He's Just a Baby

Chapter 1(Introduction)

Daryl was a neutral.

Or at least...that's what everyone in his crew believed him to be.

Daryl never really openly discussed classifications unless he had to. He knew the classifications of the others, but he liked to stay away from that kind of stuff as much as possible. He just did as he was told, and the others never questioned him about what he was. Afterall, he wasn't kind enough to be a caregiver, and not cute enough to be a little, so obviously he was a neutral.

Right?

He was part of the inner circle, the group containing Rick, Hershel, Glenn, and Maggie, that voted on choices that would impact everyone. Things like how they should deal with a caving fence, or who was going to go out on the newest supply hunt. He, being practically the second-in-command man, always had to be strong enough to make the tough decisions.

He was also the main hunter for the group. Rick had taken the task of gardening, and Glenn later took up the task of cleaning the water and fortifying the gates around the camp, along with Maggie. Michonne had taken up a big spot as a hunter as well, but with his expert tracking skills and experience fighting for his own food, Daryl still brought home the majority of the big meat.

When he wasn't hunting and discussing life changing conditions, or fighting walkers, or gathering supplies, or digging graves, he was himself.

And that wasn't very often.

So how on earth was he supposed to tell everyone that he, Daryl Dixon, big ass-kicker...was a little?

He couldn't, not when so many people counted on him.

For the most part, Daryl did a great job of keeping his little side under control. After all, Merle and his daddy had practically drilled it into his head that being a little was the worst possible thing a Dixon could ever be. As a newly classified teen, he had been shamed for going into his headspace, and he had learnt to suppress it as best as he could. And as soon as the dead started walking, his big brother had handed him his crossbow and told him if he ever dropped into his headspace, he'd feed him to the walkers. Now, dealing with the fatigue and aches that came with pushing away his headspace was like a walk in the park.

There were a couple small thorns he couldn't get rid of though.

For instance, the fact that he constantly had to make sure he didn't wet himself or worse. His headspace fell on the younger side, meaning diapers were essential to him. But he didn't wear them.

It wasn't that he couldn't. In fact, diapers for littles were very common in the dead world, mainly because all the young littles had already died out and become walkers. The prison even had a special area designated specifically for littles.

The thing is, he was embarrassed of wearing them. He knew he needed them, waking up more often than not with a soaked cot proved that. He just couldn't. Instead, he took precautions such as never drinking anything closer than three hours before he slept. Merle and his father had also never wanted him to wear them; even though he constantly soaked his thin mattress, the Dixon family viewed relying on little products as a weakness, so he never really had the luxury of waking up in a dry cot.

Another thing he couldn't seem to ignore was his habit of thumb sucking. Whether he was close to headspace or not, he always felt the need to bite on something.

Before the apocalypse he would always chew gum. Now that gum was barely found in all the wrecked stores he would search, it wasn't an option. He would nibble on his nails instead. He tried to keep his thumb out of his mouth because that was a quick way to get infected with something, considering he was almost always covered in Walker blood and grease. But sometimes, after a shower, in the solidarity of his cot, he'd let it slip through his lips for a while.

Another thing he was constantly on the look out for were suppressants, the medically prescribed drug that helped to push back a little's headspace. They were not meant to be taken casually, and a little needed to go through several health screenings to even be prescribed them. But of course his dad had found a loophole, so he had been taking nearly triple the recommended monthly dosage weekly to stay afloat.

But of course, the medicine became scarce when the apocalypse hit, and he hadn't been able to have any of the pills in almost a month. That made his headspace swings harder to control, and he had them much more often. But on those days, he would go 'hunting' and just stay away from the group and its caregivers until the fuzzy feelings faded away. It was torturous, but it worked.

Overall, he did okay with dealing with his classification. He always tried to stay out of the little room in the prison when possible, though that was hard because it happened to be little ass-kicker's favorite place to play.

On days where he was really close to slipping and didn't even trust himself outside of the walls, he used to find Carol and help her with basic maintenance tasks like picking onions from the garden.

But now that Carol had been banished...he didn't know what to do.

When Carol had been banished for killing two of their own group about a month ago, Daryl had tried to stay strong. He knew it wasn't Rick's fault; he was just doing the right thing.

However, Carol leaving, maybe for ever, had really hurt him. After all, she was the first one to actually see him for more than just a shit head. And since she had been a caregiver, whether she knew it or not, all her sweet words and acts of friendship really soothed Daryl. Part of him knows that she was the only reason he hadn't dropped yet, the only reason he had held it together. He wanted to stay strong for her.

But now that she was gone, what was he going to do?

Every day just felt like a ticking time bomb, leading to something inevitable:

A drop.