Chapter Text
It’s Wednesday. Rick is supposed to be locked away soon, hidden from the sight of all Saviors and Alexandrians, shut away in a musty room of darkness and muffled sound, the combined odors of mud and fertilizer covering his scent and making him nauseous until Shane eventually arrives with his gruff all clear and a key.
He’s supposed to be readying himself to go there, to that horridly claustrophobic crawlspace beneath the house Shane had taken as theirs the day they had arrived four months prior, Rick’s desire for the home with the beautifully bright yellow door voiced and passed over in the same instant.
It’s Wednesday, and the Saviors will be here soon, but…
The small jar of peanut butter is still exactly where he remembers seeing it the last time he’d been allowed to make a trip to the pantry, tucked behind a few jars of pickled beets and a can of dog food. A weight lifts from Rick’s chest as he snatches it, twisting the top and rushing to inhale, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as the aroma caresses his olfactory senses.
His stomach growls loudly. He places a hand atop the rounded mound, willing the furious hits he’s subjected to abruptly to die down without having to do what he’s positive the little life wants from him. (The texture of peanut butter has never been his favorite.)
The clock is still ticking; Shane will be calling for Rick soon, either angry or frantic when he can’t find Rick to lock him away. (It’s for your safety, Rick, Shane always tells him, ignoring Rick’s protests and Carl’s flat stare. You think you’ll be safe? A pregnant Omega around Alphas like that? Rick wonders—every single time—what qualities Shane believes separates him from those men, other than their dominion over him. Are you trying to put my pup in danger, Rick? Get in.)
Free hand darting into his back pocket, Rick retrieves the clean spoon he’d taken from the house and hurriedly dips it into the peanut butter to scoop up a large glob before immediately twisting the top back on and returning the jar of creamy Peter Pan to its place. He lifts the spoon to his lips, hesitantly gliding his tongue through the thick mess.
A chorus fills Rick’s ears the moment the food hits his taste buds, and the tiny being in his tummy does a few more flips before calming.
Rick’s relief is nearly orgasmic.
“Dad?”
Rick jumps and spins around to meet Carl’s confused eye, the teenager’s head tilting like a curious puppy as he notices the peanut butter-slathered spoon.
His lips twitch. “Hungry?”
Breath releasing in a rush, Rick offers a sheepish laugh. “I’ve been craving cashews,” he explains, his free hand moving to scrub at the nape of his neck before returning to his stomach; his pup is settled now. “Your brother has accepted the compromise,” jokes Rick and licks away more peanut butter, frowning at the thickness of it, but inwardly celebrating his small win.
“Sister,” Carl corrects automatically, and Rick laughs. Carl smiles at him for a long moment, his gaze soft, before he sighs, expression regretful. “I overheard Spencer on his radio,” he tells Rick, scowling lightly as he says the Alexandrian’s name. “Something about the Saviors coming earlier than expected—within the hour.”
Have they ever come here before noon? It doesn’t matter; Shane will be apoplectic at Rick’s absence now. He uses his tongue to clear the traces of peanut butter from the crevices of his mouth, then gestures wryly with his coated spoon. “We’d better get back.” He shuffles forward, tongue darting out for another delicious taste as he moves to pass by his son.
“Dad?” Carl’s tone is… strange. His single eye bores into Rick’s two, flicking back and forth, intense and… desperate? “We don’t have to stay.” He’s so quiet, the words almost silent in the empty air between them. “You know that, don’t you? Hilltop isn’t far,” he cuts off Rick’s gentle reprimand, “and they have a sonogram machine! Jesus can be here in a day or two, and we c–”
“No, Carl.” Rick shakes his head, reinforcing his response, and sighs. “Can you trust that I’m doing what’s best for us? For you and your brother–”
“–sister–”
“–and for myself?”
Taken aback, Carl’s jaw drops minutely. His brow furrows before his mouth closes, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “Is– Did Shane threaten you, Dad? Is that why you let him do this?” Rick’s breath catches, and Carl reels back, expression caught between hurt and fury, before he turns on his heel.
“Carl!” The spoon drops to the floor, clatter cut short by the peanut butter, when Rick lurches forward, fingers firmly clasping his son’s shoulder. “I have everything handled, alright? Alright?” He tugs Carl to face him, urging the teen to meet his gaze. “Everything is fine, Carl.” Is it really? “Tell me you believe me.”
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Finally, his son huffs, averting his single eye. “Fine, Dad. Whatever.” The muscle in his jaw is still twitching, but he fights through his anger (at Shane? At Rick? Rick may be sick, after all.) and offers a forced smile along with his arm. “C’mon.”
(Rick’s eyes are suddenly burning.)
“Let me clean this,” Rick says quietly, gesturing at the small splotch of peanut butter decorating the floor next to his spoon.
Carl waves him away, tugging a small rag from a cabinet before ducking down and picking up the silverware, removing the clingy remnants from the white tile with the dishcloth. He wipes the majority of the food from the spoon before tossing the cloth in the designated basket. “All clean.” The left side of his mouth is tilted in a half-smile as he offers the dirty spoon back to Rick, brandishing it like a prize. “Want me to grab the peanut butter?”
Rolling his eyes, Rick manages a rough laugh and takes both the silverware and his son’s arm when it’s given. “I think he’s good now.” For a while, hopefully; he can’t imagine he’ll have as easy a time leaving the house again, if Shane has noticed he’s outside on Savior Day.
“She,” sing-songs Carl with a soft smile, ever-insistent.
Rick inhales—
—and the pantry door opens, Shane’s frantic form barreling into the already-crowded space. Sweat dapples his reddened face and beads of it roll from his temples down over his clenching jaw. “What are you doing?” he hisses at Rick, reaching out as if to grab the limb not connected to Carl.
The teenager gently releases Rick’s other arm and moves to stand between them. (Wrong, wrong, wrong.) “We were just leaving,” the boy tells Shane, voice low and cold.
“Oh, no,” another voice chimes in from just outside the door. Shane visibly pales, and Carl starts, shifting nearer to Rick. A baseball bat, cloaked in barbed wire and decorated with walker flesh, pushes the door from its ajar position to wide-open. “I think we’ll all be staying–” A man—an unmistakable Alpha, wearing leather and dripping with both confidence and arrogance—appears in the doorway, his boots thudding heavily on the wooden steps. A wide grin splits the handsome face with a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard that greets them. Hazel eyes trail over the three of them—Shane, Carl, then they lock onto Rick, and the man’s eyebrows rise, his forehead wrinkling with the motion. “–right here.”