Chapter Text
It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but it was deeper than that. A sense of belonging to a place I never knew I wanted but somehow always needed. It was a home that carried a heartbeat.”― Nikki Rowe
Rick could barely move, beaten and bloodied, his face and body a twisted mess of pain. The Governor didn't look any better. Rick gave as good as he got. The gunshot wound in his thigh was bearable, but it's the gnarly bite on his shoulder pulsing with chilling certainty that had decided the victor.
"You lot should've fled the prison when you had the chance, Grimes."
Rick spat blood onto the dirt, his ribs screaming with every shallow breath. "Go to hell," he rasped, the words barely escaping through gritted teeth. It's not his best comeback, but it's all he had left.
Philip’s face twisted. His finger curled around the trigger like he wanted Rick to see it coming. The barrel stayed steady, aimed center mass. Not a mercy shot. Just spite, plain and simple. Rick’s stomach dropped when he realized he wasn't gonna get a clean death. Fucker wanted him to turn.
“Good riddance,” Philip sneered, but the shot never fired. A bolt pierced his remaining good eye instead, punching clean through with a wet crunch. Philip’s body jerked back like a puppet with its strings cut. Rick watched him crumple, mouth slack, finger still twitching against the trigger.
The relief hit Rick like a gut punch, dizzying, violent. That coulda only been Daryl.
Rick dragged himself across the ground, his hands clawing at the dirt. Chaos surrounded him. Gunfire, screams, the hungry snarls of walkers closing in. He couldn’t see Carl, couldn’t see Judith. But knew he had to move. His hand slapped against cold metal, the side of a truck. He hauled himself up. Blood dripped into his eye, sticky and warm. Across the prison yard he spotted Daryl, his eyes anxious, searching for a way to reach him.
No!" Rick gasped, blood flecking his lips.
“Damn it! I ain’t leaving ya!” Daryl fired another shot at a walker, then another at the Governor's men.
Rick groaned. His wounds burned, but he didn't blink. "Go," his voice cracked. "Find our kids!"
Daryl’s jaw worked, anger and fear warring in his eyes. He fired another bolt at an approaching walker, then jerked his head toward the smoking wreck of the prison. "We’ll get 'em together!"
“No, Daryl. I’ll only slow you down.” Rick shot back, holding Daryl's gaze, ignoring the throb in his shoulder. Daryl shouldn’t waste time on a dead man walking.
Daryl’s jaw tightened as he surveyed the chaos, then finally nodded. “Hold on, Rick. I’ll be back for ya,” he vowed, and with a final look, sprinted east.
Rick slumped against the truck bed. The bite pulsed hotter, but his chest ached worse. He'd said "our kids" without thinking, like it was as natural as breathing. And it was. Had been for a long damn time. Daryl spooning oatmeal into Judith’s mouth when she fussed. Daryl teaching Carl to track, both of ’em bent over deer prints in the mud. Daryl was always there, steady as sunrise even when Rick was losing his mind.
Rick’s vision darkened at the edges. He thought about Lori, about Shane, all the faces of those they lost.
And Daryl. Always Daryl.
His mind drifted. Late nights on watch, shoulders brushing. Daryl’s voice rough with sleep, the way the corner of his mouth would twitch when he was trying not to smirk. Shoulda known when he caught himself watching the way Daryl’s shoulders moved under that vest and felt his mouth run dry. Shoulda known when he’d started leaving half his rations in Daryl’s pack, how he always worried when Daryl went out on a supply run without him. When he’d realized he slept easier with Daryl’s back pressed against his in the dark.
Rick remembered a night months back. Daryl hadn’t returned by sunset. Rick had paced the prison yard like a caged animal. Carol had raised an eyebrow at him. "He’ll be back," she’d said, like it was obvious.
And it was. Daryl always came back. But Rick couldn't sit still anyway. Carol had watched him pace, her lips pressed thin like she knew something he didn’t. When Daryl finally shoved through the gate, his vest had been damp with dew, three squirrels swinging from his belt. Rick had moved before he could think. He’d grabbed a fistful of that damn vest and yanked Daryl close, their bodies colliding. The smell hit him. Sweat, rust, and underneath it all, something wild and musky like a hound after a rainstorm.
Daryl licked his lips and Rick panicked. Too goddamn close. Rick had shoved him back hard.
Daryl’s eyebrows shot up. "The hell’s wrong with you?"
“Out there after dark. Again.” Rick rasped, fingers tingling where they’d curled into Daryl’s vest.
Daryl spat to the side, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t my first hunt, Rick.”
“Ain’t the point.”
The words hung between them. Daryl’s eyes narrowed, like he was trying to read somethin’ off Rick’s face. Rick clenched his fists. His heart hammered like a goddamn drumline. He wanted to shake him. Wanted to grab him again, but not to shove, but to pull. To press his mouth against Daryl’s stubborn jaw and see if it’d soften under his teeth. The thought hit him like a bullet to the gut.
Daryl huffed, unhooked the squirrels, and tossed them at Rick’s chest. Rick caught them automatic, the fur warm under his fingers. Daryl turned before he could say more, stalking off toward Cell Block A like the conversation was done. Rick stood there, clutching dead squirrels, his stomach twisting.
Now, leaning against the truck, Rick chuckled wetly. Shoulda said something then. Shoulda done a lotta things. Now all Rick had was regret gnawing at him worse than the bite festering in his shoulder. Shoulda grabbed Daryl by that stupid vest and kissed him stupid right there in the yard. Woulda been worth the punch he’d have gotten for it.
The prison yard blurred. Walkers shuffled closer, drawn by the scent of blood. Rick didn’t fear dying. Hell, he’d been living on borrowed time since he woke up in that hospital. But the thought of Carl, of Daryl finding him rotting and mindless, that burned worse than any bite.
Rick fumbled for his Colt. Barrel pressed under his chin. His hand shook. He could do it quick. Spare Daryl the grief. But then he imagined Daryl’s face when he realized Rick hadn’t waited. Hadn’t trusted him to come back. That ache in his chest flared hot again. He lowered the gun.
Daryl’s voice echoed in his head. Hold on, Rick. He gritted his teeth and pushed off the truck. His legs shook, but he took a step. Then another. Damn if he was gonna wait here and become walker food.
Somewhere out there, Daryl was searching for Carl, searching for Judith.
Rick stumbled forward, legs dragging like sandbags. He didn't pray, hadn't in years, but his chest ached with something raw and jagged. "Keep 'em safe," he muttered to the empty air. "Just keep 'em safe."
Carl’s fingers dug into his arm, hauling Rick forward with a strength that surprised him. Rick stumbled after him, his vision swimming with every step, but he didn’t complain. Couldn’t. Not when Carl’s jaw was clenched tight like that, his eyes shiny with something fierce and terrified all at once.
"Almost there," Carl gritted out, half-dragging him toward the treeline.
Rick knew better. Knew the bite on his shoulder wasn’t just some wound to stitch up. Knew the fever already simmering under his skin wasn’t from the Georgia heat. But Carl wasn’t ready to hear that yet, and Rick wasn’t cruel enough to say it. Not when Carl’s hands shook every time he glanced at the blood-soaked torn fabric wrapped haphazardly around Rick’s shoulder and thigh.
So Rick bit back the groan building in his throat and let himself be pulled. His boots dragged through the dirt, leaving smeared trails of blood behind them. The empty carrier seat they’d passed earlier flashed in his mind. Judith’s little blanket torn, stained with dark splotches. No body.
Rick swallowed hard, forcing his legs to move. Couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t wonder who’d grabbed her, if she was even alive. If Daryl had found her, if Daryl was even still breathing.
He blinked, tried to focus on Carl, the way his shoulders were hunched like he expected walkers or worse to come barreling outta the trees any second. Shouldn’t be like this. Shouldn’t be Carl dragging his half-dead ass through the woods like some goddamn burden.
The bite pulsed hot and angry. He gritted his teeth against it, scanning the trees for anything sturdy enough to hold. An old hunting cabin, maybe. Didn’t matter so long as it had four damn walls and a door he could barricade. He’d get Carl inside, make sure he had bullets, maybe leave him with one last useless speech about being careful. Then Rick would walk. Far enough that Carl wouldn’t hear the gunshot. Far enough that when he turned, he wouldn’t see his old man’s corpse lurching back toward him with empty eyes.
Christ.
That was the first thought that punched through Rick’s fever-haze as Carl’s boot kicked a chair hard enough to send it skidding across the hardwood. The boy’s voice cracked sharp as a whip, raw and accusing. “Shoulda been stronger! Shoulda killed the Governor when you had the damn chance!”
Rick didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat felt lined with glass. The bite burned. The gunshot throbbed. His thoughts swam sluggish, half-stuck in memories of greenhouses and Hershel’s steady hands on tomato plants. Philip Blake had been missing for months after they'd taken back Andrea. Rick figured the bastard had croaked. Thought they were safe, that they could rebuild.
Carl wasn’t having it. He paced the living room. “Michonne tried to tell you,” he spat. “Everybody tried to tell you. But you just—” His hands clenched, shaking. “You just farmed.”
Rick blinked slow. Swallowed. Tried to focus on the dust motes floating in the late afternoon light slanting through the blinds instead of the way Carl’s face twisted. The kid had every right to be pissed.
“Shoulda listened,” Rick managed.
Carl kicked the coffee table. “Yeah, no shit!”
The wood splintered under his boot, but Rick barely flinched. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the fury twisting Carl’s face. But words piled up in his throat, useless and choking.
The room came into focus in slow blinks. Someone’s living room. A couch sagged against the far wall, its floral print faded but intact. A study table, scratched but sturdy, sat crooked on a braided rug. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old cooking grease, not rot. Someone had lived here. Recently.
Carl dragged his hands through his hair, fingers catching on matted blood and dirt. “We could’ve been ready. Could’ve fought back.” His breath hitched. “Now Judith’s gone. Daryl’s gone. And you’re—” His gaze dropped to Rick’s shoulder, then jerked away like the sight burned.
Rick’s chest tightened. Fever sweat prickled his skin, but the guilt burned hotter. Carl wasn’t wrong. He’d gotten soft. Let himself believe fences and gardens would keep the world out.
The room tilted. Rick caught himself on the armrest, fingers digging into the upholstery. Carl didn’t move to help. Just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes glittering with something too old for his face.
Darkness crept in at the edges of Rick’s vision. He fought it, fought to keep his eyes open. Needed to tell Carl to bar the door. To stay put. To—
Carl turned on his heel.
Rick’s hand twitched, but he couldn’t lift it. Couldn’t call him back. Maybe it was better this way. Let the kid run. Let him find Daryl, find Judith, find anyone who wasn’t dead weight dragging him down.
The front door slammed.
Better Carl remember him whole, not some twitching, snarling thing he’d have to put down like a rabid dog. Lori's face flashed behind his eyelids. The way Carl’s hands must have shook holding that gun. The way he had to make sure his mom didn't come back as a walker. He couldn't let his boy go through that again.
Rick jolted awake with a scream trapped in his throat, every nerve alight like someone had lit him on fucking fire. A wet, sickening crack echoed in his skull, and for a heartbeat, he thought walkers had gotten to him while he was out. Then he realized that sound was his own rib snapping under his skin. Blood surged hot and thick up his throat, choking him before he coughed it out in ragged spurts.
"Fuck. Rick, please. Ya gotta hold on."
Rick blinked hard, the voice cutting through the haze like a knife. His vision swam, but the weight pressing down on his legs was real, solid. Daryl's face hovered above him, etched with something raw Rick couldn't name. But alive. Christ, alive. The relief hit him like a shotgun blast to the chest. Tears burned tracks down his dirt-caked cheeks before he could stop them.
The bedroom walls tilted, but Rick forced himself to take it in, instinctually scoping his surroundings. Peeling wallpaper, a dresser shoved against the door, moonlight bleeding through the blinds. "Daryl..."
"M'sorry, Rick. I couldn't let ya just die without at least tryin’."
Daryl’s tear-streaked cheeks hit Rick like a punch. He looked completely crushed, shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the whole damn world. But maybe Rick understood. He got bit. Knew what that meant. He’d like to think he meant enough to Daryl that he wouldn’t be just another walker he’d have no problem putting down when the time came.
Rick was about to ask where Carl was when another wave of pain hit. His spine arched off the mattress, blood flooding his mouth again, metallic and thick. Through the haze, he caught sight of Daryl’s arm, streaked with something dark. Blood, maybe. Rick’s or someone else’s, he couldn’t tell.
Daryl cursed under his breath and shifted his weight, pressing Rick down harder while his free hand clamped over Rick’s mouth. The warm palm muffled Rick’s scream, turning it into a choked wheeze. He bucked against Daryl’s grip, but Daryl held firm. The restraints, rope, maybe, or belts, bit into his wrists, his ankles, but the pain was nothing past the wildfire chewing through his veins.
"Carl," Rick gasped, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. "Where—" The question dissolved into another choked groan as his bones snapped, realigned, snapped again.
Daryl’s palm pressed harder against his mouth. "Safe," he ground out. "Promise." His voice cracked on the word, something raw and broken underneath. "Didn't want him to see ya like this."
The weight of Carl's absence felt crushing to Rick, especially after losing Judith. But Daryl knew how much it broke Rick to learn that Carl had to put his own mother down. Keeping him away was for the best. Rick wouldn't have it any other way. “Daryl, please, you have to...”
"No! Shut up. Don't ya dare tryna say yer goodbyes," Daryl snapped angrily. “Yer stronger than this. Ya made it through hell and back, and you’ll do it again.”
"This ain't—" Rick started, but the words caught in his throat, blood rushing up as he broke into hacking coughs. He wanted to comfort Daryl, tell him that it was gonna be okay, but the shadow of his looming fate bore down on him. "You know there ain't no coming back from this."
Daryl’s expression hardened, his usual unreadable mask fractured by anguish and determination. His fingers dug into Rick’s shoulder, just enough to ground him, to keep him from slipping away.
At the precipice of death, it suddenly seemed so clear to Rick, like the sun breaking through storm clouds after years of gray. The way Daryl had always been there, not just surviving, but fighting for him, for Carl, for Judith. The way he'd snarled at anyone who so much as glanced wrong in Rick’s direction. The way Rick had caught him staring sometimes, like he was memorizing the lines of Rick’s face.
And now, with his blood soaking the sheets, Rick knew then. Same way he knew when to draw his gun or when a storm was coming by the ache in his bones. Daryl loved him back. Not just as a friend, not just as the man who led their people through hell. Loved him deep and quiet and fierce, the kind that didn’t need words ‘cause it lived in every damn choice he’d ever made.
His heart clenched 'cause it was too late for them. Too late to say it, too late to do anything but choke on the bitterness of wasted time. Shoulda kissed him that night in the yard. Shoulda dragged him into some dark corner and shown him what he meant instead of shoving him away like a goddamn coward.
"Daryl," Rick rasped, his voice cracking like dried-out leather. His fingers twitched against the restraints, wanting to reach, to touch, to hold, but the ropes held fast. "Shoulda told ya—"
Daryl’s breath hitched. His grip on Rick’s shoulder tightened, knuckles white. "Don’t," he growled, but his voice choked on a sob. "Don’t ya dare say it like it’s some damn last words."
The moonlight painted Daryl’s face in sharp relief, the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Rick wanted to remember him like this. Alive. Fierce. His.
Rick’s vision darkened at the edges. The fever burned him alive from the inside. But this wasn’t just dying. This was something clawing its way through his veins, ripping him apart cell by cell. He’d seen folks turn before. Seen them go slack, then twitch back up, empty-eyed and hungry. None of them had screamed like this, none had thrashed like their bones were breaking and reforming under their skin.
Daryl’s hands were iron on his chest, pressing him down, but Rick barely registered the weight past the agony. Rick wondered why the fuck there was so much pain. Nobody ever said it hurt this bad to turn. Nobody warned him it’d feel like his guts were being twisted inside out like this.
"Breathe, goddamn it!" Daryl’s palm slapped Rick’s cheek, once, twice, hard enough to rattle his teeth. Rick gasped, his lungs finally unlocking. The air burned going down, but it cleared his vision enough to catch the way Daryl’s hands shook. His eyes were red-rimmed, wild like a cornered animal.
Rick’s throat worked around another groan. "Daryl—"
Daryl snarled, leaning in close. Rick blinked, didn’t trust what he’d just seen ‘cause for a heartbeat, he thought he saw Daryl’s eye color turn red. "Yer not going anywhere, Rick. Not while I’m here, ya hear me?" His voice was fierce, a protective growl that almost sounded inhuman. "I already..." He trailed off, hastily wiping his eyes with one hand. "The bite won’t kill ya if ya just make it through the change tonight."
Rick’s breath hitched. Change? Not death? His thoughts were sludge, but that word stuck like a hook in his ribs. Rick wanted to ask what the hell that meant. Part of him wanted to believe Daryl. That this wasn’t the end. That somehow, someway, he’d claw his way back from this. But the rest of him knew better. Ain’t no coming back from a bite. He’d seen it too many damn times. He’d put down enough bitten folks to know how it ended. Always the same.
Daryl’s hand slid from Rick’s neck to his jaw. "Ya can hate me all ya want later.” Daryl’s voice broke. “I had ta do it. We’ve lost so much already.” The urgency in his tone, the desperation in his eyes mirrored Rick’s own. “I can't lose ya too, Rick.”
Rick remembered suddenly, vividly, the hollowed-out wreck Daryl had been after Merle. The way he’d sat in the prison’s guard tower for days, blaming himself for not noticing that Lizzie was sick, how if only he paid attention, the deaths of the nice Woodbury folks could’ve been avoided.
And now Hershel. The prison falling, the rest of their people scattered into the wind or worse.
“M’ tired of losing people, man.” Daryl sighed that night, face tucked in between his folded knees.
Daryl always did this. Shouldered every loss like it was his personal failure. As if he could’ve predicted every ambush, stopped every bullet. The guilt was etched into the tightness of his jaw, the way his hands clenched around Rick’s wrists now like he could physically hold the fever at bay.
Rick’s throat burned, but he forced the words out anyway. “I could never hate you Daryl.”
Daryl’s fingers dug into Rick’s shoulders hard. The moonlight caught the wet tracks cutting through the grime on his cheeks. Whatever Daryl had done, whatever he was talking about, Rick would take it. Would welcome it like salvation if it meant seeing another sunrise, if it meant keeping Daryl from breaking apart under the weight of another loss.
"I trust you." He didn’t understand what Daryl meant by ‘the change,’ didn’t know what was happening to his body, but he knew this. Knew it bone-deep. "Whatever you did, I trust you."
Daryl’s breath stuttered. "Yer the strongest man I know," he murmured, tone unwavering and filled with conviction. His thumb brushed Rick’s jaw, rough but tender. "Yer a survivor. You’ll make it through this. Not just for Carl, but for Lil’ Asskicker too."
Rick’s bloodshot gaze flared wide open at the nickname, renewed hope springing in his chest despite the hellish torture his body was going through. His muscles seized, bones popping audibly, but his focus locked onto Daryl’s face. "Judith..." He breathed her name like a prayer, hot tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. He’d seen the torn carrier, the bloodstained blanket. Had prepared himself for the worst.
"I found her, Rick. She's alive," Daryl’s voice was thick with emotion. The tremor there spoke of how close he must have lost their daughter in all the chaos that ensued. “Followed yer tracks soon as we was out the prison. Our Lil' Asskicker's downstairs with Beth and Carl. They're safe.”
Our.
There was that word again. Like Carl and Judith were theirs. Like Daryl had carved out a place in their family so deep even the end of the world couldn’t shake him loose.
The pain flared again, white-hot knives twisting in his joints. Rick arched off the mattress, a strangled cry tearing past his lips. Daryl’s hands were there, one gripping his shoulder, the other cupped the side of his face.. “Easy,” Daryl murmured, rough but steady. “Ya just gotta breathe through it.”
The fevered thought was absurd, but Rick clung to it. Daryl’s hands. No calluses. How the hell did a man who lived with a bowstring in his grip have hands this soft? He’d watched Daryl work, seen the way his fingers wrapped tight around the riser when he shot, the way his knuckles popped when he adjusted his grip. Should’ve left marks. Should’ve split the skin. But Daryl’s palm was smooth against Rick’s cheek.
Rick blinked blood from his lashes, thoughts swimming sluggish. Pain rolled through Rick in waves, each crest sharper than the last, but Daryl’s grip was an anchor, steady, unyielding. His breath smelled of pine resin and gunpowder when he leaned close, forehead nearly touching Rick’s.
“Bite down,” Daryl shoved a leather belt between Rick’s teeth. “Ain’t pretty what’s comin’.”
Pain punched through Rick again, a relentless tide tearing muscle from bone. His vision whited out, but Daryl’s presence remained. Big hands pinning his shoulders, knees bracketing his hips, the heat of him searing through layers of fabric and blood.
Carl was safe. Judith was alive. That knowledge alone made Rick choke into ragged, relieved sobs between convulsions. Rick couldn’t give up now. Not when he’d just gotten his family back.
His jaw clamped down on the belt. The pain was a wildfire, eating him alive. His bones cracking apart only to knit back together again, twisting beneath his skin like something inside him was clawing free.
But Daryl’s hands never left him. Fingers dug into his shoulders, thumbs pressing hard against his collarbones. Sweat dripped from Daryl’s brow, splashing hot against Rick’s cheek as their foreheads stayed pressed together.
Rick choked on the belt, his spine bowing off the mattress as another wave hit. Something popped in his ribcage, wet, sickening, but Daryl’s grip tightened, fingers flexing against his pulse. Keeping him here. Keeping him grounded. Their noses brushed, Daryl’s breath hot and rapid against his lips.
The fever burned hotter, gnawing at his insides like a live wire. Rick lost track of time. Seconds stretched into hours, hours compressed into flashes of agony. Pain wasn’t singular anymore. It was jagged edges and liquid fire, his own body mutinying against him. Rick’s vision blurred, doubled. Daryl’s face fractured like broken glass. His gums ached, teeth too tight in his skull. He tasted copper, felt something sharp pressing against the inside of his cheeks. The belt muffled his scream as another bone snapped.
Daryl didn’t flinch. Just pressed in closer. "Ya got this," he murmured, thumb swiping the blood from Rick’s split lip. His touch lingered, rough and reverent. "Yer doin’ so goddamn good, Rick."
Rick barely heard him past the ringing in his ears. Every breath seared his lungs, every heartbeat hammered like a mallet against his ribs. His vision pulsed for a heartbeat, and when it cleared, the room was sharper. The peeling wallpaper, the cracks in the ceiling, every detail thrown into stark relief like he was seeing through a goddamn scope.
He gasped as his nails dug into the mattress, only to feel them lengthen, curling into hooked points that shredded fabric. His tongue ran over his teeth on reflex, and that’s when he felt them. The sharp press of elongated canines against his bottom lip. A choked sound tore from his throat, half terror, half disbelief.
Daryl’s grip tightened, his breath hitching. “Ya did good,” he whispered, fingers sliding down to cradle Rick’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. Rick saw red bleeding into Daryl’s blue irises. “Yer gonna be okay, Rick.”
Rick panted, his ribs aching. His skin burned where Daryl touched him, but the pain was dulling now, replaced by something else, something hotter coiled tight in his gut. Daryl laughed then, a low, rough, breathless sound, and the warmth of it settled under Rick’s skin like whiskey on a cold night. “Goddamn, Rick. Look at you.”
Pride. That’s what Rick heard in Daryl’s voice. Like Rick had done something worth celebrating. Daryl’s fingers trailed down Rick’s cheek, careful. His thumb brushed the damp skin under Rick’s eye before drifting lower, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Rick’s breath hitched as Daryl’s fingers slid lower still, skimming over his collarbone to the torn fabric of his shirt.
The bite. Rick had almost forgotten.
His fingers twitched against the restraints, desperate to palpate his shoulder, to confirm if the ragged flesh was still torn open or knitted together. The wound didn't throb anymore.
Daryl's face hovered too close, his grin splitting like sunshine through storm clouds. Relieved. Proud. Like Rick had passed some test he didn't even know he was taking. Exhaustion hit him like a collapsing building. Every muscle felt liquid, his bones lead weights. He could sleep for a century.
Daryl’s hand pressed flat against his inner thigh right where the Governor’s bullet had punched through muscle. Rick swallowed around the belt still wedged between his teeth. No pain there either.
Rick spat the belt and it flopped onto the mattress. He stared at the gnawed leather, and saw the imprint of his own teeth. But it was too deep, too sharp. His tongue probed the points of his canines.
He willed them to go away, focused on having human teeth because the damn sharp ones felt foreign, too big in his mouth. He clenched his eyes shut, imagining the way his teeth used to be, the familiar blunt edges. Something shifted inside his gums, a slow, uncomfortable slide of bone and sinew. When he ran his tongue along his teeth again, they were normal. Mostly. Just a little sharper than before.
Rick tugged against the ropes again, half-expecting resistance, but this time they gave way with a sharp snap. The coarse fibers unraveled easy, and he stared at his hands like he'd never seen them before. The muscles in his forearms flexed under his skin, veins standing out too prominently, too alive. He rubbed his wrists where the ropes had bitten into flesh, watching as the angry red marks faded before his eyes.
It shouldn't have been possible.
But then again, the dead continued walking, so who was he to question what was possible and what's not. He looked at his claws—Christ, claws—and just like the teeth, focused on them going back to normal. The skin at his fingertips prickled as the sharp points receded, nails dulling back.
"Take it easy," Daryl murmured, fingers still skimming along his thigh. "How ya feelin’?"
Rick swallowed. His throat didn’t burn anymore. Didn’t hurt at all. But the fatigue weighed him down. "Like I got run over by a tank." His voice came out clearer than he expected. "Then the tank backed up and did it again."
Daryl’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. Rick’s breath hitched when he felt Daryl’s palm curl higher, fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. The weight of it punched through the fading delirium, sudden and electric. His pulse jumped under Daryl’s grip, blood rushing south fast enough to make his head spin. And then he was half-hard, breath stuttering when Daryl’s thumb brushed the inseam of his jeans.
Daryl froze. His gaze snapped up, pupils blown wide, nostrils flaring like he’d scented something. Rick’s cheeks burned. He should’ve been mortified. Should’ve been anything but achingly aware of how Daryl’s knees bracketed his hips, how his weight pressed down just shy of bruising.
Then Daryl jerked back like he’d been burned. He cleared his throat, scrambling off the bed so fast the mattress springs whined. “Gonna…” He dragged a hand over his face, cheeks dark with a flush Rick had only ever seen after moonshine. “Yer gonna crash soon. Hard.”
Rick pushed himself upright. Daryl’s hands were already at his ankles, fingers working the knots loose. Daryl’s thumb brushed the inside of Rick’s foot. Then he hesitated, grip tight for half a second before he ripped his hands away like he’d forgotten himself. His head ducked low, shoulders hunched, like he was trying to make himself smaller.
Rick’s hand twitched toward Daryl’s hip before he clenched it into a fist, nails biting into his palm. What the hell was wrong with him? Daryl had just, whatever the fuck this was, saved him. And here Rick was, fighting the urge to drag him down by the collar and taste the swear on his tongue.
"Rick?" Daryl's voice cracked like dry twigs underfoot. "Y'alright?"
Rick swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way Daryl's throat worked when he spoke, the way his pulse jumped under the sweat-slick skin of his neck. "Yeah. Just—gotta wrap my head around this."
Daryl exhaled sharp and edged back another inch, putting space between them that felt like a goddamn canyon. "Ya got questions."
That was an understatement. Rick rubbed his temples, trying to corral the stampede of half-formed thoughts battering his skull. The fever had burned most of his brain to ash, but one thing stood sharp and clear: whatever Daryl had done, it saved his life.
He met Daryl’s gaze head-on. "I meant what I said." The words came out steadier than he felt. "Whatever this was, whatever you did, it saved me." His fingers itched to reach out, to close the distance Daryl kept putting between them. "Hating you for that? That’d be the stupidest damn thing I ever did."
Daryl’s shoulders tensed. "Ain't that simple, Rick."
Rick sat up straighter, muscles protesting but obeying. "Then we'll make it simple."
The air between them crackled, thick with unsaid things. Daryl's hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach but didn't trust himself. Rick knew that look—had seen it in his own reflection too many times to count. The fear of wanting something so bad it might kill you to have it.
The air smelled different. Richer, sharper. Rick could pick apart the layers. The oil from Daryl’s bowstring clinging to his vest, the tang of old blood under his fingernails, the musky sweat-damp heat of him still pressed into the sheets where he’d straddled Rick’s hips.
And under all of it, something thick and heady that coiled low in Rick’s gut. Arousal. Not just his own this time. Daryl’s scent tangled with his, unmistakable now that Rick’s nose burned with the clarity of it.
The memory hit him like a bullet.
That night against the fence, Daryl swaying into his space with fresh game, smelling of sweat and wild things. How Rick had grabbed him by the vest, how Daryl hadn’t flinched. Just stared, lips parted, eyes dark with something Rick had been too goddamn chicken to name. Should’ve kissed him then and taken what he wanted instead of pretending it was just anger, just relief he’d come back in one piece.
His fingers twitched against the sheets. Daryl’s pulse was a frantic beat beneath the skin of his throat, visible even in the dim light. Fast, too fast, like he was halfway to bolting. He smelled like fear. Like want. Like hunger coiled tight enough to snap.
Rick didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just moved. His hand shot out, fingers hooking into the collar of Daryl’s vest. Daryl made a choked noise, eyes widening, but he didn’t resist when Rick yanked him down. Daryl hit the mattress with a grunt, eyes wide, but he didn’t fight. Didn’t even try. Just stared up like Rick had lost his ever-loving mind, breath coming fast, lips wet where his tongue darted out to slick them.
"I love you," Rick stated, plain and simple. His grip tightened on Daryl’s vest, knuckles aching with the force of it. "Whatever you did, whatever the hell this is, I ain’t gonna regret it. Not when it means I get to stay." His chest heaved. "Not when it means I get to be here for Carl and Judith… for you."
Daryl looked gutpunched, like he never expected Rick to ever say those words to him, like Rick loving him back was a miracle he couldn’t fathom touching. His lips parted soundlessly, hands hovering awkwardly over Rick’s shoulders like he couldn’t decide whether to push or pull.
Rick didn’t wait for permission. He couldn’t. Not when Daryl was trembling under his hands, not when his pulse hammered wild against Rick’s palm like it might punch straight through skin and bone. He yanked Daryl forward and crushed their mouths together. Hard. Desperate. Like he’d die if he didn’t.
Rick tasted blood. His own or Daryl’s, he didn’t know, didn’t care. Daryl froze for a heartbeat, then groaned like a man starved, hands cradling Rick’s face like he was something fragile even as he kissed him back with bruising force, and Christ, Rick could drown in this. Could lose himself in the slick slide of Daryl’s tongue, the way his body arched up against Rick's like he couldn't stand not touching,
Rick’s free hand fisted in Daryl’s hair, pulling just shy of painful. Daryl shuddered against him, a full-body tremor that Rick felt in his own bones. He’d dreamed about this, in stolen moments between gunfire and graves, in the quiet after watch shifts when the campfire embers died to ash.
Never let himself dwell on it. But now, with his blood still singing from whatever the hell Daryl had done to him, with Daryl’s lips hot and yielding under his, Rick couldn’t remember why he’d ever held back.
He broke the kiss just enough to drag his nose along Daryl’s stubbled cheek, inhaling deep. “Shoulda done that a long time ago,” Rick muttered, voice wrecked. Then he was kissing him again, harder this time. Daryl made a noise low in his throat, half-growl, half-moan, and arched up off the bed. His hands fisted in Rick’s shirt, yanking him closer until Rick’s knee slid between his thighs and oh, Daryl was hard too, heat pressing against Rick’s hip through a layer of denim.
Rick’s fingers tangled tighter in Daryl’s hair, tugging just to hear him gasp. Daryl bit his lip in retaliation and Rick growled without meaning to, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. Daryl froze for a heartbeat, then shuddered, his breath coming fast and ragged against Rick’s mouth.
Rick pulled back just enough to watch Daryl’s face—flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown so wide the blue was almost gone. His pulse hammered under Rick’s fingertips where they curled around his throat. Rick didn’t squeeze. Just held, testing. Daryl’s eyelashes fluttered, his hips jerking up like he couldn’t help it.
“That—” Daryl’s voice cracked. His fingers tightened on Rick’s waist. “Do that again.”
Rick exhaled slow and let the noise build in the back of his throat. Lower this time, rougher. Daryl made a punched-out sound, his forehead dropping against Rick’s shoulder with a ragged moan.
Something wild and possessive curled in Rick’s gut. The scent of Daryl’s arousal was thick in the air, bitter-sweet and intoxicating. Rick licked a stripe up his throat just to feel him shiver.
“Christ, Rick.” Daryl’s hips jerked again, grinding up against him, friction burning even through layers of fabric. His hands slid down to grip Rick’s ass, pulling him closer. “Ain’t gonna last.”
Rick cut him off with another growl, this one deliberate, vibrating against Daryl’s collarbone where he’d bitten through the fabric of his shirt. Daryl cursed, head thumping back against the mattress. He’d never seen Daryl like this, undone, pliant, gasping, and it lit something primal in him, something hungry.
Daryl surged up again, kissing him like he was drowning and Rick was air. One hand slid down Rick’s back, fingers digging into the muscle above his belt, possessive and rough. Rick groaned into his mouth, hips jerking forward on instinct. The friction was electric, sparks dancing up his spine. He could feel Daryl’s heartbeat where their chests pressed together, frantic as a trapped bird’s.
Some distant part of him registered footsteps downstairs, Beth’s voice calling up, hesitant. “Daryl? Everything okay?”
Daryl went rigid beneath him, breath catching. Rick could see the conflict flicker across his face. Want warring with practicality. But then Daryl’s grip tightened, his free hand sliding up to cradle the back of Rick’s neck like he was something precious. “Fine,” Daryl called back, voice rough. “Out in a minute.”
Beth hesitated. The floorboards creaked as she shifted her weight. “Carl’s asking—”
“Tell ‘im his daddy’s fine.” Daryl’s teeth grazed Rick’s lower lip, possessive. “Just gonna need a minute.”
Silence. Then soft footsteps retreating downstairs. Rick exhaled shakily against Daryl’s mouth. The scent of him filled Rick’s lungs until he was drunk on it. His hips ground down again, relishing the way Daryl moaned and hissed. His pulse jumped under Rick’s lips where they trailed down his throat.
Rick grinned against his collarbone, hips rolling slow and dirty, dragging their clothed cocks together. The friction burned sweet, Daryl’s heartbeat rabbiting against his tongue. Every ragged breath Daryl took punched hot against Rick’s temple, his fingers flexing where they clung to Rick’s lower back.
Something coiled tight and molten in Rick’s gut, his body singing with the aftershocks of whatever hell Daryl dragged him through. His hips stuttered when Daryl’s thigh pressed up hard between his legs, the pressure sudden and perfect, and Rick came with a bitten-off groan, heat pulsing through him in waves. He barely had time to register the wet heat soaking through his jeans before Daryl arched beneath him, a choked-off groan punched from his lungs as he too came untouched.
Rick collapsed boneless on top of him, the exhaustion crashing back like a tidal wave. His limbs weighed a thousand pounds, muscles trembling with spent energy, but god, he felt alive. Blood hummed under his skin, every inch of him hyper-aware of Daryl’s ragged breathing beneath him.
Daryl’s fingers trailed lazily up his spine, his other hand skating over the damp fabric of his shirt, lingering at the nape of his neck where sweat curled the hair there. Rick’s nose pressed instinctively into the crook of Daryl’s neck. The scent settled in his chest like whiskey heat, familiar and intoxicating.
Daryl shifted beneath him, his breath hitching when Rick’s teeth scraped over his pulse. “Easy.”His palm splayed against the small of Rick’s back, pressing him closer like he couldn’t help it. “Ya need rest.”
Rick wanted to argue. Wanted to prove he could keep his eyes open a little longer. But his body wasn’t his own anymore. Every muscle melted into Daryl’s warmth, his limbs too heavy to lift. The last thing he felt before the dark swallowed him whole was Daryl’s lips pressing against his temple, achingly gentle.