Chapter Text
Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of the characters. All I own is the plot :)
Daryl crouched low in the tall grass, lining up the crosshairs on his target through the scope of his crossbow.
Inhale, he reminded himself, not wanting his own nerves to ruin a good kill shot. Exhale...
He pulled the trigger, a bolt flying free with the familiar *thunk* and whistle of air rushing through the fletching, catching the buck broadside. A perfect kill shot. Straight to the heart or lungs.
The buck staggered a few steps, then fell to the leaf strewn forest floor in a heap. It was dead.
Smirking triumphantly to himself, Daryl moved forward, drawing his buck knife to get started on field dressing. It definitely wasn't his favorite part, but it had to be done.
Ten minutes later, he was burying the guts. It didn't take him more than five minutes to dress the deer, far too many years of practice on his side to be slow.
Once the remains were buried, and his crossbow slung over his shoulder, he proceeded to drag the deer in the direction of the truck he had taken that morning. It was then that he noticed something a bit odd beside a fallen oak tree.
Dropping the deer along with his bow and moving slowly through the grass, Daryl was surprised to see a little ball of fluffy brownish-red fur wiggling beside the fallen tree.
There, huddled beside the log, as if trying to find somewhere safe and warm to hide, was a tiny red fox kit. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.
Cautiously, Daryl crept forward, crouching down on his haunches as he drew within three or four feet of the little fox, constantly aware that the mother could be close, and may try to protect her baby by attacking him.
"Hey, there, little guy..." Daryl said in a soft voice, trying not to startle the kit. "Where's your mama, bud?"
The kit looked up, big eyes bright and wary as Daryl inched forward another foot, but made no attempt to escape, just stared at him. Not a care in the world.
Daryl took a mental note of how dirty the little creature appeared, realizing if it's mother was taking proper care of it, it would most likely be cleaner.
"You all alone, little guy?" Daryl asked, another inch in the gap between man and beast closed. "You're mama gone?"
The little fox looked up again, curious and frightened at the same time.
"I ain't gonna hurt ya'..." Daryl promised, reaching out, slow and easy.
The kit made no attempt to bite or move away. Instead, to Daryl's utter surprise, it inched closer to his outstretched hand, whimpering quietly like a regular puppy would.
Gently, Daryl picked the dirty little thing up, cuddling it close to his chest as he checked it for any type of wounds or flaws. Any reason for a vixen to leave it behind.
The kit was nothing but skin and bones, tiny and filthier than he had first thought, but nothing appeared to be wrong with it. No wounds, no broken bones, nothing.
"Well, bud," Daryl looked down at the kit snuggling into his coat and vest like it had been a pet for years. "What am I gonna do with you?"
The kit wipped weakly, burying it's little black nose in his shirt pocket and nipping at the material as if to say, Take me with you.
Daryl grinned to himself at that thought.
Why not? It was just a baby...It wouldn't survive out here on it's own. Especially not with walkers willing to eat anything that dared to breathe, to live.
With a curt nod to himself, his decision made, Daryl shouldered his crossbow once again, then took up the rope tied to the deer's hind legs, dragging it along behind himself, the kit tucked inside his coat and vest nice and snug.
"Not t'day, little fella...Not t'day..."
A few moments later, Daryl heard the distinct growl of a walker, and was quickly on high alert. Lowering the deer gently to the ground, Daryl soundlessly swung his crossbow around in front of himself, aiming it one-armed at the feeding walker five feet in front of him.
The bolt lodged squarely in the back of the male walker's head, and it toppled over on it's kill with a grotesque squishing noise.
Brows furrowed in disgust, Daryl yanked the bolt from the twice dead body and pulled it off of the animal it had been feeding on, immediately feeling a pang of sadness go straight to his heart.
There wasn't much left, but by the redish-brown fur and small bone structure, Daryl knew it was the fox kit's mother without question. It had to be. She had died protecting her baby, a broken ankle the likely sorce of her horrific demise.
"Sorry, little guy..." he murmured, going back to his deer and continuing with the trek back to his truck.
~*#*~
Twenty minutes later, Daryl was driving through the prison gates as Glenn and Maggie threw them open for him, the baby fox curled up in his lap, appearing to have fallen asleep during the drive back to the prison.
Upon pulling up and parking near the other cars, Daryl quickly hopped out of the truck, leaving the deer for the others to admire before anyone cornered him to ask questions about why he was clutching at his stomach.
He nearly tripped over Beth and Judith in the process of making his way to his sleeping area on the landing, then nearly ran Carl over in his haste to get to the kitchen.
"What's your rush, Daryl?" the boy asked, curious as ever.
Daryl whirled, looking very much like a deer caught in the headlights of an 18-wheeler.
"Ain't ate yet," he lied, hoping Carl hadn't seen the lunch Carol had nearly forced him to take along that morning.
"I'll go get Carol so she can make you something," Carl offered, heading for the door.
"No!" Daryl fairly shouted, desperate to get into the kitchen and get out without getting caught.
"Carl looked at him suspiciously.
"I'll make myself a sam'wich or somethin'," Daryl offered quickly. "She's busy helpin' Hershel with that deer by now."
"You got one?!" Carl cried, Daryl's stomach completely forgotten.
"Yeah, I got one," Daryl smirked, happy to see the boy already turning to run out the doors to see the big prize. "Big buck, pretty as ya' please."
"Awesome!" Carl cried, and with that, he was bolting out the door to watch Hershel and Glenn get the deer strung up. Daryl would be expected to skin it of course, but first, he had to take care of his prize.
Hurridly, he fixed a styrofoam bowl of powdered milk, hoping room temperature water was good enough for the little kit.
And then he thought of something: How was he going to feed it?
Looking around in the storage room, his eyes landed on a shelf laden with bottles for Judith.
That should work.
Snatching the bottle, he hurried back up to his hidden treasure, happy to find the kit still sleeping peacefully in the backpack he had stashed it in.
Sitting down cross legged on the floor, he picked it up, offering it the bottle, and the little thing took to it like he was born feeding from human appliances.
Grinning at his accomplishment, Daryl was so engrossed with the little creature's hungry suckling noises that he didn't notice footsteps on the landing.
"What on earth is that?" Rick's voice broke the silence, and Daryl flinched, looking up quickly at the ex-policeman looming over him.
"I-it's-I was jus'---" Daryl was stammering like an idiot, trying desperately to explain himself and failing miserably. "I found it in the woods," -he finally blurted out- "he was all alone. His mama got ripped apart by a damn geek."
Rick knelt down beside the hunter, slightly amused at how Daryl was trying to defend the little creature. It reminded him somewhat of a child getting caught with something they weren't supposed to have for the first time.
"Walker ate it's mom?" Rick asked, reaching out gingerly to stroke the little fox's soft baby fur. "And you're plannin' on keepin' it? As a pet?"
"Why not?" Daryl asked defensively, looking slightly hurt. "It ain't that much different than a dog. I can train 'im. He won't get in the way."
Rick sighed, getting up and heading back down to the first level.
"Alright, Daryl," he called over his shoulder. "I guess a pet around here can't hurt anything. But you'd better give 'im a bath pretty soon. He smells like a garbage truck!"
Daryl grinned to himself, not bothering to reply to the former leader, instead opting to scratch the kit behind the ears and cuddling it close.
"Hear that, bud? You're gonna stick around with me!"
The kit made a little squeaking noise, nipping playfully at Daryl's fingers as if it were saying that that was a good thing. And for once, since it seemed to be a rarity with the hunter, Daryl Dixon laughed.