![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Love, Essentially
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2050 (63500 total)
Summary: To me, you are perfect.
Rick’s confession, made with snow-damp cue cards and every ounce of his devotion, had been perfection itself—except his perfect love belonged to someone else.
But spring’s in full swing now, and it’s the time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. It’s the season for change itself.
Little does Rick know how much his life will change.
A/N: A Love, Actually fusion fic. Inspired mainly by this gifset here, and this scene from the Love, Actually movie.
Extra Note: As this is a fusion fic of sorts (not a crossover), elements of the movie have been borrowed for this story. You won’t need to have seen the movie to understand the fic, however; the only knowledge needed is that Andrew Lincoln’s character in the movie has unrequited feelings toward his best friend’s bride-to-be/wife, and ends up confessing through cue cards, as shown in the video. This fic reworks a couple of things, since this is a Walking Dead version of similar events, but ultimately, this is the story of what happens after ‘Rick’ walks away—the healing and finding of a new love. :)
That’s all for now, happy reading!
~
Be nice to Lori, Shane always said.
Or, don’t be a dick, Rick—Shane’s favourite, because it rhymed.
And the age-old standby, I don’t know why you don’t like her, man.
Except Lori had known, hadn’t she? How the very opposite of that was true? Of course she had, after the set of cue cards Rick brought to her and Shane’s doorstep last Christmas, along with a portable stereo, thinking he was going to perform a midnight serenade—all while Shane was upstairs, hanging tinsel and balancing the star on their lovely little Christmas tree.
Lori had known, from the moment she’d seen Rick’s video of her and Shane’s wedding, and watched the way the camera focused solely on her, capturing every detail of Lori, Lori, Lori, from her lovely brown doe eyes to her laughing mouth. And Rick’s foolish attempt at confessing how he felt, because he thought he might burst from the ache of it, had only confirmed it.
To me, you are perfect.
Those had been the words Rick penned on the last card in the set, the embodiment of everything he thought she was. Everything he couldn’t have. And when he’d run out of cards and words to express himself, he’d flashed her a thumbs-up, not knowing if the motion meant Still friends, right? or No hard feelings, right? but it seemed like the physical equivalent of there you have it.
So there Lori had it, and the truth about Rick’s feelings was out.
Lori had chased him down in the street, amid flickering Christmas lights and tinsel that winked when the moon caught it just right, and given him a kiss to the cheek. A light and chaste press of lips, as if to say Thank you for loving me and goodbye.
That’d been months ago, and from the looks of things, Lori’s kept his secret. Hasn’t told Shane all about it so they could have a laugh at Rick’s expense together, because Shane hasn’t come around with his hands balled into fists and a heard you been makin’ moves on my woman posturing bullshit. And Rick’s grateful for that, at least.
But then he remembers that was months ago. That it’s the start of June now, and spring’s in full swing. It should be a time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. He should be over Lori by now.
And he is, mostly, except for those quiet nights every once in a while. When he thinks back to her warm brown eyes, ones that said I’m sorry, even as she’d taken in his confession, even as she’d kissed him, chaste, on the cheek. Her laugh. Her smile. When Rick curses his luck, thinking it could’ve been me, in the house that night, decorating the tree and putting up tinsel.
It could’ve been me.
Rick shakes his head now, because there’s no point thinking about things past. Shoulders his way out of the crowded local coffee shop—Duncan’s Donuts, because the owner hadn’t wanted a lawsuit on his hands from Dunkin’ Donuts—and makes his way down the street, heading back to the station for the afternoon debriefing.
Work’s all he’s got now, having thrown himself into it for the past couple of months. Because he’s tired of tagging along with Shane and Lori and being the third wheel. Tired of listening to their we’re trying for a baby’s and what should we name it’s and you wanna be the godfather, Rick? He knows they only mean well, but it’s salt on a sore wound and he doesn’t need that right now.
Rick’s just tired of everything. But work makes for a welcome distraction and a good excuse too, because he’s not interested in heading down to the local dive with his other buddies, not up for hooking another fish from the sea like they’re all telling him to. And these days, after the lateral work transfer, he doesn’t even have to see Shane as much, and hence Lori, so things are looking up anyway.
He’s tucked the folder of case files he was supposed to look at over lunch under one arm and balanced his coffee mug in the other hand, just looking to step into another balmy Georgia afternoon when someone knocks into him, hard. Sloshes Rick’s coffee down the front of his uniform and scatters his papers across the sidewalk, one hovering dangerously close to the gutter.
“Are you kidding me?” says a high, whining voice.
Rick looks up into pretty blue eyes and gold-spun hair, wondering if this is the day his fortunes turn around. If this is the day where the woman stops in her tracks, and, enchanted by his rugged good looks, apologizes, flustered, and helps him pick up his papers. They’ll have a good laugh about it, followed by coffee at cozy teahouses and dinners at fancy restaurants, and after a whirlwind romance, they’ll have a charming little love story to tell their kids.
Except she’s not looking at him at all, too busy texting on her phone as she walks on by, and she only spares a moment to look behind her and throw Rick a glare. Makes a sound somewhere between irritation and disdain, like Rick somehow got in her way, and it wasn’t her own single-minded devotion to her phone that led to their collision.
Leaves Rick in the dust, coffee dripping from his uniform and his papers strewn across the street.
Rick sighs and kneels to pick up the scattered reports, guessing it serves him right for buying into the foolish dream of a Hollywood romance. From where he’s kneeling, he can see another pair of legs pass by, slacks with worn-out sandals. Another, with a run in the pantyhose and black high heels.
He stops counting after six people pass him by and not a single person stops to help, some of them even speeding up to pretend they haven’t seen him.
Figures, Rick decides sourly. Should’ve known better than to believe in the kindness of other people.
And just as he’s thought that, he sees a pair of hands scraping his papers up from the pavement, even peeling up the coffee-drenched ones, separating them out from the others and trying to tidy them all into a neat bunch to hand to him. Someone kneeling on his level, actually stopping to help him.
“Thanks,” Rick says, as the hands before him gather up the papers. The documents aren’t in order anymore, but the fact that someone’s helping him is more than enough already. Makes it one less report he’s going to have to chase down when the wind whirls it away.
Rick looks up to thank his saviour, because if he’d lost a single report, the chief would have his ass, and that’s just not something he needs on a day like today. And if this were a rom-com like the ones his sister adored, he’d look up into eyes of bluest blue, and the sun would form a halo behind the kind soul who took the time to stop and help him, making them look like an angel or the next messiah.
As it is, Rick looks up into eyes that aren’t blue, aren’t slate-grey, but somewhere confusingly in between. He takes a moment to consider how, if he had to name the color, he’d call it grue, or bley, before realizing that’s no way to think about someone who’s stopped just to help him. And there’s no sun shining from behind to form an ethereal backlight, no choir singing heavenly hymns; it’s just a man in a black shirt with cutoff sleeves, a leather vest that’s seen better days, and jeans with more holes in them than a wedge of Swiss cheese.
“Thanks,” says Rick, blinking, even if his voice falters for just a moment. “I mean it.”
“Sure.” The man nods, hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He’s well on his way to becoming the spitting image of the messiah at least, hair growing beyond his ears and a fair amount of scruff along his jaw. When they’ve gathered all of the papers, he stands up and digs around in his back pocket, and it’s only a second before he’s offering Rick a faded red rag, to soak up the hot coffee Rick’s slopped all over himself.
“You don’t have to…” Rick tries, gesturing uselessly, before the rag’s pressed into his hand, insistent, and he’s met with a You need it, use it. “Thanks,” he says again. And this time, he remembers to infuse that word with how grateful he really is, setting aside his disappointment that he didn’t just meet a blonde angel out there on the street. Hands the rag back with his best attempt at a smile.
The man wrings the rag out onto grass while Rick’s putting his papers in order, and as he does so, Rick can’t help but notice the flex of his arms, the muscle corded and lean. “You all right, then?” he asks Rick, tucking the rag back into his pocket.
And when Rick nods, still a little dazed—because god, those arms— the man gives him a small, quick nod in return, and turns to walk away.
He’s definitely different, all right, Rick thinks. Someone unusual. Someone new. Like a breath of fresh air, somehow, Rick decides, before backtracking and figuring there’s no need to go that far in describing him yet.
“Wait,” says Rick, jogging the few steps it takes to close the distance between them. “Wait.”
The man turns around, instantly alert. Like he’s ready for an attack, if it comes. “Yeah?”
“I’m Rick,” says Rick, knowing somehow that he’s got to offer his name first. “How about you?” He offers his hand too, hoping it’s a motion disarming enough for the man to accept. And maybe he didn’t meet his soulmate from this, but there’s no need to be a dick about it either.
The man narrows his eyes, like he’s taking Rick’s measure. Studying, evaluating him, to see if Rick means him any ill will. Means to use the information against him, somehow. “Daryl,” he says, when he’s finally decided, the taut line of his shoulders relaxing just a touch. And when he clasps Rick’s hand, his shake is solid and firm and warm, which is great, because Rick hates cold, dead fish handshakes.
Daryl. Rick beams at him as he tucks the mess of coffee-stained papers under his arm. “Look, I got a meetin’ I need to get to, but you really saved me this time. Let me make it up to you with a coffee or somethin’.”
Daryl shoves his hands into his pockets. “Don’t need to thank me,” he says gruffly. “Was just the decent thing to do.”
Rick’s shaking his head already, because no, six people passed him by and none of them had done the decent thing, and he’s feeling like this small kindness has to be rewarded somehow. “You know what they say. One good turn deserves another.”
“Well, ain’t you a saint,” Daryl snorts. He seems to be able to tell that Rick won’t let him go without a fight though, and with a grunt, fishes a napkin out of his jeans. “Shop closes at six,” he says, scrawling a number onto it. “You can call after that, if you want.”
“The shop?” Rick’s brow crinkles.
“My brother’s motorcycle repair shop,” Daryl shrugs. “Over on Oak. I rebuild ‘em and do repairs for him from time to time.”
Oh. Rick knows the one Daryl’s talking about, even if he’s never given it a second look. Big M’s Motors. He’d always thought, from the name, that it dealt in used cars or car parts. “That’s the one across from the late-night diner, right?” He glances at the number written into food-stained paper and smiles. “I’ll call you after close, then.”
Daryl blinks at him, like he’s still not sure this exchange is real. “You do that,” he says with a nod.
And as Daryl turns and walks away, Rick finally notices the pattern that’s stitched into the back of his vest, now that he’s not chasing Daryl down.
It’s a pair of white wings.
Angel wings.
Huh, Rick blinks, surprised. How about that.
(tbc - Chapter 2)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2050 (63500 total)
Summary: To me, you are perfect.
Rick’s confession, made with snow-damp cue cards and every ounce of his devotion, had been perfection itself—except his perfect love belonged to someone else.
But spring’s in full swing now, and it’s the time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. It’s the season for change itself.
Little does Rick know how much his life will change.
A/N: A Love, Actually fusion fic. Inspired mainly by this gifset here, and this scene from the Love, Actually movie.
Extra Note: As this is a fusion fic of sorts (not a crossover), elements of the movie have been borrowed for this story. You won’t need to have seen the movie to understand the fic, however; the only knowledge needed is that Andrew Lincoln’s character in the movie has unrequited feelings toward his best friend’s bride-to-be/wife, and ends up confessing through cue cards, as shown in the video. This fic reworks a couple of things, since this is a Walking Dead version of similar events, but ultimately, this is the story of what happens after ‘Rick’ walks away—the healing and finding of a new love. :)
That’s all for now, happy reading!
Be nice to Lori, Shane always said.
Or, don’t be a dick, Rick—Shane’s favourite, because it rhymed.
And the age-old standby, I don’t know why you don’t like her, man.
Except Lori had known, hadn’t she? How the very opposite of that was true? Of course she had, after the set of cue cards Rick brought to her and Shane’s doorstep last Christmas, along with a portable stereo, thinking he was going to perform a midnight serenade—all while Shane was upstairs, hanging tinsel and balancing the star on their lovely little Christmas tree.
Lori had known, from the moment she’d seen Rick’s video of her and Shane’s wedding, and watched the way the camera focused solely on her, capturing every detail of Lori, Lori, Lori, from her lovely brown doe eyes to her laughing mouth. And Rick’s foolish attempt at confessing how he felt, because he thought he might burst from the ache of it, had only confirmed it.
To me, you are perfect.
Those had been the words Rick penned on the last card in the set, the embodiment of everything he thought she was. Everything he couldn’t have. And when he’d run out of cards and words to express himself, he’d flashed her a thumbs-up, not knowing if the motion meant Still friends, right? or No hard feelings, right? but it seemed like the physical equivalent of there you have it.
So there Lori had it, and the truth about Rick’s feelings was out.
Lori had chased him down in the street, amid flickering Christmas lights and tinsel that winked when the moon caught it just right, and given him a kiss to the cheek. A light and chaste press of lips, as if to say Thank you for loving me and goodbye.
That’d been months ago, and from the looks of things, Lori’s kept his secret. Hasn’t told Shane all about it so they could have a laugh at Rick’s expense together, because Shane hasn’t come around with his hands balled into fists and a heard you been makin’ moves on my woman posturing bullshit. And Rick’s grateful for that, at least.
But then he remembers that was months ago. That it’s the start of June now, and spring’s in full swing. It should be a time for new beginnings. The first blooms of new loves. He should be over Lori by now.
And he is, mostly, except for those quiet nights every once in a while. When he thinks back to her warm brown eyes, ones that said I’m sorry, even as she’d taken in his confession, even as she’d kissed him, chaste, on the cheek. Her laugh. Her smile. When Rick curses his luck, thinking it could’ve been me, in the house that night, decorating the tree and putting up tinsel.
It could’ve been me.
Rick shakes his head now, because there’s no point thinking about things past. Shoulders his way out of the crowded local coffee shop—Duncan’s Donuts, because the owner hadn’t wanted a lawsuit on his hands from Dunkin’ Donuts—and makes his way down the street, heading back to the station for the afternoon debriefing.
Work’s all he’s got now, having thrown himself into it for the past couple of months. Because he’s tired of tagging along with Shane and Lori and being the third wheel. Tired of listening to their we’re trying for a baby’s and what should we name it’s and you wanna be the godfather, Rick? He knows they only mean well, but it’s salt on a sore wound and he doesn’t need that right now.
Rick’s just tired of everything. But work makes for a welcome distraction and a good excuse too, because he’s not interested in heading down to the local dive with his other buddies, not up for hooking another fish from the sea like they’re all telling him to. And these days, after the lateral work transfer, he doesn’t even have to see Shane as much, and hence Lori, so things are looking up anyway.
He’s tucked the folder of case files he was supposed to look at over lunch under one arm and balanced his coffee mug in the other hand, just looking to step into another balmy Georgia afternoon when someone knocks into him, hard. Sloshes Rick’s coffee down the front of his uniform and scatters his papers across the sidewalk, one hovering dangerously close to the gutter.
“Are you kidding me?” says a high, whining voice.
Rick looks up into pretty blue eyes and gold-spun hair, wondering if this is the day his fortunes turn around. If this is the day where the woman stops in her tracks, and, enchanted by his rugged good looks, apologizes, flustered, and helps him pick up his papers. They’ll have a good laugh about it, followed by coffee at cozy teahouses and dinners at fancy restaurants, and after a whirlwind romance, they’ll have a charming little love story to tell their kids.
Except she’s not looking at him at all, too busy texting on her phone as she walks on by, and she only spares a moment to look behind her and throw Rick a glare. Makes a sound somewhere between irritation and disdain, like Rick somehow got in her way, and it wasn’t her own single-minded devotion to her phone that led to their collision.
Leaves Rick in the dust, coffee dripping from his uniform and his papers strewn across the street.
Rick sighs and kneels to pick up the scattered reports, guessing it serves him right for buying into the foolish dream of a Hollywood romance. From where he’s kneeling, he can see another pair of legs pass by, slacks with worn-out sandals. Another, with a run in the pantyhose and black high heels.
He stops counting after six people pass him by and not a single person stops to help, some of them even speeding up to pretend they haven’t seen him.
Figures, Rick decides sourly. Should’ve known better than to believe in the kindness of other people.
And just as he’s thought that, he sees a pair of hands scraping his papers up from the pavement, even peeling up the coffee-drenched ones, separating them out from the others and trying to tidy them all into a neat bunch to hand to him. Someone kneeling on his level, actually stopping to help him.
“Thanks,” Rick says, as the hands before him gather up the papers. The documents aren’t in order anymore, but the fact that someone’s helping him is more than enough already. Makes it one less report he’s going to have to chase down when the wind whirls it away.
Rick looks up to thank his saviour, because if he’d lost a single report, the chief would have his ass, and that’s just not something he needs on a day like today. And if this were a rom-com like the ones his sister adored, he’d look up into eyes of bluest blue, and the sun would form a halo behind the kind soul who took the time to stop and help him, making them look like an angel or the next messiah.
As it is, Rick looks up into eyes that aren’t blue, aren’t slate-grey, but somewhere confusingly in between. He takes a moment to consider how, if he had to name the color, he’d call it grue, or bley, before realizing that’s no way to think about someone who’s stopped just to help him. And there’s no sun shining from behind to form an ethereal backlight, no choir singing heavenly hymns; it’s just a man in a black shirt with cutoff sleeves, a leather vest that’s seen better days, and jeans with more holes in them than a wedge of Swiss cheese.
“Thanks,” says Rick, blinking, even if his voice falters for just a moment. “I mean it.”
“Sure.” The man nods, hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He’s well on his way to becoming the spitting image of the messiah at least, hair growing beyond his ears and a fair amount of scruff along his jaw. When they’ve gathered all of the papers, he stands up and digs around in his back pocket, and it’s only a second before he’s offering Rick a faded red rag, to soak up the hot coffee Rick’s slopped all over himself.
“You don’t have to…” Rick tries, gesturing uselessly, before the rag’s pressed into his hand, insistent, and he’s met with a You need it, use it. “Thanks,” he says again. And this time, he remembers to infuse that word with how grateful he really is, setting aside his disappointment that he didn’t just meet a blonde angel out there on the street. Hands the rag back with his best attempt at a smile.
The man wrings the rag out onto grass while Rick’s putting his papers in order, and as he does so, Rick can’t help but notice the flex of his arms, the muscle corded and lean. “You all right, then?” he asks Rick, tucking the rag back into his pocket.
And when Rick nods, still a little dazed—because god, those arms— the man gives him a small, quick nod in return, and turns to walk away.
He’s definitely different, all right, Rick thinks. Someone unusual. Someone new. Like a breath of fresh air, somehow, Rick decides, before backtracking and figuring there’s no need to go that far in describing him yet.
“Wait,” says Rick, jogging the few steps it takes to close the distance between them. “Wait.”
The man turns around, instantly alert. Like he’s ready for an attack, if it comes. “Yeah?”
“I’m Rick,” says Rick, knowing somehow that he’s got to offer his name first. “How about you?” He offers his hand too, hoping it’s a motion disarming enough for the man to accept. And maybe he didn’t meet his soulmate from this, but there’s no need to be a dick about it either.
The man narrows his eyes, like he’s taking Rick’s measure. Studying, evaluating him, to see if Rick means him any ill will. Means to use the information against him, somehow. “Daryl,” he says, when he’s finally decided, the taut line of his shoulders relaxing just a touch. And when he clasps Rick’s hand, his shake is solid and firm and warm, which is great, because Rick hates cold, dead fish handshakes.
Daryl. Rick beams at him as he tucks the mess of coffee-stained papers under his arm. “Look, I got a meetin’ I need to get to, but you really saved me this time. Let me make it up to you with a coffee or somethin’.”
Daryl shoves his hands into his pockets. “Don’t need to thank me,” he says gruffly. “Was just the decent thing to do.”
Rick’s shaking his head already, because no, six people passed him by and none of them had done the decent thing, and he’s feeling like this small kindness has to be rewarded somehow. “You know what they say. One good turn deserves another.”
“Well, ain’t you a saint,” Daryl snorts. He seems to be able to tell that Rick won’t let him go without a fight though, and with a grunt, fishes a napkin out of his jeans. “Shop closes at six,” he says, scrawling a number onto it. “You can call after that, if you want.”
“The shop?” Rick’s brow crinkles.
“My brother’s motorcycle repair shop,” Daryl shrugs. “Over on Oak. I rebuild ‘em and do repairs for him from time to time.”
Oh. Rick knows the one Daryl’s talking about, even if he’s never given it a second look. Big M’s Motors. He’d always thought, from the name, that it dealt in used cars or car parts. “That’s the one across from the late-night diner, right?” He glances at the number written into food-stained paper and smiles. “I’ll call you after close, then.”
Daryl blinks at him, like he’s still not sure this exchange is real. “You do that,” he says with a nod.
And as Daryl turns and walks away, Rick finally notices the pattern that’s stitched into the back of his vest, now that he’s not chasing Daryl down.
It’s a pair of white wings.
Angel wings.
Huh, Rick blinks, surprised. How about that.
(tbc - Chapter 2)
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