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Chapter Text

Atlanta in January was a different kind of hard. The city, stripped of summer’s lush sprawl, seemed meaner—cement and steel under a sky the color of old ash. Frost slicked the sidewalks, and every shallow breath turned to mist. Even the buses ran with their windows fogged up, and folks in heavy jackets hurried past the hunched shapes on the benches, pretending not to see.

Daryl waa sitting under the overhang outside the old Grant Park MARTA station, knees hugged tight to his chest, battered boots planted on the cold concrete. His flannel was worn thin, the sleeves pulled over hands that ached from cold and old bruises. He wore a battered, army surplus jacket—two sizes too big and missing half its buttons. Underneath, every layer was stiff with grime and sweat, but it was all he had. His now shoulder-length hair stuck out in greasy tufts from beneath a threadbare cap, hiding his eyes when he wanted them hidden. It had been a week since he’d slept indoors. Nights like this, cold crept in through every seam. Daryl’s breath puffed white in the air as he tried to sink deeper into himself, shoulders hunched, chin tucked against the wind. He watched the city move around him—people on their phones, people clutching coffee, eyes averted, boots crunching salt scattered over the sidewalks. Nobody stopped. Nobody ever did.

His stomach cramped, a dull hunger that he ignored. He’d scrounged half a stale sandwich from a trash bin behind a diner the day before, but tonight there was nothing but the ache. Somewhere downtown, a church group handed out styrofoam cups of soup, but the redneck man didn’t trust crowds—didn’t trust charity, didn’t trust much of anything. Cops, most of all. Every night brought another round of city patrols, officers running vagrants off corners and chasing them from doorways.

That night, Daryl stayed quiet as he heard the low thrum of a police cruiser rolling up to the curb. He kept his head down, praying whoever was inside would move along. His whole body tensed, ready to bolt if he had to, but his muscles were stiff from cold and too many nights without sleep.

The car idled and he heard the driver’s door openening, boots crunching ice as someone stepped out. Daryl glanced up, sharp and wary, ready to defend himself or spit a curse. It was just one cop. Curly-haired, mid or late thirties, square jaw dusted with stubble, brown hair just starting to grey at the temples. The man’s uniform was heavy—a dark Atlanta PD parka zipped to the chin, badge glinting in the harsh orange streetlight. He looked official, tired, but not mean. He looked like he didn’t want to be out in the cold, either. “Hey, you alright there?” the cop called out, voice carrying in the brittle air—low, rough, and with a nice Southern drawl that softened the edges. Daryl tensed, steel eyes flashing with suspicion. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ illegal,” he snapped, the words out before he could think better of it.

The cop didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, careful not to crowd him, glancing once at homeless man's hands—making sure there was no weapon, just the bony knuckles of a man used to fighting for space. “Didn’t say you were,” he answered, voice steady, crystal blue gaze searching but not cruel. “It’s just—colder’n hell tonight. Gonna be below freezing before sunrise.” Daryl grunted, tucking his chin. “Don’t need your help.” The officer nodded, as if he’d heard it a hundred times.“I get it,” he said. “Just… can’t leave you out here like this. There’s a city shelter on Decatur, and the soup kitchen’s still serving on Auburn. You want a ride?”

Daryl snorted, trying for bravado but his voice just came out tired. “Who are ya? Ain’t no charity case here, leave me alone.” The cop’s blue eyes softened—a little too much pity in them, Daryl thought, and it pissed him off. But the man just squatted down, one arm resting on his knee. “Name’s Rick,” he said. “Rick Grimes. Patrol this sector most nights. If you want a hot meal, or need to warm up, just ask for me.”

Daryl bristled. “Yeah? What, you go ‘round rescuin’ every bum you see, Rick Grimes?” Rick’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Can’t rescue anybody who don’t wanna be saved.” He paused, glancing up and down the empty street. “You got family in Atlanta?” The homeless man shook his head, jaw tightening in a stubborn way. “Ain’t got nobody.” The truth of that sentence sat heavy on his tongue.

The handsome officer let the silence hang, just long enough for the wind to howl between them. He reached into his coat pocket, fishing out a protein bar, and setting it on the ground beside Daryl’s boot. “Take it,” he said, quiet and firm. “Ain’t a handout. It’s just… cold tonight. Bad things happen to folks sleepin’ rough.” He finally stood, boots scraping the ice, and hesitated. “If you need me, you know where to find me.” Then he walked back to his cruiser, every step slow and deliberate, like he wanted Daryl to know he wasn’t a threat as Daryl stared at the man’s back, heart hammering with a mix of shame and anger and something else—something that felt like hope, but he pushed it down hard. He didn’t touch the protein bar until the cruiser pulled away, taillights glowing red through the dirty slush. He ate it quick, barely tasting anything. Calories hit his stomach like a stone. The wrapper crumpled in his fist, he stared out at the city and wondered why that cop bothered at all.

That same night, the temperature dropped below twenty degrees. Daryl found a patch of alley behind a boarded-up storefront and wrapped himself in a tarp he’d stolen from a construction site. The wind cut through every layer. He shivered, teeth chattering, mind replaying Rick’s offer again and again—like a radio he couldn’t shut off. Maybe the shelter wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Maybe he’d just go for a cup of coffee and get back out before anyone noticed. But pride kept him rooted to the concrete.

Just a few blocks away, Rick Grimes was driving his lonely circuit, windshield wipers squeaking, heater fighting a losing battle against the cold. He kept seeing Daryl’s face—sharp-boned, feral, too young to look that old. Rick’s mind ran circles around itself: 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥? The US big cities swallowed men like that and spit out ghosts. Maybe, he thought, he could save just one.

***

The first time he went to the soup kitchen, it was because the ache in his belly had outlasted his pride. The line stretched around the block, steam from the kitchen windows fogging the glass. Daryl kept his head down, hands jammed in his jacket, ignoring the way people gave him a wide berth. Inside, the smell of beans and white bread nearly made him dizzy. The volunteers didn’t ask questions, just slid a tray across and pointed him to a seat by the back wall. He ate quick and quiet, never looking up. Nobody bothered him; he made sure of it. When he left, the cold hit harder. He stuffed a roll in his pocket and told himself he wouldn’t come back. But he did. The next night, and the next...

A rhythm settled in: scrape together change for coffee in the mornings, find a spot to sleep where nobody would bother him, and come evening, line up at the kitchen doors. He didn’t talk to the other men—didn’t want friends, didn’t need anyone, they didn’t seem interested and any attachment for him meant hurt. So they mostly left him alone. Sometimes he’d catch the eye of an old timer, seeing the quick flicker of recognition. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

It was almost a week before he saw the cop again. The Rick Grimes guy stood near the entrance, talking with a volunteer. He looked out of place—still in uniform, though his parka was unzipped, hat tucked under his arm. His magnetic blue eyes moved over the room, scanning faces, and Daryl felt a prickle of irritation in his gut. The man was watching, but not in the way other cops did. No suspicion. Just… something else.

Hs kept eating with his head down, faster now. Afterward, he pulled his cap lower and slipped out the side door, not looking back.

But the next night, Rick was there again. Not always inside—sometimes across the street, leaning on his cruiser, sipping a coffee. Sometimes just standing in the haze of his headlights, arms folded, pretending to check his phone. It should’ve pissed Daryl off, but mostly it just made him feel seen in a way he didn’t know how to want.

Rick’s mind tried to make it routine. He told himself he was keeping an eye out, same as any decent cop would. After all, winter was bad for poor souls on the street, and he’d seen enough cold snaps claim the stubborn and the unlucky. But the truth was, he looked for Daryl’s hunched figure every night. He started taking his break near the soup kitchen, driving his route a little slower, rolling down the window to listen for trouble. He learned which days the reserved man showed up—usually after a string of cold nights, when the wind whipped down the alleys and the city felt like a stone in his chest.

He noticed things, for example how Daryl never took seconds, how he always was sitting with his back to the wall, how he flinched if anyone moved too quick. He saw the way Daryl’s cough got worse, the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the way he rubbed his wrists raw under the table. At first, Rick told himself it was just empathy. He’d seen men fall through the cracks before—he hated it, but he understood. Still, he started bringing extra gloves in his trunk, started asking the kitchen staff if anyone needed rides out of the cold. He never said Daryl’s name, but everyone knew who he meant.

One night, the volunteer—an older woman, soft and graceful, a former survivor who first came from Women's Shelter volunteering while having her own foundation, Carol Peletier —caught his eye. “You can’t save them all, Officer Grimes,” she said quietly, not unkindly and Rick just nodded, but the words stuck like a splinter.

The weeks ground on. Daryl never smiled, never thanked anyone, but he started to trust the routine. The kitchen. The cot at the shelter, when it got too cold or he started to feel feverish. Sometimes, after dinner, he’d hang around outside for a minute, lighting a cigarette, watching steam pour out the vents. Rick would catch his eyes from across the street and the homeless man would look away, but at least he stopped leaving right away.

They talked a handful of times, always in that gruff, awkward way of men with no shared language but necessity. “You coughin’ more,” Rick said once, not quite a question. Daryl shrugged. “It’s winter.” Rick pressed a bottle of cough syrup into his hand, still in the pharmacy bag. “Take it. S’not charity. Just don’t want you ending up dead in a stairwell.” Daryl scowled, but pocketed it. He never threw any of the cop’s gifts away. Some nights, Rick would drive him to the shelter, both silent in the stale warmth of the cruiser. Daryl stared out the window, not meeting Rick’s eyes. Once, when the officer dropped him at the door, he muttered, “Don’t need a damn babysitter, 'y'know.” Rick only said, “Yeah, well, how about a friend?”

The city thawed, then froze again. They saw each other almost every day—sometimes for only a moment, sometimes for longer. Rick learned the cadence of Daryl’s steps, the way his whole body tensed when anyone got too close. Daryl began to accept coffee pressed into his hand, a warm muffin, sometimes a ride back to his alley. It was never enough. Rick felt the ache growing—a need he couldn’t name. Not just pity, not just duty. Something deeper, raw, and confusing. He tried to smother it, to remind himself of his badge, his job, his place. But every time Daryl looked at him—just looked, like he was the only one seeing through all the uniforms and kindness—Rick felt the world slip, just a little.

And Daryl, for all his anger, started to feel the city less hostile with Rick around. He hated himself for that but they never talked about it. They just kept meeting—across a crowded room, in the hush of early morning, in the rain beneath the flickering street lamps. Kindness turned habitual, then necessary. Rick’s attention became the thread stitching Daryl to the world, and Daryl’s presence the anchor Rick didn’t know he needed. Beneath every gesture, the tension grew—mercy, desire, pride, and need, all tangled up in the cold Atlanta night.

***

By February, Atlanta had thawed just enough to turn dirty snow to puddles, but the nights were still mean. The soup kitchen stayed busy; Daryl drifted through each evening looking more ragged, thinner around the cheeks, his cough lingering no matter how many bottles of syrup Rick left with him.

It was a Thursday when Rick found him outside the kitchen, sitting on the curb and shivering beneath a flickering streetlight. He didn’t look up as the friendly cop approached—just kept his arms wrapped tight, squinted gray-blue eyes glazed with fever while Rick crouched beside him, concern tightening his voice. “You need help, Dixon...this isn't OK.” He didn’t know why this came as so cliche like some straight up quote from police TV drama but he felt the need just to start a conversation, to help, to save the man. Daryl snorted, half-hearted, but didn’t argue. The effort to spit back seemed to cost too much. “You got somewhere to go tonight?” Rick pressed, knowing the answer.

Daryl shrugged, barely a motion. “Shelter’s full. Told me don’t come back ‘til tomorrow. ‘S fine. I’ll manage.” Rick’s gut twisted. He hesitated, then went on. “You’re burning up.” He pressed the back of his hand to Daryl’s forehead, ignoring the flinch. “You need a warm place and some real food, man. Ain’t gonna let you freeze to death on my watch.” Daryl tried to jerk away, but his movements were sluggish, defeated. “I said I’ll be fine. Don’t need—“Don’t argue,” Rick cut in, his voice sharper than he meant. “Listen, my place ain’t far. Just for the night. You can crash on the couch, shower, eat something. You’ll freeze out here.” Daryl’s eyes narrowed, pride fighting through the exhaustion. “Why ya doin’ this? You some kinda saint, Grimes?”

Rick just exhaled heavily. “No saints left, I just… can’t walk away.” He stood and offered his hand, silent. After a long moment, Daryl took it.

***

Rick’s apartment was on the second floor of a squat brick building off Memorial. It was nothing too fancy but still new interior, minimalistic —two rooms, one enormous couch, the air stale with old coffee and aftershave. The place was clean, but stripped of warmth; no family photos, just police academy plaques ... Daryl was standing in the entryway, swaying. He looked ready to bolt. Rick closed the door quietly, locking it behind him. He tossed his keys on the counter, turned to the other man.“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said, trying for casual. “Got towels and fresh soap. You can borrow some sweats—might not be your size, but better than freezing.” Daryl hovered, uncertain, but eventually shuffled off to shower. Rick listened to the water running, the thunk of boots on tile, the cough that rattled behind the door. He busied himself reheating soup, setting out crackers, making sure the couch was clear.

When Daryl reappeared, wet hair and face scrubbed raw, he looked younger—bones standing out sharp, steel blue eyes clearer. Rick handed him a bowl of soup and a pair of socks, pretended not to notice the way Daryl’s hands were trembling.They ate in silence, the television low, just the murmur of news anchors and city noise through the window and Daryl, as usual, kept his head down, shoulders tense. After a while, Rick spoke. “You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow too, if you need it. I got a spare key. Won’t ask questions.”

Daryl stared at the floor. “Don’t get used to it. Ain’t lookin’ to be nobody’s charity case...a burden.”Rick smiled, tired but genuine. “Ain’t a charity. Just… call it a favor and friends look after each other, don't they?" Daryl nodded, slow, some battle finally lost. He pulled the blanket tighter, curling up on the couch. Rick watched him for a moment—watched the rise and fall of his breath, the way his body finally relaxed when he thought the cop wasn’t looking.

***

That night, Rick was still in bed wide awake, the pale light of Atlanta leaking through the blinds and striping the ceiling. Down the hall, the TV was off, the living room silent. Daryl was out there—wrapped in a borrowed blanket, damp hair splayed across the pillow, breathing finally soft and even.

Rick couldn’t stop picturing him. Not just the way he looked after that shower—scrubbed clean, pink around the nose and cheeks, wearing Rick’s old sweats that hung loose around the hips—but the vulnerability in his eyes. That strange trust, handed over in exhaustion, pride finally stripped away. He shifted restlessly under the covers, guilt heavy on his chest. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t what a decent man, a good cop, should be thinking. He’d brought Daryl home because it was freezing, because he’d have died out there. That’s what he told himself. But now he was hard, throbbing, blood pounding in his ears, thinking about the slope of Daryl’s throat, the roughness of his hands, the raw way he’d looked at Rick and let him help, his hair which always looked and probably was greasy falling in the eyes, the broad otherwise shoulders combined with sculpted narrow waist... He squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself as his hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers. He tried to think of something else—anything else—but the image wouldn’t leave. Daryl, curled up on the couch, mouth parted in sleep. Daryl’s voice, husky and rough, snapping back at him. Daryl naked in the bathroom, steam curling around his lean body, scars standing out pale against dirty skin. What would it be like, Rick wondered, to touch him? To feel him tremble, not from cold but from pleasure? To push him down and watch him surrender, pride burning out in a gasp? He stroked himself slow, shame prickling at the base of his spine. He imagined pulling Daryl into his bed, peeling the borrowed clothes away, finding every mark and bruise and licking them clean. Daryl resisting at first, spitting curses, but then softening—just a little. Maybe Rick would cup his jaw, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, forcing the wild man to look at him. “Let me,” he’d whisper. “Let me take care of you. Let me have you.” He’d watch those steel blue eyes go dark, defiant even as Daryl’s body arched up to meet him, hips grinding into the mattress, fingers clutching at Rick’s shoulders.

Rick’s hand moved faster, breath ragged. He pictured pinning Daryl beneath him, mouths crashing together—hungry, desperate, messy. Maybe Daryl would fight it, buck and cuss, but Rick would hold him there, grinding down until Daryl stopped fighting, started to moan, started to beg. “Fuck, Rick,” he’d say, voice cracking, “just do it, just fuckin’ do it.” Rick would push inside, hard and slow, feeling Daryl clench and shudder and finally give in. He bit his lip to keep from groaning out loud, stroking himself faster, hips rocking up into his palm. He imagined Daryl’s hand tangled in his hair, Daryl’s voice thick and broken, calling his name. He imagined coming hard over Daryl’s stomach, marking him, owning him, Daryl staring up at him with ruined, grateful eyes. The orgasm hit fast, brutal, crashing through him like a wave. Rick muffled his cry in the crook of his arm, hot and dizzy, shuddering as he spilled into his hand. For a moment, everything went silent—the city, the house, his mind.

When it was over, Rick lied there panting, staring at the ceiling, sick with guilt. He wiped himself off and turned onto his side, heart pounding, shame crawling up his throat. He told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again. That he was just tired, just lonely, just human but he knew, deep down, that tomorrow night would be even worse which both made him sick and excited at the same time.

***

The days blurred together, cold giving way to rain, rain freezing back into black ice. Daryl didn’t leave. Not that Rick would have let him. He made excuses—cough’s not gone, shelter’s full, city’s a mess—but the truth was, he liked coming home to someone else’s boots by the door, the low rasp of Daryl’s voice in the kitchen.

He tried to be decent. Kept his distance, left Daryl to his space, never locked the bedroom door. But some nights, the mattress groaned under Rick’s restless weight, and he couldn’t keep his hands off himself. He’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening for the faint sounds from the couch: the shift of blankets, a cough, Daryl breathing deep. He wondered, endlessly and obsessively, if Daryl had ever been with anyone. If some woman...or another man had ever touched him—had ever known what Rick was learning to see, the scars he accidentally noticed on the back, some tattoo he couldn’t detect, the way his thin mouth twitched when he was caught off guard, the softness beneath the grime. Rick told himself he wasn’t like the usual creeps or abusive individuals, he wasn’t here to use Daryl, or break him down. He was different. He wanted to care for him, to save him, to give him something better. But the fantasies always took over. Rick would stroke himself slow, imagining Daryl stretched out on his bed, rough hands gripping the sheets, legs spread for him. He’d picture whispering soft promises—𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶...

He’d get lost in the idea of Daryl letting him in, finally trusting, finally giving up that last shred of pride. Sometimes, the shame twisted inside him so bad it made him angry. He’d finish, jaw clenched, wiping himself off with a shirt he’d pretend to throw in the hamper, but really just bury in the bottom of the closet. He’d lay there after, heart pounding, mind spinning with guilt. He was a good man, wasn’t he? He was helping, doing what nobody else would. He wasn’t like those bastards on the street, the ones who looked at Daryl like prey or junk. Yet every time he looked at Daryl in the morning—hair tangled, cheeks flushed with sleep, a flicker of suspicion in those squinty grayish blue eyes—he felt that same heat curl up inside him, hungry and wrong.

Daryl didn’t say much. He spent his days on the big couch, fiddling with the radio, sometimes reading a battered paperback Rick brought home, sometimes just staring out the window at the city below. He didn’t talk about his past, and Rick hasn't asked yet. But at night, when the rain rattled the glass and Daryl’s cough echoed through the apartment, Rick’s mind wandered. He’d wonder who’d put that bruise on Daryl’s ribs, who’d made him so damn afraid to be touched. Sometimes, he would imagine himself fixing all of it. He’d imagine holding Daryl tight, coaxing him open, showing him that not all hands hurt. He’d imagine the man giving in—needing it, wanting it—whispering Rick’s name like a prayer.

He told himself he could wait. He told himself he’d be gentle, he’d be patient, he’d never force a thing. But each day it got harder, and the line between mercy and wanting blurred.

One night, after Daryl had fallen asleep on the couch—mouth open, chest rising and falling steady—Rick stood in the hallway, watching him in the glow of the streetlights. He watched the rise and fall of his breath, the shape of his body under the blanket, the veins in his hands. The ache in Rick’s chest was almost unbearable. He wanted, so badly, to reach out. To touch. To be wanted in return.

But he just turned away, went to his room, and fucked himself raw to the thought of Daryl moaning beneath him—aching and ashamed, but too far gone to stop.

Every night the guilt got heavier. Every morning, the craving only grew. He kept telling himself he was different. He was a good man. But with every passing day, that lie got harder to believe...

Chapter Text

Atlanta woke wet and grey, a dirty January drizzle beating against the windowpane as dawn seeped into Rick’s apartment, bringing with it the smell of coffee gone old in the pot and last night’s city sweat. The cop had hardly slept, lying awake on his bed, the soft rise and fall of Daryl’s breathing down the hall becoming the only thing steady in a world that never stopped spinning out from under him. He’d told himself again and again that he wasn’t crossing a line, that letting the other man stay was the right thing, the only thing—but when he’d heard Daryl’s low, restless cough and the way he’d mumbled in his sleep, Rick had burned with something he didn’t want to feel, something that had nothing to do with "unconditional" goodness.

He got up before the alarm, feet cold on the floor and stood in the kitchen for a long time with the fridge open, just staring. When he finally started breakfast, every movement felt too loud. He cracked eggs into a pan, watching the whites hiss and bubble, glancing up every few seconds toward the hall as if expecting Daryl to bolt before sunrise. He couldn’t say what he wanted—to keep the homeless man here, to save him, to see if that sullen mouth would ever soften for him, to be the one Daryl looked at and didn’t flinch away.

Daryl meanwhile woke slow, blearily, one arm flung across his face, chestnut hair tangled and pressed flat on one side, and for a minute he didn’t know where he was—only that it was quiet, and warm, and that the ache in his bones was dull instead of sharp. He listened to the kitchen noises—plates clinking, the muffled hum of the stove fan, someone moving steady and careful as if not to startle a wounded animal. That alone was enough to keep him rooted to the mattress a minute longer, eyes cracked just enough to see the blue-grey light of Atlanta leaking through the blinds. He finally sat up, knees pulled to his chest under the borrowed blanket, blinking against the dim. The air was thick with the scent of eggs, black coffee, and a cheap, clean aftershave that clung to every soft surface. He hated that he noticed it—hated even more the knot of safety twisting deep in his belly. He’d learned not to trust that feeling, not in years. But here, now, with the winter outside and his boots by someone else’s door, he felt the pull of something like hope and tried to kill it before it could bloom.

He shuffled out into the living room, shoulders hunched against some imagined blow, but Rick just looked up from the stove, nodding with kind blue eyes but guarded, as if he didn’t know what words would scare Daryl off for good. “Mornin’,” Rick said, voice rough from sleep, low and casual, Southern edge softening every syllable. “Didn’t mean to wake you—thought you’d want coffee, maybe some food. Ain’t much, but—” he shrugged, “figured you’d be hungry.” Daryl grunted, rubbing his eyes, not sure if he should thank him or spit something sharp. In the end, he just sat at the table, folding himself small, trying not to meet Rick’s gaze.
They ate in silence, only the scrape of forks and the rain tapping at the window. Rick tried not to stare, but it was impossible—watching the way Daryl held himself so tight, eating fast and loud in such a cute innocent way, not wasting a crumb. He wanted to ask a thousand things, for example, how long had he been on the street, what brought him to Atlanta, if he ever missed home, if he even had one. He wanted to ask why a man like that would choose this, why he flinched from kindness but still kept coming back to it, why Rick felt like a live wire every time their eyes met, even for a second. “You sleep alright?” Rick asked, finally, trying for easy conversation but knowing his own voice was too soft, too careful, betraying his nerves. Daryl just shrugged, head ducked low, voice a gravel scrape. “Better’n outside. Don’t gotta fuss over me. I’m fine.”
Rick almost laughed at that, the lie of it—Daryl looked like hell, dark circles under his eyes, jaw still clenching against old pain. But he didn’t push.

“You got somewhere you need to be? I mean—look, it’s coming down out there, and the shelters’re all full up from what I heard. You want to stay another night, it’s no trouble. Got work later but… hell, you can lock up behind you if you want. I trust you.” Daryl glanced at him, suspicious, something flickering in his eyes—a strange mix of insult and gratitude. “Ain’t a stray, y’know. Ain’t lookin’ to be somebody’s problem, told ya.” Rick held his gaze, refusing to look away, his voice steady but thick. “You ain’t a problem, we can be friends. Guess I just don’t like the idea of you out there, not when you could be in here, warm. It’s your choice, Daryl....by the way what's your surname if not a secret?” Daryl hated that—hated the way his own name sounded in Rick’s mouth, the way it made him want things he had no right to want. But the rain on the window, the ache in his gut, the steadiness in Rick’s blue eyes—all of it told him to stay put, just for now, just until he was strong enough to leave without looking back. "It’s Dixon, Daryl Dixon."

***

He spent the day in a strange half-daze, drifting between the couch and the window, watching the city blur and slide under the rain. He barely touched the TV, flipped through channels without caring what played. Rick came and went, bringing him clean towels, old sweats that hung loose on his hips, a battered paperback he’d dug out of some drawer. Sometimes the cop sat close on the couch, not quite touching but close enough that Daryl could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of fresh cologne and aftershave. He tried not to notice, tried not to care, but every time Rick brushed past him or set a hand on his shoulder—too casual to be a real touch, too long to be an accident—Daryl felt the prickling rush of nerves and something hotter, something that left him awake and twitching late into the night.

Rick, for his part, was losing his grip on the line between pity and wanting. He told himself he was being good, that he was only helping, but every minute spent in the apartment with Daryl made the lie harder to hold. He noticed everything: the way Daryl’s hair fell over his face or bounced when he moved, the old, pale scars that mapped his forearms, the hitch in his breath when Rick came too close, the way his grey-blue eyes followed Rick’s hands without ever meeting his gaze. He found excuses to linger in the room, to sit on the edge of the couch, to press a mug of tea into Daryl’s hands, letting his fingers brush just a little too long, savoring every flinch, every stiffening muscle, every moment Daryl let him close without moving away.

In the evening, Rick cooked again, nothing fancy—a can of soup, some toast, the best he could manage with no time to shop. Daryl ate without complaint, hungry in that quiet way of people who haven’t had enough in a long time. Afterward, when Daryl tried to say he’d go, Rick found himself blocking the door, not with force, just standing there, arms folded, gaze steady and quiet. “It’s still comin’ down,” Rick said, voice low, “and you ain’t well. No sense goin’ out just to freeze your ass off. Stay, please. You’re welcome here. I want you safe.” Daryl looked at him, eyes sharp and unreadable, jaw twitching. For a long moment, Rick thought he’d bolt anyway. But the man just dropped his gaze, mumbled something half-hearted, and let the cop herd him back to the living room. He curled up on the couch, staring at nothing, and Rick sat down beside him, close enough that their knees touched, watching the rain. In the quiet, Rick reached out, laid a hand gentle on Daryl’s shoulder, and this time Daryl didn’t pull away—just closed his eyes, a shudder running through him, letting himself be held for the briefest of moments.

Later, Rick gave him the bed again, refusing to take no for an answer, and Daryl lay stiff and silent on the mattress, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling while Rick lingered in the doorway, fingers tightening on the frame. “You’re safe here, you know that?” Rick said, and the words were more confession than comfort. Daryl didn’t answer, but he didn’t leave, either. Rick closed the door soft behind him, the sound settling heavy in the night.

Lying on the couch, Rick listened for every sound from down the hall—the creak of the bed, the slow rhythm of Daryl’s breath, the quiet rustle of blankets—and let his hand drift under the waistband of his boxers, stroking himself slow, picturing Daryl in his bed, Daryl’s hair spread dark across the pillow, Daryl looking up at him with those stormcloud eyes, not afraid, not running, just letting him. The shame was a living thing inside him, hot and raw, but he couldn’t stop. Not now.

In the bedroom, Daryl lay awake, fists clenched tight, shame and longing warring in his chest. He wasn’t used to softness, wasn’t used to being wanted, didn’t trust the safety Rick offered—but he wanted it anyway, wanted to be able to want it, even if he couldn’t say why. He listened to the rain, to the distant sound of Rick shifting on the couch, and for the first time in years, let himself drift toward sleep with the ache of hope still burning in his chest.

***

The kitchen was washed in grey, winter light—rain still streaking the window, pooling against the curb below, city sounds distant and muffled as if the world outside had nothing to do with the men inside. Rick stood at the stove, pouring coffee, doing his best to pretend he wasn’t watching every move Daryl made. The old clock ticked loud in the hush, filling the silences between the rattle of cutlery and the dull scrape of Daryl’s fork across the plate. The morning felt thin, stretched over something raw and delicate, and Rick kept finding reasons to linger in the same room—refilling his cup, fiddling with the sugar bowl, glancing up just to catch a glimpse of that stubborn, guarded face across the table.

Daryl ate in small, methodical bites, hunched in Rick’s oversized sweatshirt, hair falling in his eyes, eyes flickering everywhere but never settling on Rick’s. His hands were steady but his shoulders were drawn tight, the way a man waits for the blow he knows is coming, and Rick felt the ache of wanting to fix it, wanting to take every edge off the other man’s life and smooth it out under his own hands. He didn’t know how to say that, not without scaring Daryl off, so he asked about the only thing that felt safe.

“When’s your birthday?” Rick asked, voice soft, surprising himself with the question. Daryl froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He shot Rick a sideways glance, wary, as if waiting for the joke. “Why?” he mumbled while Rick just shrugged, playing it casual. “Just… tryin’ to know you, I guess. I mean, you’re in my house, sleepin’ in my bed. Feels right to know when to wish you happy birthday.” Daryl snorted, more an exhale than a laugh. “Don’t need that...It’s January. Sixth.”

Rick’s eyebrows lifted, a faint grin curving at his mouth. “No shit. That was just last week.” Daryl only nodded, jaw working as if the admission cost him something.
“Should’ve told me,” the cop pressed, a little too earnest. “Coulda baked a cake or something. Maybe next year.” Daryl looked away, face flushing with something between embarrassment and anger. “Ain’t had a birthday since I was a kid. Just another day.”

Rick studied him, coffee cooling in his hands. He wanted to push—wanted to give something, anything, just to see Daryl smile for real. “You want a belated present?” he tried, keeping his tone light, the offer hanging between them like a dare but Daryl shook his head, eyes still locked on the table. “Ain’t need nothin’,” he muttered. “Ain’t like anybody ever gave a damn.”

The words sat heavy, and Rick felt it twist in his chest—guilt, pity, and something darker. He watched Daryl’s knuckles go white around the fork, saw the way he kept his body turned away, so much effort just to keep from letting his guard slip. "I do...give a damn". Rick wanted to know everything—what kind of home made a boy this hard, this quick to run, what kind of life it was to be so alone in the world. He set the mug down, voice gentling. “You got family in Georgia? Anybody you still talk to?” Daryl tensed even more, shoulders hunching like a cornered animal. “Don’t wanna talk about that.”
Rick nodded, regret immediate, a flush rising up his neck.

“Sorry. That was outta line. I just—sometimes I forget what it’s like, havin’ people ask about the past. Wasn’t tryin’ to pry.” Daryl shrugged again, but the edge in his face softened just a little. “Ain’t much to tell. Just one day I wasn’t anywhere, and next thing I knew, I was here.” Rick wanted to talk more, to ask how a man ended up sleeping rough in Atlanta in the dead of winter, what he’d run from or who he’d left behind—but the look on Daryl’s face said he’d get no more, not now. He let it go, letting the silence settle, both men nursing what was left of their coffee.

But cop couldn’t help himself, not really. The question itched in his chest, crawling up his throat, and before he could stop himself, he blurted it out, voice low and rough. “You ever been with anyone?”Daryl’s head snapped up, startled, suspicion and something else burning in his eyes. “What?” Rick swallowed, the words caught between apology and need. “Just… you ever have somebody? Anyone waiting for you, or… missin’ you?” Daryl blinked, jaw set, lips pressed thin. He looked away, shoulders tight as wire. “No.” Rick tried to steady his voice, keep it from trembling. “Never?”
A long silence, the sound of rain filling the apartment. Daryl shook his head, nearly imperceptible, just enough for Rick to see it. “Ain’t nobody. Not for me.”

Rick felt the shame rush in hot, but the longing was worse—so much worse, knowing that nobody had ever had this man, that all this pride and fury was still untaken, still untouched. He tried to control himself, hands curling into fists in his lap. “You ever want that?” he asked, softer now, as if he could will the answer out of the air. Daryl didn’t answer for a long time. Then, voice rough as gravel, “Sometimes. But I ain’t good at lettin’ people in.”

Rick’s heart hammered, the urge to reach out overwhelming. He rose, slowly, moving around the table, crouched down so he was level with Daryl’s hunched frame. He reached out—slow, careful, hand trembling just a little—and let his fingers hover near Daryl’s jaw, not quite touching, then finally closing the gap, cupping Daryl’s chin in his palm. Daryl froze, eyes wide, breath held as if he didn’t dare move. Rick’s thumb brushed along the rough line of Daryl’s jaw, the gesture almost reverent, a tenderness neither of them expected. “You can,” Rick said, voice breaking, barely a whisper. “If you ever want to.” For a heartbeat, the world held still—rain on the glass, city humming beyond the walls, two men caught between mercy and need. Daryl didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean in, either; he just let Rick touch him, a shudder running through his body as if he wanted to let go, but didn’t know how. Rick felt the pulse in Daryl’s throat, steady and fast under his hand, and something inside him twisted so fierce he almost said something he’d regret.

But he didn’t. He let his hand drop, shame and want battling in his eyes, and stood up, clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” Rick muttered, stepping back, voice raw. “Shouldn’t’ve done that, I didn’t want to come as rather creepy.” Daryl just stared at the table, knuckles still white, unsure, but he didn’t leave or run while Rick moved to the sink, running water just for something to do, heart pounding out of his chest. The distance between them felt impossibly wide, the promise of what might come hanging thick in the air, neither of them willing—or able—to cross it yet.

***

The rest of the Sunday passed slow, heavy with everything unspoken. Rick found himself wandering the small apartment, eyes drawn again and again to wherever Daryl had been, to the damp towel in the bathroom, the half-eaten plate on the table, the faint impression of Daryl’s body left on the couch cushions. Daryl hardly spoke, keeping mostly to himself, sometimes staring out the rain-blurred window for hours, sometimes picking at the battered paperback Rick had left out, his thumb ghosting over the torn cover. Rick watched him, need coiling tighter with every hour, the urge to touch, to claim, to know overwhelming every halfhearted attempt at distraction.

It was worse after dark, after the dishes had been washed and the apartment fell into that close, too-quiet hush of two men alone together with nowhere else to be. Daryl took the bed again, silent, not arguing this time—just disappearing down the hall, the soft click of the door behind him like the end of a prayer. Rick stood in the kitchen for a long time, knuckles white on the counter, heart hammering out of rhythm. All he could see was Daryl at the table that morning—hair a wild mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and hungry, admitting to a kind of loneliness that echoed through every room Rick had ever lived in.

He told himself he was just tired, just lonely. That what he wanted was only human, nothing to be ashamed of, nothing he hadn’t earned by all the mercy he’d shown. But by the time he slipped into his own bed, he was hard and aching, skin prickling with shame and a need that wouldn’t let go. He lied there in the dark, hand already drifting under the waistband of his boxers, breath catching in his throat as the images started to come—hot, relentless, more vivid now than ever. He saw Daryl’s face again, the way he’d frozen when Rick asked about lovers, the stiff set of his jaw, the flush that crawled up his neck, the whisper of “ain’t nobody. Not for me.” Rick bit his lip, stroking himself slow, savoring the heat building in his belly, the shame that only made it worse.

He pictured Daryl in his bed, bare and shivering, wide-eyed and silent, letting Rick undress him inch by inch—each new patch of skin exposed, Rick’s to claim, to mark, to worship. He imagined those long, scarred legs spreading for him, Daryl biting down on his own fist to keep from making a sound, hips rocking up in some desperate, unconscious plea. Rick’s hand moved faster, his breath ragged, hips lifting into his fist as the fantasy took him deeper. He saw himself pinning Daryl’s wrists to the mattress, forcing Daryl to hold still, to look at him, to feel everything Rick was giving him. He pictured the stubborn wild beauty gasping, fighting, cursing him, but Rick just shushing him, sliding a hand up to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, whispering, “Let me, just let me—no one’s ever touched you like this, have they?” In his mind, Daryl’s defiance melted into surrender, that wild, wary look turning dark and wet, lips parting, body trembling as Rick pushed inside, slow and deep, claiming every inch. He imagined Daryl’s voice breaking, a low, desperate “Rick—please—fuck—” as Rick drove into him, hard enough to make the bed shake, hard enough to make Daryl come untouched, crying out and shuddering, so damn grateful to be ruined.

Rick’s orgasm hit sharp and sudden, a blinding heat flooding his palm, muscles tensing as he spilled into his own hand, muffling the groan in the pillow. For a minute he just continued to lay there disassociated, chest heaving, mind reeling with everything he’d just imagined, the aftershocks of guilt and hunger warring inside him. But this time, the shame didn’t bite quite so deep. This time, he told himself, it wasn’t just about wanting—wasn’t just about hunger. He wanted Daryl because he cared, because he could give him something nobody else ever had, because maybe Daryl needed to be wanted, needed someone strong enough to take what he wouldn’t give, to pull him close and never let him go.

After his breath finally started to slow, he stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the way Daryl had looked at him that morning, the way he’d let Rick’s hand linger on his jaw, the way he hadn’t run, hadn’t flinched, hadn’t said no. Maybe it was falling in love love, Rick told himself, letting the word settle heavy and bright in his chest. Maybe it was the kind of love that only happened once in a lifetime—a love born out of mercy and loneliness, a love desperate enough to take whatever it wanted, no matter the cost. He closed his eyes, already aching for morning, already hungry for the next chance to touch Daryl again—any excuse to close the distance, to make what he wanted real.

***

Monday morning came and Rick was already up, half-dressed in his uniform, the badge clipped to his belt and gun holstered at his side, but his mind wasn’t on the shift ahead. He was watching Daryl, as if trying to memorize every line of him in this new, half-domesticated setting—a wild thing brought in from the cold, suddenly at home among coffee mugs and worn-out towels, looking both lost and oddly anchored.

Daryl was already up and quiet in the small space, Rick’s grey sweatpants fitting perfectly those narrow hips, old t-shirt clinging to a frame built hard from years on the street. Rick’s eyes couldn’t help but follow him...the way his shoulders looked too broad for his thinness, the span of his back under the shirt, the dip of his waist—tight and compact, scarred and strong. Even standing there, scraping leftovers from the frying pan into the trash, Daryl had a kind of animal grace that made Rick’s mouth go dry. He lingered in the doorway, half-pretending to fix his tie, but really just drinking it in—the way the sweatpants emphasized a decent ass, the muscle there more visible than Daryl would want anyone to see, the long-fingered hands moving careful and sure. Daryl caught him watching, just a flick of the eyes, and for a second something like defiance sparked up in his face. Then it was gone, replaced by awkwardness, as if the urge to move was stronger than the urge to hide.

“I can help, y’know,” the poor man muttered, dumping dishes into the sink. “Ain’t just gonna sit here all day like some damn lazy ass. I can clean, or somethin’. Least I can do for all this.” He kept his eyes on the sink, scrubbing with too much force, but Rick heard the pride in it—the desperate edge of wanting to earn his keep, wanting to be more than just a mouth to feed.
Rick stepped closer, unable to help the smile that crept across his mouth, the way his gaze slipped down the slope of Daryl’s back and settled there, hungry and hot. “You don’t owe me anything,” the police officer said, voice rough, half-laughing but full of something else, heavier. “You do what you want. Ain’t no rule says you gotta earn a bed. ”Daryl kept scrubbing, but his movements slowed, shoulders tensing as if bracing for a fight that never came. He risked a glance over his shoulder, hair falling in his eyes, lips setting in a stubborn line. “Don’t like feelin’ like a burden, is all.”

Rick shook his head, stepping in until he was close enough to see the pale marks on Daryl’s neck, the edge of a fading bruise beneath the collar. He wanted to touch, to smooth the hair back, to feel the warmth of Daryl’s skin, but forced his hands to his sides. “You’re not,” he said, low and certain, making sure the words landed. “If anything, place feels less empty with you in it.”

A silence grew, slow and uneasy, the kind that pressed up against the walls until one of them had to break it. Daryl rinsed the plate, set it in the rack with a soft clatter, then stood there with his hands braced on the edge of the counter, back to Rick. His shoulders twitched, like he was about to say something and thought better of it. Rick’s eyes ran down the long curve of Daryl’s spine, lingering on the hard muscles beneath the thin cotton, the slim waist, the way the pants cinched at the hips—every detail burned into memory. He felt himself flush, the same heat from last night returning, but this time it didn’t feel quite so wrong. It felt necessary, like hunger, like gravity. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “You need anything today? While I’m out, I mean. Anything you want in the house, you just tell me. You got my number, right?” He paused, voice softening. “And if you’re really set on cleaning, knock yourself out. Won’t hurt my feelings.”

Daryl didn’t look at him, but Rick saw the shoulders drop, just a little, as if some invisible weight let up for half a second. “Don’t want nothin’,” Daryl muttered. “Just… don’t want you thinkin’ I’m usin’ you, s’all.”

Rick wanted to say something more—wanted to tell Daryl it was already too late for that, that whatever was happening between them wasn’t charity, wasn’t just mercy, but something messier, heavier, maybe even holy in its hunger. But he swallowed it, instead picking up his keys and heading for the door.

He hesitated there, looking back one last time, letting his gaze sweep over Daryl’s body—shoulders broad and tense, back strong and beautiful, ass perfectly framed by the worn sweats, every inch of him both vulnerable and indomitable. Rick felt a possessive surge, hot and electric, and for a split second he imagined what it would be like to come home, to find Daryl waiting, to finally take what he’d been aching for. He tamped it down, hard, forcing his voice steady. “Don’t go anywhere, alright? I’ll be back before sundown.” Daryl just nodded, still turned away, but there was something softer in the set of his shoulders now, some part of him that—maybe—wanted to be missed.

Rick stepped out into the cold, locking the door behind him, heart thundering with all the things he hadn’t said, all the things he still wanted to do. The image of Daryl at the sink, hair falling in his face, ass framed by thin cotton, lingered behind his eyes all day, a promise and a threat, a need he was no longer sure he wanted to resist.

***

When the door clicked shut behind Rick and his heavy boots faded down the stairwell, the apartment fell still in a way that pressed in on Daryl, thick and close, so different from the raw, restless noise of the city. He stood at the kitchen sink, hands still on the counter, staring at the trails of steam rising off the plates, and wondered—not for the first time—how he’d ended up in a place like this, with clean towels, hot coffee, and the kind of quiet that used to make him uneasy. He caught his reflection in the window, the long greasy hair, jaw shadowed in the pale morning light, the old lines of hunger, accidents and cold still sketched deep under his eyes. It didn’t look like him, not really, but then again he wasn’t sure he remembered what “him” was supposed to be.

He tried to busy himself, gathering the cups and plates, scrubbing hard at the few crumbs left from breakfast just to prove—to himself more than anyone—that he wasn’t useless, that he could pull his weight even in a place that wasn’t his. The walls here were bare, save for a couple of certificates and a faded calendar, and the whole apartment smelled faintly of laundry soap, black coffee, and the trace of Rick’s aftershave—a scent Daryl caught himself noticing more than he cared to admit. He wondered what Rick would say if he ever knew; wondered why it made him feel safer, not threatened.

With the place so empty, Daryl found himself drifting from room to room, picking up a book just to set it down again, staring at the line of boots by the door, the sun coming in dusty and golden through the blinds. He should’ve left, probably. It was what he always did—kept moving before anyone got too close, before the kindness turned sour or the questions got sharp. But something about Rick made it hard to run. Maybe it was the way he looked at Daryl—honest, like he meant it, not like he was waiting for the punchline or counting the seconds ‘til he could call it charity and send him on his way. Maybe it was that Rick didn’t ask for thanks or expect Daryl to spill his guts, just let him be, let him breathe, even when the quiet between them felt as heavy as the January sky.

Still, Daryl couldn’t quite trust it. He wasn’t built for this—being looked after, being wanted. It felt like a trick his own head was playing on him, the old ghosts whispering that safety was just another word for a new kind of cage. He remembered every time he’d tried to settle somewhere before, how it always ended with somebody getting tired, or mean, or just leaving. Rick was different—handsome, sure, and kind, in a way that made Daryl’s skin itch and burn all at once—but he knew better than to put faith in things that came easy.

He tried to picture what a job might look like, what he’d even say if he walked into one of the corner stores or garages up the road and asked for work. Didn’t have much to offer—just callused hands, a back used to hard labor, the kind of stamina you only got from running from the cold and fighting off worse things than loneliness. He caught himself thinking about Rick’s face—how the lines at his eyes crinkled when he almost smiled, how his voice got softer in the mornings, how his gaze always landed heavy and hot whenever Daryl moved past him in the narrow hallway. He wondered, not for the first time, what it’d be like to be wanted for real, not just pitied.

But the wanting scared him more than the hunger ever had, so he shoved it aside, busying himself with sweeping the floor, running water over the dishes again, anything to keep from sinking too deep.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to Dog—the mutt he’d found living rough on the street months back, half-starved and mean, but loyal as any soul Daryl had ever known. He missed him fierce some days, that warm weight pressed against his side in the dark, the sure knowledge that Dog would never turn, never judge, never leave for anything less than a full stomach. Dog didn’t care if Daryl didn’t talk, didn’t care if he was broken or cold or had nothing to give but scraps and a name. Sometimes he thought about going out, searching the alleys and abandoned lots where he’d last seen Dog, the whistle in his teeth and hope in his chest, but every time he almost tried, the weight of the city and his own tired bones kept him still. Maybe some things, once lost, stayed lost.

The redneck man let out a slow breath, wiping his hands on the towel, and stood at the window a while, watching the world go on outside. He told himself he wasn’t waiting for Rick to come back, wasn’t counting the hours, wasn’t hoping for another cup of coffee or the chance to see that soft, searching look in those blue eyes again. He’d always survived alone, and he’d keep doing it, even if his heart had started to wonder what it would be like—just once—not to.

Chapter Text

Even after more than a week in Rick’s apartment, with all the cozy comfort and coffee, Daryl still moved through the streets like a shadow, expecting trouble but hoping for nothing at all at the same time. The rain had faded to a bone-gnawing mist, puddles gone oily with the morning’s traffic. He pulled Rick’s old sweatshirt tight around him, hands shoved deep in the pocket, head down.

He shouldn’t have left, at least Rick had said to stay put, to rest, but the city called to him in a language only the desperate remembered—a memory of hungry days and colder nights, of alleys that held secrets and kindness that was always suspect. He cut across Decatur, boots splashing through the runoff, ducking past the MARTA station where the benches still reeked of piss and weed. His mind buzzed with restless worry: 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘏𝘪𝘮? 𝘋𝘰𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. He passed familiar spots—places where he’d once slept, or hidden, or scrounged half a sandwich from the trash. All of them felt smaller now. He whistled low, a soundless call he’d used for Dog since the start. Nothing answered but the wind.

Atlanta city was in his bones, even if he’d never belonged to it coming from the Deep Southern Georgia woods. He remembered every shortcut and shadow, every burned-out streetlamp and fence with the paint peeling off. He tried a half-collapsed shed behind the corner store, knelt and checked for prints, for old bones, for the shape of paws in the mud. Once he thought he heard a bark, but it was only a pair of kids on skateboards, wild and alive in a way he never had been. By noon, his hands were red from the cold, dirt under every fingernail, pride and hope fighting ugly in his chest. He was tired, and ashamed for being tired, and angrier still for caring about a mutt that was probably long gone or better off. But every time he thought about turning back, about Rick waiting, about warmth, something in him balked. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. He made it as far as the edge of Cabbagetown before the ache in his feet reminded him just how long it’d been since he’d walked this much on an empty stomach. Still, he pushed on, ducking behind dumpsters, calling soft for Dog, pretending not to care when no one answered. It was easier to be angry than to admit he was scared.

The same day, Rick hadn’t been able to focus at work. Every call, every report, every Dad's joke from the guys at the police station sounded far away, like static through a thick pane of glass. All he could see was Daryl—scrubbing dishes at the sink, ass outlined in borrowed from him sweats, shoulders squared like a man who’d never learned how to relax. He’d spent half his shift replaying the same handful of memories, need growing teeth inside his chest. It was almost sick, the way he desired him—wanted to keep him, change him, see what would happen if he dressed him up like a prize and brought him out into the world. To show everyone what he’d found, what he’d saved, what he’d owned.

He still was trying to make himself believe it was just kindness, that Daryl deserved better. That’s how it started. But the longer he stared at the rack of leather vests in the shop window, the easier it was to imagine the way they’d hug Daryl’s chest, how the worn brown or off black would match the faded blue of his eyes, how the cut would leave his arms bare—muscle and bone and strength wrapped up in Rick’s care. He bought the vest and matching pants, expensive and soft, already picturing how he’d make Daryl try them on, how he’d run his hands along the seams, tracing the lines of a body that almost certainly had never belonged to anyone before.

He also picked up a bottle of whiskey from a good alcohol shop—luxury stuff, smoky and dark, the kind that burned slow—and a bag of takeout, ribs and mashed potatoes, enough for two. He stopped by a print shop, had them pull up a mockup of the outfit on a faceless mannequin, just to imagine how it would look on Daryl’s frame. The clerk eyed him funny as if he was another weird fetishist but Rick didn’t care. He was building something, step by step: a home, a lover, a reason.

He stuffed the presents into the trunk, hiding them under his gym bag, cheeks flushed with anticipation and shame. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, he kept telling himself. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘔𝘺… 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘏𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦.

However, on his way back, he spotted a familiar figure in the rain at the edge of the street, head bowed, chestnut hair wild and long under a battered cap. Rick’s pulse spiked, anger and relief twisting together so sharp he nearly pulled over too fast. He recognized the stance before the face—the hunched shoulders, the way Daryl never met anyone’s eyes, always looking just past you like he was already planning his next escape. The cop killed the engine out of sudden, stepping out into the drizzle, presents forgotten for the moment. “What the hell are you doin’ out here?” he called, voice tight, fighting to sound casual. “You tryin’ to get sick again? Missin' the streets that much?” Daryl flinched, he was startled and the grayish blue eyes flicked up, defiant and caught all at once. “Was lookin’ for Dog. Ain’t gotta answer to you.” Rick tried his best to bite back his first reply, forcing a smile that felt more like a threat. He was angry—furious, really—but underneath it was a kind of relief he didn’t know how to hide. “Well, you found me instead. Get in, we have some stuff to do at home.” He jerked his head toward the passenger seat, holding the door open. Daryl hesitated initially, pride warring with exhaustion, then slid in without another word, slamming the door hard and Rick could feel the tension rolling off him in waves, the way his hands trembled while he buckled the seatbelt.

They drove in silence, city sliding by, wipers thumping, heat turned up high. Rick kept glancing sideways—studying the shape of Daryl’s thighs under the damp sweats, the way his hair clung to his cheeks, the fierce, stubborn set of his jaw. “Do you ever suppose maybe Dog doesn’t want to be found?” Rick tried, softening his voice as much as he could but Daryl shot him a look, sharp as a knife. “He wouldn’t leave me, not unless someone scared him off.” Rick said nothing, guilt needling him. He reached over, squeezing Daryl’s knee—not too long, but enough to make the other man stiffen, eyes darting to the window.

That’s when they heard it—a bark, sharp and close, echoing off the alley walls. Daryl bolted upright, face breaking open for the first time in weeks. “That’s him. That’s—Dog!” Rick barely got the car into park before Daryl was out, slipping in the mud, skidding towards the sound. Dog, the stray doggo, came running, tail high, barking wild, launching himself at Daryl with all the force of lost time and Daryl immediately dropped to his knees, arms flung wide, and for a moment he didn’t care how he looked—face buried in fur, shoulders shaking, not quite crying but close enough that Rick felt something ugly twist up inside him as he watched the scene from the curb, hands in his pockets, letting the moment stretch. He noticed Daryl—really paying attention, how open and soft and raw he was right now, all that hard-edged pride crumbling for the sake of a mutt. It should have made Rick’s heart ache, but instead it made something inside him burn brighter, the insane urge to keep him, to own him, to make sure nobody else ever saw him this way. He cleared his throat, voice rougher than he meant. “Guess we’re a three-man family now, ain’t we?” He tried to smile, sweeten the mood, but his eyes lingered too long on Daryl’s flushed face, on the way Dog leaned into him, the way innocence and trust made Daryl beautiful in a way Rick had never known.

Daryl looked up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to hide the tears. “He’s all I got, man. Only one never let me down.” Rick stepped closer, brushing a hand over Daryl’s shoulder, possessive, gentle, promising things he had no right to promise. “He’s got you now and you both got...ME.” His thumb traced the line of Daryl’s neck, lingering just a moment too long. “C’mon, let’s get inside. You both look like hell.” He helped Daryl up, keeping a hand on his back as they walked to the car. Dog leapt into the back seat, muddy paws everywhere, tongue lolling and Daryl collapsed in the passenger seat again, still blinking hard, silent except for a single, whispered, “Thanks, dude.”

Rick started the engine, heart hammering. He knew he should let the moment rest, should let Daryl have this peace. But watching the man so open, so breakable, so innocent—it made the darkness in him grow hungry, made him want to see just how far he could push before Daryl finally broke for him and not just for the world. He drove home slow, hand tight on the wheel, Dog whining in the back, the apartment waiting—presents hidden, whiskey burning a hole in the trunk, and a promise in the air that neither man would be able to escape for much longer.

***

The ride back was quieter than Rick expected. Dog sprawled in the backseat, tongue lolling, content as a king, while Daryl was sitting shotgun, hair still wet from the rain, knuckles white on his knees, eyes red-rimmed but calm now—calm in a way Rick had never seen. He stole glances at the both of them—two survivors, dirty and raw, filling up the empty space of his car with something that almost felt like home.

The apartment was warm, smelling faintly of coffee, soap, and the trace of the cheap, peppery candle Rick had bought months back and never used. He hung his jacket, toeing off his boots, all the while watching Daryl move around the room, awkward and uncertain, Dog a protector next to his feet. “Got a surprise for you,” Rick stated, too casual, feeling his own heart race with the words. “But you gotta get cleaned up first. Dog too—he’s got enough dirt on him for both of you.”

Daryl raised an eyebrow, smirking but still suspicious. “Don’t gotta do all this. I’m fine.” Rick grinned, shaking his head, stepping into the kitchen, already hungry to see what Daryl would look like after a real shower, with the day’s grime washed off, maybe a little softness in his eyes. “You don’t know what fine is yet. Go on, I’ll call you when it’s ready, you can't hate showers that much.” He tossed a towel over, watching as Daryl caught it, and felt something sharp in his chest as the man disappeared down the hall, Dog trailing after.

With the bathroom door shut, he was moving fast, like the ritual of it might keep his hands steady. He unpacked the food, ribs and potatoes still steaming, setting the takeout on plates as if it was home-cooked. He dug out the thick whiskey glasses—the good ones, real glass, a little chipped but heavy in his hands. He uncorked the bottle, letting the scent of charred oak and heat fill the air. It made his head spin, or maybe that was just the anticipation. He found the candle—a heavy black pillar, waxy and smoky, the kind that always burned too fast and left a stain—and placed it dead center on the table, lighting it with a practiced flick. The scent rose quick: dark, spicy, almost like leather, curling around everything, setting the mood somewhere between dangerous and holy. He dimmed the overheads, let the city’s blue dusk fill the windows. For a minute he stood back, surveying it all—food, drink, flicker of firelight, the echo of his own pulse pounding in his ears. It looked too nice for two men who’d spent the time just as roommates, but that was the whole point.

Next, he changed out of his uniform, choosing something clean but not too formal—a dark, soft tee that fit close to his chest, jeans that sat low on his hips. He combed his kinda curly hair back, splashing water on his face, brushed his teeth quick in the kitchen since the bathroom was occupied, trying to scrub away the exhaustion and leave only what he wanted Daryl to see: strong hands, clean jaw, crystal blue eyes that promised comfort even as they burned with something harder, hungrier.

The whole time, his thoughts circled back to the bathroom—the sound of the shower running, Daryl’s voice murmuring low to Dog, the image of water pouring over long, lean limbs, the play of muscle beneath pale skin. He tried to push the images away, but they clung to him. Daryl’s longish brown hair plastered wet to his neck, head thrown back under the spray, eyes closed in something like peace. He pictured the way the man would rub soap down his chest, over his ribs, the curve of his hipbone, scars and old bruises and the sharp jut of his collarbone—Rick wanted to map all of it with his hands, his mouth, wanted to see what Daryl looked like dripping, shivering, open. He felt himself getting hard, blood thrumming low in his gut, his palms going slick with sweat. He pressed his hand flat to the table, fighting the urge to just walk down the hall, push open the door, and watch or most likely more than watch—step into the steam, crowd Daryl up against the tile, let his hands slide down the slick of his back, let their bodies meet where nobody could see. He imagined pressing Daryl to the wall, kissing him hard, biting down on the spot where neck met shoulder, making him gasp, making him moan. He pictured dropping to his knees, licking water from the seam of Daryl’s thighs, tasting the salt of his skin, the musk and grit, wanting to swallow every part of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the heat to subside, telling himself—not tonight, not yet, not like this. Daryl deserved something better than being taken in a bathroom like a crackwhore at a gas station toilet, he deserved to feel wanted, safe, loved even, even if Rick’s own desire was a filthy thing, hungry and wild. He breathed deep, focusing on the details—knife, fork, folded napkin, flickering candle. Ritual. Control. He could wait. He’d waited this long. But of course the thoughts kept coming, every shadow in the room turning into the shape of Daryl’s body—every surface a place to bend him, every silence thick with the promise of what Rick might do if the man let him, or even if he didn’t. He pictured Daryl stepping out of the shower, towel around his hips, hair dripping down his neck, those blue-grey eyes startled and soft. He imagined sliding the vest onto bare broad shoulders, watching the way leather hugged his chest, how the pants would fit those sharp hipbones, how Daryl would squirm under his gaze—embarrassed, proud, fighting not to smile.

He poured himself a finger of whiskey, swallowing it neat, the burn steadying him for a moment. It wasn’t enough to take the edge off, but it kept his hands still as he set out the presents—hidden for now, but close enough to touch. He heard the water stop, the sound of Dog shaking off, Daryl’s voice cussing low as he tried to towel the mutt dry. The domesticity of it—the idea of Daryl, naked and wet, hands rough but gentle, tending to the only creature that had ever loved him without question—made something in Rick ache, sharp and deep. He wanted to be that creature, wanted to be the thing Daryl held and cared for, wanted to be the reason Daryl stayed.

He checked his reflection one last time, adjusting his shirt, smoothing his hair. He set the plates at the table, angled just so, the candle burning low, wax pooling at the base. He dimmed the lights a notch further, letting the glow turn everything gold and secret. He was ready—almost trembling with it, wanting, needing, hungry in ways he’d never admit even to himself, like a teen on the prom night. All he had to do now was call Daryl out, watch the man step into the room clean and new, and try—just try—not to ruin everything with the force of his own wanting. He cleared his throat, steadying his voice. “Daryl?” he called, letting it echo down the hall, full of promise and something darker. “You ready for your surprise?”

***

The apartment smelled richer now when Daryl got out of the bathroom—roast meat, burning wax, something spicy and strange that curled around the edges of the candlelight. He was standing in the hallway for a beat, towel slung over his shoulder, hair still pretty wet, Dog pressed up against his leg, sniffing the air with suspicion. For a second, Daryl wondered if he ought to just hole up in the bedroom, skip the fuss, but hunger and something softer—maybe gratitude—got the better of him. He stepped into the living room, slippers squeaking faint on the linoleum, eyes squinting against the dark. The table was set for two, plates steaming, whiskey bottle catching the flicker of the big black candle. Rick was standing at the other end, dressed down but neat, leaning one hip against the counter, blue eyes brighter in the low light. Daryl caught the nervous way Rick’s hands fidgeted, the way his gaze darted up and down, never quite landing anywhere safe. The officer straightened, forcing a smile, but the tension was clear in his voice. “Figured I owed you one. Belated, I know. Couldn’t let the birthday boy not have at least a drink. Hope you’re hungry.” Daryl grunted, a bit embarrassed and grateful both, mouth twitching as he ran a hand through his wet hair. “Ain’t had a real birthday in a long time... didn’t think you’d remember.” Rick shrugged with a gentle smile, pouring whiskey into both glasses—more than a finger, less than too much. “Suppose I care too much about some things, the important ones. Call it a bad habit.” He slid one glass across the table, motioned for Daryl to sit. “Dog can stay, if he doesn’t steal you from me.” Daryl muttered something that could’ve been a thank you, ruffling Dog’s head before easing himself into the chair. The heat from the candle was a little much, but the smell was good, and so was the food. For a moment, he just sat there, hands in his lap, staring at the spread like it might all vanish if he blinked too long.

Rick lifted his glass, eyes never leaving Daryl’s face. “To making it another year,” he said, voice low, full of something that was more than just kindness. “And to not having to spend the next one alone.” He clinked their glasses together, watching as Daryl gulped, the whiskey burning a trail down his throat, leaving him warmer than he wanted to admit.

They ate, mostly quiet, the only sounds the scrape of fork on plate, the occasional snuffle from Dog, the rain tapping lazy at the window. Rick kept the bottle handy, refilling both their glasses whenever they got low, sipping slow and steady, letting the liquor work its way through his nerves. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Rick finally broke it, his voice softer, probing. “How the hell did you ever get used to it?”Daryl blinked, chewing slow. “Used to what?”

“The streets, sleeping rough. Not knowing where you’ll be in the morning.” The other man set his fork down, shoulders curling inward a little. “Ain’t much to get used to. Ya just… keep movin'. Don’t think about it. Beats the hell outta other things.” The cop nodded, watching him over the rim of his glass, the flame catching every twitch of Daryl’s face, every old scar and new hope carved into his features. He wanted to ask everything—what happened, what hurt, what made him this wild, this hard to reach—but he knew better than to push. Still, the need to know, to claim, to fix, gnawed at him. He tried anyway, voice thickening as the whiskey loosened his tongue. “How’d you end up here, Daryl? If you don’t mind me asking.” Daryl’s jaw tensed, eyes going narrow, but he didn’t bolt. He looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of potato around with his fork, and after a moment, he spoke, low and blunt, no self-pity in it. “Older brother went to prison. Ma died. Our Pa was a mean drunk—fuckin' asshole. Got tired of catching it for ‘em all, ran outta reasons to stay put, so I left.” He shrugged, looking up, the challenge in his eyes clear. You asked. That’s enough. Rick held his gaze, letting the silence speak. “Sorry.” He meant it, but he didn’t apologize for asking. “You ever talk to your brother now?” Daryl shook his head, lips pressing thin. “Ain’t much to say.”

Rick nodded, accepting it, not pushing further. He poured more whiskey, the candle burning low between them. For a long time, neither man said much. The food disappeared, the rain faded, and Dog curled up by the heater, sighing into the hush. Daryl looked around, feeling the weight of the room settle into something almost comfortable. The food, the firelight, the steady hum of Rick’s presence—it all pressed in, heavy but not suffocating. He felt watched, but not judged; wanted, maybe, but not owned. He wasn’t used to it, didn’t trust it, but the warmth felt good. Even if he’d never admit it out loud yet. Rick finally spoke again, his voice softer, almost shy. “You know you don’t have to go back out there, right?” Daryl snorted, reaching for his glass. “Ain’t planning on it. Least not tonight.” Rick smiled, something real in it this time. “Good. Hate to see all this go to waste.”

They drank, eating the last scraps of dinner and as the last of the whiskey burned down easy, Daryl hadn’t noticed at first how warm and pink his cheeks had gotten, or how slow and heavy his body felt. He’d let himself sink into the chair, Dog’s head in his lap, the candlelight drawing shadows across Rick’s jaw, making him look younger, or maybe even more handsome if possible. The food was gone, the rain had stopped, and the world felt smaller, safer—if only for tonight.

Rick refilled their glasses one last time, sliding the bottle aside, gaze never leaving Daryl’s face. His fingers drummed against the table. Every nerve in his body felt live, electric, coiled tight as wire. He wanted to touch—just reach across and take the other man’s hand, trace the scars on his knuckles, the veins in his wrist, all those stories Daryl never told. He wanted to say a thousand things, none of them safe. Every look, every slow smile from the former homeless guy made it harder to keep his own secrets caged. Daryl shifted, a little uneasy under the blue fire of Rick’s eyes. He scratched at Dog’s ear, picking at a thread on his sleeve, but he didn’t try to leave. That was new—good, but it only made Rick ache more. He tried to start safe. “You know, you… you ain’t gotta thank me for any of this,” Rick said, voice lower, rougher now with drink and wanting. “I wanted to do it.” Daryl huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t get many folks wanting to do things for me. Feels weird, not gonna lie.”

Rick nodded, mouth twitching. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin propped in his hand. “I just—hell, Daryl, I care about you. More than I probably should.” Daryl blinked, thrown off. “What d’you mean?” The cop looked away, head tilting at one side, candlelight catching in his stubble. “I mean… it ain’t just about feeling sorry for you or being a good man. I been tellin’ myself that, but it’s not the truth. The truth is—” He cut himself off, exhaling, but the words kept coming, tumbling out raw and messy. “The truth is I got feelings for you. Serious ones. I think about you all the time. I worry about you when I’m not here. When I am, I want to make you smile, make you feel safe, hell—I want to take care of you. I want you around, Daryl. Not just as a guest and not just as a friend.” Daryl froze, eyes wide, not sure whether to laugh or bolt. “You’re drunk,” he muttered, voice soft, but there was no real accusation in it.

Rick shook his head, his hand curling tight around the glass. “Maybe that’s why I said it right now, but it doesn’t make it less true. Been tryin’ to keep it to myself, but I can’t. I want you to know. Hell, you don’t have to say anything, you don’t have to want anything back, just—” He swallowed, words turning thick. “I want you to know how I feel. That’s all.”

Daryl looked down, hands twisting in Dog’s fur. He was still for a long time, the silence filling up with the sound of Rick’s shaky breath and the low crackle of the candle. His ears were burning, the world both sharper and softer at once. Nobody’d ever said anything like that to him, not that he could remember. He didn’t trust it, didn’t know what to do with it, but it didn’t feel like a trick. It felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with fists or shouting. He didn’t look up, but his voice came out, gruff but not unkind. “Don’t know what to say. Never been good with that shit.” Rick gave a small, crooked smile. “Don’t gotta say anything. Just… stay. That’s all I want.”

Another short silence followed, but this one felt different—easier, warmer, the kind that filled cracks instead of splitting them wider. Daryl gave a small, almost shy nod. “Yeah. I’ll stay. Least for now.” Rick let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and his hand drifted across the table—close, not quite touching, but the intention clear. “Happy birthday, Daryl!” The redneck didn’t smile wide but the edges of his mouth moved, and he didn’t pull away when Rick’s hand landed, warm and careful, over his and they stayed like this for a moment. The whiskey made everything a little slower, a little less sharp at the edges. Daryl’s cheeks were flushed, his hands loose on the table, breath coming easier now that the confessions were out and the pressure in the room had shifted from danger to something heavier and sweeter. Rick’s hand was still over his, thumb tracing slow circles against the back of Daryl’s scarred knuckles. In the hush, even Dog seemed to sense something had changed—he stretched, yawned, then settled with his head against Daryl’s boot, eyes drifting closed.

Rick stared at the other man for a long time, blue eyes gone darker in the candlelight, searching his face like there might be an answer there if he just looked hard enough. The hunger was there, yes, but also fear and something softer, a kind of worship that made Daryl’s chest feel tight. Finally Rick broke the silence, his voice ragged, thick with longing and hope and nerves. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, barely more than a whisper. He didn’t move yet—just waited, trembling a little, breath shallow. “Just a kiss. If you don’t want it, just tell me.” Daryl looked away, suddenly going shy. He’d been kissed before—by strangers, by people who wanted to make him uncomfortable, to remind him what he wasn’t. But this was different. This was someone who saw him, who knew at least a little of what he carried, who had offered him food and warmth and something close to safety. He didn’t trust it, but he wanted it, more than he wanted to admit.

“Yeah,” he replied finally, voice low, gruff, honest in a way he rarely let himself be. “You can.”

Rick exhaled, relief and want flashing across his face. He leaned across the table, slow, like he was afraid to spook Daryl, hands bracing himself, the two of them close enough to feel each other’s breath. He paused, just for a second, eyes searching Daryl’s face—is this really alright?—and then closed the gap. The kiss was soft, careful at first, Rick’s lips just a brush against Daryl’s, a silent question. Daryl didn’t pull away—just let Rick in, let his own lips part a little, let the shiver run down his spine as Rick deepened the kiss, cupping his jaw with a steady, reverent hand. Daryl tasted whiskey and salt, the ghost of a smile, the ache of weeks of wanting he hadn’t dared name. Rick’s thumb brushed the other man’s cheek, his other hand sliding to the back of Daryl’s neck, pulling him closer, hunger rising.

The kiss turned messy, deeper, Rick’s tongue sliding past Daryl’s lips, both of them breathing hard, the room spinning just enough to make the moment feel untethered from the rest of their lives. Rick’s body was hot, pressed against the edge of the table, the wanting obvious, urgent. He groaned low in his throat, the sound making Daryl tremble. Rick’s hand slipped down, fingertips brushing the side of Daryl’s throat, then lower, thumb tracing the hollow above his collarbone, wanting more—so much more—but forcing himself to go slow. He pulled back just enough to look Daryl in the eyes, lips still parted, voice a shaky rasp. “You sure?” The redneck, chest rising and falling, shook his head a little, not in anger but in honest self-defense. “Ain’t ready for more,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, eyes clear and bright even in the haze of drink and heat. “I… I want to, maybe, but not tonight. We gotta know each other and all.” Rick nodded, swallowing hard, every muscle in his body coiled with restraint. “That’s alright,” he managed, voice soft, thumb brushing Daryl’s cheekbone. “You say when, okay? I ain’t gonna pressure you.” Daryl didn’t move, just let Rick’s hand linger, the warmth and weight of it grounding him. He looked down, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips. “Kiss was good, though,” he muttered, cheeks coloring as he tried to hide it and Rick grinned, all tension and relief, pressing his forehead to Daryl’s for a heartbeat, letting himself just be in the moment. He wanted to say something more—to promise, to beg, to confess everything again—but he held back, letting the silence speak for both of them.

When he finally pulled back, breath still ragged, lips red from where they’d crushed against Daryl’s, his eyes were wild — guilty but shining, hunger spilling out of him now that the whiskey had cracked his restraint. For a second he just stared, chest heaving, thumb still brushing Daryl’s jaw like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Then he laughed, hoarse and nervous, shaking his head. “Damn… almost forgot.” He stood suddenly, nearly stumbling, grabbing hold of the table to steady himself. “Got somethin’ for you. Meant to give it before we… well.” His voice trailed off, eyes raking over Daryl again before he turned away toward the corner where a paper bag sat. The other man frowned, suspicious, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Rick dug into the bag, pulling out folded leather, the glint of a belt buckle catching the candlelight. He laid the bundle across the back of the couch like it was treasure. “Belated birthday, remember? Couldn’t let it slide without at least a small present.” His voice was soft but eager, eyes fixed on Daryl like he was already imagining the fit. “Vest, pants, outfit. Somethin’ that… looks like you.”

Daryl blinked, confusion sliding into irritation. “Rick, I don’t need—” The cop cut him off quickly, stepping closer, voice rough and pleading. “C'mon, just try ‘em. For me. Just once.”

The leather gleamed under the flicker of the black candle, rich and dark, sharp against the drab fabric of Daryl’s old clothes. He stared at it a long moment, jaw twitching. Part of him wanted to snap, to tell Rick to shove it, that he wasn’t some doll to be dressed up. But another part — the part that remembered the way Rick’s hand had trembled against his jaw, the way the cop had looked at him like he was worth something and planned the whole magical evening just for him — kept him rooted to the couch. “Rick…” His voice was low, warning, but softer than it should’ve been.

The man crouched in front of him, blue eyes burning. “Please,” he whispered. “Ain’t askin’ you to do nothin’ else. Just put ‘em on. Let me see.” Daryl’s stomach knotted. It was stupid, pride-bruising, but he finally muttered, “Fine,” snatching the clothes with a rough hand. He stood, shoulders tense, muttering under his breath. “Better not be watchin’ me while I change.” Rick’s laugh was low and shaky. “Ain’t promisin’ that.”

Minutes later, the redneck came back down the hall with the bundle of his old clothes folded under one arm. He looked stiff and uncomfortable, shoulders hunched like he’d rather be anywhere but here. The vest clung tight over his broad chest, new leather dark against pale skin where the collar dipped low. The pants hugged his hips too close, shaping the narrow line of his waist, showing off long thighs that looked built for the saddle or a fight. Rick’s breath hitched. For a second, he forgot how to speak. The candlelight caught on the smooth leather, on the hard angle of Daryl’s jaw, on the way his hair still hung damp from the shower. He wasn’t some stray anymore. He wasn’t some half-frozen man the police officer had found curled up on a bench. He looked like something Rick had made — dressed, owned, claimed. “My God,” Rick whispered, too quiet for Daryl to catch, hand tightening on his glass. 𝘔𝘺 𝘉𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺.

His eyes dragged down Daryl’s body again and again, greedy, cataloguing everything. The slope of his shoulders stretching the vest. The curve of muscle where his thighs filled the pants. The way his ass looked full and perfect, framed by black leather that begged to be grabbed. He imagined spreading those thighs open, imagined Daryl bent over the arm of the couch, leather squeaking as Rick pushed in deep, claiming him slow and rough until every inch of him screamed MINE. He swallowed hard, pulse racing. His gaze lingered on the vest, on the thought of pulling the zipper down slow, baring Daryl’s chest, pressing his mouth against the scars there. He pictured stripping him piece by piece — pants yanked low, the vest left on — taking him with his clothes still half-on, so he could see every flex of muscle, every tremor of surrender.

𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘔𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺. 𝘔𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺. 𝘔𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭.

Rick shifted on the couch, hard again already, his thighs twitching with the need to move. He wanted to drop to his knees right there, bury his face in the leather, breathe him in, taste the salt of his skin and the whiskey on his lips. He wanted to ruin him, fuck him until Daryl couldn’t stand, then lay him out soft and gentle, kiss his hair, tell him it was love. Daryl shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the vest, muttering, “Don’t fit right. Feels stupid.” Rick snapped his gaze up, forcing a smile, voice rough. “No. Fits perfect. Suits you. Looks like it was made for you.” His hand twitched at his side, aching to touch, to slide down the line of those pants, to prove what he saw.

He swallowed the words burning at the back of his throat — 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺, 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘺, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦— but they echoed in his mind, heavy and raw, as Daryl shifted in front of him, unaware of just how badly Rick wanted to tear the leather back off and take everything beneath it.

***

Daryl went to bed, curled on the bed with Dog pressed warm at his side, the candle burned low in the other room, the smell of leather still faint in the air. He tugged the blanket high over his shoulders, letting the weight of it sink into him. His lips still tingled faintly from the kiss, his chest buzzed with a strange warmth that made no sense. He’d never been kissed like that — not careful, not hungry. Rick was too much, too close, too strange in the way he looked at him, but he’d given him clothes, food, a bed, even brought Dog back. It had been a long time since Daryl had felt this full, this calm, just calm. His mind whispered questions he didn’t want — did Rick just want sex, did he expect more — but the dog’s steady breathing lulled him, and for once he let himself drift off feeling almost content.

Rick, meanwhile, couldn’t sleep. He lied in the dark on the couch, the ache in his cock unbearable this time, every nerve still lit from the sight of Daryl in that vest, those pants. He squeezed his eyes shut, hand already sliding under the waistband of his boxers, gripping himself hard, stroking with desperate rhythm. He bit back a groan, every fantasy sharper than the last.

He saw Daryl standing in the candlelight again, leather tight around his narrow waist, pants cupping that perfect ass. 𝘔𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺, the words pounded in his skull, over and over, a litany. He imagined stepping forward, grabbing him by the hips, grinding against him until Daryl gasped, until that sullen mouth fell open in shock. He’d push him up against the wall, unzip the vest, mouth hot and wet against pale skin, leave bruises on his throat until the stubborn bastard couldn’t hide who he belonged to.

Rick’s hand pumped faster, pre-cum slicking his fist. His mind tumbled through scene after scene — Daryl on his knees, reluctant at first but lips parting around Rick’s cock, gagging when Rick pushed too deep, those stormy eyes glaring up at him even as spit slicked his chin. Rick groaned, hips jerking off the couch.

Then Daryl bent over the kitchen table, still half-dressed, pants shoved down just enough. Rick imagined spitting into his hand, spreading him open, pressing in rough, relentless, leather squeaking with every thrust. Daryl grunting, fists tight on the table, whispering Rick, please— but Rick fucking him harder, claiming him, making him understand there was no going back.

Another fantasy crashed over him: Daryl tied to the bed with Rick’s belt, vest left on, thighs spread wide, cock leaking untouched while Rick slid in slow, whispering against his ear, "You’re mine now. Mine to love, mine to ruin". Rick’s breath hitched, the images blurring together — Daryl cursing, Daryl moaning, Daryl breaking apart under him. His hips snapped into his fist, faster, rougher, teeth bared as the orgasm built hot and violent. “Fuck, Daryl,” he hissed into the dark, spilling over his hand, chest heaving, sweat dampening his shirt.

For a moment, he was left there trembling, cock still twitching, shame crawling up his throat. But the shame was thin, drowned under the heat of satisfaction and the knowledge that Daryl hadn’t pulled away tonight — hadn’t run, hadn’t left. He’d kissed him back. He’d worn the clothes. He’d stayed. Rick wiped himself off with a shirt, tossed it to the floor, and lay staring at the ceiling, breath slowing. In his mind, Daryl was already his — his stray, his beauty, his to protect and to fuck, no matter how long it took to make him see it.

Down the hall, Daryl slept soundly with Dog at his side, unaware of just how deep Rick’s obsession had sunk, or how much darker it was about to get...

Chapter Text

The apartment still smelled of rain and laundry when Daryl padded into the kitchen, the new sweater sleeves shoved up, steam from the coffee pot already curling around his fingers. Rick was at the stove, frying eggs, back tense in that worn blue t-shirt, quiet except for the scrape of the spatula against the pan. The radio droned low—some country song Daryl half recognized from passing cars, the kind of melody that made everything feel a little lonelier, no TV turned on yet, everything kept silent for Daryl to rest. “Smells good,” he muttered, glancing at the window where Dog was sitting nosing the glass. “Didn’t mean to sleep so late, sorry.” The cop slid eggs onto a chipped plate, sky blue eyes flicking over. “Ain’t got nowhere to be, do we?” His voice was warm but edged, that police officer’s steadiness still there beneath the domestic. “Rain’s comin’ down harder than yesterday. S’posed to freeze again tonight.”

Daryl set down the mugs, voice rough with sleep. “Oughta find work soon. Can’t just sit around here eatin’ your food all winter. Ain’t right.” Rick stilled, fork poised, blue eyes pinning the other man for a long, heavy second. “You’re not ‘just sitting around,’ ” he said finally, slow and deliberate. “You’re—here and safe. That’s enough for now. Winter’ll break soon enough, and you’ll get work but you don’t need to rush out there busting your ass for strangers in this shit. Not when you got me.” Daryl bristled, lips thinning, then forced his shoulders to relax. “Ain’t sayin’ I don’t appreciate it. Just—I ain’t good at bein’ waited on, feels weird. I was always the one… Nevermind.” Rick put down his fork, leaning his elbows on the table, gaze softening. “I get it. You got pride, I love and admire this about you but you ain’t a burden, Daryl. Never could be. Hell, you bein' here—it’s the best thing happened to me in years.” He shook his head, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, I’m from here, you know, Georgia. It’s my damn birthright to take care of the folks under my roof. You want to start work, we’ll look when it warms up. I got a friend who runs a shop, always looking for someone knows their way around an engine. Spring’s soon, give it some time.”

The redneck man watched the rain slide down the window, the stubborn line in his jaw softening just a hair. “Spring, huh? That a promise or just tryin’ to keep me lazin' 'round?” Rick huffed a laugh then, slow and sly, and reached out to brush his knuckles against Daryl’s wrist, not quite a caress but not far from it. “It’s a promise. And maybe I want you around, you ever think of that, it's not like I am hidin' it?”

“Yeah, figured as much. Can’t shake me that easy, Rick Grimes.” Rick grinned, that sharp blue gaze gleaming with something hungry and hopeful all at once. “Wouldn’t want to.”

***

The rest of the day stretched slow and wide. The city outside blurred with rain, and Rick, for once, let the world go on without him—no shift, no radio, no reason to leave the little sanctuary he’d carved for them both. He cleaned up after breakfast, watched Daryl fuss with Dog, read a battered paperback by the window, all angles and wariness even in comfort.

By late afternoon, the quiet started to gnaw at Rick. He found Daryl sitting on the edge of the couch, fiddling with the zipper of a hoodie, looking like he was halfway to going jogging under the rain and halfway to falling asleep. He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Hey.”

Daryl looked up, wary. “Yeah?” The cop crossed the room—slow, deliberate, crowding into the other man’s space until their knees brushed, until he could smell the shampoo on the longish chestnut brown hair and the faint ghost of soap from his shower. “Been thinkin’ about you all day,” Rick said, voice gone low, thick with something hungry. “’Bout last week. That kiss.” Daryl looked around, a little bit uneasy for a while. “Yeah, told ya, wasn’t bad.”

Rick’s hand cupped his jaw, thumb rough against stubble. "Well, it could be better. Could be more.” Daryl shivered, steel-colored eyes darting, but he didn’t pull back and the cop leaned in, not gentle this time—not slow. His mouth crashed against Daryl’s, hard and deep, tongue seeking, teeth scraping just enough to make the other one gasp. Daryl let him, fists tangled in Rick’s shirt, body stiff and then, slowly, softening—giving in the way he always did, like it cost him something every time. Rick pressed closer, knees between Daryl’s, hands finding his hair, his throat, his shoulders. Daryl let out a little sound, somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and Rick drank it in, devoured it, let it fuel the roughness of his touch. He kissed the man until they both forgot about the rain, until the redneck’s thin lips were swollen and Rick was half-hard and desperate.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against Daryl’s mouth, “I know it’s strange for you, bein’… with someone. Bein’ with me but you keep lettin’ me in. You keep lettin’ me touch you. It ain’t weird, Daryl, it’s good. You’ll see how good it can be—a relationship I mean.” Daryl panted, chest rising and falling, fingers still fisted in Rick’s shirt. “I dunno if I… I ain’t never—” The curly-haired man shushed him, thumb tracing Daryl’s cheekbone. “You don’t gotta be ready for all of it. I can wait for the sex part. Just—don’t run. Let me have this, just for now.” Daryl swallowed, eyes wide, lips red and parted. “Ain’t runnin’.”

That was all the permission Rick needed. He surged forward, kissing Daryl again—harder this time, all teeth and tongue and heat, hands wandering lower, squeezing Daryl’s hips, avoiding the ass that turned him on so much, tracing the thin line of his spine. Daryl gasped, body going taut beneath the man’s touch, but he still didn’t fight. He let Rick push him back into the couch cushions, let him bite at his jaw, suck at the soft place beneath his ear until Daryl was shaking, breath stuttering in Rick’s hold.

The cop pressed his thigh between Daryl’s legs, feeling the tension, the unwilling want that vibrated through him. “Someone’s excited.. mhm” Rick whispered, voice ragged. “That’s what I want, Daryl. All of you. Don’t gotta be scared.” The redneck squeezed his eyes shut, a flush spreading down his throat, but he arched up—seeking friction, need pulsing through his reluctance. Rick groaned, grinding them together, not quite fucking but closer than before, so close Daryl could feel the shape of Rick’s cock through his jeans, thick and hot and eager. “Fuck,” Daryl grunted, half-lost, hands clutching at Rick’s arms now. “You’re—too much, man.” Rick just smiled against Daryl’s jaw, kisses growing softer now, but no less desperate. “That’s alright. You’re worth it, ain’t lettin’ you go. My beauty.” They stayed like that, tangled and gasping, for what felt like forever—Rick kissing Daryl until they both trembled, hands never still, mouths never quite sated. When they finally pulled apart, Rick’s hands were still in Daryl’s hair, Daryl’s breath shaky but his eyes less afraid. Rick leaned their foreheads together, voice a low rumble. “It ain’t weird, Daryl. It’s us. Let it be good.” Daryl let out a shaky laugh, almost a sob. “Guess I could try.” Rick kissed him once, slow and deep, sealing the promise.

***

The sun had dipped low, leaving only the city’s sodium haze pressing up against the rain-streaked windows. Dinner was simple—leftovers, shared in silence broken only by the clink of forks and the rhythmic thump of Dog’s tail. Daryl cleared the plates, washed up without being asked, and Rick watched him from the living room, warmth and hunger tangled together so tight in his chest he could hardly breathe. When the dishes were done, Daryl hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should drift back to the bedroom turned into a guest room or sink down next to Rick on the big couch. Rick patted the cushion beside him, soft command in the gesture, and Daryl dropped down, Dog wedged between them like a living barricade.

They sat there for a while, neither speaking, watching the headlights stutter across the walls. Rick could feel Daryl’s tension—the way he kept glancing toward the hall, as if expecting Rick to snap, or maybe just waiting for the night to end. Finally, Rick broke the silence, voice low and careful. “You know, there ain’t much sense in you sleeping down the hall anymore.”

Daryl blinked, uncertain. “Ain’t like I’m in the way.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The cop turned, stretching his arm across the back of the couch, letting his fingers barely brush Daryl’s shoulder. “You’re not in the way, Daryl. You’re… here with me. That’s what matters.” Daryl huffed, looking away, rubbing the heel of his hand over Dog’s head. “Just figured maybe you wanted your space.” Rick shook his head, not hiding the rawness anymore. “I don’t, not from you. To tell you the truth, I want the opposite. I want you right there next to me. Every night.” He leaned in, close enough that Daryl could feel how hot his skin was, the faint trace of whiskey and rain and whatever aftershave Rick used, cheap but potent and clean. “From now on, I don’t want us sleeping apart. I want to be able to hold you. Just hold you, Daryl. Wake up and see you there, not wonder if you’re gonna be gone. That…that’s what I want.”

Daryl tensed, wary and touched all at once, the vulnerability flickering raw across his face. “Ain’t…you sure?” Rick nodded, his hand finding Daryl’s, fingers curling around the roughness of the redneck’s knuckles. “I’m sure. You ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, just let me have you close. We’re a couple, aren’t we? Or starting to be. Why should we pretend otherwise?” Daryl swallowed, something working behind his eyes—fear, hope, the weight of being wanted for the first time in too long. “Yeah, alright. I can… I can do that.” Rick smiled, relief and triumph bleeding through the cracks, and squeezed Daryl’s hand just a little too hard. “Good. That’s actually great.” He let the words hang between them, a promise and a challenge both, and in the hush that followed, Daryl didn’t run.

He stood just inside the door, hesitating, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other, looking younger and rawer than Rick had ever seen him from the beginning. The cop patted the mattress, trying to keep his voice steady, easy. “Ain’t gonna bite. Unless you want me to.” He tried for a grin, but it was shaky at the edges. Daryl huffed, ducked his head, and crossed to the bed, sliding under the covers in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, Dog curling up with a grunt at the foot. Rick waited until Daryl was settled, then turned out the lamp, climbing in beside him. The mattress dipped under his weight, the sheets cool against his skin. For a moment, they lay stiff and silent—Daryl on his back, staring at the ceiling, Rick on his side, one arm tucked under his head, watching the shadows play across Daryl’s face.

𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘦, 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

Rick’s cock was already hard, thick and insistent, pressing up against the soft cotton of his boxers. He tried to ignore it, tried to think about work, about rain, about anything except Daryl breathing slow and even inches away, the clean smell of him, the heat of his body leaching across the space between them.
But it was impossible—every muscle in Rick’s body ached for contact. He imagined reaching out, sliding his hand under Daryl’s shirt, tracing the old scars and new skin, pressing his mouth to that neck, just below the jaw, feeling that sharp pulse jump under his lips. He wanted to roll on top of him, grind them together, show Daryl exactly how much he wanted him. Show him who he was dating, that he was a taken man now.

He could hear Daryl shifting, restless, a soft sigh escaping him as he turned onto his side, facing away. Rick swallowed, forced himself to breathe slow, steady—didn’t want to ruin it, didn’t want to spook him. But goddamn, it was killing him.

He let his hand drift across the mattress, slow, careful, and laid it on Daryl’s hip over the blanket, just enough to make his claim. The other man didn’t move or flinch. He stayed still, almost rigid, but didn’t pull away. Rick’s fingers tightened, thumb brushing gentle circles, tracing the hard curve of bone through fabric.

𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭.

Rick pressed closer, chest to Daryl’s back now, the warmth flooding between them. He couldn’t help it—his cock throbbed, hips aching for friction, for more. He let himself imagine it —grinding slow against Daryl's ass, feeling him arch, hearing those soft, broken sounds he made during their last kiss.

He wondered if Daryl could feel how hard he was—if he’d pull away, or maybe, just maybe, push back.

But Daryl stayed put, breath hitching once, then evening out. Rick pressed his nose into his hair, breathing him in, letting his hand curl tighter around that narrow waist. He whispered, half-asleep, half-desperate, “Glad you’re here, Daryl. Don’t want you anywhere else.” Daryl didn’t answer, but he shifted back just a little, enough to press his spine against Rick’s chest, enough to make Rick’s cock twitch so hard it hurt. Rick lied there, awake and burning, heart hammering. He could wait—hell, he’d wait forever if it meant keeping Daryl right here, close enough to touch, close enough to claim.

But god, it was going to be a long night.

He didn’t dare move more. He didn’t dare wake him. But in the dark, Rick let his hand stay, let his hips press close, and let himself hope that soon—very soon—Daryl would want all of him, the way he already wanted Daryl. And if it took all night, all winter, all his patience, he’d hold out. But he’d never let go.

***

The pale winter light leaked in slow through the blinds, cutting stripes across the bed where Rick woke alone, the spot beside him already cold. For a wild moment, his heart jolted—fear that Daryl had run, that it’d all been some fragile dream—but then he heard the muffled clatter of a pan from the kitchen and the low grumble of Dog’s bark.

Rick found Daryl hunched at the table, hoodie pulled up, rolling the last of the coffee between his hands. His hair stuck up in damp cowlicks and there was a squint to his eyes, the kind that said he hadn’t slept much either. “You’re up early,” Rick said, trying for casual as he snagged the other mug. Daryl grunted. “Didn’t sleep too good. Mattress’s alright though.” He hesitated, running his thumb along the mug’s rim, then, “Mind if I—” He cleared his throat, face tilted down. “You got any cigarettes?”

Rick’s smile tightened, just a hair. “Quit a few years back, don’t keep ‘em around. Not healthy for you.” He watched Daryl’s jaw clench, that restless look flicker over his face—the urge to bolt, to find some corner of the city that wasn’t Rick’s.“Thinkin’ of steppin’ out for a pack,” Daryl said, standing, voice low. “Shop’s just around the block, I’ll be back in a minute.” Rick set his mug down, crystal blue gaze steady, not moving from the spot. “I’ll go with you then.” Daryl paused, brow furrowing, mouth becoming a stubborn line. “Ain’t gotta babysit me, man. I know where it is.” The police officer shook his head, soft but firm, slipping into that calm authority that’d once made grown men snap to attention. “Ain’t about babysitting. Just—world’s not as safe as it used to be. I’d rather come with.” Daryl huffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets, not quite meeting Rick’s eye. “I ain’t gonna get lost. I been takin’ care of myself since before you were—“Don’t mean I don’t want to look out for you.” Rick’s voice dropped, rougher now. “You’re under my roof, you’re my partner now so you’re my responsibility. Anyway, won’t kill you to have some company, it's your boyfriend after all, remember?”

Daryl rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of something softer there—maybe even relief, buried deep. “Fine. Ain’t like I’m gonna start a fight in the damn corner store.” Rick snorted, grabbing his brown suede jacket, the argument settled in that old, silent way. He brushed past Daryl in the hall, just close enough for his hand to graze the man’s back, as if to say, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦, before Dog trotted after them both, tail wagging.

The door was opened rather sharp as they stepped into the corner tobacco shop, rain still slick on their boots. The place smelled like old paper and wintergreen, shelves stacked high with rolling tobacco, lottery tickets, and candy bars gone stale. Behind the counter was Beth, Rick knew her because he often bought coffee and snacks from the shop which was indeed close—her blonde hair was in a messy ponytail, blue eyes bright, college sweatshirt slouching off one shoulder. She perked up the second she saw them, flashing Daryl a smile that landed somewhere between friendly and hopeful.“Well hey, Rick! And—oh, hi there.” Her gaze lingered a second too long on Daryl, taking in the rough edges, the tangle of hair, the stubble. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Daryl shifted, mumbling, “Atlanta's big enough and I just moved here in the neighborhood,” eyes fixed on the rows of Marlboros behind her, fingers drumming the counter. The cute little blonde’s smile widened, chin propped on her hand. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Beth. Lemme guess—you smoke Reds?” Daryl managed a nod, muttered, “Yeah, thanks.”

Before Beth could lean in any further, Rick stepped up behind Daryl—close, warm, his hand sliding with quiet certainty around Daryl’s waist, thumb pressing gentle but unmistakable. He grinned, voice easy but with that police officer edge only Daryl would hear. “Oh, hi Beth. This is my boyfriend, Daryl. He just moved in with me last week.”

Her doe eyes flicked from Rick’s hand to Daryl’s face, then back again, the flush rising sweet and quick in her cheeks. “Oh! That’s—well, that’s great. Good for you both.” She ducked her head, still smiling, but a little smaller now. “You guys need anything else? Got a fresh batch of those honey buns Daryl’s holding.” Rick squeezed Daryl’s hip, subtle but firm. “Just the cigarettes. And maybe a coffee for the road. Cold out there.”

The longer-haired man kept his eyes down, ears burning, but didn’t pull away from Rick’s touch. If anything, he leaned just a little closer, letting the cop anchor him in the space.

Beth rang them up fast, still blushing. “There you go. You boys take care, alright?” Rick let his hand stay on Daryl’s waist as they left, the doorbell chiming behind them. Out on the sidewalk, Daryl glanced sideways, lips twitching. “Didn’t have to go tellin’ her all that.” Rick shrugged, smile sly. “Didn’t want any confusion. ’Sides—figured you might like it.”

Daryl ducked his head, a rare, crooked grin breaking through. “Ain’t so bad.” Rick’s heart kicked, tight and proud, and he kept his arm around Daryl as they walked, certain—just for a moment—that the world was exactly as it should be.

***

They barely made it through the door before Rick was on him—something coiled tight in him finally let loose after the shop, after Beth’s flirty smile and Daryl’s shy little grin that Rick wanted to burn into his memory. Daryl tossed the cigarettes on the table, shaking rain from his hair, lips already quirking into a smirk. “Shoulda stop me from smokin’. Bad habit.” Rick hung his jacket, closing the space between them, voice dropping into that sly, teasing rumble. “Yeah? Maybe I should. Ain’t good for you, Dixon. You know that?” Daryl rolled his eyes, flipping him off playfully. “What, you a cop even at home now? Gonna write me a ticket?” Rick grinned, all wolf and mischief. “No tickets. Just consequences.”

Before Daryl could answer, the other man had him—one palm flat on Daryl’s chest, pressing him back until his spine hit the hallway wall with a soft thud. Rick caged him in, close and hungry, the heat of his body crowding every inch of the other man’s space. Daryl didn’t fight, just looked up at him through his lashes, mouth already soft, a little parted. “You ain’t right,” he muttered, but he was already leaning in, already letting Rick take control as the cop bent down, brushing his lips along Daryl’s jaw, up to the sensitive skin below his ear, nipping there, letting his voice go rough. “Might be. You gonna do something about it?” Daryl shivered—Rick felt it under his hands, felt the way Daryl’s hips twitched, the way he tilted his head for more. “Shut up, Grimes.”

Rick did—kissing him hard, nothing gentle about it. His mouth devoured, tongue slipping deep, teeth tugging at Daryl’s lower lip until he tasted copper. Daryl groaned, fists twisting in Rick’s shirt, hips jerking up to grind against him and Rick simply pressed closer, pinning Daryl with his weight, one thigh shoved between his now boyfriend’s legs, their bodies grinding in frantic, needy little thrusts. His hands slid everywhere—gripping Daryl’s waist, palming his ass, sliding under his shirt to rake nails up his bare back. He wanted to touch everything, own everything, mark Daryl as his in a way no clerk, no neighbor, no one from the past would ever forget.

He broke the kiss just long enough to suck at Daryl’s neck, biting down hard enough to leave a bruise, tongue laving away the sting. “Mine,” he muttered, half a threat, half a prayer. “You’re mine now, understand?” Daryl just gasped, grey-blue eyes going wild, mouth red and swollen, pushing back as hard as he could, riding the line between fear and need. “Yeah, alright. I get it,” he rasped, but didn’t ask Rick to stop and he didn’t, the man’s hands kept sliding down, fingers slipping under Daryl’s waistband, palming his bare hip, tugging him closer until there was nothing between them but carnal want. He rocked their hips together, groaning at the friction, cock hard and aching in his jeans, his whole body screaming for more.

God, if this kept up—if Daryl kept looking at him like that, making those noises, letting Rick press him into walls and beds and the fucking floor—Rick didn’t know how much longer he could hold back. The taste of him, the feel, the desperate little gasps as Rick’s hand wandered lower and lower—it was all too much. He caught the thin mouth again, kissing him messy, wet, all tongue and teeth and hunger. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Daryl Dixon,” Rick growled, voice breaking with want. “Keep letting me do this, I won’t be able to stop.” Daryl’s breath hitched, chest pressed tight against Rick’s. “Didn’t ask you to,” he said, voice so small and wrecked Rick nearly lost it right then and there. He let his forehead fall against Daryl’s, fighting for control. His hand stilled just shy of going further, trembling. He wanted to tear the clothes off, bend Daryl over the table, take him until the world ended—but not yet, not yet, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘧𝘧.

He drew a ragged breath, forcing himself to step back just enough to look at Daryl— look in a piercing way. Daryl’s lips were bruised, eyes dark and blown, chest heaving. For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Rick leaned in, softer this time, kissing the corner of Daryl’s mouth. “Let’s get you something to eat. You’re shaking.” Daryl nodded, dazed, letting Rick guide him away from the wall, the spell broken but the want still thrumming between them. Rick’s mind spun with what he’d do next time—if Daryl let him, if he begged for it, if he pushed back just as hungry. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘶𝘱, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

***

The next day came and Rick’s phone buzzed just after noon, a curt text from the department breaking the rare rhythm of peace they’d built in the apartment. He was pouring more coffee, thinking about the way Daryl’s hair seemed like it got longer and messier every passing day, covering his neck now, about the way Daryl had let him hold him—finally, for real—last night. He’d almost convinced himself the world outside could wait.

But the message yanked him back.
《𝗔𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗨𝗟𝗧 @ 𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥. 𝗦𝗘𝗫𝗨𝗔𝗟. 𝗩𝗜𝗖: 𝗠𝗔𝗟𝗘, 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗧.
𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗦: 𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗩𝗘.
𝗡𝗘𝗪𝗦 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗪𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗗. 𝗡𝗘𝗘𝗗 𝗦𝗨𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗜𝗦𝗢𝗥 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘》

Rick just stared at it for a moment, blood running cold, that old rage rising up—familiar, ugly, useless. His hands shook as he set the cup down, harder than he meant, the sound sharp in the quiet. Daryl was at the table, rolling a cigarette with that half-careful, half-careless slouch. He looked up, instantly wary. “Somethin’ happen?” Rick didn’t answer right away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Shelter on Pryor Street. Same one we passed last week, not the one you went to but still. Somebody…somebody got hurt. Real bad. Said he was sleepin’ rough, just trying to stay warm. Some bastard…” Rick’s jaw snapped tight. He couldn’t finish it—didn’t need to.

Daryl didn’t flinch. He just nodded, slow and tired, eyes going distant. “Ain’t the first time. Won’t be the last neither. Out there, you ain’t got nothin’ but your fists and the hope you wake up with your boots still on. Some folks don’t even get that.” Rick’s chest twisted, fury flaring and then folding in on itself, becoming something sharper, colder. He came around the table, crowding into Daryl’s space, grabbing his chin—not rough, but hard enough to make him look up, meet his eyes. “This is why, Daryl. This is why I won’t—can’t—let you out there alone. Not ever again. Do you get me now?” Daryl held his gaze, lips parted, face unreadable. “Ain’t sayin’ I want to go back, Rick. But you can’t lock me in, it ain’t right.”

Rick’s fingers softened, thumb stroking the line of Daryl’s jaw. “I know it ain’t right. Doesn’t mean I won’t do it. You’re mine now and I’m gonna keep you safe. Even if you hate me for it, you're my family...” Daryl let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but not quite. “People like us, we always end up on the wrong end of the stick. Some creepy cop, some asshole with a bat, some bastard lookin’ for an easy target. World don’t care.” Rick’s eyes darkened, possessive, aching. “I care and I'm not like some of these officers who never should have gotten badges. That’s the only thing that matters, right now. I care. So you don’t get to run off. You don’t get to vanish on me. I want to know where you are, always. You understand?”

Daryl studied him for a long moment, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, shoulders slumped. Finally, he nodded—slow, a little defeated, but trusting, too. “Alright. I get it. Wasn’t planning on runnin’ anyway. Got a warm bed now. Got you. Don’t need the street.” Rick pulled him close, arms winding around Daryl’s shoulders, mouth pressed into his hair, heart pounding. “Good. That’s good, baby. That’s all I want. All I ever wanted.”Daryl didn’t pull away. He let Rick hold him, let the fear and anger and need settle around them, heavy as the Atlanta rain against the window.

Chapter Text

The apartment glowed with soft yellow light, the rain slicking the windows and turning the city outside to gold and grey. Daryl was standing awkward by the coffee table, thumbs hooked in the waistband of Rick’s sweats, hair falling wild over his brow.

Dog was gnawing a bone by the door, blissfully ignorant, and the radio was already playing some old country song—something with pedal steel and a brokenhearted twang.

Rick was on the other side of the room, digging through a shopping bag like he was setting up Christmas in February. “You’re not gonna get mad, are you?” he called, half teasing, half nervous, pulling out a folded bundle—smooth, dark, expensive-looking fabric. “Promise I didn’t go crazy, just… saw this and thought of you.” He tossed the bundle over, and Daryl caught it, frowning suspiciously, running rough hands over the fabric. Satin—deep navy, slick and cold. “Rick, this is…” He shook his head, biting back a smile. “You tryin’ to dress me up like some call boy?” Rick grinned, wicked, cheeks flushed with whiskey and the thrill of it. “If I wanted a call boy, I’d be out somewhere I don’t gotta beg for a dance.” He stepped closer, voice dropping low, every syllable thick with that southern growl. “Nah, this is for me. ‘Cause you look good in it. ‘Cause I want to see you lookin’ sharp. Is that a crime?” Daryl rolled his eyes, fighting a losing battle with his own reflection in the dark window, but he let Rick push him toward the bedroom, shoving the clothes in his arms. “Go on, Dixon. Humor me. I’ll get the music on.” Rick’s voice was already warm, eyes gone hungry as he watched Daryl disappear down the hall.

He took his time—slow, methodical, just to mess with Rick’s nerves. He slid on the navy satin shirt, buttons slipping beneath his fingers, the fabric cool and slippery, hugging every line of muscle. The pants were dark, tight across his hips, making his ass pop again, the kind of fit that made him flush, made him remember all the ways Rick had touched him lately—strong hands, soft mouth, breath hot against his neck.

When he came back out, Rick’s mouth actually fell open for a second, eyes dragging down and then back up, blue as a bruise in the lamplight. “Jesus Christ, Daryl.” His voice was low, ragged, worshipful. “You tryin’ to kill me?” The other man simply shrugged, arms folded, but he was grinning—small, shy, a little proud. “Ain’t my fault you got a weird taste. Looks kinda… tight.” He tugged at the waistband, a little self-conscious, but Rick was already moving, crossing the room like he couldn’t keep his hands to himself another second.

He cupped Daryl’s jaw, thumb sliding along the edge of his stubble, voice gone so soft it almost hurt. “You look perfect.” The music changed, slipping into something slower, sweeter—an old Alan Jackson tune, all heartbreak and steel guitar. Rick grinned, tugging Daryl in by the hips, not asking, just taking. “Dance with me.” Daryl huffed, “I don’t dance,” but the cop just pulled him closer, hands sliding down the silk of that shirt, tracing the lines of his waist, his ass, his thighs—worshipping him with touch. “I’ll lead, you just follow.” And for a minute, Daryl let himself—let Rick press their bodies close, let the rhythm sway them back and forth across the threadbare rug, the world shrinking down to Rick’s breath on his neck, the hard line of Rick’s cock against his hip, the way their chests fit together like two parts of a lock.

The officer’s hands got bolder, sliding down to cup Daryl’s ass, kneading, thumbs tracing the seam where thigh met bone, voice rough with want. “Can’t help it, baby. You got no idea what you do to me. Been thinkin’ about this all day, all damn week.” He pressed his mouth to Daryl’s jaw, nipping, tongue flicking hot at the spot just below his ear. “You trust me yet? Trust me to take care of you, to make you feel good?” The words made Daryl flush, made his cock twitch in those tight pants. He muttered, “Tryin’. You ain’t makin’ it easy,” but he didn’t pull away. Rick’s hand slid between them, palming the front of the redneck’s pants, grip rough and needy. Daryl gasped, hips jerking, but Rick just smiled, lips pressed to his ear. “That’s it. Let go for me. Let me have you.”

For a second, it was almost too much—Daryl could feel himself slipping, letting Rick hold him up, letting the cop’s hands map every inch of him, satin sliding over skin, cock hard and aching under Rick’s palm. Rick’s own erection was thick, obvious, pressing hard against Daryl’s thigh, and the air between them went hot and wet with wanting. Rick kissed him hard, swallowing every sound, grinding up against him, making Daryl dizzy with the need to just give in—to let Rick have everything he wanted, to be wanted this much.

But then Daryl’s survival instincts kicked in—he caught Rick’s wrist, squeezing, breathless but laughing, eyes shining. “Alright, Grimes. Slow down. You gettin’ carried away.” Rick’s grin was wild, almost boyish, but dark at the edges. “Can’t help it, baby. You’re too goddamn pretty for your own good. You wanna stop?” Daryl just smiled, shaking his head. “Nah, just… not here. Not now. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. You’ll get your shot, promise.” That was all Rick needed—he let go, just enough, kissing Daryl one last time, deep and messy, hands lingering on his ass, on his back, on his jaw. “Come to bed, then. Just wanna hold you. That’s all. Tonight, that’s enough.” Daryl nodded, a little shy now, a little raw, and let Rick lead him to the bedroom, Dog already curled up at the foot, a silent witness to every mercy and sin.

They climbed under the covers, Rick spooning close, hard cock pressed to Daryl’s back, arms wound tight around his chest. Rick’s hand slipped under Daryl’s shirt, warm on bare skin, tracing slow circles over ribs and scars and muscle, possessive and sweet. “Ain’t never loved nobody like this,” Rick whispered, lips pressed to the back of Daryl’s neck. “Ain’t never wanted nothin’ so bad.” Daryl let himself believe it, just for tonight—let himself relax, let Rick hold him close, let the world shrink down to the sound of the rain and the soft country song drifting through the cracked bedroom door. He almost smiled, almost trusted, almost let himself fall. Meanwhile, Rick’s cock throbbed, heavy and desperate, but he didn’t push—just held Daryl close, breath ragged, fingers tracing every inch he could reach, memorizing the shape of his mercy. “Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I got you. Ain’t lettin’ go.” And in the hush that followed, Daryl finally believed him—at least for tonight.

***

The morning was cold and blue when Daryl woke, cheek pressed into a warm patch on the pillow, Rick’s arm heavy around his waist. For a minute, everything was sweet—his body loose, the other man’s breath slow against the back of his neck, Dog snoring softly at the end of the bed. For a moment, he let himself believe in this little world they’d built—two lonely men, a mutt, a place to sleep without looking over his shoulder. He even grinned, soft and stupid, feeling Rick’s hand curl tighter when he tried to slip free.
“Where you think you’re goin’?” Rick mumbled, voice rough with sleep, morning wood pressing insistent against Daryl’s back. “S’early yet.”

“Gotta piss. You’ll live,” Daryl grumbled, wriggling out from under Rick’s arm. He shuffled off to the bathroom, scratching at his ribs, humming low under his breath.

The house was quiet. Steam curled from the cracked bathroom door, the shower still damp from the night before. Daryl wandered back to the bedroom, pulling on Rick’s old sweatpants, rubbing his eyes.

In the living room, the sunlight was already catching on the shopping bag Rick had left out—half-open, fabric spilling from the mouth. Daryl stepped around it, looking for his own shirt, but then he saw it: a scrap of glossy photo-paper peeking from the side-table drawer, half-hidden under an envelope.

He wasn’t snooping, he wasn’t a nosy person. He just wanted somewhere to stash the damn clothes. But when he pulled the drawer open, his stomach went cold. There it was—a picture, maybe five or six years old, faded at the corners but clear as day. Rick, in a suit and tie, one arm around a boy—dark-haired, wide and blue-eyed, maybe ten at the most. Next to them, a woman—long brown hair, pretty in that southern church-picnic way, wedding ring shining. All three smiling, sun-bright and picture-perfect. The back was scrawled with cheap blue ink: “To Daddy—Love, Carl.”

Daryl stared. The edges of the world fuzzed, the sound of the city fading out, the ugly hum of his old life buzzing back in. He kept flipping, hands shaking—bank letters, a divorce decree tucked under a magazine, a handful of cards written in a kid’s careful hand. The words blurred but the meaning hit hard.

Rick had a family. A kid. He’d never said a damn word.

He stood there frozen, knuckles white, teeth gritted, staring at the proof of all the shit he never got to have. Suddenly the apartment felt too small, too bright, too full of things that didn’t belong to him.

Rick suddenly wandered out of the bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes, a soft smile on his lips. “You makin’ coffee?” He stopped, blinking at the mess, the open drawer, the photo trembling in Daryl’s hand.

For a second, neither spoke. Daryl broke the silence first, voice coming rather sharp and ugly. “You got a kid.” Rick flinched, the words hitting harder than a fist. “Daryl, I was gonna —“Don’t,” Daryl snapped, tossing the photo onto the table like it burned. “Don’t you dare start with that shit. You got a whole fuckin’ family and you never thought to—what, just let me sleep in your bed like some fuckin’ whore you picked up? Make me feel like I finally found something real?” He was pacing now, breath coming hard, hands clenched at his sides. “You lied to me, man. You lied.” Rick moved to close the distance, voice pleading, “No, listen, listen, it’s not like that. Lori and me—we’re done. Been over for years. Carl’s with her, in Virginia right now. I—hell, I didn’t want to scare you off. Didn’t want you thinking I was still hung up on all that. You’re not a replacement for anything, Daryl. You’re—fuck, you’re the only thing that feels real to me anymore.” Daryl laughed—a harsh, broken sound, bitter as bile. “Yeah, you say that now. What else you hiding, huh? Wife gonna come knocking? Kid showing up, asking why some piece of trash is wearing his daddy’s shirt?” He kicked at the chair, making it scrape across the floor and Dog, sensing the tension, whined and backed toward the bedroom.

Rick tried again, voice hardening, that cop edge coming back. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re not trash, Daryl. I was gonna tell you. I just—I wanted one fucking week where it was about us, not all the shit I can’t fix. You think you’re the only one scared here? You think you’re the only one with things to lose?” Daryl wasn’t listening. He was grabbing whatever was closest—his boots, a battered hoodie, his phone charger, well the one the cop bought for him. He moved too fast, knocking a slipper off the coffee table. He grabbed it and, with an angry twist, hurled it at Rick’s chest. “Fuck you, Rick Grimes!” The slipper bounced off Rick’s ribs, more insult than injury, but the look in Daryl’s eyes was pure betrayal. “You coulda told me! You shoulda—!” Rick, voice rising now, snapped, “I was trying to protect you, damn it! Protect us both! You don’t know what it’s like, havin’ to decide what truth is safe to tell. I was scared of losing you, alright? Does that count for nothin’?”

Daryl’s face was red, eyes glassy with unshed rage. “It counts for shit if it’s all a lie.” He yanked the door open, Dog whining at his heels. “Don’t bother following me. I gotta get some fuckin’ air before I put my fist through your teeth.” And he was gone, the door slamming so hard the window rattled, Rick left standing barefoot in the living room, a single slipper at his feet and a photograph burning a hole in the middle of the room.

***

The air outside suddenly and sharply bit through Daryl’s hoodie, rain in the gutters, boots splashing through filth as he stomped past the block. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, heart pounding not from the cold but from the burn of what he’d left behind. Every step away from Rick’s apartment felt like it should’ve hurt less than it did. He should be glad to be out, on his own again. He should feel free.

Instead, he felt sick—sick at himself for letting it go this far, for thinking a soft bed and a hot shower could buy him safety. Hell, maybe that’s all Rick wanted from the start. 𝘒𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘥, 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘐’𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺. 𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵—𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭.

He moved from one storefront to another, glancing at “Help Wanted” signs in greasy windows, ignoring the looks from store clerks and the pity in the eyes of women behind counters. He asked at a garage—"You got experience?"

“Plenty,” he muttered, “but no papers.” The man behind the desk just shook his head, already half turned away. Next stop, a bar—he tried to look the part, fingers combing back his hair, tugging the sleeves down. “You hiring?” The bartender, some pretty woman with a drawl thicker than syrup, gave him a once-over. “Not today, hun. We got too many boys already.” He left before the sting could settle. All the while, Daryl’s head buzzed with thoughts he couldn’t shake. 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘺? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺? 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮? 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘐’𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥? Daryl kicked a rock into the gutter, jaw clenched tight. 𝘈𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯. 𝘐 𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦. But every “No,” every pitying look, every door closed, it all felt like proof of something he couldn’t name. He wasn’t anybody’s family. He wasn’t anybody’s son. Just a man with a name, a handful of scars, and not much else. At least out here, when someone fucks you over, they do it to your face. Not with gifts, not with sweet talk, not with pretty words and promises you can’t ever trust.

He stopped at a diner—old neon sign blinking, the promise of coffee and tips. The owner, a hard-faced woman with gold hoops in her ears, listened for two seconds before shaking her head. “You got a home address?” Daryl shook his head, voice scraping out. “Not right now.” She glanced him up and down, softer now, but still said no. He nodded, moved on. Kept going. 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘋𝘪𝘹𝘰𝘯. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.

***

Back in the apartment, Rick’s mind was unraveling. He paced the floor, picking up the slipper, staring at the photo on the table, every breath a countdown to disaster. Daryl’s voice echoed, ugly and hurt—𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥.

He tried to make coffee, hands shaking. The mugs clattered, the old dog-eared bag of beans spilling across the counter. He checked his phone—no messages. He told himself to wait, that Daryl just needed to blow off steam. He’d come back. He always came back. But the hours stretched and the apartment shrank, and he found himself replaying every moment—every touch, every word, every look that maybe, just maybe, hadn’t meant what he thought it did.

𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘐’𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘐’𝘮 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵, 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘰. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. The shame burned, but the need was worse. He needed to find him. He needed to explain.

By noon, he couldn’t sit still. He threw on his brown suede jacket, grabbed his badge, shoved his feet into boots and slammed the door behind him. He checked the garages, the diners, the bars up and down the neighborhood. He questioned anyone who looked twice at a man with long hair and a hard face. “You seen this guy?” Most shook their heads. A couple shrugged, “Maybe,” but nobody had answers.

His mind went wild—𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘺, 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦—𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦? Rick’s hands shook on the steering wheel, jealousy and fear snarling in his chest. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘵. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

The city kept moving, indifferent and wet, swallowing up the only man Rick Grimes had ever really wanted. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not until he brought Daryl back—safe, angry, proud, but home.

***

The city blurred by as Rick stalked the sidewalks, jacket soaked through, heart pounding in his ears. He’d already hit three blocks, called two buddies from the station, Shane and Rosita—“You seen a guy, long hair, skinny, blue hoodie—goes by Daryl, might be scared, might be pissed. He’s my—just call me if you see him.” He could hear the smirk in Rosita’s voice, “Got yourself a boyfriend, Ricky?” but he didn’t care. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦, he thought, and 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴. When the call back from Shane came, Rick was halfway through his third cup of gas station coffee, fingers shaking, jaw tight. “Hey, man. Saw your boy talking to some college type outside Rudy’s. Slim but fit, brown hair, red jacket today. Looked like he was tryin’ to make friends.” Rick’s stomach dropped. He didn’t even hang up—just threw the cup, boots pounding the pavement.

He spotted them from the corner—Daryl, looking uncomfortable as hell, hair in his eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets, and Spencer Monroe, cocky little shit from a rich Atlanta family, leaning in way too close. Rick slowed, watching as the tall young man’s hand landed on 𝘏𝘐𝘚 Daryl’s arm, words too low to hear but the tone was clear—smug, teasing, nasty.

Spencer’s voice, loud enough for Rick to catch, “You know, a guy like you, you could make a lotta tips in my friend’s bar. Got the look. That mouth—bet it’s good for more than talkin’. You ever bartend, cutie? I’ll train you personally.” His hand drifted lower, fingertips grazing Daryl’s belt. The long-haired man stiffened, pulling away just enough, voice a mutter, “Ain’t interested. Thanks.” But Spencer only grinned, voice oozing, “C’mon, don’t be shy. Bet you’d clean up if you wanted to. I’d pay to watch you bend over a bar, you know that? Or maybe just bend you over, period.” He laughed, eyes sliding down Daryl’s body. “Guy like you shouldn’t be out here beggin’ for work. Got better uses.”

Rick’s vision snapped. Something hot and dark crawled up his throat—jealousy, fear, the taste of humiliation. That was his—his wild man, his fucking responsibility, and nobody talked to him that way.

He barreled across the street, voice like thunder. “Get your hands off him, right now!” Spencer jerked back, smirking, “Whoa, officer—didn’t know you were working vice today.” But Rick was already on Daryl, grabbing his arm, spinning him around so rough Daryl nearly stumbled. “Rick—” he started, but the cop cut him off, breath sharp with whiskey. “You outta your mind? Out here letting creeps put their hands on you? What the fuck, Daryl?” Daryl tried to pull away, face flushed, “Ain’t your business who I talk to—” Rick shoved him back, hard enough to make Daryl grunt, crowding into his space so close Spencer took a step back.

Rick’s hand fisted in Daryl’s jacket, voice low, dangerous.“Get in the car. Now.” Daryl glared, but Rick’s grip only tightened, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, head tilting one side in that dangerous way. “You gonna make a scene, Dixon? You wanna get in a stranger’s car instead? Go on, try it. See what happens.” Spencer just whistled, “Damn, didn't know he was taken, Officer, is he your man? Looks like you got your hands full.” Rick’s eyes snapped up, voice a snarl. “Get the fuck outta here, Monroe. If I see you near him again, I’ll have your ass locked up so fast your daddy’ll need three lawyers.” Spencer raised his hands, smirking. “Fine, fine. Take your boyfriend home. He’s cute, though. Real cute.” He sauntered off, and Rick turned back to Daryl, fury and need fighting for control.

“Get. In. The. Car.”

Daryl yanked his arm away, but Rick caught him by the back of the neck, fingers digging in, steering him toward the squad car like a perp. Daryl’s heart hammered—half humiliated, half turned on, but he tried to hold onto his anger. “Let go of me, Rick—” But the man pushed him into the passenger seat, slammed the door, circled to the driver’s side. He climbed in, hands shaking, voice ragged.“What the hell were you thinking? Talking to men like that? You want a job that bad, you come to me. You ask me.” Daryl spat, “Can’t sit at home waiting for you to fuck me like a good little whore, Rick. I need work.” Rick’s hand landed on Daryl’s thigh, hard enough to bruise. “You keep talking like that, I’ll show you what a whore gets. You wanna know? Keep pushing me.”Daryl stared, anger and fear and something darker sparking in his eyes. Rick’s voice dropped, a threat and a promise.

“You’re mine, Daryl. Nobody touches you but me. Nobody talks to you that way but me. Get that through your head.” He squeezed Daryl’s thigh, not letting go until Daryl looked away, shame burning in his cheeks.

The car idled, rain drumming on the roof. Rick leaned in, voice barely a whisper, “You want me to prove it? You want to see just how much I care?” Daryl shook his head, but Rick’s hand only slid higher, grip tightening. “Too late for no, Dixon. You pushed me. Now you’re gonna see what happens, apparently being a gentleman doesn't work with you.”

He threw the car into drive, burning with need and anger, taking Daryl home—knowing damn well he wouldn’t be able to stop himself tonight.

***

The apartment was silent except for the wet, rasping sound of Rick’s breath and the way Daryl’s boots squeaked on the tile as Rick shoved him forward, hand tangled tight in greasy brown hair. “Get in the bedroom,” Rick snarled, voice all whiskey and betrayal, “Now. You wanna act like some street slut? Let’s see how you handle a real man then.” Daryl tried to twist away, but Rick jerked him harder, fingers digging into the back of his neck, rage barely contained. The bedroom door banged open, slamming into the wall. Rick kicked it shut behind them, shoving Daryl onto the bed—face first, ass up, jeans still half undone from where he had started yanking them down in the hallway.

“Get ‘em off,” Rick barked, breath hot, cock already straining against his jeans. “Now. Or I’ll tear ‘em myself.” Daryl spat over his shoulder, defiant even as his hands shook. “Go to your wife if you need it that bad. Maybe you left your real lover at home with your pretty little kid, huh? Ain’t that right, Officer Grimes?” Rick’s face twisted, the rage white-hot. He snapped, hand coming down sharp across Daryl’s mouth, the slap echoing in the room. “I told you,” Rick hissed, “I ain’t got a wife. Ain’t got nobody but you. You want proof?” He yanked Daryl’s hair, twisting his head so their eyes met. “Ain’t nobody touches you but me. You understand?” Daryl glared, spitting blood, still not breaking. “Maybe I don’t wanna be yours. Maybe I want that kid from the bar. Maybe he’ll treat me better than you ever—” Rick lost it—shoving Daryl flat, his knee in Daryl’s back, forcing the last of his clothes off with angry hands. He spat on his own palm, grabbed the lube from the nightstand, slicking himself quick and rough.

“You want to act like a whore?” Rick growled, voice gone animal. “You’ll get fucked like one. I’m all you’ll ever have. Say it.” Daryl stayed silent, so the cop yanked his head up by the hair, the pain sharp and humiliating. “Say it, Dixon!” Daryl’s eyes were wide, breath ragged, fear and anger mixing with a heat he couldn’t hide. “Ain’t got nobody but you, alright? Satisfied? Now fuckin’ get on with it.”

Rick spat again, then lined up behind him, pushing Daryl’s knees apart with his own. He saw the tattoos— the demons on his shoulder blade, the crisscross scars, old burns, all of it laid bare under the low lamplight. He pressed a rough palm to Daryl’s spine, tracing the lines, then grabbed both wrists, pinning them above Daryl’s head, voice going thick and sick with wanting.“These yours? All these marks—belong to me now. Gonna put my own on you. Gonna fill you up so you don’t forget who fucked you first.”

Daryl squirmed, breath catching as Rick’s cock pressed up to his hole, blunt and big, slicked but still too much. “Rick, you—wait, I ain’t—”

“Shut up! You wanted this, runnin’ your mouth, showing off for that spoiled kid. I warned you! You want to know how a real man does it?” He shoved in, slow but relentless, groaning at the impossible tightness, the way Daryl’s whole body fought him at first. Daryl grunted, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut—pain, shame, anger, all mixing together as Rick bottomed out, holding him down, forcing his way deeper. “Fuck, Dixon. So tight—goddamn, you never done this, have you? Saving it for me? That’s right. Good boy.”

He started to move, slow at first, hips rolling, pushing in deep with every thrust, one hand fisted in Daryl’s hair, the other still pinning his wrists. Daryl cursed, biting his arm, shaking his head. “Goddamn you, Rick. Hurts—” Rick bent low, teeth at Daryl’s ear, voice a filthy whisper. “Gonna hurt a little, baby. First time always does. But you’ll take it. You’ll learn to love it.” He picked up speed, thrusts going rougher, his cock battering Daryl open, making the mattress creak and shift. Sweat dripped down Rick’s brow, his vision going black at the edges with wanting. He watched the tattoos and scars ripple with every thrust, the way Daryl’s body fought and then gave, the moment he stopped fighting and started to moan—low, desperate, ashamed.

Rick let go of Daryl’s wrists, reached under him, found his cock—already hard, leaking against the sheets. He jerked him rough, matching the rhythm of his own fucking, biting at Daryl’s neck, marking new bruises over old scars. “That’s it, Dixon. Let go. Show me who you belong to.” Daryl choked out a sob, body shuddering as Rick drove into him—harder now, losing all control, hands everywhere, hips snapping, ass slapping loud against Daryl’s skin. “You’re mine,” Rick panted, “all mine. Only one who’ll ever see you like this. Only one who’ll ever fill you up. Nobody else. Not that piece of shit Monroe. Not the wife you think I got. Only me.”

Daryl came first, shaking, his cock spilling hot over Rick’s fist, his whole body breaking under the assault. Rick held him tight, fucking him through it, then let go—grabbing Daryl’s hip with bruising force, shoving in deep one last time, coming with a shout, filling Daryl up, marking him for good.

For a minute, the world was nothing but sweat, gasps, the smell of sex and hate and desperate, twisted love. Rick collapsed over him, breathing hard, lips pressed to the demon tattoo, voice shaking. “You’re mine. Mine now, always. Don’t you fucking run or you won't like me THEN, don't ever play with my feelings again.” Daryl just nodded, spent and shaking, eyes wet, face pressed to the pillow—owned, marked, fucked and ruined.

Chapter Text

The morning was thick and ugly, the kind that bled in slow and made every corner of the room seem smaller, the air heavier. Rick woke with his skull pounding and a sour mouth, the remnants of whiskey clinging to every nerve in his body. For a minute, he lied still, blinking against the pale stripe of winter sun leaking through the blinds, brain struggling to slot the world back together.

Daryl was beside him, curled small on his side, jeans clinging to his hips, the cheap cotton shirt wrinkled, stained at the collar. His hair was a tangled halo on the pillow, still smelling of Rick’s aftershave and something darker—fear, shame, the sourness of last night’s tears. The sheets were twisted between them, wet in places, and everywhere Rick looked there were reminders—half-moons of bruises at Daryl’s hips, a smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, a welt blossoming along his jaw where Rick’s knuckles had landed.

His first instinct was to reach for Daryl, to brush the matted hair back from his forehead, to smooth the red patch where Rick’s ring had cut him, but the shame hit harder than any hangover—an acid in his gut, crawling up his throat and threatening to choke him. He tried to recall the night—tried and failed—flashes of skin and yanking, slaps and shouting, Daryl’s voice cracking, the way he’d struggled, begged, tried to kick free. Rick remembered the taste of blood, the way the other man had bitten down on his own lip, refusing to make a sound. He remembered shoving him down on the bed, yanking his head back, rutting against him with a hunger so animalistic and filthy it felt like it belonged to someone else. He remembered Daryl crying out, trying to twist away, Rick pinning him harder, whispering all those ugly, desperate promises in his ear...

His hand was shaking as he reached for Daryl, fingers brushing the tangled chestnut hair at the nape of his neck—soft, still damp from sweat, sticky with the salt of old tears. Daryl flinched—just a twitch, but it was enough. Rick’s stomach turned. “Hey,” he whispered, voice thick, raw. “Daryl. You awake?” No answer. Daryl’s breathing was shallow, the kind of careful that said he’d been awake for hours, counting down the seconds until Rick moved, until he could measure the threat. The dried blood on his mouth glinted rust red in the thin light, a cruel reminder of how last night ended, how Rick had lost control—lost everything that mattered.

The cop swallowed hard, he wanted to say something, anything, but the words tasted like poison. He tried again, voice smaller. “I’m sorry,” he said, a whisper to the crown of Daryl’s head. “I… I didn’t mean—” but even that felt like a lie. The memory of his own hands—fisted in the long hair, pinning those wrists, forcing his way in even when the man he loved had tried to say no—made him sick. He was still hard, even now, shameful and hollow, the aftermath of want and violence tangled up in the sheets between them.

He traced his thumb gently through the chestnut hair, fingers ghosting over the bruised skin, the red mark where he’d bitten Daryl’s neck hard enough to leave a welt. “Daryl… please.” His voice cracked, softer than he meant, desperate now. “Just—look at me.” But the man didn’t move, refusing to speak. His face was turned away, pressed to the pillow, one arm curled protectively over his chest, as if trying to keep Rick out of the last safe place he had left.

Rick felt tears burn behind his eyes, humiliation and guilt and need all choking him at once. He’d wanted to own Daryl, to prove something—about love, about power, about never being left behind again—but all he’d done was break the one person who ever let him in, ever trusted him enough to stay.

The silence between them was brutal, louder than any fight. Rick stroked the hair again, soft now, gentle as he could manage. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, baby,” he whispered, breath shuddering, voice hollow with regret. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.” Daryl’s only answer was the tremor that ran down his spine, the way his shoulders hunched a little tighter, like he was bracing for another blow and Rick closed his eyes, hand still tangled in Daryl’s hair, the weight of what he’d done settling over him like a second skin.

***

The moment Rick moved off the bed—bare feet hitting the cold linoleum, mumbling about breakfast in a voice that was too soft, too careful—Daryl slid out from under the sheets, barely more than a shadow. His legs were trembling, not from fear, not even from pain, just the shock of moving through a world that felt wrong now, that tasted like copper and whiskey and broken trust. He scooped up his jeans still from the previous horrible night, pulling them on with trembling hands, shuffling to the bathroom before Rick could turn, before he could say his name and make Daryl shatter all over again.

He locked the door behind him, the click loud in the hush. Dog whined outside—sensing something off, scratching once at the frame before slumping down, tail thumping a sad rhythm against the tile. Daryl pressed his forehead to the door, breathing hard, knuckles white on the old brass handle. He waited, counted his heartbeats, waited for the wave of shame to crest and crash and maybe leave him something he could use to get through the day.

He saw his own reflection in the mirror—hair stuck up wild, mouth swollen and split at the corner, red blooming against the pale stretch of his cheekbone. He looked older, raw, the lines under his eyes gone purple-black, a day’s worth of light but rough stubble making him look even more lost. He wanted to smash the glass, wanted to claw the memories out of his head, but instead he turned on the water, twisting the handle so hard it groaned.

He let it run hot—scalding, the steam filling the room thick, fogging up the mirror, hiding his face. He stripped, slow and mechanical, flinching as he peeled down the pants—felt the ache between his thighs, the sting where Rick had grabbed him too hard, where teeth and hands and hips had marked him, inside and out. Blood, faint but there, streaked his skin—drying in dark lines that no amount of water could seem to scrub clean. He stepped into the spray, let it pound against his back, his shoulders, his chest, his face. He braced both hands against the wall, letting his head hang, the water flattening his hair, tracing every ridge of his spine, every bruise and bite and scar.

For a long time he just stood there, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut so tight it hurt. He wanted to scream—wanted to smash his fists against the tile until something broke, something changed, until he could forget the way Rick had sounded last night, the way he’d called him baby, the way it had felt, for one ugly second, like maybe he’d wanted it. The shame ate at him, worse than the pain, worse than the bruises blooming across his hips and wrists and jaw.

𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘋𝘪𝘹𝘰𝘯. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦.

He pressed his forehead to the tile, letting the water soak his hair, drip down his cheeks like tears he refused to let fall. “Goddamn it,” he whispered, voice rough, breaking in the echoing space. “Shoulda known better. Shoulda fuckin’ left. Shoulda never—” He choked off, swallowing the words. “Ain’t nobody’s good thing. Just a fuckin’ problem, always have been.” He scrubbed himself raw—soap burning against the fresh welts, his own breath hissing between his teeth as he tried to wash away what happened. He could still feel Rick on him, inside him, the weight of those hands, the sound of his voice—possessive, ruined, desperate. He hated that some part of him hadn’t fought harder. Hated that he’d let himself want, even for a second, to be held after.

“Stupid, Dixon,” he muttered, voice shaking. “Shoulda run when you had the chance. Shoulda left him to his pretty wife, his kid, his goddamn perfect life. You ain’t nothin’ but a hole to fill.”

He stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, until his skin was pink and raw and his teeth were chattering. Only then did he turn it off, drying himself with the towel he’d used the day before, not caring if it was clean. He pulled on his old jeans, his t-shirt, his battered hoodie, each layer a little more armor, a little more distance from the man waiting in the kitchen.

He stared at his own face in the fogged glass, steel blue eyes bloodshot and wild, jaw set hard as stone. “Ain’t gonna cry,” he whispered, voice flat and final. “Ain’t gonna break for nobody, not even him.” He wiped the mirror clean with his palm, left a smear of steam and sweat and shame, then opened the door—shoulders squared, head down, heart pounding.

He was still shaking, but at least now he could breathe.

***

He moved soft as he could—old boots in hand, hoodie up, breath held. The apartment was small, but years of surviving on the Atlanta city streets had taught him how to slip through tight spaces, to keep his head down and his steps lighter than memory. The sun was barely up, painting the kitchen walls with that sickly winter gold. Dog was already at the door, tail low, ears back, sensing the trouble boiling in Daryl’s chest.

He’d almost made it. Almost had the door cracked—just enough to feel the slap of cold air on his face—when Rick’s voice, hoarse and shaking, hit him from the kitchen. “Where you goin’, Daryl?”

He froze, sudden dread of turning around, not saying anything, hoping, for half a second, that the cop would just let it slide, pretend he hadn’t seen, pretend everything was fine.

But Rick moved closer, fast, bare feet thumping the wood, panic high and ragged in his voice. “Daryl. Don’t—please—don’t go, just talk to me, please—Daryl spun, every line of his body tight as a tripwire. “Don’t touch me!” His voice cracked, loud enough that Dog shrank back, eyes wide. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, Grimes. You hear me? Get the fuck away.” He shoved his boots hard against the wall, fists clenched, face flushed with anger, shame, the sting of last night burning under every word and Rick stopped short, hands up, palms out like he was facing down a wild animal. He looked wrecked— bloodshot baby blues too, hair a mess, still in the same shirt he’d slept in, face hollowed out by the kind of guilt that ate men alive.

He stepped forward, mouth opening—nothing coming out but a sound that might have been Daryl’s name, might have been an apology, might have just been the last of his hope leaking out. Daryl backed up, trembling, voice wild. “You think I’m just—what? Somethin’ you can use when your wife ain’t lookin’? Somethin’ you can fuck and own and break? I ain’t your fuckin’ whore—” He broke off, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

But Rick—he just fell. Not a stumble, not a slouch—he collapsed, straight down to his knees in the entryway, eyes spilling over, tears running thick and silent down his cheeks. He crawled the last few feet, hands shaking so bad he almost couldn’t catch Daryl’s ankle, but when he did, he clung like a drowning man. He pressed his lips, desperate and broken, to the top of Daryl’s foot, the bone of his ankle, the scarred skin above his heel. “Please,” he choked, voice ragged, ruined, nothing like the man who’d held Daryl down last night. “Please, Daryl. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I can’t—fuck, I can’t live with myself if you go. I didn’t want to—God, you gotta believe me, I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone other than my son. Please. Please, just—fuck, forgive me. I’ll do anything. I’m so sorry. I ain’t ever been this sorry in my life.” He sobbed—real, ugly, body-shaking sobs, his head pressed to Daryl’s ankle, his hands clutching at the man’s calves like if he just held tight enough he could anchor himself to this world, to forgiveness, to something like mercy. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—couldn’t stop. I lost my mind, I was drunk and got jealous. You make me crazy. I’m so goddamn in love with you it scares me, Daryl, it fuckin’ ruins me. Please—please—just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything, just don’t leave me.”

Daryl was stone at first—frozen, mouth twisted, every muscle tight and locked. For a long minute he just stood there, Rick a mess at his feet, Dog whining behind them, the whole world shrunk down to that patch of dirty tile and spilled tears. Finally, with a shaking voice, he spat the words through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to fuckin’ own me just ‘cause you’re lonely. Listen to me, you got no right to hurt me ‘cause you love me, fucker. I ain’t some goddamn patch for your broken heart. I ain’t your fix, Rick. I ain’t your wife, or your whore, or your fuckin’ charity case.” He kicked out, not hard—enough to make Rick let go, enough to make the cop fall back on his hands, staring up, blue eyes wet and wide, lips trembling. Daryl stared down at him, jaw working, voice cracking. “You love me, you fuckin’ prove it. Let me go, just let me breathe, man.”

Rick dragged a hand across his face, leaving streaks of tears and snot, but didn’t get up. “I can’t let you go,” he whispered, “I can’t. You’re all I got, Daryl. Please. Please, just… stay. Please.” The silence was thick, broken only by Dog’s soft whimper and Rick’s shaky breathing. Daryl stood over him, bare toes curling against the tile, heart hammering. For a second, he looked like he might bolt—out the door, out of the city, out of Rick’s life for good but something kept him rooted. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was love, broken and raw. Maybe it was just the part of him that had always wanted someone to beg him to stay, even if it hurt. Daryl didn’t answer.

That day, he didn’t run and that was an answer enough. He just stared down at the man who’d broken him, the man who claimed to love him, and let the choice hang there, heavy as the world itself. And Rick Grimes, the cop, he fucking knelt, a mess of guilt and longing, praying for mercy he knew he didn’t deserve.

***

Daryl stood there, jaw working, arms crossed tight across his chest like he was trying to hold himself together, eyes fixed on the faded floorboards as if he could burn a hole straight through to the world below. The silence between them was raw—more brutal, somehow, than anything that’d passed the night before. He didn’t look at Rick, wouldn’t—not yet. He cleared his throat, voice coming out low, gruff, but steady. “I ain’t leavin’. Not ‘cause you begged, not ‘cause you cried, not ‘cause I give a damn about your guilt. I’m stayin’ ‘cause—hell, I got nowhere else. Ain’t got nobody. Ain’t got nothin’. So don’t go thinkin’ you won me back.”

Rick just stood, blinking back the last of his tears, face blotched and red, voice small in his own house. “I—Daryl, you ain’t gotta explain. You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. S’only fair.” He wiped at his eyes, trying for a smile, but it broke halfway and he dropped his gaze, shoulders folding in on themselves. “You need space, you take it. If you need time—I’ll give you all you want. I swear it, Daryl. I swear on my life.”

But Daryl just shook his head, mouth set stubborn. “We’re back at start, you get me? All that other shit—touchin’, kissin’, you talkin’ like I belong to you—it’s done, for now. If I stay, I do it on my terms. You don’t get to lay a finger on me ‘less I ask for it, not even a goddamn hug. You don’t get to decide who I talk to or what job I take. I got a right to make a life that ain’t just tied to you.” He stared at the cop now, finally—full force, grey eyes cold as January asphalt. “I find my own work. You try to meddle, you try to chase me down again—I’m gone for good and forever. Understand?”

Rick’s mouth twitched, the jealousy and fear burning behind his eyes, but he nodded, slow and heavy. “You want to work, you work. You don’t want me to touch you, I won’t. I promise, Daryl. Hell, I want you to trust me again more than I want anything else.” Yet Daryl just looked tired, older than usual, every line on his face carved deep by years of bad luck and worse love. “Ain’t about trust, Rick, not right now. S’about me gettin’ my head straight. If there’s anything left to build between us, we start over. Like two strangers. Got it?”

The cop let out a shaky breath, fists curling at his sides. “Got it. I’ll… I’ll keep to the couch. Take care of Dog, if you want the company. I’ll leave you be. Just—don’t leave without tellin’ me, alright? Don’t make me wonder if you’re safe.” Daryl didn’t answer right away—just turned away, shoulders slumping, heading down the hall toward the bedroom. Before he closed the door, he looked back, voice soft and almost kind, if you squinted. “Don’t go makin’ promises you can’t keep, Rick Grimes. We’ll see if either of us is any good at startin’ over.”

The door clicked shut, the sound final as a tomb. Rick stood in the half-dark kitchen, chest hollow, hope flickering at the edges, knowing he’d lost more than just a lover—he’d lost the only chance he’d ever had at being forgiven by someone as wild and wounded as himself.

He shuffled to the couch, sitting down hard, listening to the house settle, listening to Daryl move around behind the thin wall. He wanted to believe this was a beginning. But all it felt like was another kind of penance while Daryl, alone in the bedroom, stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, Dog curled warm at his feet, and promised himself this time, nobody would break him all the way through.

***

The couch had never felt so cold, not even back in those empty years after Lori left, not even the nights he slept half-clothed and alone, bruised from chasing drunks down alleys or bleeding out over another divorce paper. Rick sat there, shoulders hunched, hands buried in his lap, staring at the dark television screen, and every single goddamn second dragged like a prison sentence.

He could hear Daryl moving behind the thin wall—drawers opening, the bed creaking, Dog’s claws tapping on the boards. Every sound shot through him, raw and electric, and his mind circled back to the night before, over and over, the taste of Daryl’s skin, the way his fists clenched in Rick’s shirt, the shock and the shame and the way he’d come apart, breaking right there in Rick’s arms. He replayed it, frame by frame, and every time he saw Daryl’s eyes—wide, wild, bright with pain—he flinched, wishing he could take it all back, wishing he could be the man Daryl deserved instead of the man he’d turned into. That voice, low and cracked, 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘦. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺… It rang in his head, wouldn’t fade.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, breathing hard, fighting the urge to just walk down that hall and throw himself at Daryl’s feet again, beg for another chance, swear he’d never lose control, never let his hunger eat them both alive. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He’d seen the way Daryl looked at him now—like he was a stranger, like all that trust they’d built was just another lie waiting to break. Christ, Rick. What’d you do? What the fuck have you done? He wanted to believe it was the drink, the jealousy and that Spencer jerk, the fear. But it wasn’t, not really. The truth was uglier, older—he was a man who couldn’t bear to lose what he loved, a man who’d twist love into chains and call it mercy. He remembered what he said—𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯…… The words made his throat close up, made his gut twist, made him want to claw the skin off his bones.

But even with the shame—maybe because of the shame—he couldn’t stop wanting. Couldn’t stop seeing Daryl’s face in every shadow, every memory, every damn thing that used to make this apartment feel like home. He missed the way Daryl’s dark hair fell in his eyes, the awkward way he grunted a thanks when Rick made coffee, the way his body trembled—sometimes with fear, sometimes with want—whenever he got too close. 𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘐 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘱. 𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘶𝘱. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘯𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘱. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬. He tried to remember the last time Daryl had smiled—really smiled, not just that half-shy twitch when Dog did something stupid or Rick told a story about a funny case at work. It felt like a lifetime ago, back before Rick started laying claim to things he had no right to own while in reality they have been living together only for a few weeks.

The night pressed in, heavy as a confession. He thought about getting drunk—just pouring the whole bottle down his throat, washing the guilt away in heat and fire and sleep. But he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t let Daryl see him like that again. Not after last time. He was already holding on by a thread. He turned on his side, staring at the empty wall, blanket twisted around his hips, heart thumping like a wound. He wanted to believe Daryl would stay, that time would fix what he broke, that if he just kept his hands to himself, if he just waited, maybe they could start again. Maybe his wild beauty would let him hold him, love him, be gentle for once. Maybe he could prove he was worthy of trust. But the hope tasted sour in his mouth, thick and bitter as old blood.

He pressed his face into the pillow, biting down hard to keep from making a sound, and let the ache of losing Daryl Dixon burn right through him—hot and sharp and endless. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

He stayed awake long after the city went quiet, watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling, listening for the smallest sign that Daryl was still there—still breathing, still safe, still his, if only for tonight. And when he finally slept, it was with his name on Rick’s lips, a prayer and a curse all tangled together: 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘰. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘭, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰.

***

The light in the bedroom was grey and mean, crawling through the blinds and falling in stripes across the mess—blankets tangled, pillow punched half-off the bed, Rick’s shirt half folded on the chair. Daryl was sitting on the edge of the mattress, old sweatpants cinched tight, a battered phone in one hand and a wrinkled notepad in the other, scrawled with numbers he’d torn from the classifieds. The pain between his legs still throbbed—a raw ache that made him flinch every time he shifted, but he ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. No more sittin’ around. No more waiting for somebody else to fix it. If Rick wants to play jailor, let him—ain’t nobody keepin’ me stuck nowhere I don’t wanna be.

He started at the top, voice low and uncertain as he dialed, thumb tapping out the numbers. "Morning, I’m callin’ about the ad… yeah, Dixon… never done warehouse work but I’m a quick learner… uh-huh, right, thank you anyway." Next number. Same script. Half the places didn’t answer, the rest hung up quick when he admitted he didn’t have a diploma, no truck, no resume, no references but the calluses on his hands.

By the third call, his voice went flat, patience thinning, teeth grinding as another woman told him they were only hiring folks with “real experience.” He wanted to throw the phone, punch a hole in the wall, but he just kept dialing, jaw set stubborn as the big brother who raised him. 𝘈𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯’ 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘺. 𝘐 𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘵𝘰𝘺. 𝘈𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺.

On the sixth number, he almost gave up. The line buzzed, ringing twice, and then a man answered—light, easy voice, maybe a bit too friendly for this hour. “Hey, Paul speaking. What can I do for you?” Daryl cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. “Uh, yeah, this is Dixon, callin’ about the welder ad in the paper. Said you were lookin’ for help.”

“Oh—Daryl, right? I just got your text. Look, I’ll be honest, I’m just opening the shop. Don’t care much about resumes. You ever worked in metal before?”
Daryl hesitated, truth catching in his throat. “Not really. Fixed bikes, fences, couple car engines back home. Got good hands, learn quick if you show me.”

The guy laughed—warm, not mocking. “That’s half the battle. You got a car, or can you get to Grant Street?”

“Yeah, I can get there,” Daryl lied, already planning the bus route in his head. “Don’t need much—just a chance.” The man hummed, like he was weighing something. “Tell you what, I got time Thursday, say, two in the afternoon? Come by, see the place. We’ll talk, see if it’s a fit. I can teach the right guy.”

Something loosened in Daryl’s chest, just a bit of relief. “Alright. I’ll be there. Dixon—Daryl Dixon.”

“Nice to meet you, Daryl. Bring a jacket since place is cold as hell this week.”

The line clicked dead after they said 𝘉𝘺𝘦, and Daryl stared at the phone for a long moment, numb with something that felt like hope and fear tangled up together. He wrote the address down, circling the time, and let himself breathe.

𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, 𝘋𝘪𝘹𝘰𝘯. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴—𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯’ 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯’ 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘴. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

He sat there a minute longer, letting the relief fade and the nerves creep back in. Then he tucked the phone under the pillow, grabbed his old boots from the corner, and started getting ready—one more day, one more shot at being more than just the man somebody else tried to save.