Archive of Our Own

Rain pounded to the ground, the wind howled violently through the trees. Lightning flashed as the heavens poured their sorrows to the world, casting sickening shadows through the whipping leaves. Sprinting through the undergrowth, his lungs heaved, legs on fire. He skidded in the mud, catching himself as he scrambles up the worn down stairs, jumping over the hole on the third step. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes, trying to calm the hammering of his heart briefly before turning the handle.

“God damnit, Daryl.” His father spit as soon as he opened the door. He looks at his father, eyes wide, flinching as he shut the door. “What have I said ‘bout making a fucking mess?” His father gets up from his worn hole in the old couch. He steps over the old bottles and trash littered on the floor before coming to stop in front of him.

His father towered over him, rage filled his bloodshot eyes. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, his shirt stained and ripped. Daryl’s heart was so loud he could barely hear the porn playing on the VHS. “You goddamn stupid kid.” His father grabed him by the hair, yanked him down the hallway. “You fucking kids making my damn house a mess,”

With each word Daryl felt smaller and smaller.

He pulls Daryl to the bathroom, pushing him against the counter. Needles and glass scatter as he hits the porcelain hard, crying out. “Shut up.” His father spits, reaching around him to turn on the faucet. He slaps Daryl hard on the cheek, sending his face flying to the side. He turned his head back to his father, hands shaking as they grazed his face. “I’m sorry.” He pleaded, his voice trembling as his father’s rage burned him. Tears filled his eyes as his father sneered. “Ain’t no son of mine a goddamn bitch.”

His father grabbed him harshly as he shoved his face into the ice cold water. Daryl sputtered and gasped for air. It stung his skin, filled his mouth and nose. He scrambled against the dirty counter, scratching at his fathers hands. “Fuck!” He was thrown against the cracked tile floor. He laid there, coughing as his father yelled. “You gon’ scratch me, boy? Huh?” His father bent down, grabbing Daryl by his wet, muddy shirt. He pulled him up, spitting into his face. His father’s eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hand was a hot iron against Daryl’s shivering skin. “Think you’re so fucking tough, boy?”

As his father’s grip tightened, the present came back, memories shattering like glass inside his mind. Daryl blinked, watching as rain poured in sheets outside the window. He slowly rose from his bed, letting the warm blanket fall to the floor at his feet. His breath was shaky as he walked down the creaking steps. His hands shook as they wrapped around the handle to the door.

He steps into the soft wind, shutting the door gently. Daryl takes a silent breath as he slides down the wall. Tangling his fingers together tightly, he pulls his knees to his chest. Leaning his head back against the rough wall, Daryl stares up into the pouring rain.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The rain dried, leaving the grass lush and green. Daryl scuffed it with his boot, glaring at it as he took a drag of his cigarette. He paced the inside walls of Alexandria, crossbow snug against his back. "You’re gonna wear a trench in the ground if you keep that up." Carol’s voice broke through the quiet. She leaned against the gate, arms crossed, watching him.

"Ain’t nothin’ else to do," he muttered, flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the grass. He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze wandered back to the ground. Carol sighed, pushing off the gate and walking toward him. "The patrols came back clear. There’s no sign of walkers, no sign of trouble. Maybe you could take a break."

Daryl snorted. "Breaks are when things go to hell."

"And pacing’s gonna stop it?" He finally looked at her, eyes narrowing. "I ain’t sittin’ around waitin’ for somethin’ to happen." She stood in front of him, shaking her head lightly. "You’re not the only one keeping watch," she reminded him gently. "We’ve got a team, Daryl. We’re not out there alone anymore."

He grunted, turning away. Carol didn’t push further, giving his shoulder a squeeze as she passed, heading back toward the houses. Daryl stayed where he was, the cigarette burning down to its filter. He let it drop, crushing it beneath his boot. The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Daryl squinted against the fading light.

His mind was swirling as he waited for… something. Something to go wrong, something bad to happen. He never sat well, never truly relaxed. Even before, Merle was always tangled up in something or someone he shouldn’t be and it always kept Daryl on his toes.

The memory of Merle bursting into their trailer, wild-eyed and slamming the door shut, still sent a flush of anger through Daryl. He could almost taste the bitter sting of cheap beer on his tongue as he sat on the couch, watching his brother with cautious unease.

"Shit," Merle hissed, locking the door behind him. Daryl followed him into his room, stalking behind him silently. Merle shuffled around in his dresser and it made Daryl feel like he was being invaded. Like there was no escape from this constant presence in his life. A presence that was ingrained into every aspect of him, engraved into his damn DNA. Merle was there, protecting him from their father when they were younger. Daryl owed him more than he could ever repay. That's why he stuck around.

Sometimes he’d remember the lashes Merle took for him because he’d get their father angry with him instead. He’d remember Merle so high he couldn’t move, Daryl dragging him out of trap houses, Merle a dead weight against him. He’d remember Merle teaching him to shoot, giving Daryl a bow he stole from the local hardware store. He’d stare at himself in the shattered bathroom mirror sometimes, a thousand versions of him lost amongst the broken glass.

Merle wasn’t good for him, he knew that. He could feel it in his bones whenever Merle got like this, ransacking the house and flinging everything to the ground in a desperate search for nothing. “Where the fuck is it?” Merle muttered, kicking around the shit on the floor, hand scratching hard on his side. Daryl watched him from the doorway. “Ain’t got nothin’.” He said, eyes tired as he took another drink of stale beer. His brother's narrowed gaze flicked towards him before he scrubbed a shaking hand over his face.

Merle let out a frustrated growl, slamming his fist against the dresser. The sound made Daryl’s eyes narrow, but he didn't move from his spot. "You sure you ain't holdin' out on me, baby brother?" Merle's voice was low, dangerous. Daryl shook his head. "Told ya, ya ain't got nothin'." He kept his tone even, Merle was like a caged, rabid animal when he was looking for a fix.

"Fuck!" Merle kicked the dresser hard, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. The bulb shattered, shards of glass scattering across the stained carpet.

Daryl watched the destruction impassively, taking another swig of beer. "Maybe it's a sign," Daryl muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Merle's head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Daryl's.

"The fuck you say?" He stalked towards Daryl, getting right up in his face. "You think this is funny? You think I'm some kinda joke?" Daryl could smell the sweat and desperation rolling off him in waves. Daryl held his ground, meeting Merle's glare head on. "Nah. Just think maybe it's time to get your shit together, is all."

Merle barked out a harsh laugh. "That so? And who the hell are you to tell me what to do, huh? Last I checked, I'm the one who's been keepin' your sorry ass alive all these years." The words stung, but Daryl refused to let it show. Merle always knew just where to hit to make it hurt. But he was right. Merle had protected him, looked out for him when no one else gave a damn. Daryl owed him everything. That’s why he stayed.

"Forget it," Daryl muttered, pushing past Merle and heading for the door. "I'll see what I can find." Merle's manic grin followed him out. "That's more like it, little brother. Knew I could count on you."

Daryl glared harder at the sky, shaking the thoughts away, his chest tight. He shouldered his crossbow and made his way to the watchtower, climbing the steps two at a time. Sasha nodded at him as he reached the top, her rifle resting across her lap. "Anything?" he asked, his voice gruff.

She shook her head. "All quiet on the western front," she quipped, a small smile tugging at her lips. Daryl didn't return it, his gaze fixed on the world outside the walls, eyes on the pink sunset. “I can take over.” He paused, his voice softer now.

Sasha tilted her head, studying him for a moment before speaking. "You sure? You look like you've got something on your mind." Daryl shrugged, gripping the rail of the tower. "Nothin' worth talkin' 'bout." She leaned back slightly, her expression shifting to something knowing. "You know, sometimes the quiet is worse than the noise. Leaves too much room for the ghosts."

Daryl finally glanced her way, his expression cold "Ain't no ghosts in my head," he muttered, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. She nodded at him, a sad smile on her face.

Sasha stood, brushing off her pants. She held the rifle out to him, her eyes searching. He looked back at her, his eyes narrowed as his hand gripped the barrel, white knuckled. She exhaled softly, before letting go.

"Your watch now, Dixon. Don't let the quiet get to you.”

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The campfire crackled softly, its warm glow pushing back the encroaching darkness of the night. Daryl sat on an overturned log, his crossbow resting against his knee, idly whittling a piece of wood with his knife. Rick sat a few feet away, leaning against a large rock, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face.

Rick shifted slightly, running a hand through his hair. His voice was soft and hesitant as he spoke. “I’m sorry.” Daryl glanced up, his brows knitting together. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Rick shifted forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Merle. Leaving him back on that roof in Atlanta.”

The mention of his brother’s name hit like a knife, but Daryl didn’t flinch. It was as if Rick could read his thoughts, like he just knew what was on his mind. He let out a breath, long and slow, before looking away. “That was a long time ago, man.”

“I know,” Rick said quickly, his voice steady but soft. “But it’s been sitting with me, even now. I made that call, Daryl. I left him there. I thought it was right at the time, thought it was what I had to do to keep everyone else safe.” Daryl’s knife stilled in his hand.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t know him like I did. He was mean as hell, stubborn too. Probably would’ve gotten us all killed.” He knew it was true, Merle didn’t and would never get along with their group. He only cared about himself. And Daryl. His chest tightened as he stared at his knife. Rick shook his head, his eyes fixed on Daryl. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it right.”

Daryl let out a soft sigh, looking up at Rick, his face shadowed in the firelight. “Ain’t like he was some saint. Merle was a bastard, Rick. Spent more time draggin’ me down than pullin’ me up.” His jaw tightened as he spoke. “But he was still my brother.”

Rick spoke quietly, his words heavy. “I know, and I’m sorry, Daryl. For what I did. For how it happened.”

Daryl didn’t say anything for a while, the silence stretching between them. Finally, he spoke, his tone low and even. “Ain’t just on you, man. World was already goin’ to hell. Merle… he made his choices.” Rick’s shoulders sagged slightly, like a weight had shifted. “I still wish it could’ve been different.”

The fire popped, sending sparks into the air. He blinked and then the sounds of leather cracked through the house.

Daryl was curled up in the ball on the couch, head to his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. He’d learned by then not to cry, not to make a sound. Crying only made it worse. Merle wasn’t around this time and Daryl had told himself it was better that way. At least his brother wouldn’t see him like this.

The leather of his fathers belt bit into his back, and he bit down on his lip, hard enough to taste blood. He focused on the cracks in the wall, counting them, pretending he wasn’t there.

He had stumbled into his and Merle’s room when it was over. He fell into a heap on the worn out mattress on the floor, cringing as the threadbare shirt stung his back. He stared at the ceiling for a long time later, his mind empty. He watched the shadows from the moon walk their way across his room.

“Daryl.”

The sound of his name, spoken low and steady, yanked him back to the present. He blinked, his fingers clenching as he realized Rick was standing a few feet away.

“You alright?” Rick asked, crouching down to his level, his voice careful. Daryl didn’t look at him. “Yeah,” he muttered, though he knew he wouldn’t buy it. Rick, the man he was, didn't push, didn’t say anything. Just sat down beside him, letting their shoulders touch, letting the quiet settle. Daryl didn’t move, willing his breathing to steady. Rick was warm and forgiving, even in the tense silence that followed Daryl around like a curse.

The night air was cool against Daryl's skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Rick's body. He focused on that sensation, letting it ground him in the present moment. Rick shifted slightly, his arm brushing against Daryl's. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. Daryl felt a thrum under his skin where they touched. He wanted to run away.

Rick spoke into the quiet of the night. “I’m here if you need to talk," Daryl looked up from under his hair, brows furrowed as he let his gaze travel up to Rick’s face. "Always.” Rick tilted his head, his blue eyes catching the light from the fire.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The sun is hot on his back, a warm breeze blowing through his hair. He’s sprawled on the front stoop, knife cool in his hands as he flicks it. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. His tired eyes flick to the sound of laughter, watching Carl with a group of older kids. They’re kicking around a deflated ball, the sickly red color of it makes his lips curl. Daryl sighs, stuffing the knife in his pocket as he stands. The steps creak as he walks down them, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

Daryl wandered aimlessly through the quiet streets of Alexandria, his boots scuffing against the pavement as the sun cast long shadows over the neat rows of houses. As he passed Rick’s house, a flicker of movement caught his eye through a window. He paused, his gaze narrowing.

Rick stood in the center of the room, his body rigid, his eyes fixated on an empty corner. His hands were clenched at his sides, trembling slightly. Daryl tilted his head, watching as Rick’s lips moved. He swallowed hard before he silently moved up the stairs. He barely stepped inside when he heard Rick.

"Lori..." Rick's voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes stayed locked on the empty space before him, but there was no one there. No one but shadows and dust. Daryl shut the front door, stepping into the house. “Lori, is that really you?” Rick took a hesitant step forward, as if he could reach out and touch her, as though she would materialize before him. His hands hovered in the air, shaking as he grabbed at the nothing.

Daryl watched from the doorway, his chest tight as Rick’s face twisted in a mixture of sorrow and regret. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking, though he wasn’t speaking to Daryl. He was speaking to someone only he could see, someone who wasn’t there. “I’m so sorry, Lori. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t save you.”

Daryl’s throat tightened. He had heard Rick apologize to Lori before, but this time was different. This wasn't just the grief of losing her that weighed on him. It was something more, something that had burrowed deep into Rick's very being and refused to loosen its grip. The pain etched onto Rick's face told a story of its own, one of guilt and regret and a never-ending ache in his heart. “I’m sorry,” Rick repeated, his voice trembling as his eyes watered. He was lost, a man drowning in the weight of his own regret. “I should’ve done more.”

Daryl couldn’t stand to watch it any longer. He stepped forward, his boots thudding softly against the floor. “Rick,” he said, his voice quiet. “She’s not here. You need to let it go, man.” Rick didn’t react. He remained frozen, his gaze still fixed on the corner of the room, where Lori’s apparition seemed to linger. Daryl could see the conflict in Rick’s eyes. It was as though Rick was still fighting a war that had already been lost.

“I’ll make it right, Lori,” Rick murmured, his voice low, almost like a promise. “I’ll protect them. I’ll protect Carl and Judith. I’ll make sure they’re safe.” Daryl’s chest tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He knew what Rick was trying to do, trying to fix the past, to make up for the things he couldn’t control. But it wasn’t enough. It never would be.

“Rick…” Daryl said softly again, trying to break through, but it was like speaking to someone who wasn’t really there. “She’s gone. You can’t keep doing this.”

Slowly, Rick blinked, his eyes flicking away from the empty corner to Daryl. For a moment, his expression was blank, distant, as though he hadn’t quite processed the world around him. Then, his shoulders sagged, and he rubbed his face roughly, as if to rid himself of the image he had conjured.

When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “Daryl, I thought I saw her... I thought…” He trailed off, his words faltering as if he couldn’t make sense of what had just happened. Daryl stepped closer, keeping his tone steady. “I know you did. But she’s not here, Rick. She’s gone.”

Rick’s gaze dropped to the floor, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He wasn’t looking at Daryl anymore. He was looking at the empty space in front of him, lost in the ghosts of the past. “I keep trying to fix it.” Rick said, his voice barely audible, as though the weight of his own words was too much for him to bear. There were no words to help a man haunted by his lost wife. No words to heal what he lost. “Ya’ don’t have to fix it, Rick,” Daryl said quietly.

Rick didn’t respond right away. He simply stood there, his eyes haunted, lost in the vast emptiness of grief that seemed to stretch out before him, unreachable. The weight of loss hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. Daryl stayed silent, waiting for Rick to come back to himself.

He stumbled into the space where he saw Lori, sliding to the ground, collapsing where his dead wife stood. Daryl took a soft step forward, watching as Rick put his face in his hands. He sighed softly as he sat down softly next to him. Daryl can feel the heat off Rick. The silence swirls around them with the dust, sticks to them like their blood soaked clothes.

Rick looks up from his hands, his gaze like a bath in ice, wet and chilled. His eyes as blue as the sky on an overcast day, as deep as the ocean, full of murky memories. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracks, eyes drifting back to his hands. Rick's shoulders shook as he drew in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry." he repeated, as if the apology was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Daryl reached out, hesitating. He wasn’t sure what to do, how to act. He wasn’t good at things like this. He wasn’t. He took a breath as he finally let his hand rest on Rick’s shoulder. He felt the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Felt him breathe. “You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for.” he said, his voice low and rough.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Daryl didn’t flinch when the cell door screeched open.

Dwight stepped into the room, flanked by three others. Their faces carried the same expression of cruel amusement, predators circling their prey. “Get up,” Dwight said, his voice flat, lacking even the pretense of patience. Daryl didn’t move right away, taking his time as he slowly pushed himself upright. His muscles protested, his ribs still tender from the last beating, but he wouldn’t show weakness. He met Dwight’s eyes, his silence defiant.

They led him out into the yard, where a ring of Saviors had already gathered. The air was sharp and biting, but Daryl barely noticed. The others stood watching with a mix of boredom and eagerness, their arms crossed, their smirks waiting to grow. “Last chance,” Dwight said, stepping in front of Daryl. “Kneel. Swear your loyalty to Negan. This can all stop.” Daryl’s answer was immediate. “Not happening.” The corner of Dwight’s mouth twitched, but he nodded as though the refusal was expected. He stepped back, gesturing to the others. “Have it your way.”

The first punch came fast, catching Daryl in the jaw.

The kitchen was a battlefield. Daryl stood in the doorway, small and wiry, his hands curled into fists at his sides like they’d do any good. The table was overturned, its legs pointing up like a dead animal’s. His father loomed over Merle, shouting, spit flying, his words too slurred to make sense. But the fists made sense. They always did.

“Boy, you think you’re somethin’ special?” his father had snarled, turning on him. Daryl didn’t flinch. Not at first. Not until his father took a step closer, his shadow swallowing him whole. A hand struck his cheek, and the taste of blood bloomed in his mouth, coppery and thick.

His head snapped to the side as he was thrown back into reality. His legs wobbled, but he managed to stay on his feet, fighting through the dizziness. Clenching his jaw, he doubled over as a sharp blow hit his abdomen, stealing his breath away. Struggling to regain his composure, he felt another punch land on his side, sending shock waves of pain coursing through his body.

As his vision swam, he stumbled backwards. He tried to cover his head with his arms, but the blows kept coming, each one feeling like a sledgehammer. With a final forceful blow, he fell to the ground, his body convulsing in pain as the attacks continued mercilessly. As they circled him like a pack of wolves, their feet connected with his body in a sickening rhythm. He curled up into himself as a hard boot kicked his face. He winced and gritted his teeth, his vision blurred and waves of pain shot through every inch of his body.

“Enough,” Dwight’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. The kicks stopped and the men stepped back, breathing heavily. Daryl stayed on the ground, his body trembling, every breath a jagged reminder of the damage they’d done.

Dwight crouched in front of him, his expression unreadable. “This doesn’t have to keep happening. Just kneel, Daryl. Say the words. Pledge your loyalty to Negan.” Daryl raised his head slowly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes burned with defiance. He spat at Dwight’s feet, blood hitting the dirt between them.

Dwight sighed, standing and brushing the dirt from his pants. “Suit yourself.”

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The darkness was suffocating. Daryl sat in the corner of his cell, the cold concrete leaching warmth from his body. Knees pulled up to his chest, his fingers absently tracing the grooves in the chains that bound him. His body ached and his mind churned with anger, hot and searing.

One thought grounded him, kept him going. With the concrete biting into his skin, he thought of Rick.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The gates creaked open, and Daryl’s pulse quickened despite himself. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched as he shuffled forward, every muscle in his body screaming for rest. The dirt under his boots felt surreal, too soft, too free. He rounded the side of the house, the sun hot on his shoulders.

Then he saw Rick.

The man was running toward him, his face a mixture of shock, relief, and something Daryl couldn’t name. Daryl stopped, head going down as Rick stood in front of him. Relief washed over him, awakening something in him that he didn’t know wasn’t there before.

Rick’s hand tangled in his hair, pulling Daryl to his chest as he wrapped his arm around Rick’s shoulder. His breath was warm and wet against Daryl’s neck, so different to the cramped cell, cold floors, and fists. He felt Rick’s hands on his back, steady and solid, and something inside him cracked. Gripping at Rick’s shirt he didn’t say anything, didn’t trust himself to, but he held on like he’d drown if he let go.

“Daryl,” Rick breathed against his skin.

He pulled away, hair mused from where Rick had run his fingers through it.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The air between them was filled with the hum of crickets and the distant rustle of leaves. The sky glittered with white stars, bright and endless. Daryl breathed in the cool night air as his head fell back against the bark, closing his eyes. Rick was watching Daryl, felt his eyes on him without looking. He was watching him like he was waiting for something Daryl didn’t know how to give.

“You okay?” Rick’s voice was low, careful, cutting through the haze in Daryl’s mind. Daryl grunted, opening one eye to look at Rick. He shrugged, feeling the rough bark catch on his bare shoulders. A gentle kiss compared to what he was used to, but the feeling grounded him. The smell of pine and cigarettes stuck to his clothes, his bruised cheek throbbed. He looked down at his hands, the moonlight glinting off the raw skin around his wrists. He smoothed his hands on his jeans, wetting his lips.

His eyes narrowed at the ground as Rick pushed himself off the tree, padding gently towards him. “I’m fine,” Daryl muttered, though the words felt hollow in his throat. Rick’s boots scuffed softly against the grass as he came to stop in front of him. Rick didn’t back off. He never did when it mattered.

“Daryl.”

The way Rick said his name made Daryl pause. It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry. Just steady, like he was anchoring him. Against his better judgment, Daryl glanced up, just for a second. Rick’s eyes were clear and bright, even in the dark. Rick’s gaze met his, steady and sure. “You don’t have to go through this alone. You know that, right?” Daryl wanted to scoff, wanted to tell him he didn’t need help. That he’d been through worse and made it out fine. But the words didn’t come, and instead, his hands twitched against his thighs, his fists curling.

“You don’t have to say a damn thing if you don’t want to.” Daryl looked away at Rick’s words, let his nails dig into his palms. He sighed softly as he stared back at his wrists, at his bloodied knuckles. He swallowed hard, his throat burning. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes.

Rick slid down the rugged birch next to him. Daryl flinched when their arms touched, but Rick adjusted his weight, pressing more firmly against him. It was like a fire was lit where Rick’s arm was heavy against his, his elbow jutting into him felt like a hot knife.

The silence was deafening. The thudding of his heart echoed through the quiet breeze. Daryl took a shaky breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. He could feel Rick's warmth seeping into his skin, a stark contrast to the chill that seeped into his bones. It was almost too much, the way Rick's presence seemed to fill up the space around them, pressing in on Daryl from all sides. The weight of it all crashed down on Daryl’s chest, he thought he might choke on it. The silence wasn’t just around him. It was inside him, thick and suffocating. His breath hitched, and he pressed his knuckles to his mouth, biting down hard to keep from making a sound. Rick’s warmth was still there, steady and grounding, but it didn’t stop the flood.

Then it was the cell again. That cold, dark hole where every second felt like an eternity. The song, the weight of the chains, the stench of sweat and fear, the taste of fucking dog food. It stuck to him, weighed his shoulders down, filled his mouth with bile. And under it all, the guilt. It was a living thing, clawing at his insides, whispering in his own voice that he’d failed. He’d failed Glenn, failed Abraham, failed the group. Failed Rick.

Rick shifted against Daryl, his shoulder more steady against his. Daryl could still feel the distance between them, a chasm carved out by every mistake he’d made, every time he’d let someone down.

“You’re here, Daryl,” Rick said softly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. “Whatever’s in your head, whatever you think you’ve done, you’re here.”

Daryl shook his head, a sharp, jerky motion. “Don’t matter,” he muttered, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Ain’t enough. I should’ve…” His words broke off, his throat too tight to finish. Rick shifted closer, his hand rested atop of Daryl’s clenched one. “You can’t carry all this alone,” he said, his tone low and steady. “You don’t have to.”

Daryl took a shaky breath, the moonlight glinting off the ring on Rick’s finger.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The woods were Daryl’s sanctuary, a haven from the anger and noise that spilled out of the house like poison. He crouched low behind a cluster of thick bushes, his breath shallow and controlled, his knees tucked to his chest. The muffled sound of shouting echoed in the distance, carried on the breeze from the house. His father’s voice, loud and slurred, cut through the air like a blade. Daryl winced, pressing his forehead against his knees.

He hadn’t done anything wrong, at least, he didn’t think he had. But with his father, that didn’t always matter. Some days, the man was fine. Quiet, even. Other days, anything could set him off: a misplaced tool, a forgotten chore, or just the fact that Daryl existed. Today had been one of those days. The screen door had slammed, his father’s boots heavy on the porch, and Daryl had known to slip out the back and vanish into the woods.

A twig snapped nearby, and Daryl’s heart leapt into his throat. He held his breath, his body going rigid as he strained to listen. The sound didn’t come again, and he let out a shaky exhale. Still, his chest tightened, the fear lingering like a shadow. His eyes darted toward the direction of the house, but he couldn’t see it from here. That was the point. Out here, he wasn’t the kid who couldn’t do anything right. He was just... part of the woods. Invisible. Safe. He was just another creature hiding among the trees.

The damp earth beneath him smelled of pine and decay, grounding him in the present. He tried to focus on the rustling leaves, the chirp of a bird, the way sunlight filtered through the canopy above. Daryl took a long breath, letting it out shakily through his clenched teeth. The sun was high in the sky as he sat in the bushes, the roots of a nearby tree digging into his thighs.

Daryl watched as a squirrel ran across the ground, just missing the snare he set. He sighed inwardly, blinking the sun out of his eyes. Daryl had always been good at keeping things buried. Anything that didn’t fit, anything that might make life harder than it already was, he stuffed it down deep where no one could see it. Where he didn’t have to see it.

Sometimes, though, the memories came like a dam breaking.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

They were on their way back from a supply run when Rick spotted the vending machine. It sat, dusty and dented off to the side of the gas station they ransacked. “Hold up,” Rick said, stopping short and pointing at it. Daryl frowned, shifting his crossbow on his shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ in there worth the trouble.” Rick ignored him, crouching down to inspect it. “Never know,” he said with a smirk, his fingers already prying at the machine.

“Jesus,” Daryl muttered, leaning against the truck and watching as Rick wrestled with the stubborn thing. “You’re worse than a kid.” Rick chuckled, giving the machine one last shove before it popped open with a groan. He reached inside, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a slightly crumpled package of Twinkies.

Daryl couldn’t help but snort, shaking his head. “You serious?” Rick walked over to him, flipping the Twinkies in his hand. Rick grinned as he tore open the package. He held one out to Daryl. “Here. You earned it.” Daryl hesitated, his gaze flicking from Rick’s hand to his face. There was something in the way Rick was looking at him. Easy, open, like this moment was just for the two of them. Reluctantly, Daryl took the Twinkie. Rick just smiled, leaning against the truck beside him.

They ate in silence, the setting sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Rick gave him a lopsided smile, swallowing down his last bite. His expression soft and unguarded, eyes clear and bright. The sky, a mediocre painting, graced its glow on Rick, the light softening the sharp angles of his face. He seemed almost ethereal, like a mirage or a figment of Daryl's imagination.

The realization hit him then, sudden and undeniable.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Things changed between him and Rick after that, changed as easily as the woods change after a cold spell, growing green and lush after a harsh winter. Rick was bouncing Judith on his knee, leaned back against the soft, plush couch. Daryl sat next to him, nursing a glass of whiskey. Judith giggled when Rick blew a raspberry on her cheek. Carl was laying on the floor, a comic in his hand as he read aloud quietly. His sheriff's hat was resting on the floor next to him, the light of the fire glinting off the metal.

It was calm, peaceful. Daryl didn’t belong. But, here Daryl sat, on Rick’s couch, sipping off his glass, his whiskey, his kids, his life. Daryl intruded and Rick let him, smiled sweetly as he stepped aside, letting Daryl in.

“Want a glass?” He asked, holding up his own glass as Daryl stood frozen in the foyer. He blinked, grunting in response. Rick hummed, holding Judith out to him. Daryl took her gently, murmuring to her softly. “Hi, little ass kicker.” She babbled at him, her hands reaching for his hair. He followed Rick to the living room, plopping down on the couch. Carl looked up, smiling at Daryl. “Hey, kid.” He nodded at the boy, pulling Judith away from his face.

Rick fell back into the couch, setting the glasses down with a gentle clink. Judith screamed when Daryl tickled her foot. He chuckled softly as she kicked her leg. He brushed a hand over her hair, glancing at Rick. His eyes were soft and lingering, watching Daryl.

“You’re good with ‘em.” His voice was quiet, his lips curved. Daryl huffed, shaking his head. “They’re good kids.” He replied simply.

Rick’s eyes trailed to his daughter, she put her arms up to him. He smiled, eyes flicking back to Daryl. He handed Judith over and Rick pressed a kiss against her cheek. Daryl looked away, taking the glass of whiskey off the coffee table and took a long drink.

Daryl could see Rick turned towards him from the corner of his eye. “Glad you came by.” The words hung in the air for a moment, lingering, before Daryl set his glass down. He met Rick's gaze, heart pounding in his chest. The soft glow from the fireplace flickered in Rick’s eyes. Daryl swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "Yeah," he managed, his words coming out rougher than intended.

Rick's smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He shifted Judith to his other arm and reached out, his fingertips grazing Daryl's knee. The touch was electric, sending sparks racing through Daryl's body. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. "I'm glad," Rick said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand lingered, the heat of his palm seeping through Daryl's jeans. "It means a lot, having you here with us."

Daryl's pulse quickened, his skin tingling where Rick touched him. He looked from where Rick’s fingers were set on his thigh to his face. Rick's gaze never wavered, his eyes locked on Daryl's. There was an intensity there, a depth of emotion that made Daryl's heart ache. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

“Y’ever think about leavin’?” Merle had asked him one day, his voice rough. They were sitting with their feet in the creek, both freshly bruised from their father. “Leavin’ where?” Daryl had glanced at him, frowning.

“Here,” Merle said, waving his hand vaguely toward the trees. “The house. All of it. Goin’ somewhere better.” Daryl shrugged, his fingers digging into the dirt by his side, watching as Merle lit a smoke. “Ain’t no better place,” he muttered.

Merle chuckled, a low, bitter sound. “Yeah, maybe not. But I’ll tell ya somethin’, little brother.” He leaned closer, his eyes sharp despite the haze of smoke around him. “You don’t gotta stay in the shit you’re born into. You hear me? You can make somethin’ else. Somethin’ better.”

Daryl blinked, softly setting his hand on Rick’s.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The late summer air was thick and sticky, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavy. Daryl sat on the porch, the boards rough and splintered beneath him. The creak of the screen door startled him, and he glanced up, his father stepped out, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

His father looked down at him for a moment, taking a drag as he sat down in the creaking wooden chair. Daryl whipped his head back to the yard, hanging his head low. The silence was tense, the only sounds were the chirping of birds and Daryl’s ragged breaths.

“Y’know,” his father said suddenly, his voice rough, “your granddaddy used to take me out campin’ when I was your age.” Daryl blinked, raising his head. His father rarely talked about his own childhood, and when he did, it was usually to grumble about how tough it had been. “He wasn’t much for talkin’. Just liked bein’ out there, away from all the noise. Said it made things clearer.”

Daryl turned his head back, watching the smoke curl between them like a secret. “Guess I never understood it back then. Thought it was boring.” His father said, eyes glazed as he looks at Daryl. “Sometimes you get older, and the things that seemed stupid when you were a kid start to make sense.”

“I like it out there,” Daryl said quietly. His father grunted in acknowledgment. “Yeah. Figured you would. You always were the quiet one.”

“That ain’t a bad thing,” his father added after a moment. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with keepin’ to yourself. Just don’t let the world pass you by, neither.”

Daryl nodded, turning back to the yard, watching as birds foraged in the dry, dead grass.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

“Was thinkin’ we should go hunting again soon.”

Rick’s back was to him, bent over the kitchen counter, cleaning his python. Daryl watched him, fingers strumming across his bow strapped to his back. He grunted, leaning deeper against the wall. “Yeah?” Rick asked, not looking up. His hands worked methodically, breaking the weapon down piece by piece. “You feeling cooped up already?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Daryl’s gaze flicked to the window, the view of Alexandria’s neatly trimmed lawns and white picket fences making his skin itch. “Ain’t much use sittin’ around here. Better to stock up before we need it.” Rick hummed in agreement, wiping down the barrel of the gun. There was a tension in the room, in the way Rick was moving, slow and deliberate, like he was waiting for something.

When Rick finally turned, his blue eyes met Daryl’s, sharp and steady. He smiled faintly, soft in a way that always caught Daryl off guard. “You alright?” He tucked his pistol in its holster, resting his hand against it. Daryl’s eyes flicked up when Rick took a step towards him.

“’Course,” Daryl muttered, shifting against the wall. Rick stepped closer, crossing the short distance between them with that same deliberate ease. “You sure? You’ve been… different.”

Daryl scowled, looking down at the floor. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong.” Rick didn’t say anything right away, and for a second, Daryl thought that was the end of it. But then Rick reached out, his hand brushing against Daryl’s temple.

The touch was so light, so unexpected, that Daryl flinched.

Rick’s hand stilled, hovering for half a second before he let it fall. He didn’t apologize, didn’t offer any explanation. He just stood there, his eyes steady on Daryl’s like he was trying to read something written between the lines. Daryl swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he fought the urge to say something, or maybe to move, to do anything to cut through the thick, suffocating quiet. But he stayed frozen, his breath uneven and his heart pounding harder than he wanted to admit.

Then, as casually as if nothing had happened, Rick stepped back and turned, heading for the door. He paused at the threshold, looking over his shoulder just long enough to meet Daryl’s eyes again. His smile lingered, like it had settled there just for Daryl to see.

“We’ll go tomorrow morning.” Rick said, giving Daryl a curt nod before he walked out the front door.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The early morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Daryl adjusted the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder, glancing at Rick, who was a few paces ahead. Rick held a rifle loosely in one hand, his other brushing aside low hanging branches as they moved deeper into the woods. The world was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves underfoot and the occasional distant bird call. They hadn’t said much since leaving the walls of Alexandria. Daryl felt tense, nerves like a live wire under his skin.

Daryl crouched near a patch of mud, sighing inwardly. “Deer,” he muttered, pointing to the faint outline of hooves leading toward a thicket. Rick nodded, stepping closer to inspect the tracks, his shadow falling over Daryl. “Looks fresh,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. Daryl straightened, his gaze following the trail. “Couple hours ahead, maybe less.”

They moved in unison, slipping through the underbrush with practiced ease. Daryl took the lead, his steps nearly silent, his senses tuned to the forest around them. The woods spoke if you listened—the rustle of leaves, the snap of a branch too far off to worry about. The woods have always been Daryl’s sanctuary. A safe place away from his father, the location of his next meal, even back then. He listened to the wise words of the forest and read the stories it held. Rick kept pace behind him, his steps quiet, intune with the melody of the rustling leaves.

Daryl held up a hand, signaling Rick to stop. He pointed ahead, where the faint outline of a deer moved through the trees, its head dipping to graze. Daryl took a slow, deep breath, raising his crossbow. His fingers were steady, his aim instinctive. He let the bolt fly, watching it hit clean. The deer jerked, bolted a few steps, and then crumpled to the ground.

Lowering the crossbow, Daryl exhaled, moving toward the deer, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Not bad,” Rick said behind him, a teasing lilt in his voice. Daryl shot him a quick glance. The sun behind Rick is like a halo, golden light dancing off his hair. Daryl shook his head, scoffing. “Ain’t my first time.” They worked together to dress the deer, the smell of blood mixed with the earthy scent of the woods. Daryl let himself get lost in the rhythm of it.

When the job was done, they hoisted the meat onto a stretcher made from branches and rope. Rick adjusted his grip, glancing over at Daryl. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Daryl didn’t answer right away, his gaze sweeping the forest around them. He looks back to the pile of blood, listens to the insects hum. He adjusts his eyes back to Rick, trailing up his arms, straining against the weight of their game. Rick has a crooked grin on his face, cheeks flushed.

“Feels normal.” Daryl finally responds, nodding his head. Rick’s grin widened, his eyes briefly flicking to the stretcher before settling back on Daryl. “You’re damn good at this, you know that?” he said, his tone easy but genuine.

Daryl blinked, caught off guard. He shifted his grip, shrugging one shoulder like it didn’t matter, but the heat creeping up his cheeks betrayed him. “Just do what I know,” he muttered, his voice gruff, feet shuffling.

Rick let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "No, it's more than just doing what you know." He insisted. "We wouldn't have made it this far without you." Daryl’s chest tightened slightly at Rick’s words, warmth settling in places he didn’t know how to acknowledge. He stole a quick glance at Rick, caught the easy smile tugging at his lips, and felt a fleeting tug in his gut.

He kept his gaze fixed ahead, the trees blurring by, though his heart raced a little faster. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Didn’t want to make it sound like it mattered too much. “Guess I’ll take that.” He said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Rick laughed, the sound cutting through the quiet of the woods like sunlight breaking through clouds.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, the quiet settling heavy around them. Daryl stared at the ashes, poking at them with a stick more to keep his hands busy than anything else. He could feel Rick watching him, like a weight pressing against his chest.

“You ever think about what you want, Daryl?” Rick’s voice broke the silence, low and even, but it hit like a freight train. Daryl’s grip on the stick tightened, his fingers curling around the rough wood. He shrugged, not looking up. “Ain’t sure I know how to answer that.”

Rick didn’t let it go, didn’t give him an out like most people would. “Why not?” Daryl shifted uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on the fire. The flickering light danced in the corner of his vision, but it didn’t distract him from the knot tightening in his gut. “Never really been about what I wanted,” he muttered.

“Maybe it’s time you started,” Rick said, his tone soft but firm, like he wasn’t giving Daryl a choice. Daryl’s jaw clenched, felt something twist in his chest at that. “Don’t know why I oughta start now.”

Rick leaned forward, and Daryl could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unshakable. “Because I see you.” Daryl cringed at the ashes as Rick continued. “You’re good, Daryl. Better than you think.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and Daryl shrugged, uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to hearing stuff like that. Wasn’t used to being seen like that. His chest felt tight, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

When Rick’s hand touched his arm, it sent a jolt through him. He should’ve pulled away, should’ve made some excuse and left, but he didn’t. He just sat there, his heart pounding like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t see.

“You’ve been with me through everything,” Rick said, his voice quieter now. “Every loss, every fight, every damn thing we’ve been through. You’ve been there. And I…” He hesitated, and Daryl finally looked up, his eyes meeting Rick’s. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Rick…” He started, but he didn’t know how to finish. Rick’s hand tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against his wrist.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just…I needed you to know.” Rick looked at him for a moment, face shadowed by the moonlight. He ran his fingers up Daryl’s arm, settling on his shoulder. “Daryl,” Rick squeezed his shoulder gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He felt like the ground was shifting under him, like the whole world was tilting. “I ain’t neither.” Daryl’s voice was a whisper against his bitten lips.

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Rick sat next to him on the bench, their knees pressed together. Daryl watched the smoke coil from his mouth, dissipating into the air. He glanced at Rick, who was already looking at him, his lips quirked at the corners. Daryl took another drag, watching as Rick’s eyes followed his fingers. “You look good.” Rick grinned as he said it. Daryl froze, eyes widening, his cigarette wobbled in his hand.

Daryl flushed, turning his head away. Knocking his knee against Rick’s, he ran a hand through his hair. Rick chuckles, low and soft as he bumps his knee back. Daryl set his smoke between his lips, breathing in the stale, harsh smoke, exhaling around it. “Hey,” Rick set his hand on Daryl’s bare shoulder, his fingertips like a hot iron on his skin. “Don’t be like that.” He slowly turned his head around, eyes wide.

Rick smiled as he plucked the cigarette from between his lips, tossing it to the ground. As their eyes meet for a tense moment, Rick’s gaze falls to Daryl’s parted lips. Daryl's breath hitched as Rick leaned in, his eyes fluttering closed.

The kiss was gentle, but it sent a shiver down Daryl's spine. Rick's hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Daryl froze for a moment, the world narrowing to the warmth of Rick’s lips and the steady, grounding weight of his hand on the back of his neck. Daryl’s pulse raced, his chest tightening as he felt himself leaning into the kiss, drawn by something he couldn’t resist.

His hands twitched at his sides before one hesitantly lifted, fingers brushing against Rick’s arm. The kiss deepened, still soft but lingering, like Rick was trying to tell Daryl everything he couldn’t say out loud. Daryl let his eyes fall closed, letting himself feel. The rough scrape of Rick’s stubble against his own, the way their breaths mingled together, the way Rick’s fingers tightened in his hair as if afraid he’d slip away.

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t abrupt. Rick’s lips hovered near Daryl’s, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the moment end. Daryl’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Rick’s steady gaze. There was no hesitation there, no regret. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled softly at Daryl, easy and open. “Daryl,” Rick’s fingers twitched in his hair as he puffed out a breath against his lips.

Daryl glanced behind Rick, at the cloudy sky. The day of his father’s funeral was overcast, the sky a dull gray that seemed to match the mood of the tiny rural cemetery. The funeral hadn’t been much. A cheap pine box, a preacher who barely knew the man, and a handful of people who didn’t stick around long enough to care.

Daryl stood off to the side, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket. Merle, on the other hand, was front and center, a cigarette dangling from his lips as the preacher droned on about redemption and forgiveness.

Daryl wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the ground, the dry dirt scattered over the grass like everything about this day had been cobbled together last minute. It was, really. Their old man wasn’t the type to inspire much effort, even in death.

“‘Bout time this was over.” Merle muttered, loud enough to earn a sharp glance from the preacher. Daryl winced, but he didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Merle was right. Their father was gone, and they were supposed to pretend that it mattered.

When the preacher finally closed his Bible, Merle walked over to Daryl, clapping him on the back. “Well, baby brother,” he said, smirking around the cigarette still hanging from his lips, “that’s that. Guess we’re free now, huh?”

Daryl looked back to Rick, away from the clouds. He let out a shaky breath, the sound barely audible over the gentle rustle of the trees around them. Rick’s gaze never wavered, his expression so soft and open that it made Daryl’s chest ache.

Rick’s fingers slid through Daryl’s hair, the touch so light it was almost reverent. His thumb brushed against the nape of Daryl’s neck. His eyes stayed locked on Daryl’s, patient and steady, like he had all the time in the world to let Daryl figure out what he wanted.

“Rick,” Daryl murmured, his voice low and rough, the sound barely more than a whisper. He didn’t know what else to say, didn’t even know if he could say anything more without his voice cracking under the weight of it all.

Rick’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks as Daryl leaned in, his breath warm and steady. He slid his hand from Rick’s arm to his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under his palm. He was met halfway, letting his fingers dig into Rick’s shirt. Closed his eyes and dove. Daryl kissed lips that tasted like everything he’d been missing. Like home.