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Title: Love, Essentially
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2500 (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.
~
Rick’s sitting on his couch after work, the television on mute as he counts down the minutes, because he can’t call early—too eager—but he definitely can’t call too late.
The moment it hits six o’ clock, Rick yanks out his phone, checking that the napkin Daryl’s scrawled his number on hasn’t bled ink all over the place, and that the coffee he’d spilled on himself earlier hadn’t soaked it through. It’s thankfully intact, and while Rick’s fingers drum a primitive staccato of now, now, now over the keys, he manages to wait a staggering three minutes before punching the number in on his phone.
It rings six times, and halfway through the seventh, Rick hangs up in a panic. Has to take one calming breath, two, before trying again. Because what if Daryl’s changed his mind? What if he’s decided he doesn’t want Rick’s gratitude anymore? After all, stopping to help Rick out was only the decent thing to—
Someone picks up on the fifth ring this time, and it’s not Daryl’s voice, low and gruff, but another, brusque and loud and sandpaper-rough. “We’re closed,” snaps the voice on the other end. “Ain’t got no after-hours service here. Whaddaya want?”
“I’m lookin’ for Daryl?” Rick says, feeling sweat gather on his palms. He reaches down to blot a hand on his jeans.
There’s a pause and some shuffling, before the voice yells, “Daryl, there’s a call for you! Get your ass out here, before I—”
Rick hears a soft Shut up, Merle, I got it, and the sound of a phone cord squeaking and stretching, before Daryl’s on the phone. “Yeah,” he says.
Somehow it doesn’t surprise Rick that that’s his form of greeting, and something warm threads through Rick’s chest at the sound of Daryl’s voice.
“Hey. It’s Rick. You know, from this afternoon?” It’s only now that Rick realizes he has no idea how to continue, like his mouth’s been gummed shut, and he falls back on tried and true conversation starters, only to find he’s having trouble with those too. “I was wonderin’—well, I was thinkin’—” Rick tries in the end, hoping to spit out the name of a coffee shop, any coffee shop out, before Daryl cuts him off.
“It’s all right,” says Daryl. “You don’t gotta follow through. Like I said, it was just the decent thing to do.”
“No,” Rick says, immediate, because he can’t have Daryl thinking that he’s changed his mind, that he’s reneging on his offer to take Daryl out for coffee. “That’s not what I meant. No.”
He’s met with silence from the other end, before Daryl says, “Well, you got a place in mind?”
“How about Duncan’s Donuts?” says Rick. It’s one of his favourite haunts, because even if the donuts aren’t gourmet, they’re cheap and they taste good, and the coffee’s got that kick to it he likes. And Daryl seems to know where it is, considering they’d met almost in front of the shop. “Does tomorrow work for you?”
“Sure,” says Daryl. There’s a soft rustle of clothing, and Rick can imagine Daryl shrugging, even if he can’t see. “I’m off early tomorrow. Maybe four-thirty?”
“Yeah, that—” Rick says, before remembering to do a quick mental check of his own schedule. He’ll be off work an hour before then. “That’ll work fine.”
In the background, he catches the same, grating voice jeering, What’s that, Darylena, you got a hot date lined up? Ole Merle’s broads ain’t good enough for you?
Daryl huffs a frustrated breath. “See you tomorrow,” he says, before hanging up in a hurry, presumably to shut Merle up. Merle grates on Rick’s nerves too—Rick’s pretty sure he’s figured out who the M in Big M’s Motors is now—but neither he nor the deafening sound of the phone crashing into its cradle dampen the grin that’s spread across his face.
“Tomorrow,” Rick echoes, nodding, even if there’s no one on the other end now.
It’s an hour later before Rick realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling, even as he settles in to another microwaved meal, leftovers from the fried chicken the station ordered two nights ago.
A date, Rick thinks. Lets himself feel a little giddy at the prospect. A date.
He hadn’t thought about it that way until Merle had mocked Daryl for it, but now that the idea’s in place, he can’t seem to let it go.
Sure, that it’s with another man throws him for a bit of a loop, but it’s not like Rick didn’t experiment a little back in the day. And he just can’t forget the eyes that didn’t look away when Rick met them. That held his gaze, calm and cool, like they were equals in everything they did. That didn’t skitter away guiltily when Rick said thank you and I mean it with every ounce of gratefulness he could manage.
It’s another hour before Rick discovers that he hasn’t taken in a single word of the news he’s watching, or the sports highlights, instead finding himself at the computer, looking up the names of all the colors between blue and grey.
When he finally finds the exact shade of Daryl’s eyes on an encyclopaedia site, the name of it doesn’t surprise him at all.
Shadow blue, Rick muses. Daryl had certainly seemed like that, appearing in Rick’s life suddenly, like smoke, silent, before trying to slip away again into shadow.
And when he finally falls asleep that night, for the first time in ages, Rick dreams not of chocolate-brown eyes and lips the ripeness of berries, but of shadows and smoke and the warmth of strong, broad hands.
~
Rick arrives early at Duncan’s Donuts, even after agonizing over what to wear—he’d gone with his faded Braves sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that hadn’t been laundered within an inch of its life—and settles into the booth he’s snagged. Being early, though, subjects him to the awkward drivel of first date conversations all around him, like so what do you do and what are you into and Rick’s only too glad he and Daryl got most of that over with in their first meeting.
“Hey,” Daryl says, walking up and sliding into the booth across from Rick. He’s wearing a different shirt today, black plaid shorn off at the arms again, and jeans with a crust of blood at the knee, but free of holes.
If Rick didn’t know any better, he’d think Daryl put real effort into dressing less casually today. Either way, he can’t stop himself from appreciating the way the shirt accentuates Daryl’s arms, but Daryl takes his appreciative gaze to mean something else.
“Didn’t bring no candy or flowers,” Daryl says, probably thinking Rick’s eyeing his empty hands. “But you didn’t seem the type.”
Rick only grins, because just with Daryl’s arrival, his day’s looking up already. “Me neither,” he says. And with that mutual understanding out of the way, they fall to easy small talk about the weather, the drive here, and the coffee shop, as they open their menus.
There’s a food menu in addition to the ones for drinks and donuts, since the owner dabbles in fast food. But Rick’s not sure how long they’ll be here, or if Daryl wants to stay longer than the time Rick takes to thank him. So he ends up making an order for a honey cruller and a cup of black coffee, which Daryl matches with a Boston Cream and coffee with three sugars on the side.
Huh. He’s got a hell of a sweet tooth, Rick notes, when their order comes and Daryl takes his time stirring the sugar into his coffee, like he’s making sure it melts just right.
“So,” Rick starts, clearing his throat, “I, uh. I just wanted to tell you again how glad I am, that you stopped yesterday. To help me. Woulda had my ass handed to me back at the station, if you hadn’t.”
Daryl lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Wasn’t no big deal.” He pauses between a sip and a stir to ask, “Those papers important?”
“You have no idea,” Rick says, his eyes wide, and that just kicks off a whole conversation about the work he does and why. And even if he can’t share the details of the case he’s working on right now, he tells Daryl about others he’s worked, like ones solved just by two errant fingerprints from a keyboard, or ones that’ve gone cold without a single clue, until years later.
Daryl, for his part, just listens and nods, like he’s actually taking in what Rick tells him. Chimes in from time to time with some of his experiences in the Georgia woods that are consistent with what Rick’s telling him about manhunts they’ve done, both agreeing that man, rain is a bitch when you’re trackin’ footprints.
And just like that, they’ve found common ground. Even when the conversation about what Rick does peters out, either one of them’s ready to pick up the slack, when they’re not enjoying the companionable silence.
“So why were you near Duncan’s, anyway?” Rick asks, when Daryl’s finished telling him about his brother’s shop and some of the vehicles they service there. He’s not asking because he’s dying to know, but because he’s just curious, as to why Daryl would be in a joint like that in the first place.
“You mean why would I go near a place that’s crawlin’ with cops and teenagers?” Daryl says, giving Rick that half-smile he’s familiar with by now. “Just gettin’ somethin’ for my brother, Merle. The donuts here…”
They’re cheap and they taste good, Rick thinks, taking a sip of his coffee. When he looks up, Daryl’s just staring at him, half-smile still curving his lips. Which is when he realizes he’s said it out loud, and at the same time as Daryl.
“Yeah,” says Daryl, leaning back in his chair. There’s a bigger grin pulling at the edge of his mouth, but still no bigger than a half-moon. “That’s it.” He takes a second to dip his finger into the Boston Cream, and licks the filling from his finger, slow, like he’s making the moment last. Like he’s teasing Rick somehow.
And as Rick watches Daryl’s cheeks hollow around his finger, he has to wonder if it’s completely intentional—especially when Daryl’s eyes flick up to meet Rick’s, his own hooded and dark.
Rick swallows guiltily, and it’s loud enough that Daryl can hear. But he sets the tantalizing image of Daryl sucking down his finger aside, because if Daryl didn’t mean it like that, Rick’s going to look like a fool if he brings it up first.
It’s dark out by the time they’re finished their meal—Rick had added an order of root beers and curly fries to share so they could keep sitting here—and Rick’s blinking hard, trying to fend off sleep, but failing. He’d had a long day at the station after all, and no one had been impressed with his coffee-stained reports from the day before. Still, he’s had a good time here, and found Daryl to be a great listener, talking where it counts and nodding when it’s Rick’s turn to be heard, instead of jumping in to fill the silences or droning on about himself.
And he likes this, talking to Daryl; the man’s not full of flighty laughter, doesn’t bat his eyes like a hummingbird, and most of all, isn’t into the heavy-handed flirty touches that some of the waitresses here and the receptionists at the station are. All in all, it’s almost like hanging out with Shane, even if there’s something different about it Rick can’t quite put his finger on.
“Gettin’ late,” Daryl offers finally, when the waitresses start making their rounds for last orders before the kitchen closes. The words hover between them, like neither one of them is ready to acknowledge the fact. Like neither one of them is quite ready to go home yet.
Rick’s wracking his brain for something, anything, to say to Daryl, words that translate into when can I see you again, because he can’t stand for this to just end when they say their goodbyes. Can’t bear the thought of their suddenly being strangers again, and having nothing to do with each other once they leave.
Then Daryl’s speaking again, and Rick looks up into those shadow blues, thinking he could get lost in them forever if only Daryl would let him, and says very eloquently, “Huh?”
Daryl huffs something close to a laugh. “Your head lost in the clouds there, officer?” and Rick wants to say No, just in your eyes, when Daryl repeats himself. “You said you were into old movies. Westerns, too.”
They’d been talking about old westerns at one point, the topic having come up when Daryl said Rick had looked like a regular Clint Eastwood, with his cowboy hat and gun belt, when Daryl came upon him in the street, all coffee-soaked and miserable.
All you’re missin’ now is the beard, Daryl had said, flicking fingers at Rick’s jaw. And Rick had thrown his head back and laughed, like he hadn’t in a long time, because no one had ever compared him to a star from the silver screen before.
Hope I’m just as handsome, Rick had joked, feeling so at ease with Daryl that Rick had winked at him too, as he said it.
And Daryl had watched his expression, wary, before tipping his head to the side, assessing. Maybe better, he’d said, voice real quiet and low, like he was completely serious. He’d let that hang in the air for a moment, and when Rick only blinked at him, wondering if he’d heard it the way Daryl meant it, Daryl changed the subject to ask him what he’d thought of Eastwood’s later work, The Bridges of Madison County.
“Yeah?” Rick says now. Clears his throat and tries again. “I mean, yeah. Hang ‘Em High. Blazing Saddles. You name it, I’ve probably seen it.”
“They’re…they’re reshowin’ High Plains Drifter at the theatre this Saturday.” Daryl’s got his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, and oddly enough, it’s the one moment he can’t quite meet Rick’s eyes. “Don’t know if you wanna—”
“Yes,” says Rick immediately, before remembering that he shouldn’t sound so eager. But by the look of the small near-smile that’s making its way across Daryl’s face, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
“See you at eight, then?” Daryl says. And Rick loves the way he can meet Daryl’s gaze now, the moment Daryl dares look up again. “Gives us some time to talk before the movie.”
“I’ll be there,” Rick beams.
And even as they leave the coffee shop and go their separate ways, Rick just keeps right on beaming, at nothing and no one, just thinking I’ll be there.
I’ll be anywhere Daryl wants me to be.
(tbc - Chapter 3)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2500 (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.
Rick’s sitting on his couch after work, the television on mute as he counts down the minutes, because he can’t call early—too eager—but he definitely can’t call too late.
The moment it hits six o’ clock, Rick yanks out his phone, checking that the napkin Daryl’s scrawled his number on hasn’t bled ink all over the place, and that the coffee he’d spilled on himself earlier hadn’t soaked it through. It’s thankfully intact, and while Rick’s fingers drum a primitive staccato of now, now, now over the keys, he manages to wait a staggering three minutes before punching the number in on his phone.
It rings six times, and halfway through the seventh, Rick hangs up in a panic. Has to take one calming breath, two, before trying again. Because what if Daryl’s changed his mind? What if he’s decided he doesn’t want Rick’s gratitude anymore? After all, stopping to help Rick out was only the decent thing to—
Someone picks up on the fifth ring this time, and it’s not Daryl’s voice, low and gruff, but another, brusque and loud and sandpaper-rough. “We’re closed,” snaps the voice on the other end. “Ain’t got no after-hours service here. Whaddaya want?”
“I’m lookin’ for Daryl?” Rick says, feeling sweat gather on his palms. He reaches down to blot a hand on his jeans.
There’s a pause and some shuffling, before the voice yells, “Daryl, there’s a call for you! Get your ass out here, before I—”
Rick hears a soft Shut up, Merle, I got it, and the sound of a phone cord squeaking and stretching, before Daryl’s on the phone. “Yeah,” he says.
Somehow it doesn’t surprise Rick that that’s his form of greeting, and something warm threads through Rick’s chest at the sound of Daryl’s voice.
“Hey. It’s Rick. You know, from this afternoon?” It’s only now that Rick realizes he has no idea how to continue, like his mouth’s been gummed shut, and he falls back on tried and true conversation starters, only to find he’s having trouble with those too. “I was wonderin’—well, I was thinkin’—” Rick tries in the end, hoping to spit out the name of a coffee shop, any coffee shop out, before Daryl cuts him off.
“It’s all right,” says Daryl. “You don’t gotta follow through. Like I said, it was just the decent thing to do.”
“No,” Rick says, immediate, because he can’t have Daryl thinking that he’s changed his mind, that he’s reneging on his offer to take Daryl out for coffee. “That’s not what I meant. No.”
He’s met with silence from the other end, before Daryl says, “Well, you got a place in mind?”
“How about Duncan’s Donuts?” says Rick. It’s one of his favourite haunts, because even if the donuts aren’t gourmet, they’re cheap and they taste good, and the coffee’s got that kick to it he likes. And Daryl seems to know where it is, considering they’d met almost in front of the shop. “Does tomorrow work for you?”
“Sure,” says Daryl. There’s a soft rustle of clothing, and Rick can imagine Daryl shrugging, even if he can’t see. “I’m off early tomorrow. Maybe four-thirty?”
“Yeah, that—” Rick says, before remembering to do a quick mental check of his own schedule. He’ll be off work an hour before then. “That’ll work fine.”
In the background, he catches the same, grating voice jeering, What’s that, Darylena, you got a hot date lined up? Ole Merle’s broads ain’t good enough for you?
Daryl huffs a frustrated breath. “See you tomorrow,” he says, before hanging up in a hurry, presumably to shut Merle up. Merle grates on Rick’s nerves too—Rick’s pretty sure he’s figured out who the M in Big M’s Motors is now—but neither he nor the deafening sound of the phone crashing into its cradle dampen the grin that’s spread across his face.
“Tomorrow,” Rick echoes, nodding, even if there’s no one on the other end now.
It’s an hour later before Rick realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling, even as he settles in to another microwaved meal, leftovers from the fried chicken the station ordered two nights ago.
A date, Rick thinks. Lets himself feel a little giddy at the prospect. A date.
He hadn’t thought about it that way until Merle had mocked Daryl for it, but now that the idea’s in place, he can’t seem to let it go.
Sure, that it’s with another man throws him for a bit of a loop, but it’s not like Rick didn’t experiment a little back in the day. And he just can’t forget the eyes that didn’t look away when Rick met them. That held his gaze, calm and cool, like they were equals in everything they did. That didn’t skitter away guiltily when Rick said thank you and I mean it with every ounce of gratefulness he could manage.
It’s another hour before Rick discovers that he hasn’t taken in a single word of the news he’s watching, or the sports highlights, instead finding himself at the computer, looking up the names of all the colors between blue and grey.
When he finally finds the exact shade of Daryl’s eyes on an encyclopaedia site, the name of it doesn’t surprise him at all.
Shadow blue, Rick muses. Daryl had certainly seemed like that, appearing in Rick’s life suddenly, like smoke, silent, before trying to slip away again into shadow.
And when he finally falls asleep that night, for the first time in ages, Rick dreams not of chocolate-brown eyes and lips the ripeness of berries, but of shadows and smoke and the warmth of strong, broad hands.
Rick arrives early at Duncan’s Donuts, even after agonizing over what to wear—he’d gone with his faded Braves sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that hadn’t been laundered within an inch of its life—and settles into the booth he’s snagged. Being early, though, subjects him to the awkward drivel of first date conversations all around him, like so what do you do and what are you into and Rick’s only too glad he and Daryl got most of that over with in their first meeting.
“Hey,” Daryl says, walking up and sliding into the booth across from Rick. He’s wearing a different shirt today, black plaid shorn off at the arms again, and jeans with a crust of blood at the knee, but free of holes.
If Rick didn’t know any better, he’d think Daryl put real effort into dressing less casually today. Either way, he can’t stop himself from appreciating the way the shirt accentuates Daryl’s arms, but Daryl takes his appreciative gaze to mean something else.
“Didn’t bring no candy or flowers,” Daryl says, probably thinking Rick’s eyeing his empty hands. “But you didn’t seem the type.”
Rick only grins, because just with Daryl’s arrival, his day’s looking up already. “Me neither,” he says. And with that mutual understanding out of the way, they fall to easy small talk about the weather, the drive here, and the coffee shop, as they open their menus.
There’s a food menu in addition to the ones for drinks and donuts, since the owner dabbles in fast food. But Rick’s not sure how long they’ll be here, or if Daryl wants to stay longer than the time Rick takes to thank him. So he ends up making an order for a honey cruller and a cup of black coffee, which Daryl matches with a Boston Cream and coffee with three sugars on the side.
Huh. He’s got a hell of a sweet tooth, Rick notes, when their order comes and Daryl takes his time stirring the sugar into his coffee, like he’s making sure it melts just right.
“So,” Rick starts, clearing his throat, “I, uh. I just wanted to tell you again how glad I am, that you stopped yesterday. To help me. Woulda had my ass handed to me back at the station, if you hadn’t.”
Daryl lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Wasn’t no big deal.” He pauses between a sip and a stir to ask, “Those papers important?”
“You have no idea,” Rick says, his eyes wide, and that just kicks off a whole conversation about the work he does and why. And even if he can’t share the details of the case he’s working on right now, he tells Daryl about others he’s worked, like ones solved just by two errant fingerprints from a keyboard, or ones that’ve gone cold without a single clue, until years later.
Daryl, for his part, just listens and nods, like he’s actually taking in what Rick tells him. Chimes in from time to time with some of his experiences in the Georgia woods that are consistent with what Rick’s telling him about manhunts they’ve done, both agreeing that man, rain is a bitch when you’re trackin’ footprints.
And just like that, they’ve found common ground. Even when the conversation about what Rick does peters out, either one of them’s ready to pick up the slack, when they’re not enjoying the companionable silence.
“So why were you near Duncan’s, anyway?” Rick asks, when Daryl’s finished telling him about his brother’s shop and some of the vehicles they service there. He’s not asking because he’s dying to know, but because he’s just curious, as to why Daryl would be in a joint like that in the first place.
“You mean why would I go near a place that’s crawlin’ with cops and teenagers?” Daryl says, giving Rick that half-smile he’s familiar with by now. “Just gettin’ somethin’ for my brother, Merle. The donuts here…”
They’re cheap and they taste good, Rick thinks, taking a sip of his coffee. When he looks up, Daryl’s just staring at him, half-smile still curving his lips. Which is when he realizes he’s said it out loud, and at the same time as Daryl.
“Yeah,” says Daryl, leaning back in his chair. There’s a bigger grin pulling at the edge of his mouth, but still no bigger than a half-moon. “That’s it.” He takes a second to dip his finger into the Boston Cream, and licks the filling from his finger, slow, like he’s making the moment last. Like he’s teasing Rick somehow.
And as Rick watches Daryl’s cheeks hollow around his finger, he has to wonder if it’s completely intentional—especially when Daryl’s eyes flick up to meet Rick’s, his own hooded and dark.
Rick swallows guiltily, and it’s loud enough that Daryl can hear. But he sets the tantalizing image of Daryl sucking down his finger aside, because if Daryl didn’t mean it like that, Rick’s going to look like a fool if he brings it up first.
It’s dark out by the time they’re finished their meal—Rick had added an order of root beers and curly fries to share so they could keep sitting here—and Rick’s blinking hard, trying to fend off sleep, but failing. He’d had a long day at the station after all, and no one had been impressed with his coffee-stained reports from the day before. Still, he’s had a good time here, and found Daryl to be a great listener, talking where it counts and nodding when it’s Rick’s turn to be heard, instead of jumping in to fill the silences or droning on about himself.
And he likes this, talking to Daryl; the man’s not full of flighty laughter, doesn’t bat his eyes like a hummingbird, and most of all, isn’t into the heavy-handed flirty touches that some of the waitresses here and the receptionists at the station are. All in all, it’s almost like hanging out with Shane, even if there’s something different about it Rick can’t quite put his finger on.
“Gettin’ late,” Daryl offers finally, when the waitresses start making their rounds for last orders before the kitchen closes. The words hover between them, like neither one of them is ready to acknowledge the fact. Like neither one of them is quite ready to go home yet.
Rick’s wracking his brain for something, anything, to say to Daryl, words that translate into when can I see you again, because he can’t stand for this to just end when they say their goodbyes. Can’t bear the thought of their suddenly being strangers again, and having nothing to do with each other once they leave.
Then Daryl’s speaking again, and Rick looks up into those shadow blues, thinking he could get lost in them forever if only Daryl would let him, and says very eloquently, “Huh?”
Daryl huffs something close to a laugh. “Your head lost in the clouds there, officer?” and Rick wants to say No, just in your eyes, when Daryl repeats himself. “You said you were into old movies. Westerns, too.”
They’d been talking about old westerns at one point, the topic having come up when Daryl said Rick had looked like a regular Clint Eastwood, with his cowboy hat and gun belt, when Daryl came upon him in the street, all coffee-soaked and miserable.
All you’re missin’ now is the beard, Daryl had said, flicking fingers at Rick’s jaw. And Rick had thrown his head back and laughed, like he hadn’t in a long time, because no one had ever compared him to a star from the silver screen before.
Hope I’m just as handsome, Rick had joked, feeling so at ease with Daryl that Rick had winked at him too, as he said it.
And Daryl had watched his expression, wary, before tipping his head to the side, assessing. Maybe better, he’d said, voice real quiet and low, like he was completely serious. He’d let that hang in the air for a moment, and when Rick only blinked at him, wondering if he’d heard it the way Daryl meant it, Daryl changed the subject to ask him what he’d thought of Eastwood’s later work, The Bridges of Madison County.
“Yeah?” Rick says now. Clears his throat and tries again. “I mean, yeah. Hang ‘Em High. Blazing Saddles. You name it, I’ve probably seen it.”
“They’re…they’re reshowin’ High Plains Drifter at the theatre this Saturday.” Daryl’s got his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, and oddly enough, it’s the one moment he can’t quite meet Rick’s eyes. “Don’t know if you wanna—”
“Yes,” says Rick immediately, before remembering that he shouldn’t sound so eager. But by the look of the small near-smile that’s making its way across Daryl’s face, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
“See you at eight, then?” Daryl says. And Rick loves the way he can meet Daryl’s gaze now, the moment Daryl dares look up again. “Gives us some time to talk before the movie.”
“I’ll be there,” Rick beams.
And even as they leave the coffee shop and go their separate ways, Rick just keeps right on beaming, at nothing and no one, just thinking I’ll be there.
I’ll be anywhere Daryl wants me to be.
(tbc - Chapter 3)
