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Title: First Taste of Love, Bittersweet (6/6)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: PG-13
Words: 8400 (26500 total)
Summary: “You have to promise to come back,” Rick says. He is not crying, he is not. Though no one could blame him if he was, because he knows ‘moving away’ means his bestest friend will be gone forever. “Pinky-promise!”
“Pinky promises are for babies,” Daryl sniffs. “We gotta seal the deal with somethin’ else.”
A/N: Written for the RWG February 2016 Challenge, with the theme of “Firsts”. Title from Deana Carter’s Strawberry Wine. I imagine Rick to be about five years old at the start of this fic, and Daryl around seven or eight. The lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
legolastariel has also directed me to a graphic of how they might look at such an age, which can be seen here.
~
Rick’s half-dozing on the couch of his new flat when the phone rings that evening, and his heart jolts in his chest for a moment.
Could it be? he wonders. That after all this time…?
No, it had to be coincidence—miracles never happened that fast. Except coincidence or not, it wouldn’t help anyone if Rick didn’t answer the phone.
He makes a mad scramble for it on the second ring, nearly tripping on the threadbare rug on his way there. “Hello?” Rick says a little breathlessly, after he’s snatched the phone off the cradle. How would Daryl sound, after all these years? Would he know Rick from his voice alone? And could he still feel the same—
“Rick! I’m glad I caught you. I really need a favour from you tonight, please please please?”
With an inward groan at his sleep being disturbed for yet another inane request from his sister, Rick has to fight the urge to simply hang up again. He stifles a yawn and rubs at his eyes with a fist instead. As if he can wipe away the exhaustion that’s plagued him since he started his job at the station.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “What is it?”
Robin sounds far too delighted for the time and the hour, which makes Rick think she’s not working overtime at all, as she claims. But he figures whatever it is she’s doing, she’s got a good reason—probably another date night with her husband, that she’s just too embarrassed to admit. “…And that’s why I’ll need you to pick the kids up from school,” she finishes. “Maybe you could take them to the playground I used to bring you to? Kill some time there?”
The playground you used to ditch me at, you mean, Rick thinks sourly. But he just nods into the phone, even if she can’t see, and says, “Sure. I’ll have them back before eight, like usual.”
It’ll be nice to spend time with the twins, Rick decides, especially since they work wonders in pulling Rick out of whatever funk he’s fallen into, like the one he’s fallen into tonight. He rubs at his eyes again. It’s going to be a long couple of days off, but he’s thankful for the bright spots he can find in his life, at least.
Angus and Angela are waiting for Rick at their school’s front door when he arrives, both properly bundled for the autumn weather, their scarves perfectly in place and small, matching blazers zipped tight to prevent the wind from tunnelling through warm clothes.
“Uncle Rick!” they cry in unison. They bound toward him, arms outstretched, and while Rick’s always wished he had two pairs of arms, so he could pick them up at the same time, he manages to swing Angie—as she likes to be called—into his arms first, while Angus clambers onto Rick’s back, not one to lose to his sister. “You’ll never guess what we did in school today!”
“Try me,” Rick dares. They leave the sad excuse for a playground for their own school behind—a creaky jungle gym, a set of wobbly monkey bars, and a rickety slide, all a testament to their school’s belief of mind over matter, the ‘nurturing of intellect over physicality’, whatever the hell that meant—in favour of the playground that Rick’s known and loved since he was a kid.
On the way there, the twins regale Rick with stories about how they sliced open an earthworm to see what was inside (Angus’ favourite activity of the day, met with a spirited eww, gross from Angie), and rubbed crayons along paper placed over broad, pointed leaves that’d fallen around the school, recreating their patterns (Angie’s favourite, met with an eww, lame from Angus).
When they arrive at the playground Robin’s asked him to bring them to, Rick sets them loose, with a promise to take them to the Finer Diner after for parfaits if they behave. He’s never brought them here before, thinking the place was special somehow, that it was his alone. But in the end, he’d had some of his fondest memories here, and maybe it’s time to create them anew in the next generation.
The next generation. God, Rick felt old sometimes.
“Remember,” Rick says again, because the twins have a reckless streak at least a mile wide, “parfaits only if you behave. And by that I mean no bumps, bruises, or broken bones by the time you’re done playing.”
“We’ll behave, Uncle Rick! We will!” Angus says. He throws his knapsack down beside Angie’s, and the two of them take off toward the swings.
Rick’s not sure how long he spends on the bench nearby, watching them play, before starting on the horror anthology he’d picked up for cheap at the bookstore. But the sun’s making its way past the treeline in the distance, just the barest winks of light visible as it sets, when someone settles down on the bench next to him, jolting the seat a little.
“Oh,” says Rick, startled from his reading, as he looks to his left. “Hello.”
And then he has to take a second to think hello with a lot more emphasis, because whoever this guy is, he’s gorgeous, and the light of the setting sun shines at just the right angle to turn umber-dark hair into harvest gold.
“Hey,” says the man, reaching into his jacket, black and leather-smooth for a carton of cigarettes. He shakes one out and clenches it between teeth, before cupping his hands against the wind and lighting it in one easy, effortless motion.
“Do you, uh…” Rick tries, knowing that do you come here often is probably the worst opening line he can use, after he remembers where they are and why he’s here. With Rick’s shitty luck, the guy’s probably here to pick up his kid, and he’ll probably take off the moment some pipsqueak comes running into his arms from the playground.
What’re you starin’ at, pipsqueak?
The memory comes suddenly, spontaneously, and Rick shakes it away, because it’s not fair that it come at such a time, when he knows he should let go of the past. He had put so much hope into that wishing fountain, thinking that running into it again had meant something. But he knows now that the things he wants and still wishes for lie in the realm of fantasy. Of romance novels, and films, and Things That Never Happen To Rick.
Maybe it was a sign that it was time to do some good old-fashioned sleuthing instead—Rick had access to the police database now, after all—but if he was caught searching for items unrelated to a case, Rick stood to lose his badge, his job, and everything he’d worked so hard for.
Rick lets the span of a heartbeat pass, two. “Which one’s yours?” he asks finally, still hoping to make some small talk, as he nods toward the kids on the playground.
The man lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, and says, “None of ‘em.”
Rick’s not quite sure what to make of this. On one hand, it’s good news for Rick, because the man’s not here to pick up any kids. On the other hand, it does raise the question of what exactly he’s doing here instead.
As if he’s sensed a part of Rick’s inner turmoil, the man says, “Used to live around here. Played here when I was a kid. Just came by to…look around, you know?”
“Right, yeah.” Rick’s tongue darts out to lick his lips; he’s more than familiar with that feeling. He’d returned here numerous times over the years, even when he wasn’t hoping for something that’d never happen, just remembering the good times. “Me too,” Rick says. “Had some of the best memories here.”
“Yeah. Same.” Rick watches the man take a slow, easy drag off his cigarette. Twitch a grin as he flicks a glance toward Rick. “Stole me my first kiss here.”
“Oh,” Rick says quietly. He swallows hard, his lips tingling from the memory of his own first kiss, in the now-repainted plastic dome that sits less than a yard away. Rick’s tempted to say me too, like he’s some natural-born Casanova, but then again, he hadn’t been the one doing the stealing, so all he manages is, “That’s…that’s nice.”
“Nice?” says the man. “Yeah.” He looks out at the playground, stretching his legs out before him. And as he crosses them at the ankle, all lithe and lean muscle, Rick swallows, working hard to keep eye contact, instead of letting his gaze wander over broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and sturdy hands he wouldn’t mind having wrapped around his own hips. “Yeah, it was.”
Rick’s not sure what to say to that—was that wistfulness he’d heard in the man’s voice?—so with a brightness he doesn’t feel, he asks, “How long have you been together?” Might as well rip off the band-aid and sate his curiosity. “If she went to school here, I might know her,” he adds, grinning, even if the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
The man knits his brow at she and her, his eyes narrowing in a way that’s somehow familiar, but then he’s talking again, and Rick has to stop staring to listen. “Together? Nah.” He taps the ash from his cigarette. “Coulda been, though.” He pauses, and the frown that tugs at his mouth speaks of regret ages old. “Coulda had years together.”
And something hurts in Rick’s chest at that, because he knows that feeling all too well.
“That don’t matter, anyhow,” says the man, like he’s let bygones be bygones. “Because I’m back now.” And the look he throws Rick seems to be laden with meaning of some sort, but just as Rick opens his mouth to answer, some iteration of god, they’re lucky, whoever you’re back for, or I wish the one I was waitin’ on would come back too, Angus runs up to him, breathless, Angie only a step behind.
“We’re done playing now,” he announces, as Angie twitches Rick’s sleeve, anxious. Together, they give him the widest, saddest eyes they can manage, which means only one thing: that it’s time to go to the Finer Diner now, for their ice cream parfaits.
Rick glances at his watch. They’ve spent at least two hours at the park, and it’s running closer to seven now. “I don’t know,” he says, doubtful. “It’s gettin’ kinda late. Shouldn’t be bringin’ you kids back full of sugar.” He wrinkles his brow, trying to decide whether it’s worth risking Robin’s wrath to win points with the twins.
“Please please please,” they beg in unison. Angie looks like she’s on the verge of crying, as she asks her brother why Uncle Rick is so mean, because he promised.
The man sitting beside Rick lets out a shaky breath at the word uncle, almost in relief, and this time, he chuckles as he crushes his cigarette under the heel of his boot. “Don’t you know?” he says to Angus. “You gotta lock ‘em down with pinky promises. That’s the way to go.”
Appreciating the fact that the man put his cigarette out when the kids came bounding up, Rick only laughs in return. “Pinky promises are for babies,” he says. An echo of the words someone dear had said to him, once.
“Think they’re a little young to be sealin’ deals with spit sandwiches,” the man remarks.
And Rick’s not sure if it’s because Angus yells I’m not a baby and puffs out his little chest, with his hands on his hips just the way Rick had done once, or if it’s the way the man says spit sandwiches, like he knows exactly what they are when no one else had, but Rick just stares and stares at this mystery, this enigma of a man before him, the bits and pieces slowly falling into place.
When he’s finally, finally managed to make his mouth work again, Rick inches forward and whispers, uncertain, “Daryl?” As if the man sitting before him will disappear like a wisp of cloud, at a sound too loud, a touch too earnest.
“Took you long enough,” Daryl says, with a snort. “Could hear the gears turnin’ in your brain for a while there. Thought I’d be here all night.” He grins then, the lovely, lopsided thing that Rick’s always remembered, whenever he’d done a thing right, whenever Daryl had been pleased, happy, elated.
“Daryl,” Rick says again, surer, trying the word out for real this time. “Daryl.” He reaches out a hand, to touch, to test, because Daryl can’t be real, he can’t be here, but when Daryl reaches out, hesitant, and bridges the distance between them, his own fingers warm against Rick’s, Rick throws himself forward and wraps his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, tight. “I missed you,” Rick whispers. “I missed you.”
He buries his face into Daryl’s neck, where it’s safety and comfort and warmth, and memories long gone flood back to him now, a deluge of sentiment that Rick’s slowly tried to jettison over the years. His first friend, first parfait, first kiss, and—
His first crime, too, if stealing money from the wishing fountain counted. And Rick had the nerve to call himself law enforcement!
“I—” Daryl tries, followed by a series of awkward uh’s and um’s that Rick finds entirely too adorable, before he grunts, “Well, I’m here now.” Rick knows it’s Daryl-speak for I missed you too, so he just laughs and keeps holding on because Daryl’s finally here, he’s real, and god, Rick could cry because he’s wanted Daryl so bad for so long.
They finally draw away after a while, since they’re starting to attract whispers and stares from the kids and parents there, and Angus and Angie themselves are whispering and conspiring. But it hasn’t been five seconds before Rick’s already missing Daryl’s warmth and the smell of him, all leather heat and smoke.
Because they’ve been apart for so long though, Rick’s not sure that Daryl’s up for trading a spit sandwich like they’d done the last time they saw each other, or even another hug. And he sure as hell isn’t going to proposition Daryl for either in front of his niece and nephew. There’s got to be a safer, better way to do this, one that doesn’t involve Rick getting a black eye or his teeth knocked out, in case his hopes to get better reacquainted with Daryl aren’t reciprocated.
Daryl had agreed their kiss was nice, hinted that they could’ve been together, but Rick’s got to be sure in case the signs are wrong, and he’s hoping for something that’s not there.
“Guess I gotta take these little troublemakers to the Finer Diner for ice cream parfaits,” says Rick. “Since you stepped in for them and all.” He pretends to look cross at Daryl, though by Daryl’s half-smile, he knows Rick doesn’t mean anything by it. “So maybe, uh.” Rick licks his lips, and he’s only grateful that he’s not holding onto Daryl anymore for the sole reason that his palms are sweating bullets against the knees of his jeans. “Maybe if you’re not doin’ anythin’…you could join us?”
“Think I’d like that,” says Daryl, and his smile now is one Rick remembers, warm and fond, with just a touch of shyness. He turns to where Angus and Angie are clustered together, staring up at them with wide eyes, and adds, “If that’s all right with you two.”
“It is!” Angus says, speaking for both of them. They turn to rifle through their bags for hats and mittens, since the wind’s picked up and it’s a fair walk to the diner, when all of a sudden, Robin comes bustling up to the bench. Like she’s just materialized from the dark of the night itself.
“There you are!” Robin calls breathlessly, gathering Angus and Angie into her arms. She nods at Rick. “Sorry for the wait—had to grab a few things after work, thanks for keeping an eye on them!”
And when the twins try to twist out of their mother’s grasp with a whine of but ice cream parfaits and Uncle Rick promised, Robin simply reins them in and says sharply, “No sugar past seven o’ clock.”
Rick’s pretty sure that’s never been an official rule before now, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on this, because Robin’s already whisking her kids away with a wink and an I’ll leave you two to catch up. And before long, Angus and Angie’s begging and pleading—to no avail—fades away, and it’s just Rick and Daryl on the bench.
“I guess our double date will have to wait,” says Rick, smiling, before the magnitude of his corny little one-liner hits him, and heat rushes to his cheeks, warm. He hasn’t even seen Daryl for more than a few minutes, and already he’s talking about dates and thinking about swapping spit. What was next—marriage? A baby carriage? Christ.
Daryl doesn’t seem to mind the slip, though, and he shrugs. “Don’t mind just the two of us,” he says, standing up and stretching his legs, and if Rick admires the long line of his legs, the perfect curve of Daryl’s ass in those jeans, he keeps it to himself. “Think you might need to lead the way, though. A lotta things have changed out here.”
Rick stands too, and slips his hands into his pockets, even though he’d like nothing more than to reach out and take Daryl’s hand in his. But it’s early hours yet, and if Daryl’s not interested in picking up where they’d left off, then it’d leave them with a lot of awkward conversations before they’d even caught up.
They’ve made it halfway down the street when Daryl says, “Woulda given you a ride on my motorcycle, but I had to leave it in the garage today. Patchin’ a flat and I gotta let it set. Next time for sure, though.”
Somehow, it doesn’t surprise Rick that Daryl owns a motorcycle, because it’s the biggest and baddest of all the bikes on the road, like he’d always wanted. With a smile that Rick hopes doesn’t look like a leer—he’d briefly thought of other things of Daryl’s he’d wanted to ride, what was wrong with him today—Rick says, “It’s fine. Better this way.”
And it is, because there’s something to be said for walking side by side, the way they used to. Just talking and sharing both the silences and the words between them, shoulders bumping together every now and then, easy. He hears about the motorcycle Daryl’s building out of spare parts, a custom job for one of the clients at the garage he’s working out of—workhorse bike, nothing fancy—and in return, Rick tells Daryl about his job and some of the assholes that treat the police drunk tank as a weekend retreat. The latter earns him a breathy huff from Daryl, soft and low that Rick remembers as the sound of his laugh, and it’s lovely the way the sound wraps around Rick, like a warm and woollen afghan, the timbre and cadence of it glorious.
They while away the minutes without even meaning to, just enjoying each other’s company and conversation, so it’s not long at all before they find themselves at the entrance of the Finer Diner—now double doors with frosted glass.
“Like I said, a lotta changes,” Daryl says, blinking. He flicks a glance toward their new neon sign. The new parking lot they’ve cleared out on the side.
“Think you’ll find that the more things change, the more they stay the same,” laughs Rick, pushing the doors open and leading Daryl through, hoping he’ll get the second meaning behind Rick’s words.
Daryl tilts his head—maybe it’s in acknowledgement, and maybe it’s not—but Rick trusts to hope that his words have gotten through, and they find a place at one of the booths on the side, shiny red vinyl seats and retro chrome tables, just like it was in the old days.
The Finer Diner’s expanded their menu to include a variety of specialty burgers and hashes and shakes, but when it looks like they’ve both had a bite to eat before coming out, Rick taps the menu on the page labelled Parfaits.
“How about one of these?” he grins. There are extra choices now for ones with apples, kiwis, pineapples, and passion fruit, but Rick figures it’s such a rare occasion that Daryl ought to choose. He has to will himself to look away from the passion fruit though, with heat in his cheeks and sweat pooling on his palms, because that’s not what that fruit entails, and Rick doesn’t even know if that’s the way this night’s going to go.
“Strawberry sounds all right,” says Daryl. He looks toward Rick for a quick nod of confirmation, before adding, “We oughta get a nice one this time. With all the fixings. Can afford one now.” And that’s as close to a beam as Rick’s ever seen him come.
“I can’t let you—” Rick starts, before Daryl growls, “You ain’t gonna let me do anythin’, Rick. This one’s on me. Think we used enough of your sister’s hush money back in the day.”
And Rick can’t argue with that, especially when Daryl’s stubborn like this, digging his heels in to have his way, so when the waitress swings by with a what can I do ya for, Daryl makes their order—an extra large strawberry parfait, with a second helping of strawberry sauce, along with the Finer Diner’s signature flakey wafers.
It’s when she asks, “Will that be to stay or to go?” in a way that’s entirely too familiar that Rick looks up, actually looks, and it’s Donna, the very same, with grey in her curls but the same smile and fond tilt to her brow. She hasn’t aged as well as the diner, but it’s evident that she doesn’t buy into the facelifts and transformations the diner’s undergone, and looks all the more naturally beautiful for it. Rick had heard she’d become part-owner of the diner a few years back, which explained why she hadn’t been out to wait tables for a while, so something’s warranted a special appearance, something important—
“To, uh. To stay,” Rick says, catching Daryl’s eye. It strikes Rick then that there’s been a reversal here, one he hasn’t been entirely aware of until now. Because it used to be Rick who’d make their order, and Daryl who’d get it for them to go, and something in him now’s fixated on the word stay, like he’s hoping that’s just what Daryl will do this time.
Stay.
Donna gives Rick a look that’s soft and understanding, one that says, Oh, Rick, like he’s pinned his heart to his sleeve, baring his thoughts for all the world to see.
He’s come here every now and then with Robin and her kids, but it’s probably the first time he’s come in with anything remotely resembling a date, and Rick’s sure that’s what her look means, until she glances at Daryl too, and the corners of her mouth tilt upward for a smile that’s as wide as the sun is bright.
“The fixings are on the house tonight,” Donna declares, before she leaves with their order. “I’ll get the cook to throw in a little somethin’ for you, too!”
Rick’s pretty sure she’s slipped their order in at the top of the list, because it’s no more than a few minutes before their parfait arrives, layers of creamy vanilla soft-serve topped with glazed strawberries and just the right amount of strawberry syrup. And along with the perfect rolls of crisp wafers, far more than there should be, there’s a tiny wedge of toasted waffle as a garnish this time, cut into the shape of a heart. As Rick looks up to catch Donna’s eye, she gives him a very obvious wink from behind the kitchen doors that has Rick blushing again, right down to his toes.
“So,” Rick says, digging a spoon into the side of their parfait, “what happened after you left? And what finally brought you back to town?” He fights the anxious hitch in his breath as he adds, “You just passin’ through?”
Until now, they’ve simply traded easy conversations on the safe topics, but now that they’re properly seated and the ambience is just right, Rick has to know why Daryl’s here, and where he’s been, because Rick’s missed him so much. But that’s far too much sentiment to pour out all at once, so when he’s asked what he’s needed to, he keeps his silence and lets Daryl talk.
Daryl shakes his head and scowls at passing through, like it’s the very opposite of what he intends to do.
“That day, at the playground,” he starts, snagging a strawberry and chewing on it thoughtfully. “Had to leave in a hurry after Merle came and got me. Turned out my old man owed a lotta people a lotta money—all the debts from drinkin’ and gamblin’ finally caught up to him, I guess—and the money from the insurance for our house? Wasn’t even close to enough for all that.” He sighs. “Went out to the mountains a few hours out from here. He had a shitty little shed he called a huntin’ cabin, and that’s where we stayed.” Daryl’s shoulders slump the smallest bit. “Wasn’t a home, but it was all we had.”
Rick nods, processing this information. Then Daryl had only been hours away, all this time. Except that was still far away, when you were young and had no means of transport. “And what’d you do in all that time?” Twenty years is a long time to be away, and Rick’s dying to know what it is Daryl’s been doing out in the backwoods of Georgia.
Daryl breathes out, long and slow, a sigh more than anything. “It was just Merle and me most of the time. And when he wasn’t in and out of juvie, I followed him. Did what he did. Said what he told me to. Mighta gone down the same road as him too, straight to jail, if it hadn’t been for our old man kickin’ the bucket.” There’s the longest pause, before Daryl lowers his voice, like this secret, this truth, is something he only dares share with Rick. “But I’m free of ‘em now,” he says. “Finally free.”
Rick pitches his voice low to match Daryl’s. “How?” he asks.
There’s a part of him that wants to reach out for Daryl. To take his hand and squeeze, warm, because Daryl doesn’t trust easily, or at all, and for him to just tell Rick these things means that Rick’s still had his trust, all these years. And Rick wants to show him, somehow, that he’s thankful he’s still got this privilege. He lets his fingers wander closer to Daryl’s, careful, relieved when Daryl doesn’t move away.
“It was probably the drinkin’ that did my old man in,” Daryl admits. “After that, it was just me and Merle. And when Merle left to enlist in the army, well…” Daryl shrugs. “Figured their last hold on me was gone. Thought I’d make a clean break from that shack in the mountains and head here. For a new start.” He takes in the worried look on Rick’s face, the knit of his brow, and maybe he’s misinterpreted it as disapproval, because he adds, “Rick, I ain’t proud of some of the things I did after I left, but—”
Rick reaches out now and takes Daryl’s hand like he’s wanted to, just a light touch of reassurance. “Hey, no,” he says. “Those things you did? They don’t matter anymore.”
He’s sure he can guess some of those things, but Daryl often did what he had to, to make it by, to survive, even if that included surviving his brother and father. And if Daryl wants to tell him about all of it one day, so much the better. But for now, it’s on Rick to banish those demons for him, to tell him it’s all right, because Daryl gets to come back from that.
“What matters is that you’re here now,” says Rick. “You’re the one makin’ decisions for you now. Not them.”
He lets his hand shrink back, to keep the touch casual and friendly. But then Daryl’s reaching back, closing the distance between them again, like Rick’s touch is all the encouragement he needs, to tell the story he hasn’t told anyone. His palm is so incredibly warm against the back of Rick’s hand that it feels like a straight shot of heat to Rick’s heart, warming him from the inside out.
“Decisions,” Daryl echoes, nodding thoughtfully, before deciding to clarify just what decisions he’s made for himself. “Anyway, uh. Got a call for a job back here in town,” he continues. “Well, ‘job’, for a friend of a friend, at his garage here. So I packed my things and came back. Been here a week.”
“You’ve been here a week?” Rick exclaims. “I didn’t hear anythin’ about you comin’ back. And Robin, she’s a one-woman gossip grapevine—she didn’t say anythin’ about you either!” Rick ducks his head, a little embarrassed by his outburst. Still, a thing like Daryl coming to town, a stranger, tall, dark and handsome would’ve registered on Robin’s radar instantly. “We coulda met up sooner, and—”
“Ain’t like I wanted to make an announcement that a Dixon was back in town,” Daryl says evenly. “That ain’t a name I wanna sling around in these parts, you know?”
Rick nods, because as disappointed as he is that he didn’t hear of Daryl’s return earlier, there’s sense in what he did. Who knew how much of Will Dixon’s awful legacy had been left behind? How much of his debt Daryl would have to carry? No, Daryl’s return, quiet and without fanfare, had been the right decision, as much as it pains Rick to admit it.
Still, it hurts something in Rick’s chest that Daryl can’t even be proud of his own last name, though he just manages to keep from saying You could be a Grimes. Wouldn’t need to worry about a thing. But holy hell, that’s jumping way ahead of himself, and Rick has to clear his throat to keep himself in check.
“Hey,” Rick says instead. “You don’t ever have to be ashamed with me. Don’t ever have to pretend you’re somethin’ that you’re not.”
It earns him a small twitch of a smile from Daryl. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
Rick finds himself returning the smile, and Daryl opens his mouth as if there’s something he wants to add, to elaborate on, but then Rick’s cleared his throat again and said, “So, you were sayin’ somethin’ about that job?”
Daryl shrugs. “Friend of a friend needed someone who could fix motorcycles in his garage. Don’t know if you know Aaron?” When Rick nods, a vague memory of Aaron and his car garage over on Durham returning, Daryl adds, “He’s got a spare studio apartment he ain’t usin’, so he set me up with that for now.”
There’s a pause between them, while Rick digests this new information—so Daryl was here to stay, then—before Daryl says, “Rick, I tried to look for you. Once I found my feet again, I—”
And Rick knows then that his disappointment had been clear on his face earlier, from the knowledge that if Daryl had been back in town for a week already, why hadn’t he looked for Rick?
“I wasn’t…” Rick tries, caught, as he flounders for words. “Daryl, that’s not what I…Look,” he says finally, trying hard to work the furrow of hurt out of his brow, “I know lookin’ for me couldn’t have been high on your list of—”
“No,” Daryl says, firmly. “You oughta know.” He squeezes Rick’s hand. “I know that look, man, and I’m tellin’ you now, you were the first. You were the priority.”
And the thought that Rick would have been the first, rated the highest on Daryl’s To-Do list—Rick reins himself in before his mind dives straight into the gutter again—warms something inside Rick, the way hot cocoa spreads like wildfire through his body on a cold day. “I was?”
“You were,” Daryl says with the utmost conviction, before deflating, his shoulders hunching inward. He lets his hand slip away, as if the fact that he hadn’t found Rick, despite all his efforts, means Daryl has no right to touch him, to keep holding on, and Rick laments the loss of their contact with the softest sigh.
“Didn’t have much luck, then, I guess,” says Rick. He knows it would’ve been hard, looking for one person in a town that’s grown all around them, with people coming and going as the years went by.
“Well, I didn’t have the first clue how to look for you,” Daryl says. He shakes his head. “Didn’t have no last name to track you down, ‘cause I didn’t think to ask you before I left. Tried askin’ around after you too, but maybe folks ‘round here wanna protect their own. From them unsavoury types like me.” His laugh is a touch bitter, but when Rick reaches out and squeezes Daryl’s arm, because he thinks Daryl is plenty savoury, Daryl nods and goes on, even if his voice is too quiet, too small. “Went to the playground, thinkin’…if our promise still mattered to you, if you still remembered, you’d be there. But I knew it was a long shot.” He fiddles at the long-handled spoon. “I knew.”
Rick draws in a tight breath; he’d walked by the playground a few times, too, on his way home from work, stopping every now and then to read there until the sun went down. So it’s evident now that for the last week, they’d just been missing each other, by hours, or even minutes. “What changed?” he asks.
Surely something different had happened, or they might’ve gone on just missing each other, maybe even for the rest of their lives, and that’s not a comforting thought at all.
Daryl seems to sense this, and he reaches out to squeeze Rick’s hand, gentle, this time letting his palm settle for longer against warm skin.
“Was doin’ a grocery run today, ‘cause the fridge was empty,” Daryl says, snorting. “Except for a couple cans of old ass beer, and broccoli from who knows what decade. And at the cashier’s, when I was payin’ for things, picture of these two kids dropped outta my wallet.”
Rick groans, pretty sure he knows where this story’s headed. Robin must’ve been the cashier on till when Daryl had gone grocery shopping, and knowing her sharp tongue, they’re lucky they’re sitting here together, instead of Daryl being run out of town, or worse. He nods at Daryl to continue, though.
“Yeah, it was your sister,” Daryl says, huffing a laugh. “I usually keep the picture tucked away safe, but receipts musta knocked it loose somehow. Anyway, she asked me if those were my kids. You know. All that small talk shit people seem to like.”
Rick knows all about that, having to deal with a lot of ‘small talk shit’ every day, from his buddies at the station to the people who come in to file reports, and he’s glad that with Daryl, he’ll hardly have to do any of that. “Yeah,” he says, nodding.
“Said they weren’t mine,” Daryl continues, “’cause it was the truth. And she gave me the stink-eye like you wouldn’t believe. Said I oughta get outta her store if I was some kinda pervert.”
He laughs again when Rick rolls his eyes so hard, because that sounds like Robin, all right. Rick’s going to have a talk with her later about calling Daryl names like that, but for now, it can wait. For all Rick knows, Daryl could’ve had a photo of his nephews or nieces, much like Rick had one of Angus and Angie tucked in his wallet. But then he remembers that means Merle reproducing, and he can’t quite see that happening, so he just bites his lip, swallows down the laugh, and keeps on listening.
“Anyway,” Daryl says hastily, like he’s hoping to gloss over the nastier details of his exchange with Robin, “guess she recognized somethin’ in the picture. Snatched it right outta my hand.” Rick sighs, remembering how often Robin had swiped what she wanted from Rick’s hands, whether it was food, a game, or one of the twins—if she wanted it, she took it. “And she says to me—she says to me, ‘why you got a picture of my baby brother in your—oh my gawd!’” Daryl squawks, his hands twirling in the air, his voice and gestures a perfect mime of Robin’s state of uncontrollable excitement.
“A picture of me?” Rick blinks, after he’s had a laugh at how flawless Daryl’s impression of his sister is.
“Them pictures we took at the photo booth,” Daryl explains, when Rick looks at him, confused. “Of us makin’ silly faces and shit. There was a half a strip for me, and half for you.”
“Oh. Right,” Rick says, remembering. “Those ones. You kept them?” he adds, stunned. “Those stupid pictures of us—you kept them.”
Daryl frowns. “Weren’t stupid to me.”
“No, of course not,” Rick says, laughing, though his voice breaks, just like something in his heart, because, god, of course they weren’t. Rick had lost his ages ago, to an overzealous washing machine and its paired dryer that’d left the strip of photos a crumpled mulch in his overalls, his only real memento of Daryl gone forever. “So she recognized you then?”
“Well, she looked me over again, sayin’ ‘you’re that Dixon kid, aren’t you—Daryl, right?’. Was gonna ask her how she knew, but she just laughed and said, ‘I’ve only been hearin’ Rick yammerin’ on about you for, oh, the last billion years’.”
Rick’s pretty sure the flush that’s burning his cheeks is here to stay now. Robin and her big mouth. Damn it.
“In the end,” Daryl says, “she told me she’d take care of this. Said to be at the playground at a certain time, and that you—” Daryl’s voice catches in his throat, which is so unlike him, because Daryl’s never at a loss for words. He says what he means and means what he says, so this is new. “That you’d be there,” Daryl says finally, after he’s taken a moment for a hard swallow of his own.
Rick wishes he could make his mouth work, this instant, but there aren’t words for how grateful he was for that moment on the playground. And he can tell Daryl has things he wants to say too, needs to get out, so he lets him, and just keeps on listening. Lets his fingers creep toward Daryl’s on the table, and stay there this time, just settling on his, for a squeeze of encouragement and reassurance.
Daryl squeezes back, like he’s thankful for the touch. “Saw you there, sittin’ on the bench, watchin’ them kids play,” he says. “Took me a while to get up the nerve and sit by you, though, and by then, you were readin’. Made it easier, I guess. Except I didn’t know what to say, or do, or nothin’.” He looks away, not daring to meet Rick’s eyes. “Thought them kids were yours. That you’d gotten married and…thought I was too late.”
No wonder the tension had gone out of Daryl’s shoulders when Angus and Angie had called him Uncle Rick. And Rick doesn’t even have to ask what Daryl thought he’d been too late for, because a part of him knows what Daryl means, and it doesn’t surprise Rick that he’s wanted the same thing too.
“I wished for you,” Rick says instead, honesty bursting out of him unplanned. He swallows around the lump that’s forming in his throat, of hurt and wonder and for the most part, relief. “Every year, after you left. Wished on birthday cakes and shooting stars. Even saved up all my Christmas wishes so I could—” The lump in his throat’s far too big, and Rick has to swallow around it again. When he’s finally found his voice, he says, “I thought you’d forgotten our promise. Forgotten me.”
Daryl shakes his head. “Never had no birthday cakes to wish on. Or Christmases,” he says, matter-of-factly. Rick knows he wouldn’t have had any, growing up in the Dixon family, not with all the things he’s heard about Daryl’s father and brother as he got older. So these are events they’ll be having a lot more of, if Rick’s got anything to say about it. “But I never forgot.” Daryl picks at a chip in the table, like he’s in the wrong here. “Just sorry I took so long, you know? To get back to you.”
Rick can’t have Daryl looking like this, utterly dejected, now that they’ve finally found each other again. So he reaches out and tips Daryl’s chin up with forefinger and thumb, a new lightness in his chest just from Daryl’s truest words. “There’s nothin’ to be sorry for,” he says, giving Daryl his most reassuring smile. “Nothin’ at all.”
With the topic of just how they’d manage to connect again out in the open, they’re able to move onto other topics, like what Rick’s been doing during the time they spent apart. Or what Daryl’s planning on doing once he’s got more money saved up.
And when Daryl mentions that he knows the woods of Georgia like the back of his hand now, dropping some not-so-subtle hints that he could take Rick out hunting or fishing sometime, Rick just laughs and nods, pleased to know that this meeting isn’t just a one-off, just a catchin’ up on old times, but that it’s only the first of many.
The hours slip away from them, just like they had during those hot, summer evenings when they were kids, and before long, Donna sidles up to ask them if they have any last orders, since it’s last call before the kitchen closes for the night.
“Think we’re all right,” Rick nods, and it’s only at Donna’s expression, the one where she’s trying to hide a smile of her own, that Rick realizes he’s smiling like a total goof. But this time he won’t need to hide it, because when he looks at Daryl, he can see the equally smitten smile reflected back at him.
At least, that’s what Rick hopes the tiny uptilt of Daryl’s mouth is.
They make the decision to leave before even Donna’s legendary patience with them wears thin, since they’re not planning on ordering anything else, and after Daryl’s settled the bill, he offers to walk Rick back to where he lives.
“That’s nice of you,” Rick grins. “You bein’ worried for my safety.”
“Gettin’ late,” Daryl says, shrugging, like that’s reason enough for his offer. “Should see you home, is all.” He’s not quite meeting Rick’s eyes as he says it though, and his cheeks are brushed red like he’s been standing in cold too long, even if tonight’s among the milder of their autumn nights.
Rick’s tempted to ask you gonna kiss me good night, too? but decides that’s pressing his luck far too hard. Settles for Daryl falling into step beside him, their strides matching effortlessly, easy, like they’ve walked together like this for years.
When they come to a crossing, Rick pauses to wait for Daryl, who’s stopped momentarily to take in the new street signs, and shops, and everything that’s changed since he’d been here last. And when Daryl notices Rick perched on the edge of the curb, rocking on his heels, the corner of his mouth lifts into what Rick knows is a smile. “You can cross the street alone now, can’t you?” says Daryl.
It’s a jab at the days when Rick had hung back at the intersections, afraid of the cars and of breaking Cardinal Rule Number One: No Crossing the Street By Yourself, until Daryl returned to lead him through.
Rick wants to rolls his eyes, but holds back. “Yeah,” he says, with an easy grin of his own. “But I won’t be alone now, will I?” He raises his eyebrows, giving Daryl a meaningful look.
“Not alone,” Daryl says, thoughtful, joining Rick at the curb. “Not ever,” he adds, quiet. “If…if that’s what you want.”
“That is what I want,” Rick declares. As the light turns green, his hand brushes against Daryl’s, accidental and feather-light, but in an act that must take every ounce of Daryl’s bravery, he takes Rick’s hand, just like he did when Rick was little. Laces their fingers together, gentle, giving Rick a look that’s hesitant and unsure.
Giving him an out, in case this isn’t what Rick meant.
A bloom of affection bursts bright in Rick’s chest, because others had treated Rick like he was a secret, a shameful one, but Daryl taking his hand like this, not caring who could see, just touches him so deeply and so much.
Then Daryl’s arching a brow, like he’s still asking is this okay? and Rick’s caught between a jumble of yes, definitely, hell yeah before managing a tiny nod in response. Squeezes Daryl’s hand, tight, so he knows Rick wants this, more than anything.
It takes them a little less than ten minutes to make it to the block of flats where Rick’s living now, because he couldn’t, in good conscience, move halfway across town from his parents. But even if Daryl’s nice enough to see him to the door, it still feels like their night’s come to an end far too quickly.
“Well, this is me,” says Rick, gesturing to the door of his flat. They’ve traded contact information, and he knows Daryl’s staying in a studio apartment nearby, so it’s not as if he’ll never see Daryl again. But it feels like he’s just got Daryl back, and Rick can’t bear for him to leave again so soon.
“It was good seein’ you again,” Daryl offers.
Rick had been ready to invite him in, for a drink, a snack, or maybe a little more catching up of the kind Rick wanted to do. But Daryl’s words make it sound like he’s not interested in staying for long, and Rick won’t push for something Daryl’s not ready for. So he has to hold back the small, hurt sound that’s threatening to escape, because if there’s anything good about this moment at all, about having to say goodbye to Daryl all over again, it’s that Daryl still hasn’t let go of his hand.
“Yeah,” Rick says, nodding. “Maybe we should…” He makes a feeble motion with his other hand, at the phone he’s pulled out from his pocket. “You know.”
Rick’s hoping to stumble through the awkward mess of maybe we should get together again and when are you free, but before he can get the words out, Daryl’s walked Rick back against his door, hands braced on either side of Rick’s head. Gives Rick a second, two, to turn away if he wants, before he brings their mouths together, gentle.
It’s not hot and heavy and wet—just a light press of lips that’s warm and soft, with a hint of vanilla—but when Rick’s finished blinking, stunned, he surges forward, for a spit sandwich that’s twenty years overdue. Licks into Daryl’s mouth for more, for the taste of Daryl, and it’s no surprise when Daryl lets him, moving into their kiss with every fibre of his being in return. His right hand moves to tangle in Rick’s curls, tight, and his other moves to cup Rick’s cheek, like he can’t get enough of Rick, wants to touch and feel and caress every part of Rick he can reach. Like he’s not even sure Rick’s real and here before him.
Rick, for his part, just clutches Daryl’s shoulders, holding on and holding tight, to anchor him here, to Rick, because part of him fears that Daryl will disappear like smoke if he doesn’t. That Rick only gets this one night for all the times he’s wished Daryl back. That in the morning, when he wakes up, it’ll all have been a dream, and no one will know where Daryl’s gone, or who Daryl Dixon even is.
And Rick doesn’t know if he could take that—not after having Daryl back in his life, not after tasting the sweetness of his lips, having felt the warmth of his touch.
“Don’t leave,” says Rick, when they finally break apart for air. He means don’t leave me, not again, not ever, but the words won’t come, and Rick can’t seem to force them out, because they’re desperate, they’re needy, even if they’re nothing but the truth. “Don’t leave,” he says again, gasping it, between one kiss and the next, and he isn’t begging, he isn’t, he’s just—
Daryl seems to hear what’s in Rick’s heart regardless, and eases Rick’s hand off his shoulder. Knits their fingers together, tight, giving Rick the warmest feeling of staying and permanence and forever that mere words can’t provide.
“I won’t,” Daryl says, solemn. “Not again. Not ever.” Then he breaks into a grin, the kind that’s wide and lovely and rare, that makes Rick’s heart skip a beat in his chest. “Think we oughta seal the deal with a couple more kisses, though, don’t you think?” He nods to the inside of Rick’s flat, and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Just to be sure.”
“Spit sandwiches,” Rick says, correcting Daryl, and laughs, a tremulous but happy sound as he tugs Daryl into his flat.
And as Rick winds his arms around Daryl’s neck, to breathe his air, his scent, every proof of his life, he’s all too thankful to know that even if their first kiss had been a lifetime ago, it certainly won’t be the last.
[End]
End Notes:
This time, the parfait Rick and Daryl share for their first date was inspired by these ones here and here. Heart-shaped toasty waffles should totally be a thing. :3
And that’s a wrap for this fic! A big thank you to everyone who’s followed it from the beginning! And for those of you just joining now, thank you for giving this fic a try! I’ll see you all in the next Rickyl fic! :)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: PG-13
Words: 8400 (26500 total)
Summary: “You have to promise to come back,” Rick says. He is not crying, he is not. Though no one could blame him if he was, because he knows ‘moving away’ means his bestest friend will be gone forever. “Pinky-promise!”
“Pinky promises are for babies,” Daryl sniffs. “We gotta seal the deal with somethin’ else.”
A/N: Written for the RWG February 2016 Challenge, with the theme of “Firsts”. Title from Deana Carter’s Strawberry Wine. I imagine Rick to be about five years old at the start of this fic, and Daryl around seven or eight. The lovely
legolastariel has also directed me to a graphic of how they might look at such an age, which can be seen here.Rick’s half-dozing on the couch of his new flat when the phone rings that evening, and his heart jolts in his chest for a moment.
Could it be? he wonders. That after all this time…?
No, it had to be coincidence—miracles never happened that fast. Except coincidence or not, it wouldn’t help anyone if Rick didn’t answer the phone.
He makes a mad scramble for it on the second ring, nearly tripping on the threadbare rug on his way there. “Hello?” Rick says a little breathlessly, after he’s snatched the phone off the cradle. How would Daryl sound, after all these years? Would he know Rick from his voice alone? And could he still feel the same—
“Rick! I’m glad I caught you. I really need a favour from you tonight, please please please?”
With an inward groan at his sleep being disturbed for yet another inane request from his sister, Rick has to fight the urge to simply hang up again. He stifles a yawn and rubs at his eyes with a fist instead. As if he can wipe away the exhaustion that’s plagued him since he started his job at the station.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “What is it?”
Robin sounds far too delighted for the time and the hour, which makes Rick think she’s not working overtime at all, as she claims. But he figures whatever it is she’s doing, she’s got a good reason—probably another date night with her husband, that she’s just too embarrassed to admit. “…And that’s why I’ll need you to pick the kids up from school,” she finishes. “Maybe you could take them to the playground I used to bring you to? Kill some time there?”
The playground you used to ditch me at, you mean, Rick thinks sourly. But he just nods into the phone, even if she can’t see, and says, “Sure. I’ll have them back before eight, like usual.”
It’ll be nice to spend time with the twins, Rick decides, especially since they work wonders in pulling Rick out of whatever funk he’s fallen into, like the one he’s fallen into tonight. He rubs at his eyes again. It’s going to be a long couple of days off, but he’s thankful for the bright spots he can find in his life, at least.
Angus and Angela are waiting for Rick at their school’s front door when he arrives, both properly bundled for the autumn weather, their scarves perfectly in place and small, matching blazers zipped tight to prevent the wind from tunnelling through warm clothes.
“Uncle Rick!” they cry in unison. They bound toward him, arms outstretched, and while Rick’s always wished he had two pairs of arms, so he could pick them up at the same time, he manages to swing Angie—as she likes to be called—into his arms first, while Angus clambers onto Rick’s back, not one to lose to his sister. “You’ll never guess what we did in school today!”
“Try me,” Rick dares. They leave the sad excuse for a playground for their own school behind—a creaky jungle gym, a set of wobbly monkey bars, and a rickety slide, all a testament to their school’s belief of mind over matter, the ‘nurturing of intellect over physicality’, whatever the hell that meant—in favour of the playground that Rick’s known and loved since he was a kid.
On the way there, the twins regale Rick with stories about how they sliced open an earthworm to see what was inside (Angus’ favourite activity of the day, met with a spirited eww, gross from Angie), and rubbed crayons along paper placed over broad, pointed leaves that’d fallen around the school, recreating their patterns (Angie’s favourite, met with an eww, lame from Angus).
When they arrive at the playground Robin’s asked him to bring them to, Rick sets them loose, with a promise to take them to the Finer Diner after for parfaits if they behave. He’s never brought them here before, thinking the place was special somehow, that it was his alone. But in the end, he’d had some of his fondest memories here, and maybe it’s time to create them anew in the next generation.
The next generation. God, Rick felt old sometimes.
“Remember,” Rick says again, because the twins have a reckless streak at least a mile wide, “parfaits only if you behave. And by that I mean no bumps, bruises, or broken bones by the time you’re done playing.”
“We’ll behave, Uncle Rick! We will!” Angus says. He throws his knapsack down beside Angie’s, and the two of them take off toward the swings.
Rick’s not sure how long he spends on the bench nearby, watching them play, before starting on the horror anthology he’d picked up for cheap at the bookstore. But the sun’s making its way past the treeline in the distance, just the barest winks of light visible as it sets, when someone settles down on the bench next to him, jolting the seat a little.
“Oh,” says Rick, startled from his reading, as he looks to his left. “Hello.”
And then he has to take a second to think hello with a lot more emphasis, because whoever this guy is, he’s gorgeous, and the light of the setting sun shines at just the right angle to turn umber-dark hair into harvest gold.
“Hey,” says the man, reaching into his jacket, black and leather-smooth for a carton of cigarettes. He shakes one out and clenches it between teeth, before cupping his hands against the wind and lighting it in one easy, effortless motion.
“Do you, uh…” Rick tries, knowing that do you come here often is probably the worst opening line he can use, after he remembers where they are and why he’s here. With Rick’s shitty luck, the guy’s probably here to pick up his kid, and he’ll probably take off the moment some pipsqueak comes running into his arms from the playground.
What’re you starin’ at, pipsqueak?
The memory comes suddenly, spontaneously, and Rick shakes it away, because it’s not fair that it come at such a time, when he knows he should let go of the past. He had put so much hope into that wishing fountain, thinking that running into it again had meant something. But he knows now that the things he wants and still wishes for lie in the realm of fantasy. Of romance novels, and films, and Things That Never Happen To Rick.
Maybe it was a sign that it was time to do some good old-fashioned sleuthing instead—Rick had access to the police database now, after all—but if he was caught searching for items unrelated to a case, Rick stood to lose his badge, his job, and everything he’d worked so hard for.
Rick lets the span of a heartbeat pass, two. “Which one’s yours?” he asks finally, still hoping to make some small talk, as he nods toward the kids on the playground.
The man lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, and says, “None of ‘em.”
Rick’s not quite sure what to make of this. On one hand, it’s good news for Rick, because the man’s not here to pick up any kids. On the other hand, it does raise the question of what exactly he’s doing here instead.
As if he’s sensed a part of Rick’s inner turmoil, the man says, “Used to live around here. Played here when I was a kid. Just came by to…look around, you know?”
“Right, yeah.” Rick’s tongue darts out to lick his lips; he’s more than familiar with that feeling. He’d returned here numerous times over the years, even when he wasn’t hoping for something that’d never happen, just remembering the good times. “Me too,” Rick says. “Had some of the best memories here.”
“Yeah. Same.” Rick watches the man take a slow, easy drag off his cigarette. Twitch a grin as he flicks a glance toward Rick. “Stole me my first kiss here.”
“Oh,” Rick says quietly. He swallows hard, his lips tingling from the memory of his own first kiss, in the now-repainted plastic dome that sits less than a yard away. Rick’s tempted to say me too, like he’s some natural-born Casanova, but then again, he hadn’t been the one doing the stealing, so all he manages is, “That’s…that’s nice.”
“Nice?” says the man. “Yeah.” He looks out at the playground, stretching his legs out before him. And as he crosses them at the ankle, all lithe and lean muscle, Rick swallows, working hard to keep eye contact, instead of letting his gaze wander over broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and sturdy hands he wouldn’t mind having wrapped around his own hips. “Yeah, it was.”
Rick’s not sure what to say to that—was that wistfulness he’d heard in the man’s voice?—so with a brightness he doesn’t feel, he asks, “How long have you been together?” Might as well rip off the band-aid and sate his curiosity. “If she went to school here, I might know her,” he adds, grinning, even if the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
The man knits his brow at she and her, his eyes narrowing in a way that’s somehow familiar, but then he’s talking again, and Rick has to stop staring to listen. “Together? Nah.” He taps the ash from his cigarette. “Coulda been, though.” He pauses, and the frown that tugs at his mouth speaks of regret ages old. “Coulda had years together.”
And something hurts in Rick’s chest at that, because he knows that feeling all too well.
“That don’t matter, anyhow,” says the man, like he’s let bygones be bygones. “Because I’m back now.” And the look he throws Rick seems to be laden with meaning of some sort, but just as Rick opens his mouth to answer, some iteration of god, they’re lucky, whoever you’re back for, or I wish the one I was waitin’ on would come back too, Angus runs up to him, breathless, Angie only a step behind.
“We’re done playing now,” he announces, as Angie twitches Rick’s sleeve, anxious. Together, they give him the widest, saddest eyes they can manage, which means only one thing: that it’s time to go to the Finer Diner now, for their ice cream parfaits.
Rick glances at his watch. They’ve spent at least two hours at the park, and it’s running closer to seven now. “I don’t know,” he says, doubtful. “It’s gettin’ kinda late. Shouldn’t be bringin’ you kids back full of sugar.” He wrinkles his brow, trying to decide whether it’s worth risking Robin’s wrath to win points with the twins.
“Please please please,” they beg in unison. Angie looks like she’s on the verge of crying, as she asks her brother why Uncle Rick is so mean, because he promised.
The man sitting beside Rick lets out a shaky breath at the word uncle, almost in relief, and this time, he chuckles as he crushes his cigarette under the heel of his boot. “Don’t you know?” he says to Angus. “You gotta lock ‘em down with pinky promises. That’s the way to go.”
Appreciating the fact that the man put his cigarette out when the kids came bounding up, Rick only laughs in return. “Pinky promises are for babies,” he says. An echo of the words someone dear had said to him, once.
“Think they’re a little young to be sealin’ deals with spit sandwiches,” the man remarks.
And Rick’s not sure if it’s because Angus yells I’m not a baby and puffs out his little chest, with his hands on his hips just the way Rick had done once, or if it’s the way the man says spit sandwiches, like he knows exactly what they are when no one else had, but Rick just stares and stares at this mystery, this enigma of a man before him, the bits and pieces slowly falling into place.
When he’s finally, finally managed to make his mouth work again, Rick inches forward and whispers, uncertain, “Daryl?” As if the man sitting before him will disappear like a wisp of cloud, at a sound too loud, a touch too earnest.
“Took you long enough,” Daryl says, with a snort. “Could hear the gears turnin’ in your brain for a while there. Thought I’d be here all night.” He grins then, the lovely, lopsided thing that Rick’s always remembered, whenever he’d done a thing right, whenever Daryl had been pleased, happy, elated.
“Daryl,” Rick says again, surer, trying the word out for real this time. “Daryl.” He reaches out a hand, to touch, to test, because Daryl can’t be real, he can’t be here, but when Daryl reaches out, hesitant, and bridges the distance between them, his own fingers warm against Rick’s, Rick throws himself forward and wraps his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, tight. “I missed you,” Rick whispers. “I missed you.”
He buries his face into Daryl’s neck, where it’s safety and comfort and warmth, and memories long gone flood back to him now, a deluge of sentiment that Rick’s slowly tried to jettison over the years. His first friend, first parfait, first kiss, and—
His first crime, too, if stealing money from the wishing fountain counted. And Rick had the nerve to call himself law enforcement!
“I—” Daryl tries, followed by a series of awkward uh’s and um’s that Rick finds entirely too adorable, before he grunts, “Well, I’m here now.” Rick knows it’s Daryl-speak for I missed you too, so he just laughs and keeps holding on because Daryl’s finally here, he’s real, and god, Rick could cry because he’s wanted Daryl so bad for so long.
They finally draw away after a while, since they’re starting to attract whispers and stares from the kids and parents there, and Angus and Angie themselves are whispering and conspiring. But it hasn’t been five seconds before Rick’s already missing Daryl’s warmth and the smell of him, all leather heat and smoke.
Because they’ve been apart for so long though, Rick’s not sure that Daryl’s up for trading a spit sandwich like they’d done the last time they saw each other, or even another hug. And he sure as hell isn’t going to proposition Daryl for either in front of his niece and nephew. There’s got to be a safer, better way to do this, one that doesn’t involve Rick getting a black eye or his teeth knocked out, in case his hopes to get better reacquainted with Daryl aren’t reciprocated.
Daryl had agreed their kiss was nice, hinted that they could’ve been together, but Rick’s got to be sure in case the signs are wrong, and he’s hoping for something that’s not there.
“Guess I gotta take these little troublemakers to the Finer Diner for ice cream parfaits,” says Rick. “Since you stepped in for them and all.” He pretends to look cross at Daryl, though by Daryl’s half-smile, he knows Rick doesn’t mean anything by it. “So maybe, uh.” Rick licks his lips, and he’s only grateful that he’s not holding onto Daryl anymore for the sole reason that his palms are sweating bullets against the knees of his jeans. “Maybe if you’re not doin’ anythin’…you could join us?”
“Think I’d like that,” says Daryl, and his smile now is one Rick remembers, warm and fond, with just a touch of shyness. He turns to where Angus and Angie are clustered together, staring up at them with wide eyes, and adds, “If that’s all right with you two.”
“It is!” Angus says, speaking for both of them. They turn to rifle through their bags for hats and mittens, since the wind’s picked up and it’s a fair walk to the diner, when all of a sudden, Robin comes bustling up to the bench. Like she’s just materialized from the dark of the night itself.
“There you are!” Robin calls breathlessly, gathering Angus and Angie into her arms. She nods at Rick. “Sorry for the wait—had to grab a few things after work, thanks for keeping an eye on them!”
And when the twins try to twist out of their mother’s grasp with a whine of but ice cream parfaits and Uncle Rick promised, Robin simply reins them in and says sharply, “No sugar past seven o’ clock.”
Rick’s pretty sure that’s never been an official rule before now, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on this, because Robin’s already whisking her kids away with a wink and an I’ll leave you two to catch up. And before long, Angus and Angie’s begging and pleading—to no avail—fades away, and it’s just Rick and Daryl on the bench.
“I guess our double date will have to wait,” says Rick, smiling, before the magnitude of his corny little one-liner hits him, and heat rushes to his cheeks, warm. He hasn’t even seen Daryl for more than a few minutes, and already he’s talking about dates and thinking about swapping spit. What was next—marriage? A baby carriage? Christ.
Daryl doesn’t seem to mind the slip, though, and he shrugs. “Don’t mind just the two of us,” he says, standing up and stretching his legs, and if Rick admires the long line of his legs, the perfect curve of Daryl’s ass in those jeans, he keeps it to himself. “Think you might need to lead the way, though. A lotta things have changed out here.”
Rick stands too, and slips his hands into his pockets, even though he’d like nothing more than to reach out and take Daryl’s hand in his. But it’s early hours yet, and if Daryl’s not interested in picking up where they’d left off, then it’d leave them with a lot of awkward conversations before they’d even caught up.
They’ve made it halfway down the street when Daryl says, “Woulda given you a ride on my motorcycle, but I had to leave it in the garage today. Patchin’ a flat and I gotta let it set. Next time for sure, though.”
Somehow, it doesn’t surprise Rick that Daryl owns a motorcycle, because it’s the biggest and baddest of all the bikes on the road, like he’d always wanted. With a smile that Rick hopes doesn’t look like a leer—he’d briefly thought of other things of Daryl’s he’d wanted to ride, what was wrong with him today—Rick says, “It’s fine. Better this way.”
And it is, because there’s something to be said for walking side by side, the way they used to. Just talking and sharing both the silences and the words between them, shoulders bumping together every now and then, easy. He hears about the motorcycle Daryl’s building out of spare parts, a custom job for one of the clients at the garage he’s working out of—workhorse bike, nothing fancy—and in return, Rick tells Daryl about his job and some of the assholes that treat the police drunk tank as a weekend retreat. The latter earns him a breathy huff from Daryl, soft and low that Rick remembers as the sound of his laugh, and it’s lovely the way the sound wraps around Rick, like a warm and woollen afghan, the timbre and cadence of it glorious.
They while away the minutes without even meaning to, just enjoying each other’s company and conversation, so it’s not long at all before they find themselves at the entrance of the Finer Diner—now double doors with frosted glass.
“Like I said, a lotta changes,” Daryl says, blinking. He flicks a glance toward their new neon sign. The new parking lot they’ve cleared out on the side.
“Think you’ll find that the more things change, the more they stay the same,” laughs Rick, pushing the doors open and leading Daryl through, hoping he’ll get the second meaning behind Rick’s words.
Daryl tilts his head—maybe it’s in acknowledgement, and maybe it’s not—but Rick trusts to hope that his words have gotten through, and they find a place at one of the booths on the side, shiny red vinyl seats and retro chrome tables, just like it was in the old days.
The Finer Diner’s expanded their menu to include a variety of specialty burgers and hashes and shakes, but when it looks like they’ve both had a bite to eat before coming out, Rick taps the menu on the page labelled Parfaits.
“How about one of these?” he grins. There are extra choices now for ones with apples, kiwis, pineapples, and passion fruit, but Rick figures it’s such a rare occasion that Daryl ought to choose. He has to will himself to look away from the passion fruit though, with heat in his cheeks and sweat pooling on his palms, because that’s not what that fruit entails, and Rick doesn’t even know if that’s the way this night’s going to go.
“Strawberry sounds all right,” says Daryl. He looks toward Rick for a quick nod of confirmation, before adding, “We oughta get a nice one this time. With all the fixings. Can afford one now.” And that’s as close to a beam as Rick’s ever seen him come.
“I can’t let you—” Rick starts, before Daryl growls, “You ain’t gonna let me do anythin’, Rick. This one’s on me. Think we used enough of your sister’s hush money back in the day.”
And Rick can’t argue with that, especially when Daryl’s stubborn like this, digging his heels in to have his way, so when the waitress swings by with a what can I do ya for, Daryl makes their order—an extra large strawberry parfait, with a second helping of strawberry sauce, along with the Finer Diner’s signature flakey wafers.
It’s when she asks, “Will that be to stay or to go?” in a way that’s entirely too familiar that Rick looks up, actually looks, and it’s Donna, the very same, with grey in her curls but the same smile and fond tilt to her brow. She hasn’t aged as well as the diner, but it’s evident that she doesn’t buy into the facelifts and transformations the diner’s undergone, and looks all the more naturally beautiful for it. Rick had heard she’d become part-owner of the diner a few years back, which explained why she hadn’t been out to wait tables for a while, so something’s warranted a special appearance, something important—
“To, uh. To stay,” Rick says, catching Daryl’s eye. It strikes Rick then that there’s been a reversal here, one he hasn’t been entirely aware of until now. Because it used to be Rick who’d make their order, and Daryl who’d get it for them to go, and something in him now’s fixated on the word stay, like he’s hoping that’s just what Daryl will do this time.
Stay.
Donna gives Rick a look that’s soft and understanding, one that says, Oh, Rick, like he’s pinned his heart to his sleeve, baring his thoughts for all the world to see.
He’s come here every now and then with Robin and her kids, but it’s probably the first time he’s come in with anything remotely resembling a date, and Rick’s sure that’s what her look means, until she glances at Daryl too, and the corners of her mouth tilt upward for a smile that’s as wide as the sun is bright.
“The fixings are on the house tonight,” Donna declares, before she leaves with their order. “I’ll get the cook to throw in a little somethin’ for you, too!”
Rick’s pretty sure she’s slipped their order in at the top of the list, because it’s no more than a few minutes before their parfait arrives, layers of creamy vanilla soft-serve topped with glazed strawberries and just the right amount of strawberry syrup. And along with the perfect rolls of crisp wafers, far more than there should be, there’s a tiny wedge of toasted waffle as a garnish this time, cut into the shape of a heart. As Rick looks up to catch Donna’s eye, she gives him a very obvious wink from behind the kitchen doors that has Rick blushing again, right down to his toes.
“So,” Rick says, digging a spoon into the side of their parfait, “what happened after you left? And what finally brought you back to town?” He fights the anxious hitch in his breath as he adds, “You just passin’ through?”
Until now, they’ve simply traded easy conversations on the safe topics, but now that they’re properly seated and the ambience is just right, Rick has to know why Daryl’s here, and where he’s been, because Rick’s missed him so much. But that’s far too much sentiment to pour out all at once, so when he’s asked what he’s needed to, he keeps his silence and lets Daryl talk.
Daryl shakes his head and scowls at passing through, like it’s the very opposite of what he intends to do.
“That day, at the playground,” he starts, snagging a strawberry and chewing on it thoughtfully. “Had to leave in a hurry after Merle came and got me. Turned out my old man owed a lotta people a lotta money—all the debts from drinkin’ and gamblin’ finally caught up to him, I guess—and the money from the insurance for our house? Wasn’t even close to enough for all that.” He sighs. “Went out to the mountains a few hours out from here. He had a shitty little shed he called a huntin’ cabin, and that’s where we stayed.” Daryl’s shoulders slump the smallest bit. “Wasn’t a home, but it was all we had.”
Rick nods, processing this information. Then Daryl had only been hours away, all this time. Except that was still far away, when you were young and had no means of transport. “And what’d you do in all that time?” Twenty years is a long time to be away, and Rick’s dying to know what it is Daryl’s been doing out in the backwoods of Georgia.
Daryl breathes out, long and slow, a sigh more than anything. “It was just Merle and me most of the time. And when he wasn’t in and out of juvie, I followed him. Did what he did. Said what he told me to. Mighta gone down the same road as him too, straight to jail, if it hadn’t been for our old man kickin’ the bucket.” There’s the longest pause, before Daryl lowers his voice, like this secret, this truth, is something he only dares share with Rick. “But I’m free of ‘em now,” he says. “Finally free.”
Rick pitches his voice low to match Daryl’s. “How?” he asks.
There’s a part of him that wants to reach out for Daryl. To take his hand and squeeze, warm, because Daryl doesn’t trust easily, or at all, and for him to just tell Rick these things means that Rick’s still had his trust, all these years. And Rick wants to show him, somehow, that he’s thankful he’s still got this privilege. He lets his fingers wander closer to Daryl’s, careful, relieved when Daryl doesn’t move away.
“It was probably the drinkin’ that did my old man in,” Daryl admits. “After that, it was just me and Merle. And when Merle left to enlist in the army, well…” Daryl shrugs. “Figured their last hold on me was gone. Thought I’d make a clean break from that shack in the mountains and head here. For a new start.” He takes in the worried look on Rick’s face, the knit of his brow, and maybe he’s misinterpreted it as disapproval, because he adds, “Rick, I ain’t proud of some of the things I did after I left, but—”
Rick reaches out now and takes Daryl’s hand like he’s wanted to, just a light touch of reassurance. “Hey, no,” he says. “Those things you did? They don’t matter anymore.”
He’s sure he can guess some of those things, but Daryl often did what he had to, to make it by, to survive, even if that included surviving his brother and father. And if Daryl wants to tell him about all of it one day, so much the better. But for now, it’s on Rick to banish those demons for him, to tell him it’s all right, because Daryl gets to come back from that.
“What matters is that you’re here now,” says Rick. “You’re the one makin’ decisions for you now. Not them.”
He lets his hand shrink back, to keep the touch casual and friendly. But then Daryl’s reaching back, closing the distance between them again, like Rick’s touch is all the encouragement he needs, to tell the story he hasn’t told anyone. His palm is so incredibly warm against the back of Rick’s hand that it feels like a straight shot of heat to Rick’s heart, warming him from the inside out.
“Decisions,” Daryl echoes, nodding thoughtfully, before deciding to clarify just what decisions he’s made for himself. “Anyway, uh. Got a call for a job back here in town,” he continues. “Well, ‘job’, for a friend of a friend, at his garage here. So I packed my things and came back. Been here a week.”
“You’ve been here a week?” Rick exclaims. “I didn’t hear anythin’ about you comin’ back. And Robin, she’s a one-woman gossip grapevine—she didn’t say anythin’ about you either!” Rick ducks his head, a little embarrassed by his outburst. Still, a thing like Daryl coming to town, a stranger, tall, dark and handsome would’ve registered on Robin’s radar instantly. “We coulda met up sooner, and—”
“Ain’t like I wanted to make an announcement that a Dixon was back in town,” Daryl says evenly. “That ain’t a name I wanna sling around in these parts, you know?”
Rick nods, because as disappointed as he is that he didn’t hear of Daryl’s return earlier, there’s sense in what he did. Who knew how much of Will Dixon’s awful legacy had been left behind? How much of his debt Daryl would have to carry? No, Daryl’s return, quiet and without fanfare, had been the right decision, as much as it pains Rick to admit it.
Still, it hurts something in Rick’s chest that Daryl can’t even be proud of his own last name, though he just manages to keep from saying You could be a Grimes. Wouldn’t need to worry about a thing. But holy hell, that’s jumping way ahead of himself, and Rick has to clear his throat to keep himself in check.
“Hey,” Rick says instead. “You don’t ever have to be ashamed with me. Don’t ever have to pretend you’re somethin’ that you’re not.”
It earns him a small twitch of a smile from Daryl. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
Rick finds himself returning the smile, and Daryl opens his mouth as if there’s something he wants to add, to elaborate on, but then Rick’s cleared his throat again and said, “So, you were sayin’ somethin’ about that job?”
Daryl shrugs. “Friend of a friend needed someone who could fix motorcycles in his garage. Don’t know if you know Aaron?” When Rick nods, a vague memory of Aaron and his car garage over on Durham returning, Daryl adds, “He’s got a spare studio apartment he ain’t usin’, so he set me up with that for now.”
There’s a pause between them, while Rick digests this new information—so Daryl was here to stay, then—before Daryl says, “Rick, I tried to look for you. Once I found my feet again, I—”
And Rick knows then that his disappointment had been clear on his face earlier, from the knowledge that if Daryl had been back in town for a week already, why hadn’t he looked for Rick?
“I wasn’t…” Rick tries, caught, as he flounders for words. “Daryl, that’s not what I…Look,” he says finally, trying hard to work the furrow of hurt out of his brow, “I know lookin’ for me couldn’t have been high on your list of—”
“No,” Daryl says, firmly. “You oughta know.” He squeezes Rick’s hand. “I know that look, man, and I’m tellin’ you now, you were the first. You were the priority.”
And the thought that Rick would have been the first, rated the highest on Daryl’s To-Do list—Rick reins himself in before his mind dives straight into the gutter again—warms something inside Rick, the way hot cocoa spreads like wildfire through his body on a cold day. “I was?”
“You were,” Daryl says with the utmost conviction, before deflating, his shoulders hunching inward. He lets his hand slip away, as if the fact that he hadn’t found Rick, despite all his efforts, means Daryl has no right to touch him, to keep holding on, and Rick laments the loss of their contact with the softest sigh.
“Didn’t have much luck, then, I guess,” says Rick. He knows it would’ve been hard, looking for one person in a town that’s grown all around them, with people coming and going as the years went by.
“Well, I didn’t have the first clue how to look for you,” Daryl says. He shakes his head. “Didn’t have no last name to track you down, ‘cause I didn’t think to ask you before I left. Tried askin’ around after you too, but maybe folks ‘round here wanna protect their own. From them unsavoury types like me.” His laugh is a touch bitter, but when Rick reaches out and squeezes Daryl’s arm, because he thinks Daryl is plenty savoury, Daryl nods and goes on, even if his voice is too quiet, too small. “Went to the playground, thinkin’…if our promise still mattered to you, if you still remembered, you’d be there. But I knew it was a long shot.” He fiddles at the long-handled spoon. “I knew.”
Rick draws in a tight breath; he’d walked by the playground a few times, too, on his way home from work, stopping every now and then to read there until the sun went down. So it’s evident now that for the last week, they’d just been missing each other, by hours, or even minutes. “What changed?” he asks.
Surely something different had happened, or they might’ve gone on just missing each other, maybe even for the rest of their lives, and that’s not a comforting thought at all.
Daryl seems to sense this, and he reaches out to squeeze Rick’s hand, gentle, this time letting his palm settle for longer against warm skin.
“Was doin’ a grocery run today, ‘cause the fridge was empty,” Daryl says, snorting. “Except for a couple cans of old ass beer, and broccoli from who knows what decade. And at the cashier’s, when I was payin’ for things, picture of these two kids dropped outta my wallet.”
Rick groans, pretty sure he knows where this story’s headed. Robin must’ve been the cashier on till when Daryl had gone grocery shopping, and knowing her sharp tongue, they’re lucky they’re sitting here together, instead of Daryl being run out of town, or worse. He nods at Daryl to continue, though.
“Yeah, it was your sister,” Daryl says, huffing a laugh. “I usually keep the picture tucked away safe, but receipts musta knocked it loose somehow. Anyway, she asked me if those were my kids. You know. All that small talk shit people seem to like.”
Rick knows all about that, having to deal with a lot of ‘small talk shit’ every day, from his buddies at the station to the people who come in to file reports, and he’s glad that with Daryl, he’ll hardly have to do any of that. “Yeah,” he says, nodding.
“Said they weren’t mine,” Daryl continues, “’cause it was the truth. And she gave me the stink-eye like you wouldn’t believe. Said I oughta get outta her store if I was some kinda pervert.”
He laughs again when Rick rolls his eyes so hard, because that sounds like Robin, all right. Rick’s going to have a talk with her later about calling Daryl names like that, but for now, it can wait. For all Rick knows, Daryl could’ve had a photo of his nephews or nieces, much like Rick had one of Angus and Angie tucked in his wallet. But then he remembers that means Merle reproducing, and he can’t quite see that happening, so he just bites his lip, swallows down the laugh, and keeps on listening.
“Anyway,” Daryl says hastily, like he’s hoping to gloss over the nastier details of his exchange with Robin, “guess she recognized somethin’ in the picture. Snatched it right outta my hand.” Rick sighs, remembering how often Robin had swiped what she wanted from Rick’s hands, whether it was food, a game, or one of the twins—if she wanted it, she took it. “And she says to me—she says to me, ‘why you got a picture of my baby brother in your—oh my gawd!’” Daryl squawks, his hands twirling in the air, his voice and gestures a perfect mime of Robin’s state of uncontrollable excitement.
“A picture of me?” Rick blinks, after he’s had a laugh at how flawless Daryl’s impression of his sister is.
“Them pictures we took at the photo booth,” Daryl explains, when Rick looks at him, confused. “Of us makin’ silly faces and shit. There was a half a strip for me, and half for you.”
“Oh. Right,” Rick says, remembering. “Those ones. You kept them?” he adds, stunned. “Those stupid pictures of us—you kept them.”
Daryl frowns. “Weren’t stupid to me.”
“No, of course not,” Rick says, laughing, though his voice breaks, just like something in his heart, because, god, of course they weren’t. Rick had lost his ages ago, to an overzealous washing machine and its paired dryer that’d left the strip of photos a crumpled mulch in his overalls, his only real memento of Daryl gone forever. “So she recognized you then?”
“Well, she looked me over again, sayin’ ‘you’re that Dixon kid, aren’t you—Daryl, right?’. Was gonna ask her how she knew, but she just laughed and said, ‘I’ve only been hearin’ Rick yammerin’ on about you for, oh, the last billion years’.”
Rick’s pretty sure the flush that’s burning his cheeks is here to stay now. Robin and her big mouth. Damn it.
“In the end,” Daryl says, “she told me she’d take care of this. Said to be at the playground at a certain time, and that you—” Daryl’s voice catches in his throat, which is so unlike him, because Daryl’s never at a loss for words. He says what he means and means what he says, so this is new. “That you’d be there,” Daryl says finally, after he’s taken a moment for a hard swallow of his own.
Rick wishes he could make his mouth work, this instant, but there aren’t words for how grateful he was for that moment on the playground. And he can tell Daryl has things he wants to say too, needs to get out, so he lets him, and just keeps on listening. Lets his fingers creep toward Daryl’s on the table, and stay there this time, just settling on his, for a squeeze of encouragement and reassurance.
Daryl squeezes back, like he’s thankful for the touch. “Saw you there, sittin’ on the bench, watchin’ them kids play,” he says. “Took me a while to get up the nerve and sit by you, though, and by then, you were readin’. Made it easier, I guess. Except I didn’t know what to say, or do, or nothin’.” He looks away, not daring to meet Rick’s eyes. “Thought them kids were yours. That you’d gotten married and…thought I was too late.”
No wonder the tension had gone out of Daryl’s shoulders when Angus and Angie had called him Uncle Rick. And Rick doesn’t even have to ask what Daryl thought he’d been too late for, because a part of him knows what Daryl means, and it doesn’t surprise Rick that he’s wanted the same thing too.
“I wished for you,” Rick says instead, honesty bursting out of him unplanned. He swallows around the lump that’s forming in his throat, of hurt and wonder and for the most part, relief. “Every year, after you left. Wished on birthday cakes and shooting stars. Even saved up all my Christmas wishes so I could—” The lump in his throat’s far too big, and Rick has to swallow around it again. When he’s finally found his voice, he says, “I thought you’d forgotten our promise. Forgotten me.”
Daryl shakes his head. “Never had no birthday cakes to wish on. Or Christmases,” he says, matter-of-factly. Rick knows he wouldn’t have had any, growing up in the Dixon family, not with all the things he’s heard about Daryl’s father and brother as he got older. So these are events they’ll be having a lot more of, if Rick’s got anything to say about it. “But I never forgot.” Daryl picks at a chip in the table, like he’s in the wrong here. “Just sorry I took so long, you know? To get back to you.”
Rick can’t have Daryl looking like this, utterly dejected, now that they’ve finally found each other again. So he reaches out and tips Daryl’s chin up with forefinger and thumb, a new lightness in his chest just from Daryl’s truest words. “There’s nothin’ to be sorry for,” he says, giving Daryl his most reassuring smile. “Nothin’ at all.”
With the topic of just how they’d manage to connect again out in the open, they’re able to move onto other topics, like what Rick’s been doing during the time they spent apart. Or what Daryl’s planning on doing once he’s got more money saved up.
And when Daryl mentions that he knows the woods of Georgia like the back of his hand now, dropping some not-so-subtle hints that he could take Rick out hunting or fishing sometime, Rick just laughs and nods, pleased to know that this meeting isn’t just a one-off, just a catchin’ up on old times, but that it’s only the first of many.
The hours slip away from them, just like they had during those hot, summer evenings when they were kids, and before long, Donna sidles up to ask them if they have any last orders, since it’s last call before the kitchen closes for the night.
“Think we’re all right,” Rick nods, and it’s only at Donna’s expression, the one where she’s trying to hide a smile of her own, that Rick realizes he’s smiling like a total goof. But this time he won’t need to hide it, because when he looks at Daryl, he can see the equally smitten smile reflected back at him.
At least, that’s what Rick hopes the tiny uptilt of Daryl’s mouth is.
They make the decision to leave before even Donna’s legendary patience with them wears thin, since they’re not planning on ordering anything else, and after Daryl’s settled the bill, he offers to walk Rick back to where he lives.
“That’s nice of you,” Rick grins. “You bein’ worried for my safety.”
“Gettin’ late,” Daryl says, shrugging, like that’s reason enough for his offer. “Should see you home, is all.” He’s not quite meeting Rick’s eyes as he says it though, and his cheeks are brushed red like he’s been standing in cold too long, even if tonight’s among the milder of their autumn nights.
Rick’s tempted to ask you gonna kiss me good night, too? but decides that’s pressing his luck far too hard. Settles for Daryl falling into step beside him, their strides matching effortlessly, easy, like they’ve walked together like this for years.
When they come to a crossing, Rick pauses to wait for Daryl, who’s stopped momentarily to take in the new street signs, and shops, and everything that’s changed since he’d been here last. And when Daryl notices Rick perched on the edge of the curb, rocking on his heels, the corner of his mouth lifts into what Rick knows is a smile. “You can cross the street alone now, can’t you?” says Daryl.
It’s a jab at the days when Rick had hung back at the intersections, afraid of the cars and of breaking Cardinal Rule Number One: No Crossing the Street By Yourself, until Daryl returned to lead him through.
Rick wants to rolls his eyes, but holds back. “Yeah,” he says, with an easy grin of his own. “But I won’t be alone now, will I?” He raises his eyebrows, giving Daryl a meaningful look.
“Not alone,” Daryl says, thoughtful, joining Rick at the curb. “Not ever,” he adds, quiet. “If…if that’s what you want.”
“That is what I want,” Rick declares. As the light turns green, his hand brushes against Daryl’s, accidental and feather-light, but in an act that must take every ounce of Daryl’s bravery, he takes Rick’s hand, just like he did when Rick was little. Laces their fingers together, gentle, giving Rick a look that’s hesitant and unsure.
Giving him an out, in case this isn’t what Rick meant.
A bloom of affection bursts bright in Rick’s chest, because others had treated Rick like he was a secret, a shameful one, but Daryl taking his hand like this, not caring who could see, just touches him so deeply and so much.
Then Daryl’s arching a brow, like he’s still asking is this okay? and Rick’s caught between a jumble of yes, definitely, hell yeah before managing a tiny nod in response. Squeezes Daryl’s hand, tight, so he knows Rick wants this, more than anything.
It takes them a little less than ten minutes to make it to the block of flats where Rick’s living now, because he couldn’t, in good conscience, move halfway across town from his parents. But even if Daryl’s nice enough to see him to the door, it still feels like their night’s come to an end far too quickly.
“Well, this is me,” says Rick, gesturing to the door of his flat. They’ve traded contact information, and he knows Daryl’s staying in a studio apartment nearby, so it’s not as if he’ll never see Daryl again. But it feels like he’s just got Daryl back, and Rick can’t bear for him to leave again so soon.
“It was good seein’ you again,” Daryl offers.
Rick had been ready to invite him in, for a drink, a snack, or maybe a little more catching up of the kind Rick wanted to do. But Daryl’s words make it sound like he’s not interested in staying for long, and Rick won’t push for something Daryl’s not ready for. So he has to hold back the small, hurt sound that’s threatening to escape, because if there’s anything good about this moment at all, about having to say goodbye to Daryl all over again, it’s that Daryl still hasn’t let go of his hand.
“Yeah,” Rick says, nodding. “Maybe we should…” He makes a feeble motion with his other hand, at the phone he’s pulled out from his pocket. “You know.”
Rick’s hoping to stumble through the awkward mess of maybe we should get together again and when are you free, but before he can get the words out, Daryl’s walked Rick back against his door, hands braced on either side of Rick’s head. Gives Rick a second, two, to turn away if he wants, before he brings their mouths together, gentle.
It’s not hot and heavy and wet—just a light press of lips that’s warm and soft, with a hint of vanilla—but when Rick’s finished blinking, stunned, he surges forward, for a spit sandwich that’s twenty years overdue. Licks into Daryl’s mouth for more, for the taste of Daryl, and it’s no surprise when Daryl lets him, moving into their kiss with every fibre of his being in return. His right hand moves to tangle in Rick’s curls, tight, and his other moves to cup Rick’s cheek, like he can’t get enough of Rick, wants to touch and feel and caress every part of Rick he can reach. Like he’s not even sure Rick’s real and here before him.
Rick, for his part, just clutches Daryl’s shoulders, holding on and holding tight, to anchor him here, to Rick, because part of him fears that Daryl will disappear like smoke if he doesn’t. That Rick only gets this one night for all the times he’s wished Daryl back. That in the morning, when he wakes up, it’ll all have been a dream, and no one will know where Daryl’s gone, or who Daryl Dixon even is.
And Rick doesn’t know if he could take that—not after having Daryl back in his life, not after tasting the sweetness of his lips, having felt the warmth of his touch.
“Don’t leave,” says Rick, when they finally break apart for air. He means don’t leave me, not again, not ever, but the words won’t come, and Rick can’t seem to force them out, because they’re desperate, they’re needy, even if they’re nothing but the truth. “Don’t leave,” he says again, gasping it, between one kiss and the next, and he isn’t begging, he isn’t, he’s just—
Daryl seems to hear what’s in Rick’s heart regardless, and eases Rick’s hand off his shoulder. Knits their fingers together, tight, giving Rick the warmest feeling of staying and permanence and forever that mere words can’t provide.
“I won’t,” Daryl says, solemn. “Not again. Not ever.” Then he breaks into a grin, the kind that’s wide and lovely and rare, that makes Rick’s heart skip a beat in his chest. “Think we oughta seal the deal with a couple more kisses, though, don’t you think?” He nods to the inside of Rick’s flat, and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Just to be sure.”
“Spit sandwiches,” Rick says, correcting Daryl, and laughs, a tremulous but happy sound as he tugs Daryl into his flat.
And as Rick winds his arms around Daryl’s neck, to breathe his air, his scent, every proof of his life, he’s all too thankful to know that even if their first kiss had been a lifetime ago, it certainly won’t be the last.
[End]
End Notes:
This time, the parfait Rick and Daryl share for their first date was inspired by these ones here and here. Heart-shaped toasty waffles should totally be a thing. :3
And that’s a wrap for this fic! A big thank you to everyone who’s followed it from the beginning! And for those of you just joining now, thank you for giving this fic a try! I’ll see you all in the next Rickyl fic! :)
