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Title: Love, Essentially
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2370 (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.
~
Before long, Rick finds himself spending at least one evening a week with Daryl, just making their way through Rick’s collection of movies, from old black and white films to color contemporaries. And he loves how it’s only Daryl he can hold the popcorn bowl out to, with a Tootsie pop hidden inside, and say Well, do you feel lucky, punk? and get a laugh in return.
It’s also only Daryl who breaks Rick’s heart with the simplest of observations about their movies.
It’d be nice if you could move on up in the world, just from changin’ the way you talk, Daryl had said once, when they’d done another run of Audrey Hepburn, and My Fair Lady had come up. World don’t work that way, though.
Rick had stifled his own protest with a small handful of popcorn, before deciding humour was the best way to go on this. We could try, he’d said, grinning. You and me. We’ll talk like hoity toity, high-falutin’ sticks in the mud. See if they let us into a local debutante ball.
Nah, said Daryl. No point. I ain’t never gonna be anyone’s lady fair. He’d picked at the popcorn in his palm after that, sullen, and Rick had decided that switching the movie out for another one was the thing to do.
But not before thinking You could be my hunter rough, and I’d like you just as much.
When they’ve got a patch of days or weekends off, Rick finds he’s heading outside more, farther and farther out into the woods and forests surrounding their little county, traipsing along mosquito-infested waters and dry woodland with Daryl. Learning how to fish and hunt, instead of just sitting at home, even if the hunting had taken longer to learn, and it’d taken them several botched hunts to decide Rick was better with Merle’s old Remington rifle than a bow.
It’s not until much later, though, that Rick feels comfortable mentioning the kinds of things that had laid him low, made him spend evenings and weekends alone, with nothing more than lukewarm beer and maybe another sad set of TV dinners. And it’s only at Daryl’s gentle prodding, that Rick actually brings up the topic on his own.
The night it happens, they’re sitting out by a lake just after sunset, bellies full from the fish they’d caught and roasted during the day. Daryl’s on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, while Rick’s resting on his elbows, gazing up at the sky and watching the lazy drift of flame-red clouds as they fade into the deep indigos of the night, and they’re trading the kind of easy conversation that leads right up to it.
“I was never good at picking out the constellations in the sky,” Rick says. The stars all look the same to him, a billion tiny points of bright, twinkling light, and trillions of miles as far. “How about you?” He wonders if Daryl’s more well-versed in the stars than he lets on, having shown Rick how he’s hunted, tracked, and orientated himself by a few of them.
Daryl turns away from the low-hanging July moon, full and harvest gold against the backdrop of stars, as it shines through the treeline ahead. “Can pick out a few of ‘em,” he says with a thoughtful hum. “Spent a lotta time watchin’ ‘em when I was little. When my pa wasn’t…” His voice trails off, and it’s not wistful or angry in any way, just solemnly reflective.
Too late, Rick remembers the scars he’d seen on Daryl’s back earlier, and his heart clenches at the thought.
They’d been mucking around the lake, boots off and jeans rolled to their knees, seeing who could keep their balance on the crumbling dirt edge of it the longest, before Daryl had toppled Rick in with a well-placed shoulder pat. And when he’d stood over Rick to gloat, Rick had reached out on a whim, curled a palm around Daryl’s wrist, and pulled Daryl in with a laugh, the two of them ending up dog-wet with hair in their eyes.
Daryl had been unusually irritated at being dragged into the lake, even if it was just a little harmless fun, and even more so at the prospect of changing out of his clothes, despite the fact that they’d shedded their outer layers before approaching the water. And it wasn’t until he’d shrugged out of his soaked shirt to drag his vest back on that Rick knew why.
Rick had been in the middle of a You can’t sit in soaking clothes, you’ll catch a summer cold when he’d seen, the story of old hurts and scars written into Daryl’s skin, no matter how he turned and tried to hide it from Rick. And Rick had let his hands fall uselessly to his side, had breathed oh fuck and I’m sorry, just wishing he could’ve known Daryl earlier, could’ve kept him from this pain.
Can’t change what’s in the past, Daryl had said, all the fight bled from his voice, when he’d looked into Rick’s eyes and seen all the should have’s and could have’s.
The one who did that to you, Rick had asked. Where’s he now?
My pa? Daryl snorted. Gone, fifteen years this March.
Good, Rick had said, his answer more vicious than he intended. It’d surprised Daryl, even if he hadn’t commented on it. Good.
And maybe he’d seen something in the way Rick had balled his hands into fists, shaking, like there was still something he could do about it, because Daryl’s earlier irritation had given way to a grudging fondness, and twitching not-quite smiles, until they were at where they were now.
“Anyway,” Daryl says now. He clears his throat to chase away the memory of old ghosts, and reaches out to tap Rick’s shoulder. “You’ll wanna come over here, where I am. Better view and all.”
Rick shifts a little closer, until they’re side by side. Flattens his elbows out against the grass, until his back’s against the ground, body tilted toward the sky at the same angle as Daryl’s. Their legs and shoulders brush together gently, and Rick takes a chance, nudging the toe of his boot into Daryl’s, fond. “Yeah?”
“Showed you where the North star was before, right?”
Rick hums in the affirmative, and points at one of the brighter stars in the sky, able to recognize the ladle-shaped constellation it leads to by now. The Little Dipper.
“That’s right.” Daryl reaches out to guide Rick’s pointer finger just a little lower. “Right below that’s the Big Dipper. Supposed to be named after some girl that got turned into a bear. Guy with a jealous wife did it or somethin’.”
“A guy?” Rick laughs. “You mean a god.” Maybe he doesn’t know his constellations, but he does know his mythology; at least, there were a few half-remembered tales he’d learned from his days in grade school. The gods were fond of turning themselves or other beings into animals for kicks, though every once in a while, a nymph would beat them at their own game and transform into a bird or stream of their own accord.
Daryl snorts. “Whatever. Girl and her kid got turned into bears.” He guides Rick’s finger into tracing a shape that looks more like a swan preparing itself for a graceful, arced dive into water, than a bear. “There’s the big bear. The Big Dipper.”
Rick smiles, taking pleasure in the easy warmth of their hands joined together, just listening and nodding as Daryl points out the different constellations to him, along with his own version of the legends associated with them. Stories retold in a way that only Daryl could tell them.
You know that dumbass who tried to drive his pa’s sun wagon, except he couldn’t control the reins? Ended up scorchin’ the earth and got shot down? Well, that’s his brother up there. Spent forever collectin’ his bones from the earth. It made the gods cry, so they made him a swan in the sky.
That swan’s your Northern Cross. Think it’s got some fancy shit name too. Cygnus, or somethin’.
Or, That’s supposed to be Leo. Was supposed to be a lion that couldn’t be killed by any weapons. Daryl loops a shape that, no matter how Rick squints or tilts his head, still looks like a clothes iron. But Rick supposes ‘iron’ and ‘lion’ rhyme, so it it’s close enough. Some hero killed it with his bare hands. I wouldn’t have used my hands—damn thing like that could take off a finger or two. Guess you ain’t got much choice when you’re fightin’ for your life, though.
“And that one over there,” says Daryl. He catches Rick’s elbow, tugs just the slightest bit to get his attention, and Rick’s eyes snap open from where they’d been half-lidded, as he’d dozed lightly atop the grass, lulled into a gentle sleep by Daryl’s stories. “That’s Orion.” He traces out a shape in the sky with his finger that looks vaguely like a spaceship on two spindly legs, but Rick nods like he sees what Daryl’s seeing.
“Orion’s supposed to be a hunter, right?” says Rick. “Is he the one you’re most like?”
“Nah,” says Daryl. “Jackass killed for the hell of it. Me, I kill what I need. Don’t need to make no sport of it, or brag about bein’ able to kill anythin’ that moves.” He shrugs from where he lies, bringing their shoulders together, the rustle of fabric between them loud in the quiet of the night. “Ain’t got nothin’ to prove.”
“Oh,” says Rick, quiet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Daryl shakes his head. “It’s all right,” he says. He reaches over to give Rick’s belly a little pat, and the tiny motion is immensely reassuring somehow. Like he’s been instantly forgiven. “You didn’t know.”
Rick’s wondering if it would be entirely inappropriate to nudge into the touch, like a dog having its belly rubbed, when Daryl speaks again.
“You see that?” Daryl says. He points at a star that looks like it’s set apart from any of the small, enclosed clusters in the sky. Pauses, reflecting in silence for a moment longer, before adding, “I’m more like that one.”
“What, like a rogue star?” says Rick, laughing.
Daryl snorts. “Rogue. Yeah. Don’t need nothin’, or no one.” He falls silent again, and this time, when he looks at Rick, there’s heat and meaning and something Rick can’t quite name in his gaze. “Well,” Daryl says eventually, spreading his palms. “Somethin’ like that.”
“Somethin’ like that,” Rick echoes softly, nodding. He watches the lone star, remembering how he’d read that all stars are considered part of a constellation, no matter where they’re situated in the sky. So the fact that Daryl thinks he’s all alone, a rogue star, not tethered or bound to anyone, makes Rick inordinately sad.
Rick lets himself think in the quiet that’s fallen between them, an ambling sort of peace that lets him gather his thoughts, like gathering wisps of cloud that have blown into the far corners of the earth. Wonders if it’s too much for him to ask if Daryl’s ever had anyone in his life. If he’s lost anyone.
If it’s too much for Rick to reassure him with a You’ve always got me.
They could be a constellation all their own, Rick decides. A small one, that wouldn’t form grand shapes in the heavens, or be associated with legend, but had its own place in the world, because that was all they needed.
“Ever had anyone in your life?” Daryl asks, breaking their amicable silence. His voice is oddly soft, like he’d meant for it to come out casually, but instead sounds much too invested in Rick’s answer.
Rick lets out a slow sigh. Talking about Shane and Lori to anyone hasn’t gotten that much easier even if it has been more than half a year, but Daryl’s always so good at listening, just watching him with this sweet, doe-eyed look until Rick’s spoken his piece that Rick can’t leave him hanging. “There was a girl, once,” he admits. “Told her I loved her. But she was already someone else’s by then.” Some part of him warns him not to say too much, and Rick figures it should be safe to stop there.
Daryl nods, a silent motion of commiseration. If it wasn’t for the subject matter and the expanse of stars above, Rick would’ve thought they were kids on a camping trip, huddled in a blanket fort and sharing secrets in the dark.
“How about you?” Rick asks, turning to Daryl. Finds that he’s pitched his voice to the same volume as Daryl’s, meaning that maybe he’s just as afraid of Daryl’s answer as Daryl might have been of his.
Daryl sits up and shrugs. Scratches fingers into the soil for a loose pebble that he skips across the water, watching as each point of contact creates ripples upon ripples, scattering concentric circles along the surface, perfect. “Merle,” he says finally.
“Your brother?” Rick says, incredulous, like this wasn’t a fair exchange at all. “I thought you meant—”
“Never said it had to be someone special,” Daryl snaps, his next pebble sinking straight into the water with a miserable thunk. He grunts as Rick just gapes at him, as if to say the conversation’s closed, like he’s sorry for even asking, but Rick can see the faint blush of red on his cheeks, even in the wan glow of the night.
It’s only later, when their conversation drifts onto other topics and they’ve lain back against the grass to watch the stars again, that Rick realizes their exchange was fair. More than fair, with how much Daryl’s revealed by it.
It makes Rick wonder if Daryl’s ever had anyone like that in his life. Makes him wonder if maybe there hasn’t been anyone at all.
And it makes Rick wonder, in the nights to come, when it’s just him and Daryl at the docks, or in the woods, sitting close enough to touch, if Daryl would let it be him.
(tbc - Chapter 6)
End Notes:
Just for fun: the Rickyl constellation, here.
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2370 (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.
Before long, Rick finds himself spending at least one evening a week with Daryl, just making their way through Rick’s collection of movies, from old black and white films to color contemporaries. And he loves how it’s only Daryl he can hold the popcorn bowl out to, with a Tootsie pop hidden inside, and say Well, do you feel lucky, punk? and get a laugh in return.
It’s also only Daryl who breaks Rick’s heart with the simplest of observations about their movies.
It’d be nice if you could move on up in the world, just from changin’ the way you talk, Daryl had said once, when they’d done another run of Audrey Hepburn, and My Fair Lady had come up. World don’t work that way, though.
Rick had stifled his own protest with a small handful of popcorn, before deciding humour was the best way to go on this. We could try, he’d said, grinning. You and me. We’ll talk like hoity toity, high-falutin’ sticks in the mud. See if they let us into a local debutante ball.
Nah, said Daryl. No point. I ain’t never gonna be anyone’s lady fair. He’d picked at the popcorn in his palm after that, sullen, and Rick had decided that switching the movie out for another one was the thing to do.
But not before thinking You could be my hunter rough, and I’d like you just as much.
When they’ve got a patch of days or weekends off, Rick finds he’s heading outside more, farther and farther out into the woods and forests surrounding their little county, traipsing along mosquito-infested waters and dry woodland with Daryl. Learning how to fish and hunt, instead of just sitting at home, even if the hunting had taken longer to learn, and it’d taken them several botched hunts to decide Rick was better with Merle’s old Remington rifle than a bow.
It’s not until much later, though, that Rick feels comfortable mentioning the kinds of things that had laid him low, made him spend evenings and weekends alone, with nothing more than lukewarm beer and maybe another sad set of TV dinners. And it’s only at Daryl’s gentle prodding, that Rick actually brings up the topic on his own.
The night it happens, they’re sitting out by a lake just after sunset, bellies full from the fish they’d caught and roasted during the day. Daryl’s on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, while Rick’s resting on his elbows, gazing up at the sky and watching the lazy drift of flame-red clouds as they fade into the deep indigos of the night, and they’re trading the kind of easy conversation that leads right up to it.
“I was never good at picking out the constellations in the sky,” Rick says. The stars all look the same to him, a billion tiny points of bright, twinkling light, and trillions of miles as far. “How about you?” He wonders if Daryl’s more well-versed in the stars than he lets on, having shown Rick how he’s hunted, tracked, and orientated himself by a few of them.
Daryl turns away from the low-hanging July moon, full and harvest gold against the backdrop of stars, as it shines through the treeline ahead. “Can pick out a few of ‘em,” he says with a thoughtful hum. “Spent a lotta time watchin’ ‘em when I was little. When my pa wasn’t…” His voice trails off, and it’s not wistful or angry in any way, just solemnly reflective.
Too late, Rick remembers the scars he’d seen on Daryl’s back earlier, and his heart clenches at the thought.
They’d been mucking around the lake, boots off and jeans rolled to their knees, seeing who could keep their balance on the crumbling dirt edge of it the longest, before Daryl had toppled Rick in with a well-placed shoulder pat. And when he’d stood over Rick to gloat, Rick had reached out on a whim, curled a palm around Daryl’s wrist, and pulled Daryl in with a laugh, the two of them ending up dog-wet with hair in their eyes.
Daryl had been unusually irritated at being dragged into the lake, even if it was just a little harmless fun, and even more so at the prospect of changing out of his clothes, despite the fact that they’d shedded their outer layers before approaching the water. And it wasn’t until he’d shrugged out of his soaked shirt to drag his vest back on that Rick knew why.
Rick had been in the middle of a You can’t sit in soaking clothes, you’ll catch a summer cold when he’d seen, the story of old hurts and scars written into Daryl’s skin, no matter how he turned and tried to hide it from Rick. And Rick had let his hands fall uselessly to his side, had breathed oh fuck and I’m sorry, just wishing he could’ve known Daryl earlier, could’ve kept him from this pain.
Can’t change what’s in the past, Daryl had said, all the fight bled from his voice, when he’d looked into Rick’s eyes and seen all the should have’s and could have’s.
The one who did that to you, Rick had asked. Where’s he now?
My pa? Daryl snorted. Gone, fifteen years this March.
Good, Rick had said, his answer more vicious than he intended. It’d surprised Daryl, even if he hadn’t commented on it. Good.
And maybe he’d seen something in the way Rick had balled his hands into fists, shaking, like there was still something he could do about it, because Daryl’s earlier irritation had given way to a grudging fondness, and twitching not-quite smiles, until they were at where they were now.
“Anyway,” Daryl says now. He clears his throat to chase away the memory of old ghosts, and reaches out to tap Rick’s shoulder. “You’ll wanna come over here, where I am. Better view and all.”
Rick shifts a little closer, until they’re side by side. Flattens his elbows out against the grass, until his back’s against the ground, body tilted toward the sky at the same angle as Daryl’s. Their legs and shoulders brush together gently, and Rick takes a chance, nudging the toe of his boot into Daryl’s, fond. “Yeah?”
“Showed you where the North star was before, right?”
Rick hums in the affirmative, and points at one of the brighter stars in the sky, able to recognize the ladle-shaped constellation it leads to by now. The Little Dipper.
“That’s right.” Daryl reaches out to guide Rick’s pointer finger just a little lower. “Right below that’s the Big Dipper. Supposed to be named after some girl that got turned into a bear. Guy with a jealous wife did it or somethin’.”
“A guy?” Rick laughs. “You mean a god.” Maybe he doesn’t know his constellations, but he does know his mythology; at least, there were a few half-remembered tales he’d learned from his days in grade school. The gods were fond of turning themselves or other beings into animals for kicks, though every once in a while, a nymph would beat them at their own game and transform into a bird or stream of their own accord.
Daryl snorts. “Whatever. Girl and her kid got turned into bears.” He guides Rick’s finger into tracing a shape that looks more like a swan preparing itself for a graceful, arced dive into water, than a bear. “There’s the big bear. The Big Dipper.”
Rick smiles, taking pleasure in the easy warmth of their hands joined together, just listening and nodding as Daryl points out the different constellations to him, along with his own version of the legends associated with them. Stories retold in a way that only Daryl could tell them.
You know that dumbass who tried to drive his pa’s sun wagon, except he couldn’t control the reins? Ended up scorchin’ the earth and got shot down? Well, that’s his brother up there. Spent forever collectin’ his bones from the earth. It made the gods cry, so they made him a swan in the sky.
That swan’s your Northern Cross. Think it’s got some fancy shit name too. Cygnus, or somethin’.
Or, That’s supposed to be Leo. Was supposed to be a lion that couldn’t be killed by any weapons. Daryl loops a shape that, no matter how Rick squints or tilts his head, still looks like a clothes iron. But Rick supposes ‘iron’ and ‘lion’ rhyme, so it it’s close enough. Some hero killed it with his bare hands. I wouldn’t have used my hands—damn thing like that could take off a finger or two. Guess you ain’t got much choice when you’re fightin’ for your life, though.
“And that one over there,” says Daryl. He catches Rick’s elbow, tugs just the slightest bit to get his attention, and Rick’s eyes snap open from where they’d been half-lidded, as he’d dozed lightly atop the grass, lulled into a gentle sleep by Daryl’s stories. “That’s Orion.” He traces out a shape in the sky with his finger that looks vaguely like a spaceship on two spindly legs, but Rick nods like he sees what Daryl’s seeing.
“Orion’s supposed to be a hunter, right?” says Rick. “Is he the one you’re most like?”
“Nah,” says Daryl. “Jackass killed for the hell of it. Me, I kill what I need. Don’t need to make no sport of it, or brag about bein’ able to kill anythin’ that moves.” He shrugs from where he lies, bringing their shoulders together, the rustle of fabric between them loud in the quiet of the night. “Ain’t got nothin’ to prove.”
“Oh,” says Rick, quiet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Daryl shakes his head. “It’s all right,” he says. He reaches over to give Rick’s belly a little pat, and the tiny motion is immensely reassuring somehow. Like he’s been instantly forgiven. “You didn’t know.”
Rick’s wondering if it would be entirely inappropriate to nudge into the touch, like a dog having its belly rubbed, when Daryl speaks again.
“You see that?” Daryl says. He points at a star that looks like it’s set apart from any of the small, enclosed clusters in the sky. Pauses, reflecting in silence for a moment longer, before adding, “I’m more like that one.”
“What, like a rogue star?” says Rick, laughing.
Daryl snorts. “Rogue. Yeah. Don’t need nothin’, or no one.” He falls silent again, and this time, when he looks at Rick, there’s heat and meaning and something Rick can’t quite name in his gaze. “Well,” Daryl says eventually, spreading his palms. “Somethin’ like that.”
“Somethin’ like that,” Rick echoes softly, nodding. He watches the lone star, remembering how he’d read that all stars are considered part of a constellation, no matter where they’re situated in the sky. So the fact that Daryl thinks he’s all alone, a rogue star, not tethered or bound to anyone, makes Rick inordinately sad.
Rick lets himself think in the quiet that’s fallen between them, an ambling sort of peace that lets him gather his thoughts, like gathering wisps of cloud that have blown into the far corners of the earth. Wonders if it’s too much for him to ask if Daryl’s ever had anyone in his life. If he’s lost anyone.
If it’s too much for Rick to reassure him with a You’ve always got me.
They could be a constellation all their own, Rick decides. A small one, that wouldn’t form grand shapes in the heavens, or be associated with legend, but had its own place in the world, because that was all they needed.
“Ever had anyone in your life?” Daryl asks, breaking their amicable silence. His voice is oddly soft, like he’d meant for it to come out casually, but instead sounds much too invested in Rick’s answer.
Rick lets out a slow sigh. Talking about Shane and Lori to anyone hasn’t gotten that much easier even if it has been more than half a year, but Daryl’s always so good at listening, just watching him with this sweet, doe-eyed look until Rick’s spoken his piece that Rick can’t leave him hanging. “There was a girl, once,” he admits. “Told her I loved her. But she was already someone else’s by then.” Some part of him warns him not to say too much, and Rick figures it should be safe to stop there.
Daryl nods, a silent motion of commiseration. If it wasn’t for the subject matter and the expanse of stars above, Rick would’ve thought they were kids on a camping trip, huddled in a blanket fort and sharing secrets in the dark.
“How about you?” Rick asks, turning to Daryl. Finds that he’s pitched his voice to the same volume as Daryl’s, meaning that maybe he’s just as afraid of Daryl’s answer as Daryl might have been of his.
Daryl sits up and shrugs. Scratches fingers into the soil for a loose pebble that he skips across the water, watching as each point of contact creates ripples upon ripples, scattering concentric circles along the surface, perfect. “Merle,” he says finally.
“Your brother?” Rick says, incredulous, like this wasn’t a fair exchange at all. “I thought you meant—”
“Never said it had to be someone special,” Daryl snaps, his next pebble sinking straight into the water with a miserable thunk. He grunts as Rick just gapes at him, as if to say the conversation’s closed, like he’s sorry for even asking, but Rick can see the faint blush of red on his cheeks, even in the wan glow of the night.
It’s only later, when their conversation drifts onto other topics and they’ve lain back against the grass to watch the stars again, that Rick realizes their exchange was fair. More than fair, with how much Daryl’s revealed by it.
It makes Rick wonder if Daryl’s ever had anyone like that in his life. Makes him wonder if maybe there hasn’t been anyone at all.
And it makes Rick wonder, in the nights to come, when it’s just him and Daryl at the docks, or in the woods, sitting close enough to touch, if Daryl would let it be him.
(tbc - Chapter 6)
End Notes:
Just for fun: the Rickyl constellation, here.
