Author's Note: My writing teacher once told me that for a piece of writing to be great, there has to be a story behind it. The reason for this piece coming into existence? 1.) I'm going into bouts of withdrawal from "The Walking Dead" and "Criminal Minds" being on hiatus for the next three weeks-plus. 2.) Ever since the New Year's marathon, I've been fangirling over the utter sexiness of Daryl Dixon. 3.) I'm most definitely procrastinating from unpacking my bags, preparing school supplies for the upcoming term, cleaning my humble abode, or working on my other open stories. 4.) I heard this absolutely tragic tale from Daryl's childhood the other night, and I wanted to explore the incident. 5.) I noticed that there are no other Walker/CM crossover fanfics on here, and I simply had to be the first.

Yes, I'm a popinjay, and totally strung out on coffee at the moment. And then, this happened. Whoopsies.

Warnings: This is vaguely AU-ish, since, if I did my math right, Daryl Dixon is actually, like, 9 years older than Spencer Reid – but this is fanfiction, and I shast do as I dang well please. Also, be wary of outright mentions of child abuse, vague illusions to drug use, and some of that good-ole-fashioned Southern melodrama. Go, Missouri.

Disclaimer: Of course, I own nothing insofar as regarding these two fabulous TV shows, or anything associated with them, thereof. If I did, believe you me, there would be much more fun and stimulating things than just zombies and unsubs, oh my.

I crave reviews like Lurkers do human flesh. But, unlike them, I can function without them. If you wanna be part of that, though, it's on you.

Do enjoy.

*S*U*R*V*I*V*A*L*

The police station in East Ellijay, located in the heart of Northern Georgia, was a small, dank, and miserable place. Though the people inside were chipper in that unique small-town way, nothing they said or did was able to fix the impression that the age-old building gave. Ominous, with bright lights that constantly flickered on and off, the rooms had peeling wallpaper, the coffee maker was a relic of the sub-eighties, and the observation glass that saw into the miniature interrogation room was in need of cleaning, repair, and replacement – or, perhaps, all three.

Still, the BAU team refused to be deterred by the less-than-homey feeling that the place emitted, as they all stood behind the filthy window and gazed in on the young boy that they were supposed to interview, or something like it.

The FBI team had been in relatively close proximity to the town when they had received call, investigating another case. The officer on the phone had told them that they had found the child wandering through the woods early in the morning, and needed their expertise with the kid.

JJ, who had taken the call herself, had rushed the team over the second that they wrapped up their case in Atlanta, and was now debriefing them as they all observed the dirty, exhausted looking boy in the next room.

"They found him at approximately six-thirty a.m., when a local hunting party stumbled on the tree where he'd been sleeping. It was called in right away, and he's had a doctor examine him; shows extreme signs of fever and malnutrition, and he's pretty bruised up, but the report says he should be fine. We've been asked to perform a cognitive interview if possible, because the boy hasn't spoken a word since he was found, and the police chief wants to have a record of this incident before they send him home."

"Who is he?" Agent Hotchner asked, watching the child as he sat up straight and stared in an open challenge at the glass.

"He hasn't said a word since he was brought in, but the officers think that it's a local – Daryl Dixon, age 12. According to them, a call was made last week reporting him missing, and this kid fits the description given."

"Last week?" Morgan seemed incredulous. "Wait a second – a child has been gone for nine days, and we're only just getting the call now?" A look of fury swept over his face, and the media liaison hurried to calm him.

"The report came in from his older brother, Merle . . . on a collect-call from a nearby prison, where he's serving out the last few months of an assault and battery charge. Locals have had a lot of problems with him causing trouble, so they took his words with a grain of salt. When they called the father, he said that his son wasn't missing, and the police closed the report, moved on to other things." JJ sounded a little disturbed herself, and held up a hand when Morgan started to protest. "I know, Morgan, I know. It was careless – but they had nothing to keep them looking, and other cases calling their attention."

"What about the mother?" Rossi asked, finally turning to look at the rest of the team. "Surely, a mom would be down here as often as possible, trying to force the police to keep looking for her missing child?"

"She died in a house fire about seven years ago – the report indicates that she fell asleep while smoking."

They all shook their heads – the loss of a parent was tragic, and clearly must have taken a toll on the kid – clearly, because even though he was half-starved, shivering, and covered in a sheen of seat and grime, the boy had yet to move his darkened gaze from where it rested on the wall, seeking out the agents he probably knew were watching him and positively daring them to come forth.

Reid, whose eyes hadn't yet left the boy's, finally spoke – his first words since arriving at the station.

"He seems very shut down – defiant, even. What do they need us to do?"

"Just get a statement of his full name, an assertion that he is, in fact, okay, and an agreement to submit to further examination, should the tests the doctor ran indicate any more are required."

Reid still refused to turn. "Isn't that something the father should be doing?"

JJ spoke softly, sadly. "He never showed up after we called him. A squad was sent up to the house, and he was there, but he said he was too ill to come down to the station, and to just drive Daryl up – if it is him, of course."

"I think it's safe to say that he's the one we found." Morgan spoke, his voice barely clenching the fury pulsating beneath. "I mean, how many other kids were just missing an ignored in this place?"

No case ever really sat well with the BAU, but ones involving children were always hard. Even if there was no proof of neglect or abuse, none of them liked to see kids subjugated to the terror or mystery of the police in any way.

Sometimes, it got to be too much.

Sometimes, it can get to be too much, Reid thought to himself, observing the shifting boy behind the glass.

Looking at him, a normal person wouldn't see much. He was small, scrawny really, with a pointed face and long strands of dark, oily curls framing his cheeks. Dirty, certainly, from spending nine days alone with the elements. Tired, hungry, of course, but . . . But there's something more, Reid noted to himself.

It was the way the kid was sitting. He wasn't cowering, or curled up, or hiding within himself. Rather, his exterior was that of a cold, hard shell. He was putting up a front, a aggressive one, and trying to instill confidence in himself – because he was scared of the unknown, and this, clearly, was the unknown.

A normal person would have seen an angry little child, but Reid saw the emotions tumbling around through his face, and knew that in that room, the mind of the boy was rapidly coursing between the 'fight or flight' reflex – and it looked like 'fight' was winning.

A normal person wouldn't have seen the way their detainee winced every time he inhaled, or cleverly folded his arms so that the underside of his upper biceps couldn't be seen – and the agitated re-adjusting of the kid in his seat would have gone unnoticed. By a normal person.

Luckily, Spencer Reid was about as far from that word as a person could get. And, to him, it looked like this kid was, too.

The young doctor was ripped from his thoughts by Hotch's loud, commanding tone. "Morgan, how about you and JJ be the ones to interview him? We'll run point, and – "

"Wait."

Everyone looked up at Reid's tentative, quiet voice. The young genius never interrupted people.

Nervous, Reid cleared his throat before continuing. "Hotch, I think – I think I should go in there." He glanced at his coworkers, and added, "Alone."

"Do you think that's a good idea, kiddo?" Rossi asked gently, not saying that it would be Reid's first solo since Tobias Hankel, almost four months ago.

Reid met the older agent's eyes with understanding, and nodded, gulping slightly. "Yes, I do . . . this kid, he – he's introverted, to the extreme. Defensive and self-reliant, and by his posture, I would say easily antagonized. And he's already agitated." Reid took in a deep breath as the rest of the team nodded, and continued.

"You, Morgan, and Hotch are too . . . alpha-male. One of you goes in there, and he'll shut down completely, or try and start a battle of wills that'll result in nothing but wasted time. And any women would be a bad idea. He wouldn't know how to act around someone as kind as JJ, and he'd probably lie until we had to take him home. And he and Emily would be going at it the second she sat down."

"Hey!" Prentiss interjected, more than slightly offended. "I know how to do my damn job, Reid."

"I wasn't meaning to insinuate that you couldn't, Emily." Reid was apologetic. "What I'm saying is that he and I are on better grounds to build a rapport."

"He's right," Hotch cut in abruptly. "Reid's not so big as to send his defenses up, and they're both quiet enough where the kid could make a connection and tell us what we need. It's worth a shot." He looked at the young genius, the concern evident in his face. "Are you sure you're up for this, Reid?"

"I have to try, right?" Leaving no possible answer for that, Spencer grabbed a file off of the desk in front of him, and, swiping a few strands of hair off of his eyes, opened the door and strode into the room.

Reid's light hazel eyes were met by suspicious dark ones as he clicked the door shut. He moved slowly, so as not to instill alarm, and looked directly at the boy in front of him as he spoke.

"Daryl?"

No movement whatsoever – but the boy's eyes flashed at the mention of the name.

Reid lowered himself into the chair, sitting back and trying to appear unassuming. "You're Daryl Dixon?"

The boy still said nothing, but his gaze had shifted somewhat, and Reid caught him looking at his gun holster – or, more specifically, the Colt revolver he had strapped in there. Mentally adding this to the small profile he'd started to build, Reid shifted slightly until the weapon was no longer visible over the edge of the table. And again, he tried to start a conversation.

"My name's Spencer Reid. I'm an agent with the FBI . . ." It came out more like a question than a statement, and the kid snorted, giving him a condescending onceover before returning his attention to the no-longer-visible piece Spencer was carrying.

Feeling as though he was conversing with thin air, Reid decided to try a more jocular approach.

He smiled. "Right, right, I ah . . . I get that reaction a lot. Most people don't think that someone who's built like I am could, ah, hack it in a tough situation." He paused significantly, and met the kid's gaze head-on when he looked up, something familiar flickering in his deep, black eyes.

"But people are a lot more than they appear, right? Daryl?"

When still no response was made, Reid sighed quietly, and opened the folder, trying to appear busy as he desperately searched his mind for a different way to approach the kid, and maybe make him open up. He jolted slightly when there was a faint squeak from across the table, and then the young doctor looked up.

Squinting, his entire expression tensed and apprehensive, the boy before him never averted his gaze as he spoke.

"My brother used to call me Dare. Or Devil, if he was in the mood."

Reid smiled smally, reveling in even this minor breakthrough. "Your name's spelled quite unusually, Daryl."

The kid shrugged. "It's a name. It's mine."

Possessive, Reid noted. Probably tight-knit, loyal, and serious – definitely holds things close to him . . . like family? "We can all find a level of significance in a nickname – they're usually treasured."

Another shrug. "My mother called me bastard, and Dad only refers to me as the son of his bitch."

The suspicions that had been fermenting in Reid's mind were all but confirmed when Daryl, upon mentioning his father, had a short wave of fear mixed with disgust cross his face, before it again resembled the blank mask he'd evidently gotten good at putting up. Reid forced himself not to say anything about it – he couldn't afford to lose the kid just yet – and instead turned his focus back to the case.

"Merle was the one who reported you missing last week, Daryl – but how long were you gone?"

"Who says I ever left the house?" Daryl smirked bitterly, knowing that the waste-of-space he called 'Dad' probably wouldn't have even noticed his absence until the alcohol ran out.

"Your brother says he calls you every other night, and this was the first time in over two years that he wasn't able to reach you."

"My brother gets far too concerned over little things."

Reid pressed on. "It doesn't seem like a 'little thing,' having to miss talking to one of the people you're close to."

Daryl frowned, but retained his distance. "Hard to be close to someone you never see. And Merle's in jail – are you really fool enough to believe he's thinking straight?"

"I don't consider it fool to care about someone when they've been taken."

"I wasn't taken." Daryl's composure snapped just a little bit as he hissed.

Interesting . . . clearly sensitive on blows to ego, probably over-masculine. But Reid didn't find it interesting so much as a little heartbreaking.

"So you ran away?"

"Sure. Fine."

He's lying. Reid decided to bait him on it. "Was it because your father hits you?"

Daryl's head snapped up, a mixture of anguish and fury on his face before anger won out, and his whole posture stiffened. "What?"

The word was whispered, tentative and still dangerous. Nonplussed, Reid pressed on, pushing further, trying to invoke a reaction.

"Your father – he beats you. A lot, right? That's why you can't sit up right on the chair, because there's marks on your back? And I'm sure if we pulled up your sleeves, there would be bruises and handprints up all your arms. What about broken bones? How many times have you been to the hospital, Daryl?"

"Shut up." Daryl's voice had lowered, and gotten tight with barely-concealed rage. But Reid kept speaking, now propelled by his own emotion.

"And your mother, she never stood up for you – she hated you sometimes, right, Daryl? Maybe she compared you to someone bigger and tougher, like Merle? Someone who could get things done, someone strong? Too bad your brother was never there to stand up for you, though, because he was too busy getting locked away in juvie for months at a time – "

"Stop it! Shut up, SHUT UP!" Daryl's commanding words were completely marred by the note of agony running beneath them, and he stood, slamming his fists on the table, glaring at the agent before him.

"My family is none of your business!" He roared.

"Maybe not your family," Reid, also agitated, stood, up too. "But abuse going on, helping people, saving them if I can – that is my business."

"There's nothing going on for you to be lookin' at." Daryl glared, challenging.

"Oh, really? You just ignore what's blatantly wrong, brush it off, call it normal in your life?" Seeing the assent in the young boy's eyes, Reid's gaze dimmed, horrified. "That's rather twisted."

Daryl looked down at the table. "It's what we do."

Reid leaned in a little, trying to force a connection with this poor, poor boy. "If you wanted a place to be safe – if – if you would just be willing to say a few things, or let the doctor look at you – "

When Daryl looked back up, Spencer could see that he had lost him. "I'm fine at home. My daddy taught me how to hunt, and Merle showed me how to fight. All of these," he said, gesturing to the few marks on his body made visible by the ill-fitting clothes, "they were just from getting lost last weekend."

Reid blinked, holding back another outburst. "Getting lost?"

"Sometimes I go out in the woods . . . to kill something. It helps."

Reid shuddered slightly, remembering those very same words from only a few months ago. It helps. Even when it was something horrible, the people still said it like it explained everything. It helps.

It didn't.

Unconsciously, Reid rubbed the crook of his right arm, where the old injection makes were permanently carved on his skin. And where the fresher ones had only just recently started to fade.

Two weeks clean. That's what helps.

He came out of his thoughts, and saw the way that Daryl was looking at his arm. Reid didn't like the expression – it was all-too familiar, one of recognition and amusement and high-and-mighty-distaste.

"What?" The very same words that had been used against him spilled from the young doctor's lips unheeded.

Daryl's eyes finally met his, he shook his head.

"We all have our own way of dealing with things . . . Agent. Even if no one really gets it." His tone wasn't malicious, or even annoyed. Rather, the voice Reid heard was soft, even understanding.

"Killing something won't help, Daryl. And neither will running, hiding, or shutting down."

"And neither would drugs, alcohol, or lots of meaningless sex." The boy's eyes widened meaningfully on the first point, and his look to Reid was poignant. The genius blushed slightly, and fought a tremor from his voice when he spoke.

"This isn't something to be taken lightly, Daryl."

"I wasn't laughing."

Reid paused. "I'm just trying to help you."

"I never asked for that. I'm fine."

Fine, Reid reflected, the word hitting heavily over his mind. He said that a lot, too – but he didn't mean it nearly as often. He spoke more gently the next time, praying that he could draw the child a little more out of his shell.

"Are you sick, or hurting? Do you need some food or anything?"

The boy looked at him, and for just an instant, Reid thought that maybe, perhaps maybe, he had gotten through to the child; that they could save Daryl from whatever awaited him back at that ramshackle little place with his father.

But that moment was just that – a moment. And then Daryl's eyes were shadowed again, and the little boy inside who was aching for help was shoved aside by the tougher exterior, trying to be a man before his time.

Dark hair swinging in front of his lashes, the boy spoke simply, shortly.

"I want to go back to the house."

House, Reid noticed. Not 'home.' He bit back a sigh, and glanced at the glass wall behind him where he knew that the rest of his team was monitoring their conversation. He couldn't actually see anyone, but Reid could almost feel their tragic, sympathetic gazes on him. He could practically hear them saying to give up, and let it go. They had gotten confirmation of the kid's identity, and he had said nothing about additional injuries or of being scared to go back to his father's residence. There was, quite literally, nothing more that they could do.

The young genius turned back to the small, glowering boy, and reached across the table.

He couldn't help but notice the way Daryl's eyes flashed, and the boy flinched back away from the hand before Reid could reach him. Feeling his lunch crawl in his esophagus at that, Reid stopped the movement, and dropped a small, white card onto the table.

"If you ever decide to get lost again, call me. Anytime." He stood, and was turning to leave when a hushed voice broke through the room.

"Does it do anything?"

Reid turned, and saw that Daryl had grabbed the business card, clutching it tightly in one dirty fist, and was looking up hesitantly at him.

He cleared his throat. "Pardon?"

"Shooting. Does it actually make anything better for you?" Daryl was looking at Reid's gun, but his eyes flickered once or twice to that same spot on his arm, where the puncture wounds from his old habit were only just beginning to disappear.

Self-consciously, Reid rubbed that spot on his arm as he met Daryl's gaze head-on, thinking of an answer. Finally, he spoke.

"No. Shooting . . . it makes you feel safe. Free. Maybe even good . . . but it's not something to do, guns or . . . anything else. What really helps is love – from family members, from people you see every day, from the ones around you who offer their strength when the times are rough. That's what'll help you make it from one day to the next."

Daryl's expression was impossible to read when he responded. "The only family I have is a big brother who I don't get to be face-to-face with for a few more months.

And the only person I see every day isn't the hugging type."

Reid smiled sadly, and moved towards the boy, hoping one last time to get through to this sad, sad child – to help him.

But Daryl also stood, and shied away from Reid's hand. He moved to the window, and looked out, contemplative.

Reid opened the door, but before he walked out, turned back to Daryl and spoke very softly. "Guns don't help, Daryl."

A silence, and then, "Maybe not . . . But I always did want a crossbow."

The boy glanced at Reid one more time, allowing him a brief glimpse into the pools f pain and frustration in his eyes, before he faced away again. Sighing, Reid slipped through the exit, and walked back up to his team.

"Reid, what was all that about?" Hotch asked sternly, taking a seat across from his subordinate on the plane. Everyone glanced up, all curious. They knew something significant had gone down in that room earlier, but no one knew precisely what.

Reid met his boss's eyes, careful to keep his voice in check. "Nothing, Hotch."

"Man, come on!" Morgan's voice broke across the plane, and Reid looked up, grateful for the opportunity to be spared from Hotch's burning gaze. The black agent was staring at him incredulously, and Reid's defenses were immediately up.

"What, Morgan?"

"Dude, something was going on in there. Why were you and that kid staring at one another like you were about to draw to the death?"

"I don't understand that reference."

"Reid." Rossi's voice was gentle, and Spencer's shoulders eased up. "What's going on?"

He gulped, before meeting the Italian's eyes. "Really – it was nothing. I just . . . neither me nor Daryl had fathers we're proud of, and both of us seemed to be taking care of sick mothers at some point. That kid, . . . " Reid trailed off, swallowing, " . . . He's all alone. And scared . . . and I'm sure he's being some sort of abused at home. But even when he's broken down, worn to the bone – even when most people would be totally defeated and giving up, that child just takes it, and refuses to ask for help."

"He's a survivor," Morgan said quietly, finding the description familiar. "Some people are like that . . . even to the point of flawed." He looked potently at Reid, but the younger man didn't notice his gaze.

Reid continued to stare out the window, speaking more softly.

"I just – I wish that we could have done something more than get his name, give him some aspirin, and send him away."

Hotch sighed, feeling Reid's pain. "It's not ideal, Reid, but . . . lots of people go through Hell, and plenty of them make it. He'll ask for help when he can't do it by himself anymore." He, too, held back his thoughts as they reminded him vaguely of the genius sitting in front of him. Reid never asked for help, either.

"He won't," Reid whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

There was nothing more that they could say to that, and the rest of the jet fell into silence as they flew slowly home.

Upon landing, Morgan caught up to the young doctor, and slapped an arm over his shoulder.

"Reid," he called slightly, "d'you wanna come over to my place and talk? There's no reason you should have to deal with anything alone."

Reid smiled at him minimally, and removed the offending appendage from his body. "Thanks, Morgan, but I was actually going to go and, ah . . . catch a movie or something tonight. You know, just distract myself for awhile?"

Surprised, Morgan smiled before turning away, calling over his shoulder, "Make sure to bring a date for a little back of the houseentertainment, yeah? Have fun, kid."

The BAU's youngest agent smiled to himself as his best friend got into the car, and turned towards his own beat-up Volvo.

That night, Spencer Reid attended his very first Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

Daryl Dixon trudged up the steps leading into the worn-paint-and-peeling-wallpaper abomination that his parents called 'a house.' He sighed in disgust, leaning his head against the old, splintery doorframe for just a second, and breathing in his last wash of free, untainted air, before he walked inside.

"Pa! I'm home!"

There was no answer – not that Daryl really expected one. The scent of stale alcohol and days-old grease were thick on the air, and experience alone was enough to tell him that his father would be passed out somewhere upstairs.

Good for him. It meant a brief reprieve from the bastard, and Daryl knew enough to take advantage of the moment.

He walked into the kitchen, dug out a bowl, and poured himself some cereal. There was no milk to put on it – none that hadn't expired, anyway – so Daryl cupped handful of water and sprinkled it over the top.

He sat down to eat, grateful for his first meal in over a week that wasn't picked off of a tree or stolen from some bird's nest. As he chewed, Daryl reached into his pocket, and pulled out the smudged and crumpled card that the FBI guy had given him earlier.

Call me. Anytime.

Daryl looked from the card to the worn plastic wall-phone, thinking as he chewed. He glanced back and forth for awhile, and by the time he'd emptied the bowl, had made his decision.

Daryl stood up, and dropped his bowl in the sink. He moved to the phone, and punched in he number he'd only learned a little while ago.

"Ellison County Penitentiary, how would you like your call directed?"

"I wanna speak to Merle Dixon." Daryl's voice was quiet, not revealing the fright and relief he felt at finally being able to talk to one of the people he cared about most.

As he waited to be connected, Daryl clutched the ragged business card in his hand, twisting it back and forth until it was just a small, paper ball. When he heard his brother's rough voice, he tossed the little ball into the garbage can behind him.

"Hey, Merle."

He and his family didn't need any-goddamned-body else.

*S*U*R*V*I*V*A*L*