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Love, Essentially (6/16)
Title: Love, Essentially
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3600 (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.
~
After that, it becomes only natural for Rick to seek out Daryl’s company more and more. Because it’s easy conversation and even easier silence, during which they can talk without speaking, a press of the shoulders or knees, a gesture of the hands, or a flick of the eyes all accomplishing more than words ever could.
And Rick loves this, the way they can pick up on each other’s feelings, without even talking.
Daryl will notice the hunch of Rick’s shoulders, in the way that he doesn’t want to talk, and he’ll just wait until Rick does. And Rick can pick up on the various angles at which Daryl slouches, which range from feelin’ lazy and relaxed to shit day at the shop, don’t bother me if you don’t want your ass kicked, and can take the appropriate action. Like sprawling right out alongside him, or letting Daryl grunt out pieces of his shitty day, his shoulder pressed into Rick’s, or their hips gently aligned as they talk.
It’s not entirely one-sided either; for every trip Daryl takes him out on, Rick shows him things in town that he’s sure Daryl hasn’t had the pleasure to enjoy. Things like seeing the newest movies out. Inviting him over to catch the latest work of some old stars from the silver screen.
And ever since the time Daryl had admitted that the smell of fresh baked bread reminded him of his ma, back when things hadn’t yet soured between her and his old man, Rick’s made the effort to take him out to different bakeries. To let him gaze upon the colors of freshly decorated cakes, breathe in the sweetness of caramelized sugar and revel in the gentle hum of bread dough formed in giant mixers, in wonder, before promptly buying them a loaf each of their feature flavours to share.
They’ve just left the Bake n’ Take with a full bag today, half for Rick and Daryl to enjoy, and half as a peace offering for Merle, so he’ll quit nagging about Daryl taking time off from the repair shop. Rick had only intended to buy their chive and garlic focaccia, and another savoury loaf, but they’d stumbled onto a deal for sweet rolls and pastries that was too good to pass up. Ended up buying far more than they needed.
Truth be told though, Rick can’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Not when he can see the smile flit across Daryl’s face now, small, nearly unnoticeable, but there all the same, that makes it all worth it. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t do it for that shy little smile, whenever Daryl made his way through a baked sweet, one of the fleeting moments where it felt like Rick could make Daryl happy.
They’ve settled on a bench just down the street from the Bake n’ Take, Daryl rifling through their bag, because neither of them can wait until they get to Rick’s to dig into the sweet rolls. And when Daryl finds what he’s looking for, making that sound halfway between a grunt and an excited little peep, Rick feels a grin spreading straight from his heart to his mouth, like he’s beaming from the inside out. A grin that’s wide and honest, and god-awful soppy, but Rick can’t be bothered to hide.
I want you, Rick finds himself thinking this time, when Daryl’s bitten into the apple custard bun Rick bought for him, and his smile at the warmth and buttery smell of it is the just the right amount of sweet. The thought’s immediately accompanied by a floating thought-cloud of words like lovely and adorable, before Rick’s paling and sweating from practically every pore in his body, thinking shit and no and where the hell did that come from.
Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.
He’s not supposed to fall harder for Daryl. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to fall for him at all. He’s not supposed to be thinking things like I want you, not without knowing if Daryl even feels the same.
Maybe Rick hard started this thinking hey, maybe we could be something, but now that it’s really started being something, especially on Rick’s part, he’s scared to death.
It doesn’t help matters that his heart’s made the long jump ahead of his brain, leaping across the barrier of think I could like him and going straight into the deep end, drowning in the quicksand of adoration, attraction, and something that feels a lot like lo—
But Daryl, Daryl’s the big unknown in this equation, and it’s a fact Rick keeps coming back to. He hasn’t shown many heavy-handed hints that he’d be interested in Rick that way, beyond their occasional banter. And his frequent touches. And his habit of licking everything from his fingers, in a way that’s weirdly sensual, that Rick’s pretty sure is just a habit, instead of some sly way of flirting with him.
All right, Rick wasn’t totally sure about that, but still, it was better to be safe, than sorry later.
There was also the fact that Merle would probably murder Rick, if he made a pass at Daryl and it turned out that he’d read the situation dead wrong.
And there’s the question that’s plagued Rick since the start, the doubt that keeps him from making the next move. From taking that small step and closing the distance between him and Daryl. Because even if Daryl does feel the same, what if Rick’s just displacing the feelings he’d had for Lori onto Daryl?
That wouldn’t be fair to Daryl at all.
“Rick,” Daryl’s saying. “Rick.” Nudging the uneaten portion of his bun against Rick’s nose as if they’re smelling salts and have the power to revive Rick from whatever stupor he’s fallen into. And if that isn’t absolutely adorable, Rick doesn’t know what is.
“Hey,” Rick says, blinking. Chastises himself for worrying, instead of enjoying the time they’re spending together.
“Whatever it is, you’re thinkin’ too hard,” says Daryl. He raises his eyebrows, giving Rick that wanna talk about it? look, but Rick just shakes his head.
“It’s just somethin’ at work,” he offers. “Some new traffic measures half the force doesn’t agree with.”
Daryl narrows his eyes, suspicious, like he doesn’t quite believe, though he leaves the conversation at that, and they move on to discussing the trip Daryl’s thinking of taking them on the next time Rick’s free. Spend the rest of the time just talking, Daryl picking off pieces of the bun to hand to Rick, and Rick taking them and eating without thinking, like Daryl’s a natural extension of himself, knowing just what Rick wants and needs.
But even if Rick’s dodged Daryl’s suspicions and his own temporary crisis this time, the ball’s already started rolling, and it’s all downhill from there. Because as much Rick doesn’t want to feel, I want you soon turns into other things. Softer things, like—
I want to keep you, Rick thinks, whenever he watches the light catch Daryl’s tiny smiles just right. The way the sun strikes his hair in late afternoons, turning dark oak into summer gold. He thinks of broad shoulders and grime-brushed cheeks now, and the way Daryl moves through the woods, silent, stalking prey like a predator, body sleek and toned like a natural hunter of the forest.
I wish I could hold you, he decides, when Daryl’s fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie, from too-long hours at Merle’s shop. When he’s curled into Rick, away from the cold of their tent, on their weekend camping trips. He’d only have to reach out and put his arms around Daryl, sleeping bag and all, to change what’s there between them into more.
And not the last of his thoughts, but perhaps the most damning: I want forever with you. To be by Daryl’s side. To wake up every morning with Daryl’s head pillowed against him, and watch him rub the sleep from his eyes, as Rick weaves fingers into his soft, sleep-rumpled hair.
No, no, no.
I’m not in love with him, Rick tries to repeat to himself, when those softer thoughts emerge, time and time again. I’m in love with the idea of being in love. I’m looking for another Lori in him, that’s all.
I’m not in love with Daryl.
Except the more he tells himself he’s not, the more Rick finds his mind wandering to Daryl, until Daryl’s pervaded every thought of his, every moment, every dream.
Something’s got to give, Rick decides. Something’s got to happen, to tip the scales in either direction, because he can’t keep lying to himself this way. Maybe it’ll be in a flash of blinding light, or in some grand, sweeping gesture Daryl does that’ll propel Rick forward, but either way, he’ll suddenly know the truth of it all, see the way forward, and finally figure out which way to go on this, instead of being forever paralyzed by indecision.
And on the third day of his indecision—or maybe it’s the hundredth, all Rick knows is that he hasn’t thought about anyone else, hasn’t had time for anyone else—the sign he’s been hoping for finally appears.
~
As it happens, there’s no flash of blinding light, and Daryl doesn’t suddenly woo Rick with candlelight, wine, or secret paths lined with rose petals.
They’re just out at the local park, keeping to the marked paths to avoid stepping on dog droppings, because as nice as it is out, Daryl’s got to stay close to town in case Merle needs him at the shop. Merle had been out of town for the week, and was still laid up at home, recovering from a hell of a bender, stipulating that Daryl had to be on call, in case anyone wanted them to open up shop for the weekend.
And to be honest, Rick can’t complain, because it’s nice to stay in town for the weekend once in a while. To simply catch a movie and take an aimless stroll through the park like they’re doing today, shoulders bumping amicably every now and then, falling into the same stride as they walk together.
“Don’t know how long Merle’s gonna be outta commission,” Daryl says now, rolling his eyes, “so maybe not next weekend. But how about the one after that? Might need three days for the place I got in mind, though.”
“Think I could take a sick day,” Rick says slowly, contemplating how he’s going to make this work. He figures it shouldn’t be a problem, considering he hasn’t taken a sick day in months.
The plans they’re making for the weekend after are for a stretch of woods that Daryl swears is famous for their white-tailed buck deer, and while it goes unspoken, they’ll probably spend the coming weekend staying in town and watching movies at Rick’s, especially if Merle hasn’t pulled himself together by then.
They pass the mini barbeque pits set up for families and a few hot dog stands scattered around the park, though Rick hopes they’ll be coming upon a drink stand soon, since he’s starting to get thirsty after the theatre popcorn and hadn’t actually thought to bring water.
It’s only a few minutes later before he spots a lemonade stand in the distance. The only decision Rick’s caught between now is whether he can stand the time spent apart from Daryl in heading over to the stand, or whether he’d like to quench his thirst first.
Strangely enough, it’s Daryl who makes the decision for him.
“Feelin’ kinda thirsty,” says Daryl, as they near the lemonade stand. “You want anythin’?”
“No, I’m—well, I could share,” Rick says. Since Daryl’s brought it up anyway, it’s not as if he has much of a choice anymore. Yes, he could definitely do with a cold glass of something.
Daryl nods. “Be back in minute,” he says, jogging over to the stand, while Rick finds them an unoccupied park bench to sit on. Daryl returns not with a simple glass of lemonade, but the kind that comes in a commemorative mason jar, ones that none but the most conscientious of collectors bother with.
“Don’t the ones in jars cost extra?” Rick asks, crinkling his brow. “Cup woulda been fine.” He blinks at the jar Daryl’s holding, with a cheap lithograph of the state of Georgia emblazoned across it that’ll wash off in a year. An overgrown, leafy peach stamped on top. In case anyone didn’t know theirs was the Peach State, somehow.
Georgia On My Mind, Rick reads along the bottom of the picture. As if quoting the title of the old Ray Charles song on a mason jar was enough do the classic piece justice.
Daryl just shrugs and holds the jar out to him. “You want some or not?”
Rick nods as he takes the jar. “What’s in this, anyway?” The lemonade looks an unnatural shade of blue, the kind saved for hot-rods and neon signs, found only in a spark of lightning in a thunderstorm.
For that, Rick gets another shrug in response. “Lady called it ‘Electric Blue’,” says Daryl. “Saw it and thought of the color of your e—your truck.” He blinks a little too rapidly, and scowls, like that hadn’t been what he meant to say.
“I don’t have a truck,” says Rick.
“Well, somebody’s damn truck,” Daryl says testily. “Look, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”
And Rick remembers his mother always telling him if you’ve got nothing nice to say to a gift, shut your mouth and just say thank you, so he does that here, before Daryl can get up in arms about whose truck the lemonade reminds him of. If it’s even a truck at all. Because it certainly isn’t Rick’s, since the Jeep his sister dumped on him is a lovely shade of what Daryl dubs duckshit green.
It seems to work, because Daryl relents, letting his legs sprawl out from the park bench, arms along the back of it, relaxed. Seeing as how the park bench isn’t that big to begin with, however, it leaves his hip and knee pressed lightly against Rick’s. He watches as Rick struggles with the lid of the jar, and snorts, when after three attempts at twisting it off, Rick makes no progress.
“Give it here,” says Daryl, even as Rick holds on, careful not to drop the jar. Takes the rag from his back pocket and anchors it around the lid. Twists it off in one go, pressed up against Rick as he does so.
Rick holds the jar out to Daryl first, but Daryl just shakes his head. “You have what you want first,” he says. “I’ll take whatever’s left. Too sweet for me to finish on my own.”
“All right,” says Rick, taking the first small sip. It goes down smooth and cold and sweet, and the glass sweating in his hand is a welcome chill from the day’s heat.
Only, there’s something else that sends a shiver down Rick’s spine, one of anticipation that isn’t from the cool sweetness of the lemonade, but from Daryl’s knee and hip pressed against his, warmth seeping through the lightest layer of Rick’s clothing into skin.
Daryl just grins, small and knowing, when he sees the appreciative smile on Rick’s face. “There,” he says, nodding as Rick takes another small gulp. Lets it slide down easy, a swallow of liquid smoothness that cools Rick from within. “It’s nice, ain’t it?”
And Rick isn’t sure whether he’s talking about the lemonade, or the fact that Daryl’s pressed right up against him on the tiny park bench, but he nods. “Yeah,” Rick says, swallowing another sip of the lemonade, then another, as he holds Daryl’s gaze, Daryl’s eyes just a shade darker than the drink they’re sharing. “Real nice.”
Daryl’s the first to look away, and at that, something curls in the pit of Rick’s belly, like a lump of cooling coal.
Shit, Rick thinks, hoping he can blame the warmth creeping into his cheeks on the summer heat. He got the double meaning, all right.
Rick’s starting to wonder what he could possibly say to save this situation, like maybe I meant the lemonade was real nice, and not your eyes or your touch or anything, realizing that’d just dig himself deeper, when Daryl takes the jar from him. Drains the rest of it, in long, slow swallows, his Adam’s apple moving in a hypnotic shift that draws Rick’s gaze. Huffs a short, satisfied breath when he’s finished.
“Here.” Daryl nudges the empty jar into Rick’s hands. “You’re always sayin’ your desk at work’s a mess. Maybe you can put your stuff in here. Your things,” he says, when Rick just blinks at him.
“Right,” says Rick, staring at the peach printed atop the backdrop of Georgia. Finds it hard to swallow, to breathe, his chest filling with a sensation he can’t quite name.
No, Rick decides, fighting against himself. I’m not feeling what I think I am.
Daryl taps the jar in Rick’s hands and motions at the inside. “Maybe wash it out first, though,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Or you’ll get all kinds of weird shit growin’ in it.”
“Right,” Rick says again, before his brain reaches out, seizing the connection with his heart, and he realizes the flare of warmth blossoming in his chest is affection, and gratitude, and something he won’t put a name to, all at once. He’s absolutely touched by this small gesture, because god, he does have a lot of stuff and things, in paper clips, thumb tacks, and knickknacks, and they clutter up his workspace like nothing else on earth. “Thank you,” he remembers to say. “Thank you.”
Daryl shrugs and gives him a shy smile, like he hasn’t ever been told he’s done a thing right, like Rick is the first, and something flutters deep inside Rick’s chest, a little oh of realization, that of course it’s not just affection and gratitude he’s feeling. A flutter that turns into the fury of a windstorm, the feeling he won’t name fighting its way free, despite himself.
Oh, thinks Rick, his heart skipping a beat in his chest.
Because this is all the floodgates opening at once, and all the I don’t love him’s are washed away in the tidal wave of Yes, you damn well do. This is the overwhelming retribution for all the times he’s not let himself overthink their touches, not forgiven himself for enjoying their time together and thinking of it as more than friends.
This is the moment of stunning clarity, despite the lack of heralding trumpets and a large banner unfurling before his eyes, that it’s Daryl. It’s Daryl. It’s never been anyone else.
Daryl looks beautiful before him, a faint dusting of pink about his cheeks, and Rick’s struck by the urge to kiss the two spots of color, to cup Daryl’s cheeks in his hands and see if his mouth tastes like the lemonade they’ve just shared. To see if it’s sweeter, if the taste of Daryl is something far better than lemonade. It’s not as if he hasn’t noticed how striking Daryl was before, because Rick’s always been looking at Daryl, watching, noticing, but it feels like it’s the first time Rick’s really let himself see.
This is it, Rick realizes. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
And of course it wasn’t in any grand, sweeping gesture, because Daryl doesn’t do things like that. In fact, it isn’t anything different from what Daryl usually does; it’s just Daryl being Daryl, thoughtful and kind in a way all his own, and that touches Rick’s heart the most.
It’s this tiny action that banishes the doubts that have been circling in Rick’s mind. Casts aside the fears that maybe he’s just been looking for another Lori all this time, or a shadow of her in everything Daryl does. Makes it clear as crystal just who it is Rick wants. And maybe Rick doesn’t know if he’s wanted in return, but this epiphany’s enough to keep him going, pushing him in the direction he’s wanted to find for so long.
“You all right?” Daryl asks, his brow furrowed, like he’s got some inkling of the way Rick’s world has just shifted on its axes.
“Yeah,” says Rick, grinning from ear to ear. “Hell, I’m more than all right.”
And while Daryl arches a brow and peers at the mason jar Rick’s holding, muttering about there being meth in the lemonade, because he can’t explain how Rick’s suddenly so happy, Rick’s thinking back to when his sister had sat beside him, watching him film Shane and Lori’s wedding dance.
Are you in love with him? Rachel had asked, as she caught Rick mooning after the couple on the dance floor. Sure, she’d been off the mark, thinking it was Shane that Rick wanted then, but maybe—maybe she hadn’t been that far off the mark, after all.
Are you in love with him? she’d persisted, even though Rick had balked at the question. Because it’s all right if you are.
Yeah, Rick thinks now, with a new conviction, as he watches Daryl. His smile hardly dims as they rise from the bench and he falls into step beside Daryl, as naturally as he blinks or breathes. I am in love with him.
And it’s all right that I am.
Now all Rick had to figure out was what to do about it.
(tbc - Chapter 7)
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Pairing: Rick / Daryl
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3600 (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.
After that, it becomes only natural for Rick to seek out Daryl’s company more and more. Because it’s easy conversation and even easier silence, during which they can talk without speaking, a press of the shoulders or knees, a gesture of the hands, or a flick of the eyes all accomplishing more than words ever could.
And Rick loves this, the way they can pick up on each other’s feelings, without even talking.
Daryl will notice the hunch of Rick’s shoulders, in the way that he doesn’t want to talk, and he’ll just wait until Rick does. And Rick can pick up on the various angles at which Daryl slouches, which range from feelin’ lazy and relaxed to shit day at the shop, don’t bother me if you don’t want your ass kicked, and can take the appropriate action. Like sprawling right out alongside him, or letting Daryl grunt out pieces of his shitty day, his shoulder pressed into Rick’s, or their hips gently aligned as they talk.
It’s not entirely one-sided either; for every trip Daryl takes him out on, Rick shows him things in town that he’s sure Daryl hasn’t had the pleasure to enjoy. Things like seeing the newest movies out. Inviting him over to catch the latest work of some old stars from the silver screen.
And ever since the time Daryl had admitted that the smell of fresh baked bread reminded him of his ma, back when things hadn’t yet soured between her and his old man, Rick’s made the effort to take him out to different bakeries. To let him gaze upon the colors of freshly decorated cakes, breathe in the sweetness of caramelized sugar and revel in the gentle hum of bread dough formed in giant mixers, in wonder, before promptly buying them a loaf each of their feature flavours to share.
They’ve just left the Bake n’ Take with a full bag today, half for Rick and Daryl to enjoy, and half as a peace offering for Merle, so he’ll quit nagging about Daryl taking time off from the repair shop. Rick had only intended to buy their chive and garlic focaccia, and another savoury loaf, but they’d stumbled onto a deal for sweet rolls and pastries that was too good to pass up. Ended up buying far more than they needed.
Truth be told though, Rick can’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Not when he can see the smile flit across Daryl’s face now, small, nearly unnoticeable, but there all the same, that makes it all worth it. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t do it for that shy little smile, whenever Daryl made his way through a baked sweet, one of the fleeting moments where it felt like Rick could make Daryl happy.
They’ve settled on a bench just down the street from the Bake n’ Take, Daryl rifling through their bag, because neither of them can wait until they get to Rick’s to dig into the sweet rolls. And when Daryl finds what he’s looking for, making that sound halfway between a grunt and an excited little peep, Rick feels a grin spreading straight from his heart to his mouth, like he’s beaming from the inside out. A grin that’s wide and honest, and god-awful soppy, but Rick can’t be bothered to hide.
I want you, Rick finds himself thinking this time, when Daryl’s bitten into the apple custard bun Rick bought for him, and his smile at the warmth and buttery smell of it is the just the right amount of sweet. The thought’s immediately accompanied by a floating thought-cloud of words like lovely and adorable, before Rick’s paling and sweating from practically every pore in his body, thinking shit and no and where the hell did that come from.
Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.
He’s not supposed to fall harder for Daryl. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to fall for him at all. He’s not supposed to be thinking things like I want you, not without knowing if Daryl even feels the same.
Maybe Rick hard started this thinking hey, maybe we could be something, but now that it’s really started being something, especially on Rick’s part, he’s scared to death.
It doesn’t help matters that his heart’s made the long jump ahead of his brain, leaping across the barrier of think I could like him and going straight into the deep end, drowning in the quicksand of adoration, attraction, and something that feels a lot like lo—
But Daryl, Daryl’s the big unknown in this equation, and it’s a fact Rick keeps coming back to. He hasn’t shown many heavy-handed hints that he’d be interested in Rick that way, beyond their occasional banter. And his frequent touches. And his habit of licking everything from his fingers, in a way that’s weirdly sensual, that Rick’s pretty sure is just a habit, instead of some sly way of flirting with him.
All right, Rick wasn’t totally sure about that, but still, it was better to be safe, than sorry later.
There was also the fact that Merle would probably murder Rick, if he made a pass at Daryl and it turned out that he’d read the situation dead wrong.
And there’s the question that’s plagued Rick since the start, the doubt that keeps him from making the next move. From taking that small step and closing the distance between him and Daryl. Because even if Daryl does feel the same, what if Rick’s just displacing the feelings he’d had for Lori onto Daryl?
That wouldn’t be fair to Daryl at all.
“Rick,” Daryl’s saying. “Rick.” Nudging the uneaten portion of his bun against Rick’s nose as if they’re smelling salts and have the power to revive Rick from whatever stupor he’s fallen into. And if that isn’t absolutely adorable, Rick doesn’t know what is.
“Hey,” Rick says, blinking. Chastises himself for worrying, instead of enjoying the time they’re spending together.
“Whatever it is, you’re thinkin’ too hard,” says Daryl. He raises his eyebrows, giving Rick that wanna talk about it? look, but Rick just shakes his head.
“It’s just somethin’ at work,” he offers. “Some new traffic measures half the force doesn’t agree with.”
Daryl narrows his eyes, suspicious, like he doesn’t quite believe, though he leaves the conversation at that, and they move on to discussing the trip Daryl’s thinking of taking them on the next time Rick’s free. Spend the rest of the time just talking, Daryl picking off pieces of the bun to hand to Rick, and Rick taking them and eating without thinking, like Daryl’s a natural extension of himself, knowing just what Rick wants and needs.
But even if Rick’s dodged Daryl’s suspicions and his own temporary crisis this time, the ball’s already started rolling, and it’s all downhill from there. Because as much Rick doesn’t want to feel, I want you soon turns into other things. Softer things, like—
I want to keep you, Rick thinks, whenever he watches the light catch Daryl’s tiny smiles just right. The way the sun strikes his hair in late afternoons, turning dark oak into summer gold. He thinks of broad shoulders and grime-brushed cheeks now, and the way Daryl moves through the woods, silent, stalking prey like a predator, body sleek and toned like a natural hunter of the forest.
I wish I could hold you, he decides, when Daryl’s fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie, from too-long hours at Merle’s shop. When he’s curled into Rick, away from the cold of their tent, on their weekend camping trips. He’d only have to reach out and put his arms around Daryl, sleeping bag and all, to change what’s there between them into more.
And not the last of his thoughts, but perhaps the most damning: I want forever with you. To be by Daryl’s side. To wake up every morning with Daryl’s head pillowed against him, and watch him rub the sleep from his eyes, as Rick weaves fingers into his soft, sleep-rumpled hair.
No, no, no.
I’m not in love with him, Rick tries to repeat to himself, when those softer thoughts emerge, time and time again. I’m in love with the idea of being in love. I’m looking for another Lori in him, that’s all.
I’m not in love with Daryl.
Except the more he tells himself he’s not, the more Rick finds his mind wandering to Daryl, until Daryl’s pervaded every thought of his, every moment, every dream.
Something’s got to give, Rick decides. Something’s got to happen, to tip the scales in either direction, because he can’t keep lying to himself this way. Maybe it’ll be in a flash of blinding light, or in some grand, sweeping gesture Daryl does that’ll propel Rick forward, but either way, he’ll suddenly know the truth of it all, see the way forward, and finally figure out which way to go on this, instead of being forever paralyzed by indecision.
And on the third day of his indecision—or maybe it’s the hundredth, all Rick knows is that he hasn’t thought about anyone else, hasn’t had time for anyone else—the sign he’s been hoping for finally appears.
As it happens, there’s no flash of blinding light, and Daryl doesn’t suddenly woo Rick with candlelight, wine, or secret paths lined with rose petals.
They’re just out at the local park, keeping to the marked paths to avoid stepping on dog droppings, because as nice as it is out, Daryl’s got to stay close to town in case Merle needs him at the shop. Merle had been out of town for the week, and was still laid up at home, recovering from a hell of a bender, stipulating that Daryl had to be on call, in case anyone wanted them to open up shop for the weekend.
And to be honest, Rick can’t complain, because it’s nice to stay in town for the weekend once in a while. To simply catch a movie and take an aimless stroll through the park like they’re doing today, shoulders bumping amicably every now and then, falling into the same stride as they walk together.
“Don’t know how long Merle’s gonna be outta commission,” Daryl says now, rolling his eyes, “so maybe not next weekend. But how about the one after that? Might need three days for the place I got in mind, though.”
“Think I could take a sick day,” Rick says slowly, contemplating how he’s going to make this work. He figures it shouldn’t be a problem, considering he hasn’t taken a sick day in months.
The plans they’re making for the weekend after are for a stretch of woods that Daryl swears is famous for their white-tailed buck deer, and while it goes unspoken, they’ll probably spend the coming weekend staying in town and watching movies at Rick’s, especially if Merle hasn’t pulled himself together by then.
They pass the mini barbeque pits set up for families and a few hot dog stands scattered around the park, though Rick hopes they’ll be coming upon a drink stand soon, since he’s starting to get thirsty after the theatre popcorn and hadn’t actually thought to bring water.
It’s only a few minutes later before he spots a lemonade stand in the distance. The only decision Rick’s caught between now is whether he can stand the time spent apart from Daryl in heading over to the stand, or whether he’d like to quench his thirst first.
Strangely enough, it’s Daryl who makes the decision for him.
“Feelin’ kinda thirsty,” says Daryl, as they near the lemonade stand. “You want anythin’?”
“No, I’m—well, I could share,” Rick says. Since Daryl’s brought it up anyway, it’s not as if he has much of a choice anymore. Yes, he could definitely do with a cold glass of something.
Daryl nods. “Be back in minute,” he says, jogging over to the stand, while Rick finds them an unoccupied park bench to sit on. Daryl returns not with a simple glass of lemonade, but the kind that comes in a commemorative mason jar, ones that none but the most conscientious of collectors bother with.
“Don’t the ones in jars cost extra?” Rick asks, crinkling his brow. “Cup woulda been fine.” He blinks at the jar Daryl’s holding, with a cheap lithograph of the state of Georgia emblazoned across it that’ll wash off in a year. An overgrown, leafy peach stamped on top. In case anyone didn’t know theirs was the Peach State, somehow.
Georgia On My Mind, Rick reads along the bottom of the picture. As if quoting the title of the old Ray Charles song on a mason jar was enough do the classic piece justice.
Daryl just shrugs and holds the jar out to him. “You want some or not?”
Rick nods as he takes the jar. “What’s in this, anyway?” The lemonade looks an unnatural shade of blue, the kind saved for hot-rods and neon signs, found only in a spark of lightning in a thunderstorm.
For that, Rick gets another shrug in response. “Lady called it ‘Electric Blue’,” says Daryl. “Saw it and thought of the color of your e—your truck.” He blinks a little too rapidly, and scowls, like that hadn’t been what he meant to say.
“I don’t have a truck,” says Rick.
“Well, somebody’s damn truck,” Daryl says testily. “Look, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”
And Rick remembers his mother always telling him if you’ve got nothing nice to say to a gift, shut your mouth and just say thank you, so he does that here, before Daryl can get up in arms about whose truck the lemonade reminds him of. If it’s even a truck at all. Because it certainly isn’t Rick’s, since the Jeep his sister dumped on him is a lovely shade of what Daryl dubs duckshit green.
It seems to work, because Daryl relents, letting his legs sprawl out from the park bench, arms along the back of it, relaxed. Seeing as how the park bench isn’t that big to begin with, however, it leaves his hip and knee pressed lightly against Rick’s. He watches as Rick struggles with the lid of the jar, and snorts, when after three attempts at twisting it off, Rick makes no progress.
“Give it here,” says Daryl, even as Rick holds on, careful not to drop the jar. Takes the rag from his back pocket and anchors it around the lid. Twists it off in one go, pressed up against Rick as he does so.
Rick holds the jar out to Daryl first, but Daryl just shakes his head. “You have what you want first,” he says. “I’ll take whatever’s left. Too sweet for me to finish on my own.”
“All right,” says Rick, taking the first small sip. It goes down smooth and cold and sweet, and the glass sweating in his hand is a welcome chill from the day’s heat.
Only, there’s something else that sends a shiver down Rick’s spine, one of anticipation that isn’t from the cool sweetness of the lemonade, but from Daryl’s knee and hip pressed against his, warmth seeping through the lightest layer of Rick’s clothing into skin.
Daryl just grins, small and knowing, when he sees the appreciative smile on Rick’s face. “There,” he says, nodding as Rick takes another small gulp. Lets it slide down easy, a swallow of liquid smoothness that cools Rick from within. “It’s nice, ain’t it?”
And Rick isn’t sure whether he’s talking about the lemonade, or the fact that Daryl’s pressed right up against him on the tiny park bench, but he nods. “Yeah,” Rick says, swallowing another sip of the lemonade, then another, as he holds Daryl’s gaze, Daryl’s eyes just a shade darker than the drink they’re sharing. “Real nice.”
Daryl’s the first to look away, and at that, something curls in the pit of Rick’s belly, like a lump of cooling coal.
Shit, Rick thinks, hoping he can blame the warmth creeping into his cheeks on the summer heat. He got the double meaning, all right.
Rick’s starting to wonder what he could possibly say to save this situation, like maybe I meant the lemonade was real nice, and not your eyes or your touch or anything, realizing that’d just dig himself deeper, when Daryl takes the jar from him. Drains the rest of it, in long, slow swallows, his Adam’s apple moving in a hypnotic shift that draws Rick’s gaze. Huffs a short, satisfied breath when he’s finished.
“Here.” Daryl nudges the empty jar into Rick’s hands. “You’re always sayin’ your desk at work’s a mess. Maybe you can put your stuff in here. Your things,” he says, when Rick just blinks at him.
“Right,” says Rick, staring at the peach printed atop the backdrop of Georgia. Finds it hard to swallow, to breathe, his chest filling with a sensation he can’t quite name.
No, Rick decides, fighting against himself. I’m not feeling what I think I am.
Daryl taps the jar in Rick’s hands and motions at the inside. “Maybe wash it out first, though,” he adds, as an afterthought. “Or you’ll get all kinds of weird shit growin’ in it.”
“Right,” Rick says again, before his brain reaches out, seizing the connection with his heart, and he realizes the flare of warmth blossoming in his chest is affection, and gratitude, and something he won’t put a name to, all at once. He’s absolutely touched by this small gesture, because god, he does have a lot of stuff and things, in paper clips, thumb tacks, and knickknacks, and they clutter up his workspace like nothing else on earth. “Thank you,” he remembers to say. “Thank you.”
Daryl shrugs and gives him a shy smile, like he hasn’t ever been told he’s done a thing right, like Rick is the first, and something flutters deep inside Rick’s chest, a little oh of realization, that of course it’s not just affection and gratitude he’s feeling. A flutter that turns into the fury of a windstorm, the feeling he won’t name fighting its way free, despite himself.
Oh, thinks Rick, his heart skipping a beat in his chest.
Because this is all the floodgates opening at once, and all the I don’t love him’s are washed away in the tidal wave of Yes, you damn well do. This is the overwhelming retribution for all the times he’s not let himself overthink their touches, not forgiven himself for enjoying their time together and thinking of it as more than friends.
This is the moment of stunning clarity, despite the lack of heralding trumpets and a large banner unfurling before his eyes, that it’s Daryl. It’s Daryl. It’s never been anyone else.
Daryl looks beautiful before him, a faint dusting of pink about his cheeks, and Rick’s struck by the urge to kiss the two spots of color, to cup Daryl’s cheeks in his hands and see if his mouth tastes like the lemonade they’ve just shared. To see if it’s sweeter, if the taste of Daryl is something far better than lemonade. It’s not as if he hasn’t noticed how striking Daryl was before, because Rick’s always been looking at Daryl, watching, noticing, but it feels like it’s the first time Rick’s really let himself see.
This is it, Rick realizes. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
And of course it wasn’t in any grand, sweeping gesture, because Daryl doesn’t do things like that. In fact, it isn’t anything different from what Daryl usually does; it’s just Daryl being Daryl, thoughtful and kind in a way all his own, and that touches Rick’s heart the most.
It’s this tiny action that banishes the doubts that have been circling in Rick’s mind. Casts aside the fears that maybe he’s just been looking for another Lori all this time, or a shadow of her in everything Daryl does. Makes it clear as crystal just who it is Rick wants. And maybe Rick doesn’t know if he’s wanted in return, but this epiphany’s enough to keep him going, pushing him in the direction he’s wanted to find for so long.
“You all right?” Daryl asks, his brow furrowed, like he’s got some inkling of the way Rick’s world has just shifted on its axes.
“Yeah,” says Rick, grinning from ear to ear. “Hell, I’m more than all right.”
And while Daryl arches a brow and peers at the mason jar Rick’s holding, muttering about there being meth in the lemonade, because he can’t explain how Rick’s suddenly so happy, Rick’s thinking back to when his sister had sat beside him, watching him film Shane and Lori’s wedding dance.
Are you in love with him? Rachel had asked, as she caught Rick mooning after the couple on the dance floor. Sure, she’d been off the mark, thinking it was Shane that Rick wanted then, but maybe—maybe she hadn’t been that far off the mark, after all.
Are you in love with him? she’d persisted, even though Rick had balked at the question. Because it’s all right if you are.
Yeah, Rick thinks now, with a new conviction, as he watches Daryl. His smile hardly dims as they rise from the bench and he falls into step beside Daryl, as naturally as he blinks or breathes. I am in love with him.
And it’s all right that I am.
Now all Rick had to figure out was what to do about it.
(tbc - Chapter 7)
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Thanks for reading! <3