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Title: The Dark Before The Dawn (2/2)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick/ Daryl
Rating: M
Words: 5800 (8640 total)
Summary: On the road to DC, in the group’s hour of utmost need, Daryl finds an unlikely source of hope.
A/N: A reimagining / AU of the events in S5E10 – Them. Can be read as a standalone, or as being loosely set after My Sweet Darlin’. Inspired by this scene from the episode here.
~
This, as it turns out, is a Walker that’s clearly gorged itself on something, and its belly is so distended that the dry, cracked skin’s simply stretched to its limit and burst apart in the heat.
It sways its way toward Daryl, entrails hanging out of its split-keg stomach, dangling like coils of broken telephone cord. As it moves, its peeled-paint skin flakes off, fluttering away in the light of the dying sun. The way dust motes might, if there were still humans enough to leave dust behind.
All in all, it’s disgusting as hell, and Daryl’s just glad Rick’s not here to see this, as he sends a bolt flying through this abomination’s skull.
After wrenching his bolt from the Walker’s skull, he leaves it where it falls. Keeps to the trail he’d picked up a quarter mile back, though he’s pretty sure he knows what he’ll find at the end of it. Because he has to try. To see his efforts the whole way through.
Daryl’s hunch is spot-on, because it’s a half-eaten deer carcass he discovers not much further off, and by the looks of things, it was the Walker he killed a ways back that had gorged itself on the deer.
For all of a moment, Daryl’s tempted to double back and find the corpse, just to drive his knife into it again and again. Rip out its gut bag and scatter the contents to the forest floor, for taking away food that could’ve fed his family; because of it, there won’t be deer following this trail for a while yet, not when one of their own is lying gutted and steaming, rotting in the waning sun.
But he doesn’t have the energy for even that, and left with no other options, Daryl keeps walking, making his way further in. Because that’s what you do in a bad situation: you go further in. And if you’re lucky, you find the end ready and waiting for you, the light at the end of the tunnel, the hope that’s left at the bottom of Pandora’s Box.
Yeah, he’d read about the last thing in one of the books he’d scavenged to read to Judith, before the prison fell. Something about some dumb broad letting out all the evils in the world because she couldn’t keep her damn curiosity from getting the better of her, and managing to trap hope in the box at the end. Daryl had argued that hope was pretty damn evil itself, since it kept you wondering and looking for the next break, instead of making your own breaks, but Rick had only smiled at him as Judith traced pea-stained fingers along the pictures, and said hope was all they had sometimes.
Daryl’s not sure what to think of it these days, but he knows they could sure use a little of it now. A lucky break. A little dipshit fairy trapped in a box of their own. Except they’ve been running low on everything for a while now—water, food and dipshit hope fairies included.
He doesn’t find anything for another mile, and knows he’ll have to start heading back soon, because he’s losing the light fast, and Rick’s don’t be too long lingers at the back of his mind. Just like the chapped dryness of Rick’s lips, from too many days with little water, as soft and sweet as his kiss was.
Except all the creek beds Daryl’s found were dry, and he hasn’t seen anything but storm-ravaged brush and the occasional Walker here in his short trek out. That, and the gutted deer.
Shit.
Daryl feels his legs give out and he manages to stumble to a tree at least, to put something solid at his back before he’s crumpled to the ground, empty, exhausted, and all kinds of miserable, because he’s come all this way, and he’s got nothing for them, in food, or water, or anything. He’s got his smokes, but Rick and Carl can’t eat those, and they’re out of—
Daryl fumbles with a cigarette to bring it up to his lips, but even the pleasure from that’s short-lived, because the thought he’s been trying to keep at bay just rushes forth, like a deluge tearing through a flimsy dam.
And that’s the fact that they’re out of baby formula too now.
They’d rationed it hard since their days at the church, but it was bound to run out sometime. And sure, they’d been keeping Judith going on bits of fruit and cut-up meat, but she’d spit it back up half the time, and only Tyreese, with soft words and gentler coaxing, could get her to take anything besides a bottle.
Except Tyreese is dead now, just like Beth’s dead, and it’s the memory of them that breaks Daryl, because—god, Judith—after all the other shit she’d lived through, she was going to die too because of damn starvation, and that was just fucking unfair. Before he knows it, Daryl’s drawn his knees to his chest, tight, burying his face in his arms, like he can’t let the world see this, this weakness. Cries for the people they’ve lost, the places, the potential for the life they could’ve had. The people they will lose if they don’t find essentials like water and food soon.
How much longer we got? Maggie had asked, when she and Daryl and Sasha had come back empty-handed from their search for water.
And even if Sasha had answered sixty miles, Daryl knew what Maggie meant. Could’ve told them exactly how long they had left, right down to the day, the only things stopping him being his own stubborn refusal to give up, and the thought that doing so would be like popping a pin in Rick’s endless optimism. His we’re gonna be okay’s and we’ll hit somethin’ in the road’s, even in the face of all the bad luck they’d run into so far.
Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk, Merle had always said.
Daryl casts a silent, irritated fuck off in the direction of that memory as he chokes back a sob, because he needs this, needs to get it out, and he’s glad Rick isn’t here to see this, even though he knows Rick would understand. Would know Daryl far too well, for him to be able to hide.
He’d probably throw an arm around Daryl and pull him close, then rope Carl and Judith into some weird Daryl-hug-therapy session, but it’s him who has to be the strong one for Rick, and Daryl can’t let him see this right now. Maybe not ever.
It’s only when he’s exhausted his reserve of tears, chest heaving with the effort of his sobs and feeling plain wrung-out and cried-out that Daryl finally agrees with Merle’s advice—that spilled milk really wasn’t worth crying over—and decides to dry his eyes. Finishes off the crumbling cigarette and stubs it out on the ground, because the last thing they need is a damn forest fire on top of everything else.
The crushed end of the cigarette comes away a slick, sticky red.
Daryl’s on his feet in seconds, crossbow up as he checks every direction, thinking some combination of shit and fuck and why the hell didn’t I clear the place before sittin’ down, as he looks into the trees for a Walker that might’ve been flung up there by a storm. An injured person who’d climbed up to rest and maybe turned during the night, while bleeding out—
There’s nothing.
It’s completely silent, as far as he can see and hear, and that’s when Daryl thinks to check the area by his feet.
Christ, is there someone buried here?
He kicks at the ground where he’d stubbed out his cigarette, but there’s no movement whatsoever—only, when he’s kicked the ground, branches and dead twigs rustle away to reveal several plants, covered by the fallen brush, with broad, gently-spiked leaves. Hiding a whole slew of honest-to-god strawberries.
Daryl spares a moment to wonder at how strawberries could be growing this far out, before deciding birds were to blame—maybe there was a farm nearby, or another patch of them somewhere, and the birds had eaten their fill before distributing the seeds the way they did—and whips off his vest, just gathering as quickly and as many as he can.
If the Dixons could claim the lineage of some ancient hunter-gatherer tribe, Daryl’s pretty sure he’d do them proud in every way right now, yanking out whole plants and plucking each berry out at the speed of light.
He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, in all honesty, because as he’s foraging, all he can think of is the most useless conversation he and Rick had once. They’ve had far more profound ones since, even those without the use of words, but it’s this thought that brings a breathy laugh to his lips.
Know what else goes well with chocolate? Rick had said, back at the prison. They’d been drunk on the taste of chocolates Glenn and Maggie brought back for them. Drunk on the taste of each other. Besides you?
And Daryl had made some noncommittal noise before Rick was asking for damn strawberries, of all things, like Daryl could just waltz down to the local grocery store and ask for a basket of them, all ripe and sweet and ready to eat.
It's only been a few months since that moment at the prison, but the memory is so distant and hazy, a remnant of happier times, that it feels like years.
And Daryl remembers promising to finds seeds on a run, or find wild ones for Rick to plant, but maybe they weren’t in season or everything was conspiring against them having strawberries, because he hadn’t found any, near the prison or farther out, in the form of seed packets or in the wild.
Hell, maybe even the land had known how bleak their situation would be, like maybe him not finding them in any form was a precautionary message of you’re wastin’ your time. Because soon after, the Governor had rolled up with his tanks and his guns, accompanied by another of his inexperienced idiot-armies, and the prison had fallen, like a shaky house of cards.
There’d only been enough time to think about survival then, not strawberries. And after that, it’d been one thing after another, with the Claimers, Terminus, the church, and the hospital. Hell, they’d even spilled blood at the estates, where they thought they might find refuge for once. A series of sucker punches, a toppling of dominoes that had happened in the blink of an eye—Bob-Beth-Tyreese—until Daryl and the ones he’s with were the only ones left standing.
But now—now he’ll take this as a sign that there’s hope still. Maybe it’s a blessing from Beth in heaven, if that still exists. Maybe it’s not. But it’s something, and he’ll take it. Sitting here, miles away from home, starving and exhausted, finding these strawberries on the forest floor had to have some kind of meaning.
Daryl’s always thought signs came in the form of mystical burning bushes, or voices from the heavens; never thought it’d be in the form of a small, humble berry. But as he wonders at the miracle of them being found this far into the forest, plucking berry after berry from their hidden, mud-caked home, he thinks of hope and wonder, and all things good, because this means they have a chance. To make it to the next stop, and the one after, and the one after that.
He gathers as many as he can into his vest, memorizing where he’s found them in case they need more. Pauses to cut away the crowns of several of them, in an attempt to save the seeds.
If the berries’ presence was a sign, maybe it’s also a sign that he can hope again. To hope for better, for more than just finding the next shelter, and the next.
He puts the strawberry crowns away, careful, wrapping them in the red rag he’s kept in his back pocket all this time.
Just in case, he tells himself, remembering the way Rick had tended his garden with love and care. The way he’d grown somethings from nothings, like he had between the two of them, and wondering if together, they just might manage that again.
Just in case.
~
Rick startles the moment Daryl makes his way through the brush, and even though Daryl shakes his head, a tiny, subtle admission that he’d failed in his hunt, Rick’s shoulders relax regardless, tension fading from them as he struggles to his feet. From the spatters of blood on their clothes, Daryl can tell they took care of the Walkers that’d been dogging them for miles.
He looks Rick over, checking for bites and any other little injuries that Rick always tries to hide. It was Daryl who’d found the bruised rib from where a Walker had lunged blindly at Rick the other week and spent that time carrying Judith to let him heal. Ignored any and all claims from Rick that he was fine, and even recruited Carl and Michonne into the baby-carrying rotation, until Rick had grudgingly admitted that he could stand to use a little help, then dragged Daryl off into the woods to ‘thank’ him on his knees.
They haven’t had time for that in a while, either.
You’re all right, Daryl breathes out now, relieved, as he catches Rick’s eye. He’d reach out and tug Rick in for a kiss, if he wasn’t trying to keep the berries from rolling out of his vest.
Rick nods, before raising his eyebrows in question. Yeah. How about you?
Daryl shrugs, and he’d laugh at the way Rick’s nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke on his clothes when he nears, if he weren’t so damn hungry.
Had time for a smoke, did you? And that’s the curl of a smile at the corner of Rick’s mouth, tired but still amused. He nods toward the cargo Daryl’s cradling in his arms. What do you have there?
Daryl just huffs and sets his vest down, showing Rick the strawberries he’s picked. Loves the way Rick’s mouth drops open, surprised, and color floods his cheeks. From that alone, he can tell Rick remembers the conversation they’d had at the prison, back when they were drowsing content in each other’s arms.
“Got us some strawberries,” Daryl calls to the others, motioning for them to gather round while Rick works out the warring expressions of surprise and embarrassment on his face.
“Strawberries?” Tara exclaims, oddly cheerful as she rises to her feet. “All the way out here? Awesome!” She gives Daryl a sharp nod like she’s commending him on some brave act of valour, and she’s going for a fist bump when Daryl snorts and hands her a second makeshift sack, one he’s made from the hat he plucked off Carl’s head.
“Just help me get these out to the others,” Daryl says, shaking half the strawberries into the hat. He hears Rick bite down on a laugh, and ducks away, his cheeks warm. Learning to live with people’s gratitude toward him is still taking some getting used to, and Rick is not helping.
It’s not long before everyone’s fingers are sticky with juice and red and sweetness, and it warms something in Daryl’s heart when he sees the cautious beginnings of smiles on their faces again. The strawberries aren’t meat, but they’re moisture and fibre and just enough to keep them going for a little longer.
There’s a small thicket of brushwood, shaken loose by the last storm that rolled through here that obscures Daryl and Rick from the rest of the group—just enough cover for privacy, but not far enough away that they can’t call for help. Rick takes the opportunity to sit back against an old pine, and breathes in. Breathes out. Traces small, soft circles into Daryl’s knee while he strokes Judith’s hair.
“After you left,” Rick says slowly, “there were these dogs.”
Daryl hums, pausing in his sucking of the juice from his fingers. “Yeah?”
“They weren’t wild dogs. Had collars and everything. They came outta the brush, just barkin’ and…” Rick picks at the vine of the strawberry that Daryl hands him. Just eyes the strawberry, not eating it, as if it’ll impart some great secret of the universe if he stares long enough. “Sasha shot at them, but she missed.”
Daryl nods, not sure whether to say that they’d missed an opportunity to eat a little better tonight, or whether he’s glad it didn’t happen. The latter’s a good bet, knowing Rick, but he listens, silent, and waits, because in times like these, things could go either way.
“I don’t think I could’ve…” Rick starts, before he has to swallow, hard. “If you hadn’t come along with these berries, we might’ve…” He looks away, like he can’t quite meet Daryl’s gaze anymore, and picks at the mess of branches and pebbles they’re sitting on.
“Hey,” says Daryl, shifting so that he can meet Rick’s eyes again. “If we had to, we woulda.” He brushes juice-stained fingers against Rick’s cheek, cradling the curve of his cheek in a palm, surprised when Rick catches his wrist and just holds on, like Daryl’s a lifeline, and he’s a drowning man. “If we had to, we woulda. I’d get ‘em,” Daryl says, sure now. He couldn’t let Rick starve, couldn’t let any of his family down. “But maybe…”
Daryl pauses, knowing it’s a damn lie, but he knows Rick needs this, this small shred of hope to hang onto. “Maybe things ain’t that bad yet,” he says. Daryl presses a spit-shined strawberry he’s been saving for himself for later to Rick’s lips. Coaxes him to eat, gentle. “You hear me? Things ain’t that bad.”
“No,” Rick says, agreeing, as he pets Judith’s hair. Runs fingers through her baby-fine curls, soft and flyaway and so much like Rick’s it makes Daryl’s heart ache. “No, they aren’t.” He takes what Daryl feeds him willingly, and even though his voice cracked a little when he spoke, he looks at Daryl like he’s Rick’s source of hope, his sun. As if to say, as long as you’re here, they aren’t.
It’s a moment before he notices tears forming at the corners of Rick’s eyes, of relief, despair, and everything else in between, but Daryl kisses those away as he runs fingers through Rick’s hair. Through Judith’s. Makes sure to wind an arm around Rick’s shoulders, safe, while letting Judith chase the strawberry in his other hand, to keep her occupied, because if she sees her father falling to pieces above her, she’ll start crying too.
That’s it, he says, by gently stroking the back of Rick’s neck. Let it out. And Rick does— lets himself have this small moment of vulnerability. Of weakness. The kind he’ll only ever let Daryl see.
“Daryl,” Rick whispers, reaching for him. “Daryl.” Tucks himself into Daryl’s side, for warmth, and support, and everything Daryl’s willing to give. Lets his small whimpers taper into quiet, hiccupping breaths.
Daryl just holds him through it, letting Rick’s mouth find his when he needs to, for soft, lingering kisses. Keeps Judith occupied in the meantime, with a game of Where’s The Strawberry?
Not in Daddy’s shirt. Not in Daryl’s vest—yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Found it in Daryl’s hand again, didn’t you? He can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth when Judith paws at his closed hand, her tiny fingers insistent until he’s revealed the fruit in his palm.
Admittedly, he needs to vary his hiding spots a little more, but before long, he’s worked Judith into a healthy, bouncing giggle, and Daryl knows he’s done right when her infectious laughter makes the corner of Rick’s mouth turn up in that way Daryl loves.
He’s not expecting the way Rick catches his eye, his expression thoughtful, intense, as if he’s thinking I knew I was right to love you. He doesn’t need to say it for Daryl to know—it’s in the way he curls fingers over Daryl’s wrist, slow. The way he smiles, soft and wondering, like Daryl being here, loving them, is a miracle. The way his shoulders relax and his entire body curves unconsciously toward Daryl’s, fitting against him, perfect, like they’re two halves of the same whole.
It’s too much for Daryl to take in, the way Rick broadcasts what he’s feeling through everything he does, so Daryl decides to play with Judith instead. Lets her curl chubby fingers over his own, before making them disappear and having her search for them in the folds of Rick’s shirt.
It’s been a while since Judith’s eaten as well, and he thinks to put a little of the strawberry juice and its pulp on his finger, to let Judith try. As Rick leans her forward, she darts out her little pink tongue, slowly, searching, sweetly trusting, lapping at Daryl’s fingers, careful—before scrunching her face up like a walnut and burrowing back against Rick’s chest.
While the strawberries are a little sour, since they’re no longer quite in season, he hadn’t expected her to recoil from it like an open flame.
“Guess she don’t like it none,” Daryl says, her honest reaction startling a laugh out of him. They’ll have to get Carl to puree it for her and feed her later, because Judith needs to eat, whether she likes it or not.
“Mmh,” says Rick. “But I do.” He catches the wrist of Daryl’s free hand this time, tongue darting out to lick the dribble of juice that’s fallen along Daryl’s fingers. Slips Daryl’s fingers into his mouth, to lap the taste of red and sweet and Daryl from him.
And just like that, Rick’s commanded all of Daryl’s attention again, leaving no room for anything, anyone else. He lets Daryl’s fingers slip from his mouth, before closing his lips around Daryl’s thumb, his lashes fluttering, fanning his cheeks as he breathes with the effort, like what they’re doing is sweetly sinful and mindblowing. And Daryl shouldn’t, but he finds it incredibly hot.
They’re exhausted, they’re starving. They don’t have the energy for anything more than this; hell, they don’t have the energy for this. And a handful of strawberries isn’t going to give them the magical strength of ten men or Viagra, and Daryl’s just about to say so, when Rick makes a small sound, a soft, shivering sigh that goes straight to Daryl’s cock.
“Rick,” he says, his voice strained, wet. “C’mon.” He means stop that and save your strength but Rick seems to take it for what it sounds like, redoubling his efforts, and when his cheeks hollow over Daryl’s thumb, the motion absolutely intentional, Daryl groans, just gone.
Rick works his way over the tip, where Daryl’s worn down the nail, worrying at the edge of his thumb. Licks a stripe from root to tip, before offering a teasing nibble to the pad of flesh, tongue following the arches and whorls of Daryl’s thumb. Makes his way through each finger, sweetly sucking and licking and teasing, like they’re something else, something lower—and god that’s Rick’s hand palming the front of Daryl’s jeans, clever fingers stroking the bulge that’s beginning to form, the something else Daryl’s trying hard not to think about.
But before Daryl can squeak Damn it, Judith is right here, Rick pulls his mouth away, gentle, and ends it with a press of lips to the back of Daryl’s hand, stifling a laugh.
You fuckin’ tease, Daryl glares, his breath actually heaving, because Rick Grimes has just gotten his breathing to be hot and heavy from just a—a finger job. If that was what you could call it. He’s not sure if that was some spur of the moment thing, or whether it’s some kind of strange reward for making Rick feel better moments ago. But whatever it was, it’s done, and it’s left Daryl in a state from which he’s not sure he can recover right away.
Rick just shrugs and pats Daryl’s arm, giving him a grin that’s all kinds of fond. Yeah, but you love me anyway.
He wipes at his mouth, tongue following the curve of his lower lip. Sucks on his own fingers as if he’s relishing every remaining drop of juice there is. And to any bystander it might seem like Rick’s trying to clear his face of the rivulets of juice trickling into his beard, his hand, but to Daryl it’s the motion Rick makes when he’s lapping the stippling of Daryl’s come from his fingers. His palm. Slipping the blended essence of Daryl and himself into his mouth, and sucking, as if the taste of them is all Rick needs to survive.
It’s a motion that’s every bit as filthy as Rick makes it out to be, and Rick knows it. And if the wider grin on his face is anything to go by, he knows Daryl knows it too.
Daryl notices Abraham staring at them through the thin curtain of cover the fallen brush provides, before shaking his head and snorting, returning to the berries he has at hand. If it were Carl, he’d probably cry gross and make retching noises before disappearing, but there’s something else that’s captured Daryl’s attention now—something far more important than the others seeing Rick lick himself or Daryl in an utterly filthy manner.
There’s a spot Rick’s missed, a streak where the juice has painted Rick’s cheek a lovely shade of crimson, and Daryl can’t help but surge forward to kiss it away.
Can’t help but remember red, the color of the pretty flush filling Rick’s cheeks when Daryl’s deep within him, the hue that spreads to his throat, when he cries out, a mantra of please and Daryl and don’t stop. Daryl won’t ever say, but beneath him like that, crying out his name, is when he finds Rick most adorable. When Daryl’s nipping kisses along Rick’s neck, a trail of rose-pink bruises marking Rick as his, as he whispers the dirtiest filth into Rick’s ear. Things like gonna split you open with my cock, and gonna fuck you ‘til all you remember is my name, before he shifts Rick into a straddling position, circling his cock with skilful fingers as he strokes and goads him into climax, saying, You like that, don’t you, c’mon Rick, come for me, just like that—
It’s the sound of Carl sighing and rolling his eyes as he sweeps the brush aside and catches Daryl practically licking Rick’s face that makes them both turn, and freeze in place. Makes them remember where they are and whose company they’re in.
“Gross,” says Carl, true to form, though he forgoes the retching noises in favour of huffing, “you should get a room.”
Daryl waves him away, as if to say that this is as much room as they can get out here, so hell with it. “Just eat your damn strawberries, kid. You’ll need your strength later,” he says.
“Yeah, okay,” says Carl, shrugging, as if he can’t argue with that. “Was just wondering if Dad told you about the barn we found.” Carl throws Rick a meaningful look. “You know, the one just down the road? We might need help clearing it after.” He pauses only once to rub fondly at Judith’s curls and let her slobber happily onto his hand before stalking off through the feeble partition.
Daryl leans back against the tree, biting down on a laugh. He’s surprised Carl didn’t just pluck Judith from Rick’s arms and chastise them with you guys shouldn’t do that in front of the baby, considering the gagging noises he’s making as he walks away.
“Right. Yeah.” Rick clears his throat guiltily, remembering other things he’s yet to mention, things that don’t involve sucking Daryl’s fingers down his throat. “There’s a barn the others found, like Carl said,” he tries, the sweetest flush in his cheeks now. Daryl’s tempted to lean forward and kiss the spots of color where they’re the brightest, to see if Rick would taste any different, whether or not they have an audience. “Had them scout ahead a little when you were away.”
And there’s the leader in Rick, taking over again. Directing people, delegating, the way he’s always been good at doing. Keeping them together, keeping them a family, and Daryl loves him for it, he really does. He’s not sure he’d be here, having this conversation, if Rick hadn’t been the one to helm their band of survivors. If Rick hadn’t been the one by his side.
Daryl still thinks of what he might’ve become if he’d ended up going to the Governor’s side with Merle. Or becoming well and truly one of the Claimers. A shudder runs down his spine when he thinks of a gun to Rick’s temple and the jeering call of teach him a lesson, fellas. Teach him all the way.
It only takes Rick’s hand covering Daryl’s, where it’s been slung around Rick’s shoulder, to bring him back, and he looks up to find Rick regarding him thoughtfully. Worried. As if Rick’s ready to tell him again, as he always does, that none of the bad things that have happened to them are on Daryl.
“A barn. Yeah,” says Daryl. He tries to banish Rick’s worries by doing what he’d intended to, kissing the spots of brightest color on Rick’s cheeks. Bites back a grin when the color deepens, and spreads, like warm butter, along his neck. His chest. Even to the lobes of his ears, which Daryl makes note of, to nibble later, to nip with the blunt of his teeth, because he’s made it his hobby to catalogue all the different ways he can make Rick blush. The different places.
Rick ducks down to bring Daryl’s arm back around, so he can weave their fingers together properly. Nods, a squeeze of their joined hands acknowledging that Daryl’s back from wherever he’s withdrawn to for the moment.
“Listen, I know the barn’s not much…” Rick starts, but his gaze settles on the ground for long enough that Daryl reaches out to tip Rick’s chin up with his fingers. Because Rick shouldn’t ever be looking down; he should always be looking ahead, to what they’re going to do. Rick won’t ever have to convince Daryl of anything, to go anywhere.
Daryl will go down whichever road, to wherever Rick takes them. Follow him to whatever end.
“It’s somethin’,” Daryl says, reassuring. Lets his free hand trail down to Rick’s wrist and squeeze once, warm. He can work with something.
With another nod, Rick holds his head a little higher now. “Was thinkin’ we could rest there. Regroup. It won’t work for too long, but we’ll think of a plan when we’re there.”
There’s something else at the back of Rick’s mind, Daryl knows, just from the way Rick’s looking out into the distance, silent—something he’s still mulling over, that he’ll tell them about once he’s decided. And if he knows Rick like he thinks he does, he’s pretty sure Rick’s planning to find a place they can build up. Somewhere they won’t have to depend on other people, because he’s tired of running, searching for the next sanctuary and the next, only to find out that there’s no sanctuary at all.
He can see the lines in Rick’s face, the haggardness, the exhaustion that’s weighing on them all. Wonders if he should mention the idea that’s been on the back of his mind for a while now—the wild, offbeat hope of taking back what’s left of their home. The prison.
It’s a long shot, but so much of what they’re doing these days is exactly that. And if it pays off, it’s the last long shot they’ll have to make. But they’ll need rest first, like Rick says, before they figure out what to do next.
Daryl gets to his feet first, waits for Rick to pass Judith over before holding out a hand to help Rick up, and before long they’re back on the road again, heading out to the barn.
“When we get there…” Rick’s voice trails off. He doesn’t need to say it, but Daryl knows he’s worried they won’t find what they need—water, food, ammunition. All the things they need to keep going, surviving.
“We’ll think of somethin’,” Daryl assures him. There’s hope left, still—there has to be; they’d found strawberries where they hadn’t expected them. Shelter where there’s been nothing but forest for miles. And there are storm clouds gathering overhead by now, dark and grey and ominous, that suggest a good chance of rain, and with it, a source of water.
Maybe they’ll find supplies in the barn. Maybe they won’t. But Daryl knows, as he looks at Judith, Carl, and the rest of his family trailing behind them, that there’s hope, as long they’re all together. That Glenn had been onto something when he’d said, We can make it together. But we can only make it together.
“We’re gonna be all right,” Daryl says, an echo of Rick’s words to him earlier on the road, as he takes in the small smile Rick gives him. “Ain’t that right, baby girl?” Daryl presses a kiss to Judith’s hair, watches her squirm in his arms.
Judith makes a gurgling noise at him as she grabs for Rick, and the sound is so bubbly and sweet it makes Daryl’s heart hurt.
“Yeah,” says Rick, pulling in close to take Judith’s tiny hand in his, and nuzzle at her hair. To nuzzle at Daryl, warm, his smile widening just that much more. “Think she’s sayin’ we’re gonna be.”
It’s not long before the asphalt’s stippled with the first light drops of rain, a gentle hum of water against the road that drips and drops its way into a healthy downpour.
The water’s cold and sweet and fresh, a font of life, even if it’s the answer to only a fraction of their prayers. But as the others scurry to collect it in bottles, then look to the skies, their arms flung upward in joy and thankfulness, Daryl glances at Rick. Just watches the way he grins at Daryl, silly and goofy and hopeful all at once, in the way he means Told you we’d be all right.
And a new determination burns fire-bright and fierce in Daryl’s chest at that: the absolute conviction that as long as he’s got Rick and his family beside him, they will indeed be all right.
They will be.
They will.
[End]
End Note: This is meant to be a quiet moment, set within the confines of S5E10 that I thought would fit nicely, rather than an immensely plotty story. Nevertheless, I hope you’ve found it enjoyable! :)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick/ Daryl
Rating: M
Words: 5800 (8640 total)
Summary: On the road to DC, in the group’s hour of utmost need, Daryl finds an unlikely source of hope.
A/N: A reimagining / AU of the events in S5E10 – Them. Can be read as a standalone, or as being loosely set after My Sweet Darlin’. Inspired by this scene from the episode here.
This, as it turns out, is a Walker that’s clearly gorged itself on something, and its belly is so distended that the dry, cracked skin’s simply stretched to its limit and burst apart in the heat.
It sways its way toward Daryl, entrails hanging out of its split-keg stomach, dangling like coils of broken telephone cord. As it moves, its peeled-paint skin flakes off, fluttering away in the light of the dying sun. The way dust motes might, if there were still humans enough to leave dust behind.
All in all, it’s disgusting as hell, and Daryl’s just glad Rick’s not here to see this, as he sends a bolt flying through this abomination’s skull.
After wrenching his bolt from the Walker’s skull, he leaves it where it falls. Keeps to the trail he’d picked up a quarter mile back, though he’s pretty sure he knows what he’ll find at the end of it. Because he has to try. To see his efforts the whole way through.
Daryl’s hunch is spot-on, because it’s a half-eaten deer carcass he discovers not much further off, and by the looks of things, it was the Walker he killed a ways back that had gorged itself on the deer.
For all of a moment, Daryl’s tempted to double back and find the corpse, just to drive his knife into it again and again. Rip out its gut bag and scatter the contents to the forest floor, for taking away food that could’ve fed his family; because of it, there won’t be deer following this trail for a while yet, not when one of their own is lying gutted and steaming, rotting in the waning sun.
But he doesn’t have the energy for even that, and left with no other options, Daryl keeps walking, making his way further in. Because that’s what you do in a bad situation: you go further in. And if you’re lucky, you find the end ready and waiting for you, the light at the end of the tunnel, the hope that’s left at the bottom of Pandora’s Box.
Yeah, he’d read about the last thing in one of the books he’d scavenged to read to Judith, before the prison fell. Something about some dumb broad letting out all the evils in the world because she couldn’t keep her damn curiosity from getting the better of her, and managing to trap hope in the box at the end. Daryl had argued that hope was pretty damn evil itself, since it kept you wondering and looking for the next break, instead of making your own breaks, but Rick had only smiled at him as Judith traced pea-stained fingers along the pictures, and said hope was all they had sometimes.
Daryl’s not sure what to think of it these days, but he knows they could sure use a little of it now. A lucky break. A little dipshit fairy trapped in a box of their own. Except they’ve been running low on everything for a while now—water, food and dipshit hope fairies included.
He doesn’t find anything for another mile, and knows he’ll have to start heading back soon, because he’s losing the light fast, and Rick’s don’t be too long lingers at the back of his mind. Just like the chapped dryness of Rick’s lips, from too many days with little water, as soft and sweet as his kiss was.
Except all the creek beds Daryl’s found were dry, and he hasn’t seen anything but storm-ravaged brush and the occasional Walker here in his short trek out. That, and the gutted deer.
Shit.
Daryl feels his legs give out and he manages to stumble to a tree at least, to put something solid at his back before he’s crumpled to the ground, empty, exhausted, and all kinds of miserable, because he’s come all this way, and he’s got nothing for them, in food, or water, or anything. He’s got his smokes, but Rick and Carl can’t eat those, and they’re out of—
Daryl fumbles with a cigarette to bring it up to his lips, but even the pleasure from that’s short-lived, because the thought he’s been trying to keep at bay just rushes forth, like a deluge tearing through a flimsy dam.
And that’s the fact that they’re out of baby formula too now.
They’d rationed it hard since their days at the church, but it was bound to run out sometime. And sure, they’d been keeping Judith going on bits of fruit and cut-up meat, but she’d spit it back up half the time, and only Tyreese, with soft words and gentler coaxing, could get her to take anything besides a bottle.
Except Tyreese is dead now, just like Beth’s dead, and it’s the memory of them that breaks Daryl, because—god, Judith—after all the other shit she’d lived through, she was going to die too because of damn starvation, and that was just fucking unfair. Before he knows it, Daryl’s drawn his knees to his chest, tight, burying his face in his arms, like he can’t let the world see this, this weakness. Cries for the people they’ve lost, the places, the potential for the life they could’ve had. The people they will lose if they don’t find essentials like water and food soon.
How much longer we got? Maggie had asked, when she and Daryl and Sasha had come back empty-handed from their search for water.
And even if Sasha had answered sixty miles, Daryl knew what Maggie meant. Could’ve told them exactly how long they had left, right down to the day, the only things stopping him being his own stubborn refusal to give up, and the thought that doing so would be like popping a pin in Rick’s endless optimism. His we’re gonna be okay’s and we’ll hit somethin’ in the road’s, even in the face of all the bad luck they’d run into so far.
Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk, Merle had always said.
Daryl casts a silent, irritated fuck off in the direction of that memory as he chokes back a sob, because he needs this, needs to get it out, and he’s glad Rick isn’t here to see this, even though he knows Rick would understand. Would know Daryl far too well, for him to be able to hide.
He’d probably throw an arm around Daryl and pull him close, then rope Carl and Judith into some weird Daryl-hug-therapy session, but it’s him who has to be the strong one for Rick, and Daryl can’t let him see this right now. Maybe not ever.
It’s only when he’s exhausted his reserve of tears, chest heaving with the effort of his sobs and feeling plain wrung-out and cried-out that Daryl finally agrees with Merle’s advice—that spilled milk really wasn’t worth crying over—and decides to dry his eyes. Finishes off the crumbling cigarette and stubs it out on the ground, because the last thing they need is a damn forest fire on top of everything else.
The crushed end of the cigarette comes away a slick, sticky red.
Daryl’s on his feet in seconds, crossbow up as he checks every direction, thinking some combination of shit and fuck and why the hell didn’t I clear the place before sittin’ down, as he looks into the trees for a Walker that might’ve been flung up there by a storm. An injured person who’d climbed up to rest and maybe turned during the night, while bleeding out—
There’s nothing.
It’s completely silent, as far as he can see and hear, and that’s when Daryl thinks to check the area by his feet.
Christ, is there someone buried here?
He kicks at the ground where he’d stubbed out his cigarette, but there’s no movement whatsoever—only, when he’s kicked the ground, branches and dead twigs rustle away to reveal several plants, covered by the fallen brush, with broad, gently-spiked leaves. Hiding a whole slew of honest-to-god strawberries.
Daryl spares a moment to wonder at how strawberries could be growing this far out, before deciding birds were to blame—maybe there was a farm nearby, or another patch of them somewhere, and the birds had eaten their fill before distributing the seeds the way they did—and whips off his vest, just gathering as quickly and as many as he can.
If the Dixons could claim the lineage of some ancient hunter-gatherer tribe, Daryl’s pretty sure he’d do them proud in every way right now, yanking out whole plants and plucking each berry out at the speed of light.
He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, in all honesty, because as he’s foraging, all he can think of is the most useless conversation he and Rick had once. They’ve had far more profound ones since, even those without the use of words, but it’s this thought that brings a breathy laugh to his lips.
Know what else goes well with chocolate? Rick had said, back at the prison. They’d been drunk on the taste of chocolates Glenn and Maggie brought back for them. Drunk on the taste of each other. Besides you?
And Daryl had made some noncommittal noise before Rick was asking for damn strawberries, of all things, like Daryl could just waltz down to the local grocery store and ask for a basket of them, all ripe and sweet and ready to eat.
It's only been a few months since that moment at the prison, but the memory is so distant and hazy, a remnant of happier times, that it feels like years.
And Daryl remembers promising to finds seeds on a run, or find wild ones for Rick to plant, but maybe they weren’t in season or everything was conspiring against them having strawberries, because he hadn’t found any, near the prison or farther out, in the form of seed packets or in the wild.
Hell, maybe even the land had known how bleak their situation would be, like maybe him not finding them in any form was a precautionary message of you’re wastin’ your time. Because soon after, the Governor had rolled up with his tanks and his guns, accompanied by another of his inexperienced idiot-armies, and the prison had fallen, like a shaky house of cards.
There’d only been enough time to think about survival then, not strawberries. And after that, it’d been one thing after another, with the Claimers, Terminus, the church, and the hospital. Hell, they’d even spilled blood at the estates, where they thought they might find refuge for once. A series of sucker punches, a toppling of dominoes that had happened in the blink of an eye—Bob-Beth-Tyreese—until Daryl and the ones he’s with were the only ones left standing.
But now—now he’ll take this as a sign that there’s hope still. Maybe it’s a blessing from Beth in heaven, if that still exists. Maybe it’s not. But it’s something, and he’ll take it. Sitting here, miles away from home, starving and exhausted, finding these strawberries on the forest floor had to have some kind of meaning.
Daryl’s always thought signs came in the form of mystical burning bushes, or voices from the heavens; never thought it’d be in the form of a small, humble berry. But as he wonders at the miracle of them being found this far into the forest, plucking berry after berry from their hidden, mud-caked home, he thinks of hope and wonder, and all things good, because this means they have a chance. To make it to the next stop, and the one after, and the one after that.
He gathers as many as he can into his vest, memorizing where he’s found them in case they need more. Pauses to cut away the crowns of several of them, in an attempt to save the seeds.
If the berries’ presence was a sign, maybe it’s also a sign that he can hope again. To hope for better, for more than just finding the next shelter, and the next.
He puts the strawberry crowns away, careful, wrapping them in the red rag he’s kept in his back pocket all this time.
Just in case, he tells himself, remembering the way Rick had tended his garden with love and care. The way he’d grown somethings from nothings, like he had between the two of them, and wondering if together, they just might manage that again.
Just in case.
Rick startles the moment Daryl makes his way through the brush, and even though Daryl shakes his head, a tiny, subtle admission that he’d failed in his hunt, Rick’s shoulders relax regardless, tension fading from them as he struggles to his feet. From the spatters of blood on their clothes, Daryl can tell they took care of the Walkers that’d been dogging them for miles.
He looks Rick over, checking for bites and any other little injuries that Rick always tries to hide. It was Daryl who’d found the bruised rib from where a Walker had lunged blindly at Rick the other week and spent that time carrying Judith to let him heal. Ignored any and all claims from Rick that he was fine, and even recruited Carl and Michonne into the baby-carrying rotation, until Rick had grudgingly admitted that he could stand to use a little help, then dragged Daryl off into the woods to ‘thank’ him on his knees.
They haven’t had time for that in a while, either.
You’re all right, Daryl breathes out now, relieved, as he catches Rick’s eye. He’d reach out and tug Rick in for a kiss, if he wasn’t trying to keep the berries from rolling out of his vest.
Rick nods, before raising his eyebrows in question. Yeah. How about you?
Daryl shrugs, and he’d laugh at the way Rick’s nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke on his clothes when he nears, if he weren’t so damn hungry.
Had time for a smoke, did you? And that’s the curl of a smile at the corner of Rick’s mouth, tired but still amused. He nods toward the cargo Daryl’s cradling in his arms. What do you have there?
Daryl just huffs and sets his vest down, showing Rick the strawberries he’s picked. Loves the way Rick’s mouth drops open, surprised, and color floods his cheeks. From that alone, he can tell Rick remembers the conversation they’d had at the prison, back when they were drowsing content in each other’s arms.
“Got us some strawberries,” Daryl calls to the others, motioning for them to gather round while Rick works out the warring expressions of surprise and embarrassment on his face.
“Strawberries?” Tara exclaims, oddly cheerful as she rises to her feet. “All the way out here? Awesome!” She gives Daryl a sharp nod like she’s commending him on some brave act of valour, and she’s going for a fist bump when Daryl snorts and hands her a second makeshift sack, one he’s made from the hat he plucked off Carl’s head.
“Just help me get these out to the others,” Daryl says, shaking half the strawberries into the hat. He hears Rick bite down on a laugh, and ducks away, his cheeks warm. Learning to live with people’s gratitude toward him is still taking some getting used to, and Rick is not helping.
It’s not long before everyone’s fingers are sticky with juice and red and sweetness, and it warms something in Daryl’s heart when he sees the cautious beginnings of smiles on their faces again. The strawberries aren’t meat, but they’re moisture and fibre and just enough to keep them going for a little longer.
There’s a small thicket of brushwood, shaken loose by the last storm that rolled through here that obscures Daryl and Rick from the rest of the group—just enough cover for privacy, but not far enough away that they can’t call for help. Rick takes the opportunity to sit back against an old pine, and breathes in. Breathes out. Traces small, soft circles into Daryl’s knee while he strokes Judith’s hair.
“After you left,” Rick says slowly, “there were these dogs.”
Daryl hums, pausing in his sucking of the juice from his fingers. “Yeah?”
“They weren’t wild dogs. Had collars and everything. They came outta the brush, just barkin’ and…” Rick picks at the vine of the strawberry that Daryl hands him. Just eyes the strawberry, not eating it, as if it’ll impart some great secret of the universe if he stares long enough. “Sasha shot at them, but she missed.”
Daryl nods, not sure whether to say that they’d missed an opportunity to eat a little better tonight, or whether he’s glad it didn’t happen. The latter’s a good bet, knowing Rick, but he listens, silent, and waits, because in times like these, things could go either way.
“I don’t think I could’ve…” Rick starts, before he has to swallow, hard. “If you hadn’t come along with these berries, we might’ve…” He looks away, like he can’t quite meet Daryl’s gaze anymore, and picks at the mess of branches and pebbles they’re sitting on.
“Hey,” says Daryl, shifting so that he can meet Rick’s eyes again. “If we had to, we woulda.” He brushes juice-stained fingers against Rick’s cheek, cradling the curve of his cheek in a palm, surprised when Rick catches his wrist and just holds on, like Daryl’s a lifeline, and he’s a drowning man. “If we had to, we woulda. I’d get ‘em,” Daryl says, sure now. He couldn’t let Rick starve, couldn’t let any of his family down. “But maybe…”
Daryl pauses, knowing it’s a damn lie, but he knows Rick needs this, this small shred of hope to hang onto. “Maybe things ain’t that bad yet,” he says. Daryl presses a spit-shined strawberry he’s been saving for himself for later to Rick’s lips. Coaxes him to eat, gentle. “You hear me? Things ain’t that bad.”
“No,” Rick says, agreeing, as he pets Judith’s hair. Runs fingers through her baby-fine curls, soft and flyaway and so much like Rick’s it makes Daryl’s heart ache. “No, they aren’t.” He takes what Daryl feeds him willingly, and even though his voice cracked a little when he spoke, he looks at Daryl like he’s Rick’s source of hope, his sun. As if to say, as long as you’re here, they aren’t.
It’s a moment before he notices tears forming at the corners of Rick’s eyes, of relief, despair, and everything else in between, but Daryl kisses those away as he runs fingers through Rick’s hair. Through Judith’s. Makes sure to wind an arm around Rick’s shoulders, safe, while letting Judith chase the strawberry in his other hand, to keep her occupied, because if she sees her father falling to pieces above her, she’ll start crying too.
That’s it, he says, by gently stroking the back of Rick’s neck. Let it out. And Rick does— lets himself have this small moment of vulnerability. Of weakness. The kind he’ll only ever let Daryl see.
“Daryl,” Rick whispers, reaching for him. “Daryl.” Tucks himself into Daryl’s side, for warmth, and support, and everything Daryl’s willing to give. Lets his small whimpers taper into quiet, hiccupping breaths.
Daryl just holds him through it, letting Rick’s mouth find his when he needs to, for soft, lingering kisses. Keeps Judith occupied in the meantime, with a game of Where’s The Strawberry?
Not in Daddy’s shirt. Not in Daryl’s vest—yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Found it in Daryl’s hand again, didn’t you? He can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth when Judith paws at his closed hand, her tiny fingers insistent until he’s revealed the fruit in his palm.
Admittedly, he needs to vary his hiding spots a little more, but before long, he’s worked Judith into a healthy, bouncing giggle, and Daryl knows he’s done right when her infectious laughter makes the corner of Rick’s mouth turn up in that way Daryl loves.
He’s not expecting the way Rick catches his eye, his expression thoughtful, intense, as if he’s thinking I knew I was right to love you. He doesn’t need to say it for Daryl to know—it’s in the way he curls fingers over Daryl’s wrist, slow. The way he smiles, soft and wondering, like Daryl being here, loving them, is a miracle. The way his shoulders relax and his entire body curves unconsciously toward Daryl’s, fitting against him, perfect, like they’re two halves of the same whole.
It’s too much for Daryl to take in, the way Rick broadcasts what he’s feeling through everything he does, so Daryl decides to play with Judith instead. Lets her curl chubby fingers over his own, before making them disappear and having her search for them in the folds of Rick’s shirt.
It’s been a while since Judith’s eaten as well, and he thinks to put a little of the strawberry juice and its pulp on his finger, to let Judith try. As Rick leans her forward, she darts out her little pink tongue, slowly, searching, sweetly trusting, lapping at Daryl’s fingers, careful—before scrunching her face up like a walnut and burrowing back against Rick’s chest.
While the strawberries are a little sour, since they’re no longer quite in season, he hadn’t expected her to recoil from it like an open flame.
“Guess she don’t like it none,” Daryl says, her honest reaction startling a laugh out of him. They’ll have to get Carl to puree it for her and feed her later, because Judith needs to eat, whether she likes it or not.
“Mmh,” says Rick. “But I do.” He catches the wrist of Daryl’s free hand this time, tongue darting out to lick the dribble of juice that’s fallen along Daryl’s fingers. Slips Daryl’s fingers into his mouth, to lap the taste of red and sweet and Daryl from him.
And just like that, Rick’s commanded all of Daryl’s attention again, leaving no room for anything, anyone else. He lets Daryl’s fingers slip from his mouth, before closing his lips around Daryl’s thumb, his lashes fluttering, fanning his cheeks as he breathes with the effort, like what they’re doing is sweetly sinful and mindblowing. And Daryl shouldn’t, but he finds it incredibly hot.
They’re exhausted, they’re starving. They don’t have the energy for anything more than this; hell, they don’t have the energy for this. And a handful of strawberries isn’t going to give them the magical strength of ten men or Viagra, and Daryl’s just about to say so, when Rick makes a small sound, a soft, shivering sigh that goes straight to Daryl’s cock.
“Rick,” he says, his voice strained, wet. “C’mon.” He means stop that and save your strength but Rick seems to take it for what it sounds like, redoubling his efforts, and when his cheeks hollow over Daryl’s thumb, the motion absolutely intentional, Daryl groans, just gone.
Rick works his way over the tip, where Daryl’s worn down the nail, worrying at the edge of his thumb. Licks a stripe from root to tip, before offering a teasing nibble to the pad of flesh, tongue following the arches and whorls of Daryl’s thumb. Makes his way through each finger, sweetly sucking and licking and teasing, like they’re something else, something lower—and god that’s Rick’s hand palming the front of Daryl’s jeans, clever fingers stroking the bulge that’s beginning to form, the something else Daryl’s trying hard not to think about.
But before Daryl can squeak Damn it, Judith is right here, Rick pulls his mouth away, gentle, and ends it with a press of lips to the back of Daryl’s hand, stifling a laugh.
You fuckin’ tease, Daryl glares, his breath actually heaving, because Rick Grimes has just gotten his breathing to be hot and heavy from just a—a finger job. If that was what you could call it. He’s not sure if that was some spur of the moment thing, or whether it’s some kind of strange reward for making Rick feel better moments ago. But whatever it was, it’s done, and it’s left Daryl in a state from which he’s not sure he can recover right away.
Rick just shrugs and pats Daryl’s arm, giving him a grin that’s all kinds of fond. Yeah, but you love me anyway.
He wipes at his mouth, tongue following the curve of his lower lip. Sucks on his own fingers as if he’s relishing every remaining drop of juice there is. And to any bystander it might seem like Rick’s trying to clear his face of the rivulets of juice trickling into his beard, his hand, but to Daryl it’s the motion Rick makes when he’s lapping the stippling of Daryl’s come from his fingers. His palm. Slipping the blended essence of Daryl and himself into his mouth, and sucking, as if the taste of them is all Rick needs to survive.
It’s a motion that’s every bit as filthy as Rick makes it out to be, and Rick knows it. And if the wider grin on his face is anything to go by, he knows Daryl knows it too.
Daryl notices Abraham staring at them through the thin curtain of cover the fallen brush provides, before shaking his head and snorting, returning to the berries he has at hand. If it were Carl, he’d probably cry gross and make retching noises before disappearing, but there’s something else that’s captured Daryl’s attention now—something far more important than the others seeing Rick lick himself or Daryl in an utterly filthy manner.
There’s a spot Rick’s missed, a streak where the juice has painted Rick’s cheek a lovely shade of crimson, and Daryl can’t help but surge forward to kiss it away.
Can’t help but remember red, the color of the pretty flush filling Rick’s cheeks when Daryl’s deep within him, the hue that spreads to his throat, when he cries out, a mantra of please and Daryl and don’t stop. Daryl won’t ever say, but beneath him like that, crying out his name, is when he finds Rick most adorable. When Daryl’s nipping kisses along Rick’s neck, a trail of rose-pink bruises marking Rick as his, as he whispers the dirtiest filth into Rick’s ear. Things like gonna split you open with my cock, and gonna fuck you ‘til all you remember is my name, before he shifts Rick into a straddling position, circling his cock with skilful fingers as he strokes and goads him into climax, saying, You like that, don’t you, c’mon Rick, come for me, just like that—
It’s the sound of Carl sighing and rolling his eyes as he sweeps the brush aside and catches Daryl practically licking Rick’s face that makes them both turn, and freeze in place. Makes them remember where they are and whose company they’re in.
“Gross,” says Carl, true to form, though he forgoes the retching noises in favour of huffing, “you should get a room.”
Daryl waves him away, as if to say that this is as much room as they can get out here, so hell with it. “Just eat your damn strawberries, kid. You’ll need your strength later,” he says.
“Yeah, okay,” says Carl, shrugging, as if he can’t argue with that. “Was just wondering if Dad told you about the barn we found.” Carl throws Rick a meaningful look. “You know, the one just down the road? We might need help clearing it after.” He pauses only once to rub fondly at Judith’s curls and let her slobber happily onto his hand before stalking off through the feeble partition.
Daryl leans back against the tree, biting down on a laugh. He’s surprised Carl didn’t just pluck Judith from Rick’s arms and chastise them with you guys shouldn’t do that in front of the baby, considering the gagging noises he’s making as he walks away.
“Right. Yeah.” Rick clears his throat guiltily, remembering other things he’s yet to mention, things that don’t involve sucking Daryl’s fingers down his throat. “There’s a barn the others found, like Carl said,” he tries, the sweetest flush in his cheeks now. Daryl’s tempted to lean forward and kiss the spots of color where they’re the brightest, to see if Rick would taste any different, whether or not they have an audience. “Had them scout ahead a little when you were away.”
And there’s the leader in Rick, taking over again. Directing people, delegating, the way he’s always been good at doing. Keeping them together, keeping them a family, and Daryl loves him for it, he really does. He’s not sure he’d be here, having this conversation, if Rick hadn’t been the one to helm their band of survivors. If Rick hadn’t been the one by his side.
Daryl still thinks of what he might’ve become if he’d ended up going to the Governor’s side with Merle. Or becoming well and truly one of the Claimers. A shudder runs down his spine when he thinks of a gun to Rick’s temple and the jeering call of teach him a lesson, fellas. Teach him all the way.
It only takes Rick’s hand covering Daryl’s, where it’s been slung around Rick’s shoulder, to bring him back, and he looks up to find Rick regarding him thoughtfully. Worried. As if Rick’s ready to tell him again, as he always does, that none of the bad things that have happened to them are on Daryl.
“A barn. Yeah,” says Daryl. He tries to banish Rick’s worries by doing what he’d intended to, kissing the spots of brightest color on Rick’s cheeks. Bites back a grin when the color deepens, and spreads, like warm butter, along his neck. His chest. Even to the lobes of his ears, which Daryl makes note of, to nibble later, to nip with the blunt of his teeth, because he’s made it his hobby to catalogue all the different ways he can make Rick blush. The different places.
Rick ducks down to bring Daryl’s arm back around, so he can weave their fingers together properly. Nods, a squeeze of their joined hands acknowledging that Daryl’s back from wherever he’s withdrawn to for the moment.
“Listen, I know the barn’s not much…” Rick starts, but his gaze settles on the ground for long enough that Daryl reaches out to tip Rick’s chin up with his fingers. Because Rick shouldn’t ever be looking down; he should always be looking ahead, to what they’re going to do. Rick won’t ever have to convince Daryl of anything, to go anywhere.
Daryl will go down whichever road, to wherever Rick takes them. Follow him to whatever end.
“It’s somethin’,” Daryl says, reassuring. Lets his free hand trail down to Rick’s wrist and squeeze once, warm. He can work with something.
With another nod, Rick holds his head a little higher now. “Was thinkin’ we could rest there. Regroup. It won’t work for too long, but we’ll think of a plan when we’re there.”
There’s something else at the back of Rick’s mind, Daryl knows, just from the way Rick’s looking out into the distance, silent—something he’s still mulling over, that he’ll tell them about once he’s decided. And if he knows Rick like he thinks he does, he’s pretty sure Rick’s planning to find a place they can build up. Somewhere they won’t have to depend on other people, because he’s tired of running, searching for the next sanctuary and the next, only to find out that there’s no sanctuary at all.
He can see the lines in Rick’s face, the haggardness, the exhaustion that’s weighing on them all. Wonders if he should mention the idea that’s been on the back of his mind for a while now—the wild, offbeat hope of taking back what’s left of their home. The prison.
It’s a long shot, but so much of what they’re doing these days is exactly that. And if it pays off, it’s the last long shot they’ll have to make. But they’ll need rest first, like Rick says, before they figure out what to do next.
Daryl gets to his feet first, waits for Rick to pass Judith over before holding out a hand to help Rick up, and before long they’re back on the road again, heading out to the barn.
“When we get there…” Rick’s voice trails off. He doesn’t need to say it, but Daryl knows he’s worried they won’t find what they need—water, food, ammunition. All the things they need to keep going, surviving.
“We’ll think of somethin’,” Daryl assures him. There’s hope left, still—there has to be; they’d found strawberries where they hadn’t expected them. Shelter where there’s been nothing but forest for miles. And there are storm clouds gathering overhead by now, dark and grey and ominous, that suggest a good chance of rain, and with it, a source of water.
Maybe they’ll find supplies in the barn. Maybe they won’t. But Daryl knows, as he looks at Judith, Carl, and the rest of his family trailing behind them, that there’s hope, as long they’re all together. That Glenn had been onto something when he’d said, We can make it together. But we can only make it together.
“We’re gonna be all right,” Daryl says, an echo of Rick’s words to him earlier on the road, as he takes in the small smile Rick gives him. “Ain’t that right, baby girl?” Daryl presses a kiss to Judith’s hair, watches her squirm in his arms.
Judith makes a gurgling noise at him as she grabs for Rick, and the sound is so bubbly and sweet it makes Daryl’s heart hurt.
“Yeah,” says Rick, pulling in close to take Judith’s tiny hand in his, and nuzzle at her hair. To nuzzle at Daryl, warm, his smile widening just that much more. “Think she’s sayin’ we’re gonna be.”
It’s not long before the asphalt’s stippled with the first light drops of rain, a gentle hum of water against the road that drips and drops its way into a healthy downpour.
The water’s cold and sweet and fresh, a font of life, even if it’s the answer to only a fraction of their prayers. But as the others scurry to collect it in bottles, then look to the skies, their arms flung upward in joy and thankfulness, Daryl glances at Rick. Just watches the way he grins at Daryl, silly and goofy and hopeful all at once, in the way he means Told you we’d be all right.
And a new determination burns fire-bright and fierce in Daryl’s chest at that: the absolute conviction that as long as he’s got Rick and his family beside him, they will indeed be all right.
They will be.
They will.
[End]
End Note: This is meant to be a quiet moment, set within the confines of S5E10 that I thought would fit nicely, rather than an immensely plotty story. Nevertheless, I hope you’ve found it enjoyable! :)
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Date: 2016-01-31 12:21 pm (UTC)From:I'm glad you did though and, once more, it's been a pleasure reading. I would have written a comment earlier, but I was busy running from store to store looking for strawberries ... LoL It was a wonderful mixture of sweet fluff and hot ... finger licking. :-))) And there's always one of the others that really makes me laugh - like Michonne giggling in Daryl's face when being on laundry duty (love her smile that is seen so rarely) or this time Carl walking in on them going "Gross - you should get a room." LoL Teenagers. Guess that's exactly what my dear daughter would say. LoL
Thanks for the graphic depiction of "this", btw. Thank you so much - I was missing all the gross walker stuff so much ... LoL
The imagination of Daryl sitting there in the middle of that wood all alone crying, made my heart go out to him. It was wonderfully touching. There is a difference between depicting a character as strong as they are and have them have a weak moment, which is likely for a sensitive, caring person as Daryl. Or turn them into a whimp, which happens in fanfic once in a while and is NOT touching, but rather annoying actually. You managed not to cross that line perfectly.
Looking forward to your next story!
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Date: 2016-02-06 05:57 am (UTC)From:Thanks, I'm happy you enjoyed the second part of the fic as well! Always glad to inspire, especially with the strawberries, haha. ;) I actually hadn't thought about Michonne or Carl acting as comic relief, but now that you mention it, that makes sense--got to have some funny to balance out the seriousness, after all! And teenagers, telling it like it is, since the dawn of time. "Gross." XD
Oh, 'this', I think I actually grossed myself out too, but it seems the Walker description was pretty effective, yes?
Aww, I'm glad the scene of Daryl at his wit's end in the woods worked for you; I really put an effort into keeping him in character, even when he needed such a moment to let out his feelings, so I'm happy that came through.
Thank you for reading and commenting!