Chapter Text
Night patrol was always the pits. It often ended up with Rick and Shane just shooting the shit, drinking cup after cup of coffee in the cruiser until daylight came, and their shift was over. Then there were weekends. They were more eventful, though not what Rick would describe as fun. Bar fights, break and enters, robberies; it all happened on Saturday nights.
It was one particular Saturday night that Rick was distracted. Shane was trying to bring him out of his slump, to no end. Rick and Lori had fought. Badly. She ripped on him for taking these late night weekend shifts when he should be at home with her and Carl. He had explained over and over that it was just part of the job, that he had to take the occasional graveyard shift, just like everyone else.
Lori disagreed, saying that as a family man he should be exempt from such duties. Rick thought he should just do his part. There had been shouting, and words thrown in the heat of the moment that Rick hadn't meant, and he thought Lori hadn't meant either. Maybe. Neither came out of it feeling any better, nor winning the argument, not like it was really an argument that either could win anyway.
So the distraction was somewhat welcomed when they got the call from dispatch. There was some sort of disturbance out on the old Greene farm, a ways out of town. It would take a while to get there, but at least then they would be busy, and Rick hoped Shane would get off his back.
A half hour drive, and Rick and Shane arrived at the farm house, and met with the older man who owned it, Hershel.
"Somethin's gettin' at my herd!" The old man groused, as if it was their fault.
"Aw, come on old man. Ain't it just coyotes or something?” Shane didn't help the situation. He was clearly irritated that they'd been called out past midnight for something so 'minor', in his opinion.
“It ain't coyotes!” Hershel insisted stubbornly.
He'd come across one of his cows earlier in the night, mauled by some beast, and had heard another one in distress just before he'd called the sheriff's department. A brief argument ensued, with Rick eventually sating both other men by agreeing to go check out the field, while Shane took a statement from the old farmer.
Hershel had relucantly given Rick directions to the corpse of his cow, not happy to be left with Shane. Rick couldn't stand either of them as far as he was concerned, so he left the pair of them and headed out to near the barn, where the first cow had been found.
He agreed with Shane on one point; he thought it was most likely just coyotes attacking the herd, so armed only with his flashlight, gun still in his holster, he approached the barn.
It was near pitch black, the dull porch light not reaching the recesses of the field. It wasn't until Rick was already approaching the black shape of the cow carcass, that he realised just how close to silent it was. Surely, he should've heard the chirping of the cicadas, the grunt of the occasional cow, the cluck of a chicken in the henhouse not far.
But there was nothing. He could almost hear the blood pulsing in his ears over the brush of his boots through the damp grass.
As the carcass came into focus, Rick recoiled in disgust. It really had been mauled. Its throat had been torn out with what the evidence of the slashes indicated were likely massive claws. There was very little other damage to the cow than that, which Rick thought was very curious.
Despite the smell of gore that filled his nostrils, burning the hairs in his nose, Rick crouched and leaned in closer to get a better look.
Tendrils of flesh and hacked off arteries spilled from the cow's neck where it lay, broken as if it had been dropped from a great height. Or thrown...
Shaking his head, Rick rolled back onto his heels and scraped his hand down his face with a sigh. He didn't need this. It was really gross, he thought honestly.
Certainly not what he needed on a Saturday night when he was in a bad mood. He didn't need to be covered in cow's blood and—
That was a thought. Where was the bloody pool that should be under and around the cow?
Eyebrows furrowed in thoughtfulness and a hint of morbid curiosity, he leaned in once more. Knees pressed onto the ground and feeling the faint moisture of the night grass seep through his trousers, Rick strained his eyes in the beam of his flashlight, looking for the evidence of a beast attacked by another.
No blood. Or, very little, anyway.
The dark grass surrounding the cow had a faint tinge of crimson, but surely not as much as it should have had, had it been bitten and eaten.
That was another point. It didn't look like there was more than a chunk of flesh at the cow's neck missing. It was getting more and more confusing, and Rick wondered what the hell was going on.
Registering barely higher than his subconscious, Rick heard a sound. It was wrong. The sound was wrong.
In a second he was on his feet, the beam of torchlight grazing over the bushes, and he expected to hear the yelp of a startled coyote, or hell, even any other random small mammal that had been discovered.
But that sound... It had been... Could wet be the right word?
He stepped carefully in the direction from which he thought he'd heard the sound, damp ground muffling his movement on one step, and announcing it on the other with the flick of moisture.
Eyes having trouble adjusting to the jumping beam of light from the flashlight, Rick tried to discern the shapes in front of him. He was sure he'd heard the sound from over there, but it was all just a mass of black.
It was then that he heard another sound. It was like a heavy breathing, slow and deep, unlike his own short, erratic breaths.
The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and Rick felt the unshakeable desire to leave. No, to run. Some carnal instinct within him was telling him that he was not safe.
He shook his head. What the hell was going on? Maybe he should rethink his night shifts, after all. If he was getting all jumpy from some random coyote and a dead cow, maybe it wasn't so good to stay up so late when his mind was so distracted.
He was just about turning to leave, his body shifting to walk back to the farmhouse, ready to notify Shane and Hershel about his inspection of the corpse, when it happened.
He saw – or maybe he sensed, more so – the shape lunging toward him from the dark. Cold hands wrapped around his neck, and his scream died in his throat as the low growl from the thing reverberated through his head...
*****
Rick walked back up to the farmhouse in a daze. Stumbling a few times on mounds of earth, he finally made it into the wash of porchlight, and was immediately met with an angry voice.
“What the hell were you doin', Rick? Was gonna send out a damn search party for you if you were gone for five more minutes!”
Shane's voice washed over him, barely registering in his mind as he blearily gazed at his partner.
“Coyotes.” Rick replied simply, voice monotone and bland.
“What?” Shane stomped down the stairs in a huff, coming to stand toe to toe with Rick, getting up in his space in a challenging display.
It might have bothered Rick, but he was quite satisfyingly distracted by a curious, nearly startlingly misplaced sense of peace and wellbeing.
“It was coyotes. I found them.” Once again, his voice came out without inflection, like it was practised.
Shane glared at Rick incredulously. Rick nearly scoffed. Couldn't his partner be pleased it was practically an open-and-shut case?
In the end, Shane had given up, and brushed off the old man who indignantly denied Rick's claim of coyotes being the problem. Hershel had promised – or threatened – to have it followed up, but Shane was done with it all by then, and practically dragged Rick back to the cruiser.
Rick allowed his partner to take the driver's seat this time, feeling a bit off. He didn't know what was happening, but his mind was somewhat hazy and unfocused, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to concentrate properly on driving.
“Hey man, what's up?” Shane asked Rick when they were just about back in town, after nearly thirty minutes of silence.
“Huh?” Rick shook his head and brought himself back to the present. He'd been gazing out the window, sagging in his seat as he watched the streetlights zipping overhead with rapt attention as they drove into town.
“Are you alright?” Shane pushed, pulling the car to a stop outside the station; it was better to fill out the annoying paperwork from the call right away, rather than leave it for the morning. Of course Shane obviously thought it was barely worth the damn paperwork at all. “You seem kinda.. out of it, man..”
Rick dragged his attention to Shane, who was staring at him with deep concern, eyes flickering over his slack form.
He felt kind of out of it, too.
“Just.. just tired, I think..” he mumbled, his words slurring over his tongue that felt fluffy in his mouth.
“Looks like it..” Shane muttered. “Well, c'mon. Got some paperwork to fill out.” He spat the words, and Rick bristled.
Shane was killing his buzz. And why the hell did he have a buzz?
“It was fuckin' coyotes, Shane. I told ya..” Rick cussed, though his voice once again took that dry tone that he couldn't help.
“I know, man. C'mon. Paperwork. Now.” And Shane abruptly shut off the conversation as he exited the car. Rick tried to follow, but he had a lot of trouble unbuckling his belt.
Shane waited outside for a while, heavy boot tapping impatiently on the ground before he opened Rick's door with a growl. “What the fuck, man? What's got into you?” he hissed as he reached over Rick to undo his seatbelt.
Rick slapped his hand away, but after he was free from the constraint. He pushed Shane back so he could get out of the car, and when he finally stood, he swayed a little. He glared at Shane as his partner tried to grab his arm to steady him, and began to stalk toward the front door.
He heard the heavy thud of Shane's boots as his partner jogged after him, after the slam of the car door. He felt Shane's hand graze his elbow again and he pulled his arm away with a hiss.
“Said 'm just tired, man!” He growled as he stomped into the building and plunked down in his chair, instantly sagging in it.
Shane glared at him for a while, but when Rick fell asleep in the chair, he shrugged and went ahead with the paperwork.
*****
“C'mon, man. Up an' at 'em. Time for bed, Rick..”
Rick came to, back in the cruiser, and wondered how he'd got there. Shane had his door open, belt unbuckled, and was trying to drag him out of the car. He could see his house in the distance, and as he watched, the porch light flicked on, and Lori's slim silhouette appeared in the doorway, resting against the door frame.
When it seemed she saw something was wrong, she threw herself forward and ran to them, just as Rick was stumbling out of the cruiser.
“What's wrong?! Shane-” she hissed under her breath, aware that it was not far past two in the morning. “You're home early! Why is Rick...” She couldn't seem to form words adequate enough to describe her husband's condition, as he slumped and allowed his partner to near carry him over to the house.
“Dunno, Lor. It's like he's drunk or somethin'. Dunno what happened.” Shane grunted with the effort, and Rick blacked out again.
*****
When Rick awoke, he felt like he'd been out for hours, but as there was still no sunlight pouring through the windows of the bedroom – Shane had apparently dragged him all the way to his bedroom – he figured it must still be night. That, or he'd slept through the entire day, which was extremely doubtful, as he suddenly felt full of energy, and not haggard and weak as one does after way too much sleep. He felt like he'd just taken a power nap.
Lori was leaning over him, sitting on the bed beside him and wiping at his forehead with a damp cloth. He swatted her hand away and immediately tried to sit up.
“Rick-” she started, trying to push him back down, but he pulled himself up to a sitting position. Someone had taken off his boots, hat, and gun belt, but he was still wearing the rest of his uniform.
“No, Lori. I'm fine!” He growled, and she flinched and looked up at Shane who he now realised was leaning on the doorjam.
“Shane.” Lori hissed, and he came over 'to the rescue'.
“Look, man. We're just concerned about you. You pretty much passed out on me there. Twice!” He had his hands on his hips, until he let one fly off in a fist like he wanted to punch something.
“I'm fine, Shane. Just got tired. 'M full of energy, now.” Rick sighed, and before Lori could stop him, he worked his way to his feet, sliding out the other side of the bed. To avoid Lori's grabby hands.
“See?” He nearly shouted as he stretched, joints maybe popping a little, but all in all feeling pretty great, until he saw Lori and Shane share a concerned glance and then shush him, before turning in unison to look down the hallway toward Carl's room. Shit. Carl was asleep. “See?” he asked more quietly.
“Was just tired.. Needed a nap, and now I'm fine..” he insisted again, and as he watched it looked like Lori and Shane simultaneously gave up.
“Fine, man. Whatever.” Shane shrugged and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his forehead, like he wasn't really 'fine'. Then he rubbed his head that way he did when he was really irritated, and laid a hand on Lori's shoulder. “Call if ya need me..” He urged to her in a hushed voice.
Lori nodded and mouthed 'thank you', as she laid her hand on top of Shane's. Rick glared at the exchange, and Shane quickly pulled his hand back when he saw the expression.
“Night, Rick. Hope you feel better- uh.. even better than you already are..” he trailed off with raised eyebrows before turning to Lori. “Night, Lor.”
Lori nodded to Shane, and he finally took his leave, quietly trodding down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind him.
“Rick-” Lori started, turning to him and still sitting on the bed, probably hoping to seem non-threatening in his confusing state.
“I'm fine, Lori.” And it was true, he thought. He'd rarely felt better in his life. He stripped off his deputy uniform shirt, allowing it to drop to the floor, along with his badge as he cirlced the bed to her side. “More than fine..” he trailed off suggestively as he leaned in and pushed her down to the bed . He crawled over her, eyes flashing with intent.
“Rick-!” she tried again, but he shut her up with a rough kiss, hands either side of her head as he pressed his body down against her, arousal evident in his trousers.
Lori huffed lightly in response, before returning the kiss, running her hands up and down his sides, even letting out a soft moan as his erection pressed against her thigh.
Rick grinded his hips against her, issuing his own moan at the friction, and he kissed down Lori's neck to her collar bone. Putting his weight on one side, he let his free hand roam down her waist. He slid the hand up under her night shirt – one of his old button ups, and god he loved how she looked in it, all curves and subtle feminine grace and curly brown tresses of long hair falling over her shoulders – and rubbed his fingers along her stomach. Her hips rolled in response to his, pressing against his erection through his pants and he moaned again as he started sucking at her neck.
Just as she was arching her head to the side to allow him more access to her neck, she seemed to jerk in response, and pulled away, smacking at his hand where it had nearly reached her breast.
“Rick! Stop-!” Her strained gasp echoed through the quiet bedroom, and he flinched, pulling back. He withdrew his hand from under her shirt as he took in the look of horror on her face.
“Lori, what's..? What's wrong..?” He asked, his voice husky with his arousal.
God, he'd been getting into it – was already leaking in his boxers – and he was sure she was too. But the look she was giving him just then was like a bucket of water in the face. She was.. not disgusted.. but not far from it.
“Rick, you're sick. Or something. You're not well.” She finished firmly, sitting up on the bed and straightening her shirt.
“I'm fine-” he started again, feeling like a broken record, but Lori cut him off.
“No, Rick. You're not. You're just fucking not!” And she stormed the hell out of the bedroom, leaving Rick gazing after her, dumbstruck and speechless. Lori never swore, not if she could help it. When she did, he knew it was a big deal.
What the hell made this a big deal? So what if he had an astounding amount of energy at two am? He'd taken a power nap, and bounced back, that was all..
When Lori didn't return, even after Rick waited like a stubborn husband, he knew she wasn't coming back to sleep beside him that night. As it was, he heard the back porch door open, quiet as it was, and then the telltale flick of a lighter.
She'd never told him she stress smoked, but it hadn't been hard to figure out. It was a hard smell to get rid of. And that was when he knew he'd lost a battle. She was apparently determined to sleep in the guest room, tonight.
So he pulled off his trousers, and threw them in the general direction of the hamper. He thumped down on the bed. He huffed and turned off the lamp on the bedside table, the only light in the room, and pulled the covers over himself, leaving his unattended cock to soften with his frustration.
As he felt the adrenaline leave his body – almost tangibly, like he could feel it leaking from his veins – he felt drained again. He pulled the sheet up around him, then tossed it off, then pulled it back up. His body apparently couldn't decide if it was hot or cold.
He buried the back of his head in the pillow, pinching the bridge of his nose with a scowl. With some slow breathing, his exhaustion took him, and he eventually drifted off to a fitful sleep.
He tossed and turned, wrenching the covers off and on again in his sleep, and one image was recurrent in his dreams: a shadow, rushing toward him in the near darkness out in the field, and then the flash of red eyes, before he was overcome.
Miles and miles away, on the outskirts of town, Daryl Dixon was crawling clumsily into the house through his bedroom window. He fell onto the floor, having missed his bed by a mere foot, and the clump of his fall was followed by a loud “Fuck!”
Quick and quiet footsteps sounded down the hall, and Daryl meant to rush into his bed, but his boot caught on the foot of the frame and he slumped face down on the doona, and gave up.
The door snapped open with a loud crack as it hit the wall, and Merle's form blocked out the light down the hall way.
“Tha hell you doin' makin' a racket at this time o' nigh', Darlina? Though' we had ourselves an agreement..” Merle scowled, though obviously he wasn't overly pissed off, because he never used that tone – or nickname – when he really was. Never really got overly pissed off anymore, either. Wasn't safe..
“Was jus' havin' me a drink, Merle. Fuck off..” Daryl's voice was muffled into the covers of his bed, as he couldn't bear to try to lift his head. He heard his brother approach, and sensed the older tower over him.
“Wha', did ol' Bessy and Daisy give ya a struggle? You look beat..” He leaned over and prodded Daryl's shoulder.
Daryl tried to swat him away, but the action was lazy and clumsy, and he ended up letting his hand fall on the bed beside him.
“Nah, bro. They was jus' fine..” he mumbled again, trying to drag himself up he bed and sliding a little on the covers.
“Man, you look drunk, wha' did ya get up to-” Merle had began with a 'tut', but ended up with a sharp gasp. “Daryl, jus' wha' – or who – else did ya have fer dinner...?”
Dang. He'd been found out. Merle always paid too close attention to his diet.
“Mffmm..” he mumbled into the covers, knowing that wasn't good enough, and Merle would demand more, so he heaved his torso up and glared back at his brother. “I had uh... cop...” His lips popped on the 'p' of 'cop', and he couldn't help but chuckle at it.
“Ya fuckin' didn't!” Merle growled, advancing on Daryl.
“Oi – fuck off!” Daryl pulled in every tiny bit of energy left in his body and leapt into a catlike crouch on the bed, ready to pounce at the threat. Merle shrunk back. That's fuckin' right. Ain't no one who can push around Daryl Dixon no more.
“I wiped 'im. It's fine.” Daryl growled, his eyes flashing as he rolled his shoulders, almost itching for a fight. “Fucker don't know no better.”
Merle relaxed slightly, seemed to know that if he picked a fight, he sure as hell wasn't going to win it.
“Alrigh'...” he started slowly.
“Said it's fine, Merle! 'Sides, weren't like the pig was in town.. I was out on the farm, jus' like ya told me. Came blunderin' in while I was feedin', like he owned the damn place.” He shrugged and relaxed his stance slightly, falling onto his ass and hanging his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
“Wha's wrong, baby brother..?” Merle prompted, and the older approached and laid a hand on Daryl's shoulder, which he didn't shrug off.
“Bastard tasted so good...” He whined, his tone like that of a near-tantrum child.
Merle scoffed and cleared his throat, gingerly rubbing Daryl's back. “Now when you say cop... and bastard... and uh.. he...”
Daryl jerked his head up and snarled, a throaty growl that rumbled up his throat. Veins throbbed under his eyes and his fangs lengthened, jutting over his lower jaw which hung much lower than normal.
Merle jumped back and scooted up the bed, terrified at the display. After a minute, Daryl calmed down, his face returning to normal and his fangs shrank back into his gums, like normal eye teeth.
“Yes, Merle, it was a fuckin' guy. Wanna rouse me some more fer it an' we'll see how that fuckin' goes?!”
He didn't want to scare Merle off like that, but his older brother had been on his case for years about it all. At least now, the older Dixon couldn't take it out on him like he used to. Merle may not be the brightest pencil in the shed, but he knew how to pick his battles. Most of the time.
“Dang, brother, nah I ain't givin' ya shit fer that.” Not anymore... the silent words echoed between them. He crawled off the bed and stepped lightly over to the doorway. “Was jus' hopin' fer a good story 'bout an Officer Busty, y'know?” He cupped his hands in front of his chest, making an obscene gesture with a shit-eating grin.
“Aw fuck off, bro! Ain't no Officer Busty, now scram!” Daryl groaned, and Merle chuckled again and scooted out of the doorway, shutting the door behind him to catch the pillow Daryl had thrown at him.
Daryl groaned again and slumped back down on the bed, pulling his other pillow over and pushing his face into it. He punched the side of the pillow and mumbled at himself in nonsense.
God, that cop had tasted so good..
The flavour lingered in his mouth, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, praying to find a drop he hadn't yet devoured, but it was no good. He was very thorough with his feeding.
The leech inside him didn't allow him to waste anything, not one drop, not when it came to human blood, anyway.
He'd tasted human before, a few times. The first had been Merle, just after he'd woken up from the catatonic state his brother had found him in. The faint voice inside his head had urged him to latch on, and he'd nearly sent Merle unconscious, before he'd snapped out of it.
Nursing Merle back to health, he'd fought a war with the voice echoing in his mind. The sinister voice pushing him and pushing him to take advantage of the older's weaker state, until he had shut it up with nothing but fierce determination. Daryl's loyalty to his blood, his kin, was the only thing that had saved the older Dixon.
But that voice slithered back into his mind, nibbling at his subconscious as he dozed lazily, totally spent.
He felt like he'd just had a great orgasm, could feel the blissful tingling of nerves all throughout his body, causing a cacophony of sensations and feelings, physically and metaphorically.
His body was singing, but his mind was screaming.
Go after him! The voice said, deep and low within the recesses of his mind. He tasted so good.. Have some more..
Fuck off! He told the thing back, the voice of what he had come to know as the leech. Guy's got a wife. Probably a kid..
Daryl had seen, had stalked the cop all the way home. He told himself – and the leech – that he wasn't checking to see that the guy got home safely in that dazed state, only that he was wanting to know where the cop lived, so he could arrange another 'snack'. The cop with the tastiest blood he'd ever had in his life. So good, he wasn't sure he could ever tip another damn cow for as long as he drew breath.
It was dangerous, he knew. The leech in him knew what it was, and informed him so.
Addiction.
Just one taste, so how the hell was he addicted to some asshole cop's blood already?
Information started leaking its way into his brain from the leech, but when phrases such as 'turn him' and 'soul mates' and 'forever' snuck in, he swore right back at the leech to shut the fuck up.
He turned his mind back to the cop, the handsome cop with the bright blue eyes that had the smallest speckles of green around the iris, that likely only Daryl had ever noticed, given his enhanced sight. Bright blue eyes, and that curly hair that had been exposed when Daryl had knocked his hat off.
And then the leech made one last push of information. It could produce an egg, to turn someone. But only once. Ever.
Daryl shook his head because he didn't want to be thinking about lifelong commitments and turning some poor sod who had a wife and maybe even kids whom he loved.
Didn't want to think about making someone else spend the majority of their life in the dark, fighting the urges and sneaking around draining cows.
The small amount of metamorphosis he'd managed had been cool, though. Had right near shit his pants the first time his fingers had morphed before his eyes, and his brother had shit himself.
That was the first and last time Merle ever actually got on his case about wanting guys, since he'd turned.
Turned...
He tried to think back on that night, tried to remember it.. He'd just been hunting like he normally did, tracking a boar that was proving to be almost as difficult to find in the woods as he himself was.
Then he'd come across it. It was like a huge toadstool, sticking up out of the ground, and as he'd approached, leaning toward him. As he'd crouched down to get a closer look, the damn thing had exploded in his face in a cloud of spores, some of which he'd inhaled.
After a minute of sneezing and snorting, he'd been struck by an unimaginable pain, his every nerves on fire, and a screaming echoing through the woods which he'd later realised must have been himself. Then – black.
Merle had found him unconscious, had been drawn by the screams.
The screaming – that had been Daryl's body's reaction to the leech beginning to take form within his body, attaching to synapses and nerves and nesting itself deep within his body.
Was drawn to your power. You were worthy.
Daryl shushed the leech's voice, growling back his own Ain't powerful. Ain't nothin' but a worthless archer.
Soulmatessssss..... The voice hissed before finally fading.
Daryl groaned again into the pillow, as if it, in its fluffy, duck feather filled, home made form, was the reason for his agony.
Truth was, he wanted to see the cop again. Wanted to taste him again, but also taste him. His lips, his skin, not only his blood. Wanted to see Officer Gorgeous's pupils dialate with the pleasure he suddenly knew his bite could bring..
I thought you were fucking off! He shouted to the leech, in his head. He only gained new knowledge when the thing was active, and he hadn't known that his bite could bring a sense of euphoria, much like the one he himself was experiencing from the flavour of the man's blood.
Shit... He muttered to himself this time, and he forced his body to calm down and prepare for sleep.
Really, it was too early for sleep. There was still time before dawn, a few hours. And it wasn't like the sun affected him too badly. God, the first time Merle had asked if he was gonna catch fire or fucking sparkle! Daryl had just about killed him there, growling “Ain't no fucking Edward creepy stalker fuck face you shit cunt!”
Merle had shrunk back in fear as Daryl's fangs popped out and his face got all bloody and veiny and his jaw had lowered way too far...
But he pushed those thoughts aside as he toed his boots off lazily, letting them fall with a clunk onto the floor. He pulled his blankets up over him, patchy and frayed at the edges.
And as he closed his eyes for the last time before dawn, all he could see were those powerfully bright blue eyes, the rough line of a heavy jaw with a cleft chin, and under that chin a vein pulsing heavily along stubble covered skin...