Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Now this is something a bit different. I am going to admit that that right off the bat. It is probably the only fiction of its kind in this fandom at the moment so…yeah. Perhaps a bit of a shot in the dark? Hopefully you like!

Authors Note #2: Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

Canines

It was the low, torturous gasp that gave him away... It was the kind of sound that sneaks past the lips unbidden; one that you know you'll regret in less time then it takes to blink, but can't help but utter it anyway. It was the kind of noise that trumpets that of a revolution. Heralding the beginning of an uncertain change, like the battle charge that sounds out in lue of a death knell.

He could think of perhaps a dozen or more increasingly nerdy allusions to describe it, but he figured it was all moot point anyway. Because quite obviously the metaphorical shit had already hit the fan.

And true to form Daryl whirled way. Crouching down low like a man on the defensive, buck knife already half drawn from its sheath as he turned. Hiding his side from view, as he yanked his dirty old t-shirt back down from where it had been hovering just past shoulder level, caught in the act of removing it completely. But it was too late. …He's already seen it…them.

The only problem was that he didn't understand what he'd just seen. He couldn't, he just… Daryl couldn't be… No.. Oh god. No.. Please..

Strange how just when you figure that things can't get any worse, irony comes and bitch slaps you from out of nowhere. Just to teach your dumb ass a lesson. But in a word, this was more then that. He felt like he had gotten sucker punched in the gut. The air driven out from his lungs like fate herself had put him in a choke hold. Forcing him to accept what he'd seen even as his heart and mind were already scrambling backwards. Not him.. Anything.. Just not him. Not like this..

..Because in close to five seconds flat he was pretty sure that the world might have just gone and ended on him all over again..

He'd been heading down to the river for a bath. Already thinking somewhat x-rated thoughts that involved him, the water, and that half a bar of soap he'd managed to squirrel away from their last supply run. He hadn't even considered the fact that someone could have already be there. Too busy dwelling on the feeling of clean skin and the questionably feminine smelling soap that was all but burning a hole his pocket as he came around the final rocky fissure that separated the river and campsite from view. He hadn't even called out a warning that he was nearby. Maybe if he had he wouldn't have-..

If wishes were fucking horses indeed.

…He hadn't meant to see him..them. He hadn't meant for any of this.. He shook his head. Emotions swelling, thudding in the back of his mind like a pulse, threatening to over take him completely as he blinked back a suspicious sting. And for a long moment he thought he was going to be sick, tasting bile in the back of this throat as he let his arms rest against the brace of his knees. Fuck.

And as ridiculous as it might have looked, he squeezed his eyes shut. Trying to ignore the way that he could hear the ragged breaths the older man was taking. The adrenaline spiked inhale, the slowly deflating urge to lunge forward, to protect, and to fight. The tone slowly spiraling down as the reality situation rushed in. He could hear it in that slow, drawn out stutter of breath. It was all there, everything from the growing realization, to the dawning whirlwind of emotion that came along with it.

No.

He could almost see the way the man was pulling himself up, spine methodically straightening as that proud, jutting chin came up with it. Face a hard edged jumble as emotion surged, revealing everything, yet nothing at the same time even as the hold on his buck knife lessened. But he could barely find it in him to be surprised at that, at the older man standing down, his muscles going lax and accepting in spite of it all…

..Daryl had to know what this meant…What him knowing about this meant.

He swallowed hard, unable to stop himself as his mind began cycling through the coming days. Flipping forward like microfilm stuck on high speed. Days where there would be no more snarky banter, well meant roughness, or judging silences. No more jibes and thinly disguised lessons. No more surprising levity, unassuming gentleness, and unmistakably venerability all wrapped up into a single, barely controlled package of insurmountable strength and will power.

...He couldn't even begin to catalog the loss..

Because it wasn't just the man's skills he knew he'd miss. He knew they'd all miss. It was the man himself. Tough and ill tempered as he was, Daryl Dixon had come into his own since Atlanta, since Merle and that rooftop. Even the others had seen it. They'd accepted it.. Accepted him. Daryl was part of them, their group. Their dysfunctional little family. Perhaps he'd always been. Even with the gift of hindsight it was hard to tell. But in the end he supposed it didn't really matter much. All that had mattered was that for the first time in a long time, since the quarry, since Atlanta, ..the future had seemed more like a real possibility then a slim shot in the dark.

…And now that was all over.

But regardless of the tumultuous nature of his thoughts, he kept his lids shuttered, letting the moment grow stale. Old. Hoping like hell that this whole moment was nothing more then a hallucination, a nightmare, a trick of the light. Hell he'd even take the fifth on personal insanity at this point. Anything.. Because if it wasn't...If Daryl was.. Well, then he just didn't think he could do this anymore. He didn't think he could-..

He breathed out once, and then twice, forcing his pulse to calm as his lashes fluttered open. He could do this.

Except when he opened them, the marks were still there. He could see them in his mind's eye. The dark smudges, the deep edged puncture points. He knew the exact place where they had disappeared underneath the length of that blue, sweat stained shirt. It was like trying to avert your eyes from the giant pink elephant in the room. Only this time the elephant was the heady, gouging scars of long healed teeth marks. …Human teeth marks.

…Wait.

Healed?

A/N: I know this is short. But please let me know what you think? And indeed if you think I should continue? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

"Great is the power of habit. It teaches us to bear fatigue and to despise wounds and pain."-Marcus Tullius Cicero