Daryl Dixon was hungry. As he dropped his keys on the spotless kitchen counter he wandered over to the phone, and pressed the button to allow him to listen to messages, he thought about what he'd make for dinner that night. He had some left over venison. Maybe he'd do something with that. He still had some of those fresh vegetables Marilyn Murphy had brought over for him, an apology for her husband hitting him over the head with a beer bottle after a stupid misunderstanding at the bar last week. He'd use up the last of that with the venison, maybe add in some mashed potatoes. And garlic. He'd add some garlic in with those potatoes.

Merle's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Have you seen this shit? I'm comin' home, soon as I kin, ta'night prolly. Maybe we'll pop some beers and watch it on the boob tube." The machine beeped. Just what Daryl needed, his high as shit older brother getting' drunk and watchin' the chaos on the fuckin' news. Try as he might avoid it, the weird goings on hadn't escaped Daryl's notice, and nor, apparently, had they escaped Merle's. But on top of his father's ill temper and even more ill body, he had to deal with Merle's shit? He just wanted his damn dinner and to go to bed.

Fuck.

An hour and the smell of mashed potatoes later, the front door opened and then closed again with a slam. Daryl had to fight to repress a long-suffering sigh. There was a small part of him that had hoped he'd be able to cook dinner and eat it before anyone else had come home. "Merle?" he called. "That you?" He stepped back from the countertop, peering into the hallway. Despite his earlier reluctance, and as much as he and Merle had their issues, an even bigger small part of him looked forward to the times when Merle came home. It had been about a year since he'd last seen him, six months since he'd last heard from him. Despite his brother's faults, he was still his brother, his blood and his kin. It would be nice to catch up, at least until Merle fucked something up again.

"Merle?" he called out again, upon no response. "Merle?" He turned off the stove, walking into the hallway.

Not Merle.

Pa.

The old man looked absolutely wretched. Daryl would never be able to fathom how he could go off on benders with these women at his age. He supposed it had to just come down to money and desperation. Still the old man looked worse than usual. He was limping something fierce and cradling his right arm to his side tightly, his left hand covering his wrist. The man grunted at Daryl.

"Turn on tha bathroom light." He ordered. Daryl raised his eyebrows. "Goddamn it boy do it!" the old bastard roared at him. Daryl shrugged, no longer afraid of the man, but still in the habit of keeping him happy.

"What the hell happened, Pa?" he asked, leaning against the door way as his father rooted around the cupboards, pulling out bandages and aspirin.

"Fuckin' crazy bitch took a chunk outta me, that's what. Don't fuckin' ask questions."

Daryl's brows were getting a work out today.

"She bit you?" he clarified, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Ain't fuckin' funny boy!"

"Some people'd like that, Pa."

He wanted to laugh, at least until his father held out his arm to him for inspection. The bastard wasn't lying, his blood soaked arm was seriously missing a huge chunk.

Who the fuck would do something like that?

Out of a sense of familial obligation he helped his father wrap the arm tightly, before fetching him a beer to chase the aspirin down with, — dumb bastard couldn't drink water with it like every one else—before sitting him down in the arm chair. It was another half hour later that dinner was done and he walked a plate over to him.

"Here ya go, Pa," he said gruffly, putting the plate on the table in front of him, next to the still nearly full beer.

Odd.

Beer never sat that long in the Dixon household.

"Pa?"

The man didn't move.

"Pa. Food."

He nudged the man with his toe. Still nothing.

"Pa!" A swift kick to the boot.

Pa's head came up, his eyes still closed. Daryl grunted at him, not knowing how to feel about the man still being alive. "Food." He repeated before walking back to the kitchen and grabbing his own plate and sitting down. He still hadn't touched his food. "Are ya gonna eat or what?" Daryl asked. A rasp came from the old man as he leaned towards his son. "What the fuck ya doin' old man?"

Pa reached out with his hands, gripping Daryl by the arm. He swatted him away fiercely. "Fuck off!" he stood, ready to fight. He wasn't putting up with this shit, the old man bein' bit or not. Ready to tell him off he raised a finger at him, the way a stern parent might, but before he could open his mouth, he stopped. The way Pa was moving was…off. He stumbled around blindly, his body moving stiffly. Daryl's mind flashed back to the newscasts. Those rioters, they moved the same way.

Holy shit –

Before he could finish his thought, Pa had approached him, grabbing him much more tightly this time and leaned down, as if to bite him! Reflexively Daryl moved back, his foot catching upon the end of the coffee table and sending him flying to the floor, the old man on top of him, jaws snapping. He took note of how pale Pa was, how vacant his eyes were.

Pa wasn't home.

"Let go! Pa! Let go!" The old man's grip held fast. "Let go or I swear I'll stab you!" Daryl warned, freeing his arm and reaching for the Bowie knife Merle had given him, who's permanent home was on his hip, attached to his belt. "I'm warnin' ya, Pa!"

Pa's jaws snapped again, nearly catching Daryl's chin. Daryl thrust the knife upward into his shoulder. There was no scream of pain. Pa barely flinched. He was covered in blood now, his own shoulders shaking with the strain of keeping Pa out of his personal space. "Dammit Pa!" he yelled. He couldn't keep this up.

He remembered his friend Sophia. Her Pa had up and gone crazy on the family, killing them in a rage. The rumor had been that her Ma had been sleeping with some other guy from Bruce's garage where her Pa had worked. Asshole was still in jail.

It was kill or be killed.

He had no choice.

He slid the Bowie knife across Pa's neck, the blood flowing heavily onto his shirt, his face turned as far away as he could, eyes closed. Pa's body didn't even respond, didn't scream as Daryl threw him off of him, onto the floor, shaking wildly.

Pa was still moving.

The door burst open with a slam, and there silhouetted in the dying light stood Merle, who shouted his younger brother's name, rushing forward. Merle took one look at the situation before him and drew his own knife, slamming it down into Pa's skull. Breathing heavily Daryl looked up at his savoir, his body trembling and eyes wide. Merle reached over and grabbing what was left of Pa's beer, downed it in one gulp.

An hour later, they had wrapped Pa in a sheet and tossed him outside, and had sat down to eat dinner. Later that night the boys got on their hands and knees in the living room and scrubbed at the bloodstains. Everything had to be spotless.