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Title: Love, Essentially
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5000 (63500 total)
Summary: To me, you are perfect.
Rick’s confession, made with snow-damp cue cards and every ounce of his devotion, had been perfection itself—except his perfect love belonged to someone else.
But spring’s in full swing now, and it’s the time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. It’s the season for change itself.
Little does Rick know how much his life will change.
A/N: A Love, Actually fusion fic. Inspired mainly by this gifset here, and this scene from the Love, Actually movie.
~
It becomes easier and easier after that to head over to Daryl’s after work for a movie, or a quick meal out, or to cook a simple meal together. Rick had missed the way they’d moved together in the kitchen while baking, and it’s easy enough to talk Daryl into joining him in the making of home-cooked meals, to recreate the relaxed atmosphere they’d had.
The fact that the pizza delivery guy, Glenn, knows their order by heart now—half with double pepperoni, sausage and cheese, and the other half vegetarian, even if Daryl says they’re just fooling themselves—might have something to do with Rick’s decision too.
They have Daryl’s oversalted spaghetti and Rick’s burnt lasagna for the first few days, but as time goes by, they get better at varying their repertoire and start adding the meat from their hunts to their dishes, along with whole vegetables that aren’t steamed within an inch of their lives. And when Rick finds a slow-cooker from his sister, a housewarming gift from years ago, he brings that over too, for experiments with soups and stews and breads, many of which end up as lunch the next day for him and Daryl.
When Rick needs to stay over, they don’t even need to talk about it anymore. Daryl just glances at the clock before looking over at Rick with an arched brow, and Rick just nods his confirmation, and without further ado, they’ll get ready for bed and settle in with good night’s or see you in the morning’s. And when Rick notices Daryl starting to show signs of exhaustion, they’ll switch it up, and Daryl will have the convenience of being closer to the bike shop, as he stays over at Rick’s. Where of course, Rick has a toothbrush ready for him, and one of his own shirts that is surprisingly form-fitting on Daryl, despite being a little tight in the shoulders.
Of course, Rick doesn’t immediately go for the covert cuddle every night; he just tries for it once in a while when he’s absolutely sure Daryl’s asleep.
But all in all, Rick loves this, being able to come home to Daryl at the end of the day. To spend time with him, whether it’s through burning the pasta, watching a movie, or snuggling against Daryl when he’s fast asleep.
By now they’ve settled into a comfortable routine of hunting and fishing on all their weekends off together, instead of every other. And this new arrangement, including the catching of a new movie at the theatre after work in the evenings, or replaying older ones either at Rick’s or Daryl’s when they’re too tired to go out, means they’ve started seeing each other almost every day, instead of just weekends and the odd evening in the week.
Things have got to come to a head soon, Rick decides, so he steels his resolve, and gathers the courage he’d found that day they first shared a bed. Makes sure he shows Daryl how he feels, instead of simply telling, because actions speak louder than words, and if one’s not working out for him, perhaps the other will.
One such demonstration of Rick’s resolve is in the way he starts touching Daryl more. Nothing deeply intimate or awkward, but small, simple touches. Like making sure he holds some part of Daryl’s elbow or arm when they’re talking. Gentle presses of fingers, light and warm to Daryl’s skin.
“How about this loaf of banana bread?” he’ll say, tapping Daryl’s elbow to get his attention.
Or, “I’ve never gutted a snake like this before,” he’ll nod, with a grateful touch to Daryl’s knee.
Rick returns every touch Daryl gives him, from back pats to shoulder pats, though the one time Rick tries for the same belly pat, Daryl gives him an odd look, so he doesn’t try that again.
When Rick starts feeling more comfortable with touches, he makes sure to let his touches linger. Allows his fingers to brush across the curve of Daryl’s shoulder, slow. Or covers Daryl’s hand with his, when he’s pointing something out.
And in the home setting, it’s become something of an unspoken routine between them, that when they stay in to watch movies, Rick will just drop his feet into Daryl’s lap, or the back of his head, and they’ll end up balancing the popcorn between them like they're two symbiotic creatures become one, and the popcorn’s their life support. It works especially well since the loveseat facing the television is small in both their places, but comfortable enough for just the two of them.
But Daryl doesn’t seem to notice any of Rick’s efforts, or maybe he’s just treated it as the easy progression of whatever it is they have between them, because while he doesn’t flinch away, he doesn’t make any mention of the new and extra touches, one way or another. Just nods, and pats the fingers Rick’s rested on him, like he’s always done, an acknowledgement of the touch, but nothing more.
Rick’s left wondering if a bigger demonstration is in order. If he should step up his game and actually veer into the territory of not-quite-friendly-but-somewhat-intimate touches, even if he’s not sure how those will be received by Daryl. Or if Rick’s even ready to try those yet.
So before he knows it, Halloween’s passed them by, the months running away on Rick with every day he spends testing and waiting and wondering. Daryl had come over on the day to do a horror movie marathon, bringing with him lime punch and a bulk sack of store-bought candy labelled Ghoul Gruel.
“What are you supposed to be?” Rick had asked when Daryl rang the doorbell. And to Daryl’s what the hell Rick, it’s me, Rick had simply squinted at him and said, “You supposed to be some kinda biker?” before letting himself voraciously appreciate the way Daryl’s cutoff sleeves accentuated his arms.
“Yeah, I’m some kinda biker,” Daryl had snorted, nudging his way past Rick to set the candy down. “What about you?”
“I’m a plainclothes officer,” said Rick smugly. “They look just like everyone else.”
Daryl had said after a dissatisfied grunt, that The Addams Family didn’t count as a Halloween movie, so if Rick could stop quoting from that, maybe they could get along.
Rick had only laughed at that, and steadied Daryl with a hand to his arm as he took off his boots, because the fact that Daryl recognized his quote meant they got along just fine.
And even if they’d been continually interrupted in their viewing of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula and Boris Karloff’s The Mummy by different batches of adorable tykes in homemade costumes—including a knee-high Batman with a plaid tablecloth cape dragging at his tiny feet—they’d spent the night after the trick-or-treating hours gorging on leftover candy and soft drinks. Laughing over cheesy movie effects and over-the-top acting.
But then Thanksgiving’s around the corner, and Rick finds that he hasn’t made any headway at all into showing Daryl how he feels, besides his slow, lingering touches, or the same small, thoughtful actions he tries to return in kind. Since Daryl’s obviously not responding to these new and extra touches, Rick’s considering what he could do to really drive the point home. But then he remembers it’s Thanksgiving and this isn’t all about Rick, or the feelings of his that have nowhere to go.
So instead of worrying about The Next Big Thing, Rick decides it’d be good to just do something nice for Daryl. Something that doesn’t involve the telling or showing that Rick hasn’t had much luck with so far.
“What’re you doin’ next Sunday?” Rick asks, as they’re coming back from a hunt. They’d just been up to their elbows in blood short minutes ago, from gutting the deer Daryl brought down, so it’s probably not the best time to ask. But then again, there’s no time like the present.
“Thanksgivin’ weekend?” Daryl hitches the deer higher on his shoulder, and shrugs. “Why?”
“We have this dinner at my sister’s every year,” Rick says. He isn’t sure if Daryl’s ever had a proper one when he was younger, or if he’d even had any with Merle, but he’s thinking this is a nice gesture on its own. “Was wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Or not,” Rick adds quickly, when he sees Daryl’s eyebrows practically rise into his hairline. “I mean, if you’re busy, I get it—”
“Ain’t busy,” Daryl says. “Just…thought it was a family dinner and all. That it oughta be family that goes.”
And you’re part of that family, Rick wants to say, because god knows how many times Daryl’s saved him being killed by a rampaging buck when they’re hunting, yanking him free of ice when they’re fishing. But the words stay stuck in his mouth, like honey past its sell-by date, and all Rick manages is an awkward “I’d love it if you met them.”
A secret part of Rick whispers that it’s the equivalent of meeting the parents, but his parents are long gone anyway, and Rick pushes the thought away, just focusing on what Daryl’s got to say.
Daryl shifts on his feet, quiet, but he doesn’t make their age-old joke of why, do you need to bring a date? anymore, and neither does Rick. By now it’s assumed that they’ll be going together, whether it’s a party, a dinner, or a charity event Rick’s been roped into at the station. Hell, it even applies to awkward drinking sessions with Merle and his buddies, most of which end with Daryl and Rick having to haul Merle’s drunk ass home.
“All right,” Daryl says, after a moment. “We bringin’ anythin’?”
Rick shakes his head. “Haven’t thought of what to bring yet.”
“We got this,” Daryl says, shaking what’s left of the deer in Rick’s direction. “Gonna smoke it and get us some venison later anyway. Could bring that.”
Rick’s reminded of Daryl being thoughtful and considerate all over again, and something tightens in his chest at the thought. Warms something deep in his belly. “Yeah, that’ll do just fine,” he says, smile on his face like it usually is these days, because Daryl’s put that there. “Pick you up at five, on the day?”
“All right,” Daryl nods, and as they make their way back to town, Rick notices the little answering smile on Daryl’s face too.
~
It’s well past five-thirty by the time they arrive at Rick’s sister’s place, and Rachel meets them on the porch, greeting them both in her snowman’s apron—redecorated with purple crayon by her kids—with a huge hug for each.
“Get in here, you,” she laughs, ushering them into the house and making sure Daryl enters first, while Rick brings up the rear, with their sack of venison.
Rick’s grateful for the fact that she doesn’t badger him with questions about who Daryl is, and what he is to Rick, just welcoming him in like she would any other member of their family. She does stop Rick in the kitchen when Daryl’s helping set out plates though, and mouths we’re gonna talk about this after with a sly, secretive smile.
It’s a grand affair—Rachel’s really pulled out all the stops this year, bringing in a plump, juicy turkey from a farm a few miles out of town, baking it to culinary perfection, and fixing up her own spiced stuffing for it. She’s also made a selection of pies, from steaming hot shepherd’s pie to pumpkin, and a mean banana bread pudding that has Rick trying to make sure his eyes aren’t bigger than his stomach.
He’s wondering if Rachel went to all this extra effort because Rick said he was bringing a guest this year, and as Rachel catches Rick’s glance, her eyes travel between him and Daryl and she winks from beneath auburn curls, making him think that she did.
The table’s big enough for the six of them that they have to pass the main courses on down, to make sure everyone gets their share. But neither Rick nor Daryl have to ask the other to pass the salt or pepper; Daryl just absently tosses a pinch of salt into Rick’s mashed potatoes, and Rick scatters a touch of pepper onto Daryl’s slice of turkey, a motion that earns them a knowing little grin from Rachel.
Rick just rolls his eyes at her. Not what you think it means.
Uh huh, Rachel motions back, her flippant little hand wave meaning she’s utterly unconvinced.
Rachel’s husband Greg raises a brow when Daryl starts licking turkey stuffing off his fingers, and the cranberry sauce, then scarfs down a curved handful of mashed potatoes. But when Daryl smiles, small and shy and says, “This is the best Thanksgivin’ meal I’ve ever had,” Rachel scoops another helping of everything onto his plate and calls him adorable, effectively quelling any and all disapproval at the table.
Daryl fields questions from Rachel’s two kids with more patience than even Rick can muster sometimes—who his favourite Disney princess is (Cinderella), where he got his awesome-looking gloves (a Harley shop in town), his favourite color in the whole wide world (blue, but only one particular shade), and a slew of other questions that leaves them open-mouthed and in awe from the depth of his knowledge, Disney and motorcycles combined. But as any guest knows, the true test comes when answering questions from the man of the house.
Rachel’s in the middle of mouthing Yeah, I know just what shade of blue Daryl likes at Rick while Daryl’s back is turned, staring him straight in the cobalt-blues he and Rachel share, when Greg clears his throat.
“So, Rick says you’ve gone hunting together,” Greg says. They’re all starting to make their way through pudding, and between one mouthful and the next, Rick wants to laugh at Greg’s heavy-handed way of making conversation. God help him, but he’s trying.
Daryl stops eating long enough to grunt out a Yeah, then keeps right on digging into the pudding.
“I, uh,” Greg tries. “I go with a few buddies sometimes. You got any tips for hunting in the fall? The kind of game we should be looking for?”
“Maybe,” says Daryl. He pauses to consider if Greg’s mocking him, before finally saying, “What do you hunt with?”
They eventually fall to discussing the best seasons to go hunting, which game’s better found when, and by the time they’re almost done eating, Greg’s badgering Daryl to set up a small expedition with him and couple of his buddies.
“Uh,” Daryl starts, before catching Rick’s eye. “Sure, I guess. I mean, if Rick comes too.”
Rick can’t hide the smile that stretches from ear to ear. “I’m sure we can find a time that works for all of us,” he says. And he’s glad for it, glad that both Greg and Rachel are giving Daryl an in, making him feel like he belongs. Like he’s wanted. Like they’re interested in what Daryl has to say.
They all laugh when Daryl says he’ll bring them back a buck next year, but it’s a good kind of laughter, the kind Rick thinks Daryl hasn’t had in his life all that much. And it warms his heart when Daryl smiles too, a shy, secret smile that Rick wishes he could put on Daryl’s face more often.
Next year, Rick thinks, a burst of fondness rising in his chest as he watches Daryl, thinking of all the Thanksgiving dinners they could share. And every year after.
It’s just him and Rachel in the kitchen after dinner, washing dishes and drying them to put away. Rick dries each dish Rachel hands to him, as they watch her two kids from the window, roping Daryl into their game of snowball tag. Watch him chase them down, dodging their attacks, and tossing snowballs at their feet, gentle, before letting himself get beaned in the face with one in turn. Hear the kids giggle as they scamper away, clearly not it again.
“He’s good with them,” says Rachel.
Rick manages a fond mmhmm yeah, as he runs the cloth over the dishes, dredging up whatever’s left of the water on them. “Figured he would be,” Rick says. “Daryl used to teach kids to fish at one point.”
Rachel hums, as she takes this tidbit in. “He’s good with you too,” she adds, with no preamble at all.
There’s another mmhmm yeah coming down the line, before Rick realizes what she’s said, and sets the plate he’s drying down a little too hard. “What’re you—that’s not—well, I guess, but—” He shakes his head, caught between wanting to say we’re not like that and I’m glad you think so, but all that happens is a quick, embarrassing flush of heat, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, something Rachel’s never failed to tease him for.
Except she doesn’t tease. Not this time.
“Rick. Rick.” She sets a hand on his shoulder, gentle. “It’s all right if you are, you know. In love with him.” Rachel says this like they can all see it, like there’s no way for Rick to hide how he feels.
“I can’t be,” Rick says, his hands braced on the table now, shoulders squared as he swallows, hard. “I shouldn’t be.” Because it’s too hard, keeping it to myself. Because I’m afraid. Because I—
“Why not?”
“It’s too soon, after Lori, I mean that was a mess, you know that—” Even as he says it, Rick knows it’s not a viable reason; he’d decided months back that it was Daryl he’d wanted. Only Daryl, as he was, and not as anyone’s replacement.
“Please,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. “Lori was so last year.”
Rick bites back the giggle threatening to bubble up, at the comparison of Lori to old clothes gone out of style. It’s good that Rachel’s confirmed the absurdity of that excuse for him, but it’s something else that’s eating at him, the biggest fear beneath all that, something he reveals in full when his sister pinches his arm, playful, and says whatsamatter then, what’s keeping you from him? Throws suds in his direction, as she says all I hear are excuses.
“I don’t think he’s interested,” Rick says all in one breath. He rakes a hand through his hair, thinking back, wondering if there’s been a sign, any sign, of Daryl feeling the same way too—things that weren’t just words and banter and teasing.
Could it have been in Daryl’s frequent shoulder claps? But Shane and the others at the station did that too. Or could it have been the belly pats? Maybe it was the way he’d tap Rick’s elbow when they were walking and he wanted to show Rick something. Or the way their hands would brush together when they were eating. Or the way they’d sit together, knees touching, hips perfectly aligned.
And Rick can’t help but keep coming back to the way Daryl had wound arms around Rick’s waist, his shoulders, patiently teaching him the right way to fish. The way he’d said five minutes from the station, like that was the whole reason he’d picked where he was living now.
Rachel just laughs, and it’s bright, the sound, like bells on Christmas morning. “Oh, Rick,” she says, “you’re thinking way too hard. He’s here, isn’t he? No one agrees to come to a Thanksgiving dinner without it meaning something, do they?”
It’s true enough, Rick supposes. He remembers all the years Shane had begged off on eating dinner with Rick’s family once they were no longer teenagers, with a That’s just weird, Rick, or some other poorly made excuse.
Rachel nudges Rick in the side, her elbow a little too sharp, her voice singsong as she says, “You know, I think big bro could use a little happiness for once.”
Rick sighs and opens his mouth to say something in response, something most likely scathing about how he’s got enough happiness in his life, thank you—even if he has an inkling of why that’s so—but whatever he meant to say is lost when the door blows open, and a swirl of cold wind gusts in from the outside.
“Uncle Rick!” cries Lucas, stumbling in, his booted feet pattering over cracked linoleum. He’s the oldest of Rachel’s kids and has declared himself official spokesperson of the two of them. “Aury wants to know if you and Uncle Daryl can stay to help us make snowmen! Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease please?”
Behind him, Rick can see Lucas’ sister, Aurora, stumbling toward the house in snow that’s too high for her tiny legs, trying to catch up to her big brother. Watches Daryl scoop her up like a sack of rice and toss her over a shoulder to trudge towards the house, listening to her giggle as he does so, a sound so happy and sweet it makes Rick’s heart hurt.
“Uncle Daryl?” Rick says, turning to Lucas with a raised brow.
“Yeah!” says Lucas. “We need help putting the body and the head on.” He flings a mitted hand toward the one giant mound of snow sitting in the corner of the yard.
Right, Rick remembers. The woes of the overly ambitious snowman base. Of course they’d need help getting the body and head on, since the base is probably as tall as Lucas is. But there’s another issue at hand that has Rick blinking like a confused owl at Lucas.
“Uncle Daryl?” he says again, and this time, it’s enough to give Lucas pause, to make him look down at his booted feet, the telltale Grimes’ curls falling over his eyes.
“Well, yeah. ‘Cause we thought…you know. Me and Aury thought you were like…together together.” Lucas toes at the floor, unable to finish, his face a bright cherry red, before Rachel shoos him out of the kitchen, telling him he’s not allowed to wear his boots inside the house.
“Did you put him up to that?” Rick demands, when Rachel’s finished shaking snow off her apron and turns the tap on again to wash what’s left of the dishes. Uncle Daryl. Rick shouldn’t like how that sounds as much as he does.
Rachel scoffs and throws up her hands, exasperated. “Kid never does half of what I tell him, what makes you think he’ll start now?”
“Fine. Fine,” Rick concedes, as he dries the last plates. “It’s just…I don’t know about it yet,” he says, even though something in his heart says he does know. Says there are things he could try besides what he’s done, that he’s just too afraid to act on yet.
Says to take the next, obvious steps, since nothing he’s been doing has worked.
“Don’t know about what?”
There’s absolute silence from both Rick and Rachel as Daryl pushes the door open, careful, Aurora clinging to his back like a baby monkey. And Rick has to take a moment to catch his breath, because there’s a light dusting of snow in Daryl’s hair, and his cheeks are flushed a lovely cherry red, and all Rick wants to do is kiss that silly grin on Daryl’s face.
“Rick?” Daryl tries again, when neither of them answer him.
And while Rick tries not to look like he’s been staring like a shocked guppy, Rachel says something like got some cleaning to do in the dining room, letting Aurora clamber down from Daryl’s back and swinging her up into her arms, as she leaves the two of them in the kitchen.
“Rachel was just askin’ me about our plans for Christmas,” Rick says, recovering quickly. “And I was just tellin’ her I don’t know about that, because we haven’t decided yet.” Then he kicks himself mentally, because he’s just so naturally slipped into using words like our and we that he hasn’t stopped to think if Daryl finds it awkward.
Daryl nods, like that all makes sense, doesn’t comment on Rick’s slip of tongue. “Guess I gotta see if Merle’s got plans for us, but, uh.” He pauses. “If you’re not doin’ anythin’…”
Rick watches Daryl lick his lips, studies the tiny sliver of pink that darts out to run over his lower lip, anxious, and wills himself not to think of licking into Daryl’s mouth, to taste the sweetness of his tongue.
“I’m sure we’ll figure somethin’ out,” Rick offers, relieved when Daryl nods a yeah and helps him put the dishes away without another word on the matter.
By the time they’ve finished helping with the cleanup in the dining room, indulged in building mutant snowmen with Lucas and Aurora before putting them to sleep, and Rick’s kissed his little sister good night (of course she makes kissing motions at Rick and jerks her head at Daryl when Daryl’s not looking), it’s near midnight. Rick’s more than tempted to just take Daryl home with him, but they’ve both got some prep to do before work the next day, so he ends up walking Daryl to his doorstep after dropping him off. Just wanting to make the moment last, because it means one more minute with Daryl.
All in all, Rick can say it’s been one of the loveliest nights he’s had, and he’s working his way up to telling Daryl this, but all that comes out is a parrot of Rachel’s words from earlier.
“You’re good with them,” Rick says. “Her kids.” Then he shuts his eyes briefly and breathes out through his nose, because yes, it was true, but he’d meant to say more than that. Damn it.
Daryl blinks. “Didn’t think I would be. But thanks.” His smile is small but genuine, and it melts the last piece of ice lodged in Rick’s heart.
Have you ever wanted any of your own?
It’s a question Rick’s burning to have answered, and before he knows it, he’s blurted it out loud, and Daryl’s furrowing his brow, probably wondering why the hell Rick’s asking him this.
“Never really thought about it,” Daryl shrugs. He flicks a glance up at Rick before his gaze settles firmly on his toes. “Well, maybe. Depends who they’re with, though. Gotta be the…right person and all…”
His voice trails off, but when he meets Rick’s eyes again, there’s something in them Rick can’t read, an odd brightness to his eyes that Rick hasn’t noticed before, and he realizes they’ve just had the talk. Just like that. And he could just kiss Daryl, because Rick’s thought the same thing too, something in him having turned from having kids to adopting them, but then Rick backpedals mentally, thinking oh my god and is this for real, am I thinking of kids already.
Maybe you could start with a couple of kittens, or puppies, his mind supplies helpfully. The ones at the shelter you passed the other day, named Coral and Jude. Except that thought has Rick backpedalling even faster, thinking no, no, no, that is way too soon. I haven’t even told him I—
Daryl, for his part, just stands there, quiet, like he’s patiently waiting for Rick to do something.
It feels just like the night Rick had walked Daryl to his bike, after their first fishing trip at the trout pond. When he’d held onto Daryl’s bike, knowing now he’d wanted to hold onto Daryl, a silent don’t go pressed into the handlebar, while Daryl had waited there, silent, his hesitance seeming to say then give me a reason to stay.
And now, now Rick knows what that something, that reason should be, but he mumbles a quick good night instead, and turns on his heel. Marches out of there before he does something inexplicably stupid. Something he can’t take back.
Something like kissing the breath from Daryl’s lungs and telling him I’m in love with you, and I have been since the start.
He can’t bear to take the chance, because he’s afraid of seeing the light fade from Daryl’s eyes. Watching Daryl’s face close off as he says any of the following, depending on the mood Rick’s words put him in.
If Daryl was feeling particularly kind: I’m sorry, Rick, but it ain’t like that between us.
If Daryl was deeply offended: I ain’t gay, do you I look gay to you?
And maybe the worst mood, the pitying one: All right, let’s try this, if that’s what you want, one that’d make Rick’s hopes soar, before Daryl dashed them into the ground soon after, with this ain’t workin’ out, sorry.
Rick’s not ready for any of those answers right now, because each of them would hurt in a different way.
So he stalks away, heart filled to the brim with everything he can’t reveal, swallows back his hopes, his dreams, and the words he’d wanted so badly to say.
I adore you.
I admire you.
I love you.
If his life could play out like a movie, Daryl would sneak up from behind him, and wind arms around his waist, gentle, and Rick would know, in a blinding blaze of light, that the feelings he’d been harbouring all this time were returned. Or Daryl would call him back, chasing him down in the drifting snow, his cheeks flushed red with the cold as he fumbled through a Rick, I—I think I— and Rick would mumble God, yes, me too, and they’d get it right between them, after all.
Or Rick would turn around and find that the courage that fled him had somehow returned in full force, enough to tell Daryl, finally, that—
But it isn’t a movie, and this isn’t a light-hearted rom-com, and it isn’t upper crust London, where magic and romance and good things seem to happen. It’s the depth of winter in fucking Georgia, it’s cold as hell, and it only gets all the colder as Rick drives away from Daryl’s place, alone.
(tbc - Chapter 10)
End Notes:
Rick's nephew, Lucas, is based on Luke, one of the children in the prison in Season 4 of The Walking Dead. Photos of him with Rick and Daryl can be found here and here.
I just want him to live, through this fic. :3
*whispers* I just want everyone to live. :'c
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5000 (63500 total)
Summary: To me, you are perfect.
Rick’s confession, made with snow-damp cue cards and every ounce of his devotion, had been perfection itself—except his perfect love belonged to someone else.
But spring’s in full swing now, and it’s the time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. It’s the season for change itself.
Little does Rick know how much his life will change.
A/N: A Love, Actually fusion fic. Inspired mainly by this gifset here, and this scene from the Love, Actually movie.
It becomes easier and easier after that to head over to Daryl’s after work for a movie, or a quick meal out, or to cook a simple meal together. Rick had missed the way they’d moved together in the kitchen while baking, and it’s easy enough to talk Daryl into joining him in the making of home-cooked meals, to recreate the relaxed atmosphere they’d had.
The fact that the pizza delivery guy, Glenn, knows their order by heart now—half with double pepperoni, sausage and cheese, and the other half vegetarian, even if Daryl says they’re just fooling themselves—might have something to do with Rick’s decision too.
They have Daryl’s oversalted spaghetti and Rick’s burnt lasagna for the first few days, but as time goes by, they get better at varying their repertoire and start adding the meat from their hunts to their dishes, along with whole vegetables that aren’t steamed within an inch of their lives. And when Rick finds a slow-cooker from his sister, a housewarming gift from years ago, he brings that over too, for experiments with soups and stews and breads, many of which end up as lunch the next day for him and Daryl.
When Rick needs to stay over, they don’t even need to talk about it anymore. Daryl just glances at the clock before looking over at Rick with an arched brow, and Rick just nods his confirmation, and without further ado, they’ll get ready for bed and settle in with good night’s or see you in the morning’s. And when Rick notices Daryl starting to show signs of exhaustion, they’ll switch it up, and Daryl will have the convenience of being closer to the bike shop, as he stays over at Rick’s. Where of course, Rick has a toothbrush ready for him, and one of his own shirts that is surprisingly form-fitting on Daryl, despite being a little tight in the shoulders.
Of course, Rick doesn’t immediately go for the covert cuddle every night; he just tries for it once in a while when he’s absolutely sure Daryl’s asleep.
But all in all, Rick loves this, being able to come home to Daryl at the end of the day. To spend time with him, whether it’s through burning the pasta, watching a movie, or snuggling against Daryl when he’s fast asleep.
By now they’ve settled into a comfortable routine of hunting and fishing on all their weekends off together, instead of every other. And this new arrangement, including the catching of a new movie at the theatre after work in the evenings, or replaying older ones either at Rick’s or Daryl’s when they’re too tired to go out, means they’ve started seeing each other almost every day, instead of just weekends and the odd evening in the week.
Things have got to come to a head soon, Rick decides, so he steels his resolve, and gathers the courage he’d found that day they first shared a bed. Makes sure he shows Daryl how he feels, instead of simply telling, because actions speak louder than words, and if one’s not working out for him, perhaps the other will.
One such demonstration of Rick’s resolve is in the way he starts touching Daryl more. Nothing deeply intimate or awkward, but small, simple touches. Like making sure he holds some part of Daryl’s elbow or arm when they’re talking. Gentle presses of fingers, light and warm to Daryl’s skin.
“How about this loaf of banana bread?” he’ll say, tapping Daryl’s elbow to get his attention.
Or, “I’ve never gutted a snake like this before,” he’ll nod, with a grateful touch to Daryl’s knee.
Rick returns every touch Daryl gives him, from back pats to shoulder pats, though the one time Rick tries for the same belly pat, Daryl gives him an odd look, so he doesn’t try that again.
When Rick starts feeling more comfortable with touches, he makes sure to let his touches linger. Allows his fingers to brush across the curve of Daryl’s shoulder, slow. Or covers Daryl’s hand with his, when he’s pointing something out.
And in the home setting, it’s become something of an unspoken routine between them, that when they stay in to watch movies, Rick will just drop his feet into Daryl’s lap, or the back of his head, and they’ll end up balancing the popcorn between them like they're two symbiotic creatures become one, and the popcorn’s their life support. It works especially well since the loveseat facing the television is small in both their places, but comfortable enough for just the two of them.
But Daryl doesn’t seem to notice any of Rick’s efforts, or maybe he’s just treated it as the easy progression of whatever it is they have between them, because while he doesn’t flinch away, he doesn’t make any mention of the new and extra touches, one way or another. Just nods, and pats the fingers Rick’s rested on him, like he’s always done, an acknowledgement of the touch, but nothing more.
Rick’s left wondering if a bigger demonstration is in order. If he should step up his game and actually veer into the territory of not-quite-friendly-but-somewhat-intimate touches, even if he’s not sure how those will be received by Daryl. Or if Rick’s even ready to try those yet.
So before he knows it, Halloween’s passed them by, the months running away on Rick with every day he spends testing and waiting and wondering. Daryl had come over on the day to do a horror movie marathon, bringing with him lime punch and a bulk sack of store-bought candy labelled Ghoul Gruel.
“What are you supposed to be?” Rick had asked when Daryl rang the doorbell. And to Daryl’s what the hell Rick, it’s me, Rick had simply squinted at him and said, “You supposed to be some kinda biker?” before letting himself voraciously appreciate the way Daryl’s cutoff sleeves accentuated his arms.
“Yeah, I’m some kinda biker,” Daryl had snorted, nudging his way past Rick to set the candy down. “What about you?”
“I’m a plainclothes officer,” said Rick smugly. “They look just like everyone else.”
Daryl had said after a dissatisfied grunt, that The Addams Family didn’t count as a Halloween movie, so if Rick could stop quoting from that, maybe they could get along.
Rick had only laughed at that, and steadied Daryl with a hand to his arm as he took off his boots, because the fact that Daryl recognized his quote meant they got along just fine.
And even if they’d been continually interrupted in their viewing of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula and Boris Karloff’s The Mummy by different batches of adorable tykes in homemade costumes—including a knee-high Batman with a plaid tablecloth cape dragging at his tiny feet—they’d spent the night after the trick-or-treating hours gorging on leftover candy and soft drinks. Laughing over cheesy movie effects and over-the-top acting.
But then Thanksgiving’s around the corner, and Rick finds that he hasn’t made any headway at all into showing Daryl how he feels, besides his slow, lingering touches, or the same small, thoughtful actions he tries to return in kind. Since Daryl’s obviously not responding to these new and extra touches, Rick’s considering what he could do to really drive the point home. But then he remembers it’s Thanksgiving and this isn’t all about Rick, or the feelings of his that have nowhere to go.
So instead of worrying about The Next Big Thing, Rick decides it’d be good to just do something nice for Daryl. Something that doesn’t involve the telling or showing that Rick hasn’t had much luck with so far.
“What’re you doin’ next Sunday?” Rick asks, as they’re coming back from a hunt. They’d just been up to their elbows in blood short minutes ago, from gutting the deer Daryl brought down, so it’s probably not the best time to ask. But then again, there’s no time like the present.
“Thanksgivin’ weekend?” Daryl hitches the deer higher on his shoulder, and shrugs. “Why?”
“We have this dinner at my sister’s every year,” Rick says. He isn’t sure if Daryl’s ever had a proper one when he was younger, or if he’d even had any with Merle, but he’s thinking this is a nice gesture on its own. “Was wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Or not,” Rick adds quickly, when he sees Daryl’s eyebrows practically rise into his hairline. “I mean, if you’re busy, I get it—”
“Ain’t busy,” Daryl says. “Just…thought it was a family dinner and all. That it oughta be family that goes.”
And you’re part of that family, Rick wants to say, because god knows how many times Daryl’s saved him being killed by a rampaging buck when they’re hunting, yanking him free of ice when they’re fishing. But the words stay stuck in his mouth, like honey past its sell-by date, and all Rick manages is an awkward “I’d love it if you met them.”
A secret part of Rick whispers that it’s the equivalent of meeting the parents, but his parents are long gone anyway, and Rick pushes the thought away, just focusing on what Daryl’s got to say.
Daryl shifts on his feet, quiet, but he doesn’t make their age-old joke of why, do you need to bring a date? anymore, and neither does Rick. By now it’s assumed that they’ll be going together, whether it’s a party, a dinner, or a charity event Rick’s been roped into at the station. Hell, it even applies to awkward drinking sessions with Merle and his buddies, most of which end with Daryl and Rick having to haul Merle’s drunk ass home.
“All right,” Daryl says, after a moment. “We bringin’ anythin’?”
Rick shakes his head. “Haven’t thought of what to bring yet.”
“We got this,” Daryl says, shaking what’s left of the deer in Rick’s direction. “Gonna smoke it and get us some venison later anyway. Could bring that.”
Rick’s reminded of Daryl being thoughtful and considerate all over again, and something tightens in his chest at the thought. Warms something deep in his belly. “Yeah, that’ll do just fine,” he says, smile on his face like it usually is these days, because Daryl’s put that there. “Pick you up at five, on the day?”
“All right,” Daryl nods, and as they make their way back to town, Rick notices the little answering smile on Daryl’s face too.
It’s well past five-thirty by the time they arrive at Rick’s sister’s place, and Rachel meets them on the porch, greeting them both in her snowman’s apron—redecorated with purple crayon by her kids—with a huge hug for each.
“Get in here, you,” she laughs, ushering them into the house and making sure Daryl enters first, while Rick brings up the rear, with their sack of venison.
Rick’s grateful for the fact that she doesn’t badger him with questions about who Daryl is, and what he is to Rick, just welcoming him in like she would any other member of their family. She does stop Rick in the kitchen when Daryl’s helping set out plates though, and mouths we’re gonna talk about this after with a sly, secretive smile.
It’s a grand affair—Rachel’s really pulled out all the stops this year, bringing in a plump, juicy turkey from a farm a few miles out of town, baking it to culinary perfection, and fixing up her own spiced stuffing for it. She’s also made a selection of pies, from steaming hot shepherd’s pie to pumpkin, and a mean banana bread pudding that has Rick trying to make sure his eyes aren’t bigger than his stomach.
He’s wondering if Rachel went to all this extra effort because Rick said he was bringing a guest this year, and as Rachel catches Rick’s glance, her eyes travel between him and Daryl and she winks from beneath auburn curls, making him think that she did.
The table’s big enough for the six of them that they have to pass the main courses on down, to make sure everyone gets their share. But neither Rick nor Daryl have to ask the other to pass the salt or pepper; Daryl just absently tosses a pinch of salt into Rick’s mashed potatoes, and Rick scatters a touch of pepper onto Daryl’s slice of turkey, a motion that earns them a knowing little grin from Rachel.
Rick just rolls his eyes at her. Not what you think it means.
Uh huh, Rachel motions back, her flippant little hand wave meaning she’s utterly unconvinced.
Rachel’s husband Greg raises a brow when Daryl starts licking turkey stuffing off his fingers, and the cranberry sauce, then scarfs down a curved handful of mashed potatoes. But when Daryl smiles, small and shy and says, “This is the best Thanksgivin’ meal I’ve ever had,” Rachel scoops another helping of everything onto his plate and calls him adorable, effectively quelling any and all disapproval at the table.
Daryl fields questions from Rachel’s two kids with more patience than even Rick can muster sometimes—who his favourite Disney princess is (Cinderella), where he got his awesome-looking gloves (a Harley shop in town), his favourite color in the whole wide world (blue, but only one particular shade), and a slew of other questions that leaves them open-mouthed and in awe from the depth of his knowledge, Disney and motorcycles combined. But as any guest knows, the true test comes when answering questions from the man of the house.
Rachel’s in the middle of mouthing Yeah, I know just what shade of blue Daryl likes at Rick while Daryl’s back is turned, staring him straight in the cobalt-blues he and Rachel share, when Greg clears his throat.
“So, Rick says you’ve gone hunting together,” Greg says. They’re all starting to make their way through pudding, and between one mouthful and the next, Rick wants to laugh at Greg’s heavy-handed way of making conversation. God help him, but he’s trying.
Daryl stops eating long enough to grunt out a Yeah, then keeps right on digging into the pudding.
“I, uh,” Greg tries. “I go with a few buddies sometimes. You got any tips for hunting in the fall? The kind of game we should be looking for?”
“Maybe,” says Daryl. He pauses to consider if Greg’s mocking him, before finally saying, “What do you hunt with?”
They eventually fall to discussing the best seasons to go hunting, which game’s better found when, and by the time they’re almost done eating, Greg’s badgering Daryl to set up a small expedition with him and couple of his buddies.
“Uh,” Daryl starts, before catching Rick’s eye. “Sure, I guess. I mean, if Rick comes too.”
Rick can’t hide the smile that stretches from ear to ear. “I’m sure we can find a time that works for all of us,” he says. And he’s glad for it, glad that both Greg and Rachel are giving Daryl an in, making him feel like he belongs. Like he’s wanted. Like they’re interested in what Daryl has to say.
They all laugh when Daryl says he’ll bring them back a buck next year, but it’s a good kind of laughter, the kind Rick thinks Daryl hasn’t had in his life all that much. And it warms his heart when Daryl smiles too, a shy, secret smile that Rick wishes he could put on Daryl’s face more often.
Next year, Rick thinks, a burst of fondness rising in his chest as he watches Daryl, thinking of all the Thanksgiving dinners they could share. And every year after.
It’s just him and Rachel in the kitchen after dinner, washing dishes and drying them to put away. Rick dries each dish Rachel hands to him, as they watch her two kids from the window, roping Daryl into their game of snowball tag. Watch him chase them down, dodging their attacks, and tossing snowballs at their feet, gentle, before letting himself get beaned in the face with one in turn. Hear the kids giggle as they scamper away, clearly not it again.
“He’s good with them,” says Rachel.
Rick manages a fond mmhmm yeah, as he runs the cloth over the dishes, dredging up whatever’s left of the water on them. “Figured he would be,” Rick says. “Daryl used to teach kids to fish at one point.”
Rachel hums, as she takes this tidbit in. “He’s good with you too,” she adds, with no preamble at all.
There’s another mmhmm yeah coming down the line, before Rick realizes what she’s said, and sets the plate he’s drying down a little too hard. “What’re you—that’s not—well, I guess, but—” He shakes his head, caught between wanting to say we’re not like that and I’m glad you think so, but all that happens is a quick, embarrassing flush of heat, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, something Rachel’s never failed to tease him for.
Except she doesn’t tease. Not this time.
“Rick. Rick.” She sets a hand on his shoulder, gentle. “It’s all right if you are, you know. In love with him.” Rachel says this like they can all see it, like there’s no way for Rick to hide how he feels.
“I can’t be,” Rick says, his hands braced on the table now, shoulders squared as he swallows, hard. “I shouldn’t be.” Because it’s too hard, keeping it to myself. Because I’m afraid. Because I—
“Why not?”
“It’s too soon, after Lori, I mean that was a mess, you know that—” Even as he says it, Rick knows it’s not a viable reason; he’d decided months back that it was Daryl he’d wanted. Only Daryl, as he was, and not as anyone’s replacement.
“Please,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. “Lori was so last year.”
Rick bites back the giggle threatening to bubble up, at the comparison of Lori to old clothes gone out of style. It’s good that Rachel’s confirmed the absurdity of that excuse for him, but it’s something else that’s eating at him, the biggest fear beneath all that, something he reveals in full when his sister pinches his arm, playful, and says whatsamatter then, what’s keeping you from him? Throws suds in his direction, as she says all I hear are excuses.
“I don’t think he’s interested,” Rick says all in one breath. He rakes a hand through his hair, thinking back, wondering if there’s been a sign, any sign, of Daryl feeling the same way too—things that weren’t just words and banter and teasing.
Could it have been in Daryl’s frequent shoulder claps? But Shane and the others at the station did that too. Or could it have been the belly pats? Maybe it was the way he’d tap Rick’s elbow when they were walking and he wanted to show Rick something. Or the way their hands would brush together when they were eating. Or the way they’d sit together, knees touching, hips perfectly aligned.
And Rick can’t help but keep coming back to the way Daryl had wound arms around Rick’s waist, his shoulders, patiently teaching him the right way to fish. The way he’d said five minutes from the station, like that was the whole reason he’d picked where he was living now.
Rachel just laughs, and it’s bright, the sound, like bells on Christmas morning. “Oh, Rick,” she says, “you’re thinking way too hard. He’s here, isn’t he? No one agrees to come to a Thanksgiving dinner without it meaning something, do they?”
It’s true enough, Rick supposes. He remembers all the years Shane had begged off on eating dinner with Rick’s family once they were no longer teenagers, with a That’s just weird, Rick, or some other poorly made excuse.
Rachel nudges Rick in the side, her elbow a little too sharp, her voice singsong as she says, “You know, I think big bro could use a little happiness for once.”
Rick sighs and opens his mouth to say something in response, something most likely scathing about how he’s got enough happiness in his life, thank you—even if he has an inkling of why that’s so—but whatever he meant to say is lost when the door blows open, and a swirl of cold wind gusts in from the outside.
“Uncle Rick!” cries Lucas, stumbling in, his booted feet pattering over cracked linoleum. He’s the oldest of Rachel’s kids and has declared himself official spokesperson of the two of them. “Aury wants to know if you and Uncle Daryl can stay to help us make snowmen! Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease please?”
Behind him, Rick can see Lucas’ sister, Aurora, stumbling toward the house in snow that’s too high for her tiny legs, trying to catch up to her big brother. Watches Daryl scoop her up like a sack of rice and toss her over a shoulder to trudge towards the house, listening to her giggle as he does so, a sound so happy and sweet it makes Rick’s heart hurt.
“Uncle Daryl?” Rick says, turning to Lucas with a raised brow.
“Yeah!” says Lucas. “We need help putting the body and the head on.” He flings a mitted hand toward the one giant mound of snow sitting in the corner of the yard.
Right, Rick remembers. The woes of the overly ambitious snowman base. Of course they’d need help getting the body and head on, since the base is probably as tall as Lucas is. But there’s another issue at hand that has Rick blinking like a confused owl at Lucas.
“Uncle Daryl?” he says again, and this time, it’s enough to give Lucas pause, to make him look down at his booted feet, the telltale Grimes’ curls falling over his eyes.
“Well, yeah. ‘Cause we thought…you know. Me and Aury thought you were like…together together.” Lucas toes at the floor, unable to finish, his face a bright cherry red, before Rachel shoos him out of the kitchen, telling him he’s not allowed to wear his boots inside the house.
“Did you put him up to that?” Rick demands, when Rachel’s finished shaking snow off her apron and turns the tap on again to wash what’s left of the dishes. Uncle Daryl. Rick shouldn’t like how that sounds as much as he does.
Rachel scoffs and throws up her hands, exasperated. “Kid never does half of what I tell him, what makes you think he’ll start now?”
“Fine. Fine,” Rick concedes, as he dries the last plates. “It’s just…I don’t know about it yet,” he says, even though something in his heart says he does know. Says there are things he could try besides what he’s done, that he’s just too afraid to act on yet.
Says to take the next, obvious steps, since nothing he’s been doing has worked.
“Don’t know about what?”
There’s absolute silence from both Rick and Rachel as Daryl pushes the door open, careful, Aurora clinging to his back like a baby monkey. And Rick has to take a moment to catch his breath, because there’s a light dusting of snow in Daryl’s hair, and his cheeks are flushed a lovely cherry red, and all Rick wants to do is kiss that silly grin on Daryl’s face.
“Rick?” Daryl tries again, when neither of them answer him.
And while Rick tries not to look like he’s been staring like a shocked guppy, Rachel says something like got some cleaning to do in the dining room, letting Aurora clamber down from Daryl’s back and swinging her up into her arms, as she leaves the two of them in the kitchen.
“Rachel was just askin’ me about our plans for Christmas,” Rick says, recovering quickly. “And I was just tellin’ her I don’t know about that, because we haven’t decided yet.” Then he kicks himself mentally, because he’s just so naturally slipped into using words like our and we that he hasn’t stopped to think if Daryl finds it awkward.
Daryl nods, like that all makes sense, doesn’t comment on Rick’s slip of tongue. “Guess I gotta see if Merle’s got plans for us, but, uh.” He pauses. “If you’re not doin’ anythin’…”
Rick watches Daryl lick his lips, studies the tiny sliver of pink that darts out to run over his lower lip, anxious, and wills himself not to think of licking into Daryl’s mouth, to taste the sweetness of his tongue.
“I’m sure we’ll figure somethin’ out,” Rick offers, relieved when Daryl nods a yeah and helps him put the dishes away without another word on the matter.
By the time they’ve finished helping with the cleanup in the dining room, indulged in building mutant snowmen with Lucas and Aurora before putting them to sleep, and Rick’s kissed his little sister good night (of course she makes kissing motions at Rick and jerks her head at Daryl when Daryl’s not looking), it’s near midnight. Rick’s more than tempted to just take Daryl home with him, but they’ve both got some prep to do before work the next day, so he ends up walking Daryl to his doorstep after dropping him off. Just wanting to make the moment last, because it means one more minute with Daryl.
All in all, Rick can say it’s been one of the loveliest nights he’s had, and he’s working his way up to telling Daryl this, but all that comes out is a parrot of Rachel’s words from earlier.
“You’re good with them,” Rick says. “Her kids.” Then he shuts his eyes briefly and breathes out through his nose, because yes, it was true, but he’d meant to say more than that. Damn it.
Daryl blinks. “Didn’t think I would be. But thanks.” His smile is small but genuine, and it melts the last piece of ice lodged in Rick’s heart.
Have you ever wanted any of your own?
It’s a question Rick’s burning to have answered, and before he knows it, he’s blurted it out loud, and Daryl’s furrowing his brow, probably wondering why the hell Rick’s asking him this.
“Never really thought about it,” Daryl shrugs. He flicks a glance up at Rick before his gaze settles firmly on his toes. “Well, maybe. Depends who they’re with, though. Gotta be the…right person and all…”
His voice trails off, but when he meets Rick’s eyes again, there’s something in them Rick can’t read, an odd brightness to his eyes that Rick hasn’t noticed before, and he realizes they’ve just had the talk. Just like that. And he could just kiss Daryl, because Rick’s thought the same thing too, something in him having turned from having kids to adopting them, but then Rick backpedals mentally, thinking oh my god and is this for real, am I thinking of kids already.
Maybe you could start with a couple of kittens, or puppies, his mind supplies helpfully. The ones at the shelter you passed the other day, named Coral and Jude. Except that thought has Rick backpedalling even faster, thinking no, no, no, that is way too soon. I haven’t even told him I—
Daryl, for his part, just stands there, quiet, like he’s patiently waiting for Rick to do something.
It feels just like the night Rick had walked Daryl to his bike, after their first fishing trip at the trout pond. When he’d held onto Daryl’s bike, knowing now he’d wanted to hold onto Daryl, a silent don’t go pressed into the handlebar, while Daryl had waited there, silent, his hesitance seeming to say then give me a reason to stay.
And now, now Rick knows what that something, that reason should be, but he mumbles a quick good night instead, and turns on his heel. Marches out of there before he does something inexplicably stupid. Something he can’t take back.
Something like kissing the breath from Daryl’s lungs and telling him I’m in love with you, and I have been since the start.
He can’t bear to take the chance, because he’s afraid of seeing the light fade from Daryl’s eyes. Watching Daryl’s face close off as he says any of the following, depending on the mood Rick’s words put him in.
If Daryl was feeling particularly kind: I’m sorry, Rick, but it ain’t like that between us.
If Daryl was deeply offended: I ain’t gay, do you I look gay to you?
And maybe the worst mood, the pitying one: All right, let’s try this, if that’s what you want, one that’d make Rick’s hopes soar, before Daryl dashed them into the ground soon after, with this ain’t workin’ out, sorry.
Rick’s not ready for any of those answers right now, because each of them would hurt in a different way.
So he stalks away, heart filled to the brim with everything he can’t reveal, swallows back his hopes, his dreams, and the words he’d wanted so badly to say.
I adore you.
I admire you.
I love you.
If his life could play out like a movie, Daryl would sneak up from behind him, and wind arms around his waist, gentle, and Rick would know, in a blinding blaze of light, that the feelings he’d been harbouring all this time were returned. Or Daryl would call him back, chasing him down in the drifting snow, his cheeks flushed red with the cold as he fumbled through a Rick, I—I think I— and Rick would mumble God, yes, me too, and they’d get it right between them, after all.
Or Rick would turn around and find that the courage that fled him had somehow returned in full force, enough to tell Daryl, finally, that—
But it isn’t a movie, and this isn’t a light-hearted rom-com, and it isn’t upper crust London, where magic and romance and good things seem to happen. It’s the depth of winter in fucking Georgia, it’s cold as hell, and it only gets all the colder as Rick drives away from Daryl’s place, alone.
(tbc - Chapter 10)
End Notes:
Rick's nephew, Lucas, is based on Luke, one of the children in the prison in Season 4 of The Walking Dead. Photos of him with Rick and Daryl can be found here and here.
I just want him to live, through this fic. :3
*whispers* I just want everyone to live. :'c
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no subject
Date: 2016-11-10 03:33 pm (UTC)From:I mean, they went fishing and hunting, camping, to the movies, had dinners out, did cooking and baking for months and months, chapter by chapter and STILL they're not getting it? Rick's being pulled back and forth, takes one step forward, then two steps back and Daryl, too, is not doing anything at all to move this along. What's the matter with those guys?
Last chapter we had some cuddling already and I was soooooo hoping, Rick would finally find his courage now and kiss Daryl good-night or do ANYTHING, cup his cheek for a moment, run his hand over his hair - any kind of intimate gesture, so it's one step ahead. But, no, again he just leaves and let's his fears take over.
Just tell me this is going anywhere soon, please. I'm so waiting for one of them to finally DO something.
no subject
Date: 2016-11-18 01:53 am (UTC)From:Thank you for reading! <3