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still alive? - rick grimes

pairing : rick grimes x reader

warnings : angst, swearing, SLIGHT SPOILERS FOR SEASON 9 AND TWD : TWL ( i changed some stuff lmao) !!!!! mentions of smut, some spicy scenes but no smut this time folks (apologies), reader is basically living Michonne's life you think abt it (but with a slight twist) basically pure sap

word count : 8k

summary : Rick and you got married in the middle of an apocalypse- a unconventional scenario, but Rick didn't care. You were his great love after Lori. When a strenuous situation forces him to blow up a bridge with him on it- everyone believes he is dead. For years you live with that truth. But what happens when you find out he isnt ?

a/n : I've been CRAVING a rick and daryl reunion (amc give them back to me) so this is basically this mixed in with x reader ( also this lowk sucks....)

Your husband is dead.

That is the truth you lived with every morning when you open your eyes and blindly reach over to his side of the bed, expecting to find him curled around you, and every night when you closed your eyes and buried your face into the jacket he had left behind, his smell fading with every sleep.

No one warned you it would be so hard. That having to live with the constant reminder that your husband had blown up infront of you would have lasting impacts. That you would be left to raise Judith and Asher- your son whom Rick had never gotten to know- on your own. Well, not entirely on your own. You had Daryl- when he was around- and Michonne, who loved those kids like her own, and not to mention everyone else in Alexandria.

it really does take a village.

Your brother- Aaron- was also helpful. He would take Judith whenever it would get too overwhelming, and he never got uncomfortable when you cried, unlike Daryl who would tense up beside you and apologize for not being able to find Rick's body.

That's another thing that never sat right. His body.

Daryl was out there, day in and day out. For six whole years, searching for his best-friend. And he found nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Not even a boot, or his gun. Surely, if he had been blown to bits, you would've found pieces of him.. right ? That thought lives in the back of your mind like a splinter you can’t dig out.

You saw the bridge go up.

You felt the heat on your face.

You heard yourself scream.

But you never saw him die.

There’s a difference.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Fire like that doesn’t leave survivors. Not in this world. Not after everything you’ve already lost. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets people killed.

Still.

Every time the gates creak open, your heart stutters. Every time a distant engine hums on the road beyond Alexandria, you freeze. Every time Daryl comes back from one of his long, silent trips, you search his face before he even dismounts. He always shakes his head.

Six years.

Judith barely remembers the sound of her father’s voice. Sometimes she’ll sit on the porch steps and ask you what he was like before the world fell apart. You tell her he was brave. That he tried. That he loved harder than anyone you’ve ever known.

Asher doesn’t ask. Asher just watches. He has Rick’s eyes. The same sharp blue that misses nothing. The same crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. Sometimes he stands with his hands on his hips when he’s frustrated, and it steals the breath from your lungs. Rick never held him. Never counted his fingers. Never felt the weight of him on his chest in the middle of the night. You remember the day you told Rick you were pregnant. The way his entire face softened, like the world hadn’t ended after all. The way he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered,

“We’ll make it. For him.” For him. You press your palm to Asher’s head sometimes when he sleeps, just to ground yourself in the proof that something good survived. But at night, when the house is quiet and the grief creeps in, your mind drifts back to that bridge.

To the way the river swallowed everything.

To the way there was no body.

You try to picture it logically. The explosion. The fall. The current. Maybe he sank. Maybe he was carried miles away. Maybe—Maybe.

You hate that word.

It's late when Eugene bursts through the door. You're sitting on the couch with Judith and Asher, both children curled up in your side as you read them a book, their soft giggles wafting up into the room.

"And, i'll huff, and i'll puff, and i'll-"

Three hard knocks on your door cut you off the, sounds rough and harsh. Judith jerks against you, looking towards the door.

"Mom ? What was that ?" She says, shifting towards her sword. You stop her, grabbing her arm.

"I'm sure it's nothing, baby." You say as you get to your feet, gulping. You move towards the door cautiously when the pounding starts again.

"Please, open the door ! This is a matter of utmost importance and it requires your immediate consultation, Miss Grimes !" You frown, and finally tear open the door.

"Eugene ?" The tall man stands there, his face blotchy and red, his little brain trialing down his back and his shirt clinging to his chest with sweat. The cool night air wafts in through the door, and Eugene half-heartedly waves as Judith and Asher- who are peeking their heads around the corner. "What is it ?" He clasps his hands together, fidgeting.

"I was in the radio room, as one is, trying to fine tune the satellite parts to increase our range and I seem to have haphazardly stumbled into an unknown frequency with which i was able to briefly converse-"

"Cut to the chase, Eugene." You snap, shaking your head. Eugene freezes and he looks down.

"It was Rick." He murmurs, and you squint, unable to hear him.

"What ?"

"It was Rick." He says louder, his eyes staying lodged to the ground.

The world tilts.

It doesn’t spin. It doesn’t crash.

It just… tilts.

Your ears ring, high and sharp, like the moment after the bridge exploded. Like your body is bracing for impact.

“That’s not funny.” Your voice comes out wrong. Too calm. Too thin. Eugene’s eyes snap up, wide and almost offended.

“I would never fabricate such a claim, especially not one of this emotional magnitude.” Behind you, Judith has gone very still. Asher steps closer to your leg. You swallow.

“What did he say?” Eugene drags a shaky breath through his nose.

“The signal was weak. Intermittent. But the voice pattern, cadence, Southern inflection— ninety-three percent probability match.”

“Eugene.” He flinches.

“He said…” Eugene hesitates, like the words themselves are fragile. “He said, ‘This is Rick Grimes. If anyone from Alexandria can hear me… respond.’” Your knees nearly give out. Judith makes a small sound.

“Mom?” You can’t look at her. You can’t look at either of them. Because if this isn’t real— if this is some cruel trick of static and grief and desperate men listening too hard for ghosts— you won’t survive watching their faces fall.

“You’re sure?” you whisper.

“As sure as one can be without a visual confirmation,” Eugene says carefully. “The transmission cut out shortly thereafter. However, I am attempting to reestablish contact as we speak.”Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

Six years.

Six years of burying him in your mind. Six years of telling your children he died a hero. Six years of waking up alone and forcing yourself not to hope.

You take a step back, bracing your hand against the wall.

“You could be mistaken,” you say, but you’re not talking to Eugene. You’re talking to yourself. “It could be someone else.” You close your eyes. You remember Rick standing in the doorway of this very house, hat tipped back, exhaustion in his eyes but fire in his spine. You remember the way he’d say the name of this place like it was sacred.

Alexandria.

Home.

You open your eyes and look at Eugene.

“Take me to the radio room.”

------

The walk feels endless.

Every step is heavier than the last. The night air is cool, but your skin burns. Daryl appears out of nowhere halfway down the street, like he sensed the shift in the air.

“What’s goin’ on?” he demands. You don’t slow down.

“Eugene made contact.” Daryl goes rigid.

“With who?” His voice is already breaking. You don’t trust yourself to say it. Eugene answers for you.

“Rick Grimes.” The name hangs there. Daryl’s breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, like he’s been punched. Inside the radio room, everything smells like dust and metal and old hope. Daryl is trailing behind you, watching you carefully, as if he's ready to step in the second you break down. Eugene rushes to his equipment, hands flying over switches and dials.

“I’ve kept the frequency isolated to avoid external interception,” he mutters. “We shall attempt a broad call.” He gestures to the microphone. You stare at it. For six years, you’ve spoken to Rick in your head. In the quiet. In the dark. In the space beside you in bed. But this?

This is different.

Your hands are shaking when you reach for it. You press the button. Static crackles, loud and overwhelming. You force your voice to work.

“This is the Alexandria safe zone,” you say, voice shaking despite your effort to steady it. “Rick, if you can hear me, respond.”

Nothing.

Just the low hiss of an unstable frequency. Eugene twists a dial.

“Signal degradation is significant. We appear to be receiving but not transmitting at an equivalent strength.”

“What does that mean?” Daryl demands.

“It means,” Eugene swallows, “he may not be able to hear us.” Your stomach drops.

Then— A crackle. A breath. And his voice. Faint. Distorted. But his.

“…—don’t know if this thing’s workin’…” The world stops. You reach behind you, and Daryl immediately takes your hand, squeezing it softly. “…If anyone from Alexandria can hear me…” Static cuts through, sharp and violent. The sound warps, then clears just enough. “…been moved. North. They call it a relocation initiative.” Your pulse pounds in your ears. Daryl’s hand tightens around you. Rick’s voice comes through again, strained, like he’s speaking low so no one else hears him. “…tried before. Didn’t make it far. They’re stronger than I thought.” The signal wavers. “…If you’re still there… if you’re still alive…” Your knees nearly buckle. He exhales — shaky, exhausted. “…Seattle.” The word hits like a gunshot. Static surges, swallowing the rest.

“Rick!” you shout into the mic. “Rick, we can hear you! We’re here!” But your voice disappears into nothing. More crackling.

Then, faintly—

“…don’t come lookin’… it ain’t safe…” The line screeches. Silence. Dead air.

"No." You gasp. You scramble forward, and Daryl slings his arm around your waist, pulling you backwards as Eugene runs forward. Eugene frantically adjusts knobs.

“Attempting reacquisition— hold, hold—”

"No,no ! Please, he could still be there ! Just let me- Let me talk to him !" You shout.

“Ma’am, I assure you I am exerting maximum technical proficiency—”

“Eugene!” Your voice cracks on his name.

Static hisses. Then nothing. Just empty, merciless silence.

Daryl’s arm tightens around your waist as your legs threaten to give out. “Hey,” he mutters, rough and low near your ear. “Easy.”

Easy.

There is nothing easy about hearing your dead husband’s voice after six years and losing it again in the span of thirty seconds.

Eugene flips another switch, sweat beading at his temple. “The signal has either terminated or moved beyond our current reception range. I am attempting a frequency sweep—” The radio bursts suddenly with a violent shriek of feedback. All three of you freeze. Then—

“…—attle…” It’s barely there. Torn apart by interference. You lunge for the mic again.

“Rick! We’re here! It’s me— it’s—” Daryl winces as the sound fractures into static again. Rick’s voice pushes through one last time, thin and strained, like he’s fighting the air itself.

“…for years…” crackle “…tried to get back…” hiss “…if you can hear this—” The line warps. “…I didn’t stop.” Your breath leaves you in a broken sound. “I didn’t stop.” The words echo in the tiny room.Then— Dead silence. Eugene slowly lowers his hands from the controls.

“It’s gone,” he says quietly. The finality in his voice slices deeper than the static ever could. You stare at the radio like it might breathe again. Like it might crackle back to life and say it was all a mistake.

Nothing.

Just the empty hum of a lost signal. You stare at the speaker like it might breathe again.

He’s alive.

Daryl exhales like something inside him just broke and healed at the same time.

“He’s alive,” he says roughly, almost to himself. And then he turns to you. "Sweetheart, he's alive." You nod, and break down, launching yourself into his arms. His arms lock around you like if he lets go, you’ll shatter. Years of grief pours out of you in violent waves. Years of waking up alone. Years of telling Judith bedtime stories about a father who wasn’t coming home. Years of pressing your hand to Asher’s chest just to remind yourself something of Rick still existed in the world. And he’s been out there. Trying to get back. Your knees finally give, and Daryl lowers you with him, both of you hitting the floor hard. You clutch at his vest like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. Across the room, Eugene quietly turns off the equipment, giving you space. Even he has tears shining behind his glasses. Daryl clears his throat.

“He’s somewhere in Seattle,” he says. “That’s what he said.”

“Seattle’s far,” You whisper. Yeah. It is. You stand slowly, pulling both of them with you, and look back at the silent radio. Six years ago, you watched your husband disappear in fire. Tonight, you heard him fight through static. You press your palm flat against the table, steadying yourself.

“He told us not to come looking,” Daryl says carefully. You let out a shaky laugh, something fierce flickering beneath the grief.

“He always tells me that.” Daryl studies you. He knows that look. He’s seen it before — on Rick. The stubborn one. The I’ll-burn-the-world-down-for-my-family one.

“What’re you thinkin’?” he asks. You look at Daryl.

“I’m thinking,” you say, voice still fragile but no longer breaking, “that for six years I learned how to live without him.” Your gaze drifts back to the radio. “But I never learned how to stop loving him.” Silence fills the room.

“He’s alive,” you say again, softer now — like you’re testing the words. “And if he’s alive… then I have to bring him home.”Daryl’s jaw tightens. Not in protest. In resolve.

“You’re gonna go,” he says. It’s not a question. You nod.

“Yes.” Seattle is across the country. Seattle is dangerous. Seattle is impossible. But so was surviving six years without him. "And I need you to stay here." You say. Daryl's shoulders tense.

"No. No way-"

"Daryl." You say. "The whisperers are still a threat- and I can't leave Judith and Asher with Aaron if he already has Gracie to take care of. It would be too much." You sniffle, shaking your head. "You're my best-friend, Daryl. You're their uncle. I wouldn't trust anyone else with this." Daryl stares at you like you’ve just shot him.

“No,” he says again, firmer this time. “Ain’t happenin’. I ain’t lettin’ you cross half the damn country alone.”

“You think I want to?” Your voice wavers, but you don’t back down. “You think I want to walk into whatever took him without you at my side?” He doesn’t answer. Because he knows the truth. You step closer.

“The Whisperers are still out there,” you press. “You know that. If something happens here while I’m gone— if Judith or Asher—” Your voice cracks. Daryl’s jaw clenches so tight it trembles.

“You’re the best fighter we’ve got,” you whisper. “And with Michonne gone with Vergil, I have no other option. Daryl, they trust you. Judith listens to you. Asher watches you like you hung the moon. If I take you with me, I leave them exposed.” He looks away, shaking his head.

“This ain’t fair.”

“No,” you agree softly. “It’s not.” For six years, Daryl searched rivers and forests and abandoned highways for a ghost. He carried that guilt like a second skin. You know what this is costing him. But you also know what it will cost if you don’t go.

“He told us not to come looking,” Daryl mutters. You give a broken half-smile.

“He also told me to stay behind when the Saviors attacked.” A breath leaves him, almost a reluctant huff.

“Never did listen.”

“Not when it comes to him.” Silence stretches between you. Eugene clears his throat awkwardly from across the room.

“If I may interject, a journey to Seattle would require considerable logistical planning. Supply caches, mapped routes, potential alliances—”

“I’ll go alone.” you cut in. “Light. Fast.” Daryl’s head snaps back toward you. You step forward and grab Daryl’s hands, forcing him to look at you.

“I need you here,” you say, and this time your voice is steady. “If something goes wrong out there… if I don’t make it back…” His fingers tighten painfully around yours.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“You have to promise me,” you push through. “You protect them. You tell Asher about his dad. You make sure Judith remembers every story.” His eyes shine, furious and wet all at once.

“You ain’t dyin’,” he says roughly.

“Neither is he,” you answer. That hangs in the air. For six years, you thought the story ended on a bridge in flames.

But it didn’t.

It stretched across states. Across silence. Across static.

Seattle.

-----

It was a painful goodbye. Asher clung to your leg as you made sure all your guns were loaded and daggers and knives Michonne had left for you were all safely tucked away, as Judith watched silently from the doorway. Without a word, she walked over to you and gave you her hat- Carl's hat, that was Rick's before him- and your heart gave a tortured squeeze at the thought of being able to bring Carl on this trip with you.

Sweet, kind, Carl.

You kisses her head and hugged Asher, before turning away from Alexandria all together, Daryl standing behind them.

They'll be safe, You told yourself.

At first, you managed to find a car and drive most of the way, but you ran out of fuel and had to go looking. You got caught between a group of fifteen walkers in the gas-station as you were looting for food, and ended up dropping your gas contained on the floor as you made a run for it.

The sound of the gas can hitting the tile floor still echoes in your ears.

Clang.

Then the wet, horrible slosh of fuel spilling out behind you as you sprint for the exit, boots slipping on cracked tile and old blood as you hold onto Carl's hat/

“Shit—” you gasp, shoving through the shattered glass door just as the first walker slams against it from inside the station. Their hands claw through the broken frame. You don’t stop running until your lungs burn like they’re filled with smoke.

Fifteen walkers. Too much to fight your way through alone.

You lost the gas.

You lost the car.

But you didn’t lose yourself.

Yet.

You press your back against the side of the building, chest heaving, heart pounding so violently you can feel it in your throat. Six years of survival taught you something important. Panic gets you killed. You force yourself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Rick used to do this with you. Hands on your shoulders. Slow voice. Calm and steady like he was grounding you to the earth itself.

“You’re still here,” he would say. You close your eyes.

“I’m still here,” you whisper now. You move fast after that. Find another vehicle. Older model truck. Half-burned interior. But it starts on the second try when you hotwire it — something Rick had taught you years ago in case of emergencies. You almost smile at that.

Almost.

The road stretches endlessly north and west. Town names blur together on broken highway signs. You sleep in the truck for short stretches. Never long. Always with your gun resting across your chest. You don’t dream of walkers. You dream of fire. And of Rick’s voice, broken through static:

I didn’t stop.

------

Three weeks into the journey, your contact of the walkie Eugene gave you to speak to your kids has come to a quiet halt. You've gone out of range.

You hit what used to be a military-controlled zone. Or maybe still is. You don’t know until the first warning shot hits the dirt beside your boot when you step out of the truck.

“Stay where you are!” a voice shouts. You freeze. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands.

“I’m not armed!” you shout back, even though you very much are. “I’m looking for information!” Silence. Then footsteps. Three armed guards emerge from behind abandoned shipping containers. Military-grade gear. One of the guards tilts their head.

“You’re far from home.”

“I’m looking for Seattle.” That gets a reaction. Not visible fear. Not aggression. Recognition.

“You shouldn’t be here,” one of them says quietly. Your stomach tightens. “You’re heading toward the Containment Research Military zone,” one of the guards says, voice low like he’s not sure he should even be saying it out loud. “We just call it the CRM now.” Your stomach tightens. “You don’t go in there unless you have clearance,” another adds. “And even then… people don’t always come back out."

You think about Rick’s voice through static.

“What are they doing there?” you ask. The first guard exhales slowly.

“That depends on who you ask.” He shifts his rifle against his shoulder. “They started as a government survival coalition. Organized cities. Controlled supply chains. Protected large populations.”

“That sounds… good,” you say cautiously. He doesn’t smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “It did. At first.” Silence stretches between you. Then he continues. “Then the disappearances started.” Your blood runs cold. “People who caused problems disappeared,” he explains. “People who resisted authority. People who had skills they wanted. Doctors. Engineers. Survivors who knew how to lead groups.” Your pulse thunders in your ears.

“They call it relocation,” he says. “But nobody outside ever sees where relocated means.” You swallow hard.

“People who go in,” the second guard says quietly, “become assets. Workers. Test subjects. Soldiers, sometimes.” Your stomach turns violently.

“You don’t leave once you’re inside,” the first guard continues. “Not unless they decide you’re useful enough to send somewhere else.”

“Or,” the second guard adds, voice even lower, “unless you’re too dangerous to keep.” The words settle over you like a weight. Rick said they were stronger than he thought. Not stronger than walkers. Stronger than people. You think about how he sounded. Tired. Older. Like someone who had been surviving instead of living.

“What does Seattle have to do with it?” you ask. The first guard hesitates.

“That’s one of their main operational zones now. High population density. Controlled infrastructure. Easier to monitor and contain large groups of survivors.” Your jaw tightens.

“They don’t call it a city anymore,” he says.

“What do they call it?”

“Expansion territory.” Your chest feels tight. Like you can already feel the distance between you and Rick stretching again.

“How do people survive there?” you ask. The guard studies you for a long moment.

“They don’t survive,” he says. “They adapt. Or they disappear.” You nod once. Then you reach into your bag slowly and pull out a ration pack, offering it to them as thanks. They don’t take it immediately.

“Lady,” one of them says quietly, almost respectfully. “You sure you want to go in there alone?” You think of Judith wearing Carl’s hat. Asher sleeping with Rick’s old jacket clutched to his chest. Daryl standing in the doorway, pretending he wasn’t crying when you left. And Rick’s voice.

I didn’t stop.

You straighten your spine.

“Yes.”

-------

You manage to get into Atlanta unscathed- scaling over a wall after covering your truck with foliage to keep it hidden. You move like you were born for this world. Quiet. Efficient. Invisible. The wall around Seattle’s outer perimeter is taller than anything you’ve climbed since the world ended — reinforced concrete, topped with barbed wire and sensor cables that hum faintly in the night air. You study it for a full five minutes before moving. Watch the patrol lights sweep left. Count the seconds between rotations. Three minutes and twelve seconds. Enough time. You sling your bag tighter across your shoulder and move. You don’t rush. You never rush in enemy territory. Rick taught you that. Slow is alive. Fast is dead. You find the drainage pipe first — old infrastructure they never fully replaced. Rusted metal, narrow enough that you have to pull your shoulders in tight to squeeze through. You climb.

Hands burning against rough metal. Boots scraping softly. You pause halfway up when a patrol drone hums closer overhead, its red scanning light sweeping the alley below. You hold completely still. Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Don’t think.

The sound that follows f is a low, rising whine.Then— Alarm sirens. Not walkers. Not random chaos. Systemized. Mechanical. Military. Your blood goes cold. Red lights begin flashing across the skyline, bathing the streets in pulsing emergency glow. You freeze on the rooftop. Then, over the citywide speakers, a voice cuts through the night.

“Attention. Consignee Grimes has escaped.” Your heart stops. The words echo across the buildings like thunder. “All units, secure perimeter. Repeat — Consignee Grimes has escaped.” Your stomach drops violently.

Grimes.

You don’t move at first. You can’t. Because Consignee is not a prisoner name. It’s not a soldier name. It’s a number name. A possession name. Your hands start shaking. Then you’re moving before you even consciously decide to. You slide down fire escapes, jump rooftops, and cut through alleyways toward where the soldiers are converging — toward the outer wall you just crossed. Boots pound pavement somewhere ahead of you. Voices shouting orders. You slow your breathing.

In.

Out.

You follow them. Three CRM soldiers rush down a narrow street, weapons raised, helmets reflecting red emergency light. You keep to the shadows. They’re talking.

“He was scheduled for processing tomorrow—”

“Doesn’t matter. Command wants him alive.” Alive. Your chest tightens painfully. They round a corner near the outer wall — the same section of perimeter you entered through. You see him then. And your world tilts.

Rick is there. Tied with zipties.

One soldier has him pressed against the concrete wall, arm twisted behind his back. Rick is breathing hard, chest rising and falling fast, hair longer, beard thicker, face gaunter than you remember — but his eyes are still burning with that same stubborn fire. He’s still fighting. Even now. Even with three soldiers surrounding him.

“Stop resisting,” one of them snaps. Rick doesn’t answer. Just tries to shift his weight to throw the man off balance. Your vision blurs violently.

You move, without thinking.

Fast.

Silent.

The first soldier never hears you coming. You take him down with a chokehold, twisting sharply until he collapses unconscious against the wall. The second turns too late. Knife out. Quick slash across the inside of his wrist where armor doesn’t protect him. He drops his weapon with a shout of pain. Rick goes still when he realizes someone is fighting beside him. But he can’t see your face yet. The third soldier raises his rifle. You kick it sideways before he can fire. Then slam him into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him before driving your elbow into his throat. Not enough to kill. Just enough to disable. You hear the snap of zipties coming apart. The officer collapses, gasping. Silence falls except for the alarm sirens and your own ragged breathing. You shove your boot in his face and he falls unconscious. You stumble backwards, chest heaving.

"Baby ?" Your heart falls out of your chest. You had almost forgotten that he was there, and his voice almost sends you flying towards the floor, relief crashing through you adrenaline filled body. You turn towards him.

Rick is slumped against the wall, clutching his ribs, a confused and pained look on his face. He has a new scar on his nose- likely from a break- and his hair and beard and more tattered with gray than you remember. But it's him.

"Rick." You sigh in relief. You barely have time to think, to move, before he's on you. His arms come crashing around you in a bone breaking- embrace, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, his hands roaming the small of your back and your waist before finding purchase on your ass as you're backed up into a wall. He's shaking, his hands trembling, his breath ragged against your ear. You don't hesitate and wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him in as you reach up on your tiptoes. "You're alive." You manage, throat tight. You hate to admit it, but you had had your doubts. Even after hearing him on that radio- your heart still pulled towards the comfortable truth that you had settled for, and seeing him here, alive and in your arms, wipes out any and all cushiony lie you had built for yourself. There's nothing but the empty- the constant fall into the pit of truth. Rick pulls away from you slightly, his hands drifting up to tangle themselves in your hair as his eyes drink you in.

Rick can't stop his hands from shaking. God, the feeling of your skin beneath his palms is a heavenly feeling, and he has to blink hard to shake the dirty thoughts out of his mind as his thumb drags along your cheek, remembering all the lonely nights he spent- just him and his fist- trying to mimick the softness of your palms around him, but only being met with the harsh callouses on his own.

He missed you. Jesus, he missed you so much. His eyes drift down, searching your stomach, still halfway believing he'll find the baby bump there- as if he hadn't been gone for as long as he knows he was. His lips part as he tries to say something - anything - but he can't find the words. He catches a tear as it falls out of your eye, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"God, I love you." He manages through his pants, his eyes scanning your face. He's waited years to be able to say that to your face, yet the words seem insignificant and unworthy now as he stares at you.

And then he finally seems to notice the hat on your head, and he swears his knees could give out. His hat- that he had given to Carl and that Carl had given to Judith- sits on the top of your head.

That means Judith is alive, he reminds himself, nodding slowly.

His hand lifts — almost reverent — and his fingers brush the brim of the hat like he’s afraid it might vanish if he touches it too firmly. Sirens flare louder in the distance, reminding both of you that this moment is stolen. Rick straightens slightly, instinct and urgency seeping back into his posture. But his thumb keeps moving against your cheek, like he still needs the contact.

"We have to go." He gasps, looking over his shoulder. "They're going to be on us any second." He mutters. You grab his hand.

"I have a truck- stashed just behind the wall." You say, and he smirks at you.

"Of course you do." You spin in his grip, and his hands land on your waist, helping hoist you up. He presses his hands into your ass as you scale the wall, and he laughs to himself at how normal this feels- like he's helping you get above the the wall back at Alexandria before Negan and everything went wrong. You jump over the wall and he follows suit, landing feet first in the dirt. You jog over to the truck and rip the foliage off, before going to jump in the driver's seat when he beats you to it. You roll your eyes and jog around to the passenger seat, before Rick reverses the car with a screech and you go barreling down the road, leaving Seattle in your rear-view mirror.

----

The ride back to Alexandria is long - but shorter than you'd like it to be. You have so many questions bubbling in your chest, like- How did that blast not kill you ? and, Why the hell did you not come back sooner ?

But all those thoughs go quiet the second his hand reaches over and finds your thigh, hand rough yet gentle as he palms it softly. Tears prick at your eyes as you look down at it, your chest going tight.

His hand.

Solid. Warm. Real.

For six years that seat beside you had been empty. For six years you drove alone. Now his thumb moves slowly against your thigh, like he’s grounding himself the same way you are. Rick keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight, but his fingers curl slightly — testing, reassuring. The truck barrels down the dark highway, trees blurring past, Seattle’s glow shrinking in the rearview mirror. The further you get, the more the silence inside the cab shifts.

Not awkward.

Heavy.

Full.

You finally look at him properly. He’s thinner. The lines around his eyes deeper. There’s a scar along his jaw you don’t recognize. His knuckles are split and healing wrong. He looks like someone who’s survived too many things alone.

“How?” you ask quietly. He knows what you mean.

“The bridge,” he says, exhaling slowly. “Blast threw me clear. Knocked me out. When I woke up… they were there.”

“CRM.” He nods once.

“They said they were savin’ me. Said the world needed rebuilding.” His jaw tightens. “What they meant was control.” Your stomach twists.

“Why didn’t you come back?” The question slips out softer than you intended. Not accusation. Just ache. Rick’s grip on your thigh tightens slightly.

“I tried,” he says immediately. “God, I tried. First year I fought every chance I got. Escaped twice.” He shakes his head. “They got helicopters. Scouts. Infrastructure. Every time I got close to a perimeter, they’d drag me back.” His voice lowers. “After a while… they stop treatin’ you like a man. You become an asset. A number. A consignee.” Your throat closes. “I never stopped lookin’ for a way out,” he continues. “But I stopped riskin’ it when I realized somethin’.”

“What?”

“If I died tryin’ to escape reckless… I’d never see you again.” Your breath stutters. “So I waited,” he says. “Watched. Learned their routes. Learned their systems. Waited for the right crack.”

“The radio,” you whisper. He nods.

“Found a weak signal tower during a work rotation. Knew it wouldn’t last long. Didn’t even know if it’d reach Virginia.”

“It did.” His eyes flick to you briefly, softening.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.” Silence settles again — but this time it’s different. Not heavy with grief. Heavy with survival. With almost. With what could’ve been lost forever. Your hand slides over his, lacing your fingers through his without hesitation.

“You have a son, by the way. I called him Asher.” you say softly, like you’re still testing the miracle of it. Rick exhales through his nose, shaking his head faintly. His chest goes tight and he bites on the inside of his cheek, gulping.

“Yeah ?" He asks.

"Yeah." You nod. Rick blows out heavily.

"I thought-" he laughs at himself, shaking his head. "I thought maybe he had-" He can't bring himself to finish it. When he was married to Lori, he watched her go through many trials and tribulations before they were finally blessed with Carl. Including once- after her grandma died- where Lori lost their baby due to grief. In his mind, he had assumed the same had happened to you. In no way would he blame you for it- but he stopped hoping to see a child with your face and his eyes running around if he ever made it back.

“He’s gonna be shy at first,” you warn gently. “But once he decides he likes you, he won’t leave your side.” Rick’s mouth twitches.

“Sounds like his mama.” You roll your eyes, but your heart swells painfully.

“And Judith?” he asks, voice smaller now.

“She stepped up,” you say. “More than she should’ve had to. She carries you with her everywhere.” Rick swallows hard.

“I missed too much.”

“You’re here now.” The words hang between you.

-----

The gates of Alexandria rumble slightly as they open, the truck sitting idle on the road. Rick is chewing at his lip- a nervous habit you've analyzed and catalogued in your head more than once. He looks like he’s about to step into a firing line.

“Hey,” you murmur softly. He doesn’t look at you yet. His eyes are locked on the widening gap in the gates.

“What if they—” He swallows. “What if they’re better off without me?” Your heart cracks clean in half.

“Rick Grimes,” you say firmly. That gets his attention. His eyes flick to you, uncertain in a way you haven’t seen since the prison days. “They never stopped waiting,” you tell him. “Not one of them. They all love you so much.” You gulp. "I love you so much." The gates open fully. Inside, it’s early evening. A few people turn at the sound of the engine. Casual at first. Then someone freezes. You see it happen in a ripple.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Shock.

The truck rolls forward slowly. Rick’s breathing has gone shallow.

“Just drive,” you whisper gently. “Let them see you.” He nods stiffly and eases the truck through the entrance. A woman drops the basket she’s holding. A man stumbles backward like he’s seen a ghost.

And then— Judith. She’s standing near the steps of the house. She goes completely still. The hat is no longer on your head — it’s in your lap now — and when Rick sees her, time stops. She’s taller.

Older.

But it’s her.

His little girl.

Rick doesn’t realize he’s stopped the truck until the engine stalls. Judith’s face drains of color.

“Mom?” she calls softly, eyes never leaving the driver’s seat. Rick’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely open the door. You reach across him and kill the engine completely.

“Go,” you whisper. He steps out like the ground might reject him. Judith takes one hesitant step forward. Then another. Her voice breaks.

“Dad?” It’s small. Hopeful. Terrified of being wrong. Rick makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Not a sob. Not a laugh. Something in between. Something pulled from the deepest part of him. Judith's face breaks into a smile but then contorts into a sob.

"Dad !" She yells, and you can hear her little boots pounding on the ground as she runs to him. He kneels down to catch her and she collapses into his arms, the force of it making him tip forward- his hand braced on the back of her head to protect her from hitting.

A swarm of deja-vu hits your chest, and you gulp down the sobs threatening to bubble up as you remember how Rick had cradled Carl that day at the quarry. Judith is sobbing into his neck, fingers twisted tight into his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll evaporate if she loosens her grip.

“You were dead!” she cries. “You were— they said— I saw—”

“I know, baby, I know,” Rick chokes, his voice wrecked beyond repair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He presses his face into her hair and just breathes her in. Like he needs proof. Like he needs oxygen. His shoulders shake once. Twice. You’ve seen Rick cry before. Quietly. Privately. But this— This is different. This is a man breaking under the weight of getting something back he already buried. Judith pulls back just enough to grab his face in both hands. She’s studying him. The gray in his beard. The scar on his nose. The thinner frame.

“You’re real?” she whispers. Rick nods, tears spilling freely now.

“I’m real.” She punches his shoulder.

Hard.

“You left,” she sobs. His face crumples.

“I didn’t mean to.” And then she throws her arms around him again, burying herself against his chest. He lifts her this time — like she’s still small enough to carry — even though she’s grown. He staggers slightly with the weight and laughs through his tears.

“You got heavy,” he manages. Judith sniffles.

“You got old.” That pulls a broken laugh out of him. You finally step closer, unable to stay back any longer. Rick looks up at you over Judith’s shoulder, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you.

Wonder.

Gratitude.

Disbelief.

“She’s taller,” he says softly, like he’s still catching up to reality.

“She wouldn’t stop growing,” you murmur. Movement begins around you. Doors opening. Footsteps approaching. Whispers turning into gasps. But Rick doesn’t look away from Judith. His thumb brushes under her eye, wiping tears away the same way he used to when she was little.

“I thought about you every day,” he tells her. Judith’s lip trembles.

“I talked to you,” she admits. “When I was scared.” Rick closes his eyes briefly at that.

“I heard you,” he whispers. You don’t know if he believes that. But she does. And that’s enough. Judith finally shifts slightly in his arms, and that’s when Rick’s eyes lift past her shoulder. They land on the doorway. On a small boy standing half-hidden behind it.

Dark curls.

Wide blue eyes.

Watching.

Rick freezes.

His breath catches again — softer this time. Quieter. More fragile.

“Asher.” you say gently. "C'mere, baby." The boy moves towards you, crashing into your legs. He doesn't go any further, small fists curled in the fabric of your pants as you run your hands through his curls. He just stares at the man holding his sister. Rick slowly lowers Judith back to her feet but keeps one arm around her shoulders, like he’s anchoring himself. He doesn’t rush forward. Doesn’t overwhelm. He just drops back down to one knee. Eye level.

Rick almost throws up. He's staring at his second-born son, and a realisation hits him so fast he swear he could swoon. Those eyes, that nose, that subtle pout. Not only does he look like Rick..

He looks like Carl.

Like the face he'd drawn over and over for six years but could never get it right.

He looks like the little boy who was supposed to beat this world- and the thought tears him in half.

“Hey,” he says softly, trying to school his voice to be neutral and not the whiny, crying mess he assumed it would be. Asher shifts his weight.

“Mama , is that him?” he asks you quietly. Your throat tightens.

“Yeah, baby. That’s him.” Rick swallows hard.

“I’m your dad,” he says, voice trembling despite every effort to steady it. Asher studies him for a long moment. Then his gaze drifts to the hat in your hand. Then back to Rick.

“You were gone a long time,” he says matter-of-factly. Rick nods.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I was.”

“Why?” The question hits harder than any accusation ever could. Rick doesn’t look away.

“I got hurt,” he says honestly. “And some bad people wouldn’t let me come home.” Asher considers that. Then asks the most important question of all—

“Are you staying now?” Rick’s face breaks all over again. He opens his arms slowly.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” There’s a pause. A breath. And then Asher runs. Small arms wrapping around Rick’s neck. Rick gathers him in like something sacred, one arm still around Judith, the other cradling his son.

And for a moment— It’s just the four of you.

Just for a moment. Because seconds later -

CLANG !

The sound of metal hitting the pavement startles you, and you spin around. Daryl stands there, his motorbike - which he must've been pushing through the streets- lays sprawled at his feet. His chest is heaving, his eyes blown wide behind his hair. Rick is still on his knees, both arms full — Judith clutching his side, Asher wrapped tight around his neck. Daryl is standing ten feet away like he’s seen a ghost claw its way out of the grave. Rick looks up slowly. Their eyes meet.And everything goes quiet.

Six years.

Six years of searching riverbanks. Of tracking footprints that led nowhere. Of sleeping in the woods because he couldn’t stand the thought of giving up. Rick stands slowly, careful not to jostle Asher too much. Judith steps back but keeps hold of his hand. Daryl's eyes snap over to you, quickly giving you a once over to make sure you're not injured, and his chest caves.

"You did it." He breathes, more to you than anyone else. "Y-You found him." Your throat tightens.

“I told you I would,” you whisper. Daryl lets out a broken huff of something that isn’t quite a laugh. His eyes drag back to Rick — slow, disbelieving, hungry for proof. Rick shifts Asher slightly on his hip and steps forward.

“Hey, brother.” That does it. Daryl’s face crumples in a way you’ve never seen before. Not even when the prison fell. Not even when they lost Glenn. This is different. This is something resurrected.

“You sunnuva bitch,” Daryl chokes out. Rick’s mouth twitches despite the tears sitting heavy in his eyes.

“Yeah.” Daryl closes the distance in three long strides and stops just short, like he’s afraid if he touches him, Rick will dissolve. Daryl’s hand comes up fast and grips the back of Rick’s neck, pulling him into a crushing hug — awkward around the kids but fierce all the same. Rick holds him back just as tight.

“I looked,” he says, and there’s something raw in it. Not anger. Not quite relief. Something that’s been festering for years. “Every damn day. I looked.” Rick’s face crumples.

“I know.”

“You don’t know,” Daryl snaps suddenly, emotion ripping through him. “You don’t know what it was like comin’ back without you. Tellin’ her—” He gestures toward you. “Tellin’ the kids.” His voice fractures on the last word.

“I’m sorry,” Rick says, and there’s no pride in it. No leader. No sheriff. Just a man. “I tried to get back. I swear to you I tried.” Daryl’s jaw works. Daryl pulls back abruptly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand like the tears offended him.

“You’re an idiot,” he grumbles. Rick huffs a soft laugh.

“Missed that.” Daryl’s eyes flick to the scar on Rick’s nose. The gray in his beard. The weight he’s lost.

“They do this to you?” he asks, jaw tightening. Rick’s expression darkens just slightly.

“Later,” he says. “We’ll talk later.” Daryl nods once, sharp and protective. Then he looks at you again — really looks at you.

“You okay?” he asks. You nod.

“I’m okay.” His shoulders finally drop a fraction.

“Told you to stay,” he mutters under his breath.

“You never win that argument,” you reply softly. A few more Alexandrians have gathered now, whispering, staring, some openly crying. Rick looks around at the familiar homes, the porch lights, the walls he helped build. He swallows hard.

“This place still standin’?” he asks quietly.

“Because of you,” Daryl answers without hesitation. “Because of what you started.” Rick shakes his head faintly.

“No,” he says, glancing at you. “Because of them.” Judith squeezes his hand tighter. Asher rests his head on Rick’s shoulder like he’s decided this is safe.

And for the first time since that bridge exploded — Rick doesn’t look like a ghost. He looks like a man who found his way back. Daryl bends to pick up his fallen bike, clearing his throat roughly.

“C’mon,” he says gruffly. “You can have your reunions with the rest of 'em later. Aaron and Carol went up to hilltop to check on the Kingdom people settling in-"

"What happened to the kingdom ?" You wince.

"Long story." Rick looks at you one more time — something soft and overwhelmed in his eyes. You step into his side without hesitation. You heart twinges with guilt- you know that later you'll have to tell him. About the Whisperers, Tara and Enid, about the people you've lost...

But for now you just let him be. You let him enjoy these moments of peace, eagerly awaiting everyone else's reactions when they see the right and honourable Rick Grimes- back from the dead.

a/n : this is lowk shit but hey ! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment and reblog and PLEASE I cant stress this enough- leave me requests my inspiration and imagination is drying up here

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