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Footsteps.
Not the shambling, shuffling gait of a walker, but the surefooted tread of a living human. It is a sound that has for so long heralded torment of one kind or another that Daryl’s stomach gives an involuntary flip.
No. He recognizes the rhythm of these footfalls. They are so familiar that he thinks for a moment he must be imagining them, is almost too afraid to look around in case this is his mind playing a trick on him, that he will find himself back in that cell, unable to trust even his own senses.
“Daryl.”
It’s real, that voice, grounding him the same way the hug had done. He closes his eyes for a moment, holds the sound in his mind as he would clutch a talisman.
The slightest tilt of his head acknowledges his company, and is all the invitation Rick needs. He settles beside Daryl—close, not quite touching—and joins him looking out over Hilltop.
“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”
Daryl shrugs. He’s exhausted, can’t remember the last time he slept undisturbed for any length of time, and yet sleep remains elusive. It’s hard to shut his mind off, to tell himself he’s safe to let his guard down a little.
He hates the memories that come when he does.
Seeing Maggie again, that had been tougher than facing up to Negan, harder to bear than any beating. Being accepted back, forgiven? That had threatened to overwhelm him.
Dixons don’t cry. Dixons are men. But when he’d seen Rick and felt the sting of tears none of that mattered worth a damn.
You’re my brother.
“I’m sorry.”
Daryl blinks, confused. “What fer?”
“I shoulda been stronger.”
“Ya did what ya had to do.” Rick always did what he thought was best for them all. He’s the reason they’re still alive. Most of them. “I’m the one that fucked up.”
“Ain’t yer fault, Daryl.” It’s not on you. “We’ll get that son of a bitch.”
No question. Daryl can think of a few things he’d like to do to that fucker. “Yeah.”
“Need you by my side.”
Daryl’s heard a little of what happened in his absence, but he can’t quite believe Rick’s submission, his loss of fight, had anything to do with him. He’s nothing.
He turns his head, looks at Rick through his bangs, and meets that open gaze, eyes pale in the moonlight. Knows Rick is carrying just as much guilt as he is. Maybe more.
And hears the words Rick doesn’t say. Can’t do it without you.
Daryl’s never been needed before. Never been wanted. He’s also never been willing to offer himself to anyone, either. Yet for Rick, he’ll do anything.
“Ya got me.”
Something like a smile twitches at Rick’s lips, and it’s good to see, that small hint of the man so often hidden, weighed down by fear and responsibility. Daryl can shoulder some of that weight, share the strain.
There’s both a softness and an intensity in Rick’s gaze which Daryl is too tired to interpret. Suddenly embarrassed by his declaration, Daryl ducks his head, but before he can completely shy away there’s a hand slipping gently into his hair and Daryl lets Rick drag him close until their foreheads are pressed together and their breath is mingling in the cool evening air between them.
Daryl fists a hand in Rick’s shirt, completing their embrace, reinforcing their bond. Always.
It’s Rick who moves first, and Daryl hates that he’s probably felt him shaking. But Rick doesn’t comment on this sign of weakness, just extends a hand to help him to his feet and leads him back to the trailer Daryl’s been allocated.
Daryl sits down on the edge of the bed and stares, bewildered, as Rick drops to his knees before him and starts pulling Daryl’s borrowed shoes from his feet.
“I c’n do that.” Don’t wanna be a burden to no one.
“I know,” Rick says, continues regardless, and Daryl lets him.
At Rick’s urging, Daryl lies back on the bed, and even this thin, worn mattress feels good. Rick stands with his hands on his hips, indecisive, uncertain now.
“Want me to leave?”
Daryl doesn’t have to think about his answer. He begins to shake his head then stops, cuts his eyes in the direction he knows Michonne is sleeping and Rick immediately guesses his thoughts.
“’S okay.”
Daryl chews on his lip, about to argue—ain’t gonna be responsible for fuckin’ up no more lives—but Rick is one of the few people in his life he’s ever been able to trust, knows it has to be okay if Rick says it is.
Daryl shifts onto his side, makes space on the narrow bed.
Rick removes his belt and sets it down, his fingers lingering, reverent, on the butt of his Python, and Daryl is glad he was able to bring it back to Rick, to have helped in this small way.
It’s awkward, at first, sharing a bed. But this is Rick, and he’s real and alive and here, and that’s all that matters. Daryl lifts a hand, places it on Rick’s chest, over his heart, and feels the soft, steady beat beneath his palm, doesn’t flinch when Rick covers it with his own.
He sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.