small, circular scar on the root of Daryl's thumb, the skin swelling and wrinkling, painful redness obvious. It was new, clearly not looking like old ones that Rick knew the hunter had all over his body. The ex-officer looked up at the other with a question in his eyes and saw confusion appearing on his face which looked like he had believed no one would pay attention to him and ask about the mark. After a moment Daryl shrugged nonchalantly, his usual impassive expression back in place. "S'just a cig. No big deal."
The conversation was over with that as abruptly as it started. Rick said nothing further, knowing better than to push the subject, although he had the suspicion that it was not an accidental burn stuck in his head lingeringly. It was not like anyone else hadn't gotten injured these days, they all had scars and bruises on their bodies regardless of how serious or minor. Sure Rick wasn't a medical profession but well trained and experienced as a sheriff's deputy, enough to be able to distinguish between accidental and intentional injuries. If Daryl had inadvertently dropped a lit cigarette on his hand or brushed it against himself then flicked it off swiftly, the burn wouldn't have been as thick and firm as it was. His skin had looked sore, jagged and raised. Small and unremarkable, but unforgettable.
The mark was like a star in the sky. It wouldn't scream, it wouldn't come over to you, but it was there despite how faint it was, silently aching to be found by you.
Even after he began sharing a bed with Daryl and exploring his body with tender hands and affectionate touches, Rick didn't ask about it. He hadn't made a comment on any of the scars littering his body, either. Now he was regretting having avoided a conversation about it.
Glancing up from his son sleeping cradling his baby sister on the floor, Rick could make out the silhouette of the man pacing back and forth in the darkness through the wrecked planks of the door. Daryl had been restless and on edge after the herd of walkers had attacked the barn where the group had taken shelter, continuously walking around the outside. Like he compulsively believed that something awful would happen shortly later if he ever stopped.
The thunderstorm had passed and a rare moment of serenity settled over the group so that they finally could rest and sleep, except Rick. He couldn't help but remember the feeling of Daryl's hand beneath his during the assault of the storm and walkers. The ragged burn on it. And his blue eyes staring back at Rick, lit by intense lightning.
Looking back at his kids once again to make sure they were sleeping soundly, Rick raised to his feet and crept out of the barn with great care not to make any unnecessary noise.
It was pitch dark outside, thick clouds the storm had left behind shrouding the moon and stars. But Rick didn't need to squint in the darkness to find his hunter, who immediately whirled around with the crossbow in his hands ready to fire. His wide eyes met Rick's, holding his tranquil gaze for several tense seconds before he lowered the weapon and broke eye contact. There were no words from him and Rick took it as a sign of acceptance, stepping closer to Daryl slowly.
"Don't." The reaction from the hunter was instantaneous, his voice gruff and low, intended to intimidate but sounding tired and uneasy instead. Despite the fact Daryl didn't lift his eyes back to Rick's, he could see distress pouring from them and his stiff body, which wrenched Rick's heart as painfully as a knife in his flesh. And as much as Rick regretted that they hadn't had a tete-a-tete about the round burns on Daryl's skin, he knew verbal therapy between them would do nothing to help. All he could do was go into action as usual.
Closing the distance and standing right in front of the hunter, Rick shoved him ever so gently against the trunk with one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping on his crossbow to coax him to place it on the ground. Daryl didn't resist all the while; he let Rick take control of the situation, his body, his feelings. As usual. Because he couldn't handle them. Daryl Dixon could hunt and slug and kill most of people or things without breaking a sweat, could handle any sort of physical pain like the searing agony that had shot throughout his body when he had yanked the arrow out of his flank, but couldn't figure out what to do when it came to emotions. While they only would make him feel lost and helpless, pain could always settle his nerves, eliminating what he didn't want to feel from him. After all, physical pain would be manageable and short-lived.
He just kept looking down, the long bangs hiding his eyes, urging Rick to push the hair away in a slow, compassionate way. Daryl's downcast eyes didn't even flicker and just his brows were knitted like he was physically hurting when Rick looked intently into him and cupped the dirty cheek with his warm palm, his thumb stroking the skin softly. The tension radiating off of him was so obvious that Rick wanted to melt it away. Whenever Rick faced the man who dropped his gaze, he looked like a shy, defensive 12-year-old boy expecting something horrible would happen to him right away. With his eyes never leaving the other, he let his hand run down Daryl's neck, the curve of his shoulder, his bare arm, then wrapped his digits around the clenched fist. There was the small burn Rick had caught during the storm. As his fingers kneaded the skin around the mark slowly and soothingly, he slid the other arm around Daryl's waist, pulling the hunter tightly to him.
It was undoubtedly comfortable, feeling right to have Rick close to him like that, Daryl would admit. Rick's body was pressing against his thoroughly, which he was grateful for because he was on the verge of collapsing to his knees and falling to pieces. He needed something certain. Something real and tangible to concentrate on, to forget everything else in this world. Rick could sense it somehow and kept kneading his hand, squeezing his body reassuringly, in a fatherly way rather than an romantic way.
They stayed like that, neither of them talking, Daryl's throat too tight and heavy to speak or whimper or sob anyway. They just let the warmth of their bodies wash over them for a long moment, long enough for Daryl to absentmindedly wonder when Rick would get bored with a fucked up mess like him, why his father had hated him so damn much.
Really, it was weird that the more time he spent with Rick the more he felt alone and inconsolable. With a sigh and throaty growl Daryl buried his face into the other's neck, breathing in the intimate, familiar scent. No matter how hard it was to deny that everything Rick generously offered to him was comforting and intoxicating, Daryl knew he would eventually feel the need to move on to other shit that would be able to soothe him at each occasion. Sometimes it would be a twig between his teeth as a replacement of cigarette, sometimes it would be the heat of Rick deep inside of him, and sometimes it would be a lit butt or a keen edge of a knife against his skin. Something real, something that could make him feel alive.